Mr. Fetlock, an elderly art house regular and notorious crank, walked the streets of Canterlot with his trademark limp. His goal was the Canterlot Event Center, which he frequented for the purposes of buying art at auction. Being a regular who was known for spending large amounts at these events, he was given the VIP treatment despite the fact that his attitude left much to be desired. The entrance attendant of the event center saw him coming and held the door for him as he approached.
“Mr. Fetlock, a pleasure as always.” The stallion greeted, his reward for his courtesy being only an acknowledging grunt.
Fetlock traveled to the main hall where the seats were slowly beginning to fill for the day’s auction. Even though a public setting, he had particular seat he preferred and all the other regulars knew not to take that seat for fear of his anger. He sat and kept his eyes on the stage until the event was ready to start. The casual murmur of the patrons ceased as a tuxedoed stallion walked onto the stage to take the microphone.
“Good afternoon.” He gestured grandly. “My name is Fast Talker; I will be your auctioneer this fine day. As always, we have a unique selection of pieces to satisfy all of your tastes so let us get underway." Fetlock found little interest in the first three pieces; he preferred paintings and the statuette, vase and grandfather clock were of no concern to him. The fourth piece though, caught his attention as Fast Talker introduced it to the crowd. “This next piece is quite the interesting work.” His assistant brought a painting out and set it to the display easel. Mixed reactions followed its reveal as the work of art depicted a dark hill in the background that was partly illuminated by a full moon; the hill was lined with gravestones that rested in sporadic formation. Even more unnerving was the tree that loomed in the foreground, stark and devoid of greenery with a single long branch that had a noose hanging from its thickest portion. The frayed rope was in center frame and seemed to sway as it was beheld by the eye. “This, my good ponies, is known as The Cemetery Gallows.” Fast Talker observed the work. “Not your typical piece to be certain and with an added bonus it comes with its own sordid history.” He returned his gaze to the patrons. “Tales suggest that this painting has passed through many hooves, all of which are… no longer with us.” He emphasized with chilling tone; laughing at the guests' shaken response. “But we know that such stories are nonsense.” He strode back over to the painting. “That being said, which of you will be brave enough to take this work home?” The bidding started and Fast Talker’s salesmanship spurred the buyers into an intense bidding war. As the back and forth continued the price reached seven hundred and fifty bits. It was at this point when Fetlock raised his hoof.
“Two thousand bits.” He smiled as the outrageous bid silenced his fellow buyers.
Fast Talker nodded towards the old stallion. “We have a bid of two thousand by Mr. Fetlock, do I hear any counter bids?” Mumbling followed but nopony dared to compete with Fetlock’s wealth. “Going once… twice… and sold for two thousand bits. Thank you, Mr. Fetlock.”
The remainder of the auction passed in usual fashion. At the event’s end, Fetlock formally claimed his latest acquisition with a promise that it would be delivered to him by the end of the day. Fetlock returned to his home which sat isolated on a plot of land just beyond Canterlot. The long trip always tired him and as soon as he was home he took to his favorite chair and rested. Unwittingly nodding off, he woke to the sound of knocking at the front door. As he opened the door he was met with a young delivery mare with a wrapped frame resting on her side.
“I have a delivery for a Mr. Fetlock.”
“Obviously.” Fetlock grumbled as he signed for the delivery.
“Thank you, have a good…” The door closed before she could finish.
Fetlock took the painting into the dining room and sat it on the table. Undoing the tie, he pulled the paper off and looked over the work with a smile. The main hall of his home was reminiscent of an art gallery; built extra wide, the parallel walls were lined with dozens of paintings that he had collected over the years. Taking his latest prize to the nearest empty space, he proudly hung it and took a step back to ensure that it was straight. As with his other works of art he stood there for some time, etching every detail of the painting into his mind as he marveled at whatever expert stroke brought the scene to life. His gaze was broken by the growling of his stomach and he headed for the kitchen to prepare dinner.
In the wee hours of the morning, Fetlock bolted upright at the sound of a massive thud. His old heart beating wildly, he climbed out of bed and looked to his bedroom door. Standing motionless, no further noise came so he went out into the hallway and cautiously looked in both directions only to see nothing. As he started to calm, a second thud echoed through the corridor. Living in constant fear of burglars who might help themselves to his expensive collection, he boldly went downstairs to check the lower level.
“Who’s there?!” He called into the dark. “Don’t underestimate me just because I’m old! You think you can take advantage of me!” He bellowed as he stormed through his home. No response came and the loud noise did not repeat a third time. Turning on the lights, Fetlock hurried to his hallway of art and found no trace of any intruder. Everything seemed normal until he saw that the painting at the end was crooked on the wall. Investigating, he found his latest purchase askew and immediately fixed it. As Fetlock straightened the picture he caught site of his reflection in the protective glass of the frame, noticing that his face sat neatly within the confines of the noose. As he stepped away he glanced back as something else caught his eye, looking back at the painting he discovered a black smudge resting on the hill that he was sure was not there earlier in the day. He stared at it for nearly a minute before concluding that it was merely a fleck of paint that the artist mistakenly left behind. As his heart rate finally slowed to normal, he returned to his room to try and get back to sleep.
Fetlock awoke feeling as if he had not slept a wink, pulling himself out of bed he endured his morning routine before going downstairs. He double checked his home, still finding nothing of note to explain the prior night. After breakfast, he passed through the main hall to leave for the day, stopping shortly as he noticed the painting at the end tilted once more. With an upset huff he hurried over and fixed it again. Despite all the imagery the work entailed, his eyes automatically focused in on the imperfection he observed last night. A confused grumble passed his lips as he swore it had doubled in size; on top of that the once shapeless blot seemed to have slimmed out and developed a pair of points at its apex. Fetlock’s old mind struggled with what he saw but he forced the rationale that he merely misjudged the size of the imperfection in the limited light. He continued on and left his home in an attempt to enjoy the day and forget about all the bizarreness. Fetlock partook of his usual activities within the city but the back of his mind was weighed down with an uneasiness that he could not shake. It followed him all morning and afternoon, hindering what little pleasure he found in his daily life. Between the unrestful night and the distracted day he chose to pay a carriage to take him home. He managed to doze off during the ride, only waking at the sound of the carriage’s bell as it stopped in front of his house. Without a tip, he dismissed the operator and went inside. He stood in the foyer, despite his want to merely go to bed something nagged at him to check the painting. A slight fear ran through him as he returned to the main hall. As he stepped into the long passage he felt his heart race as he saw that once again, the painting was tilted.
“Is somepony here?!” He quickly turned and shouted, his angry voice bouncing off the walls. “Come out this instant!” In lieu of not having any means to defend himself, he desperately wanted somepony to make themselves known; a burglar, a couple of colts pulling a prank, anything but the silence that inevitably followed his command. He hobbled down the hall and fixed the painting again, his eyes widening as he beheld the haunting imperfection. Now he was certain it had gotten bigger, not only that but it seemed to be making its way into the foreground. A strong sense of dread filled him as he began to realize that the black mass was molding itself into something more recognizable. The bottom of the marking had split in two and the top had rounded off, with the two points having flattened into more of a cone shape. With a heated growl he pulled the painting from the wall and carried it into the dining room, slamming it down on the table. He loosened the frame and removed the glass, immediately running his hoof across the canvas. The paint was as dry as a bone, proving that it had not been subjected to tampering. As he stared down in a mixture of confusion, anger and fright, another loud thud reverberated through his house. With a startled scream he frantically looked back towards the front door, positive that that’s where the sound originated. He rushed to his living room window and drew back the curtain, looking out into the darkening afternoon. The front porch was clear and there was nopony in the immediate yard. A sharp gasp left him though as when he looked to the hill in the distance, he saw a loitering form that was all too familiar to him. It was a mirror image of what he had just seen within the painting, it did not move, remaining as still as its artistic counterpart. Fetlock pulled the curtain closed and sat on the couch, taking several deep breaths to calm himself. “This is ridiculous.” He scoffed. “I’ve got myself so worked up I’m seeing things.” He stood and pulled the curtain back again, as suspected the thing was gone. “There, I’m just overtired.” He closed the curtain and headed upstairs, forgoing dinner in hopes of getting some needed rest.
Yet another thud, one that put the past ones to shame, rocked Fetlock’s home with such ferocity that the walls themselves shook. Shooting up in bed with a terrified cry, Fetlock braced his hooves on the mattress and looked about the room. His bravado was quickly fading under the tireless assault to his senses. He made his way downstairs and looking out the window saw that it was the middle of the night. His heart was all but breaching his chest and even though he struggled not to, he went to check the painting. It sat on the dining room table where he left it and as he spun it around to take a look a deep chill filled his old bones. He could no longer call what he saw a mere blemish of paint, it was without question a pony. The split at the bottom had formed into forelegs and the rounded top had become a fully realized head, with the two cones now recognizable as a pair of ears. This was no ordinary pony though, the left foreleg was raised as if it was taking a step, but the leg was hanging in an unnatural state. From the knee down, the appendage was held on by nothing but a sparse combination of exposed bone and tendons. It had no eyes, the sockets like bottomless pits that even without the required organs seemed to be staring at him with malicious intent. Fright overtook him and Fetlock ripped the painting in half and threw it on the ground. As soon as the torn canvas touched his floor, another immense thud boomed throughout the house. It was so loud that Fetlock was forced to cover his ears in reflex. As before, the front door seemed to be the epicenter of the noise. He went to the window and ripped open the curtains; his mouth fell open as he gazed out at the hill, the full moon illuminating the grotesque form from the painting.
“No!” He cried out as he stumbled back from the window. Another thud rattled his house down to the very foundation. Fetlock’s whole body shook with a level of terror that he had never experienced in his long life. He scrambled back into the dining room and turned on the lights, hoping the illumination would keep whatever was outside at bay. His wandering gaze fell once again on the painting, in shock he quickly scooped up the right half of the work; his now fragile heart sinking in his chest at what he saw. The pony was now fully in the foreground and seemed to bear down on him. He could clearly make out the face, a rotted mess of bone and muscle tissue barely covered by tattered flesh. The hideous thing smiled at him, what teeth it had left as staggered as the graves in the background. A final thud boomed all around him, he dropped the canvas and turned back to the door; only to find himself face to face with the nightmarish pony from the painting. Fetlock screamed for all his lungs were worth and collapsed to the floor.
It took two days for Fetlock to be discovered. The mare who delivered his weekly grocery order summoning the guards at the city gate to investigate after receiving no response from twenty minutes of knocking. The poor girl made the mistake of following the guards in as they were assaulted by the stench of rotting flesh. They found the elderly stallion dead on the dining room floor. His entire face was twisted in fear, eyes unnaturally wide and mouth agape. The mare screamed and ran from the home while the guards searched for evidence of foul play. They found no signs of an intruder or a break in; and the only item in the home appearing to be out of place was an eerie painting of a cemetery laying on the dining room table.
Epilogue
In the storeroom of the Canterlot Event Center, Fast Talker and his two assistants were unpacking and inspecting the latest shipment of items to be sold at auction. As they worked, Fast Talker hefted a frame bound in brown paper; he unwrapped it and observed the painting with a sigh.
“Hey.” One of his assistants looked over his shoulder. “Didn’t we just move that one?”
“Yes.” Fast Talker nodded. “It was bought by the famous, or infamous depending on who you ask, Mr. Fetlock. He passed away last week.”
“Oh, how sad to hear.” The mare said regretfully.
“It isn’t sad.” The second assistant cut in. “We were warned about that painting… we should never have allowed it to reach the stage.”
“Oh stop it!” Fast Talker looked back at him judgingly. “It was an unfortunate coincidence… nothing to do with some mumbo jumbo.” He huffed. “Stories like that always come up every time the stars align and some kind of accident happens. A lot of older ponies by art, a few of them pass while holding onto the same piece and everypony jumps to wild conclusions.” He set the painting down. “Here, just give it a once over and prep it for next month’s auction.”
“Yes sir.” The mare took his place before the painting. “Ugh, just as creepy as the last time I saw it.” She looked over the macabre scene with a shiver; and while she had seen the painting before, her untrained eyes were unable to detect the one extra grave in the yard.
