In the autumn of 1966, the small town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, nestled along the Ohio River, began to unravel under a wave of pure terror. It started on November 15, when two young couples, Roger and Linda Scarberry along with Steve and Mary Mallette, drove out to the McClintic Wildlife Preserve, a sprawling area of abandoned World War II munitions bunkers locals called the TNT area. They were cruising the dark, winding roads near an old power plant when their headlights caught something impossible standing by the gate.

The thing was tall, over six feet, with a massive winged body covered in grayish skin that looked leathery and stretched tight over muscle. But the eyes stopped them cold. Two glowing red orbs, each the size of a softball, burned straight at them from a rounded head with no visible neck. It did not blink. It just stared, radiating menace.

Roger floored the gas, tires screeching as they fled, but the creature unfolded enormous wings and rose into the air. It pursued their car at speeds over one hundred miles per hour, gliding silently above the treetops, those red eyes locked on them the entire time. Linda screamed as it swooped low, its shadow blotting out the moon. They heard a shrill, piercing screech that rattled their teeth and made blood trickle from Mary’s ears. The chase lasted miles until they reached the town limits, where the thing finally veered away into the night.

Word exploded through Point Pleasant. The next night, November 16, another couple spotted it near the same area. Then reports flooded in.

A contractor named Newell Partridge watched his television dissolve into static before his German shepherd, Bandit, bolted outside, barking furiously at something in the field. Partridge grabbed a flashlight and saw two glowing red circles rising from the grass like harvest moons. Bandit charged toward them, snarling. The dog vanished that night.

Days later, hunters found Bandit’s mangled remains in the TNT area. His throat was ripped open. His guts spilled across the leaves in steaming coils. His eyes were gouged out, as if taken as trophies.

Over the next thirteen months, more than a hundred people encountered the Mothman. Descriptions matched in chilling detail. A towering winged humanoid with no head, only hypnotic red eyes set into its chest or shoulders. It moved with unnatural speed, gliding without flapping, emitting high pitched squeals that caused nausea, nosebleeds, and burning skin.

One family woke to find it hovering outside their window, its red gaze piercing the glass. The father fired a shotgun at point blank range. Buckshot tore through feathers and flesh, spraying black blood that sizzled on the porch like acid. The creature only screeched and flew off, unharmed.

Witnesses suffered lingering effects. Skin blistered where the eyes locked on them. Nightmares plagued survivors, visions of bodies floating in the river, faces twisted in agony, mouths frozen in silent screams. Electronics failed in its presence. Radios hissed with garbled voices predicting doom. Dogs howled and clawed at doors until their paws bled.

Livestock turned up eviscerated overnight. Organs were surgically removed. Blood drained completely. Carcasses arranged in mocking circles.

As winter approached in 1967, the creature grew bolder. It perched on rooftops, staring into homes with unblinking fury. One man driving home swerved to avoid it standing in the road. The impact crumpled his hood, embedding feathers and chunks of gray flesh that reeked of sulfur and rot. He stumbled out to find the creature rising slowly, one wing torn and dripping viscous fluid. Its red eyes promised vengeance before it vanished into the fog.

Locals whispered it was a harbinger. An omen of death.

Native American legends spoke of similar thunderbirds or cursed spirits tied to the land, ancient Shawnee curses over buried chiefs whose graves were disturbed when the TNT bunkers were built. Others believed it was a demon, escaped from some hellish dimension.

UFO sightings spiked alongside it. Glowing orbs chased cars. Beams of light scorched the earth black. Men in black suits appeared, questioning witnesses and warning them into silence, their pale skin and emotionless stares nearly as terrifying as the creature itself.

The terror peaked on December 15, 1967.

Rush hour traffic packed the Silver Bridge connecting Point Pleasant to Ohio. At 5:04 p.m., during the chaos of Christmas shopping, the bridge groaned and snapped. Eyewitnesses on the riverbanks swore they saw a massive winged shadow circling overhead moments before the collapse, red eyes glowing through the dusk.

Forty six people died.

Cars plunged into the icy Ohio River. Bodies were crushed in twisted metal. Limbs severed by shearing steel. Screams echoed as victims drowned or froze, blood clouding the water red. Divers recovered corpses days later, skin bloated and blue, eyes pecked by fish, mouths open in final terror.

After the disaster, Mothman sightings stopped abruptly. As if its purpose had been fulfilled, the creature vanished.

But the scars remain.

Survivors of encounters still wake screaming from dreams of burning red eyes. Point Pleasant erected a statue of the creature, polished steel capturing its winged horror. It draws tourists, though locals avoid it after dark.

Reports continue elsewhere. Chicago. Ukraine. Sightings near disaster zones. Always before tragedy.

Skeptics argue it was a mutated crane. A mass hallucination born of Cold War fear. Others insist it was something older, darker, feeding on impending doom.

Drive the back roads of the TNT area today and you may feel watched. Hear a distant screech on the wind. Catch a glimpse of glowing red in the trees.

Because whatever stalked Point Pleasant did not merely witness death.

It heralded it.

Drew it closer with every burning stare.

And if the stories hold truth, it is still out there.

Waiting for the next bridge to tremble.

The next scream to rise.

Patient.

Hungry.

Those red eyes never truly close.