Spooked

by Mr. Grimm

Paintings

Laid out before Trixie was a stretching table that once hosted jubilant parties far grander than she could imagine. Its rectangular form was shrouded in a white cloth, the edges torn and moth-eaten. Beautifully crafted chairs were spaced evenly down the length of the table, and at each seat was a fine china plate and silver utensils were laid out in impeccable manner for guests that would never show. A row of silver candlesticks ran down the center of the table, wax melted down in thick, white stalactites that had bonded to the table cloth.

Everything on the table was blanketed with a fine layer of dust, looking as though an early winter frost had swept over the room. Beneath the dust, the silver had become tarnished and blotched, as dull and ugly as lead. Cobwebs branched off of every edge, forming jumbled, silken structures that meshed together to form a massive spider utopia. Trixie could see the small, black creatures nestled within their untidy nets, surrounded by the shells of former meals. In a way, a feast was still being celebrated at the table, one of macabre tastes and minuscule proportions.

Moonlight shone in through cracked windows, obscured by overgrown bushes. It touched on the dark, lacquered paneling of the room. At one time it would have been so tenderly waxed and polished that the light would have reflected off of the wooden surface. The dust had reversed its mirroring qualities, and the paneling now only devoured the light. The only shadow in the room was cast by a monstrous chandelier looming over the table on a thick iron chain. Its candleholders flowed over with melted wax, spilling onto the iron and silver that made up its body. It too was smothered in cobwebs, some hanging down on the table in hopes of forming a connection.

The malevolent presence was nowhere to be felt, but Trixie still felt misery tugging at her heart. What she was looking at had once been a dining room fit to serve the Princesses themselves. It would have been beautiful, a regality no longer found in the world. Now it sat here unused, a ruin that nopony wanted to remember.

Trixie spotted another pair of doors on the other end of the room. At once the morose contemplation was swept out of her mind, and her attention became focused on the possible exit. The unicorn took a slow step into the room wincing as a loud creak sounded off from the hardwood flooring. She lifted her hoof, only to have a second noise cut through the air. Trixie looked back at the doors with a grimace. The unicorn took another step far from her original attempt, trying to tread as gently as possible. Once more the floor squeaked at her in its loud, grating voice.

Realizing that there was no way she reach the doors without making a noise, Trixie let out a muffled whimper. Again she thought to herself that it didn’t matter how silent she was, as the ghost was always watching. The mare clamped her eyes shut and took another step. The floor didn’t fail to let out a creak. There was a long pause before the unicorn forced herself to move forward in a flurry of nervous steps, each one drawing a squeak from the dry floor. The unicorn halted and opened her eyes. She found herself only half way across the room, standing between the paneled wall and the abandoned table. She stood for a moment and tried to gather her courage for another attempt. She glanced over at the table. The light of her horn reflected off of the dusty crystal goblets, their once flawless transparency now turned opaque.

Trixie turned her attention ahead, focusing on the two doors. It suddenly occurred to her at this point that they may have been locked. She felt something inside of her twist uncomfortably, and tried to justify to herself that it didn’t matter as the hallway was worse. She took a breath and rushed forward again, creating a whole chorus of creaks as she went. The mare suddenly found herself looking into a dark cavern as the doors flew open all by themselves, sending out a cloud of dust into the air. Trixie was too shocked to stop, and was swallowed up by the darkness. The creaks beneath her hooves suddenly became muffled clomps. The unicorn finally stopped herself as the doors slammed shut behind her. In her confusion she found herself surrounded by monstrous shadows, crowded around her as if they all meant to leap upon her. She let out an earsplitting shriek of terror.

But as her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of her horn, Trixie discovered that what she took to be monsters were nothing more than a few oversized couches and chairs, all situated so that those seated could look at each other. Another forsaken piano grinned at her from the corner of the room, and an elaborate desk stood in the opposite corner, its top still covered in yellowed papers. On one wall was a shelf of ancient books that gave off a horribly musty smell, their shriveled spines fringed with strings that had come loose from their binding. But Trixie didn’t notice these. She was far too focused on the multitude of eyes that surrounded her.

Hung on the plaster walls of the room was a score of paintings, each one depicting a pony clad in the lavish fashions of long ago; a countess in a ruffled red dress seated in a garden, a baron standing tall by a towering oak. Though they appeared eerie, Trixie felt herself drawn to them. The unicorn took a step toward a picture depicting a lank unicorn in front of the manor. That one step was all she needed to see how cruel time had been to the pictures. For like everything else, they had aged. No longer did the ponies in the paintings appear as originally depicted. Like the bouquet painting Trixie had seen earlier, the beings within the portraits had grown old. The canvas had sagged and warped, the paint had cracked and dried, so it seemed that wrinkles and discolored spots had occurred naturally on their faces. Trixie looked away from the picture of the unicorn, but found that each and every painting had suffered the same fate. All except one.

Trixie’s mouth fell open as she spotted one painting that had yet to decay. But it wasn’t the condition that both astounded and terrified her. It was that the portrait depicted herself. The unicorn rushed over to the painting, hoping that she had been mistaken. But when she was a foreleg’s length away it became quite obvious it was her. She had been painted in beautiful detail, from the shine of her hair to the pearly grin on her face. She stood majestically on the stage of her cart, surrounded by an equally detailed and life-like audience.

The mare was terrified, but was too transfixed by her own beauty to realize it. It truly was a marvelous work of art, something that captured her radiance in its entirety. But as she basked in its glory, she noticed something strange. The magician was so focused on the painting that she noticed the minute changes that began to happen a few moments after she looked upon it. The look of admiration in her eyes vanished and was replaced by alarm. She saw the faintest of lines appear around her portrait’s magenta eyes, but as time passed they became thicker and more noticeable. Horrifically, the Trixie in the painting continued to smile, unaware of what was happening to it. The Trixie witnessing the disquieting metamorphosis, however, bore a mortified frown.

The changes began to become more noticeable as she realized what was happening. First she was twenty, then twenty five, and then thirty. The unicorn watched as her youth began to slip away, carried by the years as they slid by unrelentingly.

“…No…” breathed the terrified mare as tears began to seep out of her eyes. She saw herself entering middle age as her belly became pronounced, and her hips flared out unflatteringly. Her white teeth began to stain, fading to a sickly jaundiced yellow. Her mane no longer shone, and hung limply across her wrinkling face.

“Stop!” bawled the unicorn, unable to look away, “Stop it!” Still, somehow, things became worse. She climbed past fifty and sixty, now entering later life. Her body began to deflate and sag as most of the weight she had gained began to disappear. Her blotched skin now hung loose on a frame of atrophied muscles and weakening bones.

“Stop!” she screamed, “Stop!”

She was old now. Her hair was stringy and white, and her eyes were clouded and near sightlessness. Her face had sagged so much that her grin now looked like a frown. Her majestic pose had been reduced to a feeble stance atop hips that looked too weak to support her tail anymore. At that moment Trixie realized that she stood alone in the portrait. The audience was gone, as if there had never been one at all. All that remained was a mare so old that she could hardly stand. Trixie blinked to clear her eyes of tears--and when they opened, she saw the portrait itself beginning to crumble.

She should have felt some kind of relief to see the thing that had caused her so much pain fall apart, but somehow she felt worse. In a fit of panic she tried to scoop up its powdering form as it began to drop off bit by bit from the frame. But as the pieces of the painting fell into her hooves, they dissolved completely to dust. Trixie let out a heart-wrenching wail as she hung her head in despair. The destruction of the painting only served to remind her what would happen after her death. She would be forgotten completely, as if she never had been at all.

Once more the magician was drawn into memories of her performances. She saw herself in a completely different light. The mare on the stage was a boisterous little popinjay, conceited beyond all reason. Now Trixie realized she was no different than anypony else. She was mortal. She would age, fade away and wilt like a rose, and then be forgotten. And the worst part was that she doubted anypony would even try to remember her. Who would ever want to recall being humiliated by a loudmouth like her? But it was too late to change now. She’d had her chance, and by wasting it she’d landed herself in a desolate manor, tormented by a malicious ghost until he decided to scare her to death.

The unicorn looked back up at the portrait. She let out a gasp as she found herself not looking into the decaying remains of her painting, but into the ruined portrait of somepony completely different. A tall, thin, unicorn, clad in a top-hat and jacket, standing in the manor’s garden. Attached to the ornate frame was a tarnished plate of bronze. It was inscribed with many small words, but Trixie was too distraught to read anything else but the two largest: Von Waltz.

Out of the corner of her eye, the unicorn saw something. Too sorrowful to even think of what it could be, she turned her head to look at it. What she saw drove her out of her remorse and back into reality. Standing next to the piano was a pony made of shadow. He looked solid, as though he were corporeal and coated with an impossibly black shade of paint. He was tall and thin, and his featureless body was adorned with a top-hat and jacket. Trixie fell over terrified, then bunched herself against the wall. The pony stood absolutely still as it looked at her with eyes she couldn’t see. As she took in his appearance, Trixie suddenly recalled what she had seen moments earlier. She knew who it was. The pony’s faceless head slowly nodded once. The equine suddenly dissolved into the shadows, winking out of existence.

Comments

[That_one_guy]

Your descriptive imagery is incredible. God damn it.

[JV ElEven]

Great.

Just for good measure: Advice: Do not read this at half past midnight. You will get spooked by any shadow.

[Twifight Sparkill]

Vivid imagery. Very.

*huddles under blanket*

[PointlessGizmo]

Whoa... you really are the master of atmosphere!

Please continue. I wasn't planning on sleeping for the next couple of weeks anyway...

[Violently Irrelevant]

More reading.

Still enjoying reading this fic over and over :P