It is with a heavy heart that ponykind confronts the irregularities within itself. Madness. Delusion. Violence. These abominations in our psyche seem to serve no purpose other than to do us harm, like a parasite, nay, a disease, that spreads throughout the collective consciousness and takes root in our darkest desires. They would feed off of our insecurities and needs, spreading themselves through our minds and contaminating our thoughts. They may even be considered contagions. For seeing a pony commit a violent act may drive oneself to violence, while in the same vein, observing somepony’s madness and trying to understand it may drive oneself insane.

The mind is not a pure constructs. It is a convoluted and indescribable thing that exists within a mechanism we do not fully understand. It can be manipulated, tampered, even destroyed with the simplest of concepts. Within each of our five senses lies the ability to corrupt the psyche and debilitate the consciousness. And, sometimes, that ability lies within a sixth sense, one that we do not fully understand. We call it a sixth sense to attempt to categorize it, to give it a name, catalog it and force it to make sense.

And therein is the root of the problem: to understand, sometimes, is to lose everything.

~Anonymous

3-5-7-2-8-7-0

Prologue

A Master’s in Applied Science in Radio Broadcasting. That’s all Switchboard wanted. Something to take home to the family and prove he’d done something with his life. It wasn’t a simple task, by any means. Long hours of studying, research, and a disturbing lack of sleep were par for the course. However, no part of any syllabus in any of his classes told him that he was required to sit back and take it while some insufferable freaky flying faggot made his life Tartarus on Earth. “Will you GET YOUR ASS OFF THE CEILING?!”

Fried Circuit glance up (down) from the ceiling, where he’d planted himself 'and the bag full of popcorn what the BUCK' while he studied. Directly over Switchboard’s head. Where he happened to have been dropping stray kernels for the last five minutes. “Dude, I’m trying to read. If you don’t like it, move.”

Switchboard held in a scream of primal rage, brushing off popcorn scraps from the surface of his circuit board, what little he wasn’t able to deflect in time before he’d thought to put up a magical bubble off of which the dropping kernels made a soft wavy bouncing sound when they hit. “You almost got a bunch of food all over my equipment! Do you have any idea how important this project is? This group. Project?!”

Fried Circuit rolled his eyes and floated down to the floor, taking a hooffull of popcorn with it and shoving it in his mouth. “What?” He said, after a glare from Switchboard, having swallowed his muzzle full of popcorn all at once. “What?”

The unicorn just glared daggers at his teammate. A rowdy young Pegasus with no respect for anypony, including himself, Fried Circuit was mostly known around campus for being the only pony ever with two special talents: getting baked and baking electronics. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where there’s fire, there’s Fried. The yellow Pegasus shrugged and ran a hoof through his blue mane, picking up another book and a soda out of somewhere and sitting on the floor with his back to the wall.

Switchboard just rubbed his hooves on his temples. He only had to deal with this guy for a few more days, and then he could go back to studying like usual. He glanced around the room to see if there was anything more productive that he could be doing. He’d really only been hovering over these circuits to keep them from getting food-rained on. The room itself was relatively small, and loaded with stuff. The two ponies had found an old workroom in the basement of the Applied Sciences building to do some experiments on for their project: hijacking radio frequencies. They had to build a device that could override a predetermined station at any time, under almost any conditions. Something about understanding how to secure a transmission and learning more about how emergence broadcasts did their thing.

Switch’s eyes glazed over the large supply of radio equipment, sound systems, wiring, controls, and loose electronics lying around the room. It was one of those cold concrete basements that looked more like somepony had just carved giant cubes into rocks and put doors between them. Cold green concrete flooring stared back at him when he looked down, or at the walls. Eventually he noticed something strange in the corner of the room: one of the old shortwave radios they were intending to scavenge for parts had turned on. At least, the light was blinking. It had headphones plugged in so Switch couldn’t tell if there was sound coming from it.

Switchboard trotted around the desk with all of his current progress, and clambered unceremoniously over Fried’s hind hooves, to get to the radio. It was a simple piece of technology by current radio standards. A speaker, sliders, a few buttons, antenna. A solid-state analog shortwave, if he remembered correctly. He looked down at the large headphones sitting on the table next to them, and, listening closely, heard… some kind of noise emanating from them.

“Oh, what the hell, why not?” Switch said, exasperated. It’s not like he was making much progress. He slipped the headphones on, readjusting them slightly over his ears. Once all the commotion of leather padding rubbing his ears wore off, he could hear the actual broadcast. It was a simple, continuous stream of speech with seemingly no purpose: “5-9-3-9-4-8-6-5. 2-0-9 to the 5-6-7 of 3 over 4-7-3. 2 of 8 and 1-6-3-4-7 by 7 by 5-7 by 3-7-5-4-3. 3-6-2-5-8-3-5-6-8-6-2-4-7-8-5-3-4-4-7-9-3-4-5-7-5-4-6-7-4-6-4-3-0-5-7-4-3-5-7-9-8-2-0-3-5-7-3-9-8-6-3-2. 34093298327534. 5 of 2. 5-9-3-9-4-8-6-5…” Switchboard put the headphones down when he realized it was looping. At least, he thought so. Were they getting faster?

He changed the station a little, just by .7 or so, and put the headphones back on. Classical music poured in down the wire, a relaxing melody that somehow contrasted nicely to the berating stream of numbers he’d just heard. Even his heart rate seemed to slow.

That was weird, he didn’t feel excited. He hadn’t felt his heart rate rise at all. He put a hoof up to his forehead, and aside from a little bit of sweat, he was fine. That was to be expected, though. The sacrifice of having your own space is that it got warm when it was most inconvenient. Namely, all the time.

He chalked up the numbers to somepony else having done their project already, which only spurred him on to work harder, and his elevated heartbeat to the stoner currently face down and asleep in a poorly concealed Playcolt magazine. He returned his attention to the circuit boards he’d been fiddling with, and as inspiration struck him, he set back to work.

The sun shone through the window like an unforgiving maiden of consciousness, shining in Switchboard’s eyes and all but browbeating him awake. His eyes slowly crept open to stare at his ceiling. Or, more accurately, the Spitfire pinup on his ceiling. There was just something about a mare straddling heavy artillery that made waking up just a little bit easier. He rolled over and surveyed the rest of his bedroom. A large poster of his favorite DJ, Vinyl Scratch, took up the majority of a rather small wall in front of which his TV and stereo were set up in a large entertainment center. Well, large compared to the rest of the room. Which held all of a bookcase, his bed, and enough room to roam around in. Aside from the posters and his book collection, it probably looked like every other dorm room on campus. Actually, especially with the posters and book collection, it probably looked like every other dorm on campus.

He rolled himself casually off his bed and onto the floor, landing on his hooves with all the grace of a cement block landing on whatever side it happened to have dropped on. Still, Switch liked to think he’d presented at least a little skill. He made a half-hearted attempt to shake what little sleep he could out of his eyes, and traipsed into the living room. It too, was sparsely decorated, in part because his dorm mate spent all of their time in their room, and because he didn’t have the funds or interest to furnish it. Just a couch, a table, and a tv. All but dragging himself into the bathroom, he noticed it slightly odd that the bathroom was closed, and a light was on. Until he remembered he wasn’t the only pony left in a desolate, abandoned Equestria. Knocking louder than was probably necessary, he grumbled out, “Whooziner?” He stopped, coughed a little, and tried again. “Who’s in there?”

There was no answer. He listened at the door for the sound of running water, or humming, or something, but didn’t hear a sound. Shrugging, he hoofed the door open and trotted inside. He glanced about to make sure there was nopony present, and, having given the room an all-clear, filled the sink with cold water. Then dunked his face in it.

It wasn’t until he’d been holding his breath for a few seconds that he became aware of another presence in the room. He pulled his head out of the sink, and stared at the door: another pony was staring back.

“Oh, morning Hatrack. How’d you sleep?” Switchboard asked, in what was still a bit of an early morning grumble. He wiped some excess water off his face with a hoof and waved slightly at his roommate.

Haute Couture, Switchboard’s roommate, was in school for a Business degree. He intended on owning his own clothing company, making and selling his own designs, like other ponies he admired. He was also a decently attractive stallion, with a slight but athletic build, wavy blue mane and tail, and a pearly white coat. His Cutie Mark, a needle and thread, was accented by the saddle he wore.

The colt was up and down as Fancee as you get, and mares all but threw themselves at him because of it. Of course, he was far more interested in his designs and his grades than getting any, so he rarely left his room, save for classes or to go shopping. Or really, any of the other necessities a pony so often encounters in everyday life. “Obviously better than you, if you’re trying to drown yourself this early in the morning,” Haute smiled. Switchboard called him Hatrack cause he couldn’t pronounce Haute’s real name to save his life. But the Fancee colt was more than personable enough, and took it in stride. Besides, he’d flinched whenever Switch first tried. “Long evening?”

Switch dried himself off with a towel and shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it. I got saddled with Fried Circuit for a team project.”

Haute had the courtesy to look offended for him. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry, my dear. Well, good news, good news! I have something that will just absolutely make your day glow!” And he dashed back into his room.

There was also the fact that Haute couldn’t act any gayer if he’d rode into this life on another stallion’s dick. That did have something to do with the ‘Not having any fillies over’ thing. He was a loud and proud metrosexual, which everyone misinterpreted as colt-cuddler. Not that Haute cared. It gave him more credibility in… certain circles.

Switch grinned and shook his head again, reaching for the light switch on his way out. As he hit it, though, he noticed something odd. The room got brighter. He looked up, and saw that he’d turned the light on, not off. Wasn’t there light in this room earlier…? Nah.

Switch took the opportunity to wash himself at least a little more thoroughly, while Haute did whatever it was Haute does. Knowing Haute, it was as going to be more clothes. Not that he didn’t need him. With money as tight as it was, being Haute’s ‘model’ was really the only way he got new threads. Even if he did look a little… high and tight wearing them. Clothes weren’t a necessity, after all, and he really only wore them too feel good, or show off, which he rarely got opportunities to do. He plopped himself down on the couch and waited.

Only a few moments later, Haute wheeled out a mannequin pony, displaying a rather simple (for Haute) design. A light, collard white shirt and a pair of black pants Those are almost shorts, jeez, dude., with a black shiny belt. It was probably the most practical thing he’d ever seen that mannequin wear. “Wow, dude… that’s really cool. Is that…” he trailed off, not wanting to seem presumptuous.

Haute waved a hoof. “Of course it’s for you! Waving clothes in front of a naked stallion is like drinking water in front of a drowning man. Sooo Ce n'est pas branche`.” Switch blinked at the Fancee phrase. Haute sighed. “Not cool?”

“Oh! Yeah. Hey, I can use that later,” he mused allowed, climbing off the couch and walking around the mannequin.

Haute clapped his hooves. “I’m always happy to educate the poor common folk,” he said with a grin. Before Switch could get out a snarky comment, Haute shoved him and the clothes 'How the hell did he get them off the mannequin so fast?' into the bathroom. “Go on, change! And don’t come out till you do!”

Hearing the door click behind him, Switch rolled his eyes. Hey, free stuff was free stuff, and he did have some time today, it being a Saturday morning. He might as well go out and look good for a while. “Ok, but I’m grabbing a shower first!”

He heard Haute yell some kind of affirmation in French outside the door, then trot off. Hopefully to make breakfast. In the meantime, Switch turned the faucet on in the tub, gauging the water with his hoof. When it was sufficiently scalding, he pushed the clothes as far against the wall on the counter as he could. Haute would die if he got his new outfit wet.

He turned the shower head on, climbed in, and closed the curtain.

Then, dark.

Haute Couture was busy making, well, something for breakfast while his roommate showered. He hadn’t quite settled on what, yet. His eyes roamed the fridge, trying to piece together something creative with what little they had. Finally, he settled on some eggs, milk, and cheese, and a few choice vegetables. Omelets it was!

Chopping up some peppers and tomatoes, he left the pan on the stove to warm up just a little. Once the veggies were finely minced (Haute hated large chunks of veggies, a fine dice was more dignified), he mixed together the eggs and milk.

He was just about to pour the mixture into the pan when he heard a crash come from the bathroom. He stopped mid-gesture, the bowl just hanging over the pan, almost pouring, and called out, “Switch? Dearie? Are you ok?”

It was quiet for a little, until Haute realized he could hear a slow mumbling coming from the bathroom. He set the bowl down, and absentmindedly turned the burner off, slowly approaching the door. Steam came out from under the door, a sign the shower was running. He pressed an ear against it, listening for, well, anything. He heard the same low mumbling, only louder, and some kind of soft scratching noise.

Then another crash.

Haute threw the door open, and what he saw made him freeze with his hoof in the air: blood. That was the first thing he noticed. Lots of blood. Trailing across the mirror, down Switch’s body, and over the walls. Then the finer details came into focus, as adrenaline poured into Haute’s brain and time slowed down. The broken mirror. The broken shard of glass in Switch’s hoof. The deep cut in his inner thigh.

And the numbers. In a moment, the stallion realized what the scratching had been: Switch had carved dozens of numbers into the wall, the counter, even trying to carve at the ceramic of the tub, filling the room with numbers. No pattern. No sense to any of it. Just a giant wall of numerical chaos.

Finally, the entirety of the situation crept up on Haute like slow-acting poison. Realization crossed his face…

And he screamed.

Author's Note

Yet another story I wanted to work on. I got this idea in my head and couldn’t let it go. SO here it is.

To be honest, horror is my favorite genre to write. I love horror movies, games, just being good old fashioned Hollywood Scared. And writing it is both a good challenge and a lot of fun.