It is said, that at the turn of the century, every century, in the town of Ponyville, in the dead of the night, they will rise up.

From their graves, tombs, mausoleums and crypts. The chattering Revenants of yesteryear. Their dead bones a-knocking.

It's said that they'll don their finest. Their dusty frock coats and their moth-eaten petticoats. Their hob-knots and their worn leather boots. And they'll dance and they'll march.

And at the head of this parade of the mad, will be the maddest of them all. The Lady in Pink is her noms de guerre.

But fret not dear child. You should never glimpse upon the parade of the mad. You'll be in bed by the time they rise from their grave!