It’s purple. Not like a bruise but like an emperor. What’s it doing on my drive?
Perhaps it’s a swarm of rare butterflies on their elusive migration. The Purple Emperor avoids flower nectar and seeks out rotting flesh. Maybe what’s in my cellar is attracting them. With a shiver of revulsion, I try to brush aside the fear.
But too late. Already lepidopterists are gathering under my trees, armed with nets and small packets of Stinking Bishop cheese. I rush to bolt the door but two have taken up station with field glasses in my kitchen.