Mothman’s Plant Shop

If you follow the old road past where the pavement cracks and the moss starts to glow just a little, you’ll find a crooked sign nailed to a sycamore tree.

“Mothman’s Plant Shop – Open (When He Feels Like It)”

The shop is small, tucked between the fog and the treeline. There’s no bell on the door—just a soft chime that seems to ring from nowhere when you step inside.

It smells like soil, cedar, and something sweet you can’t quite place. Plants fill every surface—shelving units sagging with potted ferns, hanging baskets of trailing vines, terrariums bubbling with tiny ecosystems. In the corner, a sleepy philodendron reaches lazily toward a sunlamp made from old car headlights.

And there behind the counter is Mothman himself, wearing a well-loved apron and round gold glasses perched on his nose.

He doesn’t speak much—mostly points, nods, and occasionally writes a suggestion on a notepad in smudgy graphite. But if he likes you, he’ll guide you to the “sensitive” plants near the back. The ones that lean toward good intentions, that hum softly when watered, that bloom for dreams instead of sunlight.

Sometimes he gives away plants to people who look particularly tired.

“Peace lily,” he might scribble. “For nightmares.”

And sometimes, on rainy days, he holds open repotting sessions out back under the tin roof. Bigfoot shows up every so often, lugging a spider plant that always looks on the verge of death. (“Overwatering,” Mothman sighs, nudging a care card toward him.)

The shop doesn’t show up on maps, of course. And GPS tends to go fuzzy within a mile radius. But if you ever find yourself walking through mist and stumble upon a warm window glow, peek inside.

You might not remember how you got there.
But your monstera will never be happier.