//------------------------------// // Chapter 39 // Story: The Haunting // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// The Haunting Admiral Biscuit We met in the living room of my house. It was the most logical place. The old stallion—it was probably my imagination, but his muzzle looked a bit greyer, and I wasn’t sure if he’d slept at all. Not that I didn’t understand why, if that was the case. Back on Earth, I wouldn’t have given a person free rein of my house; I wouldn’t have had him stay unsupervised. Especially since he’d already broken my nose. Justifiably, but still. I hadn’t gone over to check in the morning, so I didn’t know if he spent the whole night there—but I was sure he had. I think that when Windflower had finally left, he’d just stayed in the living room, wondering if she’d return. He must have known she wouldn’t, but stayed anyway in case she did. Were my couch cushions a little bit more flattened than they’d been the night before? Or had he paced the living room, checking out the plants like she often did? Had he gone upstairs? Gone into the attic? Had he sought out her little hiding places for toys in the rafters? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Had he spoken to her? He must have, and what did he tell her? What did she tell him? Did she give him a ghostly hug? Surely she did. And what then? Had he told her about the wolf, the aenocyon? Or had he not wanted to mention that? Had he explained to her how her parents had moved away, stricken by her death? Had he told her that we were trying to help? Had he read the next chapter of Strangers on a Train? Had he told her how that very afternoon, we’d been trekking through the woods, visiting her glade? Maybe she’d known—we’d left there awfully late. I didn’t know—I couldn’t know. And that was probably for the best. Whatever private conversation had passed between them ought to remain private. While I still wasn’t entirely convinced about his motivation, Milfoil hadn’t warned me and I trusted her. She would have picked up on hints that he wasn’t thinking in Windflower’s best interest, and she would have told me. ••••• We met in the living room, and it reminded me of an old Victorian melodrama. Virtually all the elements were there—a gathering, a fire in the fireplace, tea . . . we were just lacking a butler and a grandfather clock. I didn’t want to be the one to break the silence, although I suspected that if I didn’t, we’d still be sitting here, sipping tea, when Windflower arrived. If she got her chipped mug, she could join us. “Where do we go from here?” Milfol set her teacup down and flicked her tail. “I—” The stallion looked over at the fire, as if it might provide an answer. “She’s . . . confused.” That wasn’t much, but it was a start. An avenue to pursue. “What do you think she wants?” It wasn’t the best question, but it was the best I could think of. “I don’t know.” “Do you think that she was hoping to lead us to her, her bones, so that we could give her a proper burial and she could find peace?” Milfoil frowned, and I half expected him to either fall silent, or punch me again. “I don’t know.” That wasn’t much of an answer; on the other hand, it was about the same as the conclusion I’d come to thus far. “Should we?” “I don’t know.” “I don’t, either,” I said. “Let’s suppose that we do. What happens then?” He shook his head, and I thought that I should choose my words very carefully. “Milfoil said that there was a . . . a something in the forest, I don’t know what, I can’t feel magic like you do, but did you feel it, too?” “Yes.” I could have pressed him on that point, asked him if he thought it was bad, but I didn’t. It wasn’t my place to do so. “We humans don’t have the connection, the magic, that you ponies do. We don’t have ghosts, but we have stories about ghosts, and sometimes they want you to find their remains and give them a proper burial or a marker or something else to allow them to rest in peace. And I think it’s not right to make her stay if she doesn’t really want to, so if that’s what she wants, we should go out and—we should do the right thing for her. For Windflower.” He nodded, but it was hesitant. She hadn’t told him what she wanted, or hinted at it. Perhaps she didn’t know. I turned that idea over in my head. What did she know? It was pure speculation on my part. I’d put some pieces together and I thought I had enough of the puzzle, but maybe I didn’t. I’d made it this far without getting punched in the face, so I reasoned that I might as well continue. “If she’s happy, I am too. If she wants to show up every night and look at the flowers or listen to me read a book for her or help me decorate the living room or play with her toys, I’m satisfied with that. “And you’re welcome to come over any night, as well. I have no problem with that. Things can continue on in the same way. Maybe she doesn’t trust me enough to do the right thing for her. Maybe she’ll confide in you.” ••••• Windflower came ghost-galloping down the stairs right on schedule. I’d been a bit worried that meeting her great-uncle might change her habits, but apparently it hadn’t. Or else the eagerness to see her plant overrode whatever difference his presence had made. I hadn’t really focused on her examining her plant before—I’d watched, but I hadn’t listened. Maybe it was too much to expect. I was a complete novice at hearing the things that earth ponies could. Foals surely heard better than I did. I didn’t like to think that, but there was no sense in pretending that I was better than I was. I listened just the same as she circled her plant, studying it. As she put her ghost-hooves on its stem, on its leaves. I listened as she touched her muzzle to the dirt in the pot, and as hard as I listened, I couldn’t hear anything. “You’re trying too hard,” Milfoil chided. “You don’t know what I’m trying,” I whispered. But of course she did. “I know exactly what you’re trying. I can smell you.” “You . . . you can smell me? Is that a thing that earth ponies do, too? I mean, I know that ponies have a better sense of smell than I do, but you can smell my thoughts now?” “Smells like wood burning.” “Really? That’s—wait a minute.” Milfoil stuck her tongue out at me. “I wasn’t wrong, about what you were trying, though.” “No, you weren’t.” I crossed my arms. “What are you supposed to do when your girlfriend is insulting you?” “Make her sleep on the couch?” “That sounds like I’m punishing myself, too.” I turned to her. “What’s she feeling right now? Is she singing?” “Sort of.” ••••• I couldn’t hear the song, but I could watch it being sung. That was a start. ••••• The old stallion did have a Hearth’s Warming doll for Windflower. He brought it over for us to put on the mantle, and we also put mine and Milfoil’s in place. It was weird how there were rituals for some things and not for others. Making the doll had been like a spirit quest, but now that the three were assembled in one place, they got unceremoniously put in place and that was that. I suppose if every tradition also had a ceremony surrounding it, nobody would ever get anything done. Besides, the important part wasn’t how they got on the mantle, it was that they were there. That was what counted in the end. “I can make another one, can’t I?” Milfoil nodded. “If you want to. A lot of ponies do. There’s no rule that you can only have one Hearth’s Warming doll. Some ponies make a new one every year.” Like Hallmark ornaments. “Would it be the right thing to do?” “I can’t answer that question—it’s what’s right for you, not me. I think that a new one should be made to celebrate the year before. If something momentous happened.” “Well, I moved here, I met Windflower, and I met you.” I ticked off on my fingers as I spoke. “That counts as three, at a minimum.  I could probably think of a few more milestones, too. Do ponies ever have more than one on their mantle at the same time?” She furrowed her brow. “I’ve never seen that. I suppose if a pony was really vain, they might. But that doesn’t feel right to me.” I imagined an army of my cloth gingerbread mutants lined up on the mantle, flanked by two ponies. “Yeah, that would be weird. For humans, there are people who really obsess over a particular holiday, and go all out. Other people are more restrained . . . are ponies like that, too?” “We were just at my house yesterday; what do you think?” I nodded. There were a few decorations; neither of us had felt right leaving it undecorated for Hearth’s Warming, but my house was certainly the more-decorated of the two. “I think that children—foals—want the ritual more than adults, most of the time. We decorated my house for the benefit of Windflower.” “Yes.” “So older ponies who might not have any guests over, they might not bother to do anything.” I frowned—I had an idea that the old stallion had an undecorated house. “I think we should make it really clear to him that he’s welcome here any time. Just in case he was thinking of spending Hearth’s Warming alone.”