The library doors clunked shut behind Twilight. She flung off her purple scarf with an exhausted sigh. She had just finished helping Fluttershy get some particularly stubborn woodland critters to settle down for hibernation (a fair bit of magic had been necessary), and she was feeling numb all over from the cold. Twilight was about to call out for Spike to put some hot water on for cocoa, but she stopped. There was on odd sound coming from upstairs.
It was a scratchy sound, something she couldn’t make out very well, a mellow buzz. Somehow, that buzz seemed familiar, like a half-remembered dream. Twilight started up the stairs.
“Spike, is that you? What’s going on?” She reached the second floor.
Standing next to Twilight’s bed was her old phonograph, the scratched up brass horn pointed at the ceiling. A record turned round and round in its depths, and as the machine labored away, squeaking and scratching, a tune rose up from the belly of the horn.
Spike sat on Twilight’s bed, listening. “Hi, Twilight!” he said. “How’d your thing with Fluttershy go?”
“Oh, fine,” said Twilight, approaching the phonograph. “The bear didn’t go down easy, but it all worked out. What’s this you’ve got here?”
“Well, I was going through some boxes downstairs, and look – ” Spike kicked a box of slim, square folders sitting next to Twilight’s bed. “I found this box of records. And guess who’s singing on at least a third of ‘em?”
“Who?”
“That pony, the one who stopped by a few days ago. Argus Brannigan. Take a listen!”
Twilight sat next to Spike on her bed, and as she turned her full attention to the phonograph, a melody emerged from the low fuzz. It was casual and jazzy and just a little bit sad, like something out of a cabaret. A piano plunked away contentedly. A saxophone drifted up and down, a low, rich sound. And there were voices – two voices singing, sometimes alone, sometimes together. Twilight listened, spellbound.
When the sky goes gray,
And the air gets colder,
And you’re lookin’ to lean on a shoulder,
How ‘bout mine?
When the neighbors bray,
Or you’re sick with fear,
I’ll be right there to lend you an ear.
We’ll be fine.
I’ll be there, buddy.
As long as our music plays.
I’ll be there.
Always.
Twilight smiled in wonder. The memories this song brought back, like artifacts long buried. Her mother, humming along in the kitchen. The sound of the sink running. The smell of freshly baked sugar cookies.
“I can’t believe I almost forgot this song,” she said. “My mom played it all the time. Others, too, while she worked around the house, or while I sat reading in the living room…”
Back then, Twilight had enjoyed this music for its atmosphere, for its warmth. I didn’t really understand what it meant back then, she thought. But now, after so much has happened to me here in Ponyville… I think I do.
The next day, Twilight sat up at her desk, finishing her essay on amniomorphic magical theory. The sun was setting in her window, washing the barren winter ground with orange and yellow. Her quill scratched relentlessly, dancing on a roll of parchment under Twilight’s magical influence. If only Spike would stop telling me that this essay is a little dated, she thought. He just doesn’t understand. Sure, amniomorphic spell-casting hasn’t been a big part of mainstream magic for six hundred years, but that doesn’t mean I can just ignore –
BANG.
A sound like a breaking tree branch wrenched Twilight from her state of concentration. Some pony had slammed the library doors downstairs. Twilight looked to Spike, who had been sleeping in a nearby armchair. Ripped from his sleep, he looked to Twilight with wide eyes. “What was that?” he asked.
“Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
Twilight set down her quill and galloped down the stairs. Seeing the visitor, standing in the center of the library, she let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, Mr. Brannigan, it’s you! I was afraid that something was…”
Mr. Brannigan looked up at her. Twilight faltered.
“… Wrong.”
Mr. Brannigan’s red-rimmed eyes stared up at Twilight, glassy and quivering. His legs were shaking under his coat, threatening to buckle beneath him, and his breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. He looked as if he’d been chased through Ponyville by King Sombra himself. His mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish, as if he wanted to speak, but something was stopping up his throat. Twilight rushed over to him.
“Mr. Brannigan! Sir, what’s the matter? Here, sit down – ” She conjured a stool out of thin air and set it behind him. Mr. Brannigan shakily sat down. Twilight conjured another stool for herself, and sat facing the dazed old stallion.
He took in a long breath and lifted his head, preparing to say something – but then the words seemed to get caught in his throat, and he started breathing faster, his eyes widening, his hoof on his heaving chest. He started to stand up on his brittle legs, but Twilight gently guided him back onto the stool with a slight magical pressure. She had to calm him down. She gulped.
“Sir,” she said, as calmly as she could, soothing, passive. “Everything is just fine. You’re perfectly all right. Just breathe. Keep breathing, deep breaths, release everything… Very good, just keep breathing… Everything is just fine…”
Mr. Brannigan’s breath became more and more regular. The heaving of his chest began to subside. He looked up at Twilight, his face fragile, ready to break under the smallest pressure.
“Oh, Ms. Sparkle,” he said – an airy, weak sound. His hooves trembled. “It is so difficult…”
“Just take your time, Mr. – ”
“No.” His voice took on a bit more strength, as if he were drawing on emergency reserves of energy. “There is no more time, Ms. Sparkle, there is no more time left to take… Nothing is working. At every turn… It has only gotten worse…”
Twilight’s face shifted. “What do you mean?”
“Your books. The books you gave me a week ago. They do nothing. The salt does nothing.” Mr. Brannigan’s voice began to tremble with his hooves. “There’s no sleeping anymore. Oh, no, not for me, I’m sleeping in a lion’s den, and there’s no way out.”
“Shh, shh,” Twilight crooned. Her horn glowed, and a quilt appeared from the folds of the air and draped itself over Mr. Brannigan’s shoulders. He clutched at it gratefully. Twilight smiled at him. “It’s all right, Mr. Brannigan. Why don’t we start at the beginning. Tell me what’s happened.”
Mr. Brannigan looked at Twilight with strange, liquid eyes. He opened his mouth. After a moment of stillness, as if the air in his lungs was stolen away, the words came.
“It is closing in on me, Ms. Sparkle. The whispers… They aren’t just whispering anymore. Something murmurs in my house, in the day, in the night, I can’t explain it, I can’t ignore it. And the piano – oh, the piano… There is no more music. When I sit down to play the piano, I… I can’t remember… I can’t play a note. And then…” Mr. Brannigan touched his jaw with his hoof. “And then when I sing… My teeth, Ms. Sparkle. My teeth ache; a pain, a terrible pain that drives nails into them, splits them open. And my tongue… My tongue, as if it’s being torn away…”
Mr. Brannigan’s voice broke. His face began to contort, as if he were keeping some terrible, mysterious something from bubbling up inside him.
Twilight looked carefully at Mr. Brannigan. This poor old stallion, she thought. Something is very wrong here.
Her voice was delicate and soft. “Mr. Brannigan. I'd like to speak to you as my friend. Here's the truth. I’m very concerned about you right now. I’m especially concerned that you seem to be experiencing some physical pains. I don’t know what the problem is, but what do you say we go over to Ponyville Hospital and see if – ”
“No.” Mr. Brannigan shot to his feet, his eyes blazing, his teeth bared, the quilt falling from his shoulders, the stool clattering to the floor behind him. He glared down at Twilight. She shrunk back from this demon looming over her.
“No.” Mr. Brannigan’s entire body was shaking now. “No hospitals. I’ve had enough of hospitals in my life!” He was shouting, spitting wildly. Twilight could only sit watching, stunned, terrified.
“I won’t stand for it, do you hear? Not at all! I have no sickness! There’s nothing to cure! I will not stand here and be made a spectacle of! Something is in my house and I am sure I’m going to DIE!"
He stopped. His eyes darted around the room.
Spike cowered at the top of the staircase, watching the whole ordeal, still as stone. Mr. Brannigan's icy gaze brushed Spike, and he scuttled back up the stairs out of sight.
Mr. Brannigan’s focus returned to Twilight. Twilight looked back up at him in shock, utterly at a loss. His voice lowered, but lost none of its edge.
“There must be more, Ms. Sparkle. More to know. More books. I need them. Anything that might help. There must be more.”
Twilight fought her tongue, forcing it to move. “I… I’m sorry. I gave you everything I have that… might help…”
“Please. There must be more. Anything. Anything at all.”
But there isn’t, Twilight thought. I have no books that can help you. I can’t help you fight your ghosts, because ghosts aren't your problem. Hearing you now – seeing you like this – I think that whatever it is that keeps you up at night is all in your head. But what do I do? Do I tell you the truth? The truth might be a hard pill for you to swallow. But the lie you want to hear would at least put your mind at rest…
Mr. Brannigan watched Twilight expectantly, his mouth slightly open in a silent plea.
Twilight cleared her throat. “Well… I think there might have been one or two books I overlooked. Would you like me to get them?”
Mr. Brannigan’s whole body shuddered. The wild distress in his face melted into confused sadness. “Yes, please, yes,” he said. “That’s all I need. More books…”
And for the next ten minutes, Twilight looked for more books for Mr. Brannigan. She nearly felt guilty with the three titles she came up with. All of them were rejects from her last ghost-themed scouring of the library, books of old tales, legends and fables. Hobgoblins and Horses of Horror. The Legend of Helga the One-Eyed. Ancient Equestrian Myths and Cultures. None of them applicable in life. But she gave them to Mr. Brannigan all the same. He quietly tucked them away into his coat with a murmured word of thanks.
“And if you’d like,” said Twilight, “I can write letters of inquiry to other libraries nearby. They might have some titles of interest.”
Mr. Brannigan seemed to only half hear. “Hm, yes,” he grunted, walking to the door. “That may help…”
He stopped at the door. He turned back to face Twilight. The daggers in his eyes had faded away.
“Ms. Sparkle,” he said, “you’ve done so much to help me. One day, I will tell you more. But things are difficult now. I’ll fix things, Ms. Sparkle. I’ll fix everything…”
And then he was gone.
Twilight stood there, staring at the closed doors. She heard tentative steps on the stairs behind her.
Spike broke the silence. “What in Tartarus was that?"
Twilight conjured her scarf out of thin air and wrapped it around her neck. She headed for the doors.
“Twilight!” Spike cried. “Where are you going? What just happened?”
She turned to Spike. “I’ll be back soon, Spike. There are just a few things I need to sort out…”
And with that she pushed the doors open and stepped out into the chilled late evening air, leaving Spike alone and uncertain in Golden Oak Library.
I’ll explain everything later, Spike, Twilight thought as she walked down the streets of Ponyville, lowering her head against the mounting wind. But I don’t think I can afford to wait.
I need to pay a visit to Ponyville Hospital.
The glass doors of the hospital slid open and Twilight walked into the waiting room. It was a white, sterile place, empty save for a middle-aged mare standing behind the reception desk, a white nurse’s hat sitting lopsided on her head. She smiled as Twilight approached the desk.
“Hello,” she said. “How can I help you?”
Twilight forced a smile. “Hi. My name is Twilight Sparkle. I hope you don’t mind, I just had a few questions about the hospital.”
“Oh, of course. You’re the librarian at Golden Oak, aren’t you, Ms. Sparkle? Doing some sort of research project?”
“Yes… Something like that. And please, call me Twilight. Now, as I understand it, Ponyville hospital is relatively new. How old is it, twenty years?”
The nurse adjusted her hat. “I think its fifteen years old this year. Perhaps a little older, but not quite twenty yet.”
“Hm, I see. And is Ponyville Hospital… doing well? I mean, in so far as… um…”
The nurse laughed. “It’s all right, I get what you mean,” she said. “It sounds horrible, doesn’t it, to say that having more patients is a good thing? But yes, Ponyville Hospital is a busy, productive place. Ponyville is a small town, but our hooves stay pretty full throughout the year. Almost every pony in town seems to have been here at least once.”
“So you see a fair number of ponies pass through here?”
“Oh, yes.”
Twilight jumped at her chance. “And I don’t suppose that you’ve ever crossed paths with… a certain Mr. Brannigan?”
The nurse’s sunny disposition started to cool. “Brannigan? Mr. Argus Brannigan?”
“Yes, that’s the name.”
The nurse paused, evaluating Twilight with a new, far less pleasant look. Finally she spoke. “Ms. Sparkle, I’m not quite sure what it is you’re asking.”
“Oh, Mr. Brannigan is a friend of mine. I just wanted to make sure that everything is… all right… It’s no big deal, I’d just like to know why he – ”
“Ms. Sparkle.” The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “Ponyville Hospital is not in the business of divulging confidential patient information. If you want to get to know your friend better, I’d recommend you ask him yourself.”
Twilight gulped. “Listen, missus… What’s your name?”
“Mrs. Pond.”
“Mrs. Pond. I would never dream of asking you anything that might make Mr. Brannigan uncomfortable, but I really need to – ”
“Stop right there, Ms. Sparkle. Let’s cut straight to the point: I’ve been around the block, and I’ve dealt with ponies like you before. You’re no friend of Argus Brannigan. You think you’re the first pony to come asking about him? You’re no fool, Ms. Sparkle, you’ve heard the stories. I understand. You’re curious. You want to write an article, or a clinical paper, or whatever. But you won’t be getting any help from Ponyville Hospital, not on my watch. We don’t let our patient files go floating around. Especially not files from the Psychiatric Ward. Thank you and goodbye, Ms. Sparkle.”
Mrs. Pond looked down her nose at Twilight, looking as if she’d just won a great battle.
Twilight just stared back.
After a moment, she cleared her throat. “Right… Of course… I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll just be going. Thanks for your time.”
“You’re welcome.”
Twilight turned and walked out of Ponyville Hospital in a daze. The words of Mrs. Pond echoed in her mind, her scarf flapping behind her.
We don’t let our patient files go floating around. Especially not files from the Psychiatric Ward.
Twilight came very close to turning around, marching back into that hospital, and declaring, “Just a minute! Mr. Brannigan is a friend of mine, and he’s been behaving very oddly lately, and I need your help, because I don’t know what to do and something is very, very wrong!"
But then the face of Mr. Brannigan seemed to materialize before her, baring its teeth in rage and fear, crying out to her. I’ve had enough of hospitals in my life! I won’t stand for it, do you hear?
Underneath that frightful exterior, Twilight knew that the Mr. Brannigan who had been so polite, so gracious, had to still be there. Did she have the stomach to turn him over to the hospital, when the mere mention of the place sent him flying into a rage? Could she betray him like that?
No. She could not.
Maybe he’ll get better, Twilight thought. A hospital might just upset him.
The vast dimming orange sky looked down ominously overhead. And the words of Mrs. Pond circled Twilight’s head like vultures, waiting for the right time to descend.
We don’t let our patient files go floating around. Especially not files from the Psychiatric Ward.
The Psychiatric Ward…