Hunting Nightmares
Journal,
I had the nightmare again:
The day is bright and warm. There is a light breeze that insists on ruffling my mane. I walk to the hospital on account of a headache. I wave to all the ponies I see, though I do not know their names. Only one – a pink Earth pony – waves back. I am not troubled by this.
When I reach the hospital my breath catches. I do not know why. It is a perfectly innocent building. Cosy and rustic, like everything else in this town. And yet seeing it fills me with an inexplicable sense of dread. I push aside my fears and trot towards the building. I still have a headache which needs treatment, after all. With each step my aversion to the place grows. The hospital seems to be watching me. I feel as though I am walking towards the gaping maw of a waiting Ursa Major.
Halfway down the path I stop. I do not want to go into this place. My headache grows. It feels as though something inside my head is expanding, putting pressure on my skull.
A pegasus pushes past me, gives me a derisive look, and walks into the hospital untroubled. This reminds me of how foolish I am being. I steady myself and look at the building, searching for something that could explain my fear. It is a perfectly ordinary building. Three stories, shingle roof, modest wooden porch.
Motion from behind one of the windows on the second floor. A curtain moves. It catches my eye. I see its source – only for a moment. A pony at the window, looking directly at me. Waiting for me. Expression cold and uncaring. Her face is not something I can bring myself to describe. And then the curtain moves back and she is gone.
The door is still swinging from the pegasus who pushed past me. As it swings, I catch a glimpse – just a glimpse – of the inside of the building. Grey ceramic tiles and rust and bleeding, raw meat. The door swings shut and the building is normal again.
I do not want to go to this hospital. [you just have to stay here for a little while filly]
I decide to return home. Perhaps a taking an asprin will suffice. As I turn away, my headache gets worse. The pressure against my skull increases. I pay it no heed and begin to trot away from the building. The sun has gone now. The day is overcast. The air is humid and stiflingly warm.
After several seconds I am quite sure that I should have reached the the junction where the path meets the road back to the town centre, but I have not. It is still ahead of me. Uncertain, I look over my shoulder at the hospital I am walking away from. It is closer than it was before. It looms over me. It has not changed and yet it feels immense, larger than it possibly could be.
I lose my composure and canter towards the main road. At last it draws closer. I reach it, though doing so takes far longer than it should. My head feels as though something inside is trying to push white hot drillbits through my skull, but I am happy. I am relieved to be away from the hospital and on my way home. Trotting along the road, I allow myself the perverse pleasure of another glance at the hospital.
I have not escaped it.
It is now adjacent to the road, as close to me as it was before. I stumble in shock. Then I turn and gallop. My headache worsens. After several minutes I look over my shoulder to check on my progress. The hospital is further away now, but still closer than it should be given how far I have galloped, still adjacent to the road.
I am struck by the idea that perhaps the hospital only moves when I don't look at it. I turn around and, keeping my eyes fixed on that hateful building even though it terrifies me, walk backwards slowly.
It does not work. The hospital does not move, and yet every time I try to gauge its position it is closer to me. Very soon it is nearly upon me. I turn and gallop again, this time off the road and into the dark forest beside it. Perhaps the hospital can not follow me there.
I do not know how long I run through the trees. It is night now. My head pounds; I can barely concentrate, and I am quite certain that at any moment my skull will crack even if the hospital does not reach me. My legs ache and my lungs burn. I repeatedly stumble over branches and stones and other softer, fleshier things. My hooves and cannons are slick with what I hope is warm mud. Every time I look back, the hospital is there, adjacent to the road still.
My headache grows. And then the pressure is no longer metaphorical but very real. In my skull I hear the thin bone around my sinuses crack like wafer, and the gurgling of fluid through new holes. My nose streams with blood and something darker. [i want to wake up]
I come to a staircase in the middle of the wood. Grey, chipped linoleum with rusted metal banisters, it leads down. Hoping that the hospital can't follow me, I run down it. Or rather, I try to. Either my legs refuse to obey or I am travelling too fast and instead I leap down the staircase. I don't hit bottom. For long seconds all I see are stairs hurtling beneath me and, in the corner of my eye, the hospital, still not left behind. And then, with a jolt, I am awake, shivering and bewildered.
I take stock of my surroundings. It is night. I am in a corridor of an abandoned building. The walls are painted in once bright colours, faded with age and darkness, mocking my situation with their facile and ineffectual attempt at bringing cheer. The sideboards are chipped and rotted. The air is chill and smells faintly of antiseptic. Yes, I know this place. I hid in this building, in this vile, bucolic little place. They won't find me here.
This is no innocuous storybook horror to be swept under the mental rug at daybreak with a hearty breakfast and a mug of tea. Two reasons: First, when I awake, I am cold and alone, and I am still being hunted. Second, more importantly, I think they can get to you from within your dreams. I am quite sure that one member of the institution that seeks me is a dreamwalker. A nurse told me this once. She said many false things, but I believe she was right about this.
I am hunted in dreams and reality. But at least in reality I have lucidity. I know why I am being chased, and I know why I keep this journal. I know their secret. Even if they catch me, this journal will remain. The truth will prevail, even if I do not. The terrible secret of Equestria, woven by creatures that have enough arrogance to claim to move the sun and the moon. The secret that must be told if ponies are to ever be free.
That secret is –
Wait. Something is happening. The silence is riven by bumps and clatters. They are soft; if I were still asleep they would not have roused me. Something is coming. Something is coming from the only escape route. I retreat into the shadows, behind a desk of drawers, and cower, holding my breath.
When I see it, I almost cry out. It moves in bursts, almost silently. It is black and oleaginous, monstrous liquid given form. When stationary it quivers like a water balloon. It is vaguely pony-shaped. Is this abomination what they have sent to hunt me?
It carries on down the corridor, stops for a moment, and passes through a doorway. I do not think it has seen me. I could escape now, but I do not. I wait, terrified but curious.
There is a scream, then commotion. Ponies come from all sides. Have I been found? The abomination bursts out of the room and slides, skitters, flies, tumbles down the corridor, ignoring me. In what passes for its mouth it has...
[i thought this building was abandoned]
My journal!
All my discoveries. Everything I have on them! My fear vanishes. I leap from the shadows and give chase.
It leaves the building and slithers out into the night, past the porch, down the pathway, across the road, and into the forest beyond. I follow.
I slip and stumble through the forest. The ground underfoot is wet and I am terrified of finding more than mud should I examine it. It is almost impossible to see the abomination in the darkness. I find myself calling after it, begging it to stop, to return my journal, even though I know this to be a futile exercise.
[why is this so familiar]
The abomination reaches a river and, quivering and deforming, arcs across water. I run. I reach the river. Things float past, lumps of detritus that, in the gloom, look like ponies or parts of ponies. I ignore them. I cross the bridge. Slippery, mossy stone, treacherous underhoof. I am vaguely cognizant of other ponies. Am I being chased? [yes of course] Or are they my allies, seeking my stolen journal?
[how am i writing this without my journal]
We leave the forest [not a nightmare then] and pass into a village. The architecture here is bizarre. Stylistically bucolic, but overly ornate, slanting at odd angles with odd curves, painted with the same falsely cheerful colours as the building I just left, washed out in the darkness.
What?
The buildings shift. I feel light headed. Is this a nightmare? That would be nice. It means … It means I get to wake up soon. I would like that.
[I wanna get out of here]
No … The fate of Equestria rests with me. I need to get the journal with the secret in it. Then I can wake up.
The abomination dances among the buildings, hoping to lose me. I follow it and
[light theres light ponies are watching]
I don't like this town; I shouldn't be here. I have to get my …
[more light too many ponies around me i don't like it]
… Journal? Why would I have a journal? I'm cold and scared. I just want to go back home.
There's the abomination. It seems friendly.
[rainbow dash what in the world in going on why are you]
I think … I'll wake up soon. Then I can go home and everything will be fine.
[hey get back to the hospital]
everything will be fine
everything will be fine
...
Author's Note
This is not 100% Scootaloo approved.
Written during periods of insomnia over a couple of nights after reading a whole bunch of Ligotti. Part of me knows it probably isn't sensible to publish such a hurried piece, but it seems oddly fitting to leave the thing as is.
