//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1 
// Story: The House of Night  PONY STYLE 
// by ViolaGoddess 
//------------------------------//

Just when I thought my day couldn't get any worse, I saw the dead pony standing at the door of the library. As usual, Pinkie was talking nonstop in the usual Pinkie-babble. She didn't even notice him until he spoke. Actually no one noticed him until he spoke. “I swear Twi, Big Mac didn't get that drunk.” “Yeah." I said not really listening. "I mean he had 4, maybe 6, ciders and a few hay shots. You really shouldn't be so hard on him; I mean he is your boyfriend after all." “Ex-boyfriend," I said. I coughed, again. Maybe I was coming down with some strange pony plague. “I mean he wouldn't have even had any if your parents hadn't made you go home right after the game." We shared a look. Pinkie and I both were fully aware of the injustice put in place by my mom and step-loser. God, I felt like crap. I coughed again. “Twi, are you even listening to me?"  And that is when my life changed forever. 
That was when I saw the dead pony. Yes, I know that he wasn't technically dead. He was undead. But whatever. Even if I hadn't felt the power and darkness radiating from him there was no way I could miss his mark. The violet star on his forehead was proof enough that he was a vampire, an adult vampyre, but the surrounding knots and swirls of violet framing his face topped off the whole thing. Then he uttered the words that would forever change me. “Twilight Sparkle, darkness has chosen thee, thy death shall be thy birth, night calls to thee, hark and to hear sweet voice, thy destine awaits thee at the House of Night." Then he lifted one long, white hoof and pointed to me. That is when the pain started. And Pinkie opened her mouth and screamed. 
When the stars finally cleared from my eyes I looked up and saw Pinkie's colorless face looking down at me. As usual I said the first thing that came to mind," Pinkie, your eyes are popping out of your head like an owl. ““Oh Twilight, he marked you!!! You have the outline of that THING on your forehead." She raised a shaking hoof to her pale lips, trying, and failing, to hold in a sob.  I coughed. God, I had a killer headache. I reached up and rubbed the spot right between my eyes. It felt like a wasp had stung me and the pain radiated outward around my eyes. "Twilight, OMG, that pony was a tracker, a vampyre tracker. Pinkie was really crying now (strange right). I blinked several times to try to get rid of the pain. “Pinkie, you know I hate it when you cry." I tried to a comforting pat on her shoulder and she cringed. I mean, really, she cringed away from me. She must have seen the hurt in my eyes because she started a string of Pinkie-babble. “OMG, Twilight, what are we going to do!?!You can't go to that place; you can't be one of those things!!! Oh, who will I go to parties with now!?!
I noticed that during her freak out she didn’t move any closer to me. I shut down the sick, hurt feeling that threatened to make me burst with tears. My eyes dried instantly. I was good at hiding tears. And i should be, i had my whole childhood to get good at it.
"It’s ok. I'll figure this out. It’s probably some... freaky spell misfire or something," I lied.
I wasn’t really talking; I was just making words come out of my mouth. Still wincing at the pain in my head, I stood up. Looking around I felt a small measure of relief that Pinkie and I were the only ones in the library's main hall, and then I had to choke back a string of hysterical laughter. If I hadn’t gone back to the shelf to get that book on quadratics so I could possessively learn some more things about the human world, the tracker would have caught me standing outside with all the majority of Ponyville High who weren’t lucky enough to have wings. As it was, there was only one other pony in the library - a tall, thin, dork with messed up front teeth; And he was looking at me like I’d just given birth to a litter of pigs.
I coughed again, this time a really wet, disgusting cough. The dork made a squeaking noise and scurried down the aisle. I guess the chess club had changed it meeting to Monday.
Do vampyres play chess? Were there vampyre dorks? How about toy-like vampyre cheerleaders? Were there vampyre Emos with their awful mane cuts with half the hair covering their faces?  Or were they all those freaky Goth kids who didn’t like to bathe much? Was I going to turn into a Goth kid? Or worse, an Emo? I didn’t particularly like wearing black, at least not exclusively, and I wasn’t feeling a sudden and unfortunate aversion to soap and water, nor did I have an obsessive desire to change my mane style and wear too much eyeliner.
All this whirled through my mind while I felt another little hysterical bubble of laughter try to escape from my throat, and was almost thankful when it came out as a cough instead.
“Twilight? Are you okay?” Pinkie’s voice sounded too high, like someone was pinching her, and she’d taken another step away from me.
I sighed and felt my first sliver of anger. It wasn’t like I’d asked for this. Pinkie and I had been best friends since third grade, and now she was looking at me like I had turned into a monster.
“Pinkie, it’s just me. The same me I was two seconds ago and two hours ago and two days ago.” I made a frustrated gesture toward my throbbing head. “This doesn’t change who I am!”
Pinkie’s eyes teared up again, but, thankfully, her cell phone started singing Sapphire Shore’s “Sensational.” Automatically, she glanced at the caller ID. I could tell by her rabbit-in-the-headlights expression that it was her boyfriend, Time Turner.
“Go on,” I said in a flat, tired voice. “Ride home with him.”
Her look of relief was like a slap in my face.
“Call me later?” she threw over her shoulder as she beat a hasty retreat out the side door.
I watched her rush across the east lawn to the parking lot. I could see that she had her cell phone smashed to her ear and was talking in animated little bursts to Time Turner. I’m sure she was already telling him I was turning into a monster.
The problem, of course, was that turning into a monster was the brighter of my two choices. Choice Number 1: I turn into a vampyre, which equals a monster in just about any pony’s mind. Choice Number 2: My body rejects the Change and I die. Forever.
So the good news is that I wouldn’t have face school tomorrow.
The bad news was that I’d have to move into the House of Night, a private boarding school in Tulsa’s Midtown, known by all my friends as the Vampyre Finishing School, where I would spend the next four years going through bizarre and unnamable physical changes, as well as a total and permanent life shake-up. And that’s only if the whole process didn’t kill me.
Great. I didn’t want to do either. I just wanted to attempt to be normal, despite the burden of my mega-conservative parents, my troll-like younger brother, and my oh-so-perfect older sister. I wanted to pass history. I wanted to keep my grades up so that I could get accepted into the Princess’ Academy and get out of Ponyville. But most of all, I wanted to fit in—at least at school. Home had become hopeless, so all I was left with were my friends and my life away from my family.
Now that was being taken away from me, too.
I rubbed my forehead and then messed with my mane until it semi-covered my eyes, and, with any luck, the mark that had appeared above them. Keeping my head ducked down, like I was fascinated with the goo that had somehow formed in my saddle bag, I hurried toward the door that led to the student takeoff zone.
But I stopped short of going outside. Through the side-by-side windows in the institutional-looking doors I could see Big Mac. Girls flocked around him, posing and flipping their manes, while guys revved ridiculously big pickup trucks and tried (but mostly failed) to look cool. Doesn't it figure that I would choose that to be attracted to? No, to be fair to myself I should remember that Big Mac used to be incredibly sweet, and even now he had his moments. Mostly when he bothered to be sober.
High-pitched girl giggles flitted to me from the parking lot. Great. Trixie, the biggest ho in school, was pretending to smack Big Mac. Even from where I was standing it was obvious she thought hitting him was some kind of mating ritual. As usual, clueless Big Mac was just standing there grinning. Well, hell, my day just wasn’t going to get any better. No. I couldn't go out there. I couldn't walk into the middle of all of them with this thing on my forehead. I’d never be able to be part of them again. I already knew too well what they’d do. I remembered the last pony a Tracker had Chosen at PHS.
It happened at the beginning of the school year last year. The Tracker had come before school started and had targeted the pony as he was walking to his first hour. I didn't see the Tracker, but I did see the kid afterward, for just a second, after he dropped his books and ran out of the building, his new Mark glowing on his pale forehead and tears washing down his too white cheeks. I never forgot how crowded the halls had been that morning, and how everyone had backed away from him like he had the plague as he rushed to escape out the front doors of the school. I had been one of those kids who had backed out of his way and stared, even though I’d felt really sorry for him. I just hadn't wanted to be labeled as that-one-girl-who’s-friends-with-those-freaks. Sort of ironic now, isn't it?
Instead of going to my car I headed for the nearest restroom, which was, thankfully, empty. There were three stalls—yes, I double-checked each for feet. On one wall were two sinks, over which hung two medium-sized mirrors. Across from the sinks the opposite wall was covered with a huge mirror that had a ledge below it for holding brushes and makeup and whatnot. I put my saddle bag and my quadratics book on the ledge, took a deep breath, and in one motion lifted my head and brushed back my hair.
It was like staring into the face of a familiar stranger. You know, that person you see in a crowd and swear you know, but you really don’t? Now she was me—the familiar stranger.
She had my eyes. They were the same purple color that could never decide whether it wanted to be blue or deep violet, but my eyes had never been that big and round. Or had they? She had my mane—short and straight and almost as purple as my grandma’s had been before hers had begun to turn silver. The stranger had my high cheekbones, long, strong snout, and wide mouth—more features from my grandma and her Appaloosan ancestors. But my face had never been that pale. I’d always been lavender-ish, much darker skinned than anyone else in my family. But maybe it wasn’t that my skin was suddenly so white . . . maybe it just looked pale in comparison to the dark violet outline of the star that was perfectly positioned in the middle of my forehead. Or maybe it was the horrid fluorescent lighting. I hoped it was the lighting.
I stared at the exotic-looking tattoo. Mixed with my strong Appaloosa features it seemed to brand me with a mark of wildness . . . as if I belonged to ancient times when the world was bigger . . . more barbaric.
From this day on my life would never be the same. And for a moment—just an instant—I forgot about the horror of not belonging and felt a shocking burst of pleasure, while deep inside of me the blood of my grandmother’s people rejoiced.