Winter was coming on gracefully. The leaves had fallen, the skies were graying, and the nip of cold in the air had evolved into a bite, prompting more and more ponies to break out the hot chocolate. Ponyville was ready to settle down into the long winter months. The only thing missing was snow.
Twilight Sparkle sat by a window in Golden Oak Library, sitting in a soft red armchair, engrossed in a dusty old volume about the practical applications of amniomorphic magical theory. The library was warmly lit, and the wooden walls seemed to glow. Twilight smiled and flipped the page.
Above her, she heard Spike thumping around upstairs. He’d found a sled in the basement, and was keen to put it to use. “Twilight!” he called down to the library. “I don’t suppose you know any weather-altering spells? Something for, I don’t know, two feet of snow?”
“I’m not changing the weather for you, Spike,” Twilight called back. “Why don’t you go ask Rainbow Dash?”
“I did. She said no. Come on, Twi! Just one foot?”
“You can wait, just like everyone else, Spike. It will make the first snowfall all the sweeter!”
“Hmph.” Thump. Twilight reasoned that Spike had thrown aside his sled in defeat. “Who wants winter without snow?” he cried. “It’s so cold and cheerless! I say, bring on the blizzards!”
“Spike, I’m trying to – ”
“Read, yeah, yeah, I know. If you need me, I’ll be taking a nap. Wake me when the Pegasi stop stalling the fun.”
And then everything was quiet again. Twilight looked up from her book, out the window. The citizens of Ponyville went about their business in as usual, bundled up in coats, buying and selling, chatting with friends. Maybe some snow is overdue, Twilight thought.
There was a clunk, and a rush of wind. Twilight looked up – a visitor to the library. In tottered a beige Earth pony in a heavy black woolen coat. The lines in his face were deep, the bags under his eyes were heavy, and his muzzle had gone gray. The library door swung shut behind him. Twilight closed her book and stood.
“Welcome to Golden Oak Library, sir! Can I help you?”
The old pony smiled wearily. “I certainly hope so, my dear,” he said, his voice both gravelly and soothing. “Are you Ms. Twilight Sparkle?”
“That’s me! Sir, would you like to sit down?” Twilight had noticed that underneath the black coat, this pony looked to be nothing but skin and bones, shivering from the cold. Yet he stood firm, as if challenging the weather of any season to rattle him.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I won’t be long, I think. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sparkle.” They shook hooves. “My name is Argus Brannigan.”
A light flickered in Twilight’s head. “Argus Brannigan. That name sounds familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”
And in a flash of realization, Twilight remembered. Her face lit up. “That’s right, of course! Argus Brannigan, the singer! Is that right?”
“… Yes, that’s right.”
“Oh, Mr. Brannigan, my mother used to put on your records all the time! I remember when I was a little filly, she took me to see you during one of your tours. What a great night!”
“I’m flattered that you remember me, Ms. Sparkle.”
“And you live here, in Ponyville? What a small world!”
Mr. Brannigan smiled. “Yes, I live on the outskirts, just off the road. It’s a nice place for a pony to spend his sunset years.”
“Do you still perform? I’d love to see you onstage again.”
“Ah, well… I still keep up my singing, and I still play the piano. But I’m afraid that my performing days are long over.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s quite all right. Now, I have heard tell that you are excellent in the field of magic. Is that true?”
Twilight was positively glowing. “I don’t mean to brag, sir, but you’d be hard pressed to find a more magically knowledgeable pony between here and Canterlot. What can I do for you?”
Mr. Brannigan drew in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sparkle, but I think I would like to sit down after all.”
Twilight guided Mr. Brannigan to an empty armchair, then sat down in a chair just across from his.
“You must understand," said Mr. Brannigan, “that I feel a bit foolish coming to you, asking about this… but I must. Ms. Twilight Sparkle, what do you know about ghosts?”
The smile on Twilight’s face faltered. “Ghosts, Mr. Brannigan?”
“Yes. Spirits, phantoms… whatever you like.”
Twilight thought for a moment. In all of her studies, she had not heard of any authentic reports of beings from beyond the grave. Only urban legends, rumors, things of that nature. Twilight was a mare of science, of facts and figures – not the sort of pony who read too deeply into superstitions, or the mysterious rustlings of curtains by open windows.
“I’ll be honest with you, sir,” said Twilight, “I’m not convinced that ghosts exist. Why do you ask?”
Mr. Brannigan rubbed his hooves together nervously. “For the past few months, things have been… happening.” He dropped his voice. “I do believe that I’m being haunted.”
Twilight looked thoughtfully at the old pony. He was clearly upset by something. Twilight resolved to examine the matter scientifically. “What things do you mean?”
Mr. Brannigan hesitated for a moment, and then, as if deciding it was safe to speak, plunged ahead. “Small things… Quiet things… But distinct. Often I’ll be playing the piano, I’ll finish, and I’ll close the keyboard lid… And then when I return to the piano to play again, the lid is up, all the keys exposed. And then in the night… I hear things. Whispers, from under the door, from through the cracks under the window. Usually, they’re words I can’t make out. But sometimes – I swear by Celestia, it’s true – I’ll hear songs. Wisps of old tunes that I used to sing, melodies I’ve mostly forgotten. Something is singing them in the night.
“But last night – last night I knew I couldn’t let this go on any longer. I was sleeping quite peacefully, more so than I’ve slept in weeks. Suddenly, there was a great crashing sound, from outside, on the staircase, as if something was tumbling down. I was torn from my sleep, I rushed out of my room, I turned on the lights – but there was nothing there. Only the staircase. I didn’t sleep any more after that. I decided that something had to be done. And so, I have come to you, Ms. Sparkle, because I believe that you can help me.”
Twilight stared off at the bookshelves, thinking. After a few seconds of contemplation, she looked back at Mr. Brannigan. He watched her expectantly, his eyes wide. “Of course, Mr. Brannigan,” Twilight said, “I’d be happy to help you. I know that I can. And I think my conclusions will make you happy. You see, sir, I don’t think you’re being haunted at all.”
Mr. Brannigan’s eyes were locked on Twilight. “Not being haunted.”
“No, I don’t think so. There are perfectly reasonable, logical explanations for what you’ve told me. For instance, the keyboard lid on your piano. Do you practice a lot?”
“Yes. I might be retired, but I can’t stand the thought of letting my skills atrophy.”
“There you go! If you’re frequently going to and from the piano, is it possible that you might once in a while have forgotten whether you left the lid down or up?”
Mr. Brannigan’s eyes were hard as stone. “It is possible.”
“And how about those ‘whispers’ in the night? We’ve been having a pretty windy winter so far. It’s easy to be unnerved by those gales howling outside, whistling through branches. Couple that with the nighttime, and add a dash of imagination… and voila. There’s your whispering.”
Mr. Brannigan frowned. “Ms. Sparkle,” he said, “I assure you that I would not be here, wasting your time, if I was simply hearing things. How would you explain the noises on my staircase last night? That certainly wasn’t the wind.”
“You said that the noise woke you up, right? Then it’s totally possible that you just heard a crashing noise in a dream, and woke up. Especially if you haven’t been sleeping well – if you're periodically waking up at night, dreams can seem very, very real. They become mixed with reality. The same reasoning can be applied to the whispers, if you’re sure it wasn’t the wind. You see, Mr. Brannigan? No ghosts. Just a series of easily explained incidents.”
Twilight was quite proud of herself. She had solved the issue with reason and logic.
Mr. Brannigan stood from the armchair. He looked down at Twilight.
“I will be frank, Ms. Sparkle,” he said. “I am old. My memory is not what it was. And the years have dulled my senses. I admit that freely. Everything you say might be true. However… I know that what is happening to me is real. I understand that there is no way I can convince you. But if you would have the good grace to humor an old stallion… I’d be very grateful.”
Twilight was ready to reassure him, to tell him that everything was fine, no shadowy apparition was out to get him. But there was a look in Mr. Brannigan’s eye that was disquieting. It was a sad look, a look of tired desperation. It was a look that said, If you do not help me, no one will. Perhaps to disagree with Mr. Brannigan any more would only be cruel.
Twilight took a breath. “Well… If you’re looking for books on the supernatural, I think I might be able to scrape something up.”
Mr. Brannigan smiled, and his body relaxed, as if a hidden tension had been released. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you.”
Twilight spent the next ten minutes going through the few books she had that pertained to ghosts, which mostly had to deal with old legends and myths, nothing of practical application. Finally, she found a few that might work – An Earth Pony’s Guide to Magical Protection, Sightings of Wraiths and Boogey-Ponies, and Expansion of the Possible: Theoretical Phenomena Unconfirmed by Magic. Each of them had at least a small section on the subject of ghosts, or otherworldly entities.
Twilight handed the books over to Mr. Brannigan, who deposited them in the pouches of his coat with many thanks. “And if it helps at all,” said Twilight, “I remember reading something about… salt. I think it was meant as a shield of some kind. Against evil creatures, I mean. Things from... somewhere else.”
Mr. Brannigan listened intently and nodded. “Salt. Very good, I will make a note of it. Oh, thank you, Ms. Sparkle – I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
“Don’t mention it!” said Twilight, beaming. “What are friends for? If you need anything else, my door is always open.”
“That’s very kind of you, my dear. Thank you – thank you again! Goodbye.”
“Goodbye!”
And then Mr. Brannigan was gone, back out into the cold winter air, tottering over to the market to buy as much salt as he could.
Twilight closed the library door behind him, and all was quiet, save for the soft snoring of Spike from upstairs. Twilight didn’t quite know what to make of Mr. Brannigan. He seemed nice, gracious, polite. A good pony. But something was just a little bit… off.
Twilight wondered.
Spike woke up with a stretch and a yawn. He glanced out the window - darkness had fallen while he napped. He rubbed his eyes and scratched behind his ear. Nap time was over – the time for snacks had come.
Spike started down the wooden stairs protruding from the wall. “Twilight! Do you remember if I ate all the garnets? I’m not in a quartz mood.”
As the library came into view, Spike became very confused. Twilight was sitting in the center of the floor, and all around her were big, open books full of old newspaper articles. All of them were yellowed, some of them exuding a musty old-paper-smell. Twilight studied an article in front of her, and carefully flipped the page with magic.
Spike weaved around the books on the floor. “Um, Twilight, if you’re getting ready for some sort of new, ground-breaking magical experiment, can you please choose some pony who isn’t me as the subject?”
Twilight beckoned Spike over with a wave of her hoof. “Don’t worry, Spike, no magical experiments. At least not this week. We had a visitor today.”
“A visitor? Who?”
“Does the name Argus Brannigan ring any bells?”
“Hmm. Wasn’t he a singer, way back before Discord reigned?”
Twilight glared. “No, Spike. He only retired seven years ago.”
“I was joking.”
“Oh. Well, anyway… That’s who came by.”
Twilight closed the book in front of her and magically set another one down. She opened it to an early article.
“I got a little curious about him, so I decided to look him up. I remembered that he was a famous singer, but read this. I had no idea! Look, there’s a special article on him right here. It says that he has over 20,000 performances under his belt, he’s won six Dramatic Horseshoe Awards – I’ve found at least nine articles like this, plus rave reviews for a whole bunch of his operatic work. This pony is one of the most acclaimed basses in all of Equestria!”
Another book fluttered before them, and opened to a new article. The headline read: “Brendel and Brannigan, Taking Equestria by Storm!”
Spike peered over Twilight’s shoulder. “Who’s Brendel?”
“Around ten years ago,” said Twilight, “Mr. Brannigan went on tour with a good friend of his, Arthur Brendel. They sang songs, did little skits, that sort of thing. Every pony loved them. Arthur and Argus! Brendel and Brannigan! Everything was peaches and cream. But look at this.”
The pages flipped in a whir of dull yellow, and suddenly a new headline jumped out at Spike and Twilight. “Arthur Brendel Dies in Tragic Accident.” And under that, in smaller type, “Argus Brannigan Performs in Honor of his Friend.”
“After touring for two years,” Twilight said, “Brendel fell down a flight of stairs and broke his back. He died at the scene. It was awful – all of Equestria mourned his passing. But here’s the part that really gets me. The night that Brendel died, he and Mr. Brannigan were supposed to perform their show. So, Mr. Brannigan turned the whole thing into a memorial for his friend, singing the duets alone, doing the skits alone. It just breaks my heart!”
Spike looked at the newspaper as if he were trying not to wake a venomous snake. “Gee. That sounds… weird.”
“What do you mean, weird?”
“It just doesn’t sound right. I mean, the night Brendel dies, Brannigan goes on without him? Does that sound like something a friend would do?”
“Spike! It was a performance in Brendel's honor. I think it's touching”
“I don’t know. Let’s just say… just for a second, just to make a point… If I died – ”
“Spike! Don’t even say such a thing!”
“Hold on, hold on! If I were to, well, you know… think about how you’d feel. Do you think you’d be able to work here in the library, or keep up your studying, on the day you heard the news?”
Twilight didn’t even want to allow herself to entertain the idea. But just for a moment, a door in her mind opened. It only opened a crack, only a hair, but that was all it took. She spoke slowly.
“If you died… I wouldn’t be able to do anything for a month. Longer, even. Everything would stop.”
“Exactly. And if you were to die, I would feel exactly the same way. So why did Mr. Brannigan get onstage and sing on the night that his best friend died in a terrible accident?”
Twilight let out an exasperated sigh. The book in front of them snapped shut and slid away. “What do you want me to say, Spike? This isn’t an easy thing to talk about! Different ponies react to death in different ways.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. But you know what I think? I think that Mr. Argus Brannigan was suffering from a bad case of ‘the show must go on.’”
Twilight paused. Then with a purple flash from her horn, all of the books of old newspapers closed and stacked themselves neatly in a corner of the library. She slowly made her way to the stairs.
“I think I’ll go to bed now, Spike,” Twilight said. “I think we’ve talked enough about death tonight.”