Wings of the Brown Butterfly #1

 

“The Buried Terror”
New Mexico, 1953

The sun blazed down like a punishment from the heavens. The New Mexico desert stretched endlessly on either side of the cracked two-lane highway. Dolores Morales kept her eyes on the road, her hands firm on the wheel of Randall’s polished Cadillac. Dust swirled behind them in a hazy plume.

“You haven’t answered me,” Randall Juarez said gently, removing his Panama hat and brushing sweat from his brow. The diamond ring he’d offered sat in its velvet box on the dashboard, glinting every time the sunlight caught it.

Dolores sighed, adjusting her sunglasses. Her dark hair, pinned in a victory roll, trembled slightly in the dry breeze from the open windows. “You’re my boss, Randall,” she said. “And now you want to be my husband. That’s... a lot.”

“You’re more than just my secretary,” he said, his voice thick with sincerity. “You’re my equal. I want to build a life with you.”

Dolores smiled faintly but didn’t answer.

What she didn’t say—what she couldn’t say—was that she wasn’t just Dolores Morales, the sharp-minded legal aide from Mexico. She was La Mariposa Marrón—The Brown Butterfly—protector of the forgotten.

Suddenly, the ground rumbled. Dolores’s eyes widened. “Did you feel that?”

Before Randall could answer, the highway ahead exploded. Asphalt shattered like glass as a monstrous form rose from beneath—a grotesque spider, easily the size of a bus, with glistening black limbs and glassy red eyes that shimmered with ancient hate. It screeched, a horrible clicking sound echoing off the rocks.

“¡Madre de Dios!” Randall shouted, grabbing the dashboard.

The insect lunged, its massive forelegs slamming down just feet in front of the Cadillac.

“Out!” Dolores ordered, slamming the brakes. “Get out!”

Randall barely tumbled out before she did the same, dragging him behind a boulder as the insect swiped at the car, crumpling the hood like tin foil. He looked at her, dazed. “What is that—?”

“I’ll explain later.”

She stepped from behind the rock, and the desert wind shifted.

Her back arched. Her arms spread. From her shoulder blades burst wide, shimmering wings—brown with flecks of gold and black, fluttering with a thunderous snap. 

Randall’s jaw dropped. “Dolores?”

“I told you it was a lot,” she muttered.

The Brown Butterfly rose into the air with a hum like a storm of wings. The spider hissed and leapt—but she was faster. She zipped past its fangs, slicing at its eyes with the razor-edged tips of her wings. It shrieked, stumbling back into the remains of the Cadillac.

“¡Ven por mí, monstruo!” she shouted, diving again.

The spider lunged. She dodged, but its leg caught her mid-flight, slamming her into the ground. Dust exploded around her. Pain rang through her ribs.

Randall ran to her side, his hands shaking. “Dolores—”

“I’m fine,” she gasped. “Stay back.”

She looked to the horizon—then at a cluster of ancient petroglyphs carved into the nearby rocks. Symbols of the Insect Woman. Warnings, forgotten by time.

This thing wasn’t just a freak—it was summoned.

With a grunt, she stood. The wings shimmered again.

“This is sacred land,” she said, glaring at the spider. “And you don’t belong here.”

She shot into the air again, faster now, spiraling around the creature. Dust and wind kicked up into a vortex. The insect shrieked in confusion as the sandstorm blinded its many eyes.

With a final dive, The Brown Butterfly plunged her wings deep into the insect’s thorax. A shriek cut through the desert—and the beast collapsed in a shuddering heap, black ichor pooling beneath its carcass.

Dolores hovered for a moment, wings buzzing, before gliding down beside Randall.

He looked at her in awe and fear. “You’ve... you’ve been this the whole time?”

She nodded, her breath shallow. “I wanted to tell you. But it’s dangerous.”

He stepped forward, gently brushing sand from her cheek. “You think I wouldn’t marry you just because you’re more than I thought? Dolores, you’re everything I admire—intelligent, brave, and now I know, unstoppable.”

She looked at the ring still tucked in the velvet box, now dusted with ash.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, smiling. “But next time, you drive.”

They both laughed—deep and full—as the desert settled around them, and the wings of justice folded once more.

The End

Copyright 2025 Chris Love