The Haunting
Admiral Biscuit
I’d made another trip to the cemetery, just to verify what I already knew. There wasn’t a marker for her of any sort, and I couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t interred at the cemetery. I knew that back on Earth, people had historically also been buried in churchyards, or around their own homes, but that practice had mostly stopped. And of course sometimes they were cremated and their ashes either kept as an heirloom or else scattered somewhere. Was that what they’d done instead? Ponies might have different customs. Although the cemetery seemed about the right size for Haywards Heath, at least based on my rough calculations.
The old stallion would know, of course, and Milfoil probably would, too, but I was still leery of asking either of them. I’d already been punched in the face once, and it was something I would rather not have repeated. Especially since just asking either of them what happened to her body might be overly personal.
Luckily, there were lots of other ponies in town who I could ask, at least once I figured out the best way to frame the question—it would be weird to just come up to a random pony on the street.
There was the possibility that it was something that just wasn’t discussed in town. All small towns held some secrets, things that weren’t spoken of or gossiped about, and Windflower’s death might have been one of those things.
I wasn’t sure how good ponies were at record-keeping, or what were even considered public records. The town clerk might have a copy of her death certificate, if that was an avenue I wanted to pursue.
Now that I knew what to look for, though, when I was done with work I went to the library again and started skimming through old copies of the newspaper one more time, just to see what I could find.
There wasn’t much. No obituary, although I already knew I wasn’t going to find that. I hadn’t found one the first time I’d looked, and it hadn’t appeared the second time, either.
I did come across one article that piqued my interest: it was about something dangerous that was living in the woods outside of town. Some kind of a monster, but I didn’t know what exactly—I didn’t know what the Equestrian word used to describe it meant. Before coming to Equestria, I would have scoffed at the idea of a monster, but now I knew that they did have monsters, especially in areas that ponies hadn’t tamed.
I considered asking the librarian for some assistance, but it was nearly dusk, well past the closing time of the library, and she was asleep at her desk. It would have been rude to wake her up, so I just stacked the newspapers neatly back where they belonged, and closed the library door on my way out.
•••••
My flowers weren’t doing very well. The cold night air was damaging the leaves and flowers, making them discolor and wilt, and some of their stems were getting floppy, too.
I didn’t know what I could do to help them. Obviously, not leave them out at night, but that defeated the purpose of having them.
I had cut back on the number of plants outside each night—now that I’d lured Windflower back with the plants, I didn’t need as many in the yard. Half of them stayed inside, and when I got home, I switched the healthiest ones for the ones that were outside. That way, all but the sickest ones spent a day in the sun and then the next night outside.
Milfoil’s curiosity over what I was doing with my flowers—or sympathy for the injured plants—finally brought her over into my yard again.
She rejuvenated them as best she could, and without thinking I invited her into my house to help out with the rest of them, the ones that were kept in my plant hospice.
We went through the back, since that was the most convenient entrance, so she didn’t get a full view of my madness until she looked into the living room, where all the furniture was piled up at one end of the room, completely unusable. At least with the plants going outside in shifts, there was a better corridor through to the hallway and front door than there had been. It had looked a little bit like a hoarder’s living room, although I figured it probably smelled a lot nicer.
“Sorry it’s kind of crowded,” I said. “I couldn’t think of a better arrangement.” Some of my disassembled box-fort had been repurposed as plant stands, so that more of the flowers could get sunlight through the living room windows.
Her attention was drawn to the worst plant, of course. I’d put it right by the window in the hopes that sunlight would help revive it, and I’d also wrapped its pot in a blanket to keep it warm, although I couldn’t say why I thought that would help.
“If you really want to keep the plants out at night,” she said, worming her way through the rows of pots, “you need to cover them and protect them from frost. A little bit of frost doesn’t hurt the plant, but if it gets inside the leaf, it starts freezing the water inside the leaf and that hurts the plant cells.”
“I know, but I can’t do that.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“It’s important to me,” I said. “I . . . I can’t explain why.”
She took her hooves off the sick plant and looked me right in the eye. “You’re up to something. I don’t know what, and maybe it’s none of my business anyway. I know you lied to me about how you hurt your nose, I heard all about that from other ponies—not that I believed your story anyway since there aren’t any lampposts in town that you could have walked into.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” She flicked her tail and went back to examining the plant. “I think it will live, but I don’t think you should put this one outside any more. Where are you going to put them all after the running of the leaves? It’ll be too crowded in your house.”
“I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead in my plan. Once it got to the point where I wasn’t moving them in and out all the time, I could spread them around the house. That might make it more inviting for Windflower, too. I could put a couple up in the attic, near the windows. If I rotated them around, I could even put a mini flower garden up in the attic. She might like that. “Do you want to adopt a couple plants for the winter?”
She wrinkled her muzzle. “I suppose I might as well. But only if you promise me you’ll tell me what you’re up to that’s so important that these poor plants have to suffer.”
“I will, I promise you. But not right now.”
“It isn’t good to keep secrets.” She picked up the sick flower and balanced it on her back. “They eat at you.”
“I know.”
“You’ll feel better when you’ve told somepony. And maybe they can help you, with whatever it is.” She held up a hoof before I could open my mouth to replay. “Maybe I’m not the right pony to tell, I don’t know. But if you think I am, you’re welcome at my house any time.”
I couldn’t help but watch her as she wove back out of my plant-maze, the sick valerian balanced perfectly just behind her shoulder blades, right about where a saddle horn would be. I didn’t understand how ponies could do that so casually.
•••••
There was a stallion who was often at the market who made his living selling whatever. He was essentially the pony Goodwill—he had a cluttered shop in town which had been a great source for many of my home essentials. He tended to like to bring a wagonload of trinkets that might catch a pony’s eye, and he never had the same thing twice.
I often took a glance at what he had to offer; his prices were reasonable, and every now and then, I’d find something I didn’t know I’d needed.
This time, one thing got my immediate attention: a small wooden dog, painted brown with white spots. It was well-used, well-loved, and the paint was worn thin. One of the ears had been broken off, and the string tied to it was a replacement: whoever had put it on had not bothered to cut all of the old one off.
I bought it in an instant.
“I didn’t know you had any foals,” he remarked.
“I—it’s for a friend,” I said. “You don’t happen to know who made it, do you?”
He shook his head. “I got it in trade.”
“From who?”
“I don’t remember,” he admitted. “Sometimes, I’ll just get a box of stuff, you know, and I kind of glance at it to get an idea of its worth, but a lot of times I don’t rummage around in it. It’s rude! So if it was at the bottom of a box, you know, I might not have particularly noticed it at the time, and later on when I was sorting stuff out and saw that it was in—well, it’s in kind of poor shape.”
I bet he wouldn’t have said that if I hadn’t already paid for it.
“Still! Foals can be rough on their toys, you know, and I bet with a little bit of paint it’d look as good as new again.”
“Wear is the sign of a well-loved toy,” I said. “Well, listen, if you remember who you bought it from, let me know. This is the kind of toy that my friend really likes. You don’t know if there’s anypony around here that makes them, do you?”
“Long Bent,” he said. “He’s got a shop over on the south side of town, you can’t miss it. You know, I’m surprised you didn’t know it was there, if you’ve been buying toys.”
“I haven’t been until just recently,” I admitted. “I—well, it’s a long story. Alright, thanks!”
•••••
I stopped at my house long enough to put my food purchases away, and then I went looking for Long Bent’s shop. Even though I no longer needed an answer as to who Windflower was, I thought that if he made toys, he probably had a soft heart for foals, and if he had a soft heart for foals, he might be the one to tell me exactly what had happened to her. Surely he’d know.
Plus, I had a ready-made pretext. I’d seen the dog at the market, and that had reminded me of the wooden duck in my attic—the wheels were identical, and I’d be willing to bet my entire collection of valerian and yarrow that he was the pony who’d made both. Since ponies generally preferred selling their goods directly when they could, there was every chance he’d remember Windflower or her parents, and then he’d either tell me that nobody spoke of that, or else he’d tell the story.
Clever. Good stuff thank you mr biscuit
Who is that pony?
There is a very cynical part of my mind that says that somewhere out in those woods is a big pile of hydra poop. And in that pile are the sad remains of a little filly not at rest.
I sure hope that isnt the case, but it would explain why she’s a ghost (not properly put to rest) and why theres no grave.
But I’ve got a feeling we have a twist coming.
It's good to see he has such dogged determination.
Or our hapless human will be explaining to a fairly irate Milfoil exactly why he keeps running face-first into the one lamppost the town doesn't have.
Interesting discovery—while googling valerian and yarrow to see what they look like I've discovered that 'milfoil' is a type of yarrow. Coincidence?
Well he's getting better at being crafty. Kinda...
9350392
The result of somepony who stuck her nose too far into the suspicious!
The wheels on this toy duck and dog are the same? It mustve been Miss Green in the Conservatory with the Lead Pipe.
Is he following a wild goose chase or just barking up the wrong tree?
And how is he going to move when every plant in his house has its own toy?
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He's certainly barking up the right tree.
I somehow like Milfoil, she seems the sweet type.
This was a decent story when it only had the first 5 or so chapters. But at this point, it just keeps dragging on and on without any sign of it actually going anywhere.
9350616
Maybe it's how we call his neighboor being possessed by the ghost?
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He may be barking up the wrong tree, though.
No grave an no obituary... SHE WAS SACRIFICED TO THE MONSTER in exchange for sparing the town, and they're all covering it up!
....
FOR THE GREATER GOOD
I really love this story. I'm enjoying each chapter more than the one before, and it's the first story which make me check fimfiction everyday since 2015. Thanks for the hard work
Ps: sorry for my english, I try to get better
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Did he ever get his nose reset? I don't know if that's the kind of thing you just assume happens, but I can't help but imagine this guy walking around town like nothing's wrong but his nose is trying to migrate out west to newer pastures. If he did get it checked, did he have to foot the hospital bill?
Thinking about it, the pon was wearing metal horseshoes, yeah? That's like catching brass knuckles to the face. Hell, does the guy even have the nasal bones anymore or were they shattered into dust?
Taking the knuckleduster idea to its hyperbolic conclusion, that blow could net a real nasty assault/battery charge in the states. In some, brass knuckles are categorized as a deadly weapon. I imagine having rocks for feet would change the development of relevant laws significantly in horseworld, however.
Lastly, I hope Punch McGee tipped the staff of that restaurant nicely for making them have to clean up that blood.
Milfoil is on to you buddy, also, she's such a good character.
Edit: Wait I already commented on this chapter, darn it.
In any case, Long Bent will offer either a wealth of information, a heap of disappointment, or another holf to the face. I suppose we'll see soon enough. Though going by the would-be investigator's track record, Milfoil will turn out to be the better source of information.
I just realized that her name is MILFoil... kind of interested in where this goes romantically if at all.
Yer a big dumb with an anti-green thumb.
Your name is Doof, for you are a doof.
9350388
You’re welcome!
9350392
Oops.
Correction made; thank you!
9350431
Your feelings might on the matter might not be totally off-base.
9350442
Yes, indeed.
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See, that’s how that lamppost gets you. It hides and then jumps out when you’re least expecting it.
9350551
It’s no coincidence that milfoil is a type of yarrow.
Yarrow also has healing properties in equines, however, too much can be toxic.
9350615
He still probably isn’t going to want to pursue a career as an investigator, paranormal or otherwise.
9350670
This time, while he might not be at the right tree just yet, he’s at least in the right forest.
A problem our protagonist did not fully consider.
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She is a total sweetie.
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Or at least he thinks he is. . .
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See, this is why I wrote a blog post about how the entire story should be contained in the long description, and there just shouldn’t be any more of it than that. I just need to pay better mind to following my own advice, that’s all.
9350845
Ooh, that would be a twist. Maybe Windflower doesn’t go all that far after all. Thus far in the story, he’s never seen Milfoil at night, nor has he seen her and the ghost at the same time.
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Unless it’s a dogwood tree, and then he’s golden.
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Well . . . that’s one way of interpreting it.
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Thank you!
You’re doing better than some native speakers, I can tell you that.
9352137
He probably didn’t get it reset, at least that’s my opinion. If he did get it checked, he wouldn’t have had to pay; I assume that ponies have at least free emergency medicine.
Yes, the old stallion was wearing metal horseshoes. On the plus side for our protagonist, he was on the other side of a table, and the old stallion wasn’t going in for a killing blow (and he did heal him at least somewhat immediately after).
And there’s also the toughness of the ponies to consider. Even ignoring cartoon physics, IRL equines can generally take a kick from another equine without any serious problems, so there might not be severe legal consequences just for a kick or bite or punch.
I’m sure he would. Or pay them later, if they send him a bill . . . that might be how it often works in small town Equestria.
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She’s no dummy.
It’s okay . . . it’s worth repeating that Milfoil’s a sweetie.
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Or possibly two of three.
Yeah, probably asking the next-door neighbor what went down would be the most logical thing to have done a long time ago. Even if there are some details she doesn’t know, she’d probably be a more reliable source in general.
9355660
While she was deliberately named for a type of yarrow, the other part is pure coincidence. Who says she’s even had foals?
EDIT: although I suppose in the MLP-verse, the M could stand for mare.
9361052
He is.
It might be a safer option than just blabbing everything to a mysterious older stallion in a restaurant, though.
Here in rural northern Arkansas, some old churches have cemeteries next to them.
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PornHub presents "MareHunter" and "Where The Stallions Aren't".
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MILF Oil, made from freshly squeezed MILFs!
9352137
Having unset broken noses on thugs is an old trope in fiction.
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Same in Michigan. Also, there are a few old hospitals that have cemeteries next to them, which I suppose is convenient when the procedure doesn’t go like the doctor hopes.
That’s true, although the protagonist is hopefully not the thug in the story.
Please, Milfoil, talk some sense into this idiot! This is cruel and unusual botany!
Ugh. What do you need, a written invitation? This is the perfect moment to tell her!
Not sure how that helps him at this point... he already figured out who his little ghost is.
Ohh. Have to admit, that is clever.
10014808
I know, right? Sets an earth pony’s fur on end, it does.
He kinda does, honestly.
For once, he did have a smart thought.