Filled with a shivery thrill of fear, spurred on by debilitating curiosity, I followed the newly familiar maze of dim hallways – each one churning with the warm bodies of students – until finally, I laid eyes on him.
At first glance, he looked normal. Dressed like most of the guys at school, he wore a dark black, baggy jacket. The way he had the hood pulled up, covering his head so completely, made it nearly impossible to see his face.
I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to pierce his – hidden deep within the recesses of the hood – but it was no use. His eyes were lost to shadows. With the exception of towering over everyone else, he probably wouldn't have stood out at all.
To anypony else, that is.
He didn’t notice me. At least, not right away. The way he stood so impossibly still made him seem frozen, until he turned unexpectedly in my direction and caught me staring. My first reaction was to drop my head and pretend I wasn't, but between the deer-caught-in-headlights look on my face, plus the fact that I was the only pony not moving in the crowded hallway…well, let’s just say I couldn't have been more obvious. Especially the way everyone kept bumping into me like a living roadblock. I would've moved to avoid being trampled, but I was too focused on the tall, hulking figure, looming threateningly across from me to be bothered enough to get out of the way. As his continuing stare stilled my limbs, something about his darkened face sent another round of fresh chills chasing down my spine.
I allowed my gaze to sweep hesitantly over the faces of students who, oblivious to any danger, were going peacefully about their business. Then, returning his stare, it became clear from the way he never broke eye contact – not to mention the creepy vibe I'd picked up on – that he was the hawk and I was his prey.
The warning bell sounded, signaling the beginning of fifth hour. My body filled with heat as a rush of electric tension, flowing unexpectedly through my veins like an adrenaline pump, made the sudden slamming of metal locker doors sound more like gunshots.
I jumped at the noise.
For some strange reason, I wasn't exactly afraid of him, but knew that I should've been, and that's what scared the hell out of me.
“Get a grip, Scootaloo,” I thought to myself, shaking off the nerves. He was probably just playing around in an effort to scare me. After all, Nightmare Night was less than a week away. If that was the case, and he'd come here just to yank my chain, he was going to wish he hadn't. I don't do playful.
I waited for the coast to clear. Within seconds, every student had disappeared into their classrooms. With the exception of me, of course. And I was already so pissed-off, that I didn't care if I insulted the intruder before discovering why he had invaded my turf.
“Hey there, Freakzilla. Did you dress up for a special occasion, or are you hiding under that hood because you're really just that ugly?” As I waited for his reply, I didn't attempt to hide my humor.
I should have.
His answer came in the form of a low, bass growl as hot, fetid breath roared from his mouth like a sewer blast.
God, he could seriously use some mints!
My stomach twisted with revulsion. I fought hard to keep from puking my guts out – and won, remaining upright – but barely, as the lingering putrid smell grew in sickening waves, until it nearly burned my eyeballs. I opened my mouth to make another biting comment and froze when in a sudden, defiant movement he raised a powerful leg and tore off his hood. The face he revealed was beyond disturbing. He looked zombified, only it wasn't special effects making his fur, or what was left of it anyway, seem as if it could slip right off his face at any moment. Nasty.
But there was also something else. Something oddly familiar about him. I had to practically squint.
And then I saw it.
Terror jerked my stomach like a punch in the gut when I realized I recognized him. Rumble, star hoofball player. He'd left only a few weeks ago to attend college at the University of Manehattan. The whole town had just given him a huge sendoff.
Rumble was one of the lucky ones. All the kids in school were jealous of him, and he'd seemed relieved to be escaping "Hickville." So why was he back here bothering me? Hadn't anyone at U of M noticed he was MIA? But what I really, really wanted to know was...why in the hell did he smell so bad? Like 200 pounds of rotting meat.
I actually had to fight my first reaction, which was to pinch my nose and yell, “Put your damn hood back on!” but I couldn't make my mouth form the words. Instead, I went with a breathy, "Rumble, what happened to you?" because it seemed more...diplomatic.
This time he didn't respond.
His fur had turned to a gray-olive green instead of the shimmering white perfection I remembered from seeing him around school. In fact, his model good looks had vanished altogether. In their place was something that appeared more bestial than pony. Monstrous even. Standing slightly hunched over, he looked almost unreal. Especially when he drew back his lips in a menacing snarl, exposing the uneven edges of broken, jagged teeth that looked purposefully sharpened. Like knives.
Rumble returned my naked stare with what could only be described as blood lust – the urge to kill.
"Master sent me to find you," he finally said, voice deep and raspy.
"I didn't know I was lost," I replied automatically, using humor with reckless abandon like a shield that would somehow protect me. When he showed zero sign of response, I knew my inappropriate attempt at being funny was lost on him.
I should've known better. Monsters don't get funny. And, in my book, Rumble definitely resembled a monster.
Beastie (that’s what I decided to call him) raised one leg, sinewy muscles clearly showing even under his thick hoodie, and made a slow, purposeful motion with his hoof. “Come with me, Daughter of Darkness.”
Daughter of Darkness? I shook my head and croaked, “No thanks. I'm good.” Beastie's hoof remained pointing at me, as if the command would change my mind.
It didn’t.
Very slowly, very deliberately, I stepped back. I couldn't help but cringe as my gaze fell to his outstretched hoof. His fur, besides being that freakish color of grayish green, appeared to be in a very, very, advanced state of decomposition.
I started to think my first impression of him had been more accurate. He did look like a zombie. Smelled like one too. But there was just one problem with that logic. Zombies don't talk. Which left me with more questions than answers. Just what in the hell was I dealing with?
As I continued to gape awkwardly at him - mouth hanging slightly ajar - reality hit me with a numbing jolt. Beastie was nothing more than a rotting corpse, walking around while pretending to be alive.
He wasn't. At least, not anymore. Instead, he looked like something that crawled out of a horror movie.
Did I mention I hate horror movies?
Confidence slowly unraveling, I lifted a hoof to my throat. Swallowing hard past a lump, my eyes slid to his bony legs. Impossibly long, thick, crusty black nails were all curled under at the tips like claws. Claws that could rip and tear tender flesh. My flesh.
I heard a noise and glanced down as something thick and pus-like dripped on his back hooves, making soft, wet plopping sounds. While Beastie continued to inch silently forward, closing the distance between us, he left a wicked trail of grossness in his wake as blood, and other things much, much thicker than blood slimmed the gray industrial tile floor.
Bit by terrifying bit, I attempted to retreat, until I felt the locker doors pressing against my back. A little voice inside my head said, "Be afraid. Be very, very afraid."
For once, I didn't argue.
Horribly aware of how close he was, I put my front hooves up defensively and, for some reason, Beastie stopped mere inches away. The little voice inside my head became an urgent demand. “Warning! Proceed to the nearest exit.” I had to agree. This probably would’ve been a good time to run. Instead, what did I do? Crane my neck upwards and stare at his mouth. The mouth with the knives.
Sometimes fear makes you stupid.
Black soulless eyes zeroing in on my neck, they came alive as if lit ablaze – filled with an unquenchable fire like I was some kind of pony snack pack. I watched, frozen, as Beastie licked his lips. Was that drool in the corner of his mouth?
Suddenly the anger I carried around like a torch returned with a vengeance, and I could tell I was about to do something completely insane. Like confronting a monster. I didn't even have a weapon to protect me. Just my mouth.
Yes, despite how many teachers over the years had said otherwise, I always knew my smart-mouth was going to come in handy someday. Besides, giving Beastie the silent treatment was like offering him to munch me. I didn't want to give him the wrong impression now, did I?
“Sorry to disappoint you...” I began, pausing momentarily to fill my words with an extra special touch of sarcasm. “But I'm not on the menu.”
Towering menacingly over me, Beastie gave a quick bearing of pointy teeth as another growl trickled from his throat. This time the rotting ooze of his graveyard breath made my stomach do a flip-flop.
Okay, so talking was out. Can't say I didn't try.
I actually had to clench my teeth together to keep from saying something else I knew we would both regret. If he didn't stop breathing all over me, he wasn't going to enjoy the results. Standing this close, I was sure to blow chunks all over him.
"You are coming with me!" Beastie hissed. In a blur of motion he lurched forward, claws splayed out in his hooves as if ready for the kill.
A scream ripped from my throat in a rush of horror. The last thing I remembered before slipping into ice-cold darkness, was falling into the protective arms of an angel.