//------------------------------// // Chapter Three. Of The Concert Of Horror; And Miss Heartstrings' Subsequent Flight. // Story: Don't Look A Gift Horse In Innsmouth // by Bronio Kröger //------------------------------// Chapter Three Of The Concert Of Horror; And Miss Heartstrings' Subsequent Flight. After taking my leave of Miss Bon, I rushed back to the library. As I had vowed to find the source of this corruption, I set about researching the great tomes of old. I sealed myself in the library, accepting no visitors save my ponyservant, Spike. He was a queer sort, of foreign stock; yet he comported himself in the manner of civilized ponies and so I allowed him to fulfill my menial tasks. I thus set myself to concentrate on the evil undisturbed by any outside factors. One disturbance, however, I could not escape, and that was the nightly call of the music. I tried to plug my ears with cotton or wax, I set myself in the innermost recesses of the library, yet each evening I would succumb to its grip. Though I could little remember what happened during those periods, in my journals I chart the time lost to its hypnotic spell. Though I could not observe directly, it seemed to me that these periods affected Spike less distinctly, perhaps merely bringing a state of torpor, a difference I ascribed to his more primitive reptilian brain. The Ponyville library is much older than it would appear, in fact predating the ancient tree which makes up its current form. Deep in the basement are the archives of hundreds of years, as well as unusual volumes forgotten or hidden over centuries. It was in these that I found an answer, on the fourth day of my search, concealed in a musty tome dredged from the very bowels of the library. The book appeared unsettling and odd, being bound in some sort of smooth, porous yet rubbery and tight material. The effect was not unlike Spike's scales. It felt oddly familiar. Inscribed on its front cover were these two phrases: KNACKERNOMICON Abdul El-Mers The sight of that name filled me with unspeakable dread; for as you know, El-Mers is the Mad Arabian; a thoroughbred madpony who allegedly died in a market square, drawn and quarterhorsed by an unseen force. To think that I was seriously considering this legend, my dear Princess: a ghost story, a thing told to fillies to frighten them at night! Yet, suddenly, as I raced to find a cure for my otherworldly affliction, the myths of old suddenly became all-too-real.I shuddered instinctively at this morbid epiphany, and once agian bade myself continue. The book alleged to be the last testament of Starswirl the Bearded, though not written by him; rather being a transcription of his rantings after his magical studies drove him to madness. It was almost incomprehensible at times, written in an arcane register; from my forays into fillyology, I recognized it as a variant of Old High Church Equestrian, as spoken in the Preclassical era of antiquity. There was no organization to the work, and incantations and spells mingled freely with distorted histories and enigmatic poetry. Here and there, glyphs were reproduced from rubbings or reconstructed from memory. I do not know how I found the spell I needed, but find it I did; a ritual which would protect the mind from alien influences. With panicked speed I sought to quickly prepare the spell, lest the dreadful nightfall would once again rob me of my faculties and leave me insensate. Though usually ponderous and indolent, Spike worked quickly under my exhortations, and we were able to ready the ritual before the fatal hour fell upon us. Tonight would be the first night I would be able to truly see what was happening while we the town was under the thrall of the damnable music. I cast the spell and felt a warm wave of magical energy wash over me. As I felt a strange tingling, my years of magical training assured me that I was properly warded against magical assault. I have you, my dearest Princess, to thank for this. As the music played, I found myself oddly unmoved by its tune, though the compulsion still nipped at the corners of my mind. With no small amount of trepidation, I warily ventured from the library. With each step I felt myself grow more sure of my resistance against the tune, which sounded less otherworldly and beautiful and more shrill with each passing moment. So it was that I began to roam through the streets of Ponyville. As the wailing and -- could it be? -- hissing of the lyre was heard to reverberate through the otherwise empty alleyways and thoroughfares, I gingerly stepped toward the source of the sound. Here and there, I would see a pony, standing stock-still, facing the hedge maze at the center of town; taking no heed of me, the ponies would gently sway to and fro, eyes glazed over, an expression of silent terror emblazoned on their faces. Through clenched teeth I could hear humming; a humming matching the tune. This humming grew louder as I approached the hedge maze. Nopony took notice or acknowledged my presence; indeed, it was as if each were in an ecstatic trance; a vision state that the heathen Zebra shamans would enter by ingesting vile concoctions. Nopony was aware of the other, save in an uncanny ability to avoid physical collisions; shambling, stumbling, each slowly shuffled toward the center of the maze. In silence I stealthily followed a band of ponies as we wended our way through the maze. With unerring accuracy, the ponies sought the middle of the maze; dumbly they followed the well-trodden path, as if from memories of their own dark nightmares. For did they not walk this path every night? As the maze gave way to the clearing in the center, I was shocked at the sight. On the stage at the center sat Miss Heartstrings, attended by a haggard and diseased Miss Bon. Miss Bon shivered constantly, her eyes glazed with a patina of inchoate dread. For her part, Miss Heartstrings sat in a most queer fashion; on her haunches with her hooves dangling underneath her. Why a pony would stoop to, or endure, such pressure on the rump is beyond me. In her front hooves, she was once again strumming the lyre; yet here, I noticed something truly unnatural. Miss Heartstrings' hooves had somehow split, not unlike those of a cow or pig. One great cleft had split her hoof in twain; with two smaller clefts visible, one on each side. If there were more, I could not see. These ruptured and branched monstrosities were in constant motion. For she was playing the lyre, not with magic, but by dragging her mutilated hooves across the strings. As they passed across the lyre, I could watch as these smaller hooves curl and twitch like leaves in a fire, and winced as I imagined the horrible sensation. Watching their action I was reminded of Spike's claws; yet these digits were far softer and pliable in directions Nature never intended, granting a horrible dexterity. You must believe me, my dear Princess, when I say that the greatest part of my willpower was devoted not to maintaining the ward of protection, but in preventing a fit of nausea as I stared, transfixed, at these undulating and writhing worms where once proper hooves had been. Yet after wondering how such a gruesome mutation could go unnoticed, I spied a set of false hooves lying beside Miss Heartstrings. It was with these that she had guised her horrible malformity. I soon was relieved of my nausea, as I as rocked to the very core at what came next. Marching solemnly onto the stage, as if compelled by drumbeats in a funeral dirge, was my very dear compatriot, Miss F. Shy. Miss Shy, clearly oblivious to the goings-on about her, held between her teeth a flailing and distressed coney; its terror was palpable and its eyes wide as it feared the worst. Alas, my dear Princess! The worst was indeed to come. For Miss Shy laid the rabbit at Miss Heartstrings' hooves. After releasing the coney from her mouth, I saw more clearly; the rabbit was bound and unable to escape. Here, Miss Heartstrings finally consented to use magic from her horn to play the accursed instrument. At last, she left her seat and stooped over the defenseless rabbit. She raised her forehoof -- or should I say the twisted, jointed, branched, quivering monstrosity that had once been her forehoof, and spoke in a voice so gravelly and deep that I could not believe it was her own: "Ka-li ma, ka-li maaaaaa!" And with this piercing, tearing cry, Miss Heartstrings savagely plunged her hoof into the rib cage of the helpless coney. I prayed to you, dear Celestia, that it died quickly and was spared the pain and barbary that was to follow. For it was with an animalistic growl that she rudely and abruptly wrenched the poor beast's viscera from the twitching corpse of the coney. "Ka-li maaaa!" she shouted to the crowd. The throng, in turn, responded with a dissonant and quavering moan, not unlike a howling wind on a stormy winter night. As I struggled to keep my composure, I was further sickened to see what happened next: as Miss Shy shambled off the dais, Miss Heartstrings used her unholy appendage to raise the dripping offal to her mouth and bit into it. As blood -- blood, my dear Celestia, something utterly repugnant to all ponykind! -- dribbled down her jaw and mixed with her saliva, I discerned a quiet moan of satisfaction from Miss Heartstrings. What had my world become, my Princess, when good ponies degenerate into savage acts of unspeakable cannibalism? What had transpired and gone so horribly wrong to compel Miss Heartstrings to -- no! no! I cannot relate any further. Suffice it to say that Miss Heartstrings had committed an act so heinous, so gruesome, that not even the most malevolent of us would ascribe it to the savage Zebra tribes of the dark and unexplored south. What occurred subsequently was even more horrific, my dear Celestia, if such a thing can be imagined. Indeed, it must be imagined; for to deny that these events occurred would be to remain willfully ignorant of the cancer spreading in our fair towns and hamlets. For, my dearest Princess, Miss Heartstrings then took the remainder of the gore and viscera and fed it to Miss Bon. Miss Bon, quivering and quaking, was mazed and unable to resist; yet it could be seen with each timid bite that her body and soul were being defiled by such an unnatural act. I could not help but note tears streaming down Miss Bon's cheeks; her eyes were pleading with Miss Heartstrings to release her from this bondage. Miss Heartstrings, however, remained oblivious, and returned to playing the damned instrument with her deformations. As the music howled and screeched, the assembled ponies rocked back and forth, some gently humming along with the obscene melody. Though my own magical protection held, I could feel a growing and malevolent power as the the horrible song tapped into the very life-essence of the ponies around me. What purpose could this ritual serve? I had no idea, but I knew that it was incumbent on me to stop this perverse ceremony, but how? Were I to make myself known, would the assembled ponies turn against me? Even worse, would the terrible mystical energy I felt all around be directed against my person, mutilating me, or worse? I quickly ascertained that I would have to deal with this using the utmost subtlety. Using my wholesome magic, I delicately tipped a candle at the edge of the stage against the curtains. Quickly the curtain began to smolder, and I worked to intensify this with my magic until the curtain was aflame. Just as I expected, Miss Heartstrings' attention was drawn by the blaze. Shouting in alarm, she leaped to her hind hooves and sprinted with a disturbingly graceful alacrity to the source of the fire. How she was able to maintain this balance was beyond me; yet I did not take the time to ponder anatomy or physics. For as she ran to the source of the blaze, I took advantage of the momentary lapse in her concentration. Swiftly, I jumped atop the stage and confronted the crazed Miss Heartstrings as she stamped out the last of the fire. Before she could even become aware of my presence, I delivered a right cross-hoof to her muzzle. My years training in hooficuffs under the Marequis de Queensbury had paid off; for Miss Heartstrings was quickly rendered unconscious. As she buckled to the ground, the lyre crashed to the ground. Instinctively, as if stamping out a fire, I smashed the lyre's strings with my hoof. As the strings snapped, I heard a terrible cacophony; the screaming of small animals combined with the tearing of tendons and the breaking of bones. Terrifying as this was, my dear Princess, the most horrific sound in this orchestra of the macabre was the distant sound of maniacal laughter; not unlike that which had seized Miss Bon in fits when I had seen her last. With the lyre's strings severed, I felt the miasma lift from the crowd. Gradually, as if waking from the most traumatic of nightmares, ponies began to return to their sensibilities -- only to be shocked by the gruesome tableau laid before them. Miss Shy was immediately inconsolable, wailing, "Angel! Angel Bunny!" Shortly thereafter, she descended into a catatonia from which, to this day, she has not arisen. Miss Bon, for her part, remained curled in a tight ball, rocking back and forth and shivering. I quickly recruited a stout young stallion, the brother of my dear friend Miss A. Jack. Mr. Macintosh Jack and his friend Mr. Cake aided me in restraining the delirious Miss Heartstrings. As Messrs. Jack and Cake held her down, I used my magic to bind her in ropes. In addition, I impregnated the rope with magical wards to inhibit Miss Heartstrings' use of unicorn magic. Once sufficiently restrained, or so we thought, I brought out a vial of smelling salts; the same vial that has served me many times since my dear friend and haberdasher Miss R. Belle introduced corsets to our fair town. Miss Heartstrings quickly revived, and affixed upon me the most hateful glare. "Where is my lyre?" she hissed. Taking the ruined instrument up with my magic, I held it before her. "It is here, and I have rendered it mute, and put an end to your horrible designs. You have been bound and will be held accountable for your crimes, witch!" I spat, cursing her for her unclean magics. With that I left her under the watchful eyes of the Messrs. as I endeavored to find the Mayor in the throng, trusting the enchantment of the ropes to hold her. It was to be a foolish trust indeed, as I would soon learn. No sooner had a stepped from the stage than I heard screams from behind me. Somehow Miss Heartstrings had loosed her bonds, and was assaulting the stallions who had been set to watch her. Her foul hooves were somehow affixed to the faces of Messrs. Jack and Cake, and I watched as her horrid tendrils lashed at their eyes and nostrils. Unprepared for this horrifying assault, the two, brave stallions though they were, reared back to dislodge Miss Heartstrings, and in so doing gave her an avenue of escape. Quickly, she shot out with her forehoof and grasped the lyre, then leapt from the stage, running on her hind hooves only. Reaching the barrier of the maze, she proceeded to climb the hedge-wall, clambering over it like an unholy spider, all the while screaming with horrible laughter. The town constabulary would search for the rest of the night, but no trace of Miss Heartstrings was to be found.