Now perhaps I should preface this with the date. Nightmare Night, you see, was just under a month away at the time. Oh, true, I had already received numerous commissions regarding costumes and various minor accouterments that ponies wanted to incorporate into their own costume--one lovely gray mare even refused to have me do anything for her, and only wanted Twilight's wing measurements for, as she said, reasons. Still, the point of the fact was that this night was not nearly close enough for me to suspect anything, shall we say, macabre.
I will admit, though, I had more than overworked myself. Nightmare Night commissions, you see, are always both unique and numerous; in all honesty, that one holiday nets me more than the yearly combination of galas and parties that I'm called for, and even manages to grant me double the pay of my total, ahem, adult sales. Don't look at me like that, darling, it is my duty to bring out the beauty in everypony, and if they wish for their particular grace to be shown to their partner then I certainly will not judge.
No, I will not tell you if any of your family ever asked for such a thing. Those commissions are always private.
The point I was making is simple: Nightmare Night always required so much effort on my part. So it was best, in my mind, to work on as many generic costumes as I could as early as I could. Slews of vampire capes, a number of wolf paws and heads, rows of latex bodysuits with painted bones... oh, I ached to make something more original, and I'd gladly break for my more personalized commissions, but in the end the market was predictable and I simply wished to deal with the common costumes as swiftly as possible so I would have more time to focus on the more unique ideas.
Even then, though, such ideas bounced throughout my skull. Oh, the mind of an artist is more wondrous and terrifying than anything I have ever encountered, the blend of past and possibility in an ever shifting myriad of form and color... I won't bother even trying to describe what was going through my head, there are simply no words to explain it fully. Suffice it to say, it was maddening and thrilling in equal parts.
But alas, I was forced to work till sunset, and keep those ideas to myself. And when the sun did set, I put down my needles and thread in blessed relief; what I had accomplished was incredibly draining. Yes, draining! Mental effort is as tiring as physical, if not in the same manner. Still, as I passed the rows and rows of the more obvious costumes, I couldn't help but imagine small differences; one vampire cape with a bat motif inside and another with elegant but frightening couture, for instance, or one of the wolves with black fur and another with thick false fangs. Ideas, brief, and dismissed as I trotted yawning up the stairs. I made myself ready for bed, thinking that the next day would be akin to the one I had faced.
Partway through the night, though, I was awoken by the oddest sound. At first I dismissed the soft rustling as the leaves of my tree in the wind; I was only partway awake at the time. But then there came an odd clatter from downstairs, and the rustling stopped. I was about to dismiss it and sink back into my slumber, but just as I had started to shut my eyes the rustling resumed.
With a reluctant sigh, I pulled off my blindfold and folded back my covers, sliding my hooves and stretching as I reached to the ground. I do recall mumbling something to myself about restricting Opal to dry foods for a day or two; I had assumed that she was responsible for all the noise, you see, and she absolutely detests dry catfood, so I keep some around when I need to discipline her. So you can imagine my surprise when I opened the bedroom door and she rushed right in, diving underneath my bed.
Of course I checked on her! I might have been tired, but that didn't mean I wasn't concerned. It's just, when I looked under the bed, well... her fur was completely on edge, and she looked tense, ready to lash out at a moment's notice. Trust me when I say that a swipe from a cat's claws can quite ruin one's day; I decided to leave her there, just in case.
Now, though, I was really rather worried. You see, simply because Opal was the most likely perpetrator of the odd sounds, that did not mean there weren't other... possibilities. Yes, Ponyville is usually peaceful, don't get me wrong, but what with the odd circumstances, I was worried that some less than savory individual had spotted my boutique and decided, perhaps, that its fancy exterior hid valuables that would be worth stealing. And as generous as I would be, should such a thief turn out to be the needy sort, I was more than aware they were more likely to take from bakeries and other such food stores; the kind of thief interested in clothing, you see, tends to be a career thief with all the skill and... force that implies.
So I took some precautions. I gripped a hat rack in my magic--don't snigger, darling, it's a heavy object--and let it lead the way as I tip-toed quietly down the stairs. I'll admit to some nervousness, my heart beating rapidly as I descended; having one's home broken into is inherently unnerving, after all. Still, after all the adventures I'd been part of, I suspected I could handle a single pony if it came down to it--
Rainbow Dash, in order to create the best sort of dresses I need to know exactly how the pony body moves. Would you like me to show you where your pressure points are? I believe there's, mmm, three near the base of the wings--
Thank you, darling. Now where was I...?
Ah, yes. Descending down the stairs, prepared for a thief, hat rack at the ready. As I got closer to the bottom of the stairs, I realized the sound I had heard was not some leaves in the wind as I had thought. No, the rustling was coming from down here, down where my dresses and costumes were stored. In fact, as my ears swiveled forward, I could tell they were sounds of silk and cotton and other such fabrics. Yes, I know what my fabrics sound like, I work with them day in and day out. And that distinction convinced me even further that there was a thief downstairs.
I took a deep breath as I stepped onto the final stair, gathering myself and trying my best to calm my senses. It would not do to enter a dangerous situation panicking, after all; best to act swiftly, with precision, with a firm hoof and a cunning mind! My magic wrapped around the hat rack, enveloping it tightly as I braced myself.
Then I leapt forward into the showroom, hat rack swirling round me wielded like a sword of old!
To my surprise, absolutely nopony was there.
I looked around the room warily, trying to find anything out of the norm, but the door was locked as always and the curtains remained drawn shut. Around me was nothing more than the usual boutique fare; the dress stage with mirrors for those who wished to examine their apparel from all angles, doors leading to my work room and my show closet, a few mannequins, lining a wall and wearing some of my more unique Nightmare Night costumes...
It took me a moment to realize that there was, in fact, one door open that should not have been. The door that led to my show closet, the door behind which all my works, all my masterpieces, rested in wait for their eventual owners. In that room, row upon row of dresses, suits, and costumes all hung, each of them more than worth the effort of thievery if I do say so myself. It was clear to me then, where the thief had headed, and where, now, he was hiding. I slunk silently toward the show closet, keeping myself out of direct sight of anypony who might have been within. When at last I was inches away, I slammed my hatrack through and swung it around to hit any fool hiding just inside!
Nothing. No grunt of pain, not even the resistance of motion.
I turned my show closet's light on, stepping in. I had intended, of course, to demand the ruffian's surrender--but as I saw as I entered, there was, again, nopony there. And yet I could not help but be horrified; what was once row after organized row of my precious art was now half off hangers, on the floor and walls, strewn around the room in a chaotic clash of colors and fabrics. I rushed about in a minor tizzy, my magic picking up each article of clothing and carefully, delicately placing it back in its proper place. It was only after I had cleaned up most of the mess that I saw the other oddity in the room.
A mannequin, wearing the one of the most bizarre ensembles I had ever encountered. A combination of a gorgeous ballgown, a tweed jacket, and a wide-brimmed hat with feathers. I won't say it was a hideous combination--far from it, the unique collection could have gotten me quite inspired at any other time--but nonetheless it was certainly not what I was expecting.
Still in the mindset that there was a thief somewhere in my home, I approached the mannequin cautiously. But in my suspicious state of mind, I thought that the pony who had broken in was right in front of me, wearing a skin-tight suit and trying to pose as something I wouldn't recognize as foreign. Well, the joke would be on them!
"Let's get that dress off you," I said, calmly, coolly, like it was just another day. I reached a hoof for the shoulder... then grabbed at the mannequin's fetlock, intent on unbalancing the thief completely!
Unfortunately, I was off in my guess, and the entire foreleg popped off. I'll admit I let out a startled shriek, but it was quickly replaced by nervous laughter as I realized what had happened. It's not well known outside the fashion industry, you see; those blank pony forms are designed to come apart--why, how else could we get the dresses on them? With a small breath of relief, I went about popping the other limbs and the head off; soon enough, the varied bits of clothing on the mannequin were back where they belonged. It wasn't long before the thing was reassembled, and I turned away to finish putting the clothes away.
Still, something unnerved me about the whole situation. As the last of the costumes was put away, I noticed that absolutely none of my stock was missing. Further, the mannequin itself.... well, mannequins are either for construction of the outfit or display, so I had never put any in my show closet. What was it doing here? Who had moved it? Why had they made such a wreck of my show closet in the first place, since not a thing was missing from it?
With a frown, I decided to search the boutique high and low. Every room I entered had their light turned on; every cabinet and cupboard was opened as I accounted for each item stored within. I had intended, you see, to check the entire house--paranoid, perhaps, but I felt I was well within my rights. Partway through searching the kitchen, though, I heard it again--the rustle of cloth.
I turned around, rushing for the source of the noise, and once again found my show closet to be a wreck. True, fewer things were spread about, but that mannequin--it was once more dressed. Wolf paws adorned its feet, and the slacks it wore would be fit for a noble; but what really drew my eye was the large, flared collar, one which was certainly not part of any outfit in the show closet itself. As a matter of fact, I had placed that particular article in my bin of, oh, how should I say it... drift-offs? Exercises? Sometimes I sew simply to sew, after all, and while the collar was certainly a piece of work, I doubted it would ever see the light of day as part of an outfit.
Now I was certain somepony was playing some sick prank on me. Slacks, without a piece round the barrel? I doubt I need tell you exactly how scandalized I felt--although, I admitted to myself, the touch of claws and collar could transform merely crass into something that was so delightfully primal--not something to be seen outside the bedroom, of course, and yet... Still, as much as the idea teased at me, there was an interloper to catch, and so I set about restoring my show closet yet again. This time, I made certain to put the mannequin in my work room, where it belonged, and casually tossed the collar back into the drift-off bin as I left.
My following search was systematic, thorough, and efficient. It wasn't until I had shut off all the lights and started heading up the stairs that I heard the rustling once more. I froze, unwilling to believe that I, Rarity, had somehow missed an intruder in my own home. But the movement of cloth, the swish of material across the floor, was enough to push the truth into my head; something had escaped my notice. Something important.
So I turned and beheld something that to this day shocks me to even remember.
Wolf heads held skirts and vests in their jaws, with furry little claws carrying them along. Skeletons bereft of skulls sorted through the clothes on the hangers, their latex hooves dispensing of some and slinging others onto their back. A cadre of capes capered through the air, rustling as they gathered hats and flung them about. They all moved to and from my show closet, to and from my work room, silently focused on whatever their work was, ignorant of my increasing amazement.
Now, us unicorns can sometimes levitate multiple objects, but to see all these outfits moving with such independence made it instantly clear that no mere unicorn magic was behind this. What these costumes were doing, how they moved--they acted as of their own volition, of their own individual wills. And yet... well, there was something incomplete about them all. The skeletons lacked heads, which was somehow more disturbing than a complete version. The wolf costumes were only heads on four little feet apiece, which might have sounded adorable had they not scuttled about like spiders. The vampire capes moved as though worn by invisible ponies, yet every now and again I'd see one swish and flap in a way that would be impossible were it the case.
I should, perhaps, have moved from the spot where I was standing, but so caught off balance was I that I remained rooted on the very bottom of the stairs. That is, until one of the wolfheads spotted me in the shadows and dropped its frock. I half expected it to howl, the false yellow eyes glittering in the window's starlight, but... no. Once one noticed, all of the heads rotated to regard my presence. The skeletons all twisted around, neck-holes of the latex suits opening dark caverns to my eyes. The vampire capes stopped rustling, perching on mannequins and various mirrors that I had in the boutique's main room.
In that silence, in that moment, they watched me, and I watched them.
After some time, though, I took a step down the stairs. They kept their false gazes on me as I let another hesitant hoof forward; some of the capes fidgeted, and I could have sworn one of the wolf heads let out a little snort. Still, they did not make any attempt to stop me, so I continued my slow journey into their midst. Gaping holes and false eyes followed my every move as I, warily, peered into the show closet once more; again, the various articles within had been spread about, though now I knew what the cause was. Glancing about at the costumes, I let out a small, nervous giggle.
"If you lot wanted to try on some outfits, all you needed to do was ask!"
That, I swiftly discovered, was exactly the wrong thing to say.
The capes took flight once more, but now they rushed round my form in a blinding cadre of red and black. I screamed--yes, I'll admit I let out a scream--as I felt furry claws grab at my hooves, pushing me onto the ground. And then I discovered the unnerving sensation that one can only feel when, instead of merely putting on a skintight suit, the suit itself envelops you of its own volition!
When the capes finally retreated, I was panting for breath, the spike of terror still high on my mind. For the briefest of moments I had thought it all over--but then, the suit I was wearing constricted, writhed against my coat, tugged on my legs. I couldn't help but gasp as I felt my own legs twist under me, push me up to a standing position--I was trapped, trapped within my own creation, which began to slowly walk me toward my work room. At the least I could still look about, see the escort I received; headless skeletons to either side like stoic guards, wolf heads scuttling about our hooves with the occasional snuffle, and an ocean of red and black flying ahead, through the door. For a moment I caught my own reflection in a passing mirror, and in the dark it looked as though I was only bones with naught but my coiffure and tail left--and then, before I could consider it any further, I was through the door myself.
The gathered costumes painted an odd scene; the wolf heads stood on forgotten outfits and scraps of cloth, staring toward where the capes now formed arcs of color around a pile of deflated skeleton suits. It was the object of this impromptu dais that truly held my attention, however; the once-naked mannequin was again clothed, if the half-made mishmash of partially sewn fabrics could be called clothing. Even as I looked on in horror, I could not help but see the beginnings of a concept in what it wore; my imagination was dashed, however, as I was made to bow in front of the eyeless, colorless form.
It took some time before I managed to lift my head from the pile of latex bones, gazing up at the mannequin plaintively. I had to think a bit as I determined what I was going to say; it was obvious that speech was all I had left to me in this moment.
"...Might I assume that you are the leader of this... cadre?" I eventually asked.
The mannequin itself was silent, but the rustling of the capes around it seemed to confirm my suspicions.
"...Well then. I suppose I should welcome you to the boutique. Where everything is chique, unique, and magnifique!"
There was a series of indistinct grumbles from behind me.
"Yes," I nervously conceded, "well, I mean almost everything. Advertising has to stretch the truth sometimes, after all. So," I managed to smile, "what business do you have for me tonight?"
For a moment, there was no reaction.
Then, with a tiny squeak of surprise, I felt myself standing again, ending up face to featureless face with the mannequin itself. One of the capes spiraled from the arc, brushing my cheek as it rustled past my ear.
"I'm... terribly sorry, darling. I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."
More capes fluttered down, whisking about my head, and in the rustling I heard the faintest, faintest whispers of voices, speaking words that I could not distingush.
I had to frown. "Perhaps it would be better if you were to write down your request? I can't seem to--"
My words were cut off with a sudden wheeze as I felt the suit grow tighter, growls rising from the background. The vampire capes once more swirled round me, my vision becoming all reds and blacks save for the blank face which loomed without moving, not expressing any rage or fury even as the words hidden in the constant rustling grew harsher and louder. My entire form felt squeezed, compressed, my coat rubbing uncomfortably against the latex as I struggled to breathe.
"Please," I pleaded desperately. "Please, I don't understand! Why are you doing this?! What do you want?!"
A mannequin has no eyelids, no lips, only cloth.
So there was an audible rip as its eyes split open and it tore open its mouth, each orifice leading to an evershifting endless color.
The intense image, the constriction around my barrel, the terror I still felt--it all caught up in that one moment. As I passed out, I heard only one command, one last set of words--
"FINISH ME."
I awoke the next morn, sweat drenching my sheets as my eyes snapped open. For a few seconds I did nothing but breathe.
Then suddenly, I ripped off my blindfold and shot out of bed, galloping down the stairs. I flung my show closet open wide--and found everything where it was meant to be. It only took a moment for me to turn and rush for my workroom--and yes, there was the mannequin, still standing, no evidence of ever having any tears on its face. It took me a moment or two to work down my adrenaline rush, laughing at my own silliness; obviously, obviously it had merely been a dream, some odd nightmare, and I almost dismissed it out of hoof.
But when I turned to leave, I saw a dress I didn't remember making in my drift-off bin. One exactly the mannequin's size.
