Monolith

It just appeared in the middle of town one day.

Applejack saw it on her way home, but she was in a hurry. She caught a brief glimpse of it. The perfectly smooth sides, charcoal gray and precise. But that was all she saw. That single look out of the corner of her eye as she galloped past. In her mind it was just another thing in a town filled with things.

By evening, half the town was gathered around it. They'd all seen it by now, had passed it on their way home like Applejack or had caught a glimpse through an open window. They circled it, speaking in hushed tones as if afraid they might awaken it. A brand new oddity for an already rather odd town.

“Monolith,” somepony—likely Twilight—said.

Very few of them knew what the word meant, only the feeling it gave them as it rippled through the crowd. A strange and very slight sense of vertigo. They all felt it, although nopony said a word as they let it pass over them. As quickly as it had come, it lifted like a cloud. They forgot in unison. Forgot who had said “monolith”, forgot they didn't know what it meant. They just stared at the structure before them, wondering where it had come from.

Twilight stepped forward. As a princess, she thought it was about time she took control. She opened her mouth to make a speech, something light but cautionary.

The words flopped out of her, loose and clumsy. They spilled from her like water from a burst pipe, insincere and nonsensical. She could feel the monolith pulsing behind her, throbbing and humming as the useless syllables crawled from her mouth. Twilight's gaze was drawn to it, even as she struggled to keep the crowd's attention. It was just so beautiful. Beautiful and unknowable, like the space beyond the void. In its darkness, she could see an entire universe. Looking deeper, Twilight could see a deep void from which creatures malevolent and impossible poured in a steady stream. The colors writhed and pulsed, much like the words she was failing to speak.

She reached to touch it. She was still speaking, but the static in her head had drowned out her words. Were they words? Twilight was barely conscious of her mouth moving, let alone what was coming out of it. She could only feel the monolith, could only hear its steady hum.

Lyra Heartstrings got there first. She reached to touch it, to feel its calming hum on her hoof.

Lyra vanished right before their eyes. One moment she was reaching to touch the monolith, the next she had disappeared. There was no fanfare, no muffled pop, no whoosh or scream or sharp intake of air. There was just the space where she had been, that final image of her burned into their eyes.

They all saw it. The expression of fear on Lyra's face as she reached out to the monolith, her eyes filled with tears. The way her hoof shook, the sheer terror that darted across her face a split second before she vanished. They saw it, but many of them did not comprehend what they had seen. They all stood there for a good minute, in awe of what was before them. As swiftly as it was seen, it was forgotten.

But then the crowd broke apart. They all felt it simultaneously, like the aftereffects of a tremor. A burst of static inside their heads, high-pitched and grating against the insides of their skulls. This wasn't fear. It was something harsh and primal, a long-buried instinct awakened by the droning hum.

Days passed. Ponies began to disappear.

Everypony knew it was the monolith. The hum—slow and steady—rippled through their bones. They always knew when somepony had been taken. The hum told them. Doors were locked, windows were bolted, entrances and exits barricaded from the inside. Communication with the outside world ceased entirely, as ponies feared attracting distant relatives or loved ones to the town. The streets emptied out.

The hum followed Applejack into her dreams. The inside of her head vibrated, her skull aching with a headache that never seemed to go away. Perhaps being somewhat far from town helped in a way, but the agonizing throbbing in her skull was the price she paid. She didn't know what had happened to her friends. Applejack tried not to think of it, tried to make herself calm even as the hum shook the inside of her head.

One night, she found Apple Bloom in the kitchen. The little filly had wandered out of bed at some point, despite Applejack having seen her fast asleep less than five minutes ago. Apple Bloom had descended the stairs on silent hooves, or perhaps the hum had drowned out her hoofsteps. Either way, Applejack found her little sister fiddling with the latch on the kitchen door.

Applejack sprang forward, a cry of alarm spilling from her mouth. She tackled Apple Bloom to the ground, wrapping herself tightly around the little filly's body. She'd hoped the shock would render Apple Bloom motionless for at least a few seconds, but Apple Bloom immediately began thrashing around. But the more she tried to escape Applejack's grip, the tighter her sister held on.

“No!” Apple Bloom screamed. “It wants me! I have to go to it! It wants me.”

Applejack was taken aback by Apple Bloom's strength. She was actually struggling to hold the much smaller pony in place. But she refused to relent, pressing Apple Bloom down with all her strength even as Apple Bloom tried to wiggle her hooves from Applejack's grip.

Even as Apple Bloom shrieked and pleaded, Applejack held on. She held on because she could see the terror in her sister's eyes, the tears streaming down her face, her desperation even as she struggled so vehemently against Applejack's grip. She knew what would happen if she touched the monolith. They all did. But it was so beautiful, so alluring, so unknowable and fascinating. It held their dreams hostage. Truly it was the most beautiful structure in all of Equestria, a sight worthy of the princesses' blessing.

Applejack's grip slackened for just a split second, her mind filled with the monolith. It was there for her. The monolith had come for her and her alone. She needed to go to it. It was calling to her, beckoning her, wanting her across the whole of life and death.

In that split second, Apple Bloom broke out of Applejack's grasp. She slammed her back hooves against the door, the wood splintering and breaking from the impact. Another blow caused the door to fly open, the flimsy locks and chains clattering to the floor. Then the unusually strong filly was gone, bolting through the empty doorway. She needed to get to the monolith. It had come there for her and she needed to go to it.

Her head clear for the first time in weeks, Applejack immediately threw herself through the open doorway. She raced towards Apple Bloom's retreating figure, shouting out her sister's name as she galloped. But Apple Bloom had a head start and knew exactly where she was going. In mere moments, Apple Bloom had reached the edge of the farm and completely disappeared from view.

By the time Applejack got to the monolith, it was too late. Apple Bloom was gone.

Applejack stood before the monolith, stood at the exact spot where her little sister had vanished. Her eyes were filled with tears. She stood there, helpless and angry as she stared at the uncaring structure before her. She didn't want to believe it. She didn't want to believe her sister had just been taken. Apple Bloom had been taken just like Granny Smith and Big Macintosh a few days ago. They thought they were safe out there on the farm. Perhaps they had been, but the hum had gotten them in the end.

She raised a hoof. Applejack was the only one left. The last Apple in Ponyville. She couldn't imagine what had happened to her friends. Perhaps she was the only one left in town, the final one to be summoned by the monolith.

But even as the anger welled up inside her, Applejack found herself admiring the monolith. So radiant, so wondrous and filled with secrets. It spoke to her through the hum, its voice almost indistinguishable from the droning. But somehow Applejack knew what it was saying. Its words filled her with primal fear, yet she stepped closer to the monolith. She reached out to touch it, almost choking on her sobs.

Nopony was there to see Applejack disappear. Nopony was there to see one of the strongest ponies in Ponyville break down, whispering her sister's name one last time before she was taken.

Two days later, the monolith disappeared.

Feathers

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Dr. Stable looked up at the sky.

It had been a sunny day just a few minutes ago, but the weather had taken a drastic turn during his walk to work. It was now storming heavily, torrents of rain lashing the hospital windows. He was glad to be inside, the walls and windows between him and the aggressive downpour. The remaining weather ponies seemed to be working overtime to make the weather as gloomy as possible.

Nurse Redheart sidled up beside him. She was rather inexperienced compared to most of the other nurses and doctors, but she too had noticed the shift in the air. It wasn't just the weather. A strange heaviness had descended over the hospital. Given recent events, Redheart wasn't surprised.

“Really coming down out there, isn't it?” she said.

Dr. Stable nodded. He smiled, but it was obviously forced. He hadn't smiled—truly smiled—in several days. He seemed to have lost the ability to accurately express anything other than trepidation.

Redheart backed away, giving the doctor some much-needed space. He'd been a wreck all week and this weather wasn't making it any better. Redheart wished she could say something to make him feel better, but nothing came to mind. She turned and left him, deciding to focus on her duties and stop worrying about Dr. Stable. Dr. Stable was hardly unique in his reaction. They were all on edge that week.

She trotted down the hall and rounded the corner. Redheart paused in front of a closed door. She put on her best smile, the most sincere she could manage at the moment. How did the other nurses do it? For that matter, how did Dr. Stable do it? Was Redheart simply too inexperienced for this sort of thing?

She opened the door and went inside. Inexperienced or not, she had a job to do.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

Rainbow Dash raised her head. She'd been staring at her lap, her face completely empty of emotion. The pile of books Redheart had brought her was still on the bedside table, ignored and undisturbed. The tray of food was also untouched, despite Redheart having brought it an hour ago.

“How are you feeling?” said Redheart.

Rainbow Dash didn't respond. She seemed to have a habit of doing that. Dr. Stable claimed Rainbow was still in shock, but Redheart suspected this was a deliberate choice. Rainbow didn't seem to want to talk about herself, especially in regards to how she'd ended up there. Redheart wasn't surprised. The story wasn't pleasant.

Redheart slowly approached the bed.

“You should eat,” she said. “You need your strength.”

Rainbow Dash shot a disinterested glance at the tray, then turned towards the window. She'd had very little appetite over the past few days. At first it had seemed like childish defiance on her part, but now Redheart recognized it as a consequence. It wasn't that Rainbow was starving herself out of protest. She just couldn't bring herself to eat.

With a sigh of defeat, Redheart took the tray away. Maybe tomorrow.

It had been an entire week since the incident. Redheart supposed she should have gotten over it by then, but the images were trapped in her head. She relived the confusion and fear every time she caught a glimpse of Rainbow Dash's solemn face. Then her gaze would inevitably shift, even as she tried not to look. Redheart's eyes would always be drawn to where Rainbow Dash's wings had once been. No matter how many times she saw it, her heart ached in sympathy at the sight of the bandages.

A week ago, about fourteen pegasi were admitted to Ponyville's only hospital. They were all bleeding profusely, some clutching bloody implements in their mouths as they filed into the hospital. There was a strange calmness to this grim and bloody procession. Redheart recalled the trail of blood—long since mopped up by a traumatized janitor—leading from the double doors to the front desk. There'd been no screaming, no sobbing, no panic. Just a line of pegasi, patiently waiting to be noticed by the baffled nurse at the desk.

Redheart checked Rainbow's vitals. She hummed a cheerful tune as she worked, hoping to improve the overall mood in the room. But of course her forced cheerfulness did nothing. Rainbow merely stared at her, refusing to show the slightest hint of emotion as Redheart took her temperature.

“All done!” Redheart announced.

The false bliss in her voice was starting to grate on her, but Redheart kept it up. This had been a key aspect of her training. Keeping patients at ease was her number one priority.

Redheart managed to hide her relief as she exited the room.

“I'll be back in a few hours,” she said. “Please try to get some rest.”

Out in the hallway, Redheart allowed herself a sigh of relief as the door shut behind her. Although she was a nurse, she simply couldn't handle knowing the truth. It made no sense to her. Redheart didn't understand why fourteen pegasi would suddenly decide to grab whatever sharp objects they could find and cut their own wings off. Redheart imagined the agonizing process, what it must have felt like to saw through bone, to feel the feathers and flesh separating. Every second of it must have been agony, a blinding pain the likes of which would have sent an ordinary pony into shock. Yet they'd all done it, some using knives and others utilizing pieces of broken glass. One pegasus in particular had used a pair of rusty scissors to do the job.

Redheart started down the hallway. The best she could do was try not to think about it, but even that didn't seem to be enough. Every time she blinked, she saw that procession of bleeding pegasi filing into the hospital. She saw their calm faces, the bloody implements in their mouths, the complete absence of concern. She could handle blood, but that had been something she had no capacity to understand.

Rainbow Dash watched the door close.

What was that phrase Twilight had used? “Mass hysteria” or something like that? “Mass hallucination”? Some fancy egghead word meant to explain away what had happened. It was demeaning in a way, as if Twilight was trivializing what Rainbow had experienced. But she couldn't blame Twilight for relying on science. Some answers lived so far beyond the veil that even Twilight Sparkle couldn't find them.

But Twilight hadn't been there. She'd been spared, perhaps due to her wings having been given through magical means. Despite her ignorance and search for an explanation that didn't exist, Twilight was certainly blessed in some ways. She hadn't lived with those things for her entire life. She didn't have to experience the steady destruction of ignorance that had landed Rainbow Dash in that hospital.

Around two weeks ago, Rainbow's wings had started talking to her.

At first, she was able to ignore it. Even as those thick raspy voices cut through her thoughts, she went about her daily life as if nothing was wrong. Of course there was nothing wrong. Rainbow was simply overworked. She was experiencing what some pegasi called “flight burnout”: she'd been using her wings more than usual. Even athletic pegasi like Rainbow Dash weren't immune to it, or so she told herself.

But although the physical aspects could be explained away—her aching wings, the feeling of tension throughout her body—Rainbow found the voices harder to dismiss. They started out completely incoherent, like a dull muttering at the back of her head. But as time went on, Rainbow was able to better make out what they were saying.

However, the words made no sense to her. They were nonsensical patterns, the same mismatched phrases repeated over and over again. They were words, but without a cohesive meaning. It was as if these voices were simply shuffling around words they'd heard before, trying and failing to create some kind of narrative. Trying to figure it out made Rainbow's head hurt.

The tension steadily lifted from her body, but the ache in her wings never went away. She massaged them daily, carefully rubbing all kinds of scented creams into her feathers. But although they smelled nice afterwards, the ache would return within moments. Rainbow's solution was to increase the volume and frequency of these massages, dousing her wings in various scented creams until the smell almost made her pass out. She nearly rubbed her hooves raw every morning, just trying to make the ache go away. But even though it sometimes relented for minutes at a time, it was never gone long enough for Rainbow to feel comfortable.

She no longer felt like flying. The ache in her wings was the primary cause, but Rainbow also felt weighed down by the voices in her head. Every time she thought of taking flight, there would be a burst of static in her head, followed by a barrage of that familiar incomprehensible nonsense. She started to fear that it would never go away, that she'd never be able to tell her friends what was happening to her. They'd think she'd lost her mind. Although Rainbow tried to assure herself otherwise, a part of her believed that was exactly what had happened.

Eight days after she first started hearing the voices, Rainbow began to understand what they were saying. She'd been puzzling over them, kept up at night by their incessant chatter in her head. It was like trying to figure out some cryptic puzzle without Twilight's help. It was something inside Rainbow, some deep and almost primal realization that caused this unexpected shift.

The voices were telling her what they were. It was disconnected and nonsensical, the words making absolutely no sense to an outsider. But Rainbow was somehow able to translate them, to turn those random words and phrases into a story. She wasn't sure how or why she was able to do this, although she suspected the will to do so had been inside her all along. But she'd been too scared to tap into that part of her, too horrified of what she'd find if she opened that part of herself.

It almost broke her. It did break her, at least for a few days. It broke her again and again, the realization an unrelenting wave that crashed over her mind. The voices stopped, but Rainbow could never forget what they told her. The truth crawled into every nook and cranny of her brain. She could feel those things writhing and pulsating at her sides, aching and quivering. Rainbow couldn't touch them anymore, could hardly stand to look at them. She made excuses to stay indoors, told elaborate lies to convince her friends to leave her alone. Above all else, she couldn't let them know the truth.

How many real pegasi existed in Equestria? Fifty? Twenty? How many had yet to awaken those things? How long until the second wave hit?

Rainbow wrapped her wings in bandages, even though she knew it wouldn't do any good. She could still feel them, could still sense those things, even with them wrapped and pinned to her sides. It was like tying up a once faithful companion, except Rainbow's wings had always been more than a mere companion. They'd been her lifeline, her partner in crime throughout all of her adventures. But it had all been a lie. Rainbow Dash had never been a pegasus. There were very few real pegasi in Equestria. It had been this way for nearly one hundred years.

It was around one hundred years ago that the pegasus population had exploded. The amount of pegasus births in Equestria had rapidly increased over the course of a few years. This event was especially interesting due to the amount of pegasi being born to non-pegasus parents. Most Earth ponies or unicorns blamed this phenomena on strange genetics, perhaps an unknown relative somewhere far up the family tree. The more the pegasi race flourished through this odd population boom, the less ponykind as a whole questioned it.

But Rainbow knew the truth, the ugly and horrifying truth that had somehow escaped countless historians and scientists. How could they have known? Up until this point, those things had laid dormant, allowing their hosts to grow old and die in a completely normal fashion. They'd been passive for the last century, feeding without leaving a trace of their presence. But they'd grown stronger with every generation, much like the pegasi who unknowingly hosted them.

It was with this thought in her head that Rainbow had—in a rare moment of utter calm and rational thought—grabbed a pair of gardening shears. She'd had no use for them up to this point, despite having borrowed them from Applejack a month ago. When her plans to have her own garden had inevitably fallen through, Rainbow had tossed them onto her junk pile. At least she was finally going to get some use out of them.

It didn't hurt. It should have, but Rainbow found herself comfortably numb. The task was surprisingly easy on her both mentally and physically, her face remaining indifferent as she opened the shears wide and pressed the blades against the joints connecting those things to her body. She didn't scream when she felt the sharp metal blades dig into her fur and flesh. Rainbow didn't flinch as she was forced to do it again and again, each time driving the blades in a little deeper. She barely twitched as the blood began to drip, large droplets falling to the floor. Given the angle she was forced to use, it took a good twenty or so minutes of hacking to actually cut through.

When she was finished, Rainbow Dash tossed the gardening shears aside. She'd lost a significant amount of blood, but somehow she was fine. She was fine enough to walk, so that was exactly what she did. She walked all the way to Ponyville's only hospital, following the long procession of pegasi bleeding in much the same way she was.

Rainbow turned away from the window. She still didn't know how she'd survived, how the blood loss hadn't claimed her before she even arrived at the hospital. It should have claimed all of them, but miraculously they were all fine. Rainbow should have been thankful. She should have been grateful for the quick work of the doctors and nurses at the hospital, for everything and everypony that had kept her alive.

But somehow, Rainbow was far from grateful. She could still feel the empty spaces where her wings had once been. A part of her ached for the sky, as she'd once done as a young filly taking her first flying lesson. But unlike that young idealistic filly, Rainbow knew she'd never fly again. The sky was forever closed to her, her earthbound life inevitable. She'd never been a pegasus in the first place, but she certainly felt like one.

She turned to look at the closed door. She heard a commotion outside. Shouting in the hallway, hooves pounding against the floor, a few muffled screams. It sounded as if all the nurses and doctors were rushing to the front desk. It seemed another group of patients had arrived.

Rainbow's gaze shifted to the window. The storm was starting to pick up, the wind howling and the rain battering the windows. She should have been relieved to be indoors, but she actually wanted to be outside. She wanted to be out there, being lashed by the torrents of rain. She wanted to hear the agonized screams that seemed to have twisted themselves into the wind.

More sounds from down the hall. Nurses and doctors were screaming. Somepony—it sounded like Nurse Redheart—was suggesting they call Princess Twilight, but her voice was nearly drowned out by the wails. There was the sound of furniture being knocked over, galloping hooves through the hallways as ponies rushed back and forth. Screaming about restraints and calling the much bigger hospital in Canterlot for help. Glass breaking and guttural moans of pain.

The storm continued outside, battering the windows and walls with its increasing ferocity. The second wave had come. Equestria was about to be very afraid.

Pests

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The castle had a bug problem, but only Spike seemed to notice.

He was up every day at dawn, adorned in full bug-fighting gear: apron, gloves, boots, a mask over his mouth. Various cleaning supplies clipped to his belt, including industrial-strength soap he'd ordered from Canterlot and about ten sanitary sponges wrapped in plastic and ready for use. Two full cans of bug spray in each hand. Spike was ready for battle.

First he'd attack with the bug spray, stunning the little pest with some quick bursts from the can. A few more carefully timed bursts and the bug would roll over, its tiny little legs curling towards its belly. A painless and humane death, as the supplier of the spray promised. Then Spike would toss the deceased little critter into a plastic bag he had on hand. The bag itself would be disposed of later, but first Spike had to sanitize the area. That was where his array of cleaning supplies came in. He'd rip open one of his sponge packets, pour a small amount of the specially formulated soap on the spot, and scrub until the floor shone.

Starlight was the first to notice Spike's weird routine. With the other ponies gone so often, of course she was the one to notice Spike's bug-hunting adventures. Even though she didn't want to get involved with stuff that didn't concern her, Starlight felt inclined to approach Spike and ask questions.

“Um, are you alright?” she said.

Spike was busy scrubbing at a corner, the aroma of soap heavy in the air. There were three plastic bags littered around him, each filled to the brim. Spike barely took his eyes off his work as he answered.

“Bugs,” he mumbled.

Starlight frowned. She didn't remember the castle having a bug problem. It was pretty clean most of the time, mostly disagreeable to insects from what she'd seen. However, those plastic bags didn't lie. Starlight could seem them crammed with insects she'd never seen before. Huge beetle-like creatures with unusually long antennae and silvery-dark bodies. Spike had dispatched quite a few of them before Starlight even woke up.

She picked up one of the plastic bags and examined its contents. Her frown deepened. She'd never seen bugs like this before. For one thing, they were massive. Much bigger than any of the beetles she'd seen near the Everfree Forest or around Ponyville. The plastic bag only fit about five of them in all. Given the nearly-full wastebasket at Spike's side, Starlight couldn't imagine how many of them he'd already dispatched.

“What are these?” she said.

Spike shrugged. Truth be told, he didn't care what they were or how they'd gotten in there. He just wanted them gone. He normally didn't have a problem with bugs, but these particular ones made him anxious. They seemed to be crawling all over the castle every morning, indicating some kind of infestation.

Starlight returned to her bedroom, taking the bag with her. Spike didn't seem to notice.

On the fourth day following what Spike suspected was an infestation, he started noticing the holes. They were small at first, scarcely bigger than a claw. He saw them in various spots all over the castle, sometimes at eye level and other times a few feet above his head. When Spike poked a claw through, he saw that the hole went all the way through the wall or floor. They were all perfectly round and some of them were evenly spaced, as if whatever had made them had been trying to create a pattern of some kind.

Spike instantly knew it was the bugs. What else could have made those holes? It seemed these bothersome little critters ate crystal. That explained why there were so many. Another unexpected downside of living in a crystal castle. Spike was practically livid.

Around the same time he started noticing the holes, he started to see even more bugs. He used to see one at a time, but suddenly they were appearing in clusters. He had to change up his tactic a little, often using both spray bottles at once. Spike was running out of ammo fast. The more bugs appeared at once, the faster his supply went. His output of bug spray increased from a bottle every two days to two bottles every day. Spike could have started buying the cheaper stuff from a store in town, but the local kind seemed less effective.

In desperation, he appealed to Applejack. At her suggestion, Spike mixed together some of the Apple family's special weedkiller and some cans of that less effective bug spray. The smell was horrendous and caused Spike's eyes to water, but he loaded it into the empty spray cans anyway. He could tell it was going to work before he even tried it. This was powerful stuff. No bug in Equestria could have withstood it.

However, the infestation only got worse as the days went on. Spike's special bug-slaying blend was effective in every instance, but the bugs just kept coming. He tried to plug up the holes they'd made, but to no avail. No matter how obsessively he bug-proofed the castle, they always found a way in. In fact, his efforts seemed to be attracting them. The amount of holes steadily increased while the bug problem rapidly spread.

Starlight would often see Spike wandering around in the dead of night, spray bottle in each claw. He'd just wander around, muttering to himself as he checked and re-checked every place in the castle he'd sealed up. Occasionally he'd see a bug—or at least thought he saw one—and pounce with the bottle. Starlight wondered if Spike was getting his recommended hours of sleep.

Was it just Spike or were the bugs getting bigger? Suddenly he could only fit two or three of them in one bag. He had to buy the bags in bulk just to make sure he had enough every day. He was having to empty the wastebasket a lot more frequently. Spike was losing count of how many bugs he'd disposed of since the infestation started.

Twilight didn't seem to notice anything. She did admit she'd seen a few strange bugs, but the sightings were so infrequent that she thought nothing of it. Other than Starlight, Spike appeared to be the only one who realized the actual scale of this infestation.

After two weeks, Starlight was sure Spike wasn't sleeping. At the very least, he was only getting about two or three hours a night. He was neglecting his cleaning duties in favor of chasing after those bugs. Starlight saw him at all hours of the night, chasing after what she presumed to be those strange beetles.

The beetles were definitely getting bigger. By the end of the second week, Spike could only fit one of them in each plastic bag. The beetles were also becoming more invasive, or maybe that was Spike's imagination. He'd awaken in the middle of the night, convinced he'd felt one crawling across his chest. He was starting to have vivid dreams in which he'd wake up choking on them. He'd lunge across his bed and open his mouth, vomiting strange brightly colored liquid and beetle parts onto the floor of his bedroom. Then Spike would actually wake up and realize he'd been dreaming. But he always had a weird taste in his mouth.

Every time he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, he assumed it was a bug. But more often than not, nothing was there. However, the overall amount of bugs hadn't decreased. He was just seeing larger groups of them at once, demanding even more of his precious bug-destroying formula.

Twilight told him to start getting more sleep, but she was too busy to actually make sure he did. Her and the others were constantly leaving on friendship missions, leaving Spike to his own devices.

Spike started dousing parts of his bedroom in the Apple family's special weed killer. His entire bedroom reeked, but he was certain the smell was keeping the bugs away. He was seeing less and less of them in his bedroom, but more and more of them everywhere else. At least the nightmares stopped. But Spike started to get headaches, most likely from the smell.

After two weeks of this, Starlight knocked on the door of Spike's bedroom. There was an old book floating above her head, alongside a bag containing the deceased bugs she'd taken from Spike several days ago.

Starlight hadn't seen Spike since yesterday. She'd been a little worried at first, but a quick look around had reassured her. She'd noticed that there didn't seem to be any bugs in the castle. She'd gotten so used to seeing them and the holes they made that she was a little taken aback. Whatever Spike had been doing, it seemed to have worked. The castle was completely bug-free.

Finding it unlocked, Starlight pushed the door open and headed inside. She had a cheerful smile on her face.

“Hey Spike,” she said. “You know those bugs you've been seeing? Well, I think they might be....”

She froze, her eyes falling on something that lay in the middle of the room. The smile fell from her face at the sight, her stomach giving an involuntary lurch. It took all of her willpower not to empty her stomach all over the floor.

The smell hit Starlight first. A sickly-sweet aroma choking out the otherwise overbearing scent of weed killer. Spike hadn't been messing around. He'd essentially saturated his room in the stuff, treating the walls and furniture to a generous coating of it. The bed remained untouched, although Starlight was sure Spike had sprinkled some of it between his sheets.

But the bugs were everywhere. The walls and floor had turned into a writhing mess, massive beetles covering almost every surface. Only a few spaces on the floor—one of which Starlight was fortunate enough to be standing on—were untouched. Starlight could hardly distinguish furniture from carpet. Her eyes started to hurt just from looking at the continuously shifting mass Spike's bedroom had become. However, although that in itself was unsettling, that wasn't what made Starlight want to vomit. It was what lay in the center of the room that was making her stomach churn with disgust and horror.

Starlight only caught a glimpse before she turned and bolted, slamming the door behind her. The image was already seared into her brain. The image of Spike lying there, of the holes, of the pink hive-like structures protruding from his open belly, of the steady stream of beetles pouring from his gaping eye sockets, of a mouth torn open into a ghoulish false grin.

A nest. The beetles had turned Spike into a nest.

The Painting

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“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.

The Statue

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Scootaloo whirled around, training her flashlight at where she'd just come from.

Nopony there. Again.

She let out a long sigh. She was trying not to be jumpy, but that was easier said than done. For the first time, Scootaloo was glad she was alone. There was nopony there to see her freak out at every sound, nopony to laugh and roll their eyes every time she almost dropped her flashlight in alarm.

She kept going, aiming her flashlight at the path in front of her. The cemetery was a lot different under Luna's light. In the semi-darkness, every grave and statue looked like a malevolent shape looming in the corner of Scootaloo's vision. Fortunately, she's gotten used to this. Unfortunately, she still almost screamed at every sound. Scootaloo knew it was probably nothing—or at least it had been so far—but she always checked.

Scootaloo shook her head to clear it, remembering her mission. What was it Featherweight and the others had said? Something about the top of the hill? Oh, right. She was supposed to go to the top of the hill and place something at the base of the statue. Something small but important to her, an object she otherwise would have been reluctant to part with. They needed to know she'd actually been there and she'd taken the game seriously. According to Featherweight, all the other high schoolers had already done it.

Scootaloo looked around again, swinging her flashlight from side to side. She hadn't heard anything that time, but she was getting nervous again. She was certain she'd seen the groundskeeper skulking around earlier, hidden just barely out of sight by one of those statues. The fact he'd disappeared was worrying Scootaloo. Where had that shovel-wielding old stallion gone? Was he about to pop up and yell at her for being in the cemetery at night?

Nopony ever went to the top of the hill. It was the older part of the graveyard, about as old as Granny Smith. According to Featherweight, most of the graves were unmarked. The only thing of interest at the top of the hill was the statue. Nopony was sure which grave the statue was supposed to mark, only that it had been there since the early days of the cemetery. Scootaloo had never been up the hill before.

She looked around once more before starting up the hill. If that groundskeeper was waiting for her up there, she wasn't sure what to do. Flee? Drop the item she'd brought with her and leave? Scootaloo doubted her friends would believe her story of being scared off by a groundskeeper. They'd assume she chickened out. Scootaloo wasn't letting a reputation like that follow her until graduation.

“Deep breaths,” she mumbled around the flashlight. “Deep breaths, Scootaloo.”

She tried to breathe deeply as she walked, aware of the soft grass under her hooves. Scootaloo didn't allow herself to stop. She knew that if she paused, she'd likely stay frozen until Celestia raised the sun. Against her better judgment, she couldn't do that. If nothing else, she needed to at least see the statue.

A few minutes later, Scootaloo reached the top of the hill. She would have reached it sooner, but she'd been walking at a decreased pace the entire night. She told herself it was to avoid attracting the groundskeeper's attention, but actually she was just scared of making noise. Every time her hoof came down on a twig or puddle, Scootaloo would stifle a cry of alarm. Even the sound of her own hooves was far too loud in the silence.

She saw the unmarked graves first. There were about five or seven of them, spread out in a rather haphazard pattern. As she'd expected, none of them had names or dates. However, a few of them had pictures. The pictures told her nothing about the ponies buried there, but Scootaloo was comforted by them. At least somepony had cared enough to differentiate the slabs of stone, even though the names of the ponies were apparently of little importance. Scootaloo wondered if Granny Smith knew any of the ponies buried there, given she'd been alive back when Ponyville was founded. Maybe these were all Apple graves.

Shoving the morbid thought out of her head, Scootaloo tore her eyes away from the graves. Her gaze fell on something a few feet away, something she'd failed to notice before. It was what she'd come there for.

There was the statue. It was larger than Scootaloo expected, about two times bigger than a full-grown mare. The statue seemed to be of an Earth pony, her eyes shut and her mouth slightly open as if she were singing. She was wearing a crown of flowers and a long robe. Her body was covered in thick vines, although her face remained curiously untouched by nature. At a glance, the statue seemed to be made of marble.

Scootaloo approached it, sticking a hoof in her saddlebag and withdrawing her offering. A friendship bracelet Sweetie Belle had made for her as a birthday present. Scootaloo hated to part with it, but it was the most valuable thing she had on hoof when she agreed to play the game. As much as she treasured that bracelet, Sweetie Belle could always make her another one.

Scootaloo approached the statue. She was surprised to find the space before its hooves completely bare. Where were the other offerings? Had the groundskeeper taken them away? Scootaloo hoped not. She was going to be in big trouble if the groundskeeper was around.

She placed the flashlight on the ground. She didn't like not being able to see the statue's face, but she didn't have much of a choice. Scootaloo stuck the friendship bracelet in her mouth and moved a little closer to the statue. She wasn't sure whether she was supposed to place the bracelet at the statue's hooves or not. That was where the offerings were meant to go, but Scootaloo was staring to think creatively. Surely putting the bracelet on the statue would be several times braver, a testament to how much of a badflank she was. The schoolponies would talk about her for months.

Sighing, she dropped the bracelet at the statue's hooves. As much as she wanted to free herself from her reputation as a coward, Scootaloo wasn't going to risk damaging the statue. Breaking something that had been there for nearly a century before she was born wouldn't prove anything.

Finished at last, Scootaloo picked up her flashlight. Finally. Time to get the Tartarus out of there. Then she could brag to everypony about how brave she was. Sweetie Belle in particular would be impressed that Scootaloo actually went through with it. Scootaloo's heart pounded at the thought.

Scootaloo raised the flashlight. Had she heard something? A shuffle of hoofsteps just a few feet away? Was it the groundskeeper, skulking around like a creep? Finally ready to leave, Scootaloo didn't care too much about being seen. But she didn't want to be caught if she could help it.

She stopped, her beam aimed at a spot a foot or so behind the statue. There was an image in her brain, a still shot taken in that split second the beam had rested on the statue's face. Scootaloo let her mind roam over what she'd seen, processing the incredibly detailed picture she'd somehow saved in that split second before nonchalantly shifting the light away. It took a minute for Scootaloo to actually understand what she'd seen. With the sharp details still fresh in her head, she moved the beam back to focus on the statue's face.

She'd hastily registered it as a trick of the light, but Scootaloo couldn't deny what she was seeing. The statue's face had changed. Its eyes were no longer closed and its mouth was shut. It was staring at her, its once pleasant features contorted into something otherworldly and hideous. The sight of it made Scootaloo's stomach churn. Every single line of that twisted face was meticulously detailed, the features themselves suddenly harsh and sunken. It was like looking into the face of a decaying corpse that was beginning to melt along with its usual decomposition.

Scootaloo nearly dropped her flashlight. What in Tartarus? She started backing away, keeping her flashlight trained on the hideous thing in front of her. Even the vines had disappeared, leaving the statue completely bare. Scootaloo could see that its robe appeared to be tattered and there were no longer flowers lining its crown. The difference in the image from her memory and what stood before her was staggering.

She turned away and started towards the edge of the hill. Scootaloo had done her part. She'd gone to the top of the hill and left the friendship bracelet. Screw everything else.

Scootaloo paused when she heard that shuffle of hoofsteps again. The groundskeeper? She felt compelled to turn again, letting the beam of her flashlight again fall across the statue. Scootaloo's blood froze at the sight.

Even though she knew this wasn't the case, she'd been able to convince herself that her eyes were playing tricks on her. She'd told herself that the statue had always been like that. Anything else Scootaloo remembered was either a trick of the light or her mind playing tricks on her. Of course she'd wanted the statue to look peaceful to ease her nerves, so her mind had projected that image over the hideous reality. It was one of those brain tricks Twilight Sparkle talked about. However, Scootaloo was now looking at something she couldn't easily dismiss. No helpful logical explanation presented itself to her.

The statue had moved. Not an inch or even half a foot. If the movement had been that slight, Scootaloo could have explained it away. But this wasn't a trick of her nervous mind. The statue was now standing less than two inches away from her, its twisted face very close to her own.

Scootaloo stumbled back, a scream climbing her throat. A whimper of fear squeezed its way past the flashlight in her mouth. She was afraid that if she actually cried out, she might drop the flashlight. Even with Luna's light overhead, Scootaloo felt like she'd be left in the dark. She pictured a curtain of utter blackness falling over her.

Scootaloo turned away again, not wanting to look at its horrible face. She started down the hill at an even faster pace. But as she fled, she could hear the shuffling hoofsteps again. They seemed to be closer this time, following even as she practically galloped down the hill.

She paused and swung around. She expected to see the statue shambling towards her on its marble hooves, its movements stiff and unnatural as it closed the gap. But although it wasn't as close as it had been before, it didn't seem to be moving. If Scootaloo hadn't known any better, she would have believed she'd imagined those past few moments of sheer panic. If it wasn't for the fact that the statue was clearly not in its original place, Scootaloo would have started to doubt herself.

Scootaloo took a step backward. Could the statue only move if she wasn't looking at it? Was it forced to stay still as long as her eyes were on it? Was Scootaloo brave enough to test out her theory? Unfortunately, the answer to that last question was a firm No. Even if she should be able to out-gallop the thing, she didn't trust it to play by the rules.

She started backing away, keeping her eyes on the statue. She almost wanted to turn away from its hideous face, but Scootaloo kept her eyes and flashlight trained on it. She could feel the sweat collecting at her brow as she moved. She wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but her hooves only seemed capable of walking at a slow pace. Scootaloo couldn't even force herself to speed up, afraid she would automatically turn and start galloping away. She didn't want to hear those shuffling hoofsteps again.

A bead of sweat ran down the middle of Scootaloo's forehead and off the edge of her muzzle. More beads rushed to follow. Her eyes were beginning to water. Rather involuntarily, Scootaloo blinked.

The statue was now right in front of her, about an inch away from her face.

Scootaloo choked on the scream trying to scamper up her throat. It took all of her willpower not to drop the flashlight, whirl around, and start galloping for her life. She stumbled backwards on clumsy hooves, her heart beating so fast she was afraid it might burst in her chest. Her eyes were burning, but Scootaloo wouldn't let herself cry. She was terrified of what might happen if her vision was blurred by tears.

Don't blink, she told herself. Whatever you do, don't blink.

She continued backing away, keeping the statue in her sight. Scootaloo wouldn't even look off to the side to make sure the groundskeeper wasn't there. She didn't care anymore. In fact, Scootaloo wanted the groundskeeper to find her. She wanted to be thrown out of the cemetery by an angry old stallion, she wanted her aunts to be called and for this to be put on her permanent record. Scootaloo wanted to be punished for thinking this was a good idea. She wanted that red mark on her permanent record to be an eternal reminder of the evils of peer pressure and the peril of her own ego.

Scootaloo's eyes started to water again, but she kept them open. She channeled almost all of her strength into keeping her eyes open, even as they burned in protest. The rest of Scootaloo's energy went into keeping her hooves moving.

She reached the bottom of the hill. Scootaloo could still see the statue, but now she was much farther away. However, she was still scared to let it out of her sight. Scootaloo worried about what would happen if she turned a corner and the statue was no longer in view. Would she get away with letting it out of her sight? Or would it appear in front of her?

Before she could ponder this horrifying idea, Scootaloo backed into something. She almost jumped, but her eyes remained trained on the statue several feet in front of her. She didn't know what to do. Scootaloo had been following the exact same path she'd taken before. She was certain there hadn't been something blocking the path. Had the groundskeeper left something there while she was up on the hill?

But then Scootaloo realized what it was. Her blood ran cold as the realization rose inside of her. No, it couldn't be. But as much as she wanted to shake her head and remain in denial, Scootaloo could feel the cold marble pressed against her flank. She could feel the stillness of the thing behind her. She even thought she could hear something, a sort of dusty scratching like a breath being dragged from a long-unused throat.

There'd been another statue. Scootaloo had seen it on her way in. A big statue right by the gate, about two times bigger than a grown mare. A pegasus wearing a crown of flowers with a blindfold over her eyes.

Scootaloo whimpered. Two. There were two of them.

Without thinking, she whirled around to face the statue behind her. The beam of her flashlight fell upon a distorted face that reminded her of melted candle wax. The mouth was wide and gaping, the blindfold falling sideways to reveal a single gaping eye socket.

Almost immediately, Scootaloo heard a shuffling hoofstep right behind her. She knew instinctively that the other statue was now about two inches away from her. She was surrounded on both sides, unable to do anything but whimper in fear. Where in Tartarus was the groundskeeper? Scootaloo was waiting for the blinding beam of a flashlight to shine on her and for a stern voice to bark out a threat.

Scootaloo had no choice. She turned away from both statues and ran, darting around the one in front of her and galloping up the path towards the gate.

Coming to her senses, Scootaloo stopped and turned around again. She saw both statues a few inches away from her, their distorted features staring at her. They were both trapped in her vision, unable to move as Scootaloo panted and stared at them. The urge to blink had come over her, twice as strong as it normally would have been. She'd somehow managed to remain wide-eyed and staring throughout this, keeping the statues in her sight when she turned around.

Don't blink, she reminded herself. Don't blink. Don't blink. Don't blink.

She began backing away again, mapping out the way she'd come in her head. She hoped she remembered where the gate was. Scootaloo had gotten just slightly turned around during her near-escape. She worried she was trotting even deeper into the cemetery.