The Nightmare Night Collection

by TooShyShy

The Painting

“Do you want to know the story behind this painting?”

Octavia swirled her glass of brandy, listening to the pleasant tinkle of the ice cubes. She didn't drink brandy because she liked it. She certainly didn't drink it for the taste or the dramatic appeal. Octavia drank brandy because that was what he drank. There'd been a time—a reckless schoolgirl, two hundred bits, big dreams of some fancy music school in Canterlot—in which she'd lacked any individuality. Octavia just became a part of others, mirroring behaviors both benign and dangerous. That was how it had started. It was how she began her story, as that carefree schoolgirl who thought she knew everything.

The artist—Iron Brush—had been very kind to her. He'd approached her at a cafe, made some idle remark about her school outfit. Octavia—young and foolish—mistook his interest for something innocent. She was even flattered by it. Dazzled by his attention, Octavia had asked him to sit down. She'd even paid for his coffee and that little tray of sandwiches they shared. Twenty bits.

Iron Brush explained that he was searching for a model. His old one—or so he said—had run off with some idealistic young artist in Manehatten. He lamented the fall of modern art, how so few ponies appreciated the classics and the hard work that went into his creations. He'd seemed so genuinely vulnerable in that moment, causing Octavia's heart to ache as he described his troubles.

“Would you like to be my new model?” he'd asked.

Dazzled by the offer and his kind words, Octavia said she'd think about it. She'd already made up her mind, but she didn't want to come off as desperate. She had dreams. Dreams bigger than her small town. That fancy music school in Canterlot, the one attended by all the greats throughout Equestria's colorful history. Her parents refused to pay for it, refused to enable what they considered a silly dream. Two hundred bits for some music school? Preposterous.

Iron Brush offered her more. He'd pay for all of her school-related expenses, he told her. He'd let her stay at his second house in Canterlot while she attended school. He'd even write a letter of recommendation to ensure she was accepted.

Octavia—trusting, hopeful, desperate—accepted. It was just modeling, she told herself. It was just posing. Iron Brush said she was beautiful, absolute perfection that must be preserved on canvas. She loved the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her, the way he studied her like she was a masterpiece. Nopony had ever looked at her like that before.

She moved into Iron Brush's house a few days later. She felt no sadness, no guilt, no trepidation. She just felt liberated, freed from the crushing expectations of her family and the grueling work she'd endured for the benefit of her demanding father. Octavia was going somewhere she was going to be admired, pampered, permitted to practice with her cello as much as she liked. A secluded house in the middle of nowhere, away from prying ears and eyes. A brand new life with a unicorn who appreciated her talent and her beauty.

The first few days were wonderful. Octavia awakened every morning to a lovely home-cooked breakfast, she wandered around the beautiful and enormous garden for hours, she played the cello to her heart's content. Iron Brush had not yet begun to paint her. He said he needed to better understand her beauty, to completely immerse himself in her essence. He allowed her all the freedom she wanted. In exchange, he only asked she not complain about him following her with a sketchpad.

On the seventh day, Iron Brush announced that he was ready. Masterpiece. He called it his masterpiece before it was even finished, when it was simply an image in his head. But he was certain, he assured Octavia. This was going to set the art world ablaze. This would be the painting that changed the world.

But first he needed something from her. It was a small thing, or so he told her. More a token of her devotion to his artistic vision than anything else. He needed it, he said. It was the key to the entire process, the one component that set him apart from all those mediocre artists who'd gotten famous on a whim. But Iron Brush was a real artist. He understood art, he understood the true depth that went into a perfect painting. He was willing to take risks, to be bold, to challenge the art world with his vision. He told Octavia all of this, his voice rising as he became entranced by his own impassioned speech.

“We must give everything to our art,” he'd said.

Iron Brush said he needed a few locks of Octavia's mane. Just enough to create a high quality durable brush with which to paint his masterpiece. He already had a few from his previous models, but their beauty was nothing compared to Octavia's radiance. He needed something—and somepony—more pure. Those other models were corrupted, he told her. They were rotten, their souls twisted by posh Canterlot society or egotistical Manehatten society. But Octavia—a young mare from a small town—had not yet been warped.

The next day, Octavia presented him with a jar containing a sizable chunk of her mane. She thought—in the way only a pony of her age could—that it was a worthy sacrifice. He was offering to preserve her beauty for generations to come, to write her the perfect future. What more could Octavia ask for, having been on a leash for her entire life, having always lacked the ability to control her own destiny?

Iron Brush didn't need her to pose. He said he could do it on his own, even without her physically in front of him. He only needed her essence, the rawness of the image in his head. Octavia was as much a muse as a model. Once captured, her beauty was never going to leave Iron Brush's mind.

“You're going to love it,” he'd assured her.

She didn't see him during those first few days. She heard the melodies he hummed, even the gentle swish of the brush if she pressed her ear to the door. But Octavia herself was left to wander, trotting through the empty halls with an increasing feeling of loneliness. If there had ever been servants, they'd left Iron Brush to his solitary existence a long time ago. He seemed content in his isolation, but Octavia wasn't used to it. She longed for the busy streets, the cafes, the movie theater. A part of her even longed for the boring school she'd once attended.

Eventually Iron Brush emerged from his studio, shutting and locking the door behind him. He'd seemed quite happy only a few days ago, but now he looked decidedly sour.

The painting! Oh, he thought it was going to be a masterpiece. He'd taken that chunk of her mane, had created the most beautiful and elegant brush, the handle carved from the finest wood in all of Equestria. Truly he'd created the purest instrument of art known to ponykind. Even as he put it to canvas, he was satisfied. Iron Brush watched how the colors flowed and the image came together practically independent of him.

But then it all fell apart. No. This wasn't the masterpiece he'd envisioned. This wasn't the beautiful pony who'd come to stay with him. This mockery of a painting had only captured five percent of her beauty, perhaps less. It was an otherworldly and ghoulish representation of the true self, a cruel joke. Hideous and deceptive.

Iron Brush asked for something more. He needed this to be his masterpiece, to forge his victorious return to the art world. He knew he could do it. He knew Octavia's beauty was unrivaled. But he needed more. Iron Brush had touched the surface of her beauty, but he hadn't gone deep enough to truly immerse himself.

He took the blood she gave him and mixed it into the paint. The true essence of Octavia. Her beauty distilled. The colors pulsed and bubbled with it.

Octavia lay in bed afterward, staring up at the ceiling. She no longer knew what to think. She still felt it, even though the sensation had long since left her. The prick of the knife, the cold blade against her fur. At the time she felt violated by it, but in a way she couldn't yet put into words. Octavia had seen the redness leak from her, droplets falling into the strange bowl Iron Brush provided for her. Her eyes—confused and somewhat fearful—had met his—manic and blissful—in that moment. She had briefly wondered why he seemed to take so much pleasure in hurting her, why he didn't hesitate even for a second, why he didn't show remorse. But then Octavia was hoisted onto his back and carried to bed. He loomed over her, his horn glowing as he healed her as best he could. The warmth of the spell washed away all else, although only for a moment.

She didn't come out of her room for two days. She ate what little food she had stashed in her bedroom, mostly pastries she'd hidden away. Iron Brush gave her any food she desired, another luxury Octavia had been deprived of at home. He was taking care of her, providing her with everything she wanted and needed. Octavia felt she should be grateful. But every time she started to rebuke herself, she'd again remember the cold blade pressed against her fur, the look of glee in his eyes as he coaxed the redness from her. Octavia no longer listened at the door of his studio.

She no longer slept soundly. Her nightmares were terrible, full of screaming faces and ghoulish art galleries. But the feelings were worse than the images. A brief stabbing pain in her side, a prick that reminded her of the knife. An agonizing tug on her mane, the ripping and tearing of flesh.

Octavia began to notice patches of her fur and mane missing. The stress, she thought. The nightmares, the isolation, the escalating dread. It was too much for her. Her body was turning against her. Octavia was slowly falling apart as if she'd become a corpse. She could feel her mind rotting from the inside out. Her dreams bled into the waking world. Octavia could hardly distinguish between the endless hallways in her dreams and the ones in the house. She'd come across paintings Iron Brush had abandoned in various unused rooms. Every time she found on, she swore the features twisted and warped right before her eyes. But when she looked again, Octavia saw only another smiling face.

In one of the unused rooms, she found a photo album stuffed into a drawer. Delirious from lack of sleep, Octavia flipped it open. It had been weeks since she'd seen another pony, a single door standing between her and Iron Brush's feverish work. But she didn't wantto see him. She ached for this to be over, for Iron Brush to keep his promise. Even though he hadn't said it directly, he had promised her something extra, something she craved a this point: freedom from him and his work.

The photographs were all of Iron Brush's previous models, although at the time she didn't understand. She only comprehended the wrongness of what she was seeing, a wrongness so profound it shook her. She thought she was too numb to be shaken. Octavia's only desire was for a glimpse of the outside world, a reminder that ponies besides Iron Brush existed. The snapshots of friends and family inside her head weren't enough. She'd cast them aside, telling none of her whereabouts and burning every possible bridge. But Octavia was not prepared for what she saw in that photo album.

Their faces. Their faces. Blurred and warped, as if somepony had smeared them. There was a beauty to it, a surreal sort of wonder to the distorted features. Octavia was struck by it, as if she was looking at a work of art.

She closed the photo album and put it back. Octavia didn't want Iron Brush to know she'd looked. But she had a feeling he'd know, even if she didn't tell him. Perhaps he'd anticipated the discovery. Iron Brush must have realized she'd become curious, that she'd eventually find out what happened to his former models. But this had caused him no concern. Octavia would wonder, but she would never betray him. She'd pledged herself to him, much like his former models whose purity had proved inadequate.

A few days later, Octavia discovered the basement. She'd been careful in her exploration, opening every door and giving every room its own fair share of use. She'd found all the corners and crannies, or so she thought. But although the garden maintained its charm, the house was another story. There were always walls, always doors that couldn't be unlocked.

“What's this?” Octavia had wondered aloud.

She'd found the key under the sink, one of those big old-fashioned ones with the word “Basement” dangling from it. But that had been weeks ago and she'd forgotten all about it. There wasn't a basement, or so she assumed based on the map in her head. However, this was the kind of house that was fated to have a basement. It was only by pure chance that Octavia stumbled across it on her way to the garden.

Octavia had come to accept her fate. She was to be trapped in this monstrously large house forever, in fear of Iron Brush's wrath if she dared attempt an escape. She was to be his unwilling model until he either got bored of her or deemed her impure. Octavia had stopped practicing her cello every morning. The music had once comforted her,but now it only brought her sorrow. She could no longer imagine the vast concert halls and wedding receptions.

Down in the basement, Octavia found Iron Brush's previous models. He'd simply left them there, cast them aside in the dark as if they meant nothing. Perhaps they too had run away, seeking a better life than what they'd been given. Perhaps they'd once been Octavia: sitting alone in a cafe, eating pastries and lamenting their lost dreams. Then a stranger had approached them, his mouth full of promises and flattery. They would be reborn within his art. They would be made eternal by the strokes of a brush.

The jars were stacked on a large shelf at the back of the room. Perhaps there were more, but Octavia only saw the ones on the shelf. She saw the swirling colors, the way they throbbed and bubbled right before her eyes. Vibrant reds and purples and pinks and yellows and greens. A few idle strands of mane, twisted and tangled within the liquid. They were beyond escape, beyond feeling, beyond the realm of existence. The smell of rotting flesh permeated the room, leaking generously from the open neck of each jar.

Octavia went back upstairs. She locked the basement door behind her, more out of habit than anything else.

The door of Iron Brush's studio was open a crack. Octavia had taken note of this earlier, but she'd ignored it. There was nothing for her in there. Nothing except a stallion who'd shunned her image a long time ago, despite his supposed fascination with her. He hadn't explicitly barred her, but Octavia sensed his need to keep the painting away from her curious eyes. He wanted her to be the first to see it. Perhaps he meant her to be the only one to see it.

Octavia pushed the door open. She didn't want to see the painting. Over those few weeks, she'd fallen out of love with her own image. She could barely stand to look in the mirror, let alone see a painting of herself. The meticulous rendering of her form in paint would be even worse than her reflection. But she went inside, drawn to the room that had once been forbidden.

Iron Brush was lying on the floor of his studio. He lay there amidst a mess of his own creation. He seemed to have knocked over several bottles of paint, spilling their contents all over the floor. The paint within the bottles had an odd smell, a strong sickly-sweet aroma that reminded Octavia of rotting flesh. A few easels had been upended, the bookshelves had been emptied onto the floor, a vase had been shattered against the wall. Iron Brush lay in the middle of the chaos, his body completely still. He'd been still for quite some time before Octavia found him. Iron Brush had always been a stallion of dramatics, or at least Octavia considered him to be. She was not surprised to find the remains of what appeared to have been a fit, a violent outburst over a failed project. But she was quite shocked to find him in the middle of it. Octavia was quite shocked to see the knife—the same he'd bled her with—sticking out of his neck.

Octavia's gaze wandered to the one easel that had remained upright, the one bearing the unfinished painting. Although she would eventually come to claim it as her own out of some morbid need to preserve this chapter of her life, at that moment she felt nothing but revulsion. Iron Brush had spoken so highly of her and the purity of her image. He said it was a travesty that her beauty was not already immortalized in some manner, photographs being too impersonal for his taste. Paintings were a much purer form of expression, at least in his opinion. The colors breathed, given life by the brush.

He'd been correct in that aspect. This painting certainly breathed, even in its unfinished state. Even having failed to capture her beauty as he wanted, Iron Brush had created something that was certain to draw the eye. In its own morbid way, it was a shame that he'd had his little outburst. Perhaps if he'd lived to finish the painting, his hideous creation would have been better expressed, even revered by the art world he so hated on a daily basis. As it was, Iron Brush had splattered his own soul onto the canvas. He'd painted over Octavia's beauty, replacing whatever he'd mistaken for purity with his own warped version of it. That was how Octavia explained the utterly hideous creation that stood before her, the horrific work of art staring at her from the canvas. A twisted mockery of her features, a reflection of the stallion who'd painted it.

Her story finished, Octavia took a long sip from her glass.

“That's the story,” she said. “I'm sure you can figure out the rest.”

She felt no remorse over keeping her guest for so long. The bespectacled mare had come there seeking a piece for her collection. Each piece had its own story, its own history that Octavia had super-imposed over much of her own. Octavia was attached to all of her treasures, but the painting was special. A part of her wished to part with it, wished to surrender it to this bespectacled mare. But another part of her felt a bizarre sort of attachment to the piece. It had been made for her.

Octavia would not be parting with it anytime soon. As Iron Brush had promised, this painting was a masterpiece.