Mr. Brannigan's Ghosts

Chapters

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

Part One

Winter was coming on gracefully. The leaves had fallen, the skies were graying, and the nip of cold in the air had evolved into a bite, prompting more and more ponies to break out the hot chocolate. Ponyville was ready to settle down into the long winter months. The only thing missing was snow.

Twilight Sparkle sat by a window in Golden Oak Library, sitting in a soft red armchair, engrossed in a dusty old volume about the practical applications of amniomorphic magical theory. The library was warmly lit, and the wooden walls seemed to glow. Twilight smiled and flipped the page.

Above her, she heard Spike thumping around upstairs. He’d found a sled in the basement, and was keen to put it to use. “Twilight!” he called down to the library. “I don’t suppose you know any weather-altering spells? Something for, I don’t know, two feet of snow?”

“I’m not changing the weather for you, Spike,” Twilight called back. “Why don’t you go ask Rainbow Dash?”

“I did. She said no. Come on, Twi! Just one foot?”

“You can wait, just like everyone else, Spike. It will make the first snowfall all the sweeter!”

“Hmph.” Thump. Twilight reasoned that Spike had thrown aside his sled in defeat. “Who wants winter without snow?” he cried. “It’s so cold and cheerless! I say, bring on the blizzards!”

“Spike, I’m trying to – ”

“Read, yeah, yeah, I know. If you need me, I’ll be taking a nap. Wake me when the Pegasi stop stalling the fun.”

And then everything was quiet again. Twilight looked up from her book, out the window. The citizens of Ponyville went about their business in as usual, bundled up in coats, buying and selling, chatting with friends. Maybe some snow is overdue, Twilight thought.

There was a clunk, and a rush of wind. Twilight looked up – a visitor to the library. In tottered a beige Earth pony in a heavy black woolen coat. The lines in his face were deep, the bags under his eyes were heavy, and his muzzle had gone gray. The library door swung shut behind him. Twilight closed her book and stood.

“Welcome to Golden Oak Library, sir! Can I help you?”

The old pony smiled wearily. “I certainly hope so, my dear,” he said, his voice both gravelly and soothing. “Are you Ms. Twilight Sparkle?”

“That’s me! Sir, would you like to sit down?” Twilight had noticed that underneath the black coat, this pony looked to be nothing but skin and bones, shivering from the cold. Yet he stood firm, as if challenging the weather of any season to rattle him.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I won’t be long, I think. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sparkle.” They shook hooves. “My name is Argus Brannigan.”

A light flickered in Twilight’s head. “Argus Brannigan. That name sounds familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

And in a flash of realization, Twilight remembered. Her face lit up. “That’s right, of course! Argus Brannigan, the singer! Is that right?”

“… Yes, that’s right.”

“Oh, Mr. Brannigan, my mother used to put on your records all the time! I remember when I was a little filly, she took me to see you during one of your tours. What a great night!”

“I’m flattered that you remember me, Ms. Sparkle.”

“And you live here, in Ponyville? What a small world!”

Mr. Brannigan smiled. “Yes, I live on the outskirts, just off the road. It’s a nice place for a pony to spend his sunset years.”

“Do you still perform? I’d love to see you onstage again.”

“Ah, well… I still keep up my singing, and I still play the piano. But I’m afraid that my performing days are long over.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s quite all right. Now, I have heard tell that you are excellent in the field of magic. Is that true?”

Twilight was positively glowing. “I don’t mean to brag, sir, but you’d be hard pressed to find a more magically knowledgeable pony between here and Canterlot. What can I do for you?”

Mr. Brannigan drew in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sparkle, but I think I would like to sit down after all.”

Twilight guided Mr. Brannigan to an empty armchair, then sat down in a chair just across from his.

“You must understand," said Mr. Brannigan, “that I feel a bit foolish coming to you, asking about this… but I must. Ms. Twilight Sparkle, what do you know about ghosts?”

The smile on Twilight’s face faltered. “Ghosts, Mr. Brannigan?”

“Yes. Spirits, phantoms… whatever you like.”

Twilight thought for a moment. In all of her studies, she had not heard of any authentic reports of beings from beyond the grave. Only urban legends, rumors, things of that nature. Twilight was a mare of science, of facts and figures – not the sort of pony who read too deeply into superstitions, or the mysterious rustlings of curtains by open windows.

“I’ll be honest with you, sir,” said Twilight, “I’m not convinced that ghosts exist. Why do you ask?”

Mr. Brannigan rubbed his hooves together nervously. “For the past few months, things have been… happening.” He dropped his voice. “I do believe that I’m being haunted.”

Twilight looked thoughtfully at the old pony. He was clearly upset by something. Twilight resolved to examine the matter scientifically. “What things do you mean?”

Mr. Brannigan hesitated for a moment, and then, as if deciding it was safe to speak, plunged ahead. “Small things… Quiet things… But distinct. Often I’ll be playing the piano, I’ll finish, and I’ll close the keyboard lid… And then when I return to the piano to play again, the lid is up, all the keys exposed. And then in the night… I hear things. Whispers, from under the door, from through the cracks under the window. Usually, they’re words I can’t make out. But sometimes – I swear by Celestia, it’s true – I’ll hear songs. Wisps of old tunes that I used to sing, melodies I’ve mostly forgotten. Something is singing them in the night.

“But last night – last night I knew I couldn’t let this go on any longer. I was sleeping quite peacefully, more so than I’ve slept in weeks. Suddenly, there was a great crashing sound, from outside, on the staircase, as if something was tumbling down. I was torn from my sleep, I rushed out of my room, I turned on the lights – but there was nothing there. Only the staircase. I didn’t sleep any more after that. I decided that something had to be done. And so, I have come to you, Ms. Sparkle, because I believe that you can help me.”

Twilight stared off at the bookshelves, thinking. After a few seconds of contemplation, she looked back at Mr. Brannigan. He watched her expectantly, his eyes wide. “Of course, Mr. Brannigan,” Twilight said, “I’d be happy to help you. I know that I can. And I think my conclusions will make you happy. You see, sir, I don’t think you’re being haunted at all.”

Mr. Brannigan’s eyes were locked on Twilight. “Not being haunted.”

“No, I don’t think so. There are perfectly reasonable, logical explanations for what you’ve told me. For instance, the keyboard lid on your piano. Do you practice a lot?”

“Yes. I might be retired, but I can’t stand the thought of letting my skills atrophy.”

“There you go! If you’re frequently going to and from the piano, is it possible that you might once in a while have forgotten whether you left the lid down or up?”

Mr. Brannigan’s eyes were hard as stone. “It is possible.”

“And how about those ‘whispers’ in the night? We’ve been having a pretty windy winter so far. It’s easy to be unnerved by those gales howling outside, whistling through branches. Couple that with the nighttime, and add a dash of imagination… and voila. There’s your whispering.”

Mr. Brannigan frowned. “Ms. Sparkle,” he said, “I assure you that I would not be here, wasting your time, if I was simply hearing things. How would you explain the noises on my staircase last night? That certainly wasn’t the wind.”

“You said that the noise woke you up, right? Then it’s totally possible that you just heard a crashing noise in a dream, and woke up. Especially if you haven’t been sleeping well – if you're periodically waking up at night, dreams can seem very, very real. They become mixed with reality. The same reasoning can be applied to the whispers, if you’re sure it wasn’t the wind. You see, Mr. Brannigan? No ghosts. Just a series of easily explained incidents.”

Twilight was quite proud of herself. She had solved the issue with reason and logic.

Mr. Brannigan stood from the armchair. He looked down at Twilight.

“I will be frank, Ms. Sparkle,” he said. “I am old. My memory is not what it was. And the years have dulled my senses. I admit that freely. Everything you say might be true. However… I know that what is happening to me is real. I understand that there is no way I can convince you. But if you would have the good grace to humor an old stallion… I’d be very grateful.”

Twilight was ready to reassure him, to tell him that everything was fine, no shadowy apparition was out to get him. But there was a look in Mr. Brannigan’s eye that was disquieting. It was a sad look, a look of tired desperation. It was a look that said, If you do not help me, no one will. Perhaps to disagree with Mr. Brannigan any more would only be cruel.

Twilight took a breath. “Well… If you’re looking for books on the supernatural, I think I might be able to scrape something up.”

Mr. Brannigan smiled, and his body relaxed, as if a hidden tension had been released. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you.”

Twilight spent the next ten minutes going through the few books she had that pertained to ghosts, which mostly had to deal with old legends and myths, nothing of practical application. Finally, she found a few that might work – An Earth Pony’s Guide to Magical Protection, Sightings of Wraiths and Boogey-Ponies, and Expansion of the Possible: Theoretical Phenomena Unconfirmed by Magic. Each of them had at least a small section on the subject of ghosts, or otherworldly entities.

Twilight handed the books over to Mr. Brannigan, who deposited them in the pouches of his coat with many thanks. “And if it helps at all,” said Twilight, “I remember reading something about… salt. I think it was meant as a shield of some kind. Against evil creatures, I mean. Things from... somewhere else.”

Mr. Brannigan listened intently and nodded. “Salt. Very good, I will make a note of it. Oh, thank you, Ms. Sparkle – I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Don’t mention it!” said Twilight, beaming. “What are friends for? If you need anything else, my door is always open.”

“That’s very kind of you, my dear. Thank you – thank you again! Goodbye.”

“Goodbye!”

And then Mr. Brannigan was gone, back out into the cold winter air, tottering over to the market to buy as much salt as he could.

Twilight closed the library door behind him, and all was quiet, save for the soft snoring of Spike from upstairs. Twilight didn’t quite know what to make of Mr. Brannigan. He seemed nice, gracious, polite. A good pony. But something was just a little bit… off.

Twilight wondered.

Spike woke up with a stretch and a yawn. He glanced out the window - darkness had fallen while he napped. He rubbed his eyes and scratched behind his ear. Nap time was over – the time for snacks had come.

Spike started down the wooden stairs protruding from the wall. “Twilight! Do you remember if I ate all the garnets? I’m not in a quartz mood.”

As the library came into view, Spike became very confused. Twilight was sitting in the center of the floor, and all around her were big, open books full of old newspaper articles. All of them were yellowed, some of them exuding a musty old-paper-smell. Twilight studied an article in front of her, and carefully flipped the page with magic.

Spike weaved around the books on the floor. “Um, Twilight, if you’re getting ready for some sort of new, ground-breaking magical experiment, can you please choose some pony who isn’t me as the subject?”

Twilight beckoned Spike over with a wave of her hoof. “Don’t worry, Spike, no magical experiments. At least not this week. We had a visitor today.”

“A visitor? Who?”

“Does the name Argus Brannigan ring any bells?”

“Hmm. Wasn’t he a singer, way back before Discord reigned?”

Twilight glared. “No, Spike. He only retired seven years ago.”

“I was joking.”

“Oh. Well, anyway… That’s who came by.”

Twilight closed the book in front of her and magically set another one down. She opened it to an early article.

“I got a little curious about him, so I decided to look him up. I remembered that he was a famous singer, but read this. I had no idea! Look, there’s a special article on him right here. It says that he has over 20,000 performances under his belt, he’s won six Dramatic Horseshoe Awards – I’ve found at least nine articles like this, plus rave reviews for a whole bunch of his operatic work. This pony is one of the most acclaimed basses in all of Equestria!”

Another book fluttered before them, and opened to a new article. The headline read: “Brendel and Brannigan, Taking Equestria by Storm!”

Spike peered over Twilight’s shoulder. “Who’s Brendel?”

“Around ten years ago,” said Twilight, “Mr. Brannigan went on tour with a good friend of his, Arthur Brendel. They sang songs, did little skits, that sort of thing. Every pony loved them. Arthur and Argus! Brendel and Brannigan! Everything was peaches and cream. But look at this.”

The pages flipped in a whir of dull yellow, and suddenly a new headline jumped out at Spike and Twilight. “Arthur Brendel Dies in Tragic Accident.” And under that, in smaller type, “Argus Brannigan Performs in Honor of his Friend.”

“After touring for two years,” Twilight said, “Brendel fell down a flight of stairs and broke his back. He died at the scene. It was awful – all of Equestria mourned his passing. But here’s the part that really gets me. The night that Brendel died, he and Mr. Brannigan were supposed to perform their show. So, Mr. Brannigan turned the whole thing into a memorial for his friend, singing the duets alone, doing the skits alone. It just breaks my heart!”

Spike looked at the newspaper as if he were trying not to wake a venomous snake. “Gee. That sounds… weird.”

“What do you mean, weird?”

“It just doesn’t sound right. I mean, the night Brendel dies, Brannigan goes on without him? Does that sound like something a friend would do?”

“Spike! It was a performance in Brendel's honor. I think it's touching”

“I don’t know. Let’s just say… just for a second, just to make a point… If I died – ”

“Spike! Don’t even say such a thing!”

“Hold on, hold on! If I were to, well, you know… think about how you’d feel. Do you think you’d be able to work here in the library, or keep up your studying, on the day you heard the news?”

Twilight didn’t even want to allow herself to entertain the idea. But just for a moment, a door in her mind opened. It only opened a crack, only a hair, but that was all it took. She spoke slowly.

“If you died… I wouldn’t be able to do anything for a month. Longer, even. Everything would stop.”

“Exactly. And if you were to die, I would feel exactly the same way. So why did Mr. Brannigan get onstage and sing on the night that his best friend died in a terrible accident?”

Twilight let out an exasperated sigh. The book in front of them snapped shut and slid away. “What do you want me to say, Spike? This isn’t an easy thing to talk about! Different ponies react to death in different ways.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true. But you know what I think? I think that Mr. Argus Brannigan was suffering from a bad case of ‘the show must go on.’”

Twilight paused. Then with a purple flash from her horn, all of the books of old newspapers closed and stacked themselves neatly in a corner of the library. She slowly made her way to the stairs.

“I think I’ll go to bed now, Spike,” Twilight said. “I think we’ve talked enough about death tonight.”

Part Two

The library doors clunked shut behind Twilight. She flung off her purple scarf with an exhausted sigh. She had just finished helping Fluttershy get some particularly stubborn woodland critters to settle down for hibernation (a fair bit of magic had been necessary), and she was feeling numb all over from the cold. Twilight was about to call out for Spike to put some hot water on for cocoa, but she stopped. There was on odd sound coming from upstairs.

It was a scratchy sound, something she couldn’t make out very well, a mellow buzz. Somehow, that buzz seemed familiar, like a half-remembered dream. Twilight started up the stairs.

“Spike, is that you? What’s going on?” She reached the second floor.

Standing next to Twilight’s bed was her old phonograph, the scratched up brass horn pointed at the ceiling. A record turned round and round in its depths, and as the machine labored away, squeaking and scratching, a tune rose up from the belly of the horn.

Spike sat on Twilight’s bed, listening. “Hi, Twilight!” he said. “How’d your thing with Fluttershy go?”

“Oh, fine,” said Twilight, approaching the phonograph. “The bear didn’t go down easy, but it all worked out. What’s this you’ve got here?”

“Well, I was going through some boxes downstairs, and look – ” Spike kicked a box of slim, square folders sitting next to Twilight’s bed. “I found this box of records. And guess who’s singing on at least a third of ‘em?”

“Who?”

“That pony, the one who stopped by a few days ago. Argus Brannigan. Take a listen!”

Twilight sat next to Spike on her bed, and as she turned her full attention to the phonograph, a melody emerged from the low fuzz. It was casual and jazzy and just a little bit sad, like something out of a cabaret. A piano plunked away contentedly. A saxophone drifted up and down, a low, rich sound. And there were voices – two voices singing, sometimes alone, sometimes together. Twilight listened, spellbound.

When the sky goes gray,

And the air gets colder,

And you’re lookin’ to lean on a shoulder,

How ‘bout mine?

When the neighbors bray,

Or you’re sick with fear,

I’ll be right there to lend you an ear.

We’ll be fine.

I’ll be there, buddy.

As long as our music plays.

I’ll be there.

Always.

Twilight smiled in wonder. The memories this song brought back, like artifacts long buried. Her mother, humming along in the kitchen. The sound of the sink running. The smell of freshly baked sugar cookies.

“I can’t believe I almost forgot this song,” she said. “My mom played it all the time. Others, too, while she worked around the house, or while I sat reading in the living room…”

Back then, Twilight had enjoyed this music for its atmosphere, for its warmth. I didn’t really understand what it meant back then, she thought. But now, after so much has happened to me here in Ponyville… I think I do.

The next day, Twilight sat up at her desk, finishing her essay on amniomorphic magical theory. The sun was setting in her window, washing the barren winter ground with orange and yellow. Her quill scratched relentlessly, dancing on a roll of parchment under Twilight’s magical influence. If only Spike would stop telling me that this essay is a little dated, she thought. He just doesn’t understand. Sure, amniomorphic spell-casting hasn’t been a big part of mainstream magic for six hundred years, but that doesn’t mean I can just ignore –

BANG.

A sound like a breaking tree branch wrenched Twilight from her state of concentration. Some pony had slammed the library doors downstairs. Twilight looked to Spike, who had been sleeping in a nearby armchair. Ripped from his sleep, he looked to Twilight with wide eyes. “What was that?” he asked.

“Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

Twilight set down her quill and galloped down the stairs. Seeing the visitor, standing in the center of the library, she let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, Mr. Brannigan, it’s you! I was afraid that something was…”

Mr. Brannigan looked up at her. Twilight faltered.

“… Wrong.”

Mr. Brannigan’s red-rimmed eyes stared up at Twilight, glassy and quivering. His legs were shaking under his coat, threatening to buckle beneath him, and his breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. He looked as if he’d been chased through Ponyville by King Sombra himself. His mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish, as if he wanted to speak, but something was stopping up his throat. Twilight rushed over to him.

“Mr. Brannigan! Sir, what’s the matter? Here, sit down – ” She conjured a stool out of thin air and set it behind him. Mr. Brannigan shakily sat down. Twilight conjured another stool for herself, and sat facing the dazed old stallion.

He took in a long breath and lifted his head, preparing to say something – but then the words seemed to get caught in his throat, and he started breathing faster, his eyes widening, his hoof on his heaving chest. He started to stand up on his brittle legs, but Twilight gently guided him back onto the stool with a slight magical pressure. She had to calm him down. She gulped.

“Sir,” she said, as calmly as she could, soothing, passive. “Everything is just fine. You’re perfectly all right. Just breathe. Keep breathing, deep breaths, release everything… Very good, just keep breathing… Everything is just fine…”

Mr. Brannigan’s breath became more and more regular. The heaving of his chest began to subside. He looked up at Twilight, his face fragile, ready to break under the smallest pressure.

“Oh, Ms. Sparkle,” he said – an airy, weak sound. His hooves trembled. “It is so difficult…”

“Just take your time, Mr. – ”

“No.” His voice took on a bit more strength, as if he were drawing on emergency reserves of energy. “There is no more time, Ms. Sparkle, there is no more time left to take… Nothing is working. At every turn… It has only gotten worse…”

Twilight’s face shifted. “What do you mean?”

“Your books. The books you gave me a week ago. They do nothing. The salt does nothing.” Mr. Brannigan’s voice began to tremble with his hooves. “There’s no sleeping anymore. Oh, no, not for me, I’m sleeping in a lion’s den, and there’s no way out.”

“Shh, shh,” Twilight crooned. Her horn glowed, and a quilt appeared from the folds of the air and draped itself over Mr. Brannigan’s shoulders. He clutched at it gratefully. Twilight smiled at him. “It’s all right, Mr. Brannigan. Why don’t we start at the beginning. Tell me what’s happened.”

Mr. Brannigan looked at Twilight with strange, liquid eyes. He opened his mouth. After a moment of stillness, as if the air in his lungs was stolen away, the words came.

“It is closing in on me, Ms. Sparkle. The whispers… They aren’t just whispering anymore. Something murmurs in my house, in the day, in the night, I can’t explain it, I can’t ignore it. And the piano – oh, the piano… There is no more music. When I sit down to play the piano, I… I can’t remember… I can’t play a note. And then…” Mr. Brannigan touched his jaw with his hoof. “And then when I sing… My teeth, Ms. Sparkle. My teeth ache; a pain, a terrible pain that drives nails into them, splits them open. And my tongue… My tongue, as if it’s being torn away…”

Mr. Brannigan’s voice broke. His face began to contort, as if he were keeping some terrible, mysterious something from bubbling up inside him.

Twilight looked carefully at Mr. Brannigan. This poor old stallion, she thought. Something is very wrong here.

Her voice was delicate and soft. “Mr. Brannigan. I'd like to speak to you as my friend. Here's the truth. I’m very concerned about you right now. I’m especially concerned that you seem to be experiencing some physical pains. I don’t know what the problem is, but what do you say we go over to Ponyville Hospital and see if – ”

“No.” Mr. Brannigan shot to his feet, his eyes blazing, his teeth bared, the quilt falling from his shoulders, the stool clattering to the floor behind him. He glared down at Twilight. She shrunk back from this demon looming over her.

“No.” Mr. Brannigan’s entire body was shaking now. “No hospitals. I’ve had enough of hospitals in my life!” He was shouting, spitting wildly. Twilight could only sit watching, stunned, terrified.

“I won’t stand for it, do you hear? Not at all! I have no sickness! There’s nothing to cure! I will not stand here and be made a spectacle of! Something is in my house and I am sure I’m going to DIE!"

He stopped. His eyes darted around the room.

Spike cowered at the top of the staircase, watching the whole ordeal, still as stone. Mr. Brannigan's icy gaze brushed Spike, and he scuttled back up the stairs out of sight.

Mr. Brannigan’s focus returned to Twilight. Twilight looked back up at him in shock, utterly at a loss. His voice lowered, but lost none of its edge.

“There must be more, Ms. Sparkle. More to know. More books. I need them. Anything that might help. There must be more.”

Twilight fought her tongue, forcing it to move. “I… I’m sorry. I gave you everything I have that… might help…”

“Please. There must be more. Anything. Anything at all.”

But there isn’t, Twilight thought. I have no books that can help you. I can’t help you fight your ghosts, because ghosts aren't your problem. Hearing you now – seeing you like this – I think that whatever it is that keeps you up at night is all in your head. But what do I do? Do I tell you the truth? The truth might be a hard pill for you to swallow. But the lie you want to hear would at least put your mind at rest…

Mr. Brannigan watched Twilight expectantly, his mouth slightly open in a silent plea.

Twilight cleared her throat. “Well… I think there might have been one or two books I overlooked. Would you like me to get them?”

Mr. Brannigan’s whole body shuddered. The wild distress in his face melted into confused sadness. “Yes, please, yes,” he said. “That’s all I need. More books…”

And for the next ten minutes, Twilight looked for more books for Mr. Brannigan. She nearly felt guilty with the three titles she came up with. All of them were rejects from her last ghost-themed scouring of the library, books of old tales, legends and fables. Hobgoblins and Horses of Horror. The Legend of Helga the One-Eyed. Ancient Equestrian Myths and Cultures. None of them applicable in life. But she gave them to Mr. Brannigan all the same. He quietly tucked them away into his coat with a murmured word of thanks.

“And if you’d like,” said Twilight, “I can write letters of inquiry to other libraries nearby. They might have some titles of interest.”

Mr. Brannigan seemed to only half hear. “Hm, yes,” he grunted, walking to the door. “That may help…”

He stopped at the door. He turned back to face Twilight. The daggers in his eyes had faded away.

“Ms. Sparkle,” he said, “you’ve done so much to help me. One day, I will tell you more. But things are difficult now. I’ll fix things, Ms. Sparkle. I’ll fix everything…”

And then he was gone.

Twilight stood there, staring at the closed doors. She heard tentative steps on the stairs behind her.

Spike broke the silence. “What in Tartarus was that?"

Twilight conjured her scarf out of thin air and wrapped it around her neck. She headed for the doors.

“Twilight!” Spike cried. “Where are you going? What just happened?”

She turned to Spike. “I’ll be back soon, Spike. There are just a few things I need to sort out…”

And with that she pushed the doors open and stepped out into the chilled late evening air, leaving Spike alone and uncertain in Golden Oak Library.

I’ll explain everything later, Spike, Twilight thought as she walked down the streets of Ponyville, lowering her head against the mounting wind. But I don’t think I can afford to wait.

I need to pay a visit to Ponyville Hospital.

The glass doors of the hospital slid open and Twilight walked into the waiting room. It was a white, sterile place, empty save for a middle-aged mare standing behind the reception desk, a white nurse’s hat sitting lopsided on her head. She smiled as Twilight approached the desk.

“Hello,” she said. “How can I help you?”

Twilight forced a smile. “Hi. My name is Twilight Sparkle. I hope you don’t mind, I just had a few questions about the hospital.”

“Oh, of course. You’re the librarian at Golden Oak, aren’t you, Ms. Sparkle? Doing some sort of research project?”

“Yes… Something like that. And please, call me Twilight. Now, as I understand it, Ponyville hospital is relatively new. How old is it, twenty years?”

The nurse adjusted her hat. “I think its fifteen years old this year. Perhaps a little older, but not quite twenty yet.”

“Hm, I see. And is Ponyville Hospital… doing well? I mean, in so far as… um…”

The nurse laughed. “It’s all right, I get what you mean,” she said. “It sounds horrible, doesn’t it, to say that having more patients is a good thing? But yes, Ponyville Hospital is a busy, productive place. Ponyville is a small town, but our hooves stay pretty full throughout the year. Almost every pony in town seems to have been here at least once.”

“So you see a fair number of ponies pass through here?”

“Oh, yes.”

Twilight jumped at her chance. “And I don’t suppose that you’ve ever crossed paths with… a certain Mr. Brannigan?”

The nurse’s sunny disposition started to cool. “Brannigan? Mr. Argus Brannigan?”

“Yes, that’s the name.”

The nurse paused, evaluating Twilight with a new, far less pleasant look. Finally she spoke. “Ms. Sparkle, I’m not quite sure what it is you’re asking.”

“Oh, Mr. Brannigan is a friend of mine. I just wanted to make sure that everything is… all right… It’s no big deal, I’d just like to know why he – ”

“Ms. Sparkle.” The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “Ponyville Hospital is not in the business of divulging confidential patient information. If you want to get to know your friend better, I’d recommend you ask him yourself.”

Twilight gulped. “Listen, missus… What’s your name?”

“Mrs. Pond.”

“Mrs. Pond. I would never dream of asking you anything that might make Mr. Brannigan uncomfortable, but I really need to – ”

“Stop right there, Ms. Sparkle. Let’s cut straight to the point: I’ve been around the block, and I’ve dealt with ponies like you before. You’re no friend of Argus Brannigan. You think you’re the first pony to come asking about him? You’re no fool, Ms. Sparkle, you’ve heard the stories. I understand. You’re curious. You want to write an article, or a clinical paper, or whatever. But you won’t be getting any help from Ponyville Hospital, not on my watch. We don’t let our patient files go floating around. Especially not files from the Psychiatric Ward. Thank you and goodbye, Ms. Sparkle.”

Mrs. Pond looked down her nose at Twilight, looking as if she’d just won a great battle.

Twilight just stared back.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. “Right… Of course… I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll just be going. Thanks for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

Twilight turned and walked out of Ponyville Hospital in a daze. The words of Mrs. Pond echoed in her mind, her scarf flapping behind her.

We don’t let our patient files go floating around. Especially not files from the Psychiatric Ward.

Twilight came very close to turning around, marching back into that hospital, and declaring, “Just a minute! Mr. Brannigan is a friend of mine, and he’s been behaving very oddly lately, and I need your help, because I don’t know what to do and something is very, very wrong!"

But then the face of Mr. Brannigan seemed to materialize before her, baring its teeth in rage and fear, crying out to her. I’ve had enough of hospitals in my life! I won’t stand for it, do you hear?

Underneath that frightful exterior, Twilight knew that the Mr. Brannigan who had been so polite, so gracious, had to still be there. Did she have the stomach to turn him over to the hospital, when the mere mention of the place sent him flying into a rage? Could she betray him like that?

No. She could not.

Maybe he’ll get better, Twilight thought. A hospital might just upset him.

The vast dimming orange sky looked down ominously overhead. And the words of Mrs. Pond circled Twilight’s head like vultures, waiting for the right time to descend.

We don’t let our patient files go floating around. Especially not files from the Psychiatric Ward.

The Psychiatric Ward…

Part Three

Days passed.

The sky loomed perpetually gray over Ponyville, and life went on for Twilight Sparkle. The normal routine returned, her days were spent with her friends, with Spike, talking, laughing, reading and studying. Twilight told herself that she would certainly get Mr. Brannigan more books, that she would do anything she could to settle his mind. But with every passing hour, without conscious will or direction, thoughts of Mr. Brannigan became insubstantial, half-remembered dreams. A confused, frightened mare in Twilight’s mind pushed Mr. Brannigan out, as one disposes of a hornet’s nest that has settled too close to home.

Five days after Twilight’s trip to Ponyville Hospital, the snow began.

The snow was nothing that stuck to the ground, nothing that would last, but the flurries of flakes in the air were just enough to break the dull colorless monotony of late fall. The icy brilliance of winter was on its way at last.

It was late in the evening, and Twilight was walking down the streets of Ponyville under the lamplight with Rarity and Pinkie Pie, after a day spent in the Apple family barn with the rest of the gang, sheltering from the cold and generally causing a ruckus, which frightened the chickens greatly.

“Really, Pinkie,” said Rarity, adjusting her new silken earmuffs, “I wish you’d left those poor birds well enough alone. Going after their eggs like that!”

“I just wanted to help keep them warm!” said Pinkie, bouncing alongside Twilight and Rarity. “It’s all snowy, and wintery, and… and freezy! Is there a word for frozen eggs?”

“Pinkie!” Rarity cried.

“Just wondering! Anyway, I’m off to Sugarcube Corner. Gummy needs a bath. And a floss. See you tomorrow!”

And away Pinkie Pie sprung, disappearing into the depths of Sugarcube Corner.

Rarity sighed. “Just when I think I understand that pony… Well, I should be off, Twilight. Ta-ta!”

Rarity sauntered off to the Carousel Boutique, and Twilight waved after her. “Good night, Rarity!”

There was the click of a closing door, and then Twilight was alone.

She shivered, and pulled her scarf tighter around her. She began the walk back to Golden Oak Library. The sky was black, the snow drifting down, collecting and swirling under the lights of the streetlamps, the ghosts of whirling storms. Twilight kept walking, the street ahead of her isolated in the total blackness of the night, as if she were walking down a tunnel of light in the darkest recesses of space. Alone and shivering in the ghostly snow.

And then there was movement.

Up ahead, a figure emerged from the darkness. Cloaked in shadows by the angled lights of the street lamps. Twilight squinted through the flurry, drawing closer. Strange, that a pony should just be standing there, after dark, and in such cold.

As Twilight approached, the figure took a few tottering steps forward, walking from the light-pool of one lamp to the light-pool of the next. There was something unnerving in the way that this pony moved. Stiffly. Lifelessly.

Now Twilight and the stranger couldn’t have been more than thirty feet away. As Twilight closed the distance, she recognized the pony’s shape, and was at once relieved and surprised.

“Mr. Brannigan!” she said, smiling as best she could, joining the old pony under his lamp light. “I didn’t expect to see you out so late! What brings you to – Oh! Of course, those books. You’ll be happy to know, Mr. Brannigan, that I sent out a few letters to nearby libraries and booksellers, and I found a few titles that – ”

She saw his face and faltered.

“… that might be of… might be of interest… to…”

Mr. Brannigan had changed.

This was not the face of a kind old pony looking for help. This was not the face of a terrified, hysterical victim, beginning to slip. The lights in his eyes had gone out. Those eyes, dull and vacant, stared at Twilight, stared through her, unseeing, bloodshot. The grooves in his face seemed to be deeper than they’d been four days ago. He stood with a vague instability, as if he were a puppet on the thinnest of strings.

He stared. And then, with a horrible, wet sound, he opened his mouth wide.

All of Mr. Brannigan’s teeth had been torn out, leaving only ravaged black and red flesh to line his mouth. His tongue had been cut out. The stump sat languidly in the back of his throat. The gaping black chasm in Mr. Brannigan’s face threatened to swallow everything, every light in the street, every house, all the world.

Twilight could not look away. She took a trembling step back. Her insides melted, her eyes watered, she tried to speak.

“You… you…”

A single drop of blood ran down Mr. Brannigan’s chin. And still he stared, with those dead eyes, through Twilight, past her. She could no longer move, her bones were fused together.

And then Mr. Brannigan closed his mouth. The dribble of black blood remained on his chin, unnoticed. Finally his eyes shifted away from Twilight. And then, in that strange, puppet-like way, Mr. Brannigan walked past Twilight and down the road.

Twilight did not even have the strength to turn as the phantom walked past her. As if her slightest movement would invite that black hole back again, to swallow her up forever. Still as stone, she listened above the murmuring wind as the sound of clumsy hoof-steps behind her grew softer and softer, until there was no sound at all.

She stood there, unblinking, and slowly gained the courage to turn around. The street stretched out behind her, that tunnel of lamps in the darkness of space, deserted but for the flurries of snow, still falling through the inky night.

Twilight turned and ran, ran down the street all the way back to Golden Oak Library, breathing hard, eyes wide, certain that if she turned around she would come face-to-face again with that hideous hole of blood and black.

Twilight hardly slept that night. The following day was restless and dazed. She sent Spike out on errands early in the morning, to occupy him for as long as she could, and spent the rest of the day pacing her room, pacing the library floor, thinking on the terrible encounter from the night before.

After conclusively deciding that what she had seen had not been a dream, Twilight was faced with a new question. What would she do? Her first thought was to contact Ponyville Hospital immediately. If Mr. Brannigan was harming himself, if he was in such a state that he was capable of self-mutilation… It was the only logical option, to send for doctors. Mr. Brannigan needed help, whether he liked it or not. And Twilight was obliged to help him. If he had to be dragged kicking and screaming back to Ponyville Hospital, so be it.

But.

Even now, after what she had seen, a voice persisted in the deeper chambers of Twilight’s mind. You’re still his friend, it said. That’s what you told him. And he believed you. Are you his friend, Twilight? Are you really?

Twilight sat on her bed, looking out the window over Ponyville. Of course I am, she reassured herself. I only want to help…

But to betray Mr. Brannigan… to risk driving him to hatred and despair by sending him to a place he so despised…

As much as reason dictated that Twilight should contact the hospital, she was not sure that she could bear to.

It was a struggle between the power of logic and the trust of friendship.

The daylight waned, and then, before Spike got back, Twilight abruptly made her decision. She jumped off her bed, snatched her scarf from the floor and started down the stairs.

I’ll visit him, she thought. I'll go talk to him. Maybe he could write something down, he's probably unable to speak. I’ll try and convince him to go to Ponyville Hospital. And if he refuses… well, I’ll deal with that later. He told me he lives on the outskirts of Ponyville; I’ll look his address up in the phone book, his house shouldn’t be hard to miss.

I’m going to find out what’s going on.

She found the address and set out into Ponyville for Mr. Brannigan’s house. Night began to fall.

The flurries began again as Twilight made her way down the dirt road, the houses and buildings become fewer and farther between as she neared her destination. The flakes were utterly silent as they filled the sky and dissipated on the cold, hard ground. And now the gray sky was turning black again. Soon, Twilight used her magic to conjure up a point of light on the end of her horn for visibility. That light, a beacon in the dancing snow, was a bit eerier than Twilight had been hoping for.

And finally she arrived.

The home was very large by Ponyville standards. Erected some one hundred feet off the road, Mr. Brannigan’s house stood three stories, painted a dull white in the light of Twilight’s horn. An impressive home, but strange looking, as if it were lonely. There were no other homes immediately around; Twilight had left the bulk of Ponyville behind her a long while back. And though the house obviously wasn’t very old, the paint on the outside seemed already to be turning weary, preparing for the peel. And none of the lights were on.

Maybe he’s asleep, then, Twilight thought. I don’t want to wake him. I could always go back, I could always come back tomorrow…

But Twilight did not go back. Somewhere deep in her gut, she knew that if she turned around, she would never have the courage to come back to this place again.

She shivered and began the walk to the front door.

The front of the house seemed a bit too flat, a bit too blank, in Twilight’s stark magical light. She mounted the steps in front of the large double doors, dark wood, heavy and elegant. On the doors were large brass knockers, just as heavy and ornate, the shine rubbed away by years of use and indifference.

Fighting to keep her hoof steady, Twilight reached up and knocked three times.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

The emphatic pounding of the knockers echoed in the bowels of the dark house. Twilight waited, for a sound, for a pony to come to the door, anything. But nothing stirred in the big white house. She knocked twice more.

Clunk. Clunk.

For five more minutes she waited, and for five more minutes there was nothing. She moved to lift the knocker once more – but then she was possessed by a flash of initiative. She placed her hooves on the brass door handles and gently pushed.

Slowly, the doors swung open.

Something seemed to freeze in Twilight’s stomach. Oh, why in Equestria did I do that?

To bite the bullet. He must be here. And we need to speak.

Twilight took her first tentative step inside the house, hardly able to breathe without –

Crunch.

Twilight gasped, her front hoof flew up off the floor. She’d stepped on something. She focused the light from her horn into a flood light, washing the room before her in that eerie stark white. The ceiling loomed high and imperious over her, all the way up to the roof, a crystal chandelier gazing down suspiciously on the intruder. A grand staircase rose before her, stretching up to a landing on the second floor, and then further up to the third. And on the floor at Twilight's feet; even with the light of her horn distorting and draining all colors, the floor was unmistakably white. Twilight thought for a moment that some flurries of snow must have come in through the door and stuck on the carpet. But no – she examined the spot where she had stepped.

Salt. The entire floor was dusted with salt.

There were spots where Twilight could barely make out any floor at all. All around her, on the stairs, down the hallways, a coating of salt. And all around Twilight were inconsistencies in the even spread, hoofprints, signs of walking, signs of running.

Twilight slowly stepped inside and closed the doors behind her.

She cleared her throat and called out. “Mr. Brannigan? Are your awake?”

She swept the light of her horn around the room. On her right, a long hallway, leading to who knows where. In front of here, the monstrous staircase. And to her left, an open door.

A light reflected back into Twilight’s eyes, making her squint; she turned down her light. She’d projected her light into a mirror; the door on her left led to a bathroom. She took a step closer, looked inside.

Beneath the mirror was the sink, and sides of the sink were dripping with red blood. The salt on the floor was stained as well, a twisted distortion of the pure white. And on the edge of the sink, carefully placed, were Mr. Brannigan’s teeth. Yellow and red, trailing bits of gum. And then in the sink, in the center of that red, red sink, there sat a red-brown lump in the drain, a dried out, deformed strip of flesh...

Twilight turned away, her hoof on her mouth, holding back the vomit. The floor began to tilt, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight, just trying to breathe, just to breathe.

After a moment the disorientation passed. She opened her eyes and took one last look through the open door at the bathroom sink. That blood was dry. But for how long? Over a day?

Twilight tore her eyes away from the open door.

Just to remind herself that she was there with a purpose, just so she could hear a voice in this dead, white quiet, Twilight called out again. “Mr. Brannigan? It’s me, Twilight Sparkle. I wanted to talk to you. Please, I just want to help…”

Something drew Twilight’s eyes to the stairs. All over the floor, the salt showed signs of disturbance. But on the stairs, a single set of hoofprints, leading up. Just one set.

So he must still be up there, Twilight thought.

At once wide awake and unsure of the solidity of reality around her, Twilight started up the stairs, following the prints in the salt, her pace measured and slow.

She arrived at the first landing, and now she could see that it hadn't just been the first floor and the stairs; everywhere had been coated with salt. There were bald patches on the rug here and there, obviously not hoofprints, more like spots where Mr. Brannigan had run out of salt. But that was not the most remarkable thing about the landing. Twilight’s attention turned to the wall on her right.

It was a painting; or, at least, it had been. A life size picture in a beautiful golden frame, dominating the wall. On the left of the picture stood Mr. Brannigan. But oh so much younger. His mane was full and unflecked by gray. There were no deep grooves in his face. And even filtered through a painter’s imagination, there was a humility and a kindness in his eyes, something Twilight remembered from the day Mr. Brannigan first set foot in Golden Oak Library.

The right side of the painting had been slashed to ribbons, ripped away, left shredded on the floor and hanging from the edges of the golden frame. As if Mr. Brannigan had not always been alone in his painting on the wall. But now he was.

Twilight looked down at the floor again. The prints did not lead to the painting; it must have been shredded long before Mr. Brannigan spread salt throughout his house. Instead the hoofprints kept leading up, up to the third floor.

Twilight stole one last glance at the mysterious shell of a painting, and continued her ascent.

She reached the top of the stairs, her climb at an end. She paused, looking to the floor for directions. The prints remained, and they led straight forward.

Underneath a closed door, just in front of the grand staircase.

Twilight steadied herself, knowing who had to be inside. Again, she called out. “Hello? Mr. Brannigan? Please, sir, can you hear me? It’s Twilight Sparkle. I just want to help…” She followed the steps in the endless salt, and stood outside the closed door. Her stomach was revolting against her again – she fought it and won.

Twilight lifted her hoof and knocked. The clock-clock-clock made for a surprisingly heavy echo behind the door; if this was a bedroom, it was enormous. Carefully, as if afraid to make any sudden movements, Twilight turned the handle, and the door gently swung open. Scarcely daring to breathe, Twilight stepped inside.

The room was indeed large; Twilight turned up her light, and then she was able to see everything in a sickly, sallow glow. The room was the last thing Twilight had expected. She had walked into some sort of makeshift concert hall. On her left, at one far end of the hall, a grand piano stood importantly, as black as if she had never used the light of her magic to illuminate it. And stretching across the rest of the hall, far to Twilight’s right, there were wooden chairs, set up in two long blocks, an aisle running down the middle. There must have been at least two hundred, maybe three hundred chairs in all. A small concert space for the small concerts of an old musician, entertaining his friends and family. On the far wall, opposite the piano, there were enormous, beautiful glass windows. The snow could just be seen through them, silently falling in the world outside.

And in the very last row sat Mr. Brannigan.

His black winter coat was gone, and even in the dim pale light, Twilight was shocked by his appearance without it. Mr. Brannigan wasn’t just skinny, he was skeletal, his ribs plainly visible, his belly as sunken in as his eyes, his front and back legs, bones held together with skin.

Mr. Brannigan did not stir at Twilight’s appearance. His eyes stared into nothingness, and nothingness seemed to stare back into him. His mouth was slightly agape, and now all of his chin was a mottled red. A strand of thick blood melted from his mouth into his lap.

Twilight stared at this flesh statue from across the hall.

She tried to make her presence known without scaring him. She walked in front of the piano to the mouth of the long aisle, past Mr. Brannigan’s line of sight. He continued to sit, unmoving.

She took a few steps toward him, down the aisle, her hooves crunching on the ground – even here, salt on the floor, so much salt. “Mr. Brannigan?” she called out to that husk of a pony, made tiny by the space of the room. “Are you… I hope you don’t mind, the door was open, I… I-I wanted to see you…”

She slowly advanced. The distance began closing, and she kept speaking.

“When I saw you in the road the other day – I was just so… surprised… I really am very worried about you, Mr. Brannigan. Are you all right? All I want to do is help…”

She was now halfway up the aisle. Mr. Brannigan never even blinked.

A terrible, unthinkable thought struck Twilight like a splinter of ice in her heart. That ghastly, unearthly stillness… the glaze of his eyes…

Surely, he’s not… No, he couldn’t be…

She stopped. Now she could feel it, warm tears welling up, clouding her vision, running down her face. “M-Mr. Brannigan? Are you awake, sir?” She sniffed. “I just want to know if you're okay – ”

Mr. Brannigan blinked.

Twilight yelped, she stumbled backwards, heart racing. Mr. Brannigan's eyes were locked on her now, with that same expression of complete blankness, the blood still dribbling from his chin. His head twitched towards her, so that now the two looked at each other squarely – then his whole body began to tremble, his legs shook, his breathing came fast, and then he was on his feet, facing Twilight in the aisle, the puppet alive at last.

The two of them stood there, thirty feet away. Twilight tried to find words, tried to find lucidity, but there was nothing to be found. Just Mr. Brannigan and his cold, cold eyes.

And then there was a change. Mr. Brannigan’s face twisted, and suddenly there was a crack in the nothingness; something was starting to show through. Mr. Brannigan raised a shaking hoof, pointing down the aisle at Twilight, and now the look was clear, terror had found its way back into Mr. Brannigan, an unspeakable horror which bent and contorted his face, that bubbled up inside him and seeped out of every pore, every orifice, chilling the room, chilling Twilight to the bone. Mr. Brannigan’s mouth spasmed, he took a clumsy step backward. The circle of blood that remained of his mouth opened wide, and he shouted, a desperate, gargling noise:

“Ergh! Ergh!"

He kept pointing, he kept backing up, and Twilight was lost, unable to advance or retreat, confusion and fear pounding down all around her. And then something about the pointing hoof, the panic and the madness on his face, made her realize what Mr. Brannigan had meant to say:

There! There!

Her eyes went wide, she whirled around, and there directly behind her down the aisle stood the piano, the black, black piano with the gapingly empty seat, with the keyboard lid that was flipped up, that must have been flipped up from the moment Twilight set foot in the room, absolutely must have been.

She turned again, and Mr. Brannigan had broken into a full on run, the last of his strength driving his pitiful cracking shell of a body to its last limits, he screamed a high, unearthly scream, his limbs flailing, running away, away from the piano –

CRASH.

Mr. Brannigan went sailing through the enormous glass window.

Twilight screamed.

Suddenly everything she ever knew, everything she’d ever learned about the value of bonds between ponies, eclipsed her fear, and she turned and ran out the door, through the salt, down to Mr. Brannigan, down the great stairs, past the hoofprints and the shredded painting and the bloody bathroom sink and back out into the cold night air.

She searched outside, under the indifferent, ashy snowfall. It didn’t take long for her to find him, underneath the smashed window high up on the third floor.

Mr. Brannigan’s back had snapped on the cold, hard earth, and now there he lay, broken and bloody and dead. His limbs had been twisted and mangled beneath him. His mouth still bled.

And the liquid eyes of Mr. Brannigan were not blank, or terrified, but windows to a well of bottomless surprise.

In the following days, the snow began to come down in earnest. A blanket of soft white to match a sky of soft gray. Winter had truly arrived.

Some weeks after the death of Mr. Brannigan, Twilight Sparkle and Spike found themselves on a familiar errand.

In the morning, Twilight bought a bouquet of lilies from the local flower shop. Then, she and Spike made the long trek to the far side of Ponyville, out past the houses, to the peace and solitude of Ponyville Cemetery.

There, she and Spike stood, beneath a massive old dead tree, ankle deep in snow, before a fresh tombstone.

Twilight lowered her bouquet onto the ground. She always made sure to enchant the flowers she brought before they arrived at the cemetary, so that they wouldn’t freeze to death out there in the cold, but wither and fade like a flower in spring.

The bouquet fell to the snow like a head on a pillow. The carved words of the grave looked solemnly down on the pink and white petals of the lilies:

ARGUS T. BRANNIGAN

An artist, a kind soul, and an inspiration to us all.

Spike lowered his head before the grave. He heard Twilight sniffling in the cold. Abruptly, the sniffling increased. Spike looked up, and for the first time since the night of Mr. Brannigan’s death, Twilight cried. Her eyes shut tight, her legs gave out beneath her, and the sobbing began. Spike rushed to comfort her, throwing his arms around her.

“Shh, shh,” he said. “I’ve got you, everything’s okay…”

Twilight wiped her eyes. She spoke as soon as she could draw enough breath. “Oh, Spike,” she said, “I’m sorry, it was my fault, it was all my fault, I could have called the hospital, I could have – I should have – ”

“Hey, shh, none of that now, come on,” Spike crooned, hugging Twilight all the tighter. She buried her head in his shoulder. “Don’t you go blaming yourself,” he said softly. “You did what you thought was right, and that’s all you can ever do. It’s okay, I’m here…”

They stayed there for some time, neither wanting to let go. Finally their grips loosened, and Twilight stood again, her eyes red. “I still can’t make sense of it, Spike,” she said. “I just don’t understand what happened to him.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” said Spike, staring at the words on the grave. “We’ll have to be satisfied. He was a pony who struggled with his mind for years. His best friend passed away, and he didn’t quite know how to take it. So he was taken into Ponyville Hospital. And then, after everyone thought he’d gotten better, it started again. There was no sensing it, no preparing for it, and no way anyone could have known.”

Twilight nodded; they’d been over it before. The fall of Mr. Brannigan. The decline of a pony who lost his best friend, and then went onstage without him on the night of his death.

Twilight’s lip trembled, but then she mastered herself.

“I just wish,” she said, “that things had gone differently…”

“Me too, Twi,” said Spike. “Me too.”

And by unspoken consent, the two of them turned and began making for the exit of Ponyville Cemetery.

A breeze murmured by; Twilight paused, her head tilting. Behind her, in the branches of that massive dead tree. A sound that almost wasn’t the wind. A sound with the rich timbre of a saxophone. And the soft simplicity of a casual, contended piano. And the haunting passion of singing voices.

Spike stopped. “Twi,” he said. “You all right?”

Twilight blinked. She shook her head, shaking the sound out of her ears.

“Yes,” she said. “I think so…”

And so they left. And that breeze that murmured in the dead tree branches and through the maze of tombstones in the cemetery would float down to the lands around, through the empty halls of Mr. Brannigan’s massive white house, through the streets of Ponyville, in the barns and the bakeries and the boutiques and the bookshelves.

And if a pony were ever to listen to that breeze, that haunting, haunted winter wind, they might have heard more than just a wind. They might have heard two voices, echoing and intertwining and making the sweetest and saddest of music…