Walk In The Park
What would you do if you saw a stranger staring, unblinking, into the distance?
Would you follow their gaze?
It’s not a consideration that would have ever crossed Soarin’s mind. He was, in many ways, a very simple pony. He had his work, he had his friends, and he had himself, happy and content. His life was good; why should he question it?
It was late fall when Soarin, too exhausted from a show to do anything substantial but too worked up to go home, decided to take a stroll through Canterlot’s largest park. It was a massive thing, large enough to have a little grove of trees off to one side, and it was busy even despite the chill in the air. Soarin didn’t mind that; He always appreciated the company of other ponies, even if only through proximity.
At one end of the park, a group of young ponies tossed a disc through the air. They flipped and tumbled as they caught it, each trying to outdo the last. It was the kind of over-the-top game that led to broken bones, but that wasn’t reason enough for Soarin to step in. He’d broken bones before, and he considered the experience well worth it for the character it built.
Soarin walked past them, further into the park. The wind whistled in his ears. He wished he’d brought a hat.
He stayed off the paths, for the most part. The park was busy enough that he would have constantly been moving to the side for couples or groups of friends, and while he didn’t begrudge them that, it was more hassle than he wanted to deal with. Besides, he was a Wonderbolt. He made his own paths.
A gust of wind whipped his mane into a tangled mess. Dark clouds gathered in the distance, threatening rain.
He passed by ponies lounging in the grass, some alone, some asleep, all content with the course of their evening. Other ponies rested on benches, and a few pegasi even spent their time on clouds or in trees.
He reached the center of the park. Up above, the clouds parted to reveal the moon, shining down early as it sometimes did. The sun was soon to take its leave, but it lingered on the horizon as though it was waiting for something.
He decided to rejoin the pathway as he approached the edge of the trees. As much as he could enjoy a hike through the woods, today was not the day for that. He just wanted to pass under the melancholy gloom of the canopy.
The trees were shaped into an archway that stretched from one side of the grove to the other. If he stopped and looked, he could see birds perched in the branches above his head. It made the path seem all the more claustrophobic; He had the safety of the path, sure, but where would he go if the trees were to close in? Even the sky had been taken from him.
He embraced the tiny pang of apprehension that rose in his chest. He knew it was irrational, and so it thrilled him, pushed him deeper into his dive.
The light from the entrance soon petered out, but it was replaced by a warmer, more artificial light deeper in.
He found the source readily enough. The path forked ahead of him, intersected by another tunnel, and in the center of the tiny, natural pavilion formed by the crossing stood a tall lamp. It shone down on a pair of benches, sitting back to back on either side of the lamppost.
This place seemed peaceful, and somehow he’d found it empty, so he settled down onto one of the benches.
The trees were an impenetrable wall before him, not only to ponies but to the light itself. They were but a few feet away, and yet that threshold seemed to step into another, much darker world. A world that would allow no trespass, not even so much as a glance inward at what it may hide.
Except… Perhaps it wasn’t so impregnable. As his eyes adjusted, he saw shapes dancing in the shadows, murky contours left by animals scurrying about or foliage swaying in the wind. They seemed almost to be putting on a show for him, the shadowy world past the trees no more than a stage for them to perform on.
Above him, the lamp started to flicker. It wasn’t serious, only dimming once or twice every few seconds, but it was enough to catch his attention.
His eyes stayed glued to the trees, though.
At once, the shapes in the shadows seemed to grow together and come nearer to him. Soon they were one mass, no larger than he was, walking with purpose towards the border between worlds.
The apprehension in his gut roiled as the figure approached, but just as it seemed about to enter the clearing, it stopped.
It was a curious sight. If he had to judge from just the shape, he would have said there was a pony staring at him from the woods, but that didn’t seem right. It was too dark, too indistinct. What was an ear one moment was a leaf on a branch the next as the shadows shifted around themselves.
Only one thing stayed constant. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this thing was looking back at him.
Then, for just a moment, it shifted in just the right way for the light to touch its face. It was too brief a glimpse to be sure, but what he saw unsettled him.
It had the shape of a pony, the face of a pony, but it was not a pony. Its flesh had no depth to it, no meat. It was like thin strips of fabric stretched tight over a pony’s shape, too tight, so tight it was a wonder it hadn’t torn.
The thrill turned to fear as he realized that the shape was more than just a trick of the light. The feeling in his gut boiled over and burned in him, telling him to move, to run, to get up and fly as far away as he could.
He wanted to listen to his gut. He wanted nothing more.
He stared at the creature, once more hidden in the shadows. He looked deep into its eyes, into where he thought, he knew, its eyes should be. He didn’t blink, he didn’t move, he hardly breathed as he stared into that deep darkness.
And it stared back.
A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Something bright and colorful was approaching. A pony? He couldn’t tell without looking away from the creature.
They walked up soon enough, anyway. It had been a pony, a bright pink mare with a stunning yellow mane. She’d been humming a tune to herself, but stopped when she noticed Soarin’s uncanny stare.
She looked concerned. “Uh, hey, you okay?” She spoke softly, quietly. Soarin wanted to tell her he wasn’t okay. He wanted to say that something was wrong.
But he didn’t.
The mare waved a hoof in front of his face, but it did nothing. Even when she broke his line of sight, he could see where the creature should be. He could keep watching it, and he was sure it could keep watching him.
Eventually, the mare gave up. Perhaps she had someplace to be, or maybe she just wasn’t inclined to investigate further, but when her hoof-waving garnered no response she moved on, back down the path.
Soaring was alone again. The light continued to flicker. His mouth was starting to feel dry.
The world dimmed as the sun set. The forest became muddier, less visible, but he still saw the creature. Even when the light above his head finally burned out, he still saw it. He knew the shape of it. He knew its movements. He knew its gaze.
A wet splat hit the ground. Then another, and another. The rain came fast, drenched him within seconds. The sounds of the forest all but vanished into the white noise of the rainfall.
The water trickled down into his eyes. It stung.
Suddenly, he could sense movement. His vision was useless, the darkness too deep, but he knew the creature had stepped forward. He could see it. The darkness that was the creature shifted through the darkness of everything else, pushed it aside as it walked ever closer to him.
He could feel its breath on his skin, hot and stale. He could smell the old, leathery skin it pretended to own. He could feel its gaze, mere inches away, staring deep into his eyes.
A light appeared on the path. The creature was gone, back across the threshold of trees.
A young, frail stallion came sauntering up to him. He had blue fur and a blue mane, and a tiny lantern was clenched in his jaw, hardly enough to light anything, not nearly enough to breach the forest, to touch the creature. Why he was out so late, Soarin had no idea, but the relief he felt at seeing another pony was palpable.
Just as the mare was, this stallion seemed unnerved by Soarin’s stillness, but he didn’t focus himself right away. Curiosity caught hold of him, and he carried followed Soarin’s line of sight to the line of trees. To the creature.
He froze when he saw it. Fear danced in his eyes, a fear that Soarin recognized.
Or, at least, a fear that Soarin thought he recognized, but he second-guessed that thought when the stallion started to move. It was slow, like the first creaking movements of an amateur puppeteer.
The stallion put one hoof forward, then another, and another. With every step, he grew closer to the creature, and with every inch, Soarin saw the fear in his eyes grow deeper.
Then he was at the border, face to face with the creature in the shadows. He was staring at the creature in much the same way Soarin was.
The creature, though, was still staring at Soarin.
It kept its sights on Soarin as it leaned out of the shadows and into the light. Its tattered flesh stuck like wet cloth to the frame of a skull. Its ears drooped, its mane was in tatters. Its eyes shook in their sockets, too small for the large eyeholes they were settled in, but they never moved from Soarin’s.
The movement was slow. Deliberate. Everything the creature did was calculated, thought out, and everything it did was framed so that Soarin could see it in excruciating detail.
He saw the creature’s bony hoof press into the soft flesh of the stallion’s head and push it to an uncomfortable angle.
He saw the creature pull back its lips to reveal rotting, razor-sharp teeth.
He saw the creature open its jaw. He saw the flesh at the corners of its mouth stretch and almost tear.
He saw the creature wrap its teeth around the stallion’s neck.
He saw.
It kept their gazes locked as it bit down. As its jaw tightened. The act was smoother than Soarin had expected. Its teeth slid into the stallion’s neck with ease, and the stallion jerked reflexively, but by that point the creature’s hold was too firm for the stallion to have any hope of escape.
It raised another hoof to the stallion and pushed, tearing at the flesh with a gruesome effort.
It took a long time for the pony to fall. Despite the creature’s pushing, a body does not become undone so easily. Flesh had to tear. Muscles had to stretch and snap. Life had to be taken.
When the stallion finally slumped to the ground, he did so with a wet splash and a sharp crack. His neck was gone, his head bent back at an impossible angle.
His life ended with his eyes still full of fear, fear that lingered as the dead eyes stared, unblinking, into Soarin’s, and Soarin couldn’t stop himself from staring back.
Would you follow a stranger’s gaze?
It’s not a consideration that would ever cross Soarin’s mind.
He knows his answer.