THE MOTH

Hapley was one of the most celebrated entomologists of his time, famous for his discoveries and infamous for his bitter feud with Professor Pawkins. Their rivalry had lasted for decades and had grown from an academic disagreement into a personal war. It began when Pawkins dismissed a species Hapley had named, and from that moment onward, the two men attacked each other relentlessly in papers, meetings, and public lectures. Their quarrel became legendary within scientific circles, stirring passions as fierce as any religious dispute.

Though Pawkins was generally considered the steadier and more careful scientist, Hapley possessed sharper wit, greater energy, and a talent for ridicule. Younger scholars admired him, while Pawkins, dull and awkward, steadily lost ground. The rivalry consumed Hapley’s life. His research, his ambition, and even his reputation became bound up with defeating Pawkins.

In 1891, Pawkins published a weak paper on the development of the Death’s Head Moth. Hapley seized the opportunity. He produced a savage critique, tearing Pawkins’s work apart with merciless logic and contempt. Pawkins replied feebly, clearly ill, and soon afterward fell sick with influenza that developed into pneumonia. He died before he could answer Hapley’s final attack, which appeared in print just before the funeral.

Public opinion turned against Hapley. Many believed the stress of the controversy had hastened Pawkins’s death. Hapley, however, felt no triumph. Instead, he was left empty. For twenty years his work had revolved around Pawkins. Now his rival was gone, leaving a strange void in his mind. His doctor advised rest, and Hapley withdrew to a quiet village in Kent.

There, he tried to distract himself. He read novels, but they irritated him. He tried chess, but the opposing king began to resemble Pawkins, gasping under defeat. At last, he decided to study a new subject—diatoms—hoping a change of work might restore his balance.

One evening, while studying at his microscope under a shaded lamp, Hapley noticed something strange with his free eye. The patterned tablecloth appeared to ripple. When he looked directly, he was astonished to see a large moth or butterfly resting on the cloth, its wings spread and perfectly camouflaged. Stranger still, it was unlike any insect he knew.

“A new genus,” Hapley whispered, thrilled. Then he thought of Pawkins. How furious his rival would have been to see this discovery! The thought unsettled him. When Hapley rose to capture the insect, it fluttered away into the shadows.

He chased it around the room, overturning his microscope and lamp in the process. The light went out, leaving him in darkness. In the confusion, he felt the moth strike his face. His landlady entered with a candle, alarmed by the noise. Seeing the moth near the door, Hapley shouted wildly and rushed toward her. Terrified, she slammed the door and barricaded herself upstairs.

The next day, Hapley tried to behave normally, but the moth haunted him. He glimpsed it on walls, hedges, and stones—only to find, on closer inspection, nothing at all. When he pointed it out to the village vicar, the man saw nothing. Hapley was shaken.

That night, the moth appeared crawling on his bed. Hapley reasoned with himself. He knew hallucinations could arise from mental strain. Yet this insect seemed solid. He had heard it, felt it, and seen every detail of its body. Still, he resolved to ignore it.

His landlady, now deeply frightened, heard him rampaging through the house that night—smashing objects, running outside in his nightclothes, and beating at the air. In the morning, Hapley claimed he was a sleepwalker and promised to seek medicine.

While walking across the downs toward Shoreham, the moth returned more vividly than ever. Hapley struck at it with his hat, filled with the same rage he had once felt for Pawkins. In his frenzy, he fell into a chalk pit and broke his leg.

Afterward, confined to bed, Hapley determined to keep silent about the moth. But fever overcame his resolve. He saw the insect crawling around his room, circling his bed, and fluttering above his face. When he struck at it, the nurse saw nothing and grew alarmed. Doctors declared there was no moth at all.

As Hapley’s agitation worsened, he was restrained. The more helpless he became, the bolder the moth grew in his imagination. He felt it crawling over his face and into his hair. He begged for it to be removed. No one understood. The doctor dismissed the visions as mere hallucinations and took no steps to ease Hapley’s terror.

Eventually, Hapley was sent to an asylum, where he spent the rest of his life confined to a padded room. The doctors called his condition madness. Hapley, when calm, insisted otherwise. He claimed the moth was real—the ghost of Pawkins—and that it was a unique specimen, forever beyond his reach.