Gingerbread
Overhead, the sky was a uniform white. The heavens mirrored the ground below where two ponies trod carefully. Their hooves crunched through the crust of sparkling frost and plunged down into a thick layer of dirty snow. The drifts here were old, only slightly dusted with a few dry flakes that skittered and danced across the crisp surface. Beneath a thin layer of ice hid the tangled roots and long dead brier of the sleeping forest, and these seemed to rise up like cold dead fingers to snag in the ponies cloaks. The older filly helped the colt extricate his leg, "Careful now," she cautioned. "Step where I step and the going will be easier. There's no telling what lies beneath the surface here and we can't afford to delay. We have to keep moving. We have to keep warm."
They were woefully unprepared for the circumstances they found themselves in. Both wore ragged, threadbare cloaks that did little to keep out the chill. Fortunately the old woods were thick. Most of the new snow was suspended above them, cradled in the twisted, winding limbs of the bare trees. Thick as the woods grew, this place would be lit in only patches of light and shadow even in high summer. As it was, in the dead of winter, it felt less like they were moving through a forest and more like they were traveling through a network of caves. Barely any light reached them, though the one advantage of this was that the trees blocked out most of the savage wind. They could hear it howling above as the storm raged on, and were thankful that they were spared the brunt of that vicious gale. Even so, an occasional blast of wind would scythe through the trees and bite deep into their flesh, chilling them to the bone and urging them onward in search of shelter.
"But Grety, I'm so t-tired," intoned the weary colt, his teeth chattering. "Can't we rest-t-t for just-t a m-moment-t-t-t? I can feel the ch-chill t-t-traveling up my legs, working at my bones. I fear if I do not st-stop to warm myself I shall f-f-f-freeze." Their voices sounded oddly loud in the stillness that gripped the woods, though their frigid lungs could barely manage more than a whisper. Small showers of snow fell all around them, leaking between the tree limbs above with a quiet hiss.
"If we were to stop, then we certainly would freeze, dear Hans," said the filly grimly, moving close to her brother to share some of her warmth. Gretel was a bit warmer than her brother, but only just. "Stomp in place if you must, but we have to keep going. We have to find a way out of this forest, or at least some kind of shelter before night falls. We haven't much time." Even as she said this, what little light they had beneath the canopy of snow and twisted limbs seemed to fade. The storm was growing worse. It wouldn't be long until what little illumination they had was extinguished altogether. Soon they would be in a world of nothing but darkness and snow, with not but bare tree bark for comfort and a blanket of snow to keep themselves warm. Gretel didn't want to spend another sleepless night crouched in a bush or beneath evergreen boughs bent by snow, worrying that they wouldn't have the strength to extract themselves in the morning. Or worse, worrying that her brother might stop breathing in the night, his lungs frozen from the inside out, leaving her with only his corpse for company.
X-Year X-Month X-Day
I put quill to parchment today for the first time since I was a wee filly. It was my mother who first taught me. She had been a maid servant for a rich unicorn family in her youth that expected their staff to know the ways of the writing to help teach the little lords and ladies. I find holding the quill more difficult than I remembered, but I welcome the distraction. I am keeping this journal purely for that purpose after all, as a distraction. It has been a few months now since my husband and my little pumpkin disappeared, swallowed whole by the big city or run off to warmer climes, I know not which. I'd like to think that they did not abandon me willingly, but in my weaker moments when the cold wind whistles through the cracks in the old homestead, I find that I can't blame them if they did choose to leave me behind. After all, I barely looked for them more than a few days when they first disappeared, coward that I am.
It doesn't do to dwell on such things. Even So, what few friends I have left seem to think it might help me some to get my true feelings out with this diary since I've staunchly refused to open up to them. I know I'm by no means the only widow, nor even the only mother who has lost a child in these parts, but at least those mares had bodies to bury. At least they could grieve. I feel as though I'm stuck perpetually on the verge of mourning. Yet even so, part of me expects that cabbage headed husband of mine to come through the door any moment with some tale of wild adventure or lame excuse, our little pumpkin bounding at his hooves. At this point I don't know if I would hug him or bash his head in for all this worry. Since it's just me that is likely to read this, I don't feel ashamed to say that I spend most days in the parlor here at home in hopes that I could find out which. Idle fancies I fear. Not good for a lonely heart.
My friends have suggested I try searching for them again, but I've heard terrible rumors of disappearances and death in the castle town of late. While it's possible my loved ones could be victims of the same, it would do them no good if I were to be spirited away as well and they should come home to an empty house. Would they know I had searched for them? Would they think I had abandoned them as I fear they have abandoned me? No, I can't face the city and all those horn heads looking down their noses at the mad widow wandering their streets in search of a lost husband and daughter. Like as not I'd end up in their dungeons for 'my own good'. I fear all I can do is wait, tending the farm as best I can in this unnatural cold, and hope that some day they will return to me.
Or some day I'll be brave enough to let go.
It felt like it had been days since the pair of earth ponies had lost their way. They had been traveling with their mother and father after hearing of a land to the far south, where the breezes were warm and there fell soft rains instead of sleet. Mother had cautioned not to get their hopes up. After fighting the ice and snow so long she regarded even whispers of warmth as something of a fairy tale, but even she had brightened once they had started traveling. The thought of a land full of rich, dark soil, not frozen hard and locked away beneath a layer of frost, was just too tempting to ignore. They would have to start over, but the old farm hadn't produced more than a few scraggly strawberries in months anyways, so that didn't really matter. It had been time to move on. Perhaps, it had actually been past time. Many families had already moved south before the blizzard came upon the traveling family. If only Gretel and Hansel's parents had been traveling in one of the earlier caravans instead of on their own, they might never have been separated. Then again, perhaps not. The storm had sprung up like a wall of white, distorting the land and threatening to sap the life from them. Some dark shape moved in the whiteout, and though they couldn't see what it was, the shrieks and screams of their parents told them they did not want to find out. The siblings had been extremely lucky to find the scant shelter they had in the shadows of the black forest. Even if it meant they were now hopelessly lost, at least they were still alive and still together.
Thinking about her parents made Gretel's eyes tear up, but she forced herself not to cry. It was just that there was no way of knowing for sure if her mother and father had survived. While they were hardy earth ponies, being powerfully built and used to the hardship that came with working the land, they hadn't just been fighting the cold but whatever had come swooping out of the storm. Her parents might be okay, she told herself, but she knew even if they had survived whatever attacked their caravan that even the hardiest ponies could still find themselves dead beneath a layer of snow in a matter of moment in this blizzard. She sniffled slightly, but that was all she would allow herself. She had to stay strong for her brother. Falling to pieces now would only insure their own deaths. Gathering up her brother and shielding him with her cloak the pair trudged on, searching for the path they had lost so long ago, searching for their parents, or at least hoping to find a little food and a bit of shelter.
The wind whistled mournfully overhead, a harsh accompaniment to the sound of their chattering teeth and the loud groans of their empty stomachs. Their last meal hadn't been particularly filling, the rations one eats while traveling rarely being served hot or in large amounts. Even that meager fare was deeply missed now. The pair had not found more than a few berries since becoming lost, which Gretel was sure had to be poisonous. Nothing should be so bright a shade of red in these freezing temperatures. Though it was far more likely they would die of cold and exposure before long, the angry pangs of hunger coming from their weakening bodies didn't make their fight for survival any easier. Which is why when Hans first cried, "Do you smell that Grety?" She thought they were finally going mad. The scent that came to her nostrils couldn't be possible here in the wilderness. "Gingerbread! I smell gingerbread!" Why would there be gingerbread in the middle of the forest? It didn't make any sense. Hansel, energized by the smell, dashed off through the snow following his nose.
"Wait Hans, don't rush off! We have to stay togeth-"her cry died on her lips. Her brother stood stock still just before a wide clearing. The field, or perhaps farmland for she thought she recognized the trappings of one, was perfectly frozen. A vast expanse of sparkling white beneath a sky the same blank hue almost glowed in the shadow free light. The only spot of color lay in the middle of the clearing, where stood a small cottage. This should have been cause for cheer, the curling smoke coming from the stove pipe and the light spilling from its thick windows promising warmth and safety within. Yet the entire edifice, from porch to roof was a riot of bright and chaotic color, almost as though it were made of candy instead of wood and spackle. Indeed, from the smell it didn't just look to be made of sweets, but in fact was composed of more candy than the children had seen in their entire lives. Even the 'snow', that sat on the low cottages roof and hung from it in tapering 'icicles', appeared to be made from a thick and creamy frosting. The scent of it hung heavy in the cold air, the warm sweet aroma causing their mouths to water even as they stared in wonder and amazement. "It can't be," muttered Gretel. "I'm mad. I've gone stark raving mad."
If this was some delusion or hallucination, it seemed that Hans shared it. The colt bounded across the clearing, leaving small hoof prints on the spotless snow. As soon as he reached the cottage, he immediately broke off a shingle from the low hanging roof and greedily began to gobble it down. As quick as he downed the roof tile, he might have tried to eat the entire roof if his sister had not come up and smacked the bit of gingerbread from his hooves.
"What do you think you're doing!? Going around and eating other ponies houses! You could at least ask first!" scolded his sister.
"But I'm so hungry," Hans whined.
"So am I," hissed his Gretel. "But if this place is real, we need to be cautious. Can you think of any reason somepony would build something like this in the middle of nowhere?"
"To keep it all for themselves?" hazarded her brother.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps to lure in weary and hungry travelers for their own ends." As if on cue, the front door of the cottage creaked open. A blast of warm, sweet air washed over the shivering siblings. It felt so good, Gretel thought she would melt right then and there. It seemed the door had swung open on its own, there was no pony there to greet them. Though she could resist the temptation to devour the candy cottage, her body wouldn't let her forsake the warmth of the inviting home. It didn't help matters that they were completely exposed to the wind in this clearing. When the options were to enter a warm cottage or take their chances back beneath the scant shelter of the black forest, the choice was obvious. "Be on your guard Hans," whispered his sister before calling out in a slightly louder voice. "Hello? Is anypony here? We mean you no harm, we're just two hungry travelers who got lost in the storm! We were hoping it might be alright to come in and warm our bones for a spell."
X-Year X-Month X-Day
Thank the sun and the moon and all the shining stars in the sky! My little one returned to me today! My little pumpkin!
It happened when I was in the wood on the edge of the farm, chipping away at an old oak tree for the stove. I could barely see her, as dusk was coming on and the shadows were growing thick, but I knew it was her as soon as she called out to me. She wore different cloths and seemed unsteady on her hooves, but still she had the same sweet voice of my little filly, and we embraced for so long snow had time to settle in our hair. She was so small and fragile, such a delicate thing, she barely seemed to weigh anything at all. I got her inside and next to the cherry red stove as quick as I could.
She was a ravenous little thing, which wasn't surprising since she was skin and bones, so we shared a meal. The first family meal since she disappeared! We chatted of course, though I can barely remember what about. This has all just been one huge whirlwind for me. In truth, I fear I may be dreaming, or telling a little fib to myself in my waking hours. But no, I can hear her even now, the clip clopping of her little hooves as she moves about her room bringing a warmth to my heart I've not felt in ages.
The hour is late. I can only imagine what would stir her from her slumber. Nightmares most likely, about the ordeal she went through getting home. Or perhaps what was done to her in that wicked city. I want to ask her, but part of me wonders if I really want to know the truth about what happened to her. Part of me just thinks I should be happy to have her back, and let whatever happened be. But I know that's not right. If somepony hurt my little pumpkin, as much as it sickens me even to think about, I need to know. I need to see them brought to justice for taking her away from me and doing who knows what to her. And her father! How could I have forgotten her cabbage head of a father!? Does she know what happened to him as well? Did he abandon her? I could never believe that of him, not in my wildest dreams, but then where is he? Have I regained a daughter only to lose any hope of seeing my husband ever again?
It does me no good to work myself up like this, but I know such bitter sweet thoughts will haunt my dreams tonight. I fear, like my little one, I will have a hard time sleeping. Still, I will wait until the morning to question my daughter. Undoubtedly she has been through much to return to me and I wouldn't think of tormenting her by bombarding her with questions at this late hour. Perhaps tomorrow, over breakfast. Though our food stores are running low thanks to this blasted weather, I will make a homecoming feast the likes of which nopony has eaten before!
No pony answered. It seemed whomever owned this cottage was out at the moment. The pair walked over the threshold of the cottage, closing the door gently behind them. They found themselves in what looked like a sitting room. Pictures were hung on the walls and knickknacks and bric-a-brac were strewn here and there across shelves, tables, and cabinets. While the outside had been a fantastic masterpiece of confection, the inside reminded the siblings almost hauntingly of their old homestead. Just like the outside, however, everything from the couch, to the throw rug, to the tiny crystal figurines on a shelf, all seemed to be made of candy. Even the floor beneath their hooves, though it looked like hardwood, had the consistency of fudge. They couldn't help wandering further into the tiny cottage, exploring the bizarre yet familiar home, moving towards the source of warmth and light in the next room. They moved through a hallway decorated with candy portraits and framed landscapes. These had an elementary roughness to them, that seemed less like artwork to Gretel and more like the crude drawings a young filly might create and display proudly on her bedroom wall.
Beyond the hallway they came to what looked like a kitchen. A door set in the far wall lead back outside and another doorway yawned open leading into what looked like a bedroom. There was also a set of stairs by the hall where they had entered that appeared to lead up to a loft. As had been the case so far, everything in this room seemed to be made of sweets as well. Pots and pans, knives and spoons all hung from candy cane hooks on the wall. Even the source of light and heat, the merrily crackling stove, was in the shape of a pumpkin with a wide grin for a grating. Gretel couldn't help but feel that the jack-o-lanterns eyes, with their flickering flames, were watching her. But that was a ridiculous thought, it was probably just the strange gaze of the pictures in the hall. Despite their crude nature, the lollipop eyes the portraits possessed seemed to follow her around the tiny kitchen.
"Oh hey, look what I found!" called Hansel. He'd tripped over a small handle set in the floor. As the colt bit the handle and started to lift, a section of the floor began to rise. He'd found a trap door that led down into some sort of root cellar. Just as he was about to lift it higher, so they could have a peak inside, a hoof slammed down on the door causing Hans to fall flat on his face. Gretel gasped and took an involuntary step back. She had no idea where the other pony had come from, but she was hideous! Old and wrinkled, the mare's grey hair was disheveled and hung in filthy clumps around her face. Her cloths were worse, mere rags, barely concealing her aged form and completely unsuited for the cold climate. A witch! It all made sense now! They'd stumbled into some witches enchanted cottage!
"You shouldn't be here!" She whispered urgently. "Get out! Get out now!" She advanced on the pair of children, eyes wild. For their part they backed quickly out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
X-Year X-Month X-Day
I place pen to parchment once again, though weakly. Still, I must get these words down, lest the thoughts in my head burst out of their own accord and fly off on gossamer wings from my fevered brain. I have fallen ill. The suddenness and severity of my malady is worse than any I've experienced before in my life. I find myself dizzy and delirious by turns, unable to so much as rise from my bed for fear of what I might see, what I might hear. The smells are the worst, and sometimes I'm not sure if they are real or imagined. But I'm running away from my fears even as I try to put them to paper. I must not falter. I must face the things I dread.
My daughter is not my daughter. I know that sounds strange and like the ravings of a diseased mind, but I swear now that this is something I've suspected ever since she returned home. At first I tried to explain it away as a product of whatever ordeal she had been through. Whenever I asked about what had happened to her, she was vague and evasive. Even more so when I asked after her father and what had become of him. She was never one for telling lies before, but I fear she's lying to me now when she says she doesn't know what became of him. There's something in her eyes that makes me think she knows exactly what happened to Cabbage Patch. And those eyes, were they always that faded a shade of green? Was her scarlet mane always so wild and unmanageable? I remember once her happy voice filled our home with joy as she sang little songs she had made up to entertain herself. Now she only sings one song, over and over just under her breath between giggling fits. Either the ordeal my child has been through has driven her slightly mad or...
Or I fear something darker.
From my mother I heard tales of creatures that once plagued the pony tribes. They were beasts that took the faces of your loved ones and took their place, made you believe they were the genuine article and then slowly drained their victims love away. Is it possible one such creature stole the face of my child and used it to worm its way into my home, into my heart? Is that why I've fallen so desperately ill and my daughter seems so strange? If it were true, I'm not sure how I'd really feel. I know I should be outraged, but I was so happy to have her back, even if it is all just a lie. Such treacherous feelings make it difficult for me to know what to believe.
There are reasons to doubt these suspicions of course. For instance, how would such a creature learn of my loss? Most of my neighbors have moved away, trying to escape the bitter cold. And why choose my daughter instead of my husband? While it's true I love my baby girl, no one can say I did not love my husband truly. I fear these thoughts make me doubt exactly how truly, and that's something which I wish not to dwell on in my sick bed.
Truth be told it's not just my daughter that is strange to me these days, but the very house itself. I feel like a stranger in my own home. Doors seem to appear and disappear from day to day. I swear the forest looks somehow closer at night, though even I realize it's foolish to think the trees have moved. But the voices, the screams, drifting from those dark woods. Am I truly imagining those? Am I dreaming? They're almost as awful as the strange smells that flood the house when I'm trying to sleep. Sometimes it's achingly sweet, sweeter than the fields in spring time with all the flowers in bloom. Other times it's putrid, like the worst rot and decay you could imagine, all mildewed and festering like the underside of a dried up bog.
I know the simplest explanation is not that my daughter is secretly a monster, or my old homestead has taken on a life of its own. I know that the fault must lie with me, but I've never been this sick before. This lost in my own home. My own head.
We're running low on food. Or at least we should be. For all my complaints about her strangeness, my little pumpkin has been dutiful in caring for me. She brings me a hot bowl of stew for most meals, though for the life of me I know not what she's using for ingredients. It's thick and rich and a little creamy, no doubt very nourishing as well. It's nothing I ever taught her how to make. Even so, that's hardly something to be suspicious about is it?
I hear her coming back now. I think she's fetching me an extra blanket before I try to get a little more rest. I must hide this diary. I wouldn't want my sweet daughter to ever read these words. I don't want her to know her mother's crazy delusions.
"I'm s-sorry ma'am. We didn't know you were home. We were just trying to find a place to warm ourselves," said Gretel, trying to account for themselves as she drew her brother protectively close.
"And have a bite to e-e-eat," stammered Hans. She elbowed her brother hard in the ribs.
That seemed to cause the old hag to pause. "Eat?" she muttered, leaning uncomfortably close as the children found their backs against a wall, "Eat did you say? Have you two eaten something?"
"No!""Yes!" they cried in unison, both terrified. Gretel knew what happened to folk who lied to witches, the stories always said they were turned into toads! Though the cold outside already bit her flanks hard, she couldn't imagine what it would be like in the slimy skin of a toad. She didn't want to find out, so she blurted, "My brother ate a piece of your cottage, but please don't be angry! We're both just so very hungry ma'am. He didn't know any better."
That caused the old mare to snort, though her eyes lost some of their wildness to sadness. "No, no I believe you child. I doubt very much the little tyke knew what he was doing," she whispered bitterly. Without warning she suddenly grabbed Hansel and hauled him back into the kitchen. "Git while you still can girl, and never come back. Your brother is lost to you. Better you die in the snow than see what fate awaits him here."
"Sis!" cried Hans as the filthy mare drug him to the very trap door he had found before. The hag flung it open revealing its dark depths to the fire light as she flung the boy inside. Without thinking, Gretel leaped in after him.
"No you stupid filly! You don't want to go down there!" The witch hadn't raised her voice the entire time, though she had whispered frantically. Now, however, she screeched loud enough to wake the dead. By the stove light that filtered in from above, Gretel thought she could see why. Down here in the darkness, hanging from candy cane hooks and piled on marzipan trestles, was one pony carcass after another. Some had been skinned and smoked, their headless bodies hanging from the ceiling. Others still lay mostly intact, soaking in barrels of salt or brine, their eyes milky and faces stretched by rigor mortis grins. They were mostly children. Fillies and colts, a few tiny foals, all stretched and splayed and dripping as far as the eye could see in the flickering light. Gretel was going to be sick. Hans, for his part, already was. He was vomiting, violently, a dark mixture of gingerbread and blood. She had to get him out of here, now! Grabbing her brother, she tried to pull him back up the ladder. The hag met her at the top.
"Move you witch, you beast! You're not going to have me and my brother for your sick larder! Move or I'll break every brittle bone in your shriveled old body!" The filly howled with anger and fear, meaning every word. To her surprise, the old mare backed away and let her up into the kitchen.
"You don't understand, you don't understand. You have to leave him! It's the only way! Leave him and run!" The old hag was frantic, pawing the floor with her hooves, strands of her filthy hair sticking to her cracked lips. Just then, the soft sound of children's laughter echoed from the loft above. The change in the old hag was immediate, every inch of her shivering as if she were gripped by a terrible chill. To Gretel's amazement, the disheveled mare began to weep.
"What's that then? More victims? More foals to your slaughter!?" the young filly cried, backing herself and Hansel towards the nearest exit.
"No child. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," Blubbered the old mare like an injured child. "That's not the lamb you hear bleating. That's the wolf! The wolf!" she screamed insanely.
X-Year X-Month X-Day
Am I still ill? My fever broke some time ago. I'm still a little weak, but I'm strong enough to move about the house. A bitter storm rages outside as I write this, and has for a few days now. Or has it been longer? Time has lost its meaning for me. Part of me wants to go out, just to get a breath of fresh air. The stench of this house, what I realize to be the smell of my own sickness, assaults my nostrils constantly. You'd think I would have grown used to it by now, but every now and again, some stealthy vapor or gentle gust of perfumed air will tickle my nose, and I will feel the same sickness and revulsion as before creeping over me.
My daughter has been staying away from me by my express command. Whatever ailment I had, I didn't want to risk her catching it as well. I couldn't stand the thought of losing her to illness after so recently having her returned to me.
At least, that's how I felt at first. I'm sure that's what I meant.
Only, once she was no longer fussing over me, that's when I started to feel a little better. I fear my mind, however, began to wander even more. What was she doing, while the storm howled outside? Where was she getting fresh wood to keep the house so warm and toasty? Where was she getting the food, that I know now must be all but exhausted. The rich stew she left at my bedroom door was always piping hot and just as good as my first spoonful. Was she actually weathering the storm to keep me in such comfort? How could her tiny, fragile frame withstand the bitter cold?
She is at her least active during the day, instead moving about the house the most at night. Once I was no longer drifting in and out of sleep, I stayed up of a night, just to listen. I don't know what drove me. Insomnia? Paranoia? All I know is that I swear I heard the front door open and close in the dead of night. A silence fell over the house that chilled me to the bone. I swear I could hear her tiny voice drifting beneath my window. For the first time I listened, really listened to the words of the song she sings to herself when she thinks I can't hear. It wasn't until that song, that laughter, had dwindled into the distance that I dared rise from my bed and lock my bedroom door.
That settles it I'm afraid. She is no daughter of mine. She is a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Gretel turned to spring out the back door... And slammed into a blank wall. Where there had been a door before, there was nothing but a smooth surface. She whirled back around. The entire kitchen had changed. Gone were the doors leading from it and the trapdoor that had hid the nightmare below. The entire room seemed to twist and distort as she watched, stretching and shrinking like a living thing. Everything had taken on a more sinister light, even the ovens goofy pumpkin grin had turned into a sinister, sharp toothed smile. Gretel could have sworn that she could see faces leering from within the flames. "Witch!" she cried, "I don't know what magic this is, but you'd best let me and my brother go! I'm warning you! Our parents are sure to be looking for us!"
"It's not my choice!" screamed the old crone between sobs. "I would if I could...I would if I could..." she broke down crying.
The entire kitchen seemed to warp and move. Candies detached from places all over the room slithered to a spot just behind the old mare. Bit by bit, piece by piece, something took shape at her side. In a blink a filly, made entirely out of sweets, stood by the weeping biddy. The strange creature raised a hoof and stroked the hags sticky hair. "Shhh...there, there. Did these nasty foals make you cry?" hissed the filly in a soft echoing voice. "Don't worry, they'll disappear soon enough." The filly giggled as the crones head sank into her hooves. The creature's candy swirled eyes flashed behind bits of her red and black liqourice mane, "Hello boys and girls! Would you like something sweet to bite?"
Gretel didn't know what was going on, but she had to find a way out, if not for herself then for her brother. At that moment, Hans slumped at her side. "I don't feel so good Grety," he muttered before more blood and vomit shot from his mouth. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain. Gretel started screaming as she watched her little brothers flesh pop and tear, skin ripping to tattered shreds before her eyes. She watched, helpless and disbelieving, as something shiny and sweet slithered from the fleshy sheath that had been Hansel. The knew colt, that looked much like Hans save for being composed entirely of gingerbread, grinned cheerfully at his former sister. It's gumdrop eyes sparkled as it moved towards her, and took a bite from her rosy cheek. The filly flung herself back, still screaming as she held a hoof over the ragged wound on her face. This was a nightmare! It had to be a nightmare! As if reading her mind, the candy filly began to sing mockingly.
"Nightmare Night! Oh what a Fright!" she giggled. "Time for Something Sweet to Bite!" It was then that it dawned on Gretel just what was happening. The Candy Mare! Every filly had heard the stories of foals led astray by sweets, never to be heard from again. Every colt had whispered to his friends of dark and devious tricks, that often ended in death, played on the unsuspecting in the middle of dark nights. And of course on one night especially, Nightmare Night, when the farmers and villagers from all over the land would leave out peace offerings and lock themselves tight inside their homes until daybreak. But that had been months ago! Why was the Candy Mare here? What was going on!?
X-Year X-Month X-Day
I pray that I have gone mad.
I dare not write in the dark, for I know I am never alone in darkness. It is the bright of day outside, or at least I think it must be. The light that filters fitfully through the clouds above seems like daylight to me. The world outside my window is nothing but dull grey and white for as far as I can see, but even so it's not nearly as bleak as my home has become. Nothing makes sense in this place anymore.
I wonder sometimes, have I died? Is this Tartarus? Is this house meant to be my prison for the rest of eternity? Is my daughter my smiling jailer? Every time I think of escape, the doors lead to new rooms or blank walls, never outside. The windows too are fastened tight, and try as I might I cannot break the thick glass. How I wish I could break off just one tiny shard. How I long for even a glimpse of freedom, even if it came at the edge of a piece of glass.
There are so many things I regret now. I regret agreeing to let my little girl go to the castle town. I regret not being there to protect her. I regret welcoming her home. Or rather, whatever this thing is that wears her smile, sings with her voice, and smells of death and candy. I regret knowing what it is I've been eating these past months. Knowing that if I try to stop eating, she'll force feed me. I regret hearing them, crying under the floor boards. I regret not being able to do anything for them. Not being able to do anything for myself. I regret going down into the cellar in the first place, seeing that thing crawl out of the pony I had mistook for my daughter. She came sliding effortlessly out of the dead girls lifeless mouth, and writhing into the shape of another filly altogether in the darkness. I regret seeing her, smiling and laughing, as she gorged herself on the poor unfortunates that shivered, broken in the dark below my house. Candy teeth gleaming dully beneath a bloody sheen.
I had heard whispers about the disappearances at the castle town, it's true, but I hadn't believed them. A pony made of candy that lures away children, that plays evil little tricks, that can take down a grown stallion and strip the flesh from his bones in moments with a candy corn smile. Foolishness. Rumor and poppycock.
I regret not believing.
I regret being alive.
Gretel didn't know what she expected to happen next, but watching the candy filly swell in size and crash into the Gingerbread Hansel in a wave of teeth and claws was not it. The thing that used to be Hans squealed and gave a warbling shriek as hunks of it's body were devoured greedily. The sound was all the more gut-wrenching since Gretel could hear bits and pieces of her little brothers voice buried in those distorted screams. Before her eyes the Candy Mare devoured the gingerbread abomination and licked up the gory pile of what had once been her brother. The sick scene left her speechless. What could she do against such a bizarre creature? There was no escape, no hope. What was she supposed to do!?
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," muttered the old hag over and over as the Candy Mare licked blood from it's smile with a long taffy tongue. But the monster wasn't done. It's liquorice hair moved of its own accord, like a living thing, snaking across the kitchen floor and wrapping around each of Gretel's limbs before she could so much as blink. She could feel the candy biting deep into her flesh, breaking the skin. Panicking, she tried desperately to shake off the monsters vice like grip, but it was far too late. The tendrils of candy lifted her into the air, almost bringing her up to the ceiling, droplets of her blood falling with a pitter-patter to the floor below.
"Now, don't blubber so," this was to the old pony, though the Candy Mare never took her eyes off the filly in her clutches. Those terrifying, mad candy swirled eyes moving hungrily over her body. "It's been a long time since I've cooked for you, and even longer since you've had a hot meal. I think it will cheer us both up, don't you?" Saying that, the candy monster drug Gretel forcefully across the ceiling until she was right above the blazing stove. The jack-o-lantern's smile had turned completely into a hungry maw, the flames within leaping excitedly as if they too were starving. Bit by bit, the Candy Mare lowered the young pony carefully over the flames. The fire hissed as Gretel's blood dribbled down her limbs and into the fiery mouth, but that only made the fire leap higher to sear her blistering flesh. The pain was excruciating, making her scream between sobs, her frantic writhing useless as she struggled to loosen the grip of the tendrils. Her tiny hooves kicking in the air, a coughing fit burst from her throat as her mane and tail began to singe, then to burn. She could feel the blisters swelling and popping on her legs as they came closer and closer to the heat, the sores bursting and dripping more blood over the pumpkin stoves grin. The Candy Mare captor only laughed, in delight and insanity, as Gretel roasted.
Eventually, the flames engulfed her completely, a long tongue of fire licking through her tail and into her mane. The flames quickly washed over the rest of her body. Gretel could feel her skin peel away and her muscles tighten as most of the moisture in her body began to escape from her steaming flesh. The Candy Mare's own liquorice whip hair melted away in the heat, allowing Gretel to fall unceremoniously into the oven. Her world turned into a wall of orange light. Oddly, the pain seemed to fade away, the agony transmuting into a coldness that gripped her to her core. A thought came to her pain numbed mind that even in the heart of so hot a flame, even at death's door, Gretel couldn't escape the cold. As her eyes popped, melting and running down her cheeks, her brain flashed images and sounds that were strange to her dying senses. Her brain at last succumbed to the heat, she almost contentedly wondered why it was taking so long to die. As she felt her awareness fading, she couldn't help but wonder what was that delicious smell?
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Twisted. Those poor siblings. What a monster that Candy Mare is.
Best version of Hansel and Gretel ever!
*sigh* Alas...that is a true, sorrowful tale of how Hansel and Gretel were consumed. Maybe Gingerbread Hansel reconstructed by Candy Mare's willing magic. Even so, I fear she's not done with her surprises, yet I didn't say they were something to be scared about...I find them interesting.
*try's to role play as Candy Mare on a MLP Role play* *gets ignored* *Messing around time, runs around typing Gobble gobble om num num.* Best messing around in role play I have ever done.
7552562
same except people ask or try to eat me as i explain why thatd be a bad idea
i think the candy mare is very sweet. she still loves and cares for her mother. The one pony in the world she never killed. It shows she still has a bit of humanity left in her twisted mind. i wonder what turned her into the monster to begin with though. the candy surely couldnt have been that magical
OKAY BUT THAT'S FASCINATING
So, in the same way that real-world Pagan celebrations were eventually co-opted by Christians, the original Nightmare Night festivities would have been rolled into the celebration of Nightmare Moon's defeat, some unknown number of years later, leading to the modern holiday. That explains the weird candy offering ritual so well. Amazing world-building! This off to a great start. :D
8945447
Literally Hitler.
No but seriously its a well known fact by now that Hitler and his Mother had a bond stronger than normal. In fact his doctor even said
"While Hitler was not a mother's boy in the usual sense, I never witnessed a closer attachment. Their love had been mutual. Klara Hitler adored her son. She allowed him his own way whenever possible. For example, she admired his watercolor paintings and drawings and supported his artistic ambitions in opposition to his father at what cost to herself one may guess."
In fact Hitler loves his mother so much that the doctor in the passage before (a Jew) after being terrorized by the Nazis sent out a personal letter to Hitler after being run out of business. Hitler knowing that the doctor was a Jew but still took care of his mother sent him some cash and gave him special protection by the gestapo themselves, he even let the guy leave the country and sell his house at market value. So just like the Candy Mare, Hitler's love for his mother made him forget about being racist to Jews, just like how the Candy Mare decides to forget about killing and spared her mother. Am I the only one seeing the similarities here? I just cannot feel bad for the Candy Mare like I am sorry but Murder is bad mmkay.
Source: Eduard Bloch - Wikipedia
10896534
Jews anit a race it's a religion.