Phantoms

They sat in silence for what felt like an hour. Sunny had lost his appetite and could barely look at his pancakes; Kerfuffle, however, was content to slice her potato to ribbons.

"You...got out of there, right?" Sunny said, his voice wavering.

"Of course I did," Kerfuffle replied. "I wouldn't be here if I hadn't."

Sunny gave her an unamused glare. "So what happened next?"

"I tried to forget."

Ramooh and Daiya apologized for what I'd witnessed--said they shouldn't have gone through with it, that they should've picked a different spot, this, that, and the other...I think they were just spouting whatever excuses they could. I wasn’t sure if they were trying to comfort me or reassure themselves. I was told afterward--by them, and plenty of others--that this is just what ponies do when someone dies in front of them. We think of all the things we could've done to stop it.

The two of them told me I should go home, get some rest, and forget about the whole thing. Don't let it ruin your vacation, they said. Celebrate! After all, I made it out alive, right? Even if it felt like the monster was just letting me go.

I tried to sleep. The first night was restless and unbearable. The second night, what little sleep I did get was ruined when I woke up in a cold sweat. But the third night, the third night was when I had the most vivid, most unpleasant dream in my life.

There I was, in a place I'd never seen before--though I'd see it again several times. It was a massive dining hall--maybe part of an asylum. There was this massive set of arches overhead, and the floor was lined with cracked linoleum tiles--they were covered in grime, with moss and mold growing through the floor. The walls were painted white, with tinges of green, brown and black spread about--they must not have bothered cleaning it for years. There were tall, dusty stained-glass windows, letting a clashing mix of green and red light into the room, but I couldn't see any pattern in them.

The first time I went there, all that I could find in that hall was just a gurney, and on that gurney...a book.

As far as I could tell, It was a notebook. The binding was bright red, and felt like pleather. There wasn't a title, or anything identifying an owner written inside it--all the pages were blank--so I decided to take it with me. I thought I'd find the owner somewhere.It’s almost funny, thinking about it now--it seems like such a mundane reaction to such a strange dream.

There was a set of double doors at the end of the hall. In that dream, they opened onto a regular hallway--same broken tiles, same moldy plaster walls. What stood out was the hospital equipment littering the hallway; overturned gurneys, broken wheelchairs, and dented racks with punctured IV bags hanging from them. I didn’t look too closely--or if I did, I didn’t care enough to remember much. I wanted to return the notebook, so I just tuned out everything else. That's how it is with dreams, I guess.

The door at the end of the hallway had a sign above it that read "OPERATING ROOM". I didn't even notice until after I'd gone in.

There were two things in that room: there was some kind of chair--it looked like a dentist's chair, even though this was supposed to be a surgeon's OR--and there was a pony. At least, I think it was a pony.

It had more eyes than anypony, or anything, should have. There were at least eight on its face alone, and none of them were in the right place. As it lifted one of its hooves, I saw three more--two on its hock and one under the hoof. It pointed at the chair. I set the notebook on the ground and hopped in.

It placed its hooves on my chest, first, then slowly explored the rest of my body--despite being practically made of eyes, it wasn’t able to see. Up close, I saw that most of those eyes were clouded over, gray and unfocused. The eyes on its chest were bloodshot, the ones on its limbs were dry and squinty, and the ones on its face--those were almost normal, but they twitched constantly. It was almost pleasant, to be honest. Whatever it was, it was gentle--never pressing too hard, probably to avoid hurting itself. Regardless, I felt my body’s fight-or-flight response start to go wild, I wanted so desperately to leap out of the chair and bolt out of the room but my body wouldn’t listen. It was like I was trapped in my own body as it examined me in a slow, thorough--almost intimate way.

Finally, for the final part of its examination--it touched my cheek, a soft caress that almost felt like it was apologetic, like it felt bad for what it was about to do to me.

That’s when it pulled a scalpel out of its coat.

"You don't need to tell me what happened next," Sunny muttered, glancing away.

"But I do, Sunny. Because not only did I remember every detail..."

It was all in the notebook when I woke up.

See, after that particular nightmare, I decided I'd spent too much time cooped up in the hotel room. I figured I'd feel better if I did something relaxing, like sightseeing, or maybe some shopping. I might not have had the budget for a cross-country road trip, but I had some money. Nothing soothes the spirit like some good old retail therapy.

I found a little corner bookstore--and, not sure you know this, but I love bookstores. Yeah, I know--you'd think I'd be more into clothing stores, right? But there’s more to me than just great style and a killer fashion sense. I run a clothing store, but that’s just a job. So while shopping for clothes can be a lot of fun, it does not have the same feel shopping for a good book does. Clothing stores always put the latest trends out on display, to try and lure you in, but bookstores don’t do that. They’ll promote new books, yeah, but they still carry books from decades ago. Because unlike fashion, a good book never goes out of style--and you never know what you'll find in the back.

Anyway, I managed to find a Bovindu-to-Equestrian dictionary, a tourist guide to the area, and a big old photography collection with a bunch of famous landmarks pictured in it. I went back to the counter where the cashier was sitting, then dropped the books onto it--I blinked--and one more book was amongst the pile: the red notebook.

Same red cover, with no title or author--I picked it up and flipped through it. It was blank before, but now, it had something in it. At first, I thought they were just drawings, but then it dawned on me. They were diagrams. Inside it was a detailed anatomical sketch...of me. It showed my body, split down the middle, all of my organs neatly labeled. My prosthetic was detached...along with my other hindleg. There was a note beside my severed leg, messy and scrawled: "Symmetrical".

To be honest, I was scared out of my mind. I froze up, overwhelmed by the thought that someone, or something, was stalking me. I should have known something supernatural was involved, since it was so accurate--I think I was still trying to process what happened during the ritual, or maybe I was just sleep-deprived.. "Sorry," I said as I reached for the notebook. "I must've grabbed this by mistake, I'll put it back."

The pony at the counter told me to keep it. She said I looked stressed out, and that I needed something to help me vent. It's a very good sketchbook, according to her. On the house, of course. She insisted that I didn’t have to pay. Before I even knew what was happening, I was out the door, with the books nestled in a brown paper bag.

I trotted halfway to my hotel, reached into the bag, then threw the red notebook into a dumpster. After that, I galloped the rest of the way.