Mare of the House

by jmj

Rating: teen
Tags: Pinkie Pie, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 2191

Home alone for the first time is a ritual of passage for the young. It's all fun and games for one filly ... until night falls. Are those creaks the sounds of the house settling in or the stalking steps of something searching sustenance?

Home alone for the first time is a ritual of passage for the young. It's all fun and games for one filly ... until night falls. Are those creaks the sounds of the house settling in or the stalking steps of something searching sustenance?

Published 2013-08-02 18:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-08-02 18:30:02 UTC

Mare of the House

We’d all heard of the Cupcake Killer. It was a necessary evil in small towns to pass their ghost stories along to those deemed young enough to still be frightened and hide under their blankets when dark houses creaked from natural swelling and bustling of weather. I had never believed in her. Especially not when my friends told me about how the house my family had bought used to be the bakery where she had committed her heinous crimes, sawing legs from wailing ponies and leaving them to wiggle their stumps as she split their bellies open for her sinister harvests. They say she used their organs as a secret ingredient for cupcakes, which is why they call her what they do. How could anypony not see the fallacies in their tale? It was like the Boogeypony or the Old Mare Searching for her Rusty Horseshoe. Fillytales. They just wanted to scare me.

I had just turned 13 and had been entrusted with staying home by myself for the first time in my life. Some of my friends suggested that I should throw a party or invite some cute colt over for a game of seven minutes in heaven. I did neither, just decided to cuddle up with a book from the library about princesses and true love. My parents were going to Canterlot on business and expected to be back the next morning when we would all go out and have breakfast together. I was happy for them, their art was catching on and a few businesses had bought statues from them. They would be taking measurements and planning a specific piece for some well to do company in the Canterlot Business section. I had just cracked the cover of the book when somepony knocked on my door. I had come home directly from school, hoping to see my parents before they left, but they had already departed. I hoped that maybe they had forgotten something and I would get my chance to wish them well on their trip.

I smiled and closed the thick, leather-bound cover and leapt to investigate. Standing on the tips of my hooves to peer through the spyhole, I could just make out the wiggling tongue of my best friend as she raspberried the door. It was Jib Jab, the curved lens of the spyhole warped her peach face to a strange shape and I giggled and twisted the lock. It was already open. It had been acting up lately and we were waiting for some new piece to sell before we could get it fixed. I felt a sharp cold as the door opened for Jib. One look at the sky told me that winter was well upon us and it may not be a bad idea to get some extra firewood from the alley behind the house for the night. I just hoped the snow would stay away long enough for Mom and Dad to get home.

It wasn’t unusual for Jib to come over and I was certain my parents wouldn’t mind. We talked and laughed and played together well into the evening. She was nearly as excited as I was that I was getting some responsibility, she had yet to be left alone by herself. Despite her happiness for me, pangs of jealousy drove her to recant ghost stories, trying to frighten me on my first night alone. I puffed my chest and rolled my eyes. Really? A hoof that came back to life in search of its body? Rattling chains? Filly stuff, I’d heard them all before so many times that they had no effect on me.

Seeing my bemused grin, Jib’s jaw struck and a sinister determination swept her features. She sauntered to the basement door and flung it open. She reiterated the story of the pink mare and dared me to go down. I felt the dread wrinkle my courage but I tried to play it cool. Cupcake Killer or not, I didn’t like the basement. I never had. I had went down into it once before when we had first moved in, helping my dad carry boxes down for storage. I know there’s nothing down there but pipes and the furnace, but the feel was wrong. I don’t really believe the rumors, no ponies were tortured and gutted there, but it’s dank and thick, like the walls are closing in. Like there are eyes in every dark corner.

She dared me to go down with her, to the place where they died. Where they still shriek for help. Where she cut them apart. I think a skitter in my step betrayed my bravado and when I took the lead, braving the first three steps alone, the door slammed shut, enveloping me in a blackness seemingly not of this world. I screamed, confidence be damned, I squealed like the filly I was and slammed my hooves into the door behind me blindly. I heard laughter, I knew it was Jib on the other side of the door but, I swear, it sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the stairs, and an impossibly sweet scent that had to be my imagination caressed the edges of my consciousness. I banged on the door and my screams deafened me to the laughter but was that the sound of my hoof echoing into the basement, or somepony climbing the steps of the cellar behind me?

The door swung open wildly and Jib Jab fell over with laughter, holding her sides and kicking her hooves like a foal throwing a tantrum. I wanted to hit her but slammed the basement door closed and yelled angrily instead. Her giggling stopped and she genuinely looked hurt. I didn’t care. I stormed off and stuffed my muzzle back into my book.

I pretended not to hear her apologies but, after a while, I couldn’t hold it against her anymore. She had got me good. Even I couldn’t help but laugh a little. We made up quickly and played more games, discussed what colts might be interested in us, and raided the refrigerator for snacks.

It was nearly dark when she left and I stood at the door, waving her goodbye. She would come over tomorrow and we would play again. I noticed that the snow had begun to fall, it was really coming down and had already covered the streets. Jib had only a few blocks to travel and I knew she would be safe for such a short distance, but wow, it was really snowing hard. She paused, turning to me with a playful smirk, “You know she escaped, right? The Killer?”

I only stuck my tongue out at her and shut the door, fearing this would become an inside joke between the two of us for years to come.

I pulled a few logs into the house from the back alley and lit a cozy fire in the fireplace, careful to place the screen so errant flames would not find purchase on nearby flammables. I sank into the couch and opened my book again.

I read for hours, the sun’s light had perished and the house was illuminated by the flickering tongues of the fireplace, a warm orange glow outlined the furniture as I read.

I came to a scary part in the story. The princess had been kidnapped and locked in a keep far away and only the brave prince could save her. He had galloped in pursuit but had come to the swamp of no return. A haunted place, the spirits of those who had died in the swallowing muck of the forest clawed at the prince’s hooves and threatened to drown him into the bog below. My skin crawled and suddenly the burning wood let out a loud pop.

I jumped, breath catching in my chest as I realized what had happened. It took me a moment to compose myself, pulling a throw pillow up over my tummy and craning my neck side to side, straining my eyes in search of ghostly hooves or movement anywhere in my proximity. Nothing was there. I was just jumpy from the book. It was then that Jib’s prank returned to me and thoughts of the Cupcake Killer strangled my imagination. For a moment she appeared and I clutched the pillow for my life. That grim smile of bloodstained teeth, a look of sadistic glee in her pin-prick eyes froze me in place. She had a butcher knife in her teeth dripping crimson droplets down her pale pink coat. I blinked and she was gone but the image stayed with me for far too long. I covered my head with the pillow and cried, wishing for sleep to take me and morning to come. Tomorrow would be great, just close my eyes and sleep.

After some time spent shivering silently, ears perked to every crack and pop of the house, sleep did come. It hit me and I fell off to dreams of my parents as the dancing light of the fire died in the night.

I awoke to a soft blackness and bitter cold. The fire had flickered its last but I could see well from accumulation of snow outside, the moon’s silver gaze reflected from the thick white powder outside. I had fallen asleep frightened but now it felt a thousand lifetimes ago and ridiculous. I was afraid of an old mare’s story designed to scare foals? It was embarrassing and I chastised myself for succumbing to such a stupid story. It was late, cold and I hungered for my soft bed and warm blankets. I kicked the pillow from my chest and rolled to my hooves, walking from the living room.

I paused at the kitchen window, peering out into the wintery white banks of snow that had appeared. It had really piled up and was still pouring. It was then that I thought I saw a movement in the night, just out of my vision. The snow obscured my sight and I squinted to see better.

Something out there moved, some distance away I could see the form of a pony standing on their back legs, facing me. My heart lurched in my chest and I sank down below the window sill. Were my eyes deceiving me? Was I still under the influence of that story? It was so late, surely nopony was really out there in this blizzard. I swallowed and a hard lump hurt my throat as I forced it down. I was just being foolish. It was nothing, a trick of the eyes and a tired mind. I popped my head up again.

It was closer this time. A pink mare standing on her back legs, something held in her forelegs in a gift-like gesture. I could almost make out her face but the snow was too thickly falling and hiding her features. My blood froze in my veins and panic shook me like a salt shaker. I felt paralyzed as the pink pony stepped closer in her awkward upright stance.

Somehow, I ducked below the window again and mumbled to myself, frantically trying to think of what to do, where to hide, whether to flee or not. I had to think fast; she was moving closer all the time. I tried to tell myself that it was a neighbor coming to check on me, but I knew better; it was the Cupcake Killer. She had escaped and was coming back home.

I was safe, right? I could hide in my upstairs closet. My parents would be home soon and she couldn’t get in, the doors were locked. It was just then that I remembered the broken lock on the front door. I had to get to it, had to lock it. I hoped I had time, I needed to look out the window one more time and judge how long I had to run to the door, lock it, and get to a good hiding place.

For the last time, I stood and turned my eyes to the window. It was as if somepony rested the breath from my body. She was standing just a few feet away, her icy eyes shimmering in the light of the reflecting snow, daggers dancing in fetid blue pools. Her smile was sanity-wrenching and twisted like the crook of a gnarled tree, a wrenching gash of fear. Her pink coat was splotched with red. Gouts, drops, lines of crimson decorated her thin frame like wandering scars. In her hooves was a tray of cupcakes, brown and lumpy, oozing with something sickly. I felt my consciousness threatening to fail, the world tinged with blackness as fear gripped my mind and I realized that the snow was unmarred, complete, pristine. But that could only mean …

“I’ve got a surprise party for you! Your parents are already there! Have a cupcake!” The voice was far too high pitched to be sane and the happy tones dripped of the undertow that holds corpses.

I realized too late that what I had been seeing was her reflection.