The Moamoa

I don't know if I'm losing my mind. Maybe I already have.

I'll try my best to explain this in a way that makes sense, at least so I don't completely fall apart. Because I swear, I've been trying to rationalize it, to fit it into some kind of logical framework. But I can't.

It started one night. I was on my way to the bathroom when I saw it.

At first, it was just a face. A pale, waxy face pressed up against my bedroom window, distorted by the glass. At first, I thought it was a mannequin. A prank. Someone messing with me. Then—tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Gentle. Subtle. A deliberate rhythm, almost as if it was testing me.

I froze, my breath hitching. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. And then, through the faint glow of the streetlight outside, I saw something else—something worse.

It exhaled.

A fog of condensation spread across the glass. It was breathing.

Mannequins don't breathe.

I wanted to scream. My instincts screamed at me to run, to get as far away as possible, but my body wouldn't move. I just stood there, heart hammering, watching as the mist from its breath faded.

I don't remember how long I stood there before my legs finally obeyed. I flicked on every light I could reach, stumbled back to my bed, and pulled the covers over my head like a child. I don't remember falling asleep, but when I woke up the next morning, it was gone.

Just… gone.

I tried to convince myself it had been a dream. That stress was making me hallucinate. That maybe I had seen a reflection, or a trick of the light.

But then—

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Days later, I heard it again.

I didn't see the face this time. I was too afraid to look. But the sound… the sound was unmistakable. It wasn't the creaking of the house, or the rattling of the wind against my window. It was a deliberate knock.

And I knew, in that moment, that it hadn't left.

That was when I named it.

The Moamoa.

A Heap of Dead Flesh

I don't know where it came from, or why it chose me. I only know that it wants something.

The last time I saw it, I made the mistake of looking too closely. I wish I hadn't.

Its eyes… they weren't right. They weren't just glowing—they were leaking. Thick, yellow mucus oozed from them, dripping down its face like pus from an infected wound. Its skin wasn't smooth but mottled, rotting in places, as if it were nothing more than a pile of dead flesh forced into a human shape.

And yet, it moved.

It watched.

I don't know what it is, and I don't know how to stop it. But if you ever hear those taps in the night—tap, tap, tap, tap—please, for the love of God, don't look outside.

And if you do…

Don't let it in.