Bump in the Night

by TheManWhoWouldBeSteve

Rating: teen
Tags: Twilight Sparkle, Princess Celestia, Dark, Princess Luna, Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Adventure
Length: 39126

Something evil dwells in the shadows of Ponyville. The dark of the night brings with it malevolent creatures, and ponies vanish without a trace in the eventide. When dusk falls, a lowly dishwasher is left to face the horrors alone.

Journal entry #183

I'm told that it's all over. I'm told that I have nothing to be afraid of anymore. I'm told lies! I can feel their presence. They lurk in the shadows, sizing me up with their hungry eyes. They have not abandoned the hunt. Why would they? Their prey is at his weakest and ripe for the killing. Those idiotic doctors don't believe me, and try to convince me that I'm safe. But I will not drop my guard! They are still here! They watch me from the place with no light, waiting. They're waiting for me to falter. They're waiting for me to break. They're waiting for it to get dark enough...

* * *

This is the story of a sad pony. Fortune was a foreign concept to him. Depression and anxiety were all too familiar.

This is a story of horror. Of twisted abominations, murderous beasts, crazed cultists, unholy demons, and hellish nightmares.

This is a story of insanity. Of the perceptions of reality crumbling, giving way to horrid madness spawned from an unstable psychosis.

This is the story of how a very sad pony became afraid of the dark.

* * *

Thanks to my previous editor, Zoltanthemagnificant, and my current (and quite phenomenal) editor, Corwin Freiss, for making this thing presentable.

And a big thank you to Avatar of Madness for providing the cover art! Visit his deviant art account here to see some more of his work!

Published 2013-08-25 14:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-08-04 22:08:38 UTC

Chapter 1: Night Falls

Journal entry #1

My therapist said that I should write down my thoughts and stuff in a journal. Well, he actually said a diary, but I’m going to call it a journal. The last thing my quickly dwindling sense of self-confidence needs is gossip spreading around town making folks think I’m into little filly stuff like diaries. So yeah, here I am, writing in this journal. I don’t know how writing down what all is wrong with me is supposed to make me feel better, but here it goes. I’m anxious, despaired, depressed, paranoid, and unmotivated. That didn’t help at all.

But whatever, I might as well keep writing. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anything else going on. And I guess it is kind of relaxing. It’s like venting to someone about my problems, only they don’t fall asleep or try and kill themselves like what usually happens when I talk about my issues. So from now on, I’ll just make daily notes in this journal and write down the things that bothered me in each day. Kinda like coming home to your wife, complaining about how much of a nob your boss is, and plopping down on the couch with a beer while she makes dinner and yells at you from the kitchen about how worthless you are. Wow, I’ve got some pretty distorted views on what marriage is like.

Anyway, I’ll start with today. Another craptastic day of scrubbing floors, ponies treating me like a loser, and wasting time after work with Nougat. Same-ole, same-ole. Except for one thing that was really weird. I saw this little crying filly on the way home from work. She was just sitting in the street with no one around. I went up to her to see what the deal was, but... well, she was... Oh forget it. I'm pretty sure it was just a prank anyway.

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags trudged towards the center of town, exhausted and smelling of soap. He had just clocked out of a hard day of scrubbing, mopping, washing, and wiping. Cleaning was the only thing he seemed to be good at, hence the dish and cloth tattooed on his butt. His brown mane was disheveled, his tan coat was shaggy, and his green eyes were tired and drooping.

Not much attention was paid to the earth pony as he meandered down the street. Everybody knew who he was, then again, everybody knew everybody in Ponyville; they just didn't care as they only regarded him as that weird sad-sack who makes everything clean at that restaurant with the really good hayfries.

But Rags didn’t really care. Well, he did, but he was used to it by now. He was always alone and feeling kind of blue, so he just accepted it. He only ever had one friend, Nougat. Speaking of, Rags could see the yellow pony sitting at one of the tables in the town square, gnawing on some kind of sweet morsel. Rags slowly approached to greet his pal.

“Hey, Nougat, what’s going--”

“I’M NOT A CHANGELING!”

“...on...”

This seemed to always be how Nougat greeted Rags. He used to question it, but soon just embraced it, assuming it was part of some kind of mental condition. Maybe Nougat’s parents were eaten by a changeling or something.

Rags sat down at the table. His jittery friend, who wasn’t a changeling, regained his composure. “I mean, uhm, nothing’s up. You know, just the same old thing,” He grinned sheepishly.

“Yeah," Rags dropped his head on the table with a thunk, glaring off into space, "same old thing."

“Hey, bro, something wrong? You look kinda bummed. More so than usual, at least.” Nougat began snacking again.

“Nothing special. I’m just feeling especially bad today, for whatever reason,” Rags droned.

“Does somebody need a cupcake?” Nougat offered his half eaten treat, to which Rags simply stared at him for a moment. “Oh, right, I forgot... diabetic.” Apparently the pegasus was also oblivious to the fact that half eaten food wasn’t appealing in the slightest. Rags let loose a great sigh. “You know what you need? A marefriend! Someone to hold, someone to snuggle with, someone to make out with, someone to--”

“Dude! There are kids around here!” Rags interrupted. “Besides, I’m not interested. Getting out of this rut I call life is higher on my priorities list.” Rags let out another deep sigh, and Nougat leaned back into his seat, knowing that whenever his friend did that, it meant he was about to get deep and existential... and really depressing.

“It’s not fair,” Rags said somberly while sitting up.

“Um... what’s not?”

“This.”

“What this?”

“This this.”

“What this this?”

“This! Life! None of it is fair!” Rags gestured to everything around him.

“I’m afraid you will have to elaborate, buddy,” Nougat said, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Some ponies get it all. Some ponies get lots of money, some ponies get lots of fame, some ponies are naturally talented in things that are big and impressive, and some ponies just have lots of interesting things happen to them. And what do I got?”

“I dunno,” Nougat replied.

“I’ll tell ya what I got. Nothing.” Rags, for the second time, let his head fall on the table.

“What are you talking about, you big baby? You’re way better off than a lot of ponies. You’ve got a job, your own place, and... and...” Nougat trailed off.

“Precisely. I’ve got a job, that pays squat by the way, and a house. That’s it. Meanwhile look at someone like, say, Princess Twilight!”

“What about her?”

“She’s a princess, she has everything handed to her on a royal silver platter, she’s a genius who dabbles in things that would make our heads explode if we tried to understand them, she’s got god-like magic at her horn-tip, she’s gorgeous, she can fly, and to top it all off, she’s an Element of Harmony. So on top of being perfect and ruling over a whole nation, she’s a conduit for unfathomable magic and a national hero who has saved the world more times than I can count!” Rags took a breath, slightly worn out from saying all of that in one go.

“Well, that's why she's our princess. Your point?” Nougat asked, slightly bewildered by the long winded rant against their ruler.

“So look at me. I’m a dishwasher. That’s it. That’s my life in a nutshell. I’m living proof that life isn’t fair. There are those like the princess, an epitome of perfection, and then there is somebody, or rather a nobody, like me. A dishwasher who is only farting around, doing nothing of significance, until he dies and withers away and everyone forgets about him,” Rags huffed.

Nougat, having had enough of his buddies whining, tried to calm his friend. “That kind of thinking is why you’re depressed all the time, you know. You should quit looking at what other ponies have, because it will only make what you have look like crap in comparison. No matter what you do, there are a million ponies who are just better than you."

“Well I don’t quite like that mentality. It’s basically just swallowing the garbage you’ve been given instead of asking why you can’t have the delicious meal the ponies over there are getting,” Rags said, resting his chin on a hoof.

Nougat rolled his eyes. “If you’re so sick of being in a dull routine, then go do something with yourself.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried? Every time I try to accomplish something, I get shot down. Tried going to college, ran out of money. Tried finding a special talent that makes me unique, and I get this stupid thing.” Rags jutted a hoof at his cutie mark and scowled. “Washing crap? Really!? How is that a special talent? Anyone can scrub a dish with a sponge! That’s not something you dedicate your life too, that’s something you do as a foal because it’s part of your chores!”

Nougat face-hoofed. “Why are you bitching to me about this? Isn’t that what your therapist is for?”

Rags stood up from his seat. “Funny, because he said the same thing you did.”

“Well then if everyone is telling you to make the best of what you got, why aren’t you doing it?”

“Because that’s like polishing a turd. There’s no point when what I have isn’t all that great to begin with,” Rags said, stretching his aching muscles. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, bro. It’s just that I’ve been trying to figure things out. It just feels like I’ve wasted my life. I mean, I’ve never even been outside of Ponyville. Well, there was that one time those bullies tricked me into going into the Everfree and I nearly got eaten by timberwolves back in middle school, but that wasn’t all too fulfilling, to be honest.”

Nougat hopped down from his seat, stuffing the rest of the cupcake in his mouth and harshly swallowing. “Rags, bubala, you think too much. Just remember, the possibilities are endless. Who you are is not set in stone.”

“That was pretty profound, Nougat. I’m impressed... wait... you got that off a fortune cookie, didn’t you?” Rags deadpanned.

“Uhh...”

“Oh whatever.” Rags began walking, and Nougat trotted up beside him to finish up the conversation with a suggestion.

“Maybe what you need is an adventure,” Nougat said confidently.

“What kind of adventure are we talking about here? Because I already said that I didn’t find narrowly escaping the jaws of death too invigorating. Unless you were talking about living out some sort of perverted fantasy,” Rags said jokingly

“Well I was talking about exploring some kind of ancient temple or whatever adventurers do, but I’m sure a harem of hot babes would perk your spirits too,” Nougat laughed.

Rags chuckled softly with his pegasus friend. As enticing as oodles of gold in a secret room off in some ancient palace sounded, he wasn’t Daring Doo. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen to ponies like himself. He didn’t really even want something like that to happen. He would be more than happy to settle for some clarity in life. That’s what he needed, not a dragon to slay, a maiden to save, or a harem to woo.

“Anywho, I best be off. I’ve got a lady waiting for me at home.” Nougat proclaimed, his chest puffed out and head held high.

“Your mother doesn’t count, Nougat--”

“You'll see! I’ll get the hottest marefriend you’ve ever laid your virgin eyes on, Rags! Someday! Maybe not today! Maybe not next week! Maybe not next month! Maybe not next year! But it. Will. Happen! I swear on my queen's--er, I mean, on the princesses crown!” Nougat flew off, feigning righteous fury. Rags chortled at his friend. He was an awkward pegasus, always nervous around strangers and even those he already knew until he gets in motion, so to speak. But once he got comfortable in a social environment, he was a great colt to be around. Probably why he and Rags had been friends since elementary.

Getting back on track, Rags set off towards home once again. The sun began to set, illuminating the landscape and surrounding buildings in a dim orange warmth. Pink and purple splashed the sky, with pink slowly being overcome by purple and the approaching dusk behind it. Ponies moseyed back into their houses and shut down their street kiosks. Some sat with their lovers on benches, watching the orange blaze dip below the horizon. Others looked to be preparing, gathering their associates for upcoming night time shenanigans. Rags might have been a depressing soul, but even he was feeling pretty chipper in the wake of such tender atmosphere. If only he could feel so contented all of the time.

Soon enough, the night came. The moon reared it’s alabaster dome, peeking just over the buildings and establishments of the town. Street lamps provided vision for those still up and about at such an hour. Stars speckled the heavens like sugar sprinkled over a dark treat by a masterful chef of the cosmos. This was the greatest part of the day to Rags. The peaceful walk home under the thousands of watchful, glowing eyes of the soft-spoken night, with nobody around to call him a loser or scream at him to get this or that done. Whenever he looked above, his worries felt as if they were expunged from his stress addled mind.

Though the night wasn’t as potent as he wished it were when it came to alleviating anxiety. As his home came into view a few blocks down, thoughts of how the day was going to play out tomorrow slithered into his conscious thought, stirring up the familiar feelings of dread that typically came with such prospects. He shrugged, feeling defeated. The hand he was dealt in life was beaten by the full house that his opposition possessed. The following morning would bring the same feelings as the last: more pain and stress. Between his dull routine, the lack of support from most around him, and the questions of what to do with his existence, Rags was on the verge of an episode.

They would find him tied to the doorknob of his bedroom door by a necktie, overdosed on pills and smelling of alcohol, with something profound and haunting written on a suicide note. Oh, who was he kidding? He didn’t have the gump to do that. Besides, maybe his comrade was right. It’s a big, wide world, with bountiful possibilities, right? Who ever said that it was impossible for Rags to make something of himself? He could be an artist, or an athlete, or maybe pursue his secret dream of being one of the greatest physicists the world has ever known! Even if he couldn’t draw to save his life, had two left hoofs, and found getting a grasp on many of the mathematical concepts of physics to be a challenging process that could very well take up most of his li-- he’s gonna be a dishwasher forever.

Head hung in solemn thought, he neared his destination, when he heard a faint noise. It was soft and sporadic, coming only in small coughs. His ears perked as he tried to focus on the sound. He thought of several possible sources that would make such a sound at this time of the night. It didn’t sound like a cat rummaging through the trash, nor did it sound like a piece of litter skittering across the ground in the breeze. He listened intently, waiting for his brain to identify the strange sound. The breeze changed direction, and blew straight towards him. This little change enhanced the clarity of the noise just enough for Rags to pinpoint the entity.

It was a filly weeping.

After coming to a reasonable conclusion of the source, his next and most obvious questions were where was this filly at, and why was she crying. Well as for the where, she was definitely outside, Rags could tell that much, so he wasn’t just hearing the sounds of a filly in her room through an open window. As for the why, perhaps she was lost. Maybe this part of town was foreign to her. Rags decided it was time to stop theorizing and act.

He walked forward, listening. The sound came from ahead, but not quite in front of him. He stepped softly so he could hear. The closer he got, the better he was able to discern the location. Now it sounded like it was coming from the right. As he reached the end of the block, with his home three blocks further down, he could see her. A little dark-blue pegasus filly sitting under a streetlamp on the sidewalk to his starboard.

He watched from around the corner, glancing from side to side, waiting to see if someone else was around. Admittedly, it was very creeper-ish of Rags to check and see if nobody else was around before approaching a filly. But this wasn’t because he was sizing her up, it was because he was naturally a very paranoid pony. He had ludicrous notions about this crying filly, like how she could have been a red herring set in place to attract unsuspecting victims for a group of bandits to ambush. And some much more reasonable notions, like how she could just be waiting for someone to come pick her up.

Suppressing his paranoia, he began to move towards her, feeling that even if someone was coming to pick her up, he should at least see what she was crying about. Sure it wasn’t really his business, but he couldn’t just leave the filly sobbing alone in the dark. Tentatively he emerged into the same patch of light the filly sat in, and gently spoke to her

“Excuse me little filly, is something wrong?” The filly only continued crying, tears lightly splashing the pavement. “Hey, are you okay?” Rags inched closer as he spoke.

“I’m having the nightmares again,” The filly breathed.

“What?” Rags said perplexedly. Not really knowing how to respond, he cautiously raised a hoof to her shoulder after a brief moment of silence. “Uhm... there there? It’s, uh, gonna be alright.” She raised her head slowly. Rags snapped his hoof back, thinking he might have upset her. She began to turn to him, her light blue mane obscuring her eyes, from which tears still flowed. She brought her head up to look at him and--

Nothing. There was nothing. There was nothing in her eyes. They were pitch black. No pupils, no irises, no whites, no life, nothing. Solid darkness stared at Rags. No, not at Rags, at his soul. Those eyes were empty of life, and yet, there was something in them that gazed into his very being. He didn’t know what it was, but it was something that made his skin crawl. It all took place in only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to the dumbfounded Rags. As quickly as the feeling of dread struck him, a flash of bright light washed over him and filled his vision.

He fell back on his flank, rubbing his eyes. When his watery-eyed sight came back, she was gone. He whipped his head in every direction, searching for the filly. But she had disappeared, undoubtedly sinking into the darkness around the light and scurrying off. Rags got to his hooves, still rubbing one eye.

Okay, let’s just stay calm here, Rags. Just stay calm. Now, I have no clue what just happened, who she was, or what the *buck** was up with those eyes, but obviously it wasn’t anything harmful. You are not hurt, you can see, so she didn’t blind you, and what the buck was up with those eyes!? No no, calm yourself, don’t freak out, there is probably a perfectly logical reason for all of that, what with the flash, and the crying, and the what the buck was up with those eyes!?*

Raggs' eyes had shrunk to pinpricks and darted about, his mane stood on end, and his brain chugged and lurched like a steam engine leaving the station, searching for an explanation. Finally, in a moment of brilliance, he came to a conclusion that a dedicated private-eye would nod his approval to.

A prank! That’s what this was! A prank! Some buttmunch just put that filly on the sidewalk with some kind of weird eye makeup or whatever to freak out any passing ponies. Well played, you joker! Well played! I laugh! I laugh at your joke! Because that's obviously what it was! Yep, just a joke! Clearly not a freakish supernatural event! Now take some deep breaths Rags, you big scaredy cat, you! And just trot down the street there to your house. ‘Sall good, ‘sall good...

He spun on his hooves and made way towards his domicile, putting a strenuous amount of effort into being relaxed and calm.

Did she have a horn? I could have sworn I saw a... nah.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Rags began to cool off. He looked at the situation, thought up a logical explanation, laughed it off (albeit rather dementedly), and resumed his journey back home... though, at a more urgent pace. He didn't bother to follow up on the peculiar phenomenon. Whatever just happened there, it was over and done with. He reasoned there was no need to pursue the oddity, but he was really just trying to justify what was essentially running away.

It was a perfect way to end the night, now that he thought about it. He was stressed and high strung, he got the giblets scared off him, and ironically, due to that very reason, he was now too tired and worn out to continue stressing over things. Now he could sleep easy tonight and not be kept up into the wee hours by his anxieties, as per usual.

He reached his home, quickly stuck the proper keys into the corresponding locks, and scrammed into his house, slamming the door behind him. Though he had convinced himself it was just a joke, those eyes. Whoever the mastermind was, they did a fine job with that eye-makeup-contact-lens-whatever. The fear he felt in that moment, with those dark pits boring into him, was a feeling most horror movies only wish they could instill. But, seeing as it was just a harmless little joke, he could rest easy. He tossed his keys onto the counter, grabbed a bottle of that fantastic cider he saved from cider season out of the fridge, and slumped onto the couch in his living room.

Though the vicious, depression feeding cycle would start again tomorrow, he felt strangely at ease. Finishing off the few swigs of cider, he tossed the bottle with perfect accuracy into the garbage can in the kitchen using skills that were a byproduct of years worth of cleaning for a living. He lugged himself into his neat and tidy bedroom and fell on the bed, too spent to even pull the blanket over himself. He spiraled into a deep dream-filled sleep, visions of something better dancing in his mind... and those eyes.

Chapter 2: Whispers in the Dark

Journal entry #2

I’ve finally got an answer! An answer as to why my life has been, and will continue to be, a big smelly load of crap! You wanna hear it, Journal? Ok, here’s the answer: the universe hates me! Seems pretty obvious, huh? I mean, anybody with a brain stem would know that by taking a quick glance at me, but I’m evidently not as observant, because it’s taken me this long to realize it.

What finally tipped me off? I was nearly murdered yesterday. Yep, that made it pretty clear that me and the universe aren’t exactly on amicable terms. The universe sent an assassin to get rid of the stain that is Rags. Well you know what, universe? You can suck it! Because I’m still here, baby! I’m not going anywhere!

Alright, I doubt the cosmic powers that be actually want me dead. I’m just a little on edge at the moment. Understandably so, I should think. The town guards say they haven’t found the guy, or, thing, or whatever it was. You’d think something like that wouldn’t be too hard to find. I’m staying at Nougat’s place today. Normally I abhor sleepovers, but in this case I’m more than willing to make an exception. Not that I’ll actually get any sleep. How could I with those howls still being so vivid in my mind?

_________________________________________________________________________

“Rags! A kid threw up under table 3! Mop it! Now!” His boss, a slightly older heavyset stallion, bellowed from the doorway of the kitchen. Rags stopped in the middle of scrubbing a dish, shrugged his shoulders with a hefty sigh, and let the plate sink into the murky dishwater. He muttered obscenities regarding his manager’s mother and her promiscuous activities as he trudged across the room to retrieve his trusty mop and accompanying bucket.

I hate children. I really do. What’s the point of having them? All they do is poop, eat, scream, vomit, poop some more, cry, and whine. Or that’s all they do when they’re around me anyway. Well, and sit creepily on the sidewalk alone at night and freak out folks just trying to get home from work. They seem to do that a lot around me too.

Rags gave a slight shiver at the memory. It had been at the forefront of his mind all day and took up the majority of his attention, much to his boss's chagrin. He couldn’t help it, he didn’t want to remember it at all. However, something so abnormal does not simply remove itself from one’s memory banks.

“Hurry it up, Rags! Before it starts driving our customers out!” His boss grew ever more impatient with time. Rags pushed the memory to the back of his mind and rushed into the dining area with the mop, cursing at his superior under his breath the whole way.

It was lunch hour, meaning that the diner, named Mom and Pop's, was pretty swamped. Customers filed in at a brisk pace and placed orders in a timely fashion. Nearly every booth was stuffed with one to four patrons, all chatting and feasting before their time for doing so was over and they had to scurry back to their own work environs. As for Rags, this was his work environ, and he hated every waking minute of it. Mainly because most ponies severely lacked dining etiquette, making his job more difficult.

He made his way to the opposite end of the restaurant, his target, a puddle of bile straight from the bowels of a crying foal, in sight. Whipping his mop out of the bucket, he thrust it into the nasty mess, with the stench that clung to it slowly deteriorating as it was cleaned into oblivion by the veteran washer.

The little colt dumped his bowl of pea soup on the floor in his fit, right on top of the previous mess. The mother was giving out as many apologies as she could in a flustered manner. Rags gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to let loose a number of choice words to express how irked he was. Before he could open his mouth to release the naughty language, the boss appeared from behind.

“Whoops, looks like your precious little angel had a spill there, ma’am. Don’t worry, Rags here is more than happy to clean it up. Aren’t you, boy?” The bosses’ tone made it abundantly clear that it wasn’t an option for Rags to say no. The employee rolled his eyes in response, earning him a wicked glare from the boss. His superior gave a bow to the mother and the child, the latter finally beginning to calm down, before retreating back to the counter. The child threw a small salt shaker at Rags' head and giggled. The stallion tried to kill it with his eyes as he continued mopping.

Finishing off the mess, Rags took his loyal mop and bucket back into the kitchen and resumed cleaning the dishes. He stole a quick glance at the clock as he wiped leftovers and scraps off the plates and bowls. One-thirty, on the dot. Before long, this sea of hungry ponies would ebb, and the rate at which filth was produced would along with it too. He just had to resist the urge to kill himself with a spork for a little bit longer.

_________________________________________________________________________

It was about quitting time for Rags. Nary a customer in sight, and the kitchen was practically glowing. Rags’ work in the diner was just about done, with only a few pieces of silverware left to cleanse before he could clock out. The stench of soap and cleaning chemicals burned in his nostrils as he dried the last butter knife. The bell that hung above the entrance doors rang, making him cringe as it’s infuriating chime penetrated his ear drums.

“Hey, Rags! You almost done in there?” A voice called from the beyond the kitchen. Rags could recognize it, and knew that the nervous intones could belong to none other than Nougat. The soapy stallion didn’t feel like expending the energy necessary for responding from the kitchen, and he instead hung his apron and made for the doorway, shutting off the lights as he exited.

As Rags made his way out from behind the counter, the droopy eyed dishwasher grumbled a greeting to his pal. Nougat caught on to the tone, and adopted a concerned look to match his words. “You ok there, bud?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I guess,” Rags muttered.

“Really? Because you look anything but,” Nougat joked, drawing a light chuckle out of his worn companion. They both turned to leave the joint, but were halted by a booming shout.

“Rags! Where do you think you’re going!?” The boss roared.

“Home, you windbag.”

“Did you clean all the silverware!?”

“Yes.”

“And the bathrooms!?"

“Yes.”

“Well what about the--”

“Yes, you tubby blowhard, yes! I’ve cleaned everything! It’s all spic and span! Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go home like a normal pony does after work!” Rags shouted back, close to matching his superior’s furious pitch.

His bosses’ face scrunched in anger. “You can’t talk to me like that! You’re lucky I don’t fire your worthless flank!”

“You wouldn’t fire me, you need someone to clean the bathrooms and you’re too much of a pus to do it yourself.” Rags stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“That’s all you’re good for! Scrubbing those crappers! And I expect you here bright and early to do it again tomorrow!” The boss jutted a hoof in Rags’ direction to add finality to his words. The employee didn’t waste his breath coming up with a response, and only flicked his tail at his manager as he continued out. Rags could hear agitated ramblings from back inside the diner. Nougat, who had been looking on in frightened silence, finally spoke.

“Jeez, is he always like that?” the pegasus asked in amazement.

Rags rolled his tired eyes, “No, this is actually one of his better days.”

“You should really quit, man,” Nougat said, looking back at the diner that contained the fuming stallion.

Rags sighed deeply, “Can’t, I need the money. But it’s ok. I call him a chode, he calls me a maggot, but at the end of the day, he signs my checks and I clean the stalls. But lemme’ tell ya, Nougat, one of these days... one of these days!” Rags said with rage as he shook his hoof.

They both walked in silence for a moment, waiting for the awkwardness of that whole episode to fade. Once it did, Nougat spoke softly, “So, uhm, how ya feeling?”

“I yearn for death’s sweet embrace,” Rags said sardonically.

“Well aren’t you a barrel of kittens?” Nougat quipped.

“I’m serious here, Nougat. Something's gotta change! I can’t go on like this! Every day is the same thing: Get up, go to work, feel like crap, leave work, walk around with you for a little bit, go home, sleep, repeat.” Rags’ words appeared to be saddening him as he continued, “I need to know that there is something better out there, otherwise I’ll curl up in the fetal position and weep in the corner of my room until I starve and die.”

“You always know how to brighten the mood, you know that?” Nougat’s sarcasm did not bode well with Rags, garnering an annoyed glare from him.

“I’m serious, bro.” Rags stopped walking and sat down on the sidewalk with his head hung low, his eyes shut, and his hooves rubbing his temples.

“Brotha... I don’t know what to tell you. The rest of us have contented ourselves with our share in life. Why can’t you?” Nougat asked, seeming to genuinely care about his friend’s dilemma. “You’ve gone on like this for months. It’s ‘there’s gotta be something else out there’ this, and ‘is this all there is?’ that. At some point, you just have to accept the fact that this is what you’ve been given and you should make the best out of it.”

Rags shook his head, still keeping his eyes shut. “I can’t do that.”

“Why? You’re worried about wasting your life, but that’s exactly what you’re doing by spending all this time moping around,” said Nougat, with a gentle but firm tone.

Rags inhaled and exhaled deeply before replying, “I’ve tried. I really have. But no matter what I do, I just can’t help but feel like there is something that I’m not doing right.”

“Well, I can’t do anything for you. I’ve given my two bits and told you what I thought, but you’re looking for answers that I don’t have. So please, stop harshin' my mellow every day with this stuff, hmm?” Nougat offered a hoof to his friend, whose rump was still planted on the street.

Rags looked up to his comrade’s appendage, and with a tiny grin he lightly chortled, “I never did think about how my little tirades have been effecting you. Sorry for dumping my problems on you, bro. I’ll save it for my therapist.” He grasped his associate’s hoof with his own, and pulled himself back onto all fours.

“So, like, are we supposed to hug now, or what?” Nougat said, shifting nervously on his hoofs.

“Do you have a death-wish?” Rags ripped his hoof away from his friend’s with disgust.

“Pardon me for not knowing how to properly end this tender moment!” Nougat snapped.

“Well now you know how to end moments like this, without any hugging. Save that kind of crap for your marefriend... oh wait...” Rags smirked as he passed, a noticeable twitch clear on Nougat’s features. But it soon faded to a placated grin, making it clear that Nougat was just happy to have his friend back to his old snarky self.

He caught up to Rags and they continued conversing, this time free of existential angst. “So, you wanna go peek at mares in the spa?” Nougat’s brusqueness took Rags off guard.

“Wait, what!? Dude, we haven’t done that since we were kids! If someone caught two grown stallions doing that, we’d be arrested or something!” Rags couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“So? Haven’t you ever heard about being a child at heart?” the pegasus grinned. The two friends chuckled for a moment.

“Nah, I’m not in the mood. I’m pretty friggin’ tired. I think I’m gonna go home, take a few sips of the good old stuff, and fall asleep in my alcoholic vomit.” The dishwasher turned, heading towards a different street than that of his yellow companion.

“Gonna go live the dream, eh?” Nougat yawned, “I’m pretty sleepy myself. Alright, guess I’ll be seeing you then. And seriously, lighten up, man. It’s gonna get better for you soon, I can feel it.” And with that, they said their farewells and parted ways. It was time once again for Rags’ favorite part of the day. The long walk home.

_________________________________________________________________________

The sky was that familiar shade of luscious purple that he had come to know and love, though it wouldn’t be long now until darkness overtook the sky, draining all color and replacing it with pitch black speckled with dots of vibrant white light. With any luck, Luna would raise a glorious moon to keep Rags company on this evening.

Lights in houses could be seen flicking off throughout the neighborhood, usually a sign that ponies within were turning in for the night. Rags thought this was a little peculiar. Lights out at this time was not unheard of. Many foals were put to bed at this point, but the number of lights being put out was considerable, as if everybody was going to bed early. Not an event that was spectacular in the slightest, but still, something to take note of. Perhaps Rags had forgotten about daylight savings.

Along with familiar shades of color came familiar thoughts. He began pondering his own words he had spoken to Nougat earlier. He hadn’t wholly thought them through at the time. They were far more articulate and clear in his heart than they were in his mind. Be that as it may, he still meant what he said. He wanted, needed, a change. Suddenly, an idea sprang to mind. A vacation. A trip across the land. Nothing too amazing, just a refreshing change of scenery. He did love walking under the moonlight, after all, so why not a walk under the moonlight in the majestic capital of Canterlot?

He liked the sound of that. But for the time being, it was just a pipe-dream. He hadn’t the money to support a journey like that. Nor did he possess the vacation time in his work schedule. It would have to remain a fantasy until he could scrounge up enough cash. But he had a feeling that it would be well worth the effort to pursue. He’d always heard that opportunity was wont to befall the unsuspecting on the streets of Canterlot. Maybe something would happen to him in there that would allow him to leave his current lifestyle behind, and lead a greater one in the regal city.

As expected, the blackness of night consumed the light of the sun, the ball of fire fallen below the horizon, no longer providing any resistance to the darkness. Rags felt a wave of contentment wash over him. His only other friend besides Nougat, the Moon, floated above, delicately pouring it’s porcelain glow upon the world around him.

thwack

Yes sir, Luna did a fine job raising that brilliant satellite. It never failed to put a smile on Rags’ face.

thwack

This time, Rags was sure to avoid any crying fillies. No more funny business interrupting his walks home.

thwack

Smooth sailing from here on out. Just a peaceful walk home with the breeze of the night cascading across his face, like the brushes of a lover’s hoof over one's cheek.

thwack

Rags’ attempts at ignoring the odd noise echoing through the air were all in vain. No matter how hard he tried, it rang in his ears clear as day. And, to his immense displeasure, it sounded like it was coming from around the area where his home was located. Flashes of the previous night popped into his mind, causing him to run through a multitude of scenarios about the source.

thwack

Were the pranksters back? What expertly executed, yet horrible trick did they have planned out this time? Rags thought that he must have been pretty funny looking last night after the incident with the filly if they were targeting him again.

thwack

Then again, there was always the possibility that it wasn’t the jokers. Rags tried not to think about other outcomes. With a noise like that? He found it much more comforting to operate under the pretense that it was just a bunch of adolescents looking for a laugh.

thwack

He rounded the corner to his street. He scanned the road and sidewalks ahead, vision focusing intently, searching for any and all movements. There, in the shadows. He saw it.

thwack

A dark figure, stallion, judging by the build, bringing his forearm up and down on an unknown object poised on a vegetable kiosk, set up two blocks away from Rags’ home on the sidewalk between him and his destination. What a strange sight. Why would a kiosk be set up anywhere but the market place? What’s more, why was a stallion chopping vegetables at this hour?

thwack

Now both more curious and skeptical, Rags inched down the sidewalk, approaching the stallion with caution, still wary of the jokers that could have been behind this. As he neared, Rags could make out several features on the pony. A coat black as dragon smoke with patches of white, a cleaver clenched in his hoof, and a distinct lack of a cutie mark. But the most interesting, and most ominous, part was what the stallion was chopping. Rags prayed to whoever was in charge that this vegetable kiosk doubled as a fruit stand, because what the stallion was chopping was red and messy like a watermelon.

thwack

The stranger hadn’t taken notice of Rags yet. He watched curiously as the stranger continuously brought the cleaver down on whatever it was he was slicing without any apparent regard for the quality of the product. Whatever it was, it was completely massacred. Gulping, Rags took a gamble and verbalized.

“Uhm, h-hello? H-how ya doing?”

The stranger stopped chopping.

“You know, I-I haven’t seen anybody around here, shouldn’t you be closing up shop and going home?”

No response.

Rags moved closer, now about seven feet in distance from the odd stallion. “Hey, pal? You doing alright? Is something wr- holybuckingsh--”

Within an instant, the stranger spun, lunged, and swiped his red splattered cleaver at Rags’ head. Rags barely reacted in time to dodge the attack. He stumbled backwards, attempting to put a reasonable distance between himself and the stranger.

“!uoy tae lliw I!” the stranger screamed.

“Hey! What the buck is wrong with--” Rags froze. He got a clear look at the stallion. No, at the thing.

It was shaped like a pony, but it wasn’t a pony. It wasn’t the coat that was black, it was a tar-like goo that covered the entirety of the body, and dripped off in small globs. The spots of white were not colors of the coat, they were patches of bone, exposed in large gashes and rotting flesh wounds that could be seen here and there across its length, through the thick layer of tar. Its eyes were blazing red, lidless and intense. But the most horrifying aspect was the voice. Or rather, voices. When it vocalized, it sounded as if it had multiple voices of varying genders and ages, all of them sounding irate. The messy red substance it pounded on with the cleaver was not fruit, but the corpse of a small foal. That was all that was discernible about it.

Rags could feel tears of fear forming at the edges of his eyes. The creature raised its cleaver. “!eiD !eiD !EID” the beast howled before lunging once more. Rags sidestepped fast enough to avoid, but only slightly. A few strands of his mane floated down to the ground, sheared off by the wild creature. The thing fumbled and tripped over itself as it skidded past its would-be victim.

Rags could not think. He could not move. He was stuck in place, only staring at the monstrosity that grunted and growled at him as it got back up. His instincts begged him to move, imploring him to run for his life. The creature wasted no time, brandishing its red cleaver above its head and preparing to bring it down on Rags’ skull. Control flooded back into Rags before the beast could strike, and with swiftness he never knew he possessed, he evaded the blow and immediately made a bee line for his home, the monster barking and snarling as it gave chase.

With control, came thought. Rags’ mind fired on all cylinders, trying to piece together what just transpired and what his next move would be. Of course, trying to calculate and process this with fear coursing through his veins like a raging herd of buffalo led to one big clusterbuck in his brain.

What!? Who!? Where!? Why!? GAH! Gotta get home! Oh sweet mother of all that is holy, it tried to kill me! It's behind me! I can hear it! Gotta get home! Guards! I need the town guards! Where are the town guards!? AHH! It’s gaining! By Celestia’s beard, I’m gonna die! I think I left the oven on! It killed someone! That was a pony on the counter! What was it doing!? Defense! I need protection! Gotta defend myself! How!? What do I do!? Luna on a bun, I can hear it breathing! Run! Run, you spindly legged dishwasher, RUN!

He put ‘regaining cohesive thought’ lower on the list of important things to do right now, under ‘just get away’. As he neared his domicile, he could hear the rage filled snorts of the thing’s flaring nostrils. He bolted up the steps to his door and fidgeted with the keys. He only had a few seconds left to live, and he was spending them looking for the multiple keys to his superfluous several locks. Only a heartbeat’s moment from death, he finally just tried the doorknob. And from that point on, he pledged to bow in respect to doorknobs everywhere before opening them, for the knob on his door permitted him entrance into his house. It looked like Rags forgot to ensure that his door was locked this morning before he left. Fortune beyond belief.

He dashed inside and slammed the door behind himself, and the instant it was shut, a cleaver penetrated the frame, right in the spot where he was standing not but a few milliseconds ago. He bolted the bolts and locked the door up tight. Thinking quickly, he darted into the kitchen and took up the biggest chef’s knife he owned. With the knife in his mouth, he ran to the telephone in the living room. He scooped up the device and dialed the number of salvation to summon the guards. Though what he heard was not the response of an operator ready to put him through to the law enforcement, but instead, something absolutely dreadful: dead air.

Cursing, he smashed the phone back onto the receiver and charted his next course. He ran to the back of his home and into his bedroom, performing the same actions he did with the front door. As if he was trained to do so, he flicked the light switch off and slipped under the bed with snake-like elegance.

There, in the darkness and silence, hidden under his mattress, Rags listened intently. The terrified stallion felt warm tears flow down his face. He pondered for a moment whether or not he would piss himself, but there were far more important things to be concerned with now than a urine stain on the floor under his bed. His ears perked and swiveled about like a radar dish, searching for any signs of imminent death.

ching

There. A sign. Though not one of imminent death, it could have been the prelude to such.

ching

It came not from inside the house, but outside, much to the quivering stallion’s relief.

ching

He tried to pinpoint it, to find out both what that thing was doing and if it was getting closer.

ching

Yes, it was getting closer. Coming towards his bedroom along the outside wall of the structure.

ching

It almost sounded like the walls were being struck with the bloody weapon the thing had gripped in its hoof. Like it was trying to get the house to spit out his prey.

ching

…

Yet again, silence fell on Rags’ ears. The noise had stopped. There was no audible trace of the perpetrator. Had he given up? Was he just trying to draw Rags out of hiding? Theories sprouted in his mind, only this time, they could not be called crackpot ideas cooked up by an overly paranoid individual. All things considered, they were perfectly reasonable assumptions. This truly unnerved Rags. The day had come when his paranoid delusions started to look like logical conclusions. Was this the beginning of the end?

CRASH

The sound of shattering glass cut through the quiet.

The windows! It came in through a window! Oh balls, it’s inside! Oh balls, oh balls, oh balls, oh balls. Ok, keep it together, man. At least it didn’t come in through your bedroom window. And you’ve got your bedroom door shut and triple locked. You’ll be fine as long as you just stay quiet. Heh, I’d like to see this freak get through a Rags locked door!

Sharp, ragged breaths and the stomping of hooves could be heard approaching the bedroom door. From the sounds of it, the thing had stopped right outside the room.

Oh crap, I take it back! I would not like to see that!

The breathing lingered outside the threshold, as if the monster knew Rags was inside, but just wanted to scare the piss out of him. Suffice to say, it was on the verge of success. After some time, the breathing subsided, and the hoofsteps moved down the hall. Rags exhaled a huff of air he didn’t even know he was holding, when a hideous crack came from down the hallway. The sound of splintering wood was undeniable. A large thump shook the floor, and Rags began shaking as well.

A minute passed, and more splintering and cracking occurred, followed by another large thump. Rags put two and two together right quick, and began shaking even more violently than before. The thing was tearing doors off their hinges and searching the rooms. Rags hadn’t considered how intelligent this monstrosity could be. Was it smart enough to look in every nook and cranny?

The stomping came back to his door once again, accompanied by a wheezing breath. Rags was utterly petrified. It felt like an eternity, waiting for the thing’s next move. He gritted his teeth on the handle of the knife, and dug his hoofs into the carpet as he prepared for the worst. His eyes were shut tight as the muffled breaths on the other side got shorter and shorter, quicker and quicker. A powerful smash on the frame. Cracking and snapping. A thump on the ground. Then it was inside.

The light left on in the hallway cast a cone of brightness through the mangled doorway, and an elongated shadow forbiddingly etched across the floor. Hooves black as coal shambled past Rags’ field of view, leaving a trail of tar in their wake. The thing stopped on the far side of the bed, still wheezing heavily. It stood stock still, as if focusing all of its energies into sensory perception.

Rags made especially sure not to make a single sound. He didn’t breath or move, trying his hardest to be invisible. If he could, he would even stop his heartbeat to keep it from beating so loudly. The wheezing came in longer intakes now. The black hooves began trembling slightly, before beginning to bend and bow, like they couldn’t support the being they were attached too. But as this oddity continued and more of the thing’s body became visible to Rags, he realized that his worst nightmare at this moment was coming true.

It was bending over to look under the bed, albeit very sluggishly.

The adrenalin was too great. The fear too monumental. Before he could even formulate his next move, Rags zipped out from under the bed, eliciting a horrendous yowl from the thing, which had immediately changed gears, from slow and unbalanced to fierce and predatory, the moment its prey was in sight.

“!uoy dnuoF” it screeched in its multiple voices.

Rags bounded over the trashed heap that was once the bedroom door and made way for the front door, the thing in hot pursuit. He flung open the door and tried to sprint out, but was foiled in his escape by a slimy black hoof coming down hard on his shoulder. Operating only on instinct, Rags thrashed his head backwards, feeling jarred when he struck what felt like a brick wall. A brick wall that sprayed black fluids all over his face as it gave an evil hiss.

The iron grip on his shoulder released, and Rags tumbled down the steps, his momentum wrenching his balance out from under his hooves. His head spun and his vision blurred, though through his dizzy haze, he could see the thing, flailing and hollering in agony with a knife lodged deep into its eye. In this short moment of rest, even if burdened by a throbbing headache and several bruised body parts, Rags miraculously regained the ability to think.

Foregoing any attempts at piecing together what just happened, or what was going on in general, Rags instead used his blessed think organ to whip up a quick plan. He hopped up and rushed up the stairs to the thing. It flung its head up, saw Rags coming, and gave a short growl before Rags plowed his two front hooves into it’s chest, sending the creature further back into the home, and sending tremors up his legs. Again, it was like punching brick. The thing was nothing but raw power.

Rags shut the door. The tactic was sure to buy him a few seconds to execute his brilliant scheme. Throwing himself off the stoop, Rags ran full blast to the neighbors door. The sounds of the thing collecting itself and regaining its composure perforated the walls of Rags’ home. It was time to put his phenomenal plan into action. Standing before the neighbors home, he puffed out his chest, mustered his strength, preparing to perform an action that could save his life.

“Help! It’s trying to kill me! Someone help! Sweet merciful Celestia, HEEEELP!” Rags screamed like a filly while bashing the door with both hooves. Phase one of the plan was complete. The cracking and snapping assaulted his ears once more. The thing had gotten up, and from the sounds of it, was not in the best of moods. When no response came from the neighbors home, Rags sprinted to the next and repeated the procedure.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Nothing. Not a soul in sight. Rags wondered why none came to his aid, or even came out to see what all of the fuss was about. All lights were out in the homes. All were sleeping, stunningly enough. How could anybody sleep with all of this racket?

Smashing noises erupted from down the street. Rags let out a weak meep. The thing was out, and no doubt would be on the prowl. He didn’t linger around. Rags hightailed it down the sidewalk, heading for town square.

_________________________________________________________________________

As he progressed down the roads, he occasionally stopped to bash on doors and shout at homes in hopes of attracting the attention of someone willing to provide assistance. A waste of time, as of yet. Things were getting more curious by the second. The homes were dark, but the street lamps were still on. Not a pony in sight, with even any guards stuck with the graveyard shift being oddly absent. This wasn’t just ponies in too deep of a sleep to hear him. Something was up. It was a ghost town.

A demented screech pierced the night. The thing was closing in. Rags hauled flank.

He didn’t have time to inspect the mystery of the missing ponies. As usual, he couldn’t rely on anybody else. Only before, the lack of support from those around him didn’t mean the difference between life and being mutilated by a bloodthirsty monstrosity. He assumed that he was all alone. Which meant that it was time to fall back on plan B. Hiding like a foal in a game of hide-and-seek. Except losing would leave him chopped to pieces in a dark alleyway. He would give anything to have a cutie mark in hiding right about now.

Thinking as quickly as his consternation would allow him, he made a mental list of all the places he could hide. Drawing on his childhood memories of narrowly avoiding the painful pummels of bullies by disappearing into sneaky locations, he came up with a few spots that could quite possibly be a safe haven. But which one was best?

The dumpster behind the bakery? No, the monster might have a sweet tooth. The haystacks in the barn on Sweet Apple Acres? Maybe. The Carousel Boutique? Definitely not. Rags was pretty sure that only schoolyard bullies avoided that place, and that monsters didn’t have such aversions to fashion. The library? He decided it was time to stop looking to his childhood recollections for ideas. Most of the hiding spots he used back then only fooled hormonally imbalanced colts, not savage abominations.

Another supernatural screech of anger. Though it was more faint than before. At least Rags was putting a respectable distance between him and the thing.

It looked like the barn on Sweet Apple Acres would be his best bet. After all, the road to the farm was close to his current position, the barn in and of itself had a multitude of discrete places to tuck himself away in, and if Rags could pick anybody to discover him in his predicament and come to his aid, it would be the Element of Honesty herself, Applejack. Rags heard a lot about the exploits of the elements, of their heroic acts and impressive feats. He once heard that Applejack stopped a speeding cart on an inverted slope. That sounded like strength that could give even the nastiest creatures pause for thought. And her stoic, yet titanic brother would no doubt be of assistance.

Of course, Rags didn’t really believe that anyone was going to help him at this point, but still, if they were, he’d want it to be the apple-bucking national hero. He was mostly focused on the cover the barn could supply. A large stack of hay in the upper portion like what he used to camouflage himself with when he was under attack by young punks way back when. He made up his mind. He was going to the apple farm. The road to take him out of town was just up ahead.

One final cry of rage. Still a fair way back, somewhere in the thrall of buildings and streets behind Rags.

Seizing the golden opportunity, he turned sharply onto the dirt road to the acres of apples, and sprinted as fast as he could down the path. Before, he had the streetlamps of Ponyville to supply vision. But now, on the rural back road, he was swallowed by darkness. The veil of black spread over the land. It was only navigable by the soft glow of the moon and stars. Without the presence of any decent lighting, the night twisted and transformed ordinary objects into shapes that looked suspiciously similar to the thing.

More than once, Rags gave a jump and a yelp like a frightened puppy when he looked to either side of himself to find a bush shaped like a murderous tar monster with a massive erection.

Within a few minutes, and close to complete fatigue, Rags had reached perceived safety. Sweet Apple Acres. He wasn’t out of the line of fire yet. He still had to cloak himself. Though it was possible that the thing would still be searching in town, Rags was taking no chances. After all, it might pull another trick like it did back at his home and come looking where the stallion believed himself hidden. No time to ponder how it knew to look under the bed.

Nearly operating on instinctual childhood practices alone, he rocketed into the open barn, bounded up the latter to the second level of the structure, and threw himself like a javelin into a soft, scratchy pile of hay, the material cushioning his landing. His lungs burned, his muscles ached, and sweat doused his body. That was all he had left in him. If the thing found him now, it was game over. He swore to himself that if he ever got out of this, he would spend his life savings on personal training sessions with that Rainbow mare, the speedy Element of Loyalty. Then he’d never be at risk of dying of tired legs again.

He didn’t like that mare very much. She always made the biggest messes when she came to eat at the diner. Rags shook his head clean of this thought. More important things to worry about.

There he lay buried in the alfalfa, taking in large gulps of air for a few moments before slowing his breathing to a much more discrete level. And like he did under the bed, he silenced and halted himself completely, focusing all of his conscious efforts into his hearing. The deafening roar of nothingness fell on his eardrums. Not a peep. Even the crickets, whose chirping was practically intrinsic to the night this time of year, seemed to be hiding from the thing.

Up until now, Rags hadn’t been able to put any extended amount of thought into the events that unfolded this evening. As he recalled the awful tragedy, tears flowed again. He distinctly remembered the howls, the shining blood-stained cleaver, the dead child. His emotions finally caught up with him. He nearly let out a whimper as he remembered the thing bending over to bore its eyes into him as he quivered under the bed. Those eyes. On the bright side, the memories of the filly from the night before were gone now. The down side? They were replaced with even more traumatizing ones.

A well of emotions, unbearable stress, physically exerted past his limit, all of this on top of the lack of energy he already had to deal with after work left him exhausted in every way one could be. He simply could no longer hold out. Vicious killer on the hunt or not, Rags found himself unable to press on. His eyes started falling like anchors were attached to them. He reprimanded his mind and body, told it “No, don’t give out now. It’s still out there.”

His mind and body only provided a brief rebuttal, “Can’t. Just can’t. Sleep. Need... sleep.”

Despite his protests, his mind and body had made up their minds. They were giving up the ghost. Rags no longer had a say in the matter. His lids collapsed. Then, that awful voice, way off yonder. He tore his bloodshot, bulging eyes open and tried to convince himself to stay awake.

No! Gotta stay awake! It’s lurking around! It’s still hunting! Still... looking... for... me... GAH! Stay awake, Rags! Is this how you want to die? Diced up in your sleep? If that thing finds you, you need to be ready to get up and go or fight back!... Fight back... fight back... fight... back...

The Sandpony did not discriminate. When it was time to sleep, it was time to sleep, hounded by a monster or not. Rags’ number was up. The indomitable willed stallion was out cold. the exhaustion of the day tore his defenses down, and the warmth and enticing comfort of the hay pile finished the job, whisking him off to the ethereal land of slumber. Strangely enough, no dreams were present in his mind.

Chapter 3: Darkest Day

Journal entry #3

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. It happened again. I was almost killed again, just like the night before. The tar-pony came after me again. Only this time he wasn't alone. They came after dusk. Just like the night before. I think they only come out at night. But there is another problem. Everyone else… they’re gone. They’re gone after dark. I’m alone in the evening.

I have no idea what’s going on. These aren’t just crazy ponies, and they aren’t creatures from the Everfree either. There is something in Ponyville. A darkness. Some kind of force that… I don’t know how to explain it. From now on, this journal isn’t just a means of therapy for a loser with too many self-inflicted problems, this is a record of the events to come. That is, if I live long enough to see them.

_________________________________________________________________________

Hey...

Hey, wake up...

Wake up, ya varmint...

Get yer drunk flank outta mah barn...

The distant voice was becoming more clear with each poke. Something was jabbing Rags in the forehead, something with a thick southern drawl. His eyes began fluttering open, but he wasn’t really trying to wake up. He was trying to see who the annoying voice belonged to. He caught a glimpse of orange and yellow. He pried into his brain, trying to remember who he knew that was orange and yellow. Ah, yes. Applejack. Applejack? Rags wondered what the country mare was doing in his home.

In his home? He wasn’t in his home. His bedding was itchy, and the walls were red. His walls weren’t red. He thought long and hard, trying to figure out what was going on. He put the pieces of the puzzle together and came to the deduction that he was in the apple farmer’s barn. The apple farmer’s barn? Why was he in the apple farmer’s barn? Maybe...

Recollection of last night’s events exploded vividly into his mind all at once. The thing. The thing.

Rags shot upwards, eyes bugged out and hooves frantically flying in every direction, swatting at an invisible foe, and shouted at the top of his lungs, “THE THING!”

POW

And he was out like a light again.

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags stirred from his coma-like state. His eyes cracked and harsh sunlight blinded him. As his eyes adjusted, he could see ponies silhouetted against the cloudless blue. He groggily began to sit up, but a throbbing headache pushed him back down. “What hit me?” he slurred.

“A pissed off apple bucker, yah looney varmint!” a familiar, southern accented voice barked. Rags tried once more to push himself up, fought throughout the process by the harsh pain in his skull. He was nearly upright when two sets of foreign hoofs grasped his own tightly and thrusted them behind his back, then plowing his upper body face-first into the ground, warranting a muffled “OMPF!”

“You have the right to remain silent,” a baritone voice began, “Anything you say can and will be used against you.” A pair of cuffs were brought down with a loud clack on Rags’ forearms.

“Wait, I’m under arrest!?” he confoundedly asked around the earth. “For what charges!?”

“Trespassing, attempted battery, and substance abuse,” the guard stated authoritatively.

“That’s what ya get for drinkin’ in mah barn n’ trying to attack me, yah lousy drunk!” AppleJack fumed.

“Drinking!? Attack you-- no no, I’m the one who was attacked! The thing! The thing attacked me!” Rags hastily defended.

“Thing?” one of the guards asked.

“Yeah! the thing! It was big, and, and it had, like, voices, and, and, and it was covered in tar, and it had a cleaver! And, and--”

“Sounds like you was just drunker than 40 buffalo and saw some sorta hallucination, to me,” Applejack cut in, and from what he could see from his constrained position, was casting him a suspicious sideways look. Rags thought about it for a split second, and realized that he sounded like an utter psycho with his talk of muscular, cleaver wielding tar beasts. He collected his facts and tried again with a greater degree of tact in his presentation.

“It’s true! There was this thing! Some kind of creature! It was like a pony, but different! It destroyed my house! It chased me across town with a cleaver! I had to hide in your barn!” Rags could hardly see the apple farmer, and the two guards behind him were invisible completely, but he had a feeling that the testimony was at least being taken into consideration, judging from the silence momentarily hanging in the air.

“It...destroyed your house?” one of the guards asked.

“Yes! It was insane!” Rags exclaimed. Another silence hung in the air

“Is your name Rags?” the other guard asked this time.

“Yes, sir! Wait, how do you know me? Have we met before? This is the first time I’ve been arrested, right? I mean, was I, like, drunk one night and didn’t remember? Or--”

“Oh dang, I’m real sorry ‘bout that,” Applejack cut in with a surprisingly soft tone. A complete change from her stance mere moments ago.

“Uhm…” Rags didn’t know what brought on such an attitude adjustment, and the suddenness threw him off.

“Call an ambulance. Tell them to meet us at this pony’s address,” one guard spoke to the other as they lifted him off the ground.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Rags asked, becoming distraught.

“Stay calm, sir. We found your home destroyed this morning. We’re investigating the matter as we speak,” the guard said. Now that Rags was sitting up, he finally had a clear view of the group of ponies around him. The apple farmers, a solemn looking Applejack, the pensive Big Mac, the wide-eyed smaller sister of the two, and a very perturbed looking elder mare, the owner of the farm. Behind him stood two tough-as-nails-looking guards, the younger looking like he was not but a few months out of the academy, while the older had the attitude of a veteran. The latter was the one doing most of the talking.

“Then… does that mean you believe me?” Rags asked hopefully.

“Well, not really, but something definitely did some serious damage to your home. Come with us, please.” And with that, the veteran officer released Rags from his cuffs, and gestured to the wagon the two enforcers hauled with them to the farm. On the back of the cart was a heavy set of iron bars, intended for the apprehension of ne'er-do-wells. Fortunately, it rarely saw use, as Ponyville was famous for its peaceful nature.

Rags was ushered into the back of the barred cart, assured by the guards that he was only in there to be lifted to his home and not the jailhouse. Applejack and her older brother approached the wagon to offer words of condolence before Rags’ departure.

“Uhm… sorry ‘bout buckin’ you in the face. I, uh, thought you were crazy,” Applejack smiled sheepishly, “If ya need a place to go, we have a guest room here for ya. Or I could always get a hold of mah friend Fluttershy n’ work somethin’ out.”

“Uhm, sure thing… thanks?” Rags said bewilderedly. The thing only tore down a few doors and broke a few windows. It wasn’t like it burned his home down or anything. Why was such kindness being offered to him? With a jerk of motion, the wagon was on the move, and picked up speed at an urgent rate.

“You take care now,” AJ waved as the vehicle made haste down the road. Big Mac mimicked the gesture and offered a “Eeyup” to support his sister’s words.

The guardsponies vanished moments later in a cloud of dust further down the rural dirt road. Applejack whistled in amazement and turned to Macintosh. “Poor fella. I saw his house this mornin’ after Rainbow told me ‘bout it. Looked like a manticore plowed through the place.”

Mac was not one for conversation, typically, but concerns scratched at his mind that demanded more words than he was used to giving. “He said it looked like a pony, and it chased him ‘round with a cleaver. Ahm thinkin’ we got a real psycho prowlin’ ‘round town.” Mac affixed his sister with a stoic stare. Applejack picked up on the suggestion hidden in his words after a moment and nodded.

“Right, I’ll get the tools.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags sat on the sidewalk with his eyes wide and pupils shrunken, fixated on his home. A throng of guards stood vigilantly, keeping rubbernecking onlookers at bay. EMTs surrounded Rags and performed numerous checks and procedures on the stunned stallion to ensure he wasn’t harmed or wounded. They suspected mild shock was at play, but they couldn’t tell whether it was the prior night’s events that did it, or the sight before him. Investigators had been called in once Rags mentioned the bloody corpse in his story, and they searched for any shred of evidence that would reveal the identity of the culprit… or for that matter, the location of the cadaver. The gore splattered kiosk and the carcass of the child upon it was gone.

The crime scene was established hours ago, when the mare by the name of Rainbow Dash, the Element of Loyalty, had reported the destruction to the authorities. She said that she’d been sleeping on a cloud and woke to find herself floating above the domicile. A perfectly reasonable alibi, until she brought up the fact that she’d been sleeping in that same location all night. Rags didn’t believe her. It’s not that he suspected a national hero and element bearer of lying, but it just didn’t make any sense. How could she have been there, suspended over Rags’ house, and not have been stirred by the commotion? She couldn’t possibly have been that heavy of a sleeper. Nobody is.

But that was not the question most prominent in his mind. The bigger question was what the hay happened to his house? If the mangled heap before him could even be designated as such anymore.

It was an unbelievable development. His house had received even more punishment since last Rags saw it. The shingles on the roof were all but gone, and a gaping wound where his living room ceiling once hung spoke of something crashing through the structure with tremendous force. One wall, in his kitchen, had collapsed, bearing the twisted plumbing and gnarled wiring for all to see. The plumbing, electricity, and gas had all been shut off so as to avoid any accidents. Every window was smashed, every piece of furniture was outside and torn to pieces, and every square inch of the building was covered in scratches, slashes, and bite marks. It looked like a lynch mob stormed the place in search of Rags. Had the thing returned after losing Rags and taken it’s fury out on the house? Supporting this theory was the fact that none of the surrounding buildings received any damage whatsoever.

The Investigator, a stockier fellow with an accent clearly of Manehattan origins, stepped out of the front door, shook his head, and approached Rags. “So lemme’ get this straight, you say that this… thing… was some kind a’ psycho coated in black tar?” Rags didn’t register the question, still gawking at the ruins that used to be his living quarters. The Investigator cleared his throat audibly, bringing Rags’ disbelieving gaze to him.

“Huh?” Rags slurred.

“You’re gonna have to work with me here, pal, else I can’t work with you. So let’s run through this again, you came home from work,” he stated, waiting for confirmation from Rags on this fact before continuing.

“Uh-huh.”

“You came across this thing standin’ on the sidewalk, choppin’ up some poor kid?”

“Yeah…”

The Investigator took a moment before going on, the last fact about the child leaving a trace of sadness in him. “And it then proceeded to pursue you with the weapon?”

“Yes.”

“Into your own home, right? And it was covered in some kind of substance?”

“Tar. Dripping everywhere.”

The Investigator sighed and removed his fedora to scratch the top of his head in thought. “Well I’ll have to take your word on that, because I didn’t see any tar or blood or nothin’.”

Rags, still in a confused stupor, furrowed a brow slightly and quietly asked, “What?”

“Yeah, not so much as a hoof-print, ‘cept for yours,” he said, letting the words hang in the air for a second before placing his hat back onto his scalp. He peered at Rags from under the brim. “Kinda odd, ain’t it?”

Rags was no fool, he picked up on the underlying theme of the words and became perturbed at the accusations this investigator was making. He suspected Rags of lying? The insolence! His life was put in jeopardy and this stallion was putting him on the list of suspects? Of course, Rags could not justify his story with infallible proof. With all signs of the thing being strangely absent, and the foal’s body nowhere to be found, Rags supposed that he was beginning to look a tad bit fishy. Nonetheless, Rags knew what really happened, and he was going to make sure that this stallion knew too. “Are you for real with this? You can’t possibly think that I’m behind it all?”

“I’m just staying open to all possibilities, is all. I mean, this is pretty tough to swallow to begin with, bub. A tar-pony with a cleaver cut up a kid, chased you around, leveled your place, and disappeared without leaving a single shred of proof that it was even here? And not one witness to attest to any of it? That’s out there, don’t you think?” The Investigator’s steely-eyed stare did not discriminate. He was just as suspicious of Rags right now as he was of this alleged black beast.

“What motive would there be for me to make something up like this?” Rags snapped.

“I see this kind of crap all the time. Some down-on-his-luck sap gets the idea in his head to try and fake some kind of accident or hoax to get welfare checks, commit fraud, get his face plastered over every newspaper from here to Baltimare, you name it,” the Investigator explained, keeping a close eye on Rags’ face for any tells that could give away his intentions.

Rags argued, “Then what’s supposed to happen here!? I either get the book thrown at me for something I didn’t do or you guys just leave while some kind of savage creature hungry for some Rags stew is still on the loose!?”

“Calm yourself, buddy. I didn’t say that you are guilty. I’m just keepin’ an open mind.”

“Alright then, think about this with your open mind: Even if I was the one to do this, for some stupid reason, how is it that there aren’t any witnesses?” Rags said venomously. “A mess this big doesn’t pop up overnight without someone waking up to the sounds of a building being wrecked! I ran all around town last night, and I never saw a single pony get up to see what was going on!”

“Well like I said--” The Investigator began but was immediately interrupted.

“And let’s talk about the wreck, shall we? Its got bite marks. Bite marks for crying out loud! If this was the work of a regular pony, wouldn’t it look more, I don’t know, possible!? How would a scrawny, non-unicorn dishwasher be able to silently destroy his house with his teeth without a single witness!?” Rags barked louder than necessary, releasing his accumulated, pent up stress in one outburst.

“HEY! You better fix that attitude right the buck now!” The Investigator barked back, getting in Rags’ face. He took a step back from Rags, who had quieted himself after the sudden eruption from the fedora-wearing detective, and sighed. He then spoke more calmly, “Like I was sayin’, I’m just keeping an open mind. Which also means that facts, like the ones you just went on about, keep the limelight off you for the time being.” He pulled a cigar and a lighter from his coat pocket and sucked in a few relaxing puffs.

“Who knows, you might be totally right and there is some kinda monster lurking around. I mean, crazier stuff has happened, eh? This town has had swarms of hungry insects eat everything in sight, been attacked by an ursa minor, and even seen some action from the pits of Tartarus itself. Heck, there’s a resident livin’ here that once grew a hundred feet tall and smashed half the place up after kidnapping that fashionista broad. The idea of a gooey psychopath runnin’ around is not that hard to wrap your brain around now, is it?” The Investigator conceded. Rags didn’t quite know how to respond. He had just been challenged and sympathized with by the same stallion within the same conversation. So he just nodded.

Before the Investigator could continue, a yelp of great concern popped into the air. “RAGS!” Nougat cried, sprinting as fast as his legs would take him towards his friend, disregarding the agitated shouts of the guards he barreled through. He skidded to a halt mere feet from colliding with Rags like a freight train.

“Where have you been!? They sent guards looking for you this morning! Y-Your house! What happened, man!? You alright!?” Nougat sputtered. Rags was surprised at his friend’s enthusiasm, considering the crowd around them, usually something that caused great duress to the pegasus. Though it brought great relief and thankfulness to Rags to see his loyal friend vehemently charging in to make sure he wasn’t harmed.

“It’s a long story, and the punchline is I almost died. But, uhm… I didn’t, so don’t worry about it,” Rags chuckled meekly with an obviously fake smile, trying to cover up the fear and consternation that still had him in its iron clutches. The Investigator, either from seeing that Rags needed time to cope or out of annoyance from being interrupted, took the opportunity to excuse himself.

“We’ll talk later. If anything unusual comes up, gimme a call,” the Investigator said flatly while giving the dishwasher his card and turned to make his leave. Rags caught him looking back for half a second with a scrutinizing leer.

“Looks like we found somebody who’s a bigger stick in the mud than you are, bro,” Nougat forcibly joked, trying to brighten his friend up. He got the feeling Rags wasn’t in the mood. “Hey, you ok? I mean, you said you almost died. What happened?”

“Like I said, Nougat, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you later, but first, I need to check into a hotel and grab a stiff drink,” Rags said sadly.

“Check into a hotel? Why?” Nougat idiotically asked. Rags shot him a deadpan glare, which the pegasus took several moments to catch onto. “Oh… right… Well, why don’t you come stay at my place?”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah! It’ll be like a sleepover! Except more masculine! And you’ll probably spend most of the time there drunk on the couch!” Nougat beamed.

“You got that right. Thanks, buddy. You always know just what to say to almost-victims of tar covered maniacs,” Rags said while giving his pal a pat on the shoulder. Nougat grinned at the good he had done, but then his face contorted into one of confusion.

“Wait, what?”

They started off for the pegasus’ hovel. Rags would first have to converse with the guards about his whereabouts, how things were going to be handled, and so on. But their destination was set nonetheless, and they’d be there soon enough.

5:00

_________________________________________________________________________

The sun was beginning its slow descent when they reached Nougat’s humble abode. It wasn’t as nice as Rags’, but Nougat hadn’t worked as hard or for as long as the dishwasher has, so it was understandable. Besides, Rags didn’t have a place worth writing home about either, especially not in its current condition. But he was just thankful for his friend being one of the few pegasi to own a ground-based home in Town. He never asked him why though.

As they entered, Rags could smell signs of Nougat’s profession immediately, and could clearly see why his cutie mark was of a pile of assorted candies. The thick whiff of pastries flooded his nostrils and aroused his appetite. Nougat worked as an apprentice baker at the Sugarcube Corner, under the mentorship of a mare that Rags was none too fond of, Pinkie Pie. Rags found her to be annoyingly intrusive, annoyingly happy, and annoyingly…everything. She once threw a surprise party for Rags in his home, but stopped the practice very quickly thereafter when he gave her an irate earful about breaking and entering and minding her own business. How did she even know it was his birthday? He’d never even met her before that. Her expansive collection of data on everypony in town was...unnerving.

But Nougat seemed awfully happy with his job, particularly with working around the pink mare. He seemed to become very shifty when she was brought up in conversation, and he always came back from work in a saddened mood if she was out sick. Rags was sure that she was the one who Nougat had his eye on. While he didn’t quite approve of his friend’s taste in horrifically irritating mares, he still supported Nougat, yet he teased him relentlessly about it.

“So, bro, you asked Pinkie out?” Rags nonchalantly asked as they made their way into the kitchen. Nougat was taken severely off guard and nearly fell over himself but caught the edge of the counter just in time. He glared at Rags and tried to find the words to describe his seething rage.

“What’s it to you!?” Nougat settled on.

“It’s nothing to me, I just wanted to know how it was going.”

“It’s none of your business!” Nougat fired back.

“Okay, okay, yeesh, I was just messing with you,” Rags dismissed with a wave.

“Well go back to being traumatized or something!” Nougat spat. He reached into the fridge and pulled out two bottles of cider and begrudgingly thrusted one into Rags’ grasp.

Rags gave an infinitesimal smile. “Make no mistake, I still am. I’m just trying to ease the tension. I’m really trying not to think about it,” he said.

Nougat hadn’t noticed before, he wasn’t very observant, but he could now see that Rags’ stance was uneasy. He kept throwing glances to the window and he stood close to the drawer where he knew Nougat kept his kitchen knives. There was a slight tremble in his hoof as he took a gulp of cider.

Fearing that he might have crossed a line with his comment, Nougat risked the question, “So… what happened, anyway?”

Rags looked down to his bottle and sighed, “Let’s go sit in the living room. I’ll need a comfy chair for this.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags told his story, not for the first time that day, and Nougat listened, adopting increasingly intense cringes as he did. When Rags finished, tears brimmed on the edges of his eyes. He already relived the memories several times for the ears of the law to hear, but this time, he was able to confide in someone who knew that he wouldn’t spin a false yarn for the sake of a hoax, and that knowledge somehow brought out emotions that made Rags feel childish releasing in front of another full grown stallion.

Nougat set his empty bottle on the messy coffee table covered in miscellaneous items between the two. He had hardly an inclination on how to respond. Rags and Nougat were far from the type to partake in drama. Despite Rags' overall negative attitude and the recent influx of existential bantering, which worried and annoyed Nougat to no end, they were a rather light hearted duo, barely ever succumbing into discussion of grave life matters. Hardly ever, in all the years they’ve known each other, have they shared real emotional moments beyond the occasional “moment of understanding,” as Nougat came to call them. Seeing his one and only buddy so crushed, fearful and completely defeated, made Nougat feel helpless. What could he do or say to assist the earth pony? Tell him it would be alright? Tell him not to worry? He had no response.

They sat in the waning orange sunlight of the early evening pouring through the window behind Nougat, casting a long shadow up to Rags’ chair. The latter looked to his friend, who sat perplexed and silent, and smiled. ‘Thanks, bro.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You listened. Sometimes that’s the best thing you can do for someone,” Rags chuckled. He stood from his chair and stretched. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“That I didn’t turn up for work this morning. My boss will have my head on a platter for that. I should be stressed. I should be worrying and freaking out. But I don’t even care, after last night. Let that chode whine, I say,” Rags confidently stated.

“What brought this on?” Nougat asked.

“I don’t even know. Like I said, I should be concerned, but I’m just kind of numb right now,” said Rags.

Nougat, thinking the mood was starting to brighten, seized the opportunity and cautiously joked, “Maybe it’s the feeling of triumph. You just avoiding a snarling psycho and dodged the Grim Reaper!”

“Yeah,” Rags agreed with chest puffed out, “I’m invincible! This is the start of my reign as a king!”

Nougat hopped from his seat and ecstatically added, “Now is your time! Climb the tree of life and guzzle it’s sweet nectar of victory!” At that moment, the two stallions, posing heroically on top of the coffee table and shouting war cries, noticed two mares walking by the window, looking at Rags and Nougat like they each had two heads. When they passed, the two looked at each other and absorbed the goofiness they had just participated in, and began laughing. They laughed harder than they had ever laughed at anything in their time as friends. They laughed so hard they rolled off the table and both cried out in pain as they hit their heads on the furniture around them. And then they laughed some more.

8:00

_________________________________________________________________________

Hours later, after they had nickered and carried on about all manners of subjects, including jobs, alcohol and foalhood escapades, the sun touched the horizon as if preparing to pull back the covers and go to bed. Which was exactly what Nougat seemed to be getting ready for as well. He yawned a wide yawn and fought to keep his heavy eyes open.

Rags arched a brow, and inquired into this. “Are you tired already? It’s only 8:00! Pansy!”

Nougat yawned deeply again, “Yeah, that’s weird. I wasn’t really that tired a little while ago. I just feel,” he yawned, “exhausted, all of the sudden.”

“Trying to comfort a clinically depressed dishwasher will do that to a guy,” Rags said facetiously.

Nougat yawned again, “I mean, I’m really tired! Jeez, I can hardly keep my eyes open.” And he did not jest. His entire aura had gone from energetically jovial to riding low in the saddle in a flash. His lids fluttered in a vain attempt to keep him awake, but they were losing the battle. ‘Oh man,” he yawned, “I guess I’ll turn in. Goodnight, I suppose,” he mumbled as he began walking down the short hallway to his bedroom. Suddenly, he jolted and turned to Rags. “WAIT! I forgot to set up a place for you to sleep! Ok, uhm,” he swiveled around, looking for the answer, his sleepy brain completely uncooperative, “Oh! I know! You can take my bed!”

“Or, I could just get a blanket and take the couch,” Rags said, nodding to the sofa.

“You sure? I got an awesome bed. And a nightlight!”

“Ok, one, you still sleep with a nightlight? And two, you seem very excited about getting me in your bed,” Rags deadpanned.

“I was just trying to be nice. Why does every little nice thing I try and do for you have to be gay? Do you have something against gay ponies?”

“No, but if I was gay, I certainly wouldn’t be attracted to you,” Rags snarked.

“Whatevs, too tired to argue. Couch is yours. Blankets in the hallway closet. Goodnight,” Nougat said drowsily. He lurched and wobbled as he slowly but surely made his way into his bedroom and shut the door behind himself.

Rags laughed softly at his friend. He could not ask for a better one. Though he wasn’t entirely certain he appreciated him enough. Nougat extended such kindness without even the slightest hesitation. Rags vowed then and there, quietly and to himself, that he’d make it up to him one day. How he would do so, he didn’t know. Maybe he’d set him up on a date with the pink one. If he could tolerate being around her for long enough to set it up, that is.

With contentment in his heart, he ventured to the closet and retrieved the wooliest, most comfortable blanket he could find. Upon coming back to the living room, Rags found himself observing his surroundings for the first time, and was mortified. The place was a mess. Trash covered the table, several pairs of socks were draped over the chair Nougat sat in earlier (he tried not to think about that too much), and pastry crumbs littered the carpeted floor. He huffed, not willing to tolerate such uncouth untidiness. Perhaps this would be a good way to start repaying Nougat.

Almost as if it were an intrinsic trait, he set his blanket down and searched for cleaning utensils and garbage bags to deal with the mess.

8:30

_________________________________________________________________________

Cleanliness is close to godliness was the philosophy that Rags had lived by all his life… though it wasn’t one he necessarily adopted of his own accord. The point is that he was a whiz at picking up after others. And after he was done with Nougat’s living room, it was practically sparkling. Not a single spec of uncleanness anywhere in sight. He stood and admired his work, mocking dirt, and daring it to set its nasty little dirt feet into the room, so that he may smite it with extreme prejudice.

As he cleaned, he noticed a few things that were very peculiar about the room. For starters, there were no pictures on the walls. Not a single photo of family, important life events, or even a self-portrait. A small black book lay under one of the cushions on the sofa, containing a list of phone numbers, most scratched out and marked off, with the names of mares Rags had seen around town beside them. From the looks of it, Nougat was highly involved in the process of acquiring a significant other. Love was a large blip on his radar of life, to a near obsessive degree, apparently.

Rags was slightly frightened, but more so when he spotted a ghastly sight. The blinds on the window were left open, making visible a portal to the vast realm of darkness that was the outside. He knew he was safe within the home, but images of the thing flashed in his mind, filling his head with paranoid fantasies centered around the open window. He gulped down his reservations, and set to closing the shades.

A cold sweat broke out as he inched his way to the glass, taking small baby steps. When he was within range, he peeked his head up onto the windowsill, and scanned the outer world for anything suspicious. The streets were caked with darkness, only the occasional streetlamp providing a pockmark of light in the blanket of black. The moon, that watchful guardian over Rags, made a valiant effort to penetrate the darkness with its light, but only succeeded to the extent that objects in the darkness were made somewhat darker than the things around them, creating silhouettes that just barely allowed Rags to tell where things were at.

Spotting no murderers or hockey-mask wearing chefs ready to make some horse steak, Rags felt ease wash over him. He reached up to the cord and gave a tug, getting ready to release the string and drop the blinds. Before he did, he stopped to eyeball a shape in the dark outside. With squinted eyes, he could make out the figure of a mare, strolling down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Exhaling a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, Rags let the blinds drop. Shrugging off the episode of paranoia, he stepped back over to the couch.

He pulled back the blanket and squirmed into the pocket of warmth between the covers and the couch cushions. Though it was fairly early by his standards, he might as well just go to bed, he thought. There was nothing left for him to clean and Nougat was already asleep so chewing the fat with him for several hours was no longer an option. Besides, he could use a full eight hours for once. It would be the best sleep he’d gotten in a while. He extended a hoof from under his blanket and flipped the switch of the lamp on the small table beside the couch, submerging himself in darkness.

9:00

Before he could close his eyes and fall into sleep, he was aroused by a rattling noise. The sounds of objects in the dark vibrating and dancing. He flipped the switch of the lamp again, providing light for him to see what was happening. Sure enough, every small object that wasn’t nailed down was trembling, shaking as if a train was passing by the house.

Then came the ear splitting scream.

The bloodcurdling howls of a mare in unfathomable pain, so loud that Rags wondered if his eardrums were pierced. The scream came from outside, but was clear as day. The mare walking down the sidewalk came to mind. He didn’t know what to make of it, though. This was too loud to be a pony.

Rags sprang up and hopped over to the window, throwing up the blinds with great quickness to search for the troubled female. But what he found instead was that he was the one in trouble.

Under the flickering luminescence of a street lamp on the sidewalk in front of the window was a ghoulish hag, looking starved as her pale skin was stretched tightly over her twisted and malformed bones. Her snow-white mane and tail thrashed about like a cluster of angry snakes. Tears of blood trickled from the place where her eyes should have been. Most horrifying of all was the gaping orifice of blackness that was her mouth, elongated like the unhinged maw of a python. The rim of its depths vibrated from the continuous agonizing wail

His veins ran cold with the most frigid of ices. Hot tears of terror seeped down his face. Every hair on his body stood on end. He recognized this thing. He had seen it before. In his childhood, he was fascinated by the supernatural and got books from the library on the subject of mythical creatures. Most of it was malarkey, created to keep children indoors at night. But one image always stuck with him from one of the books, vivid and clear as day. And now it came to him.

The creature before him was the spitting image of a banshee, whose shrieks foretold imminent death.

Rags screamed, his own fearful yells drowned out by the increasingly intense wails of the wraith. The window cracked and the street lamp flickered out, and the creature’s cries vanished with the light. The light returned shortly after, but the banshee was gone. Rags stood stock still, bugged out eyes darting this way and that, searching for the horror. The darkness seemed even thicker than before. To his everlasting disbelief and his eternal dread, into the light stepped a slimy black hoof, dripping with glistening tar.

No.

A gnarled figure coated in slime shambled fully into view, red eyes, or rather eye, boring into Rags like a beam of magic energy from the horn of the sun goddess herself, glowing with pure, boiling, fury.

Please no.

Rags must have been dreaming a horrid dream, because several similar figures followed suit, all equally filled with rage. The twisted ponies, mares and stallions alike, glared at Rags from the place under the lamp. Behind them, Rags could see a multitude of ruby eyes seemingly pop into existence, searing anger in all of them as they watched from the darkness, weapons dimly glinting with the insufficient light of the lamp. It was an entire mob of tar-ponies. Returning also was the several voices of the thing that would forever haunt his nightmares. The voices of foals, mares, colts, all coming from the same throat of the wounded cyclops from the previous night, spoke in some form of garbled language.

“.mih lliK”

A bolt of energy chased a rabbit through Rags and he tore himself away from the window, just in time as a shadow burst through the glass with a demonic hiss, rolling several feet and knocking over the lamp, consequently bringing darkness to the room. Rags plodded down the hall and nearly tumbled into Nougat’s bedroom.

“NOUGAT! WAKE UP!” Rags urged, slamming the door behind him just as a tar-pony tossed itself into it. Rags, with his body pressed against the door, looked to the sleeping Nougat with frantic and shrunken pupils. No, something was wrong. There was no sleeping Nougat. There wasn’t any kind of Nougat. An empty and disheveled bedspread met Rags’ pleas. That answered a few questions, none of which he could process now as the few precious seconds of reprieve ticked away and it was time to make his escape, with the cracking and snapping of the door frame acting as an alarm clock.

He desperately looked around the room for a means of escape, the only worthy one being the window above Nougat’s empty bed, leading to a space in between his house and his neighbor’s home. The upper half of the door caved inwards and tar-ponies began scraping and scratching at the barrier and each other, trying to get a foothold to hoist themselves into the room. With no time to fiddle with opening the latched window like a civilized pony, Rags did something quicker, but more primitive and dangerous. The panicked earth pony leaped onto the bed and propelled himself into the window with enough force to rival the beasts behind him. Glass cut his flesh, opening three large gashes on his back.

He hissed in pain as he plopped on the ground, but never stopped moving. The monsters were closing in on him, and couldn’t spare a millisecond dawdling. He jumped to his hooves and ran out from between the buildings and onto the street, never sparing a look back in case the tar-ponies acted as quickly as he did and were already in pursuit.

He huffed and coughed, running as fast as he could go down the street.

Again. It’s happening again!

Rags’ mind was reeling from the adrenalin surging through his body. He could hardly think of anything besides the primal instinct to run as far away from the danger as possible. He threatened his brain with idiotic, brain cell killing activities if it didn’t formulate a plan, a strategy, a better option than running blindly through town. Anything!

He ran for four minutes, gaining a burst of speed when he heard the sounds of hungry creatures rallying behind him. His lungs already began burning and air was becoming a rare commodity. Before he knew it, he was nearing the marketplace and exhaustion. He could hardly believe that he’d been able to run so fast. A horde of hell beasts giving chase would give one such prowess, he reckoned.

He asked himself why he was running to the market, and found that he couldn’t adequately answer it. He had no scheme in mind. He was just running. The market was what was ahead of him, so he ran there.

He rounded the corner of the final block before the marketplace and dug his hooves harshly into the ground to stop his forward momentum when he witnessed the sight ahead. Among the nest of kiosks, in the dim light of the moon and the street lamps, were dozens more tar-ponies, bumbling about among the stands. They hadn’t seen him yet, but the mob behind him would surely alert them upon arrival.

It was all he could do to reign in his terrified thoughts and control his mind long enough to make his next move. With delicate steps, he ducked down and inched his way to the closest kiosk, praying that the tar-ponies would continue meandering without any purpose and wouldn’t turn their heads his way. Staying as quiet, low, and quick as possible, he finally made it to the first kiosk and slid under the counter. If it weren’t for the circumstances, the meagre 15 yards he traveled would be nothing to write home about.

He assumed that since he wasn’t being dragged out by the tail and broken in half, he hadn’t been spotted.The earth rumbled as a nebulous rabble of angered shadows charged down the street Rags had been on not but a few moments ago. The tar-ponies awkwardly swaying around the market snapped their attention to their brethren and ran off to join the fray, thinking the mob had the prey in sight.

Rags waited, watching several stragglers chase after the crowd. When the last few seemed to have gone, he tentatively stuck his head out from under the counter. Seeing no lingering threats, he slithered out away from the kiosk, and into the cover of a fancier one nearby with a  tent. In the darkness of the tent, he sat nearly hyperventilating.The screams of enraged monstrosities perforated the night. It was so odd to Rags how so many different sounds could come from the mouths of the tar-ponies. Some screeches sounded furious and bloodthirsty, while others sounded almost mournful. No matter their variety, they filled the air with a constant stream of unnatural noise.

What… what’s going on? Where is everyone? Why is this happening too me? How did they find me? Have they been watching? How did they all get here? When? Why are they trying to kill me!? I don’t know what-- I just-- I can’t-- I DON’T KNOW! I don’t know what is going on! I don’t know what to do! There are more of them! I’m going to die! I’m going to die here! I’m going to--

NO! SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP, ME! Stop panicking! Just think! I may not know what’s happening, but I know what we can do! We can stop bellyaching and start focusing on getting out of this alive! Ok, let’s take this one step at a time. We can do this, Rags.

The powerful voice of tenacity in his head calmed to a more soothing, comforting level.

Alright, now let’s look at what we know. All this crazy crap only seems to happen after dark, and it looks like everyone vanishes at night. So I have a feeling that the best chance we’ve got is waiting for daylight. I don’t see why daylight would ward these things off, but I can’t think of anything better, so get off my back! NO! Calm, Rags!

He took a deep breath.

So the plan is to wait for the morning. Cool, cool. So what’s the subplan? We need to figure out a way to survive until then. Lemme think for a second…

The sound of wheezing breath and dragging hooves outside the tent stopped his brain, and he held his breath while the unseen foe lurched away. Once the danger passed, he went right back to thinking.

Weapons? Should we even bother? Those things outnumber us and they’re pretty strong individually. I don’t think just grabbing up a bat and wading into battle is a very smart idea, especially not with my wormy physique. Or maybe it is? Why shouldn’t we arm ourselves? A crowbar or a knife to the face would buy us some time, I’d wager.

But that’s not as important. If I find suitable weapon, I’ll grab it. Higher up on the list is hiding. We need to hole up somewhere. Will anywhere do? No, I’ve seen quite a few horror movies and read enough books to know that in the case of an overrun town, it’s always best to get away from populated areas. Is that why I didn’t get any fallout at Sweet Apple Acres, yesterday? Wait, the farm! Of course! Why didn’t I come back to that thought sooner!? It’s out of the way and they’ll probably have some farm equipment we could use as a weapon! Oh man, I hope that AJ chick doesn’t mind that we’re about to turn her farm into a fort. Hold on, have I been referring to myself as ‘us’ and ‘we’ this whole time? I am definitely not making it out of this with all of my marbles.

More wheezing breaths loomed outside the kiosk, followed by sharp intakes of air through nostrils. The thing growled, “...raef ruoy llems nac I”

Crap! Is it sniffing me out!?They can do that!?

Rags felt a warm sensation on his back. He touched a hoof to his lumbar region and was met with a sharp sting. He brought it to his face and made out some kind of thick, dark ooze stained on it. Tar? Mud? Hesitantly, he tasted the substance, tastebuds labelling it as coppery and metallic. Blood. He was bleeding profusely. Was that the smell the thing was detecting?

Great, now what do I do about that?

The wheezing became louder.

I gotta move!

With the utmost discretion, Rags lifted the back flap of the tent and skittered into a dark alley behind the kiosk. With remarkable stealth, he zipped through the alleys, silently bounding over trash and watching for broken glass and other noisy discarded odds and ends. He didn’t know exactly where he should be running, but he knew that he just had to get to the farm somehow.

After covering an acre’s worth of buildings, he reached the end of the alley he’d been running in and found a rather open stretch of space where a small collection of tar-ponies patrolled in random patterns. Privately owned businesses, establishments, and more expensive housing encircled an area with a large tree, decorated with furnishings and sporting a couple of windows and a large red door, jutting out of the center. The Library. Nothing of relevant use to be found within, unless Twilight happened to posses a book along the lines of ‘how to become a monster killer in five minutes or less,’ or, ‘how to stitch up cuts you got because you were an impulsive moron.’

Across from him was a road that led to the main bridge into and out of Ponyville. Beyond that was the outskirts of town, where a few more rural residences could be found. Rags analyzed the situation and rubbed his chin in contemplation.

With a little bit of finesse, I could get into the outskirts. I would have a better chance for survival out there, I think. I’d be willing to bet that these things will stay behind and keep searching town, if I can sneak out unseen that is.

It was a shot in the dark. There was no telling what the outskirts would hold for him. But he couldn’t stay in town, that was undeniable. He caught sight of bright red in his peripherals and retracted himself back into the shadows of the alley, narrowly avoiding being seen by the angry eyes of a tar-pony. Whilst hunkered down, he did his best to concoct a decent distraction. With a quick once over of the trash before him, all he found to be of any practicality was an empty cider bottle. If he could hurl it with enough force, maybe it would be a suitable distraction.

He grasped it firmly and scootched as far as he was willing to get out of the shadows, maximizing the range of the bottle. He paused to breathe. He would have to run like the wind as soon as the bottle touched down. There was no room for error here. If he was spotted on the way out, there was no way he would be able to lose the tar-ponies. With the mob already agitated, they wouldn’t let him out of their sight again after they’d already lost him once.

Mustering his reserve, he stretched his forearm out behind him and got ready for the toss. Just as he funneled the power into his arm, he halted himself. A window on the library caught his attention. He concentrated on it for a moment, then looked to the bottle in his hoof. He dropped it and rummaged around through the garbage again, searching for a better solution. At last, he found it. A hefty brick. Before he could second guess himself, he got into position and sent the brick sailing through the air, the hardened clay gracefully twirling and spinning in a delicate dance before gracelessly crashing through the library window, creating even more ruckus once inside.

The tar-ponies all immediately alighted to the tree, the sound seeming to take a moment to register with them. One brayed demonically and rushed to the library, the rest mimicking that one’s actions. They piled around the door and tore into it, smashing the barrier into splinters within seconds, and pushed and shoved each other for access. The distraction worked perfectly. Rags made his move.

Rocketing out of the alley while drawing as little attention as possible, Rags ran straight across to the main road and set his course for the outskirts. He chanced a look back to see his plan working even better than he thought it would. The tar-ponies all fought for entry into the library, believing their prey was the one making noise on the inside. Rags was flummoxed by the unpredictable behavior of the beasts. They were intelligent enough to speak some kind of evil language and use weapons like knives and clubs, but at the same time they seemed to fall for the most simplistic of tricks and red herrings. Their senses also seemed to be dulled, allowing Rags to sneak by where he shouldn’t have been allowed to. Not that he didn’t appreciate the lucky break.

They were all inside the tree now, and an unearthly yowl emanated from within. They might have fallen for it in the first place, but they were apparently smart enough to at least figure out when they’d been had. Rags didn’t think it wise to wait around for them to come out so he could mock their stupidity. He summoned his inner wonderbolt and dashed away into the outskirts.

_________________________________________________________________________

Once over the bridge, Rags felt that he was out of the frying pan, but he had yet to deduce whether or not he had stepped into the fire. As he ran, he could swear that he saw glimpses of a dark mare watching him from the distance, from behind trees, rocks, and bushes. It wasn’t like the screaming ghoul from earlier, but somehow seemed more sinister. The figment was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He couldn’t describe it, but he didn’t like it.

Worse yet, he heard things coming from the fields of tall grass and flowers on either side of him. Giggles of amused foals. There would be a subtle rustling, then the nigh inaudible, but unmistakable, snicker of foals. They weren’t pleasant, joyful laughs of innocence, but sadistic chortles of malevolence in a child’s voice. Rags dared not venture off the road.

Rags passed cottages and rural homes, humble little cozy huts that were so inviting and warming from the outside, but not without the same whiff of evil that the night brought to everything else. Occasionally Rags would spy a window illuminated by candlelight, with shadows of ponies inside. But the shadows were wrong. The silhouettes were all manners of unsettling, ranging from waving cheerfully at Rags, to shadows of ponies hung by the neck, lifeless corpses dangling by a rope from the ceiling. One depicted a mare getting stabbed repeatedly by a stallion, dark shadows of blood splattering the window.

He tried not to focus on the surroundings. So far, all that the gruesome phenomenons were doing was frightening him. As long as they weren’t attacking, he could overcome the creepy occurrences. Rags knew the landscape, even if distorted by the darkness, very well. He played all around town and in the meadows as a child. Whenever he wasn’t working, that is. The next right turn would take him past the Carousel Boutique and straight to the apple farm.

_________________________________________________________________________

Coming up was the workplace of the famous fashionista of Ponyville, the Carousel Boutique. One would think that such an establishment should be closer to town, but the idea was to catch travelers on their way into or out of the village. Rags payed no mind, keeping his target of the farm in mind. But then he stopped, standing before the palace of fashionable wears, and stared at it intently.

You know, working around all of that fabric must necessitate the use of sharp implements. Perhaps I could... just take a peek inside… maybe pick up a pair of scissors, and… No! Bad Rags! You don’t know what could be in there. The farm isn’t too far away, just keep moving.

And so he did. Or at least tried to. After taking a few steps, he looked to the horizon to see the outline of a tar-pony standing on a hill, scanning the fields. He dove into a bush to avoid detection.

Those scissors are sounding pretty tempting right about now.

What would you do to those things with a dinky little pair of scissors?

Well, it’s better than nothing. Besides, who knows what else I could use them for?

Am I talking to myself in my head again? I’m trippin’ balls.

Yeah, you kinda are.

Stop that.

He crept out of the shrubbery and crawled to the door of the boutique. He slowly and silently pushed the door open, eased his way in, and silently shut it behind him. He stood fully upright, sighed contently, and turned to the interior of the room. And he immediately regretted coming in.

The mannequins the seamstress was known for working with were all lined up in rows on both sides of the room. They were desecrated, peppered with pins, needles, and scissors. They looked like pincushions. It was like some madpony grabbed up everything in the building with a point on it and harshly jabbed it into the dummies. Streaks of blood oozed from the gashes and wounds and dripped onto the floor at a steady pace and pooled around the stands holding the figurines up.

Rags was about to soil himself. He wasn’t comfortable with mannequins as it was, but now? He was surprised he kept it together as well as he did. He gulped down his reservations and slowly began walking around the room, searching for a suitable weapon, always keeping an eye on the dummies. As if he were tiptoeing around a sleeping giant, he made his way around the store, softly opening drawers and cabinets, looking for anything that would pierce rotten flesh. He came across a saddlebag that he didn’t think looked too expensive, and picked it up, hoping the seamstress wouldn’t notice this specific bag was missing. His search left him with no stabbing tools though, and his only remaining option was to pluck a weapon out of one of the mangled mannequins.

Like a child about to steal from the cookie jar, he shifted on his hoofs and eased up to the closest mannequin, the middle one in the row. Taking his time, he grasped the biggest pair of scissors he could find and gave them a quick tug, but they wouldn’t budge. He tugged harder and they still held fast to the dummy’s forehead. He used both forearms and gave one last herculean pull, finally dislodging the tool from the skull and unleashing a gush of blood from the gash. As soon as he did this, the rest of them came to life and turned their heads towards him, staring at him with featureless faces.

He squeaked and froze, waiting for their next move. But it never came. They were all motionless once again. He exhaled, relaxed his tense muscles, and turned to leave, coming face to face with a mannequin inches from him, poised to kill with a brandished pair of gory scissors.

He gasped so hard he was unable to scream. He ran towards the exit, hardly able to get any air in his lungs from his frightened, rapid breathing. He made it outside and spun around to shut the door, thinking the malevolent dummies would be where he last saw them. Yet he was horribly wrong. The mannequins were all crowded around the threshold, stuck in statuesque poses with various sharp tools raised and ready to raze flesh.

Rags slammed the door, took a few steps back, and fell onto his withers, the mannequins evidently giving up the chase after their last attempt. He didn’t get back on task right away, feeling the need for a rest. He shut his eyes and whimpered once or twice, wanting desperately to wake up from the nightmare. He just wanted it all to go away when he opened his eyes. His wish went unfulfilled. He wondered how much more he would be able to take. How much stress could a pony get from events such as these before they just collapsed? Before they were broken? How would anyone be able to cope after they’d seen these things?

He clenched his teeth and stood up, forcing himself to press on. Answers. They were what he needed. In much the same way he needed clarity in life, he now needed clarity on these strange happenings. And the only way to even have a chance of getting those answers was to survive until the morning. At the very least, that would answer his theory on whether or not the monsters would disappear with the coming of the sun. Answers were his drive, and he would do everything in his power to get them.

He stuffed the scissors in his bag and hesitantly put one hoof in front of the other and set his sights on the farm once again. The farm was his ticket to survival, and therefore his ticket to answers. He was going to make it there even if it killed him. Which might very well be the case…

_________________________________________________________________________

It was a tiring trek, and several times he needed to think on his hooves and act quickly to avoid confrontation with the random tar-ponies that wandered the fields. Once he was actually spotted by one of the wretches, but it was hundreds of yards away and by the time it had gotten to where it had last seen him, he had already found a hiding place in a ditch. The creature was livid with this failure, and ran howling down the road back towards the town. Rags worried that the incident would come back to bite him.

When he had gotten to the farm, it was the middle of the night, with daybreak still a great deal of time away. The moon loomed above, formerly a beacon of hope for Rags, now a symbol of the deadly night. The stars were like freckles in the sky, sometimes being blocked out by a passing cloud. A cool breeze swept over the plains and in between the trees, making the leaves and grass shimmer in the moonlight as they swayed.

He was tired and out of breath, his legs felt like giving out beneath him, and his coat was sticky with sweat. Even with this exhaustion, he kept on high alert, head always on a swivel, eyes carefully taking in everything. When he felt that the surroundings were secure, he focused on his target, the farm. He stood on a hill a few hundred yards away, leaving him in the perfect position for scouting the place out.

He saw no immediate threats. No tar-ponies, no demented mannequins, nothing. Just a scarecrow propped up in the front yard of the house. He surveyed the land around him once more, making sure he would not be blindsided. Nothing. This should have pacified him, but he only got more tense. Where were all of the horrors that were so plentiful not too long ago?

He decided not to give them a chance to show up and descended down the hill. He bounded over the white picket fence that designated the property as that of the Apple family’s, and weaved through the trees. He didn’t use the front entrance to the farm out of fear of making himself too big of a target. He prefered the cover the apple trees provided.

The wind blew through the treetops and brought the familiar rustling sound of lush branches in the wind. It was such a gentle, calming noise, putting Rags in a state of peace as he walked under them. He felt safe, at this point in time, like the farm and its acres of fruit bearing trees were a haven. The gust picked up and the rustling turned sharper, more defined, almost like voices.

As he walked, the sound grew more intense. At first he attributed it to the increasing winds, but then he noticed that the wind had actually died down. The sound was becoming louder. No longer did it sound like the rattling of leaves and branches. Now it sounded like whispering. It started out a quiet murmur, slowly pitching into almost discernable speak. The feeling of peace was lost on Rags, replaced with a growing sense of dread. He hurried his pace into a trot, then a gallop. It was all around him now. Ragged whispers coming from everywhere.

“You should not be here.”

Rags’ heart skipped a beat as these words reached his ear. He stopped and listened, trying to pinpoint the speaker. More whispered words came from seemingly nowhere.

“Run for your life.”

“Flee.”

“You will be eaten by the damned.”

“You intrude in the garden.”

“They will drag you to the place with no light.”

“They hunger for your fear.”

Rags was becoming disgruntled with not being able to see the source of the hushed speak. It almost seemed to come from above him, but all he saw were the leaves of the trees highlighted in moonlight and the silhouettes of plump apples hanging from the tree. Something cold and sticky struck him in the eye as he gazed upwards. As he was wiping it away with his forearm, another droplet dripped onto his head.

“Leave this place.”

Rags’ face turned to shock as he realized what was happening. Slowly, not wanting to be right, he looked up to the apples again. He stared at them as his eyes adjusted. When they did, he found that they weren’t apples, but severed heads, hanging from the branches, blood dripping from their eviscerated necks. The milky-white dead eyes of a stallion shot open and the head whispered harshly, “Get out of here!”

Rags’ skin turned to gooseflesh as he backed away and frantically bolted out of the wood. When he exited the treeline, the farmhouse sit directly ahead of him, with the barn to the right. Again, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but then again, neither did the trees from a distance. He was still as he surveyed the area once again, double checking for unruly beasts. Again, nothing. Not even the sound of angry roars in the distance like what he had been hearing all night. Just the same scarecrow sitting in the yard.

He progressed forward with tentative steps. He made a list of all the places that would be likely to contain tools that could double as effective weapons on the farm. The barn was where he would look first.

I wonder how many more times I’m going to come to this barn before this is over.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a crow cawed behind him from a nearby fence post. When he figured out what happened, he chuckled at his scaredy-cat tendencies. Another crow landed beside the first. Then another. Then on top of the barn. Then on the limb of a nearby tree. Crows conjugated all around him at a disturbing rate. One landed on Rags’ flank squawked, almost as if greeting him. Then it pecked him.

“Ow.”

A harder peck.

“OW!”

A final, blood drawing peck.

Rags cursed and swatted at the feathered aggressor, but the bird flew off before he could land a blow. It landed atop the scarecrow and Rags was taken over by the feeling of a terrible epiphany.

That scarecrow wasn’t there before. And it didn’t belong in the yard.

The stuffed and stitched figure glared at Rags from under the brim of its stetson, its pupils pinpricks of red in a sea of blackness. It wore denim overalls and a tattered shirt underneath, sewn stitches running over the course of its body, trails of blood and tar-like slime leaking through them. It twisted and snapped the bonds holding it to the post, and landed in a way that suggested it had no joints. It balanced itself on straw hooves... no, not straw. The sprigs moved and writhed. Worms. It was filled with maggots, not straw! It returned its focus to Rags and raised a forearm to him, signalling its flock to begin their assault.

They fluttered all around him in a tornado of feathery fury, swooping down and swiping at him from every angle. They tore away patches of fur and tangles of mane, every so often scoring a peck that warranted a bloody trickle. Rags covered his head with one hoof and used the other three to escape the torment. He barreled into the barn and slammed the doors, only a scant few avian agitators making it in with him. In smaller numbers they were far less of a threat, only cawing madly at him as they circled around the interior of the barn.

He fell to the dirt out of fatigue, but remembered that the barn had windows and doors on the upper portion that the birds could fly through. He sprang up and darted around the room, trying to find every single opening to the outside that would allow the crows to continue their onslaught. Lady luck finally smiled down on him for once this night, as everything was shut securely.

Well, looks like hiding out here is a bust. Now I’ve really gotta find a weapon.

He scrutinized the interior and noted a cellar door hanging open. He slinked over to it and saw a light in the room below. He cautiously descended the steps and was dumbstruck as he entered the light. Ferocious looking farm tools littered the wall ahead. Scythes, shovels, mallets, pitchforks, and hoes all glittered under the dim light of a lantern. Lady luck was feeling pretty generous.

He expected to find something useful, but nothing like this. It was the best thing to happen to him all night. Adopting a determined expression, he snatched up the scythe and the leather straps that went with it that allowed for earth pony use. Attaching the wicked device to himself and taking the bit in his mouth, he was now equipped to properly defend himself.

The scythe was cumbersome and awkward, with a shaft nearly six feet long running along the length of his body in a way that allowed a non-unicorn pony to still swing it while granting optimal power. The blade was two feet long and sharpened to a deadly degree, but maneuvering the blade was just as inelegant a process as it was to hold the tool. He briefly considered switching for another, more accessible, weapon, but the nasty blade was just too tempting to pass up. Surely, the lethal-looking scythe would be the most potent tool he could use.

He unhooked a lantern from the low hanging ceiling and took it with him as he ran back up into the main portion of the barn. There, with maybe just a hint of madness about him, he plotted out his next move.

Tapping and scratching noises came from the outside. The crows were relentless. He didn’t know how he’d deal with them, but one thing was for sure: the first pony-sized monster to set a hoof in the barn would be cut down like wheat. He set the lantern down on a nearby barrel and climbed the ladder to the loft. He wanted to have eyes on the outside so as not to be caught off guard by any unsuspected threats. He made his way over to the loft doors, boards creaking under his hoofs as he walked, and cracked one open.

The murder of crows still encircled the barn, angry blurs of motion cawing indignantly. Through it all he could see the scarecrow, now slowly approaching the structure with a pitchfork pointed menacingly in Rags’ direction. A crow saw Rags peeking outside and tried to squeeze through the crack in the door, but was met with a hoof to the beak. He shut the egress and ventured back down to the lower level.

He had no clue what to do next. The demons knew where he was, so there was no hiding. The flock was waiting for him to emerge, so there was no running. His only choice looked to be a war of attrition. The sun would be raised in a little over five hours. All he had to do was hold out against a bunch of birdbrains and a freaky doll with a pitchfork until the day. Easy enough.

The barn door cracked and splintered as sharpened iron prongs ripped through them. They left a head-sized hole as they were torn out of the wood, and peering through it was the scarecrow. Rags and it glared at each other for a moment, like combatants bowing before a fight, and then the scarecrow got back to work on the door. Rags chomped down on the bit and took a stance. With a few more thrusts, the hole was now torso sized, and the scarecrow contorted and bent in ways nothing should be able to and managed to squirm through the crevice.

As it maneuvered its way through the hole, the crows forced their way past the scarecrow. Birds squeezed by the doll and into the room, spewing out from around the scarecrow like dark blood spurting out from around a leech digging into a cut. When the creature dropped into the barn, the crows now had free reign to fly in, creating a gushing flow of black feathers. They swirled around, cawing like mad, but not attacking. They instead perched atop the rafters and stared daggers at Rags with their beady red eyes. It was almost as if they held back for their master to make the kill. They acted as an audience to the coming clash.

The scarecrow picked itself up and leveled its merciless eyes and threatening pitchfork at Rags.

This is it, Rags! There’s no running this time! No place to hide! It’s time to nut up!

The silent foe lurched forward and attempted to run him through, but Rags sidestepped just in time. With its body outstretched in a position of vulnerability, he saw his opening, and he swung the scythe with all the force he could put into it. The blade was unwieldy in his inexperienced grasp, and to swing it accurately required him to twist in a painful way.

But luck was still with him, as his strike was true and hit its target. The scarecrow’s neck made a sickening fleshy sound as it was detached from the head, and worms lolled out of the headless body.

The cranium went rolling when it hit the ground and stopped with the expressionless face turned upwards. The body staggered and twitched, seemingly unaware that it was supposed to be dead. Never having worked a field with a scythe, Rags put too much force into his swing and overshot his target. The blade lodged into the soil, and he pulled and yanked on it in an effort to free it. When he jerked it loose, his backward momentum sent him stumbling back until he hit a wall.

He sat slumped against the wooden planks panting, relaxation washing over him. He closed his eyes, intending to revel in the opportunity to just sit in silence with no impending doom breathing down his neck.

His eyelids flew open at the sound of hoofsteps coming his way. He looked up and gawked at the headless, worm-ridden body shuffling towards him, pitchfork still latched to the torso by straps similar to Rags’. It threw itself at him; the dishwasher flinched out of the way in the knick of time as the prongs lodged into the wood behind him. He kicked both hind legs into its chest and sent it bumbling back. The body shivered and shook again before reacquiring its prey and continuing forward.

Rags tried to comprehend how this was possible, and was appalled to see the decapitated head of the scarecrow still gazing at him from the ground with those emotionless red dots. He didn’t have an adequate backup plan for fighting such a durable ghoul. He could only think of one thing to do - keep slashing it until it stopped.

The body came at him again like a raging bull, and again Rags dodged the jab. As it rushed past him, he awkwardly swung at its back legs, missing as it careened past him. It was obvious why his special talent didn’t involve scythes. It came again and he attempted the same strategy, somehow landing a successful hit on the back legs, taking both off at once. The upper half fell forward into the ground, but pushed itself up on its front legs.

Even with two missing legs and no head, it determinedly dragged itself at Rags. With its decreased speed, he had an easier time maneuvering around it. He slashed again, this time turning his whole body with the scythe as he cut through the air. This technique was not pretty or skilled, but it proved to be more effective than what he was doing before.

His strike chopped off the two front legs, putting an end to its mobility once and for all. Then he stabbed the thing in the torso with a downwards slash, through where its heart should have been. He hacked the thing over and over, the worms inside making repulsive squelching sounds as they were massacred. He put as much energy as he could into a final slice, grunting as he did so, adding a sense of finality to the battle. His carelessness again got the blade stuck in the soil beneath the body, and he harshly tugged on it with a growl. Similar to the last time his weapon was stuck, his backward momentum made him fall onto his rump once it was freed. From this position, he could observe the end result of the struggle.

He might have won, but he did not succeed in killing it. The parts of the scarecrow twitched and squirmed, still trying to find a way to kill Rags even when dismembered and ripped open. Upon seeing the scarecrow fall, the crows all began cawing like mad, and descended from their high perches. They circled the body before diving on to it, pecking savagely at the shredded worms oozing out of the scarecrow’s lacerations. Even with these birds devouring its innards, the scarecrow’s parts still writhed, and its eyes still remained glued to Rags.

The stallion gagged at it all. At the sight before him, at the thought of something wanting so badly to kill him, and at the act he just committed. He knew it wasn’t a pony, he knew it was for survival, but the fact of the matter was that he just sliced and diced a creature like he was some kind of psycho from a slasher film.

As he watched the scarecrow spasm under the carnivorous flock, he realized that he found an answer to one of his questions from earlier. How does a pony cope with all of this? The answer is: they don’t. He would never get over this. No matter how hard he would try, no matter how talented the shrink, no matter how much medication he consumed, the things that happened to him tonight would always be with him, attached to his brain like a tumor, eating away at his sanity. The dishwasher's hooves would forever be dirtied by brutality, by cruel acts of destruction that he would be reminded of whenever he cleaned. Tears streamed down his face as he sat down, staring at his sullied hooves. Tears of fear, of loneliness, of stress, of knowledge of what the future would bring. He knew that the annihilated scarecrow would only be the first of many more.

The night was still young, after all.

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags stood in the threshold of the open barn door, taking in breaths of fresh air. The crows had all lost their vigor when the they had their fill of their master, and now either sat idly by or had flown out of the barn and into the dark of the eventide. He marveled at the serenity of it all. If another pony had reappeared from wherever they had all gone at this particular moment, they would think that it was simply a stunningly beautiful night. He thought about the farm he occupied and the Apples that lived there. It must be so amazing to be able to live out in such lovely country and do what you love for a living, he thought. This made him think about what would happen if he made it out alive. Would he go back to work as a dishwasher at the diner? He hardly wanted that to be the case.

He inhaled one last gulp of air before shutting the doors and returning to the interior. The smoldering remains of the scarecrow warmed the surrounding space. He set it ablaze utilizing the lantern, finally putting an end to its existence. He sat down nearby and let the macabre source of heat warm him. Before he burned the squirming remains, he used the scissors he got from earlier, cut cloth off the scarecrow’s attire, and used it for bandaging his wounds. He hadn’t had any idea that he’d lost so much blood until he got a good look at the bags resting over his back and saw that they were soaked with dark red. He had no real medical expertise, but he suspected that was part of the reason he was so weak.

His expression solemn, his heart weak, and his mind hazy with sleep deprivation, he waited patiently for that glorious fireball to rise into the sky and save him. He would not have to wait much longer, as the eastern sky was beginning to brighten. His rescue was just over the hill.

And something else was too. He heard something coming from over the hill. It started out low, a dull roar, but was steadily growing. As it neared, he could identify it. He quickly grabbed the scythe and checked all of the entrances and openings the barn had and made sure that they were shut firmly and locked up. He stacked boxes and barrels and whatever else he could find in front of the hole in the door and barricaded it. Then he waited. The roar came into the Apple property, shaking the loam beneath Rags’ quivering hooves. It spread over everything, consuming the acres in a torrent of savagery. Thunderous pandemonium erupted from all angles. Crashing and banging, demonic braying, and exasperated growls overtook Rags’ eardrums.

Biting down on the bit of the scythe, he readied for what was to come next. There was a great slam against the door, followed by enraged screaming and more slamming. The barrage of blows reverberated through the barn. The wood groaned under the immense pressure, and a hole was formed at the base of where the doors met, through which the first tar-pony stuck its head in and howled in ire at Rags

At that moment, he lost what little fire he had in his heart, and his fear attempted to convince him that running was the best option. He started backing away, sweat drenching his coat, teeth clattering over the bit, but the powerful voice in his head that helped him out of previous jams earlier that night came back in full force.

**NO!* If you start running now, you will die! They’ve surrounded us! There is nowhere to run! So this is it, Rags! You’ve done enough hiding and crying for one night anyway! Time to nut up!*

The voice’s tone was harsh and brusque, but it was just the push he needed. He stood his ground and tightened his hold of the scythe.

You’re not going to let these things kill you know, are you? Are you going to let them end your life before it’s really started? We haven’t achieved anything! We haven’t accomplished any of our goals, made any dreams a reality! If we let them end us now, it would be a waste of the time we’ve been given in this world!

His eyes hardened and he gritted his teeth around the handle.

Who would even remember us? Nougat, maybe Mom and Dad… and? Who else? No one cares about us! We are a nobody, through and through! If we go tonight, then the only thing folks with remember about us is that we turned up mutilated in the Element of Honesty’s freakin’ barn!

The tar-ponies widened the gap and began squeezing through, but too many tried to enter at once and slowed the process.

We haven’t experienced love, success, or even real happiness! Will you let these slavering mutants deny us that!?

They tried so furiously to get inside that even in the midst of the roaring and garbled language, Rags could hear the snapping of bones. They wanted so badly to kill him that they were destroying themselves. The wood groaned under all of the pressure and the doors began to buckle.

Look at these repulsive abominations. Rotten sacks of meat covered in sickening tar! Are you going to let everything you hope to achieve, everything you hold dear, everything you are, be taken away by this hateful filth!?

Rags hadn’t thought about it before then. He hadn’t considered anything about them besides how to avoid them. But now he truly saw it. He didn’t know how he knew, he just knew. The tar-ponies, and the other creatures he had been encountering all night, were hate incarnate. Their only purpose for existing was to brutally end those they set their sights on. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know anything about them except for the fact that they were pure evil. He could feel it. It was practically palpable. The aura of sick maliciousness around them was overwhelming. They loathed Rags. They couldn’t possibly live with the knowledge that he was alive. His life was an irritant to them. They needed him to die.

The resistance of the doors was put to an end, and they crumpled under the power of the tar-ponies. The barriers were flung to either side and a mass of tainted black flesh flooded in. Rags’ muscles clenched tightly and prepared for what might be his last moments. He couldn’t pinpoint what he was feeling. A combination of anger and sheer terror. Was this how a cornered animal felt?

The ones at the head of the horde charged at him, some with weapons, others bearing broken and jagged teeth. Having become more comfortable using his troublesome tool now, he raised his scythe for a strong slash into the skull of the first when it suddenly stopped a few yards away from Rags and reeled at him, the others performing similar actions. They encircled him, snarling all the while, but they never came in for the kill. He watched in confusion, until he realized that he was standing right next to the flaming scarecrow remains.

They’re afraid of fire!

True as this may be, their hate of Rags was greater than their fear of fire, and they were closing in at a considerable pace, slowly overcoming their fright. The first foe finally leap at him from the side. he saw this coming and he swung the scythe around, sticking it firmly into the monster’s forehead with a grotesque shlink. It instantly went limp but took Rags off balance, and he struggled to remove the tool from the corpse. Another one brave enough to approach the fire tried to cave his skull in from behind with a crowbar. He twisted out of the way and the attack and it struck the head of its comrade. The cranium exploded in black gore, and Rags freed his scythe from the loosened mess and separated the second assailant’s head from its shoulders, dark fluids spurting from the neck.

A vice-like grip clamped around Rags’ midsection and he screamed in pain. A tar-pony had sunk its teeth into his ribs and tightened its hold. He threw his head back and caught the beast’s gullet with a low swing, and rotten innards spilled out from underneath it. He kicked the thing back into the slowly advancing crowd and was immediately grabbed from behind. Another of the twisted ponies had leaped over the fire and wrapped its forearms around the terrified stallion’s head, and was trying to get a good enough grip to snap his neck. Instinctively, Rags put his weight into the monster behind him and forced it backwards. A deafening squeal pierced his ears and the hold around his head released. He turned to find that the tar-pony that jumped him had stepped into the fire and had caught ablaze, flailing around in an attempt to put out the inferno that was quickly consuming it.

It ran into the crowd and the others repulsed away from their burning ally. This gave Rags an idea. he snatched up a flaming arm, burning himself, and tossed it at the mob. Screeches and cries of pain and disgust followed. He did the same with another arm and tossed it in the other direction, then he threw a hind leg in another. When he finished, his hoofs were charred and tar-ponies ran all over the interior, some on fire and others running from them. The bulk of the mob was now distracted. Some, however, were focused enough to disregard their dying brethren and still rushed Rags.

Two came at him at the same time. He was able to slit the throat of one, but the other pounced on him. They wrestled with their hooves, Rags trying to get control over the situation and the creature trying to bash the stallion’s brains in. He lost his hold of the monster’s hooves and it got a good whack in, making blood pool in Rags’ mouth. The shock gave him rush of strength and he shunted the monster off of him and onto its back, whereupon Rags got up and loomed over the tar-pony. He was swift in his dealings as he thrust his scythe into its belly. It wailed and he struck again. It twitched and he struck again. blood brimmed over the dishwasher’s lips and he struck again. And again and again after that.

A flaming tar-pony bumped into the barrel with the lantern atop it, knocking the lamp to the ground and starting a large fire that quickly spread. The atrocities all yelled fearfully at the fiery madness and retreated outside the barn. Rags wobbled as he tried to stand upright and look at the demons barking at him from a safe distance.

“Oh what!?” he slurred, “You freaks scared of a little campfire!?” He spat a mouthful of blood at them and staggered, nearly falling over. He coughed and his eyes began to sting. Smoke was filling up the barn at an alarming rate, and it was becoming difficult to breath. He did his best to limp to the exit but was stopped by an uppercut to the chin that came from seemingly nowhere, sending him tumbling to his back. With spots in his blurred vision, he could see a one-eyed tar-pony towering over him. Though its left eye was damaged to the point of uselessness, it packed enough hatred for both into its good right one. It salivated as it growled and cocked its arm to deliver the kill with a bloody cleaver. Rags, too fatigued and hurt to make a move, watched in horror as his death loomed right above him.

“...traeh ruoy tae lliw I”

You blew it, Rags. Now we’re dead.

Frightened whinnys found their way into his distorted hearing, and the ground rumbled and shook. Just then, a translucent beam struck the cyclops in the back, and it bellowed in agony. Its flesh began bubbling under the layer of tar, and steam came off in large puffs. White bone was becoming visible as tar evaporated and rotten skin sizzled. With its last breath, it loathingly hissed at Rags.

“...luos...ruoy...ekat...tI”

Its one red eye burst from its socket in a gush of ickor and it vomited vaporizing bile before its decayed, tar-covered face deteriorated into a skeletal form. And before Rags’ eyes, it turned to ash and was scattered by the draft coming from the heat of the flames. He would have liked to ruminate on what just happened, but he first had to escape the fire. Coughing on smoke and blood, he got to his hooves and teetered out of the burning barn.

It put a massive strain on his body, and he collapsed the moment he believed himself far enough from the danger. He drowsily looked around to see that the noises he heard before the cyclops’s demise were indeed that of the tar-ponies fleeing, as they were all gone. Then he looked ahead for the one who cast the mighty light spell that warded off and killed the murderous atrocities. But there was no wizard, warlock, or master mage. Just the sun.

He smiled meekly. He didn’t mean to. He wasn’t even happy in the slightest. He just became aware of the fact that he had won. He had triumphed over the unholy masses. Through all the hiding, running, and desperate struggling, all based on the assumption that the sun would somehow save him, he had finally won. He hacked up a few globules of some sort of cocktail of blood and mucus, and dropped back to the ground, unconscious.

_________________________________________________________________________

6:00 AM

Applejack yawned and sat up in her bed. The rooster hadn’t crooned yet, but she didn’t need that to wake her up. Her body was so used to getting up around this time that she long ago started waking up naturally. She slid out from under the sheets, adopted her stetson, and began her groggy trek downstairs. She expected Big Mac to be up before her as always, with Apple Bloom still lounging about upstairs. Any second now, she expected the smell of apple pancakes and warm coffee to welcome her to the new day. When she reached the bottom of the stars, she saw neither Big Mac nor Granny Smith in the kitchen cooking. She smelled no breakfast waiting for her. Though she did smell something burning.

It was a smell she knew from years ago, when an accident with a cow and a lantern cost them their barn. The dreadful realization dawned on her and she rushed out the front door and was met with a soul crushing sight. The barn was nearly halfway consumed in fire, emanating a black billow of smoke from the charred wood. Granny Smith was standing on the porch shouting at someone to hurry up. From the smoke emerged Macintosh, dragging something, no, someone out of the fray. She ran to his side as he lugged himself and the other into safety. She knew the pony sprawled out on the ground. Yesterday she sympathized with him, but now, she didn’t know what to think about the stallion before her.

She would expect one who was just pulled out of a fire to be damaged, but not anything like this. He was covered in blood and blackened fur. Scratches, gashes, burn marks, purpled bruises, and various other wounds ran along his length. A vicious looking bite mark was implanted in his side and blood ran through it at a steady pace. A blood-soaked, makeshift tourniquet wrapped around his midsection. He looked like he was just tortured by a band of griffon bandits.

She was in mortified awe at the scene. A bloodied pony and a burning barn. What did it mean? Was he somehow responsible for this? But it looked like he was the victim, not the criminal. She asked the question that Big Mac, too, was contemplating.

“What happened here?” asked with a mixture of concern and somber emotion.

“Dunno,” Mac simply stated, keeping his eyes glued to the fire.

She sat down beside him. “Did you already call the weather team?”

“Granny did. Rain cloud’ll be here any minute. No wind, so we don’t have ta’ worry ‘bout the trees, ” Mac said matter of factly.

“Ambulance too?” Applejack asked.

“Eeyup.”

They said nothing more after that, and watched the barn turn to cinder.

Rags stirred beside them. He could barely move. All he could do was glimpse the inferno and the two ponies sitting beside him before his head fell back down and his eyes shut again.

Take it easy, Rags. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m here.

Chapter 4: Consequences

Chapter 4: Consequences

Journal entry #4

Preparation. That’s the word of the day. I need to start preparing for the nights. I can’t have a repeat of the episode in the hospital yesterday. It showed me that I’m far too inexperienced. I mean, I couldn’t find any medicine in a hospital for crying out loud! And I was looking for large bladed weapons IN A HOSPITAL! Stupid, Rags, stupid. Well, enough is enough. I’m done asking why these things are happening. I’ll get back to questions like those after I’ve established that I won’t get myself obliterated. It’s time I learned how to survive.

As soon as I’m done with writing this down, I’m going to gather up anything and everything that I could use before the sun sets. I hope my budding new reputation won’t stop the shops from selling to me. Folks are starting to talk. And why wouldn’t they? What better conversational piece than the guy who turned up in a hospital beaten to a pulp, babbling on about monsters and everyone else vanishing. I would love nothing more than to fend off claims of my sanity slipping, but the problem is that they might just be right.

Oh great, he’s singing again.

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags was awoken by a shrill beeping noise periodically pounding against his ears. Every beep provoked the ruthless headache that shot through his skull. Every inch of his body was in terrible pain, all of his nerves crying bloody murder. Even the act of breathing felt like a knife was being slowly inserted between his ribs. He flexed his body parts a bit to get a feel for how bad things really were. Moving brought tremendous anguish to his sore and stiff limbs.

Despite his turmoil, he could feel that the environment around him was actually quite pleasant. A warm blanket covered him from the belly down, and his cut-up back was comforted by a soft mattress. What felt like bandages tightly cocooned his various lesions. He groaned as the memories of the night before flashed into his mind. Snippets of horrid imagery and bone-chilling sounds put a story to each of his injuries.

Feeling that the time had come, he opened his eyes with curiosity and worry to find out where he was at. Bright but reassuring sunshine raining down from behind made the blanket flare up in a blinding display of reflected light. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was lying in a bed with a curtain encircling him. Assorted medical memorabilia surrounded him. An IV bag pumped some kind of fluid into his foreleg while a heart rate monitor incessantly beeped next to it. X-ray stills of his body hung over his left side, allowing him to see the damage done to his insides. Thankfully, nothing was broken, though his bones were covered in bruises and he was missing a tooth in the back of his mouth.

He jumped and simultaneously gasped when the curtains parted way and a chipper-looking stallion in a white coat stepped in. “Whoops! Didn’t mean to scare you there!” the doctor chirped.

“Where am I!?” Rags groggily questioned. The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but Rags cut in with another question before he could. “What’s going on!?” Rags immediately posed a very peculiar follow-up question. “Where were you!?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that last question, sir, but you’re in the hospital!” the doctor answered cheerfully, seemingly not noticing the oddness emanating from his patient.

“How long have I been here!?” Rags inquired hastily.

“Oh, about ten hours, I’d say. You were really messed up when they brought you in--”

“TEN HOURS!? What time is it!? No, no, no! I gotta get out of here! They’ll be coming back for me!” Rags screamed fearfully while frantically trying to sit up, finding himself restrained to the bed by leather straps. “Hey, what’s going on!? Get me outta here!” He thrashed around, too frightened to consider the pain he was bringing upon himself with his intense movements. The heart rate monitor began beeping faster and faster like an alarm.

“Take it easy there, sport! You’ll hurt yourself!” The doctor implored, attempting to calm Rags before he could harm himself further. Failing to assuage the stallion, who was becoming more violent in his spasms, the doctor called for assistance. “Nurse! Nurse, come quick!”

A mare with a red cross on her flank rushed into the curtained area and quickly surveyed the situation. She snatched up a needle and a small container and measured out the appropriate dose of sedative. She thrusted the needle into Rags’ foreleg and injected him with the placating liquid. Forced relaxation came to the dishwasher’s muscles and he found himself losing his vigor.

With his episode subsiding, Rags began breathing more steadily and the monitor’s beeping slowed as well. “I… I gotta… get out…,” he mumbled.

“Relax, son, you’re safe here,” the doctor said with the nurse at his side. “Now I would like to let you rest, but there are some ponies here to see you about some urgent business.” The doctor nodded to the nurse, who pulled back the curtains directly ahead of Rags, revealing a set of ponies, and a dragon, that didn’t seem too happy to see him - the Apple family, Rarity, the investigator, and the assistant of the princess, Spike.

Rags cringed and offered a sheepish greeting. He hadn’t met the fashionista or the royal assistant in person before, nor did he know why they were there. However, he did know why the Apples and the investigator were present. Rarity stepped up beside him and glared daggers down at him, her face one of outward control, but inward seething.

She magically lifted some ruined saddlebags onto the bed beside him. He didn’t understand her meaning at first, but quickly caught on when he scrutinized the bags. They were burnt, torn, and stained with dark blood, utterly destroyed. They were the bags he took with him from the boutique to carry his few supplies last night. He remembered thinking that they didn’t look too expensive. He could not have been more wrong.

She leaned in and hissed through gritted teeth, “These were designer bags from the most prestigious boutique in Canterlot, custom-made for me. They cost more than what you make in two years. If reparations are not made immediately, I will become very un-ladylike,” she said, venom dripping from her voice. She leaned in further, harshly whispering in his ear now. “If I am not repaid for this affront, I will use your hide to make a stunning outfit and wear it to the gala. Do I make myself clear?” Rags whimpered in response.

The dragon hopped up on the foot of the bed with a brick grasped in his claw. “What’s the big idea!? What do you have against the library, huh!? Twilight is gonna flip when she comes back to see her Starswirl the Bearded display all busted up!” Rags was about to apologize when Spike added something else. “I don’t know how you managed to do all of that damage without waking me up, but you’re lucky you didn’t! Because I would have been all over you like a horde of angry parasprites!”

Without waking him up? A question began forming in Rags’ mind.

The Apples could have taken this chance to put their gripes out on the table, but refrained from badgering Rags with their problems for some reason.

Rags spoke to the other two harping on him, “How do you even know I did any of that stuff?” He wasn’t denying that he caused them trouble, though for a good cause, but it was odd how they somehow knew it was him. From his experience, they were all gone last night. Or so he thought. How could they have known it was him who did these things?

“Common sense,” the investigator from yesterday said sternly as he stepped up to the foot of the bed and stared straight across the sheets at Rags. “Before I even get a mug of coffee in my hoof this mornin’, I’m swamped with several reports of vandalism and theft, topped off with possible arson at the farmhouse, the very same farmhouse you were found in yesterday. Low and behold, we find a blood trail leading all over town to the locations were the reports originated from. Our little trail of bloody breadcrumbs came to an end at the barn, which is where we found your flank out cold,” the investigator finished with a tone that chilled Rags’ veins.

“You know, you really had me goin’ there,” the investigator continued in a low voice. “I actually went to bed last night thinkin’ that you might just be innocent in this whole ordeal. I gotta admit, you put up one of the most convincing acts I’ve ever seen--”

“Where were you last night!?” Rags blurted.

The investigator was taken back by the random and abrupt nature of the question, becoming annoyed when he realized that his stride had been broken. “W-What!? What’s it matter!?”

“I need to know where you all were at!”

The investigator stared at Rags for a moment, exasperation and confusion clearly visible on his face. “I was sleeping like a fat baby in my apartment. Satisfied, you creepy little freak?”

“Anything else?” Rags pressed on, leaving the rest of the individuals in the room flummoxed. “What were you doing before you went to bed?”

The investigator sneered, “Oh I see where you’re going with this. No, nothing out of the ordinary happened last night. I didn’t feel any ghostly chills, see any spooky apparitions, or hear anything go bump in the night. It was a nice, normal evening.” The others nodded in agreement to this.

Rags looked over his body, momentarily forgetting the presence of the irked ponies giving him the death stare. He considered all of his wounds, all of his pain, and thought about everything that happened.

How was it possible? What happened to the ponies of Ponyville? Where did they go? And why was he left out of the phenomenon? Was any of it even real? Had it all been just the result of a psychotic breakdown? Could all of these injuries be self-inflicted? No, some were beyond what he could do to himself, like the bite mark.

He thought long and hard about his sanity. What did happen last night? What was it? Was it just some kind of hallucination? No, it couldn’t have been. It was just too real. Wasn’t it? None of it made sense. All of the logical conclusion he’d reached about the past few days had suddenly become highly illogical. Everyone else vanishing? They adamantly claimed that they were sleeping soundly. The monsters? There was no such proof that these beasts exist. All of their blood, the tar, the remains, any sign that they were even there at all, gone without a trace. His injuries? As far-fetched as it would seem, he could have been the inflictor. Why would they still remain when the rest of the evidence disappeared if they were truly left by monsters?

His headache came back stronger than ever, making him wince with pain. He wasn’t crazy. He couldn’t be. Or maybe… maybe he could. All these years of depression, anxiety, and failure. Were they finally taking their toll? Maybe it was all coming to a boil now. Perhaps his self-deprecating mind could no longer withstand the misery and created a deadly fantasy to make the act of taking his own life seem like another failure. A cruel, poetic end orchestrated by the suicidal mind of a lowly bottom feeder.

Was it all just a psychotic bid to kill himself?

No! The voice! The determined words that pushed him to survive! There was a part of him that pulled through, that wanted to see the light of day. If he was suicidal and insane to the point of creating a mad fantasy to kill himself, then why would he have been fighting so hard? Why would he have given himself the chance to survive at all?

And now that he thought about it, if it was all just a hallucination, how could everyone have been asleep like they said they were and not wake up to a madpony having an insane fit and smashing up property? They couldn’t possibly have slept through the ordeal, it was just too much commotion. Yes! It was all coming together now!

A moment of clarity… finally. It was what he fought for. Answers. Something had finally been made clear to him, even if it was something dark, and it felt like a refreshing drink of water after a long trek through the desert. At last, he had something to go off of.

He wasn’t crazy.

His headache ebbed slightly, clarity parting it like sunlight through rainclouds. It had to be real. The evil did happen. He felt calmed by this, but also disturbed. He was sure that he wasn’t crazy, but the fact of the matter was that there were still deadly creatures out there that wanted his heart roasted on a spit. His skin crawled and his heart began to beat faster. The abominations were not apparitions spawned from an overly active imagination. They were real. They were real and they were mad. And Rags had a feeling that they would be back.

But at least he wasn’t crazy.

The investigator, however, was beginning to think otherwise. As he watched Rags, he noticed all of the subtle nuances that only a trained eye would pick up on. Twitches, seemingly disoriented, long silence as if he were deep in thought, inconsistent responses and tone, panicked actions. The investigator moved in closer, eyeing Rags with as much suspicion as any one pony could feel. “Hold on a second. Do you… actually think that those monsters are real? That any of that crap you’re blabbering about… actually happened?”

Rags’ head jolted up, as if he became aware of the investigator’s presence for the first time. He looked at the detective as if he were afraid, silently crying for help with his eyes.

“That… explains a lot,” The investigator said as he pulled out a cigar and lit it. He took in several puffs, sighing out a cloud of smoke before speaking. “Friendo… I’m going to have to call some friends of mine.”

“Who?” Rags asked worriedly.

“Don’t worry, pal, they’re some real nice guys, in real nice white coats. They’ll make it all better,” The investigator said with no compassion in his voice, not even looking at the poor stallion.

Rags’ eyes widened in fearful realization. “No… I’m not crazy!” He began tugging at his restraints, causing the other ponies in the room to back away slowly, and the doctor and nurse to ease toward him. “Let me out of here! I’m not crazy! I’M NOT!” Rags was violently tossing himself around now, prompting the doctor and nurse to throw themselves on top of him, trying to hold him down.

“The sedative, nurse! Use the sedative!” the doctor ordered. The nurse readied the syringe, preparing to stick Rags. She managed to get it into his forearm, but was stopped before should could empty its contents by a booming voice.

”STOP!” The volume of the shout was great enough to rattle everything in the room and force those in it to bring their hooves to their ears. They all turned to the source and were surprised to find two soldiers standing in the doorway, adorned in the golden armor of the Royal Canterlot Guard. They walked past the threshold and parted to reveal that a very important individual had come to Ponyville unannounced.

Princess Twilight.

The investigator’s jaw dropped, letting his cigar fall to the floor before he bowed quickly. The doctor and nurse scrambled off of Rags to give their bow. Big Macintosh, Applebloom, and Granny Smith all bowed as well. Applejack, Rarity, and Spike all simultaneously exclaimed “Twilight!” and ran to greet the princess with hugs.

She warmly embraced them, her smile sincere and welcoming. Then her eyes fell on Rags, and her face became cold and expressionless. The dishwasher gulped.

She turned back to the rest of the ponies in the room, including her bodyguards, and kindly asked while gesturing to Rags, “Would you all mind giving us some time alone?”

The investigator and the bodyguards immediately protested the idea of the princess being alone in a room with a possibly disturbed pony, but she reassured them it was under control. She reminded them that she was a powerful alicorn, and that Rags was restrained and wasn’t a threat to anyone but himself. Reluctantly, they all agreed and stepped out.

When they were alone, Twilight turned and sized Rags up, taking note of every wound and bruise. She slowly made her way to his side and stared down at him, eyes unwavering and full of irritation. She was completely silent, as if calculating something in her head. Rags could no longer bare the weight of the silence and her gaze, so he decided to break the ice.

“G-Greetings, your highness,” he stammered. “Is there, uh, something little ol’ me can help you with?” he put on a fake grin, trying to cover up his worry.

“What happened last night?” she asked levelly, retaining eye contact whereas Rags was trying to avoid it.

“Uhm… did I do something wrong?” Rags asked tentatively.

“Well, you burned down my freinds property, stole from another of my friends, and destroyed a few personal items of mine in the library in the dead of night.”

“How did you kn--”

“I read the town guard’s report this morning. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Why did you do those things?” she questioned, still calm in tone and attitude.

Rags didn’t feel right. Something was weird about the princess. Everything about her presence just filled him with dread. Not her, specifically, but her arrival and her focus on him couldn’t have been just a coincidence. The nightly happenings had to have some kind of correlation. With reluctance, he told her everything. Her intentions were unclear, but why would he not tell her? Despite the unnerving connotations of her coming, he technically had no reason to withhold anything.

When he finished, he was shivering. His nerves had gone into overdrive, the mere recollection of the events sending pangs of icy terror through his body. Twilight nodded when he was done telling his story, and finally broke eye contact to stare off into space. Her look of deep thought was so intense that Rags could practically hear the cogs spinning in her head. She must have found something he said to be very interesting.

“Princess?” Rags cautiously asked. He didn’t know what else to say. Should he have asked, ‘What happens now?’ Or maybe, ‘What are you going to do to me?’ A pit was growing in his stomach. So many questions. So many possibilities. What to do?

She looked upon him once more and smiled. “Well right now, you need rest. You look pretty rough.”

“I can’t! I need to get ready! They’re coming back for me! They’ve done it twice now, and I don’t really want to see what they’ve got in mind for a third outing!” Rags said, urgency in his tone.

“You don’t need to worry about any of that. I’m going to place a protective ward over this room. No one except for the medical staff and I will be able to pass it,” she assured in a motherly fashion. Rags was confused by her change. Her tone was ominous and cold before. Now she was comforting and compassionate, like what he would expect of a ‘benevolent’ leader. “I’m going to undo your binds, but I want you to stay in this room.” She magically released his straps and turned to make her leave.

“Wait, that’s it? You’re not even going to explain anything to me? LIke maybe what the flying crap is going on? Erm… your majesty,” Rags said while rubbing his freed hooves.

She smiled at him from over her shoulder and said, “Get some sleep.” As she was leaving, she magically flipped the light switch and closed the door. Then a wall of magenta energy cascaded over the threshold. Rags laid his head back onto the pillow. He was exhausted. As concerned as he was, afraid of what the night could bring, Twilight was right. He needed rest. He hadn’t gotten any real sleep in two days, and his body was too damaged for exertion. And the shield covering the room brought him slight peace of mind, at least enough for him to close his eyes for a little while without having to worry about waking up to a bloody knife lodged in his chest.

Now, if only he could actually close his eyes.

_________________________________________________________________________

Twilight sighed as she closed the door behind herself. The stallion was in poor condition, both mentally and physically. Her mind had been going at full speed after hearing what he had to say, searching for an explanation. Her associates approached, concern etched on their faces. Twilight predicted what their question would be, but had no answer for it which frustrated her to no end.

“Twilight, ya know we always love seein’ ya nowadays, but why are ya here? You were here before Spike could have even sent a letter to ya about what happened,” Applejack said.

“And you seemed very interested in that vandal,” Rarity said venomously, glaring at the door of the room where Rags was resting.

Twilight gestured for the guards and the investigator to leave earshot, and didn’t speak until a reasonable sense of privacy was achieved. “Now girls, I don’t want to cause any alarm, but something is wrong. I came this morning because for the past few days I’ve been feeling a disturbance. Some kind of… I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. Something sinister. My memories become hazy at night, like they’ve been… tampered with. Whatever it is, it’s coming from Ponyville, and it seems to be centered around him.”

“Disturbance? What do you mean?” Spike asked.

‘Like I said, I don’t know. I’m not even sure whether or not it’s just a feeling of mine. He says he’s being attacked by monsters, but I don’t believe that for a second. Still, the things that have happened, the arson, the vandalism, and the strange marking on his house and around town, have occurred around the same time I started feeling like this. All of it was committed by this stallion, Rags, and the presence is strongest around him. It’s all just too convenient. I think something bad is coming, and he’s got something to do with it. Again, this might just be a funny feeling of mine, and he really is just crazy. But in case I’m right, I need you all to be ready,” Twilight finished. They all looked at her with equal amounts of unease and understanding.

“Don’t worry, Twi, we’re ready for anything,” Applejack touted. The others posed no protest to the sentiment.

“Thanks. I’ll be in my library working on this, but before I start, I should say hi to Rainbow, Pinkie, and Flutter--”

“ONE SIDE! COMIN’ THROUGH!” a voice shouted. Doctors and guards made a fuss as a yellow pegasus came charging down the hallway. He skidded to a halt in front of Twilight, eyes wide in shock. “Princess!” he exclaimed as he gave a hasty bow. “Excuse me, your highness, but I need to get in there and see my friend.”

“Sorry, but I don’t think now is a good time. He needs rest.” His face drooped at this. “You can come visit tomorrow, though,” Twilight politely added. He sat down by the door. “Don’t worry, he’s alright, just a little shaken up is all.”

“He’s been talking about some kind of monster attacking him at night. I don’t know what he’s on, but he’s really freaked out. He jumped out my window last night! I’m worried about him,” the pegasus explained.

Twilight looked at him with sudden interest. “Did you see him do this? Do you remember it happening?”

The pegasus sniffed and wiped a hoof across his nostrils. “No. I don’t know how, but he managed to bust through the window over my bed without waking me up. He’s got, like, hidden ninja skills or something. He should have a mark in stealth, not cleaning stuff.”

“You don’t remember…,” Twilight mumbled quietly to herself. “Sorry girls, I’ll talk to the others later. I need to start my research immediately,” she said as she began walking quickly down the hall, guards resuming their positions at each side. Applejack, Rarity, and Spike didn’t even have time to ask what was so urgent.

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags stared at the door across the room from him for a very long time. Half an hour, according to the clock. it was a quarter past four in the afternoon. The light of the lazy afternoon sun warmed the foot of the bed. The conditions were perfect for a nap, which he sorely needed. Sleep was becoming scarce in Rags’ schedule. But he wouldn’t let himself surrender to it, not while the danger was only a few hours away. He resolved to sit in bed and just think. Seeing that no other patients were assigned to his room, he decided that it was alright to think out loud.

“They were going to commit me. Send me off to the looney bin. How could they? Hasn’t anyone ever heard of an assault of slavering monstrosities trying to rip out someone’s heart before? You’d think with all of the natural beasts and giant animals around Equestria folks would be a little more likely to understand my predicament. I wonder if the first pony to ever see a manticore was called crazy by his people?” he mulled.

“But at any rate, I need to be careful. The day is almost as dangerous as the night now, what with all of these ponies trying to send me to the happy farm. I need to make an effort to look as normal as possible. I just gotta keep telling myself that I’m not crazy.”

Yeah, you’re not crazy. You’re just a regular guy talking out loud to himself.

Rags whipped his head around the room, searching for whoever just spoke to him. Perhaps there was another patient with him after all? “Who said that!?” he demanded.

I did.

“Who’s there!?”

I am.

“Who are you?”

You.

“What?”

I didn’t say anything that time.

“No, who are you!?”

Like I said, you. You deaf or something?

“No, I said who are you--”

I. Am. You.

“What…?”

I am you, and you are me. Get it, moron?

Rags shook his head and scanned the room again. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. “Stop screwing with me! Where are you?”

I’m in your head. Understand?

“I said stop screwing with me! Who are you and where are you!?” Rags said exasperatedly.

Oh what, you don’t believe me? Alright, big boy, “How about this?” a voice suddenly came clearly from his side. His heart skipped a beat and he immediately turned to see the pony who was talking this whole time. The voice did not lie. It was him. Rags was looking at Rags. Like someone had set a mirror beside him when he wasn’t looking. Only, his reflection was sitting on its haunches at the bedside. It lacked any bandages, wounds, or a hospital gown. And it was grinning.

“What the f--”

“Hello, handsome,” the reflection said through his smile.

Rags stared in disbelief. He blinked several times to make the vision go away, but it remained.

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to rough you up like those nasty things from last night. Quite the contrary. I’m here to help you out of this little predicament.”

Rags only continued staring, trying to find the proper words.

“You face an onslaught of demons and I’m what gets you speechless? Man, you really are a pus,” the reflection chuckled.

“H-How? W-Why!?” Rags sputtered.

“How? You’re a quack. Why? Because without me you’d be worm food.” The reflection stood and began walking around the room, observing it as if for the first time. “Remember that voice that got you through last night? The one that made you do all of the right things to survive? That was me, baby. See, I’m like a little guardian angel sittin’ on your shoulder. Or rather, in your brain pan.”

“That was… you?” Rags dumbly asked.

“That’s what I said. Did you honestly think that you could make it on your own? If you were the one calling all the shots, we’d be six feet under right now.”

“What are you?”

The reflection came to sit by his side again, devilish grin still etched across its face. “I’m kind of like your conscience, the one who’s always wanted to make the decisions that would lead to sweet success. Too bad I ain’t been able to get a word in until now. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a miserable little sack of crap if I could talk before.” The reflection stood and leaned in toward Rags menacingly. “I’ve always been there, watching the trainwreck that is your life unfold from behind your eyes, never being able to lift a hoof to intervene. Now I’m out, baby, and you’re gonna listen to what I have to say. Trust me, it’ll be great advice.”

Rags felt threatened and confused at once. He still didn’t know what to make of the thing before him. It said it was him. Was it? Could it have been some kind of apparition that crawled into his skull last night? Or was it actually him? He wasn’t crazy, he was sure of it. So what was this odious thing? It sounded nothing like him. Its tone was harsh and its words were brusque. Was it really the voice of determination that pulled him through?

The door opened and a nurse walked in with a tray of food.

“Whoa nelly, check out the tasty flank on this honey. First bit of life improving advice: get yourself a piece of that action,” the reflection said, smiling wickedly.

“Shut up!” Rags shouted at the reflection. It looked at him knowingly, eyes darting back and forth between Rags and something off to the side. The patient turned to find the nurse staring at him like he was some kind of freak. He was about to gesture to the reflection, but it became obvious that only he could see it. Rags smiled weakly and took the tray. The nurse backed away slowly, never taking her eyes off the dishwasher until she was out of the room and the door was shut.

“Nice job, you big pile of fail. You coulda had a tasty plot for lunch instead, but you just had to go and be weird. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You always muck everything up and make your life worse. Well, you’re in luck, because I’m here to kick your life into overdrive and get you everything you’ve ever wanted. And more.”

“Just leave me alone! I don’t know what you are or how you’ve gotten into my head, but I don’t want any help from you! Leave!” Rags screamed.

The reflection’s smile disappeared, replaced by a gritted frown. “You can’t just tell me to piss off! I’m you too, and if I’m forced to share this carcass with you, then I’m not gonna put up with your crap anymore! You’ve done nothing but make all the wrong moves ever since you could walk, and I’m sick of it! I’m not leaving, baby, and you better get with the program!”

“And what if I just tell you to piss off anyway, huh!? What are you gonna do about it!? If you really are in my head, then you’re just a figment of my imagination! You can’t do anything!” Rags shot back.

The reflection got face to face with Rags and growled, “You don’t wanna know what all I can do to you. I’m in your brain, I can screw with all sorts of things that shouldn’t be screwed with. You do not want to piss me off. So consider this a friendly piece of advice: get with the bucking program, you worthless maggot.”

They glared daggers at each other for a long, silent moment. In truth, Rags was terrified by the prospect of this hostile thing living in his brain, but he didn’t want to show it. He briefly wondered if it could read his thoughts.

“I’ll be back for ya, baby, and when I come, you better be ready to rock n’ roll. Like it or not, we’re in this together now, and you’ll need me to make it out alive. And hey, think of it this way, at least you won’t be alone at night anymore,” the reflection finished, its grin returning upon doing so.

And then he was gone in the blink of an eye. Rags looked around the room, checking if the reflection was still there. It was not.

Tears found their way into Rags’ eyes. He felt that the little piece of reassuring truth which he had fought so hard to acquire, that he wasn’t crazy, was slipping. There was an ‘other’ in his mind. He was split in two. And the other was not very nice. He was worried about what it might do if he did not cooperate. Its conviction in trying to assert its own will was frightening. Was it really the same voice that got him through the night? Had the overwhelming fear somehow given the voice a mind of its own? A last ditch effort by his subconscious to create an effective means of survival?

His energy was gone. The injuries made it painful to move, but this new revelation made it painful to live. He let his head fall back onto the pillow and began to drift off into slumber. The ward over the room would protect him tonight. Maybe the spell cast by the princess would prove to be a long term solution?

_________________________________________________________________________

Rags yawned as he awoke. He was amazed at how superbly comfortable the bed was. After two nights of no proper sleep, just falling unconscious in various places, warm silk sheets were a welcomed change. So welcomed in fact that Rags decided that he would refrain from getting up and go back to sleep instead. He was certainly tired enough to do so.

Without opening his eyes, he turned onto his side and prepared to let sleep take him again. Then he noticed the scratching sound coming from the corner of the room. Suddenly, he remembered why he had such a hard time falling asleep to begin with. His eyes flew open and he was blinded by impenetrable darkness, the light of the lazy afternoon sun from the window above his head now gone. The only source of light came from the hallway, through the open door. His breath quickened and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest.

Oh crap… it’s night. It’s nighttime. Oh this is bad. Very bad. Definitely not good. Ok, just calm down Rags. Remember, there is a shield spell thingie over this room. Nothing can get in. They will stay out there, and I’ll be in here.

Then he noticed that the scratching noise was coming from inside the room.

He didn’t know whether or not it was a rat or something uglier, but it didn’t appear to be leaving the corner, so he thought it best to keep quiet. If only the reflection felt the same way. It almost made Rags jump when the voice began speaking to him. He nearly forgot that it was now its own entity.

Rise n’ shine, numbnuts. It’s that special time again, so let’s get down to business. You remember where the light switch is, so get out of bed and go flip it.

What about the noise?

What about it? It’s not doing anything. But if it starts to, you’re gonna be in the dark when it does, so get moving.

But I--

Look, remember that magic shield thing that Princess Hot Flank put over the room? None of those things can get in here, just doctors and the big cheese herself. So this is all you have to deal with tonight, okay pumpkin? After this, it’s smooth sailing. So act like you’ve got a pair and go flip that switch.

But how did whatever that is in the corner get in here? The door is open. Did it come through the ward thing?

For the love of-- how am I supposed to know!? One thing at a time, alright!? Now go!

Rags gulped and ripped the IV needle from his foreleg. He moved as softly as he could to get out of the bed. Pain immediately raced through his body, making every flex of the muscles a grueling chore. Sore as he was, he powered through. His hoof placements were deliberate and well thought out, ensuring that no rash mistakes did him in. He listened to the scratching noise as he made the seemingly endless trek to the other side of the room. The open doorway was like a lighthouse, guiding him through the sea of darkness to his objective.

When he finally made it, he ran a hoof over the wall until he felt the switch, but before he could flip it, his eyes wandered to the hallway outside of the room. Wheelchairs, IVs and other medical equipment littered the area. Bloody hoofprints ran up and down the walls, floor, and ceiling. The bulbs flickered and sparked, barely managing to light the corridor. It was then when he realized that the door was supposed to be left shut. Had a nurse come into his room before the night while he was sleeping and carelessly left it open? It shouldn’t have mattered even if that was the case. The shield should have kept all but the hospital staff out of the room.

Still, knowing that the door was not meant to be open, he questioned the presence of the scratching noise and how it came inside. Unsure of what he was about to see, he turned on the lights. They hummed and flickered as if barely operational, but provided enough illumination for Rags to see what was in the corner.

It was a pale pony, bald and sickly looking, stallion, judging from the build. It wore some kind of white uniform, the sort a nurse would wear.  Gashes and cuts covered most of its body, except for its hooves where there was no flesh at all. The meat was peeled away at the ends of the forelegs, revealing bloodstained bones that it scraped against the wall, producing the scratching sound. It faced the corner so Rags could not see its face, and scribbled something on the wall. Written dozens of times in blood was a strange phrase.

ITS EYES ARE UPON US

While not comforting in the slightest, Rags felt that the pony posed no major threat. As long as it kept to itself and paid him no mind, he would do the same.

Well, that’s very creepy, but I think I’m in the clear seeing as nothing is currently trying to tear my throat out. What now?

Find a weapon, something that could give a monster a headache at the very least.

Okay.

Rags looked back to the bed and found his eyes wandering to the IV standing beside it. It wasn’t an optimal choice in weaponry by any means, but it was better than nothing. Casting another glance to the pony in the corner, still writing its nonsense, he quietly went to grab the IV stand. Picking it up, he swung it around a few times to get a feel for it and found that the hefty base of the stand would make for a fine bludgeoning tool. But he would only be able to swing standing still. He had to balance on his hind legs, making movement while attacking an impossible task. He cursed his earth pony body. If only he were unicorn capable of levitation, so many things would have been easier. Just another item on the long list of cons of being him, he supposed. The list of pros basically boiled down to ‘he was tidy’. And even that was something that could have been more easily achievable with a horn.

He perked his ears as he heard a sound coming from down the hall. At first he thought it was something bestial, but as it came closer, he could make out speech. Actual coherent speech. A pony? A regular pony? There was another ordinary soul out at night? It couldn’t be. He was alone at night, all others vanished. Didn’t they? He moved to the doorway and stood against the wall with his IV held tightly, peeking around the frame to see. Sure enough, the shape of a normal pony came into view, and Rags felt overjoyed at the prospect of not being alone anymore. It was all he could do to contain himself and stay hidden, though it was probably good that he did.

“Dress the wound, stop the bleeding, THE BLEEDING, The bleed-- BLOOD! Gotta-- gotta get the anti-venom, for--for a-- a-- SNAKEBITE! Hemoglobin, in the BLOOD stream, nasty stuff, gotta get it out. Out. Out NOW! Get. It. OUT! HEART ATTACK! It’s BAD! Emergency care, QUICK! Victim is… CHOKING!”

The pony spoke to no one but himself, and his words were much less coherent than Rags initially perceived. His face was hidden in dancing shadows under the flickering light in the hallway, and he wore a white coat like a doctor. But the corridor was just too dark to make out anything else. The doctor kept walking forward, not paying attention to any of the rooms as he babbled inanely to himself. Rags didn’t know what to make of it, so he decided not to risk anything and let the crazy-sounding doc pass.

As the doctor was passing Rags’ room, the pony in the corner suddenly began pounding violently against the wall with so much force that its bones cracked and fractured. Shocked by the sudden outburst, Rags dropped his IV stand in the middle of the doorway. The doctor, already looking towards the room because of the thrashing, saw the stand drop and looked up to see Rags’ snout sticking out from around the wall.

The pony in the corner stopped as suddenly as it started, but out of his peripheral vision, Rags could see the doctor fixated on him, and he could now discern more gruesome features. The doctor’s face was gnarled and twisted like his face had been kicked repeatedly. Stitches and staples carpeted his bloody, rotten face. His incredibly bloodshot eyes were rolled over into the back of his skull, and a horrific smile-like slash left him literally smiling from ear to ear.

“NUUUUUUURSE!” the doctor bellowed, “THE PATIENT IS GOING INTO CARDIAC ARREST! GET MY TOOLS!” He lunged for Rags, who fumbled back from the doorway.

The ward’ll stop him, the ward’ll stop him, the ward’ll stop him!

As the doctor leaped through the doorway, a flare of magenta colored energy washed over him, letting him pass without any resistance. Time seemed to slow down as Rags watched the freak come at him in horror. In that instant, he figured it out.

The coat. The nurse uniform. The ward thought they were hospital staff. Screw magic.

The two front hooves of the doctor slammed into Rags’ chest and he was slammed to the ground, a stabbing pain burning in his shoulder as he landed. the doc attempted to shove the surgical tool deep into Rags’ eye, being stopped just inches before by the stallion’s own hoof clamping down on the doctor’s. They wrestled for control over the blade, the doctor spouting gibberish all the while.

“Just need to make a small INCISION! In the frontallllll… CORTEX!”

Blood ran from the stitches on his face and dripped onto Rags. He smelled rancid, as if he’d been in the middle of the decomposition process when he got up to wander the halls. Rags pushed against his foe with all his might, keeping the blade only an inch away from his eye. The doctor’s flesh began to rip as the stitches on his arm gave way. As though he didn’t even notice, the doctor kept forcing his hoof down, regardless of his skin sliding off his body. Was it even his skin?

What do you think you’re doing!?

He’s winning! Help me!

Help yourself! Push him off!

I can’t…

I said push him off! NOW!

A surge of adrenaline pulsed through his body. Tremendous strength found its way into his arms and legs, and with an incredible heave, he tossed the twisted doctor over his head. he got to his hooves with a stumble and snatched up the IV stand from in front of the door. He turned back to the doctor, the lunatic still on his back laughing madly, and rushed over to make sure he stayed down. He slammed a hoof down on the monster’s chest and raised his impromptu weapon.

Kill him.

He struck the doctor right on the nose, a crunching sound confirming his accuracy. The doctor still chortled and spouted his gibberish, so Rags hit him again. This time his forehead split open and blood and gore drizzled over his malformed face, and still he laughed. Another strike landed on his eye and it shoved the bloodshot retina further back into the skull, blood pooling around the socket. Another blow found its way back to the forehead and brain matter spattered out in small globules. Still the twisted thing laughed.

Rags kept striking, annihilating the already deformed doctor’s face. When he finished, he dropped the mangled stand. The doctor’s head was split in two, leaking demented brains onto the floor. Blood was splashed across Rags’ face. He staggered back and gawked at his work. He had never exhibited such power before. Were all ponies capable of this? Or was it the voice? Did it speak the truth earlier that day? Was it really there to help him? Possibly so… for Rags felt no remorse for his actions. Before, such barbaric aggression made him sick. He could hardly cope with knowing what he had done to survive, even if it was against monsters. Now, he was almost… content. Like the thought of slaughtering these things no longer bothered him.

He should have been troubled by this, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to even think. Was it simply him becoming accommodated to the smell of death and the sight of blood? Was it even he who was feeling content? Just how much influence did the voice have? So many questions. Too many. He remembered his goal, what he desired. Answers.

When his heart beat slowed, the toll of what he had just done took its physical effect. His forelegs burned with sheer agony. Every bone felt shattered, and every muscle felt like the splinters from those bones were jabbed into the fibers. His lungs were on fire, his breaths like gasoline fueling the flames. His bandages began moistening and turning red. He had exerted himself far too greatly for his condition. Another conflict like that would disable him completely, if he even had the energy to continue fighting that is. He decided that any weapon that required great stamina to use, like that of the stand, would should be discarded. He couldn’t afford wasting so much strength on something like that.

Suddenly he regained his senses and quickly looked around. He remembered that there were more where the doctor came from, and the ward, as he painfully discovered, did not provide the protection the princess promised it would. Now what? He was injured, defenseless, and exposed. He pondered whether he should stay in the hospital or venture back into town. Well, the latter he wasn’t liking the sound of at all. Running around like a chicken with his head cut off and looting various businesses and establishments wasn’t exactly a foolproof survival plan. And the hospital did have medicine and bladed tools, so there were possibilities for scavenging.

He decided on staying. All he needed was a few bottles of helpful drugs and a few edged tools and he would hop in a closet somewhere and wait out the storm. Sounded simple enough. Though when Rags was involved, things were rarely so smoothly executed in practice. Swaying back and forth on his hooves to see if he could stand and walk without too much trouble, he turned to leave the gory corpse and exit the room.

He prodded the useless wall of magic occupying the threshold to see if he too was allowed to pass. Thankfully, the shield was not a lie crafted by the princess to keep him inside, as he could stick a hoof through to the other side. Checking the room one more time, he saw that the pony in the corner still scribbled away obliviously. Rags scowled at it, perturbed that it got him in trouble, and left without saying goodbye.

_________________________________________________________________________

His steps sounded like cannon blasts in the unrelenting silence of the hallways. The only other sound was the occasional echo of a mournful moan, a bloodcurdling scream, or demonic laughter. His skin crawled as he searched the building. He hadn’t encountered any other threats, but he had seen signs that they were indeed in the immediate area. Bite marks covered everything that a creature could fit its mouth around. His back was drenched with slimy red, as blood dripped from everywhere on the ceiling, akin to a water main bursting on the floors above. Long claw marks etched into the walls and floors in never-ending stretches. He briefly put thought into the likelihood of a heart attack.

His loud breaths were long and shaky. His heart beat never slowed. He had no clue what he was doing. He was supposed to be searching for medical drugs and weaponizable blades, but he didn’t possess a knowledge of medicine or an inclination of where a hospital would keep all of their biggest tools. Did hospitals even use tools big enough to suit his needs? At this point, he was beginning to lose interest in finding medicine or a weapon and considered just cutting his losses and hopping into a closet until daybreak.

Hearing the echo of yet another screech, he decided that he would feel much better with some form of defense in his hooves, so he opted to search just a little longer.

Coming up on his right was a large window, splattered with blood and cracked. Of course. The creatures of the night seemed to have an affinity for covering things in disgusting bodily fluids. Above the door to the room was a sign that read ‘nursery’. Rags sucked in air through his teeth. He steeled himself for the dreadful sights he would no doubt see as he passed.

Inside, cribs lined up in rows, set up to display the wonderful little angels their parents brought into the world for all to see. But instead of cradling infants, the cribs overflowed with blood and meat chunks. The floor was drenched in a mixture of blood and baby formula from broken bottles. Then he noticed all of the red hoofprints on the window. They were small, clearly belonging to a foal. But how in the world of Equestria would…

He got his answer when a screaming thing slammed against the window, clinging to it like a spider. It smashed its head against the glass again and again, adding new cracks and blood splatters to the barrier. When the pounding stopped, Rags got a good look at it.

It was a baby, but not at all like the precious little angels that mothers birthed. Its limbs were broken and twisted around in ways that should not be, and looked more like spider legs than pony ones. Out of its mouth came a long tendril, presumably what used to be the tongue, with a sharp bone protruding from the end. The horror snapped it like a whip at the glass. Its neck was broken, turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face its backside, which had become its frontside. It skittered up and down the window, trying to find a way out, snarling all the while. It was like a bloodied cockroach. A bloodied cockroach that screamed and cried like a baby, but attacked like a demon.

Rags watched the creature with horror and sorrow. The night changed everything, even the innocence of children, into something evil and abominable. Behind the imp, more things were in motion. Similar disfigured urchins crawled around the room. The ceiling came to life with squirming, writhing spawns. Truly like cockroaches, they scattered everywhere, searching for their next meal.

Knowing that they were trapped, Rags turned and continued down the hall, solemn. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes peeled for any more troubles.

_________________________________________________________________________

Nothing. His efforts were in vain. Dodging questionable shadows in the dim halls, he came up short on everything he needed. All he was able to get was some ibuprofen, which he gulped down instantly to help with his pain stricken body. It did nothing. He did find a few other kinds of pills, but he didn’t know what their effect was.

His stomach growled. His lips were parched. The cold blood running down his back chilled him. Ironic how he was so physically troubled in a hospital. He had lost track of where he even was. The halls seemed to change and shift behind his back. He wouldn’t put it past the night to play such tricks.

Just give up.

No point in going around in circles, looking for things that might not even matter in the long run, when he was only killing himself. Another far off scream. This one sounded like it came from a small child. He didn’t even know what medicines to look for. And he doubted he’d find any good weapons larger than a scalpel.

A shadow ran through the intersection ahead of him. He froze and listened, waiting to see if it was going or coming back. Luckily, it didn’t spot him.

It was time to hide. He couldn’t remain exposed any longer, he had tempted his luck too much already. Thus far, he’d been fortunate that the only encounter was the doctor from earlier. But that doesn’t mean that he hadn’t come close to being slain again, either. The shadows were becoming more numerous and aggressive. The darkness crept in all around him, coming closer and closer to sinking its teeth into its prey.

He couldn’t help himself, so he would just have to wait until morning for the others to return. Now the question was where to hide. The night had eyes like a hawk, ears like a fox, and a nose like a bloodhound. It had a way of finding him just when he was lulled into a false sense of security.

He wondered how much time was left before the sunrise. It felt like he’d spent the whole night walking around the halls like a hyperventilating moron. It’s not like he had a way of knowing. The clocks all displayed different times, so none of them were trustworthy. The night was messing with him.

He looked in the large viewing windows of the rooms, seeing bloody surgical equipment, torture devices, and creatures hiding in the shadows, waiting for him to come inside. But no decent hiding places. As he cautiously browsed, a scratching noise came into earshot ahead, but it was not at all like the one from the corner-pony. This noise was harsh and ear-piercing, like hooves on a chalkboard.

It was coming from one of the upcoming rooms on the right side. He hugged the wall and slowed down to quiet his steps. He could see it. On the window was five long claws, endlessly scraping the glass like a bored cat. It was waiting for him. He swallowed and bent his knees, determined to stay out of the creature’s sight.

As he was pressed against the wall under the window, he could hear its breathing. Like long sighs, fogging the window as they escaped. He finally passed the window, but continued to creep along the wall slowly until he felt he was in the clear. The scratching stopped. He tossed a panicked glance back to see if the creature had spotted him somehow. While he was looking back, he bumped into something in front of him. He yelped and jumped back, landing with a loud stamp. It was only an IV bag. The real threat was now behind him.

The window exploded into thousands of flying shards, and a humongous shape landed in the middle of the hall. The flickering light of the corridor only allowed Rags to see it in very quick and very sporadic intervals, but that was enough.

It was a griffon, featherless and skinless. Its exposed muscle and flesh was blackened by small amounts of tar seeping between the fibers. Its beak was cracked and splintered, and a large chunk was missing. Every tendon on its body seemed to have been replaced with a tight metallic wire that dug deeply and painfully into its flesh. Its natural eagle talons had been hacked off, replaced with jagged shards of metal crudely implanted into the stumps were the claws used to be. It glared at him with empty eye-sockets and screeched at him with a tongueless mouth. Rags could see that its neck was clearly slashed open and that its wings had been ripped off by sheer brute force.

The abomination before him looked like the result of a mad surgeon’s sick, torturous experiment. It was as if the night brought a damned soul straight from the depths of Tartarus to slay him.

In his condition, running was very hazardous to his well-being. He didn’t care. He turned and sprinted like the wind, with no destination in particular in mind. As long as it was away from the slasher, it was alright with him.

He could hear it chasing him, the clanging of makeshift metal claws against the floor ringing as clear as a bell. Rags saw an upcoming turn to the right and skidded as he turned sharply to catch it. The creature howled and dove at him, Rags ducking his head just in time and sending the hell-spawn sliding across the floor away from him. He resumed his mad dash and continued down the next hall. The brute resumed the chase as well.

Rags frantically shuffled through all of his options in his mind. A high pitch, predatory screech perforated the hall behind him, followed by the growing sound of heavy breathing. It was gaining ground on him at a terrifying pace. If the proper actions weren’t taken within the next several seconds, Rags would be grabbed from behind and ripped in half.

Another turn came up quickly and Rags took it in a desperate bid with no real reason for doing so. As he slid around the corner, he could see a massive metal claw coming straight for his skull from the side. He bowed his head and the claw missed, the griffon thing sliding uncontrollably around the corner and crashing into some large, unseen object. Uncharacteristically, this gave Rags an idea. It shocked him how he was able to think of anything at the moment, much less an actual plan.

The monster seemed to have a very tough time with corners, what with its great momentum and the nigh frictionless floors. And though there might not have been any supplies or good spots to hide in the hospital, the one thing that Rags was able to find in spades was corners. The night had unwittingly supplied him with the weakness of the assassin it had sent.

Armed with this new knowledge, he turned and fled again just as the griffon came screaming around the corner. Rags’ body cried in pain, begging him to stop. The old familiar sensation of fire searing his lungs. He really had to work on his cardio. He could hear the atrocity gaining again, and again he found a turn and took it. Every corner gave him a little more of a lead on the griffon. He continued this practice until the griffon was more than halfway down the halls behind him when he was making the corners. But by no means did that give him breathing room. The griffon, clumsy as it was, still proved to be a fast and vicious predator. If Rags dawdled for even a few seconds, it would be upon him again. He had to keep moving.

The halls continued on forever in an endless maze. Every room was either occupied or just not adequate for his needs. There was no place to hide with the beast so close behind him. Until he turned one last corner and came across a door with words on it that might as well have read ‘salvation inside’.

A storeroom closet.

The screeches of the entity behind him suggested it was just far back enough for the spot to work. Maybe if he was quick enough, he might be able to ditch the griffon by hopping inside. Without wasting time by looking back, Rags slipped into the closet and shut the door as quietly as he could. He spun around to make sure this place wasn’t occupied as well. Empty. Only various crates and shelves loaded with cleaning chemicals and such. Rags recognized the smell. And there was a medium sized locker for cleaning supplies too, providing a place to conceal himself. A gift from the heavens.

The clanking was now coming into the general area of the closet. Rags tucked himself away into the locker. Then came the worst part of hiding; the wait. The wait to see if the next several moments will be your last when the pursuer discovered you.

The scrape of metallic talons against the floor circled the area a bit, trying to reacquire him. Then it stopped. Sniffing noises followed.

Oh no, not another one that can smell me!

Shut up! Listen!

All of the noises stopped. A palpable silence took over. The calm before the storm, Rags suspected. His prediction seemed true as the sigh of long breaths loomed outside. A wretched voice that brought terrible anxiety to Rags spoke into the door. It sounded like it was choking, like air was unavailable in its lungs.

“Know…. you…. here….”

A cacophony of destruction tore through the air. Splintered wood propelled itself into the room and viscous blows crushed the door and its hinges. Through the slits in the locker, Rags could see it. The grotesque, patchwork creature stomped into the room and began sniffing again. It choked out words that sounded like they caused it pain to utter.

“Gonna… find… you… Gonna… cut… you…”

It flipped boxes and smashed shelves in its search, stopping from time to time to sample the air. It went around the relatively small room looking under and behind everything. Rags bit down on his foreleg. Any second now the creature would tear the locker open and cut him to ribbons.

That time had come. Rags felt the locker jerk. A screech pierced his ears. He shut his eyes and waited for the sound of metal being sliced open to announce his doom. Another jerk of motion, larger this time, and he felt the locker and himself falling. As he hit the floor, he bit down on his tongue, a taste of blood detectable. Another shriek rivalling that of the banshee’s split the air. Then the metallic stomping moved outside and faded. Rags sat in the locker, listening intently. He wasn’t taking any chances. Minutes passed before he stuck his face to the slit again. From his sideways position on the floor, he saw claw marks tracing the room and puddles of various colors of chemicals pooling where the damage was done.

It was gone.

Tentatively, he opened the locker door and rolled out. He was astounded at his incredible luck. How did the monster not catch him in the small space? It had him dead to rights! Its impeccable sense of smell should have been able to locate him. After all, it found out that he was hiding in the closet, so why could it not finish the job? Rags felt something cold and wet dampen his hoof. He looked down to find a puddle of window-cleaning solution slowly making its way across the floor with other various chemicals. They burned his nostrils with their distinctive scent.

Of course! It couldn’t smell me over the cleaning stuff! Especially after it started smashing everything up and getting it everywhere! Who would have thought cleaning would save my life! I wouldn’t! Because I hate it! I hate cleaning! I hate my life! What am I even talking about!? Who cares! I’m alive!

Someone get this schmuck a towel, I think he might be a little moist.

Sorry, just a little excited over not being brutally murdered.

Hey, believe me, I’m pissing myself with glee over here, but we--

That’s disgusting! You’re in my brain, you slob!

SHUT UP! I was trying to say that you need to get your crap together and focus, moron!

Right, right… uhm, focus on what?

Not dying!

Oh yeah. So, how do I do that?

How do we do that. And that, I’m still working on. It would help if we knew what friggin time it was.

What difference would that make? Why don’t we just keep hiding until we can hear regular ponies talking instead of monsters snarling?

Because I’m thinkin’ it’s about time we work on a schedule, and I’m not gonna let you sleep in again and screw it up.

Uhm… a schedule?

Yeah. We got caught with our pants down again--

But I don’t wear pa--

FIGURE OF SPEECH! Anyway, it nearly killed us. This is the third time we’ve been jumped like this, and look at yourself. Three days of this and you’re about ready to keel over. Adlibbing is not a good plan. We can’t just go bumbling around at night with no direction, hoping to find something we can use before those things find us. So I’ve been working out some plans.

Like?

I’m not done with ‘em yet.

Oh yeah, you’re a real model of efficiency.

Blow me. Now shut up and focus. Can’t put my soon-to-be masterfully crafted plans to use if you end up a pile of monster crap.

Rags rolled his eyes and crept to the door. He could hear the sounds of creatures on the move, no doubt coming to inspect the racket. Quick action needed to be taken. He had to make a snap decision: find another place to hide, or get out of the hospital entirely.

Weighing his options, he thought getting out would be best. The quantity and aggression of the beasts would be the same in both locations, and his luck wouldn’t change either way. The only difference was that the hospital itself seemed to be against Rags. Its halls were a jumbled maze and it toyed with him like sadistic deity, altering the reality of mortals for its enjoyment.

So it was time to leave the building. Before he moved out into the dangers of the hospital's corridors, he got the brilliant idea to douse himself in some of the cleaning chemicals. Covering up his scent was sure to be most beneficial.

Stepping through the mangled closet door, he could now hear thunder from down the hall to his left and right, so the only choice was the hall straight ahead. He began running, but felt unbelievable agony shoot up his legs with each step. He slowed down to an urgent trot, hissing curses through his teeth. The other was right. After 3 nights of continuous running and fighting, he was ready to curl up and die. But how would nights in the future play out? Could whatever the other was planning really save his skin?

No time to think about that. He needed to focus. He sped up again to a leisurely run, putting as little thought on the pain as he could manage. At first, he read the signs to try and locate the lobby, but he soon found that the signs had been altered. One read ‘happy’, and pointed to a room with intestines piled to the ceiling inside of it. If he wanted to find the entrance, he would have to do it the old fashioned way: running around, screaming like an idiot until something happened. It worked for him in the past, so what would one more try hurt?

Soon enough, Rags felt that the hallways shifted again. He had no proof of it, could not see it happening, but he could feel that they did. He could only hope that the night would make a mistake and let him slip through its web of confused corridors and into salvation. A shadow whisked past through the intersection ahead. And another at the intersection beyond that. They looked for him more vehemently than before.

For the next twenty minutes, Rags shambled around in terrible hurt. He hadn’t noticed before, but the lights had almost completely died. Only a few still provided a pathetic flickering illumination, allowing Rags to see, but only just so.

The evils around him swarmed like flies, running this way and that all through the halls around, ahead, and behind him. But it seemed as though they always failed to notice him. Or maybe they had. Maybe they were fully aware of his predicament and were merely taunting him, playing with their food, basting it with fear. But until more ostentatious signs of aggression were shown, he would operate under the preconception that they simply glossed him over. The frequency of shadow sightings grew by the minute. He needed to find the exit now.

Just when he started hearing a devilish cackling sound coming from the darkness behind him, he glimpsed a two dim, bluish lights. They were gentle and inviting, not at all like the harsh artificial lighting of the hospital. They glowed from the other side of an open room. A large desk with two potted plants on either side sat off to the side, papers and office supplies littering the surface. Ugly paintings fathomed by wannabe artists clung to the walls like hideous blemishes, placed in what seemed to be a failed attempt to create a more inviting atmosphere. The surrounding area acted as a caption explaining the two blue lights.

The front door. The pale blue light of the moon. Freedom.

The cackling started again, this time much closer. Too close. It came from right behind him. He spun on his hooves and beheld the final obstacle. A stallion, covered in stitches, wearing a white coat.

The doctor. But something was different.

Rags clearly remembered bashing the freak’s skull in. Which was probably why it was no longer there. Now it was replaced with a new one. One that very obviously did not belong to him. Beginning in bloody stitches at the base of his neck was a new head, pale white in color, clashing with the doctors brown fur. The eyes, rolled into the back of the head, held no emotion, but the smile sewn into its tar covered mouth conveyed sadistic glee. Even more disconcerting, and downright horrifying, was the addition of two twitching white forelegs crudely attached to the doctor’s back, both ending in fleshless bone hooves. It spoke now in an unholy voice that did not belong to it.

“NURSE! THE PATIENT IS ACTING UP! FIVE-HUNDRED CCs OF CYANIDE!!!”

Rags cried in sudden terror and turned to run for the door, but a white hoof-bone landed hard on his shoulder. He threw a panicked backhoof behind him and was rewarded with a meaty thwack and a spurt of tar. The doctor recoiled away from the hit, maintaining his demonically happy facade. He lunged at Rags again and clamped the stolen hooves around his neck.

Choking for air, Rags saw the scalpel glimmer in the moonlight. The doctor giggled madly as he thrust the tool at the suffocating stallion’s neck. Rags managed to stop it mere centimeters away from him with his own hooves. He was in danger on two fronts. He was being robbed of air and threatened with a slit throat at the same time. The mad laughter of the doctor was beginning to burn into his brain. He couldn’t handle it anymore.

Out of nowhere, under volition not of his own, Rags took one hoof off the scalpel and slammed it ferociously into the doctor’s elbow. A vibrant crack preceded Rags’ release from the insane surgeon’s grasp. His vision was blurred and unfocused, but when his sight came back, Rags could see the doctor, still laughing, cradling an arm with a jagged bone protruding from the elbow.

Taking this moment to strike, Rags moved to grab a potted plant from beside the lobby desk, and in one fluid movement tossed it at the doctor’s head. It struck him square on his new forehead, knocking him to the floor in a daze, no longer laughing. Now was his chance. With nothing stopping him from leaving, he made for the door as quick as he could. He had almost made it when a voice reached out to him.

“Rags…”

Rags stopped when he heard his name. The way his name sounded, coming from that voice, made him want to shower. He turned, wide-eyed in shock and terror, to see the doctor sitting upright, facing the hallway. Roars and howls tore through the corridor, growing louder with each moment. The doctor’s head began to twist around, the crunching of the vertebrae in his neck audible even over the thundering storm coming from somewhere in the darkness. With its head spun one-hundred and eighty degrees to face him, it spoke again. It’s tone was calm and collected, not at all like the doctor had acted before.

“You can’t escape us, Rags. We will find you. We will always find you. It is coming, Rags. It is coming.”

It merely sat there and smiled from ear to ear as the darkness behind him birthed dozens of abominations, the charge spearheaded by the mutilated griffon beast from earlier. Rags screamed and busted through the front doors.

Off he ran into the dark of the night, cool air chilling his sweat drenched body, shrieking in terror as the wretched hordes gave chase. The sun was just on the horizon. He would survive, but only just so.

_________________________________________________________________________

Nougat rested cozily in his warm bed, wrapped in his cocoon of blankets and sheets. He dreamed of a certain mare, dancing in her uniquely energetic yet hypnotizing way. Suddenly, he felt something jab him in the ear. Then came another jab. It took him a moment to realize that these pokes were not in his dream. He stirred from his slumber and looked up with sleepy eyes to the vandal who wrecked his perfectly good fantasy.

Within moments his eyes adjusted, and he could see that there was a pony standing over him, drenched in blood with a psychotic look in his eye. When what he was seeing finally registered, along with the fact that there was someone in his house when there wasn’t supposed to be, Nougat responded appropriately.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--”

“Nougat.”

“--AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--”

“Nougat!”

“--AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--”

“NOUGAT, SHUT THE BUCK UP! IT’S ME, RAGS!”

“--AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” Nougat panted heavily upon finishing. “Rags!? What the buck are you doing in my bucking house!? And what the buck is wrong with you!? What happened!?”

Rags opened his mouth to respond, but stopped as if listening to someone talk. “What?...Yes I’m gonna ask him! Huh?... No, just, just shut up and let me do the talking, okay!?”

“Uhm… Rags? You’re scaring me, friendo.”

Rags snapped his attention back to Nougat. “Hey, bro, can I… ugh, we, stay here for a couple of days?”

Nougat stared at him for a second before responding, taking in the sight of this blood-covered pony who called himself ‘we’, and putting a great deal of thought into the question. “S-Sure…?”

“Great, than-- What? Will you ju-- JUST SHUT UP!... No, I’m not going to tie him up and throw him in the closet! We can trust him!” Rags said to someone who wasn’t Nougat. A crazed twitch was present in his eye. His ears flicked madly. His muscles convulsed with spasms. Blood coated his body and dripped onto the blankets.

Nougat was pretty sure that he’d just made a colossal mistake.

Chapter 5: Descending

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 6: Still in the Dark

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 7: A Little Light

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 8: Where There's Light...

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 9: Further Down

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 10: Spark

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 11: Ignition

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

BONUS: The BitN Beastiary: Part 1

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.