Every night they come to me, appearing when I look away.
Darkness has fallen over the entire forest by the time I lower myself into the room's only chair. Life in the middle of the wilderness tends to take a lot out of a pony, and today is no exception. A hoof comes up to play with my mane, still damp from my daily bath. Going to bed is nearly impossible for me if I haven’t bathed, and I plan to go to bed soon. However, there is something I must first do.
My eyes stare out the cabin’s single window, made from a pane of flimsy glass that my husband managed to barter for the previous spring. He had insisted that the light would be good for me, that I would stop having the dreams if only my mood would improve. In the end, my mood had stayed the same and the dreams had only gotten worse; sunlight has never shone through this window, and it never will.
Beams of moonlight drift in, painting a ghostly rectangle on the cabin floor. It isn’t normally this bright; the Moon Goddess must be in a good mood tonight. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll finally be able to see. I doubt it, though—the moonlight effectively brightens the cabin’s one room, but the forest outside is dark. Just like always.
On these cold nights, my coat isn’t enough to keep me warm, so I twist in my chair and reach for the shawl my husband gave me last week. It smells like fresh pine; it smells like him. I breathe in his scent, then turn back to the window. A gasp slips past my lips.
A pair of pale hands are pressed up against the glass.
When they first appeared so many nights ago, they frightened me. I cowered behind the bed as I waited for the monster who owned them to crash in and devour me. However, as the nights came and went, nothing ever happened. The hands would appear in the evening, and by morning, they would be gone. I stopped hiding behind the bed and went about my last chores, always kept company by the hands. They always watched, always waited, always whispered silently.
Tonight they had appeared like normal. Light catches on their slimy flesh, giving them an almost blinding sheen. I strain my eyes and lean forward, hooves shaking, but I had been right to doubt earlier. I can’t see the creature standing out there in the dark forest. Not once has it ever shown its face—just the hands, smooth and pure.
Behind me, the doorknob rattles, and I spin around. While most of the room is filled with the moon’s pale light, shadows drape themselves over the door. I hear something snuffle at the crack, taking deep whiffs. What sounds like whispered words ghost through the air, and my blood runs cold. Time seems to freeze. I glance back to the window where the hands watch me; the whispering stops, and the seconds tick by once more. All the tension drains from my body. I fall back into the chair, heart pounding.
The rest of the night passes without incident.
Every night they come to me, promising to keep me safe.
With the evening chores done, I collapse into my chair, now pushed right up against the window. I rushed through my bath in order to get here more quickly. The past few days have been trying; every day, I wake up to find that something has gouged trenches into the front door. It no longer sits evenly in the frame. Soon, it won’t be able to keep out whatever wants in. A shiver runs down my spine, but I push it away. Even though it has been months since another pony lived here, I have felt safe. My nightly visitors ward off any feelings of loneliness and keep the dangers away, so long as I let them.
The moon doesn’t show itself this night, likely hidden behind the clouds. Although I squint, I can’t see anything through the window. I reach for a candle, and seconds later, its faint glow gives me just a bit of light. That’s when I see them, palms pressed against the glass. My shoulders loosen; my protectors are here, and I am safe.
While they seemed pale in the moonlight, they’re less so in the candle. I can barely make out the wrinkled skin, the protruding knuckles, the blunt fingernails. But just barely is enough to let me feel safe. My hoof reaches out to rest against the glass, and I feel a spark of electricity. Even though we aren’t touching, I can feel the hot, feverish life pulsing through the hand’s veins, and I know that it can feel me. The fingers flex the slightest bit.
Just as I lift my other hoof, the candle is snuffed out.
I yelp; the darkness itself doesn’t frighten me, but it makes it so I can no longer see them. All sense of security leeches away. My breathing speeds up once more as I fumble with the matches. Then, as though on cue, something pounds at the front door, freezing me in place. I can hear something snarl and growl. Whatever it is scratches at the door. It slams itself against the weakened wood once, then twice.
The assault continues for another minute, with the door miraculously holding the entire time. The thing pounds it once more, then all is silent. I count to sixty twice, and only after that can I let out the breath I had been holding. The beast is gone. I’m safe.
It takes a few minutes, but at last my shaking hooves manage to strike another match and light the candle. I turn to the window, eager to gaze upon the hands.
My hopes are dashed when I see that they are no longer there. The rest of the night passes slowly, and I don't sleep for even a second.
Every night they come to me, claiming me as their own.
Except this time, something is wrong. The sun went down long ago, yet still they haven’t appeared. My heart pounds. Where are they? What happened? Did I do something wrong?
Have they left me for good?
That last question in particular makes my stomach lurch. I reach up to tug at my lank, unwashed mane. What if they’re gone forever? I would never see them, never feel the cold comfort brought by their presence, never enjoy their distant protection ever again. My breathing quickens with my heartbeats. I’ve lived here by myself for my entire life, but never have I felt so alone. Never have I felt so abandoned.
Although the moon is hidden from sight, I don’t light a candle. I know the hands haven’t appeared. I would be able to feel them if they had. No longer do I need the light to see them. Their presence blazes in my mind, just like their absence stands out like a black hole in the world.
Hours pass, and everything still feels wrong. I have sat in the dark for so long that my eyes can make out vague silhouettes in the room. Things that have never frightened me ever before now have my legs quaking. Wind blowing over the roof; a cricket right outside the window; the cabinet looming over the entire room; all of this sets me on the edge of my seat. And still the hands don’t appear.
I almost manage to hold in the scream as a heavy blow is laid upon the door. Something makes a loud cracking sound, and the weakened door is blown off of its hinges. It hits the floor with a deafening boom, followed by a draft of stale, sterile air.
My breath catches when I hear its footsteps; they’re loud and slow, approaching my chair from behind. I can’t turn and look at it, but that doesn’t matter. The monster pads around the chair to face me. I can't tell its shape, but I know it walks on four lean, muscled legs. I can't make out its height, but I know it towers over me, back nearly brushing against the ceiling. I can't see its eyes, but I know that they are burning into mine. Its breath reeks of pine; I can’t stand it, but even with a hoof over my nose, I can’t block out the foul smell.
I have never met this beast before in my entire life.
A low growl slips past its lips. It isn’t intelligible. I can’t understand it.
“Flora.”
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I can’t understand it.
“Flora, please.”
I can’t understand it.
“Please come back to—”
Suddenly, the thing’s meaningless snarls cut off. It wheezes, then stumbles away. I want to look. I want to see what is happening, but my body feels sluggish. I push myself as hard as I can, finally managing to crane my head around the chair back. My eyes widen.
The beast writhes on the floor, hind legs kicking out. Its forelegs claw at a pair of luminescent hands wrapped around its neck. The fingers look weak, but I know they are anything but. Hours upon days upon weeks of staring at them have taught me otherwise.
Razor sharp claws rake across the hands, drawing bloody furrows in their glistening flesh. The monster tries to cough, but can’t. It throws itself from side to side in an effort to free itself from the choking grasp. Eyes that I can’t see widen and lose their malice, which is replaced by fear. Blood from the hands stream into its rank fur. I can smell it, stale and sour.
It only takes another minute until the beast’s movements grow weak. No longer can it do more than paw at the hands, and within seconds, even those feeble movements stop. The struggle ends soon after; the beast's life is leeched away like a grape being dried in the sun. Its stinking, reeking corpse collapses to the floor, and the hands finally let their victim go.
It takes a few minutes for me to compose myself. The pounding blood in my ears slowly fades to nothingness, and my heart eventually grows calm. All is as it should be; all is as it has been. I turn away and wipe my blood-soaked hooves on this shawl, which I made for myself weeks ago. The blood will ruin it, but that doesn’t matter. I can make another whenever I please.
The hands wait for me at the window. I can feel them. They're pressed against the glass, palms open, inviting. The bloody gouges have already vanished, almost as though they weren't there in the first place.
I lower myself into my seat and watch.
All is as it should be.