//------------------------------// // Chapter 11 - Making a Mark // Story: Carousel // by Thornquill //------------------------------// Rarity lifted a bright purple quill in her magic and floated it to the inkpot nearby. She caught the ink’s scent, thick and bitter, as the fresh-cut nib punctured its surface. She then withdrew it and laid out her signature in swooping, elegant lines, the dark liquid sinking down into the coarse paper of the contract until it was firmly entrapped. Filthy Rich smiled. “I’m sure this will end up being a profitable arrangement for the both of us, Ms. Rarity,” he said, pulling the contract back to himself and putting his own signature above Rarity’s. “I’m simply grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me. I’m looking forward to getting this place up and running as soon as possible.” “Well, you can rest assured it will be well-promoted by Barnyard Bargains.” Rich put the contract into his briefcase with a stack of other papers. “I don’t usually take a strong interest in these niche types of business, but any friend of Minimum of is a friend of mine. Who knows, maybe it’s a sign that Ponyville’s due for another growth spurt; bring in some hip young ponies who want to buck the city trend and all that. Might even attract some celebrity types from Canterlot.” “Well, I don’t know about celebrities,” Rarity laughed, “but if my humble shop serves to help our community grow, I don’t think I could ask for more than that.” “I like your attitude, Ms. Rarity,” Rich replied, winking at her. He looked around the showroom, nodding in approval. “I think you’ll do just fine around here. And what you’ve done with the place so far is simply wonderful. I can’t wait to see what you do with the outside come springtime. It’s about time this old place stopped being an eyesore for the whole town. You need anything, you just give us a holler.” “Actually, there is a tiny favor I might ask,” Rarity said, glancing at the lamps around the room. “You wouldn’t happen to know when Barnyard Bargains will get another shipment of lamp mantles in, do you? Everyone’s always sold out, and I haven’t been able to upgrade my fixtures all winter.” Rich looked closer at the lamps around the room, and his jaw dropped as he noticed the telltale shadows of open flames flickering behind the frosted glass. “My word, Ms. Rarity, I had no idea you were working with unsafe hardware like that. I’m mighty sorry. It’s the manufacturing plants I order from—they always get overwhelmed this time of year. Everypony always waits until the last minute to do winter maintenance.” He shook his head ruefully. “It ain’t good for business. But I’ll tell you what, soon as I get another order in, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” “Thank you so much, Mr. Rich,” Rarity said, following him to the door. “I’ll have concepts for you to review by the end of the week.” “Pshaw, ain’t no rush, Ms. Rarity.” Rich’s breath turned to fog as he stepped outside into the cool evening air. It had started to snow again, and large, heavy flakes were drifting lazily down in increasingly thick waves. “You take your time. I know when to push the line and when to step back. Comes from working with the Apples so long. Well, you have a good day now, you hear?” “And you as well, Mr. Rich.” Rarity closed the door and let out a resigned sigh. “And that, as they say, is that.” Minny had been true to her word. She had spent the past week searching out alternatives to repair the damage done by the Canterlot Historical Society. The problem was that most of them were either out of Rarity’s reach, such as additional small business loans from numerous banks, or would pay out too late to meet the demands of the Society. It had turned out that Rarity’s best option was to get a personal investment contract, and Minny had gone to Filthy Rich personally to recommend her. Despite Rich’s amiability, his help hadn’t come cheap. In the end, he and Rarity had negotiated that Barnyard Bargains Inc. would receive a twenty-percent royalty share from all revenue generated by her shop for ten years, as well as a guaranteed portion of shareholding should her business ever go public. Rarity had also agreed to design exclusive seasonal lines for Barnyard Bargains during the next five years at non-competitive price-points against her own stock. Her name would be associated with those lines, however, and she would receive royalties in addition to the exposure she would get from the lines across Equestria. Even though she was able to appreciate why his terms were so steep—he was taking a huge risk after all, especially since her business was already in financial difficulties, and he had his own profits to look out for—it still left a bitter taste in her mouth to have failed to start her business as an exclusive owner, entirely under her own power. Yet, if the past several weeks had taught her anything, it was that there was almost no way she could undertake something so monumental alone. Even if it was possible, going at it alone had done nothing to make her happy. Even if I’d rather not allow others to step in and work with me, I suppose making compromises like that are just a part of doing business. Rarity walked around the room and, one by one, shut off the lamps and eased the room into the night. The last thing she passed was the the first display rack she had managed to fill with mockups. Numerous gems winked out at her from the rich, perfect pleats and expertly-sculpted collars as she gently dimmed the flame into darkness. These designs, at least, had turned out exactly as she had hoped, and she gave them a broad smile before turning away and heading up the stairs. For the first time, everything feels like it’s getting on track. As she reached the top of the stairs, she turned into the bathroom and stepped up to the marble vanity. She dampened a cloth and rubbed gently at her eyes in an effort to remove her mascara and eyeshadow. She paused, however, when she heard a slight creak from somewhere outside that sounded like it had come from one of the older boards on the staircase. She paused, quirking an ear and listening before frowning slightly and resuming her work. Another creak, a little closer that time. Rarity set the dirty cloth on the counter and took a deep breath, her apprehension growing. After the incident with Sweetie Belle, things in the shop had seemed to calm down. Rarity had even dared to begin hoping that whatever she had stirred up had started to run out of steam and would fade away. There had been no nightmares, no hallucinations, and only a few odd sights or sounds had disturbed her as she rushed to prepare the mockups for her presentation to Filthy Rich. She hadn’t heard back from Pinkie Pie, and she had begun to wonder if her excitable friend had forgotten her promise to look deeper into Toola Roola’s short span of business. With things calming down, however, Rarity had been content to forget the matter and let it resolve itself, so long as it continued on the downward trend she had been enjoying. Another creak, and this time, Rarity was certain it had come from just outside the bathroom door. As she heard it, she became aware of a strange pressure, like the air had become denser and harder to breathe. She had the uncanny impression that something outside was looking for her, or that it knew where she was and was drawing carefully closer. With a soft click, the latch slid away from the catch, and the door began to slowly open. For a second, Rarity stood perfectly still, determined to just let it open, to see whatever was on the other side and confront it. She was tired of fighting, tired of running, and so even though she wanted to slam the door shut and lock herself inside until it was safe and quiet again, she forced herself to stand still and watch whatever was about to happen. The door slowed to a stop. After only opening an inch or two, it wavered ever so slightly before falling totally still. Rarity listened intently, but heard only the gentle hiss of the lamps above the vanity. She could see the boards of the hallway floor beneath the edges of the purple area rug she had put down. The hall light was off, but the light coming from her room was more than adequate to illuminate the passage. She heard nothing and saw no sign of movement besides the gentle rise and fall of the light. Rarity licked her lips and pulled her hooves down from the vanity. Turning and facing the door uncertainly, she took one step forward, then another, scanning the tiny patch of floor outside for the slightest sign of motion. She laid a hoof on the latch and froze there, waiting. She tensed slightly, ready to pull the door open, but stopped short several times. Letting the door open had been one thing; opening it herself, she found, was another. Something was in the hall waiting for her, and she couldn’t bring herself to move any farther towards it. With a pang of shame, she pushed the door shut and let the latch fall into place. She stopped short of locking it, content to lean against it and listen for any reaction shutting the door might have provoked. But still she couldn’t hear anything. She bent down, keeping a firm hoof on the door panel to keep it shut, and looked out through the keyhole. As far as she could tell, the hallway was empty. She didn’t know what she had expected to see, and she wasn’t sure if seeing nothing at this point was worse than seeing something, anything, that might be watching for her on the other side. She was about to pull back when she noticed the far wall of the hallway fading from her vision. She frowned and squinted, but even as she did so, the dim lines of the wall’s paneling vanished into darkness and did not reappear. As she watched, the light started to visibly fade from gold to a dim, sickly yellow, and then to vague, sputtering bursts of dull orange. The lights in the bedroom are going out. Rarity leapt up and lifted the latch, but froze just as she was about to fling the door open. She had the sense that she was being played with, maybe even lured out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Why? What’s the point? she thought to herself. She thought of calling out, of challenging whatever was out there to show itself, but she felt idiotic for even thinking it. There was nothing out there that could answer her. Nothing with enough intelligence left that it would do any good, anyway. A loud, glassy crack snapped from the direction of the vanity. Rarity glanced back sharply, searching for the source of the sound, but didn’t notice anything wrong at first. But as she turned back to the door, the light in the bathroom suddenly dimmed, and Rarity turned again just in time to see the closest of the two lamps go dark behind her. Her mouth fell open, and she almost let go of the door in shock. It’s in here with me. She heard a soft, metallic squeak. Then she saw the little two-sided lever attached to the farthest gas valve slowly, tremulously tilting to one side. The flame above it started to shrink, and the shadows in the bathroom swelled and pulsed animatedly in response to the choking fire. Rarity dashed over to the other side of the vanity and flicked a hoof at the switch, knocking it to the open position and letting the flame surge back to full strength. She took just a moment to nod in satisfaction, but in that moment, she heard the latch rattle behind her. Whirling, she saw the door inching open again, and this time, there was nothing but darkness visible behind it. The lamps outside had been turned off. She realized she was being given a choice—light, or the door. She couldn’t physically hold both at once. It doesn’t need the door, she told herself, trying to control her breathing. It’s trying to wear you down. “Besides,” she said bitingly, “I have tricks too.” Defiantly, she flicked the switch to the gas off. In the same moment the flame was snuffed out, she lit her horn and filled the room with radiant blue light. What little she could see of the hallway faded into view. It was empty, and the door had once again stopped moving. “I think that’s quite enough of that,” she said, nodding grimly. As she stepped past the mirror, however, something caught her eye in the cold, pulsing light of her horn. Frowning, she turned away from the door and stepped back to the vanity. As she drew closer, she saw a dark, crooked fracture in the lower left corner of the mirror. She reached out and touched it, feeling the precise, silk-sharp edge where the glass had broken. Did it do this? she wondered, pulling back from the cold caress of the broken edge. But why... A memory made her freeze again. The mirror and the dark fracture within it—she had seen something similar before. The mirror in the library. The one in the red frame with just such an angry crack running through it. She had never given it a second thought in all the years she had visited that library, but in the past few visits, it had drawn her attention and she hadn’t understood why. Now, however... She stepped away from the mirror, watching it for any sign of additional inconsistencies. As far as she could tell, there was nothing strange about her reflection or the room behind her. Turning away, she stepped carefully to the door. She felt as if she was being led to something, as if someone wanted her to understand a connection. So even though she distrusted it, she felt she had no choice but go to the one place where she could confirm her suspicion. The blue light of her magic filled the hall, but it failed to reveal any watchful figures or anomalous shadows. A moment later, however, she heard another creak on the steps, just below her and out of her sight. “Alright, fine,” Rarity hissed. “Let’s see where this goes.” She strode down the hall and into the stairwell, every sense strained to catch some sign of what was leading her on. She even felt for the impalpable currents of magic with her mind, but couldn’t detect any twinge of wayward power that might indicate what she was facing. Rarity grimaced as a slight throb of pain pulsed in her horn, and her light flickered and receded for a moment. The end of a long day was not the best time to be using prolonged magic. She was starting to feel like she was holding up a heavier and heavier weight with her neck, and the cruel grip of a headache had started to tug at the edges of her skull. When she reached the bottom of the steps, however, she intensified her light to combat the darkness of the showroom. The blue glow made everything look frozen and lifeless, and the air was heavy with expectation. Right. The mirror, she remembered, zeroing in through the fog of her fatigue on the reason she had left the upstairs. If I’m right, then Ms. Dog-Ear... Celestia, this could be worse than I imagined. She turned and headed into the kitchen, grabbing the latch of the basement door with a hoof and pulling the narrow door open. The darkness within seemed to drink in Rarity’s light like a tar pit, swallowing it whole and betraying no sign of it beneath its inky surface. Rarity gave a pained groan and intensified the spell once more. Pushing back the shadows felt like trying to move a boulder with her bare hooves. This should not be this hard, she thought. But the darkness gave way a few inches and revealed the naked, serpentine lines of one of the lamps. Rarity prodded at the valve with a hoof, hearing the soft exhalation of gas as she refocused her magic and summoned a single, tiny spark from the void. The flame caught with an angry burst, and Rarity let her breath out in a soft cry as she allowed her magic to die. She didn’t think two spells should have cost her so much effort, but she was growing more tired with every second. She was even starting to feel a little sick from the exertion. The headache was there to stay now, and she made her way shakily down the stairs with a wavering scowl. Another spark lit the lamp at the bottom. Rarity slumped against the wall from the effort and felt her stomach heave. I need to know, she thought through the fog that had settled on her. I need to be sure. Then I can go to sleep... Sweet Celestia, I need to sleep... She made her way to the stacks of paintings on wobbly legs and sat down hard beside them. She pulled them aside one by one, lacking the energy to do more than lay them slowly down as she sifted through them. She barely noticed the horrible and grotesque images; they were blending together in her mind, a repugnant collage of blurring paint that seemed to melt from their canvases and coalesce into an incomprehensible atrocity behind her, a lake of ruinous distortion ready to suck her in and drown her if she allowed it. She paid them no mind. The portrait; she had to find the portrait. It was the only thing she could keep definitively in her mind. Everything else was fading, bleeding away and blurring into the maelstrom of monstrous art piling up behind her. Just a few more... just a few... more... As she put another painting aside, she knocked a jar backwards from its precarious perch on one of the shelves, and it fell to the floor and cracked. Rarity grimaced and pulled it upright before the clear liquid could leak out, then kept going even as a strong, acrid smell began to fill the air. It reminded her vaguely of pine trees, but she had more pictures to get though. Rarity wanted to sleep. She had never wanted to sleep so much in her life. Once the portrait was found, then she could think about resting. There were only a few canvases left. The lamp was so bright, it hurt her eyes. Why is it so bright? She turned the last canvas over. She recognized the scene from the portrait and scrutinized it with bleary eyes. In the background, she could clearly see a mirror in a red frame hanging behind the easel and the empty stool. It was the mirror that had always hung in the library. There was no mistaking the way its frame curved gently inward at the center, rising up to form slightly raised, rounded points at the corners. The only difference was that in the portrait, it appeared to be undamaged. Why did Ms. Dog-Ear have it? Rarity thought groggily. She mentioned... she mentioned... what did she mention? The auctions, that’s right... she must’ve bought it after Toola died... why is that important...? Rarity knew there was something important right in front of her, but she was having difficulty even keeping the picture in focus. Her vision was blurry, and she blinked sleepily several times before she could see it clearly again. There has to be a detail I’m missing—the mirror, the easel, the stool... The stool where Toola Roola had sat. Rarity blinked hard and gaped. The painting was empty. Somewhere above her, there was a concussive crash followed by the tinkling of what sounded like hundreds of glass shards. Barely a second later, the latch clacked as the door at the top of the stairs swung open. Rarity stumbled back, dropping the painting of the vacant scene to the floor. She stumbled, falling against the far wall as the stairs creaked and groaned. She tried to cry out, to yell, to make any kind of sound, but her mouth only moved soundlessly like that of a fish suffocating in open air. Below the line of the ceiling, a pink hoof appeared on the steps, joined quickly by another. Two hind hooves became visible as the figure pushed its way haltingly down towards the basement floor. It was moving with twitchy, hesitating steps, and the legs looked misshapen, as if they had each been made a different size, all of them wrong. Rarity could see half of its body and its long, strangely-curved neck as it paused, swaying slightly as it seemed to consider something. The lamp was just in front of it, burning painfully bright in Rarity’s eyes, and she could barely stand to look at it. Her head was pounding with pain and she wanted to vomit. Then the pony lifted a forehoof, which seemed to tremble as it rose slowly, moving gently but inexorably toward the lamp. “No...” Rarity gasped. The room seemed to tilt back and forth as she tried to stand. “No... stop!” As Rarity hobbled to her hooves, the other pony touched the thin, curved metal vein beneath the howling flame. Then it leaned its head down, bringing it into view beneath the edge of the ceiling, and Rarity saw a pastel, three-toned mane framing a painted mask of a face. It was smiling at her—a horrific, broad grin that was filled with more cruelty and demonic glee than Rarity had ever imagined a face could hold. Then the valve snapped shut. Everything vanished as darkness rushed in like an undammed river. In an instant, Rarity was trapped in a void that felt both limitless and suffocating at the same time. Her breath came in loud, fast bursts, and try as she might, she couldn’t control her gasping as she listened for some sign of the pony on the stairs. She could only hear herself, her breaths becoming shakier as fear brought choking sobs to her throat. She tried to suppress them as she shuffled around on the floor. She wanted to move, but the terror of suddenly feeling the cold touch of an unknown body kept her in place. The smell of pine and rancid chemicals was choking her. Squeak. Rarity froze, her ears snapping to the sound. It had come from the stairs, she was sure of it. Squeak. It was utterly dark; her eyes weren’t adjusting. She tried to bring light to her horn, but the effort brought a wave of nausea so powerful she almost fell flat on the floor. What’s wrong with me? she wondered, unable to hold back a few broken sobs. Squeeeak. This time, Rarity heard a low, breathy hiss follow the metallic noise. For a moment, her mind spun in terror as she thought the pony had turned into a snake and was coming towards her to bite her, but as the hissing continued, she realized it was the sound of gas pouring out of the unlit lamp and into the room. “No!” Rarity screamed, throwing herself in the direction of the stairs. Her head struck painfully against a wall, and she tumbled backwards before falling to her side. She had been lured, and now the darkness was being used to trap her there. Her breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. As soon as she realized what she was breathing in, she tried to hold her breath as the hissing continued unabated. The stairs... where are the stairs? She rose, but fell again as dizziness and nausea overcame her. She crawled in a circle, trying to find her way in the infinite void. Her hoof touched a pliant canvas. The paintings were all piled in the back corner, which meant the stairs were to her right. Rarity couldn’t hold her breath any longer. Holding her hoof over her mouth, she drew in a long, desperate gasp. Her energy only continued to bleed away from her. Her hoof found the bottom step. She dragged herself towards it, not caring that the other pony might be standing right above her in the darkness. She hauled herself up one step after another, but her muscles were burning as if she were climbing a mountain. She felt so thoroughly spent. She wanted desperately to sleep. Every breath filled her lungs until they ached and she thought her ribs would burst. But she only became more and more sluggish, and her eyes tried harder to close with every movement. Her head pounded. The floor spun invisibly beneath her. Another step. How many are there to the top? Rarity pulled and pushed herself upwards, trying several times to stand but slumping down again a second later. If not for the rail, she was sure she would have fallen off to plunge into the stack of horrible paintings on the floor, and that would have been the end of her. Another step. That’s where they would have found me, Rarity thought, desperately fighting to keep thinking, to keep herself awake. Another step. Curled up in a pile of horrible paintings, mouth wide, trying to breathe... trying to breathe... oh Celestia, please help me... somepony, please help me... For a moment, she lost all sensation. She was floating, unable to feel or think, barely aware of the hard lines of the steps biting into her body. Then she snapped back, feeling the old wood digging into her ribs. With a whine, she pushed herself up one more step. She stretched out a forehoof, and felt only flat space beyond. With a surge of hope, she pulled herself up, stood, and flung her body towards where she knew the door to be before she could fall again. Her body thudded against the thin wood of the closed door. It bent and creaked beneath her weight, but it didn’t give. Her hoof scrabbled for the latch. She couldn’t find it. She scratched at the corner where the door met its frame, feeling every breath rush in and out, only to leave nothing behind. She gasped, sobbed, and started to slump down, unable to hold herself up even against the door. Her hoof found the thin, cold metal of the latch. She fumbled, barely able to feel it, then jerked it up and felt the door fall away from her. She tumbled to the frigid floor of the kitchen but barely felt it as her body smacked hard against it. The door banged against the wall from the violence of its opening, and the sound echoed hollowly in Rarity’s head. Sleep... she thought blearily. Out of sheer panic, she pushed herself up just a little more and crawled through the kitchen, hauling herself away from the yawning darkness of the basement. She didn’t let herself stop until she felt the stiff bristles of the carpet in the showroom alcove against her hooves. Then she finally let herself collapse as she drew in enormous breaths, filling her lungs with clear, odorless air. With every breath, she waited to feel her strength returning to her. It didn’t come. She drew in a few more deep breaths, trying to pull life from the air around her, but her body felt so heavy. Darkness filled her mind as she closed her eyes, bringing a blessed sweetness after the agony of her struggle. Not yet... I can’t sleep yet, I can’t... Something was wrong. She wasn’t waking up. Her headache was fading, but it was being replaced by emptiness. She could barely feel her body anymore. With tremendous effort, she forced her eyes open and raised her head. With her final bit of focus, she heard loud hissing filling the kitchen and showroom. Every valve had been left wide open, and the air had been replaced with tasteless, odorless death. Rarity drew in a long, horrified gasp, ready to scream and cry and run for the door, but her strength was gone. That last breath fled from her in a long sigh as she slumped limply to the floor and closed her eyes. She didn’t hurt anymore. She barely felt anything, and her thoughts were slow and nebulous, like threadbare shrouds disintegrating and blowing away in a breeze. I didn’t think it would... I didn’t... I don’t want... Her mind quieted. Her terror was fading to a calm serenity, and she felt like she was falling into the gentlest, most peaceful sleep she had ever known. Sleep... I just... want... to sleep... “Just... give... up...” she heard, and she couldn’t tell if the words had come from somewhere around her or had passed between her own cold lips. She wanted to rest. She was tired of worrying, tired of being afraid—afraid of her business failing, of seeing her parents’ disappointed faces, of watching her friends turn away as they realized how little talent she actually had. She was simply tired. She was almost ready to give up. She opened one eye, and as if through a fog, saw the pink shape of a pony standing over her, looking down on her. She couldn’t make out its face through the haze. Toola... Rarity thought. ...Why? I... Her eyes closed, and all sensation finally left her as one last thought drifted through her mind. ...please.