Page 58 of Claimed By the Mothman

“Uh… spider?” Ezra guessed.

“No,” she wheezed. “That’s not—hang on.”

She switched tactics. She mimed carrying something heavy, then spun in a slow, deliberate circle. She stared up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. Then back at the ceiling. She gestured to her chest, then waved both arms like she was trying to signal an airplane.

“Whatareyou doing?” Dev called from the other team.

“She’s communicating with the void,” Goldie said solemnly. “Let her work.”

“I’m trying to be conceptual!” Nell shouted. She dropped to the floor, laid down flat, and started dragging herself forward inch by inch with one arm.

Sig tilted his head.

“Worm!” Ezra shouted. “Worm with feelings!”

“Almost!” Nell gasped.

Sig sat forward suddenly. “Grief.”

Nell pointed at him, then flung both arms open.

“Existential crisis!” Goldie shouted.

“Yes!” Nell cried just as the timer buzzed.

There was a long silence. Then a wave of chaotic cheering.

“That was beautiful,” Ezra declared, eyes shining. “I have never been so confused or so seen.”

She flopped back on the carpet, gasping. “That’s it. I’m done. I’ve peaked.”

“Team One: three and a half,” Jem announced. “Team Two: two.”

“I need a drink,” Nell mumbled from the floor.

“Youarea drink,” Goldie said.

Team Two scrambled to catch up. Carol was up next, and while she managed to successfully mime“conga line”with surprising flair, it took nearly the full timer for her team to guess it.

“Okay,” Jem conceded, fanning herself with a throw pillow. “We’ll allow it. Team One: three and a half. Team Two: three.”

“Neck and neck,” Ezra murmured dramatically, even though it wasn’t.

—

The game continued on, becoming more and more ridiculous. There were valiant efforts. There were absolute disasters. Ezra tried to act out“existential dread”again and was told to sit down. Dev knocked over a side table attempting“interpretive dance.”At one point, Jem and Hollis performed what could only be described as a romantic tragedy involving two potholders and a spatula, and no one dared ask what the prompt had been.

It was neck and neck until the very end—seven rounds of escalating nonsense, shouted guesses, and theatrical collapses—but eventually, they called it.

The score?

A draw.

No one cared.

Everyone was too drunk to count properly, and when Ezra tried to make an impassioned case for a tiebreaker round, Jem hurled a pillow at his head and declared, “The game is dead. Long live the game.”

Goldie collapsed onto the rug in a heap of limbs and laughter, giggling so hard she wheezed. Ezra hovered beside her like a devoted wildlife documentarian, narrating her downfall in his best BBC nature voice.