Why You Should Be Scared Of The Dark
Prologue
A pillow collided firmly with Applebloom's face, sending her sprawling to the floor and signalling the end of their rapidly escalating game. While Scootaloo outwardly apologised for her over-zealous throw, secretly she was crowning herself the undefeated pillow fighting champion for yet another sleepover. Honestly it was a wonder her cutie mark wasn't hurtling bed linen, such was her aptitude for it.
“Ya always get too rough,” complained Applebloom, rubbing the lump where her head had hit the hard floorboards.
“You just need to dodge better is all,” said Scootaloo, ruffling her wings. Sweetie Bell giggled, but she was quickly silenced by Applebloom's vicious stare. “Now what are we going to do?” she asked, trying to deflect her friend’s angry gaze.
Twilight had been kind enough to let them stay over at the library and taking them out of their sister's hooves for an evening, but having exhausted most of the generic sleepover activities the Cutie Mark Crusaders found themselves at a bit of a loss.
“Not another pillow fight, that's for sure,” said Applebloom, and Scootaloo quickly dropped the cushion she had been raising in suggestion.
“Ooh, I know!” Sweetie clopped her hooves together in excitement. “What about ghost stories!?”
Scoots jumped up. “That's a great idea!” She paused. “Do you know any?”
“Um... No.” Sweetie sighed. “What about you, Applebloom?”
“Ah hate ghost stories,” came the grumbling response.
“Liven up Applebloom, I said I was sorry.”
“Y'all ain't the ones with a bump the size of an egg; it's easy for you to say. And you don't know any stories anyway, so there's nothin' we can do about it.”
“Duh,” said Scootaloo. “We're in a library. Where else are you going to find a book of ghost stories?”
Applebloom had to admit she had a point.
“Okay crusaders, let's find a scary book! The one who finds it gets to read it!”
As they bumped hooves, a chill wind suddenly ran through the library, blowing out the lantern. There was a deafening slam from behind them, and after jumping a good foot into the air, they rushed to cower under their blankets.
“What in the hay was that?” whispered Applebloom.
Sweetie shivered. “I don't know, but it was really loud...”
Scootaloo, however, couldn't resist the opportunity. “Maybe it was the library ghost? Some say he still haunts here today, making little fillies jump by slamming his hooves down.”
“That wasn't the sound of hooves,” chided Applebloom. “Go see what it was, Scoots. Unless yer chicken.”
“I'm not a chicken!”
“Prove it,” said Sweetie Bell, as Applebloom started making soft clucking noises.
“Fine, I will.” Scootaloo edged out from her covers, moving as slowly and quietly as possible while her friends stared out from under the blanket, wide-eyed.
“Well?” called Applebloom. What is it?”
No reply.
“Scoots?” Sweetie's voice shook a little. “Scootaloo?”
No reply.
Just as they made to peek out, Scootaloo jumped up in front of them.
“BOO!” she yelled, sending them both jumping back with loud yelps as Scootaloo fell into peals of laughter.
“Don't DO that!” shouted Sweetie, voice cracking slightly in her indignant rage.
“Oh come on, how am I meant to resist such a good opportunity? You’re the ones who made me go look.”
“What was it?” asked Applebloom.
“A book.”
Sweetie raised an eyebrow. “What book?”
Scootaloo held it up, an enormous green volume. Even in the dim they could make out the gold lettering embossed on the front.
Why You Should Be Scared Of The Dark
(and other stories to tell with the lights off)
The pegasus relit the lantern, flipped it open and read the first page.
“Hello, dear reader. I'm here to offer you some advice. Put this book down and walk away. Contained within are six very real stories which I had the misfortune to document, and any one of them could make your mane stand on end and turn white in an instant. This is not a book for the faint of heart, or the weak of constitution. So if you feel up to the task read on, and pray that you survive the night...”
“R-real stories?” asked Applebloom, lower lip trembling.
“Of course not,” said Scootaloo. “It's just there to set the mood.” And then, with a sly grin, “Or maybe it is real. Maybe we shouldn't read it because then the monsters will come for... US.” She shouted the last word, making them both jump again. “Man, you guys are too easy.”
“So... are we reading it?” Sweetie looked from Applebloom to Scootaloo, their faces half-shrouded in dancing shadows from the lantern.
“No!”
“Yes!”
Their response was simultaneous.
Scootaloo sighed. “I said it first, so we read it.”
“Nuh-uh, ah said No way before you said Yes.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Shut up, the pair of you!” Sweetie bit her lip. “I say we read it. How can we not after it basically jumped at us?”
“That's exactly why ah'm sayin' we shouldn't!”
Scootaloo hushed her. “It’s two against one. Okay, I'll read the first story, and then we'll pass it around.”
She opened it to the contents.
WHY YOU SHOULD BE SCARED OF THE DARK
- Why You Should Be Scared Of The Dark
- Dead Spiders
- Frozen
- Pulling Teeth
- Behind You
- Adaptation
“Some of those sound like I really don't want to read them,” said Sweetie. “What was that one about spiders?”
“Dead Spiders,” said Scootaloo.
“Yeah, dibs not reading that one.”
“That's fine,” said Applebloom. “Y'all can listen to me read it instead.”
Sweetie was suddenly filled with panic. “Wait, no, I've changed my mind! I'd rather read it than listen to it...”
“Too late,” said Scootaloo. “You called dibs.”
Applebloom nodded sagely, resigning Sweetie Bell to her fate.
“Okay,” said Scoots, “I'll read the first one, then Applebloom, then Sweetie Bell, and then we go in that order again. Deal?”
The other crusaders agreed, and Scootaloo turned the page. The lantern cast angry shadows on the library walls as she began to read.
Why You Should Be Scared Of The Dark
I’ve heard it said that it’s not the dark that ponies are scared of; it’s the possibility of things hiding within it. The ones that tell me that always speak with such conviction, proud of their apparent conquest of an absence of light.
They’re wrong.
I have 47 lanterns in my house. At least three in each room, in case one goes out. They burn from sunset until dawn, and I have enough fuel to last me a year on my own. I sleep on a mat on the floor; a bed has too many shadows underneath it.
In fact, no furniture that has an empty space underneath. Or if it does, it needs to be open enough that the lanterns can illuminate it. That one might be a bit much, but there’s no such thing as too careful. Not where this is concerned.
I sleep during the day, when it's safer. Well, I could never manage to get to sleep at night even if I tried. Just seeing those empty, black windows is enough to keep me up. Even if I draw the curtains across it doesn't help; I know it's out there, watching. In some ways it's more comforting to keep them open. At least that way when I see it grinning at me from behind the glass I know I'm safe.
It's been three years since I first encountered it – I admire its patience.
I used to be a cart pony – one of the poor bastards who lugged full mine carts back to the surface. The one I was fixed to was Shaft 27, a copper line and one of the deepest we had. There were always three of us in a shift: me pulling the cart, a miner and a prospector, both of which were unicorns. Earth ponies like me were far better at pulling the cart than unicorns; levitation can only hold so much for so long, and pegasi won't have anything to do with something that far underground. Gets them all jittery.
The prospector always went first, sensing the ores in the rock and highlighting them, and the miner would... well, mine, blasting the walls with magic to pull out the ore inside. In the gemstone mine we heard they used diamond dogs, but they've got no interest in metal so we had to stick with unicorns. Once excavated, the unrefined chunks got thrown in my cart, and on we went.
The shafts were all pre-dug by another team before we showed up; we'd roll down to the bottom and then work our way back to the surface. It was quicker than working downwards and coming up after because I could run down much faster than I could pull it up, and since we were going slowly on the ascent by choice we saved a fair bit of time. It also stopped me having to pull a full cart the entire way; it was at its heaviest when we were closer to the surface.
Once you got round the first corner in those mines, it was pitch black. It didn't make sense to light the whole thing when portable light sources were so much cheaper and more efficient, and in dire straits the unicorns could make their own light. We all wore helmets; mine had a light where the unicorn's had a hole for their horns. There were always stories about that, unicorns that had broken their horns when a rock or something fell on them, but better a broken horn than a caved-in skull.
On this particular day I was with Dustkicker – a damn fine pony who'd do anything for you without a moment's hesitation. He was also one of the best miners I ever had the fortune to meet; quick and accurate, never needing more than one bore hole to get to the prospector's target. I've seen miners that couldn't aim straight if their life depended on it, taking multiple tries at every stop. I hated those guys – the longer we took meant the longer I was holding the cart up. I think Dustkicker and I still hold the fastest shaft clearance record, which should say something, but it's been a while since I was last there.
We wouldn't be breaking any records on that day. Our prospector was a mean old son of a bitch whose real name I never found out. Everyone just called him Gristle, himself included.
Gristle was infamous among the ponies of Shaft 27. I should be clear and point out that most everyone treated the cart-ponies like shit. It came with the job. You work some place like that, the unicorns still haven't quite come to terms with modern living, and an earth pony isn't worth squat to them. Oh, there were exceptions – Dustkicker among them – but the majority eyed us as they might something particularly unpleasant they'd dug out of their hooves.
Gristle, bless his heart, was a shining beacon of equality. He hated everyone just the same. Unicorn, Earth Pony, Pegasus, Gristle didn't care. If you weren't Gristle or Princess Celestia (who he seemed to hold in almost sickening esteem), he couldn't have cared less if you turned up dead the next day.
I'd like to say he was at least good at prospecting, but I'd be lying. Even newbies had a better success rate than Gristle. Often he'd make me wheel back a few metres because he'd spotted a vein that he'd 'missed'. Given his track record, most of us assumed he did it intentionally.
Going back even just a few steps with a cart full of rocks is no small feat. You can't turn round once you're harnessed in, and it takes a good while to detach so the only worthwhile method is to literally walk backwards, and that's not easy when you're dragging something as heavy as the cart behind you. One slip and you'd be sent rolling down the tracks to an early grave.
Dustkicker, when I was with him, would offer to carry the rocks up to me himself in situations like that, which I was normally immensely thankful for. Gristle would have none of it.
“If he's not carrying the rocks, then what use is he?” was his argument. Often I’d find myself wondering if Gristle's missing teeth were from being kicked in the face, followed by considering seeing if he could lose any more.
“Why'd we get stuck with him?” I whispered. “Did we piss someone off?”
“Hell if I know.” Dustkicker shrugged. “It's only a week, and then he's rotated off again. I think you've got me for another month.”
I laughed. “However will I survive?”
“What's so funny back there?” Gristle's voice was sharp, grating. It put me in mind of sawing through metal.
“Nothing.” Dustkicker was a crappy liar, but Gristle had heard it all before.
“In that case you can both shut the hell up. If you're talking, you ain't working.”
“We're on the descent,” I pointed out. “There's not much to it.”
“It's still work. Your yapping's not productive, so keep your hooves moving and your lips shut.”
In terms of management, prospectors were really no higher than a cart pony, no matter how much they liked to imagine so. They were more valuable to the company, reflected by their pay, but they certainly weren't in a position where they could order a miner or cart pony to do anything. But this was Gristle, and we kept our voices subdued to avert any further ire.
“So word in the bunkhouse is you’ve got yourself a new mare,” said Dustkicker.
“Word in the bunkhouse is often notoriously exaggerated.”
“Aw, come on. Just between us, and I won’t say another word.” This was a lie, but the sort that everyone made. Word travels quickly in a small community like that.
“What’s there to say? She's classy, probably too much for me, but she doesn't seem to let it faze her. Real musical too; plays cello in a small band up Ponyville way. I hear they do pretty well.”
“And how is she between the sheets?”
Dustkicker took my shoulder-punch gracefully.
“Alright big guy, a Gentlecolt doesn't kiss and tell, I get it. She's gotta be pretty good for a reaction like that though, huh?”
I gave him a warning glare, which he met with a shameless grin. I couldn't help but do the same.
“End of the line,” said Gristle, and I pulled the cart to a stop.
“That's odd.” Dustkicker didn't need to explain. The diggers – the ones that laid down the track – would normally only leave a metre or so of extra path at the end of a tunnel. Here they'd continued for some unknown distance, leading down into a deep, oppressive darkness.
“Probably just some new regulations,” said Gristle. “They're making these mines worse every damn day.”
“They?” I asked.
Gristle shot me a mean squint. “Don't play stupid. And get that damn harness off, maybe we can actually get something done that way.”
I bit back my retort, fiddling with the buckles with my teeth. Dustkicker helped out with the back bracer that I couldn't reach; a big screw on each side, as well as some finer straps that were too precise for magic.
“While you boys play with each other, I'm gonna take a piss.” Gristle strode off into the darkness, horn flaring with light. “If you'd kindly spare me some privacy?”
I turned away as he asked, occupying myself with the harness, trying to ignore the awful sound of Gristle relieving himself.
“Ain’t that one hell of a symphony?” muttered Dustkicker, just as appalled as I was.
“I’ve heard better,” I replied.
Busy with the harness and stifling our laughter, I can't tell you when Gristle’s light went out. I only know that when I looked up he was lost in the blackness, silence the only thing that greeted me.
“Gristle?” I called. “You okay there?” No answer. No sound but the occasional clink as Dustkicker undid the last few straps. He'd moved on to my other side now, and I couldn't wait to be free of that heavy bracer. Gristle's games were not welcome. “Come on, you're the one who wanted to get to work.”
This time a short shuffling answered. Hooves, dragging against stone. Shit, I thought. He's hurt himself.
I was only half wrong.
The shuffling drew closer, towards the light my helmet emitted around us. It was staggered, uncoordinated. A sliding limp. Each one felt forced, as if the pony causing them was pulling himself along with the last ounce of energy in his body. Dustkicker had stopped unstrapping me, instead watching with the same nervous gaze I had.
When Gristle stepped into the light, it took a second or so for me to realise. I knew something was wrong just at a glance, but at first I couldn't place it. I started with his hooves, assuming damage to be the cause of his broken gait. They were fine, the grey coat as matted and filthy as ever but otherwise normal.
Dustkicker saw it first, giving a strangled half-yelp. As my sight moved up to Gristle's face, past the permanent snarl on his lips, my own reaction was, I imagine, very similar.
His eyes were gone. Not gouged out, or damaged; they were simply missing, as if something had scooped them out of his head. Two red hollows stared back at us, past us. Through us.
There was a moment where we were frozen. Gristle, having reached his goal, seemed unsure how to proceed, and Dustkicker and I were too stunned to immediately react. Even now I don't know what the appropriate response would be. What would you do if you were presented with that situation?
Dustkicker made the first move; a step towards him with the beginnings of a question forming. It was probably something like “Are you alright?” or “Do you need some help?” or some other inane bullshit that only someone as scared as we were could come out with. The only real question in that scenario is “What the fuck happened to your eyes?”
As it turned out, I'd never hear what Dustkicker tried to ask. Perhaps it was just that. Before the question could leave him, Gristle opened his mouth and answered with a scream.
It rattled. You could hear the pain and betrayal in that scream, breaking out from his old, bitter lungs and shaking his body as it escaped. Stopping in his tracks, Dustkicker turned to me, desperation in every facet of his features. “What the hell do we do!?”
I tried to keep my voice calm, but was forced to raise it to be heard over Gristle's screaming. “First get me out of this thing!” I motioned to the last couple of buckles he had yet to undo. “I can't do shit while I'm stuck here!”
As soon as Dustkicker moved back to my side, things got even worse. Something in the darkness grabbed Gristle's hind-leg, which had still been shrouded in shadow, sending him sprawling to the ground. I think one of his front legs broke as he fell, hanging limply after his landing. His good hoof scrabbled at the ground, looking for purchase, but there was none to be had on the carved-smooth floor. He raised his head, looking at me with utter desperation, those empty circles somehow managing to find my face. But I was still strapped in with no way to reach him, Dustkicker at my side. And so, alone, Gristle was dragged backwards into the empty blackness. There was silence again.
It was brief. Gristle started screaming again, this time short bursts of agony compared to the continuous wail from before. Snapping sounds accompanied each new cry.
I spun to Dustkicker. “Get me out of this thing, we need to go!”
“I... I...”
“NOW!”
He nodded and took to my straps with shaking hooves. Even I could tell he was taking too long, the fear getting to him.
The snapping stopped, and Gristle's sobs were all that remained. A final, single ripping sound echoed through the tunnel, and then even his crying ceased.
Once more all that could be heard was the jangling as Dustkicker frantically tried to release me. I was left staring straight at the darkness, which is when I first saw it. The maw that has followed me since I escaped that mineshaft. It was flecked with red and hanging in the blackness, seemingly suspended by no living beast, as if it belonged to the dark itself.
And then, slowly but surely, the light that surrounded us started to be pushed back. I don't know how else to describe it. The shadows around the edge of our corona started to move closer, pressing in against the brightness. The jaws came with it, shining white razors of teeth, grinning as it moved to devour us both.
I will not pretend I was honourable. I will not write a lie, write that I told Dustkicker to leave without me. In fact I told him the opposite – that he had to stay, had to free me. That he couldn't leave me down here with that encroaching thing. I would have preferred us both be swallowed by the blackness that for him to give up and run. I didn't want to die as Gristle had. Alone.
Dustkicker couldn't bring himself to abandon me, and it's him I have to thank that I'm writing this at all. I don't know that, had our situations been reversed, I would have done the same.
“Hurry up!” I cried, my voice shrill.
“I'm nearly there, hang on.”
The teeth loomed ever closer as our light dwindled. “Dustkicker, come on!”
“Got it!” he yelled triumphantly, pulling the last of the leather straps free and taking off up the tunnel. I skittered round the end of the cart, only to find myself jerked back, slamming against it. “The screw!”
The shadows were nearly upon me. This close, I could feel the cold in their depths. And yet Dustkicker was still here. From where he stood his horn shone, blazingly bright, fixed on the screw that held me tight. The second it was free I shrugged clear of the bracer which hit the floor with a loud, reverberating clang. I wasted no time in tearing up the tunnel, escaping just as the first wisps of darkness began caressing the back of my hooves. Any later and I would have shared Gristle's grim fate.
The batteries in my helmet died halfway up the tunnel. They shouldn’t have done – there was a whole day’s worth of power left in them when we departed that morning – but not much that happened in that tunnel made sense. It was only half a second before Dustkicker illuminated his horn, but it was quick.
Tendrils wrapped themselves around me, circling my legs and torso. I shouted out but more grabbed my muzzle, holding it shut and preventing further shouts. Its touch was icy cold and immaterial, even as I struggled it felt like I was barely being held at all. Before it could drag me back into the tunnel Dustkicker’s horn finally lit up, surging with light and saving me for the second time.
He never told me what he saw, but his eyes went wide and his mouth hung open as he turned to look at me, at the thing that had grabbed me. The light was too much for it though, its coils retreating back into the safety of the depths below.
And now there was a repeating slamming sound from the bottom of the shaft, like metal against the walls, moving closer each time. We broke into a run, what else could we do? Neither of us had any desire to see what was causing it.
The noise moved faster than we did, and even as we turned that final corner into the sunlit opening it was hot on our heels. With a final crash the wall behind us shook, and as Dustkicker practically dragged me out I risked a look back. Among the cloud of settling dust was a hunk of twisted metal. Our mine cart. And behind them were the teeth, melting back into the blackness of the tunnel, dragging the cart’s remains with it. They were still smiling.
We never set foot in a mine again, both quitting on the spot. Our story was that Gristle had run off into the darkness and disappeared, leaving us stranded. When the manager asked if we would show him where, we kindly told him he could go fuck himself and that we'd never return for love or money.
I think we were probably under suspicion for a while, given Gristle's history, but there was no evidence and his body was never found. It wasn't as though we could have buried him, not under six feet of solid rock without leaving a mark. He'd vanished, along with the mine cart. Soon enough the authorities backed off and we were back to our lives.
Or what was left of them. It wasn't done with us yet.
Dustkicker didn't last long. Four months or so. I hope it was quick; hanging can go either way. I guess he thought it was the only way to finally escape it, but I think he made a mistake. Death is, after all, an unending darkness. When I found him swinging gently from the rafters, eyes bulging and tongue swollen, his expression was one of pure horror. It's probably that look that's kept me from doing it myself.
I decided to finally document this today, because a week ago my lights started going out. One by one, they go out, and each time the dark gets a little closer. It's done waiting. Perhaps it was building up its strength, perhaps it's just run out of patience, but each night more and more flicker and die. It's coming for me, and I don't know whether to wait for the inevitable or do something about it.
This probably won't be found until it's too late. Either I've gone missing or turned up dead, though the end result will be the same, no matter what.
So you should be scared of the dark, because it's not going to stop after it's done with me. Watch your windows at night, keep your lights on, and hope against hope that you never see its teeth. Once it's shown you them, there's no hope for you.
“That wasn't scary,” said Scootaloo, after a long pause.
“Nope,” agreed Applebloom.
“Not at all,” concluded Sweetie Belle.
The three fillies sat in the library that all at once seemed very dark, trying to look anywhere but each other or the blackness that surrounded them.
“So Applebloom, it's your turn.” Scootaloo slid the book towards her.
“Y'all want to read another one!?” At Scootaloo's pointed look Applebloom drew her blanket closer around her, embarrassed. “Ah mean, cause the first one wasn't scary or anythin'.”
“Is this the one about spiders?” asked Sweetie, wrapped as tightly as her own blanket would allow.
“Ah guess so, what with the name and all.”
“In that case I'm fine with stopping.”
Scootaloo groaned. “And I'm the chicken? Give it here, I'll read it.” She leant over to take it, and in the process knocked over the flickering candle, extinguishing it and plunging the library into darkness.
All three screamed and dived beneath their covers, hiding from the terrible beasts that were sure to devour them now their light and safety was gone. After quivering in silence for a minute or so, Scootaloo built up the courage to poke out a shaking hoof and relight the candle.
The Crusaders' heads re-emerged one by one, revelling in the fact they hadn't been gobbled up by some monstrosity.
"Okay," said Scootaloo, a slight tremble in her voice, "are we gonna read this thing or what?"
Applebloom was determined to prove that she wasn't scared, despite mounting evidence to the contrary. "Fine, ah'll do it."
The young ponies huddled a little closer as Applebloom cleared her throat and began to read. "Dead Spiders."
Sweetie gave a small whimper, but Scootaloo shushed her, urging Applebloom to continue.
Spring examined the crushed remnants on her hoof, mouth scrunched tightly in disgust. She could still make out a few legs among the mashed remnants of the spider’s body. In a quick, practiced motion she drew her hoof along the floorboards, scraping her hoof clean. A new house, a new start, a new spider infestation.
Perhaps 'infestation' was a little extreme. Problem? Yes, that was more appropriate. A spider problem. A dispute over who the house actually belonged to. The answer was Spring, whether or not the arachnids accepted it yet. She knew they'd be around – you don't buy a long-abandoned house without some pest issues – but the extent was still worrying. When she first cracked open her door and saw the little bastards scurrying over the newly-lit floor, dropping down between the cracks in the boards, she had known there was going to be work involved.
Spring had never really enjoyed the pursuit of magic, but she had to admit it had its advantages when it came to clearing cobwebs. Being able to stand a long way away from them and pulling them down remotely was a much more appealing prospect than doing it by hoof. That was her first step: remove the webs, followed by cleaning the entire building from top to bottom. But even now, with all her furniture moved in and the house feeling homely for the first time, she was still finding spiders.
The most recent offender had scuttled out from a cupboard drawer when she'd opened it, only to find itself terminated with extreme prejudice, squished against the hard wood. How did they even get in there?
Spring had a sneaking suspicion this whole thing was turning her into an arachnophobe. Any time she saw one she would immediately rush over and kill with whatever she had to hoof. Actually, that probably wasn't the definition of an arachnophobe. Arachno-psychopathy, perhaps.
She couldn't deny the small thrill each time she crushed one underhoof. Often that squish was the high point of Spring's day. Unsurprising, given her line of work – accountancy was well paid and she could do it from home, but it was as dull as bricks. Crunching numbers was far less satisfying than crunching spiders, and in some ways Spring would be sad to see the back of them once she'd finally ended their siege. In far more ways she couldn't wait.
Her old friends thought she was mad.
"If I were you I'd call in the exterminators."
"I don't know how you can stand to live with those things. And it's so remote..."
"STOP TALKING ABOUT SPIDERS WHY DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE?"
Spring ignored their comments. The house was hers – spiders and all – and if her friends were content to live in the middle of Manehattan with its dingy street lights, terrible company and soulless concrete apartments then good for them. She would enjoy the quiet life on the outskirts of Ponyville, a small hamlet compared the bustling city, and infinitely preferable even with the abundance of arachnids.
What did they even eat? The one benefit was that the fly and other insect population was at an all time low, but it left the spiders with very scarce food supplies. Spring supposed they had to be eating each other, but even that didn't work because what did the smallest ones eat? Even smaller spiders? And what about those ones? Perhaps it was spiders all the way down to the molecular level. Fractal spiders. Spring shook her head, yawning. Clearly she was up too late, nonsensical thoughts running through her head. Her bed was beckoning, empty and requiring her company, and she was all too happy to oblige it. Blowing out the candle she nestled into her pillow, smothered in the bed's warmth. The stack of papers on her desk, and the spiders, could wait until morning.
Spring hid in the darkness; home. Cosy. No one could get to her, she was safe. At least until an earth-shaking rumble drew her attention. Bright light streamed into her hiding place from above, burning hot against her skin. It hurt her eyes, made her head pound, and yet through the haze she could make out an enormous creature above her, peering in. Her only chance was to run.
She hurdled the wall, landing in a wide plain. Emptiness stretched almost as far as the eye could see, flat and featureless. Running through it were long, parallel grooves. No, not grooves. Cracks. Spring could see the dark space below them – the safety it offered – and she took off, searching frantically for a wide enough gap to drop down through.
Before she could, a vast shadow covered her. It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun, though much faster, zooming ahead of her. And now an impossibly-sized shape descended, filling her vision as she looked for the source of the shadow. It was going to fall on her. Crush her.
come on come on before it's too late
Lacking other options, Spring leapt into one of the cracks, trying to force her body through it. Her leg slipped through easily, but her body wouldn’t fit, no matter how much she struggled. And now she was stuck, her increasing efforts to escape only making it worse. With each jerk the rough sides dug into her skin, biting against her and drawing blood in deep grazes. Down and down the shape came, closer and closer. She couldn't move – couldn't pull back, couldn't run. Moments before it reached her Spring came to a horrifying realisation. The shape above her was a hoof; an enormous one stepping down on her.
The hoof reached the edges of her vision. It was all she could see, rapidly descending. She wanted to scream, but all that emerged was a hollow whimper. Spring closed her eyes.
Crunch.
"Sounds fun."
Spring pouted. "Thanks for your concern."
"What do you want me to say?" asked Thistle. "It's just a dream. It doesn't mean anything."
"It's not the first one I've had though."
"Then it's a recurring dream. You're reading too much into it."
Spring sighed, sinking further into her chair. The warm wood welcomed her, afternoon sun sending its rays onto the small café veranda where they sat sipping lemonade and discussing Spring's night time insecurities.
"See, I don't know why you're being so blasé about them anyway," said Thistle. "If I were you I'd get some of that industrial stuff, clear the whole thing up in a couple of days. I mean, you'd have to stay somewhere else while it did its thing, but I'd be more than happy to lend you a patch of floor."
"That seems a little over the top..."
"If the problem's as bad as you say it is, burning the entire house down would be considered rational by most ponies."
Spring giggled. "I guess. I'm not sure I want to resort to anything quite so drastic."
"Then you've got bigger balls than most of the stallions I know." Thistle ruffled her spiky mane. "All I'm saying is maybe you should get some outside help, or at least stop obsessing over it."
“Yeah, I know, but I want to do this myself.”
“Okay.” Thistle shook her head. “But personally, I think you're totally nuts.”
Spring smiled. “I think we all are, a little bit.”
Spring could never have explained to Thistle why she had to do this alone. She was grateful for her company – Spring was still new in Ponyville and appreciated Thistle's friendliness – but as good a friend as she was there were some things that needed to remain buried. This was Spring's problem. She wouldn't have moved if she wanted to keep relying on other ponies, to not take things into her own hooves, and it was her home dammit. Her responsibility.
And so it was, armed with a spray can of something suitably toxic, that Spring set out to clear her problem once and for all. Her first point of assault was the attic. So far Spring hadn't dared to set foot in it, but now was the time.
It was just as bad as she'd feared.
Cobwebs lined the room like cloth, thick and ghostly white in the moonlight which peered in through a small skylight. Dust lay thick on the floor, enough to actually muffle her hoofsteps. It had been a long time since someone had last been here.
Spring decided to move quickly before she lost her nerve at the sheer scale. Brushing the webs aside with magic, she gave any spiders that appeared a quick blast from the can. It wasn’t as satisfying as stepping on them, but much more efficient. Before long the air was thick with dust and the spray’s stinging scent. Spring doubted her lungs would benefit from this particular excursion.
She didn't see the spider that dropped from the ceiling onto her back, but she sure as hell felt it, especially once it dug its fangs deeply into her. With a yelp of pain Spring skittered backwards, bucking and trying to find it with her magic to pull it off. Even in her distress she wasn't crazy enough to spray anywhere near a possible puncture wound. Finally her probing magic found it, an enormous mass bristling with hairs. She grasped the offender and pulled it away, its legs wiggling frantically as its perception of gravity was found to be suddenly and inexplicably false.
Spring brought it in front of her, close enough to see but far enough away that she didn't have to worry about another bite. The spider was huge, slightly bigger that the diameter of one of her hooves, and by far the largest she'd ever seen. It stared back at her with a multitude of black eyes, emotionless and empty. Its mandibles twitched, and Spring could see the slight glisten of venom between them.
An irritating and painful burning started to crawl over her back where it had bitten her, and Spring found herself consumed by a deep rage. How dare this thing bite her? With a shout of effort Spring hurled it at the wall, which it hit with a perfect splat sound. One leg spasmed briefly before it detached from the wall and thumped to the ground, landing immobile amongst the dust. Spring gave it a blast from the can just to be sure.
Fuck spiders.
Spring poked at the two angry red welts that protruded from her back, grimacing. She didn't know what she'd expected; it was obvious just from looking at them that any contact was going to hurt. Her attempts at removing the invasion had come to an immediate halt; if the attic housed any more that size, Spring didn't want anything to do with it. Perhaps it was time to get somepony in who knew what they were doing...
No. You don't need them. You don't need anyone.
She sighed at the mirror, her image sighing with her. It made the whole gesture seem even more pathetic.
Look at you, it said. Giving up already, after one little setback.
"Don't," said Spring, speaking to the air. "Not now."
You do that a lot, don't you? Give up. That's all you've ever done.
The voice was hers no longer, now a thick sneer that was all too familiar. Her image in the mirror had twisted and warped into a dark, muscular frame.
So, Spring, why don't you admit it? Why don't you give up completely and come back? It's where you belong. It's where you've always belonged.
"No." A whisper, an almost silent protest against the unwanted thoughts.
You've thought about it, though. A part of you wants to. Being alone is scary, isn't it? A part of you wants to come back to me. A part of you LONGS to come back to me. Give up, just like you have with everything. You've already given up everything for me before, you can do it again.
"Stop. Please."
Please? Please? You abandon me, and you expect me to stop with just a please? You don't WANT me to stop, why should I? You can't do this without me, Spring. You thought you could, but you can't. Maybe with money you could have done better than this shit-hole, but that's all you could get without my help, and now look at you. It wasn't even your money. Come back, you know I'm waiting for you, and that I'll forgive you. It might take a while, but I'll forgive you, you know that. Perhaps I'll even-
"STOP!" Spring screamed, voice stricken with tears as she slammed her hoof into the glass. It cracked, erratic fissures running across the surface, breaking her reflection into thousands of miniature unicorns. The stallion from before had gone, replaced by her subdued form. Spring breathed in deeply, relishing the quiet her mind had finally allowed her. Now spiders didn't seem so bad after all.
The web held her tightly, limbs spread-eagled. Her surroundings were dark; Spring could just make out the faint signs of rough-hewn stone walls at the very edges of the silk strands. A prison, and the web formed her jail bars. Any attempt to pull her hooves free proved futile; the glue that held her there was stronger than she would have thought possible, like nails holding her down. If she tugged too hard she would be rewarded with stabbing pain as it pulled at her skin. Spring could do nothing but wait.
Soon enough, trembles started running through her body as the web shook. Something was drawing near, taking careful, thought-out steps, avoiding the glue globs that covered the silk.
The spider that crawled out of the gloom was nothing short of gargantuan. Easily the size of three ponies, its jaws clicked as it advanced on her helpless form. Spring twisted uselessly in her bindings and it drew closer, head tilted slightly as it regarded its prey. Seemingly satisfied with what it saw, it climbed nearer, thin legs stepping almost daintily between the glue traps until it reached her feet.
Moving slowly, it clambered atop her, its grotesque body rubbing against her skin, tough bristles combing through her fur. Spring could feel its weight pushing down on her, crushingly heavy.
"Stop," she murmured, almost instinctively. There was no power in that word, the same as the every time she had spoken it before. How could there be in her position?
The spider leaned its mandibles to her ear. Three words was all it took to send revulsion rolling down her spine. Three words to make her hate everything about the monster that pressed against her, stealing her warmth through its cold, chitinous shell.
"I love you," it said, moments before sinking its fangs into her neck and draining her dry.
Spring slipped in and out of wakefulness, tossing and turning in feverish nightmares as the bite's poison coursed through her veins. All shared his voice. All shared the spiders.
She wished she could grow used to them, but the dreams never allowed her to, each time presenting her with some new horror before a blissful moment of clarity, then diving back into another. In one she was lost in a forest, a whispering susurration behind her on the leaves that lay in thick drifts on the path. Spring knew she was being followed, but each time she looked back the sound stopped and there was nothing behind her. When the spiders came swarming out of the leaf piles she ran, but ahead of her she could hear hoofsteps, ones she recognised. Spring stood trapped between them, refusing to run any further. Before he reached her she turned and walked into the crawling mass, quickly becoming submerged under the multitudes.
In another she found herself drifting down a river, carried along by the tumultuous currents. Her raft was made of spiders, black and intimidating, though none of them acted threateningly. They moved through rapids and Spring held on for dear life as she was thrown about, her raft careening through the raging river. The water crashed against the rocks, and each time it did his voice echoed. "I love you," it said. "Come here," it said. "Stop crying," it said. "I'm not going to ask again." When she was finally thrown over an impossibly high waterfall and out into the void it came as a relief.
Spring began to recognise them as dreams. The consistent factors became her tells; each time she saw a spider, each time she heard his voice she would tell herself "This isn't real". At first it was simply a way to cope, a method to ignore her experiences by writing them off as immaterial, no matter how intense they felt. It soon became much more than that. Suddenly when she realised they were dreams she was able to escape, to wake up and break out of the nightmare's cage. Her sleep became far more peaceful, mostly coming in bursts of emptiness, only occasionally having a dream forced in among them. Once she could wake up there was no more fear. She didn't have to be scared when she could get away. It was being trapped there that scared her, being unable to leave, subject to her imagination's cruel whims.
Her eyes opened. The room was musty and warm, sunlight streaming in through the windows. There were no spiders. There was no voice. Spring's throat was intensely dry, tongue sticking unpleasantly to the roof of her mouth, but she wasn't dreaming. She was awake, her thoughts gloriously, wonderfully coherent. The fever had passed, and the bite marks had faded a little as they healed over. They were still very noticeable, but Spring couldn't care less.
She climbed out of her bed on to unsteady hooves, sidling awkwardly to the kitchen by leaning on any surface she could find. The tap gurgled as it fired out water into the tallest glass Spring could find. Her first enormous gulp was life-saving. As she finished the glass and poured another, movement caught the corner of her eye. A single, solitary spider crawling over the wooden counter, exploring its surroundings.
"This isn't real," she said out loud. Part of her was suddenly terrified she was dreaming, that this was all a cruel joke and in reality she was still lying in that bed, the fever still in full force and unwilling to relinquish her so easily. After a few moments, Spring allowed herself a sigh of relief. She wasn't dreaming, this was real. It didn't hurt to check, though. To keep up the habit. She crushed the spider unceremoniously and went to find herself something to eat.
It had been three days since she was bitten, and she was starved.
Spring adjusted the coat on her back for what felt like the fiftieth time. She hated clothes; Spring always found herself uncomfortably aware that she was wearing them, feeling them rustle against her fur as she moved. But the red marks were still present, painfully obvious, and if she was to go out in public she had no other choice.
Rain pattered against her face as she trudged through Ponyville's quiet evening streets. After Spring had asked to meet her, Thistle had given her the name of a bar, vague directions and a time.
"I'll be with a few friends," Thistle had said. "You've met them a couple of times, I think."
"But I need to talk to you. Alone."
"Then I'll tell them to shove off while we talk, it's fine. I have to go, super busy. I'll catch you later."
"Okay." What else could she have said?
The bar's light was warm and welcoming, but Spring wanted to turn around and leave the second she saw it.
Why are you here? his voice asked. All she'll do is call you crazy. She can't help you. I can, if you'll let me.
If anything that only strengthened her resolve. Spring pushed open the door, leaving the rain behind for the warm interior.
The bar was mostly empty, save for Thistle’s group and a crying pony in the corner being comforted by several others. Spring was only able to catch a snippet of their conversation as she walked past, but it was enough to know she didn't want to pry.
"I'm sure he's fine, Tavi."
"No, he'd never disappear like that. Especially not at night. Not in the dark."
"Maybe he just needed some time alone? He never really got over his friend's sui-"
"SHUT UP!"
Yeesh. Not her problem.
"Spring! Glad you could make it." Thistle gave her a genuine smile, though her eyes betrayed her concern. Spring felt her heart rise a little at that. She was glad she had Thistle; there was no one else in Ponyville she'd managed to befriend in her short time there, but Thistle was more than enough.
"Hey."
The other ponies that Thistle had been conversing with gave Spring that "look". She didn't blame them; the damp and demure mare in front of them must have seemed a little at odds with her usual, take-on-the-world self. Thistle gave them a little gesture, a small wave of a hoof, and they were quick to move to another table. Thistle must have arranged this with them beforehand. "Can I get you a drink?" she asked.
"No thanks, I don't want to stay long."
Thistle shook her head. "The way you're looking I don't know if you could stay long enough. Where've you been these last couple of days? Dreaming of a house free of spiders?"
That was far closer than Thistle would ever realise. "I've been... ill," said Spring.
"Yeah? Sorry to hear that, are you feeling better now?"
"Yes."
"Good."
There was silence as Thistle waited for her. That was something Spring could rely on; her knowing when to just wait for Spring to talk. It wasn't uncomfortable, Thistle didn't rush her. She just watched with a patient look, letting Spring gather her thoughts.
"I used to live in Manehatten," Spring announced. Her story fell flat there, as if she hadn't quite thought past that point after seeing it as the logical beginning.
"Big place. I bet Ponyville seems pretty boring in comparison." Thistle grinned.
"It's perfect," said Spring. "It's close-knit, sure, but it's far away from there. In Manehatten you were just another pony in the crowd, just another blank face. Nothing felt real there."
Most of the things that happened to you here didn't feel real either.
Spring coughed, shaking the thoughts from her mind. "There was no sense of community," she continued. "It was like... Everything just carried on, regardless of what happened to you. No one cared if ponies suddenly disappeared. No one cared if there was shouting from next door until the early hours in the morning. No one cared if they heard someone crying all night."
"Whoa, Spring, I don't-"
"So really I just wanted to get away. But I don't know if I can, Thistle. There's always another setback, always another thing in the way. First it was money. I had to squirrel away so much just to get that house. That was a huge risk that I don't think I would take again. Then there's the whole spider thing, then the dreams, which aren't about spiders at all, not really." Spring felt uncomfortably warm, the surging rush of escaping thoughts bringing with it a flush to her cheeks.
"Slow down, Spring. You're throwing a lot at me here, and it's obviously upsetting you." Thistle scratched her fetlocks. "Look, if I'd known it was going to be this heavy I wouldn't have asked you to come here. Do you want to go?"
"I'm fine, just a bit warm."
"You could take that coat off," said Thistle.
"Um... well, I can't." Thistle raised an eyebrow. "I got bitten by a spider the other day, and I'm kind of covering it up."
Thistle bit her lip. "If it's big enough to see that's gotta be pretty dangerous, Spring. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"I am now," Spring assured her.
"Can I see it? I know you're putting on a strong front, but I'd like to make sure you're alright."
Oh. Spring had hoped it wouldn't come to that. Hell, she'd hoped Thistle wouldn't ask about the coat at all. Still, she needed Thistle's help and she couldn't get that while Thistle was too concerned over her physical well-being. With a resigned sigh Spring lifted up the end of her coat, displaying the wound on her back.
"Wha... What am I looking at here?" asked Thistle, confused.
"A bite."
"Spring, are you SURE you're feeling okay?"
Spring looked over her shoulder. The mark was gone.
Her bed covers were messy and dirty. Her calender told her three days had passed. That hadn't been a lie, Spring had spend that time lying in a feverish mess. So why was the bite gone? It had been there when she'd left for the bar, Spring was sure of it. She had felt it on that long walk, rubbing painfully against the inside of her coat.
Spring had left the bar feeling physically sick, fear gnawing at her insides. Was she losing her mind? If there had never been a spider at all then Spring had spent three days hallucinating for seemingly no reason. And it got worse. The bite had been so realistic, so painful, such a perfect recreation that Spring had no idea how much was her imagination.
How much of this was a lie she was telling herself? Were there even any spiders at all? Was there even a house, or was she still living in that dingy apartment? Perhaps she was still under that dim fluorescent light, its flickering strobe against the walls as she tried to steal sleep. His heavy weight against her, holding her down even in sleep as he snored into the small of her back, tears still drying on her face. The last few days had proven how vivid Spring's imagination could be, and it wasn't entirely out of the question that this had all been a fabrication of her dreaming mind.
Spring didn't think she could bear that. She didn't think she could bear to wake up and see his face again. Every morning he would greet her with a heartfelt smile, as if his shouting the previous night had been meaningless. As if the hot bruises on her face were nothing. As if she had been shuddering with pleasure, not disgust when he’d climbed on top of her.
Sorry, that smile said. I love you, that smile said. We all go a little mad sometimes, that smile said. It'll be different tonight.
And of course it was, for a few days. She couldn't have convinced herself to stay if it hadn't been. For a few nights he would be the model of a good lover. He'd rub her back, hold ice against her swollen face, please her in ways she wished he couldn't. It would be just enough to convince her she was wrong. That she needed him.
When the next argument came, and it always did, it would be just as violent as before. The neighbours never did anything. They must have heard, heard her cries, heard the sharp smack of hooves against skin, but they never did anything. That was another thing convincing her to stay. If they heard and did nothing, they must know that she deserved it.
On that last evening he had slammed her against the wall and dislocated her shoulder. The pain was blinding, searing through her. Spring had focused on that over his words, which had seemed muted against the white agony that burst from her socket. This only made him angrier, and he hit her again. Right on the joint. Even her crying stopped then. She couldn't make a sound. Spring could only gasp in huge, broken breaths. It was then that he saw how much he had hurt her. How this time he had gone too far. The anger drained from him. Spring saw it happen, his imposing form visibly sagging in front of her, actual vestiges of fear in his eyes. He left the apartment without saying a word.
Spring didn't know how he had reacted when he returned to find her gone. Badly, most likely. But at the end she had to thank him. That look of fear did more to convince her how fucked up her situation was than any of his previous actions. Denial is a strong curse, but she couldn't deny his own admission of guilt.
The weeks that followed had been terrifying. For too long she was convinced he was following her. Spring would see him in every shadow, hear him around every corner, feel his breath on every gust of wind. The house was her final step; finally she had felt safe enough to stop moving. To return to the world as a pony, not a coward. Not a ghost. She'd changed her name, created a new past, moved away. But he'd still followed her. He'd still found her.
He would always find her, as long as Spring's fear brought him with her. He'd find her every night, no matter where. He'd visit her dreams – just dropping in to say hello, hope you didn't forget about me.
I love you.
***
Spring cracked open the attic's hatch once more. It had taken the better part of a day to build up the courage to go up there, and not because she was worried she'd find a massive spider. She was worried she wouldn't.
The webs were still there, though some were broken from her last expedition. Spring was grateful for the dust on the wooden floor. She could clearly see her previous trip laid out before her – the calm walk leading forwards, a mess of prints where she felt the spider on her, and a quick pace back towards the ladder.
Despite the cobwebs, there wasn't a single spider in sight. Spring had to hope her presence scared them off, rather than the alternative of them never being there. The last time it had been virtually swarmed by the creatures, and this was an unpromising start. She pulled herself up through the hatch, gritting her teeth when her flank caught on the rough edge. The graze was shallow, but it still stung as Spring took tentative steps towards where she had thrown the spider.
Nothing. Not a single indication that the thing had ever been there at all. The wall it had collided with was clean, the floor empty.
I was never bitten.
A cold shiver ran through her, starting at her neck and sliding down her body.
All of that – the fever, the dreams – came from nothing.
No, this wasn't right. There had to be something she was missing. Spring dropped low, scouring the boards for any sign, any indication that stopped the growing certainty in her mind.
There. Relief welled as she spotted a small scuff, barely visible, but definitely there amongst the dust. And then, Spring began to laugh. She didn't want to – not now – but she couldn't help it. She recognised that shape. Each time she put a hoof down she made another. What she had taken as proof was in fact just another mark she had left in her frantic attempts to find evidence. Her laughter continued, turning into howls while warm tears streamed down her face.
In that dusty attic, Spring curled into a ball, making herself as small as she could despite the odd giggle still escaping her. The graze on her side burned against the dust, but she didn't feel it. Eventually exhaustion overcame her, and her mind drifted into emptiness.
She woke to a tickling at the ends of her limbs. She must have been laying on them, making them fall asleep. It was funny though, she didn't see how she could have done, lying spread-eagled as she was. Spring yawned, stretching her fore-hooves above her head. Or at least she tried to, but they refused to budge, stuck against the now-freezing floor. Her hind legs met with the same result. Scared now, Spring opened her eyes and came face to face with her nightmares. The ends of her legs were swarmed by thousands of spiders, melting together into an enormous and inseparable mass.
This isn't real, she told herself, as she had done countlessly in the past. The spiders persisted.
This isn't real. A little more urgently. Still they were there, horribly and disgustingly there.
This isn't real. This isn't real. The ends of her hooves were now firmly wrapped in webbing, even thicker than the ones that hung from the attic's rafters.
THIS ISN'T REAL THIS ISN'T REAL WAKE UP YOU BITCH THIS ISN'T REAL
The spiders moved upwards with an awful inevitability, wrapping more of her in each passing second. A constant stream of new arachnids came up from between the boards around her, and now there were seemingly millions of them, surrounding her in a seething crowd.
THIS ISN'T REAL OH FUCK THIS ISN'T REAL
How were their webs so strong? Spring could barely wiggle as the spiders moved higher, wrapping her in more and more layers of silk that held her fast. She tried to push magic into her horn but panic had sunk sharp claws into her and she couldn't focus, each attempt meeting only with emptiness.
Spring could feel their legs against her, no longer merely tickling but becoming a single crawling sensation against her fur. Their cold, black bodies gave off the barest hint of reflected moonlight, just enough so Spring could see the entire swarm around her. She was uncomfortably aware that none of them had bitten her yet, but as soon as that thought
crossed her mind she regretted it. Now she was seized by the sudden fear of every one of the spiders sinking its fangs into her in unison.
The mass covered her ever more; her limbs were now entirely submerged and the spiders showed no sign of stopping or even slowing. Now they were crawling over her stomach, and up her chest towards her head. Spring pulled frantically again at her bindings, but there was nothing she could do against them.
Thump.
The first time Spring didn't fully register the sound. All her senses were fixated on the horrors in front of her, and her mind dismissed it.
Thump.
This time she noticed it. The heavy fall of a hoof against wood.
Thump.
A sound she had heard all too many times before. A sound that often kept her up at night, terrified she would hear it again. And now she was.
Thump.
His hoofsteps, coming from the hallway below the attic.
Spring had managed through supreme effort to keep herself from screaming, from giving the spiders that route, but this was too much. No longer really in control, Spring opened her mouth and took in a deep breath. Before she could release it the spiders suddenly darted for her head, diving in between her teeth.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck
Her scream became a strangled gagging as the spiders filled her mouth. She could feel them writhing between her teeth, sliding over her tongue. Her first instinct was to bite down, but she maintained just enough self-control to stop that. Biting down would only make everything even worse.
Spring tried to spit them out, but the ones deeper down were less easy to dislodge, and the ones that were removed were quickly replaced by more.
Thump.
That one was close, far closer than it had any right to be – directly beneath the ladder. Spring had slammed her eyes shut lest any of the spiders get too close (in fact she could feel some prying at her eyelids) but she could hear perfectly fine. The spiders hadn't reached her ears yet.
And with her perfectly fine hearing she heard his hooves start up the ladder. I don't know how he found me, she thought, but I can't stop him this time. He's not going to let me leave again. Oh god he's going to be so ANGRY. Spring's insides coiled up, instinct commanding every part of her to flinch away from the stallion coming up to her, but with that came a flaring anger.
It was one she had only felt a single time before now, on the day she had fled, when she had arrived at a hospital limping and unable to put weight on her dislocated limb. Until then she was driven by nothing but fear, and it wasn't until the nurse asked her that question that it began to be replaced by anger.
"Who in Equestria did this to you?"
It wasn't what she said so much as how she said it. There was no room in that question for justifying, no room for excuses. And Spring had finally felt hatred. First she had loved him, then she had been scared of him, but it was only in that hospital bed that she began to loathe him.
It surfaced now, that boiling, spitting fury. Her horn blazed with new-found energy as the webbing on her legs burst into flame. Her fur was scorched in the heat, but Spring barely felt it. Flaming spiders began to flail in the now well-lit attic, skittering about and only serving to burn even more of their kin. Free, Spring was finally able to spit out the spiders infesting her mouth, stepping on as many of the evicted arachnids as she could with vindictive stomps.
Except while she had been occupied with escape, she hadn't noticed the sounds behind her had stopped. Spring turned to find him standing by the hatch.
At first she thought he was shrouded in the shadows, but when he stepped into the light the truth became apparent. Every square inch of flesh from his hooves to his face was coated in spiders. They crawled over him even as he walked, forming an incessantly moving sea over his skin. His mouth cracked into a smile as she stared, and Spring could see the spiders that nestled between his yellowed teeth and down into his throat.
He did not speak – Spring doubted he'd be able to. He merely held out a hoof. There was nothing threatening in his posture, he was putting forward an offer.
Come back to me. Come back to us.
And now Spring did scream, an ear-splitting yell that she accompanied with a blast of magic fire that seared against him. His scream joined hers, as dry and hollow as the red heat which surrounded him. He hissed in agony, and somehow managed to forge ahead, striding towards her. As the flames spread through the attic, Spring found herself cut off from the hatch,
and he was still coming, hoof still outstretched though his smile had twisted into a snarl.
But she wasn't finished yet. She hadn’t come this far to let him have her. There was still the window, the skylight, just wide enough for her to fit through. Or at least she hoped it was.
Spring sent one final shock-wave from her horn at the fragile glass, shattering it and forcing her to cover her eyes from the pointed shards that rained down against her. Fighting off the exhaustion from her prolonged magic use, Spring leapt up, hooking her hooves over the window frame and beginning to pull herself through.
Searing pain shot through her hoof; he had grabbed her, pulling her down into the inferno that had consumed her home. His touch burned, as he did, and the blistering heat almost made Spring lose her grip. She kicked back viciously, colliding with the hoof that gripped her with a solid smack. It detached at the shoulder, falling away from the stallion it should have been fixed to, and Spring could see there was nothing underneath his living coat. He was nothing but spiders, enough to form a solid shape and give it life.
But now they were done. The flames finally took their toll and his form disintegrated, falling into large chunks that dropped into the red-hot floor, vanishing silently into its depths.
With a shout of effort, Spring pulled herself through the window and dropped over the edge, rolling down the roof before falling into the night air. Her descent was brief but abruptly ended, landing heavily on her side. An old, familiar pain resurfaced; she had fallen on to the shoulder she had dislocated all those months ago, and oh fuck did that hurt. But it was
a clean pain. An honest pain.
Spring climbed to her feet as yellow tongues licked around the building she had dared to call her own. Sounds of falling rafters and collapsing walls filled her ears and soon the heat drove her back, back to where it was cooler.
Her shoulder was black with a horrific bruise, the fur on each of her fetlocks was burned away, her skin was blistered where he had grabbed her and most of her mane was scorched. And yet Spring felt incredibly, wonderfully alive. Free.
As she watched her old life burn before her eyes, she caught movement close to her. A large spider, limping away from the ruins. With a smile, Spring slammed down her good hoof.
Crunch.
It twitched slightly before it died. Sitting in the warm darkness, surrounded by destruction, Spring once more began to laugh.