Everfree

As the truck bounced along, Fleetwood could recall faint memories. Little, repressed flashes of the past that cluttered the back of his head. He could remember the family station wagon, coming up the long private drive toward the Brougham House, back in his early foalhood...Until the U-LUG hit a tremendous pothole, and he hit his head on the window.

"AGH!"

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He shot up, rubbing the side of his head. He was now completely awake, sitting in the passenger seat of a crummy moving truck, with a broken heater on a cold winter day. He looked over to his father, his brown fur as gray as his mane in some spots, then back to the road ahead of them. They were forging down a muddy dirt road, into the deepest heart of the Everfree. The windshield wipers squeaked, side-to-side, only smearing the rainwater across the windshield. One headlight of the van was bent in an awkward direction, pointing off, into the ditch.

"How long 'til we get there?" he muttered, stretching a bit.

"Prob'ly half an hour at least," his father replied, just watching the road ahead, "Wonder what shape th'place's in these days..."

Fleetwood did too. What could have become of a five hundred-year-old mansion in thirty years? Why, in any normal circumstance, he'd say it'd only need minimal repairs to the roof, and perhaps some of the windows replaced, but this was the Everfree Forest. There were tales of trees that would smash ponies to bits with their limbs, cougars of extraordinary size, and even that was not the worst of the tales. The entire place supposedly carried a bad aura, of black magic and savages. The brown pegasus knew, to some extent, that there was civilized life in there somewhere. A settlement not to far from the Brougham House, known simply as Everfree City, served a chemical plant, which converted Kevenin Vine pollen into makeup. The standing buildings consisted of several rotting wood saloons and a general store, but surely it was inhabited.

Who knew? Fleetwood had not been to Everfree City since he was a young child, and even then, it was in decline. Confident enough to reveal themselves in broad daylight, Changeling aggressors trotted in the open shamelessly, drinking and associating themselves with the few stallions they could find in the place. It wasn't long, his father figured, until, "A bunch'a goddamn half-breeds start showin' up whose BRAINS we gotta blow out". Crossbreeding aside, Fleetwood had heard stories of what happened to Everfree City from a few ponies. His drinking buddy, Mel Durham, had mentioned that the city was alive and booming, still shipping Kevino-brand makeup out via the small shortline. That was one of the more reasonable hypotheses, as Kevino makeup was a very popular brand, and he did not know of any other areas which the Kevenin Vine grew.

Formally, the whole place had been part of Smith County since 1982, when his family abdicated, but the whole place was de facto Changeling territory now. No matter how hard Lord Dunwich of Smith tried, he did not have the resources to start a border war with the buglike creatures. All Smith County had to offer was a single artillery piece, situated in a park in Ponyville, five sheriff's squad cars, and several bumbling deputies. Dunwich thought it an unnecessary blood-bath, he thought, to try and retake land that was valueless in his eyes.

The truck passed over a scummy river, frogs croaking from down below. When the truck straightened out of a turn, Eldorado slammed on the brakes, sending Fleetwood into the dashboard. Rubbing his head...again, he saw that they were at a railway crossing. A small, steam switcher was clanking across the pathway, lugging several old, wooden boxcars, marked for the 'KEVINO COMPANY'. Well, he thought, smiling silently, At least we have industry.

A stone's throw from the railroad tracks were the gates of the place. Big, wrought-iron things, rusted with age. The cranky old pegasus he called his father hopped out of his seat in the truck, and approached, producing a large, ornate key from his coat. He shoved it in the lock, rather roughly, and turned it. The gate let out a loud 'SCREEE!', and swung open, flakes of rust scraping off the hinges. The truck spun its wheels on the muddy ground a little, but it continued up the drive with ease, as it turned into gravel beyond the gate.

In front of them lay a grand, stone brick dwelling, not unlike a castle in its structure. A central tower, sporting two elongated smokestacks sat in front, with the bulk of the house behind it. Several battlements jutted from the sides of the building, one cocked at an odd angle, damaged and decaying. Chimneys sprouted from the place like mushrooms. To the left, below the structure in terms of elevation, lay an overgrown hedge maze, and, to the right, lay a decaying parking lot. The place had been used, in earlier times, to manufacture Brougham limousines, before the firm had been driven out of business in the late 1930's. Why they would choose such a remote location was anypony's guess, but at least they had rail access.

As they pulled up to the front doors, Eldorado looked about ready to cry. His eyes watered, his body trembled slightly, but he smiled. He was glad to be home.

"Pretty awe-inspiring, isn't it, dad?"

"Aw, shuddup."

With the prying-open of the big, oak doors, Fleetwood entered a whole new world. One of dust and age. Of damp-smelling furniture, and soaked floors. In the corner of the entryway, there lay an overturned grandfather clock that had long stopped ticking. To the left of him was a large sitting room, fireplace filled with ash, and a large shotgun hung over the mantle. A portrait of some long-dead Brougham hung above them,  on a balcony overlooking the two rooms.

As a matter of fact, they really had no need to have brought their own furniture, as there was an abundance of fancier, larger equivalents to their own already in the place.

"Aw, hell," Eldorado growled, peeking under a sofa covered by a sheet, "We never needed t'move anything. Got plenty of furniture HERE. Ah mean, lookit this bookshelf. Matches ours perfectly. Why? Came outta the same house. But, this one's in BETTER SHAPE. Taller too, consid'rin' ah didn't have to chop half it inta pieces t'heat us, after we di'n't pay th'utilities last month."

"We might as well just take the truck back," Fleetwood concluded, staring at it. "I mean, we can't lift our furniture with your back injury."

Eldorado nodded. "You do that. Gotta get us one'a our cars from th'showroom. Maybe th'limo m'pa drove, back when 'e was Lord of Everfree? Cert'n'ly would be fittin'."

Fleetwood nodded. "Will do." Although he tried to listen, he was still stunned by how pristine the interior of the place was, despite the smell of dust.

The first night was not the luxury they had anticipated. Wind buffeted the chimney, knocking bricks into the fireplace. The old house moaned and creaked, wind blew from a hole in the roof somewhere, making an eerie howling noise. Instead of being eaten alive by bed bugs, the father and son instead slept on the ancient, decrepit sofa, huddled up under one blanket.

"Ah r'member sleepin' on this couch as a foal," Eldorado mumbled.

"Oh? How long ago was that?"

"Eighteen Eighty-nine... Th'chief diff'rence bein' there weren't no spring pokin' me in th'flank, dumbass son hoggin' the blanket, or a FIGURE standin' on th'stairwell."

"Oh." Fleetwood settled down for a moment, before his eyes shot open.

"Figure?"