On certain nights, when the world sinks into deepest silence and even dogs cease to bark, come the red moths.
They arrive without notice, slipping through cracks and creeping up windowpanes, tapping with their wings like impatient guests demanding entry. Some say they come from a faraway land, where monsters dwell in the dark, gnawing on each other, forever starving for the sweetness of blood.
The moths climb over your sleeping body, light as wisps, quiet as a hush. Their wings tremble with hunger. They settle onto your closed eyes and feed. They rob you of every bright dream and thought, and fill the void with nightmares brought from their home. If you do not wake before they finish, they will take every last good dream you hold. You'll never know a peaceful night again.
Those who fear the moths place small dishes of honey on windowsills. A sweet offering of a different kind, to lure the moths away. But still they return, tapping and crawling, their hunger never sated.