Some poor bastard named Jonathan Pierce is running a little riverboat job in the Central American jungle. A big ass storm wrecks him, a schoolteacher, and a strange European guy on a muddy bank in the middle of nowhere.

They get wander into a village that has one very simple rule: when the sun goes down, ya stay inside and ya keep the herb smoke burning (and not the fun kind of herb!), or the white moths will find you.

These aren’t normal moths. They’re big, pale, and they drink blood. And I thought Miller moths were bad!

Thirst of the White Moths is pure 1930s pulp jungle horror, the kind of story where the wildlife is actively trying to turn you into a walking blood bank and the guy who seems most interested in the local legends is the last person you want watching your back.

It’s nasty, it’s sweaty, and ugly. They wrote the craziest shit back in the 1930s. Which is what makes the pulps so fun!

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