Fall of Equestria: What A Fright
Give Me Something Good To Bite
Nightmare Night.
Othrid grimaced. Such a childish, pathetic thing for such a childish, pathetic race. These were what inspired fear? Plastic Jack-O-Lanterns? Paper masks? Phony fangs?
He gazed at the pitiful pile before him, shaking his head. “What’s the final score?” He asked the stag at his side.
“Two fakers, m’lord,” the stag shrugged. “Husband and wife. They got one son who’s not a total loss, but it’s clear the cunt’s a wash. She might be good entertainment for the boys at the mud farms, but other than that? Total fakers.”
Othrid sighed, still gazing over the pile gathered in the kitchen. A splash of blood along the countertop seemed to go well with it, fitting in with the spooky feel, but he suppressed that thought. Such cuckolded notions had no place in Dainn’s glorious crusade. “And...this is how we caught them?”
“Apparently, the colt liked this holiday, m’lord. He set that out on the porch.” He pointed to a Styrofoam Jack-O-Lantern in the middle of the pile. “It’s how our patrols first got wind there might be fakers here.”
“Liked it?” Othrid stared at his partner incredulously. “A holiday celebrating an actually-dangerous monster of a mare?”
The stag shrugged.
“Ponies.” Othrid scoffed, turning back to the pile. “Such a strange race.”
“What will you have us do, lord?”
“What else?” Othrid asked as he turned to leave the small cottage. “Burn it. Make sure the colt watches, then take the colt and whore with us. We’ll get some use outta her tonight and send the colt to the corrective schools in Canterlot in the morning. They’ll beat the soft, cunt-loving ways right outta him.”
The stag saluted, armor jangling as he circled around Othrid, leaving to pass on his orders. Othrid grimaced. Nightmare Night was a mare-lover’s dream of a holiday, celebrating the memory of something that should have been buried in history, were it not for that whore Celestia’s weakness against her own sister. Just another reason Dainn’s light should have been brought to this land centuries ago.
Still, even if this wasn’t a night to celebrate, that didn’t mean he wanted to be out on patrol as opposed to drinking with his troops in the Sugarcube Saloon. He just had to draw the short stick tonight, just had to. He sighed as he stepped down the long hallway, following the blood trail running along the wooden planks to the body of the stallion splayed out on the porch. Othrid shook his head. Yet another male life wasted in upholding the old, heretical ways...why? Those ways were dead and gone but for a few delusional rebels out in the woods! It didn’t make sense…
He stepped across the grass, towards the line of buggies and carts that had transported his stags to this little corner of town. Near the front, two stags flanked the young colt, who stared at the cottage in wide-eyed horror as more advanced upon it with lit torches. Behind him, a mare in a black collar screamed as she was hauled off in chains, “Dreams! Don’t give up! Remember who you are! Plea--”
A sock to the gut shut her up, at least long enough for a gag to be tied around her muzzle. Still, the moment she regained her senses, she started fighting, struggling to get free even as the last shackles were locked around her hands and she was thrown into the back of one of the buggies.
“Still fighting even now.” Othrid chuckled. “That one will be lots of fun to break, mud farm’ll love her.”
“Almost jealous of those bastards,” the stags chuckled as he approached the colt, who said nothing, only looked up, eyes shimmering with a question Othrid had seen and heard far too many times for it to even register anymore: Why?
He sighed, sweeping around behind him, waving the stags off. He planted his clawed hands on the colt’s shoulders. “I know it must seem bad now,” Othrid said, preparing an old lie. “I get it. Your whole world is burning.”
The colt trembled meekly under his touch, and Othrid suppressed a sigh at his weakness. The first flames licking up the sides of the cottage flickered in his eyes. Maybe the colt would be able to make it in the schools in Canterlot, maybe his body would just be one of the dozens that piled up along the streets someday. It didn’t matter. Might as well give him something that could help, though.
“You must understand: the old world is gone. It’s over.” A couple torch-wielding stags ducked into the cottage, dragging the stallion’s body in with them and dropping it just inside the front door with all the care they’d show a sack of potatoes. A sob wracked the colt’s shoulders. “Your father didn’t learn that, and now look at what’s become of him. Of everything he was. He’ll be ash tomorrow, like he never even existed.”
Another sob. Othrid rolled his eyes.
“Think about that, carry it with you back to Canterlot.” With one last squeeze, Othrid released the colt’s shoulders and turned back to his cart: the nice one with the padded seating on the bench, as opposed to the hardwood on the others. He started to climb up, mind already surging ahead to the next stop on their patrol, when the fur on the back of his neck prickled.
His head whipped around to find the colt standing there, staring at him. The colt had stopped heaving, though the tears shimmered in his eyes and on his face. “Just one question,” the colt asked with a strange light dancing behind his pupils. “Do you believe in the boogeyman?”
Othrid stopped to gaze back at the child, still halfway through clambering back up into his seat . The colt gazed back, and there was something…new in his eyes. Something different. Something that, had he been more perceptive, would have sent bolts shooting up Othrid’s back.
But he wasn’t perceptive. So he chuckled, shook his head, and continued up into the cart. “Might be hope for that one, yet,” he said, mistaking that look for one of defiance. Of manly resistance, which might hopefully be turned against the bitches of this soft little nation, if honed properly.
Finally sitting up in his seat, Othrid gave the signal for the column to move on. He watched the colt as his little eyes followed them leaving, head turning slightly to keep his gaze on Othrid’s seat all the way until a couple more stags in armor grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him up, ready to toss him in the back of one of the carts. Othrid chuckled again, if only to pretend the cold feeling latched onto his spine wasn’t there. He leaned back and, without looking up, asked the driver: “That the last report we have to make?”
“Uhhhhh…” the stag gripping the reins shifted them to one hand to pull out a small notebook. “No sir, there’ve been reports of a strange mansion just out in the woods from a day ago.”
“A strange mansion?” Othrid frowned. “What’s so strange about it?”
“None of the locals or patrolmen remember it being there a week ago, sir.” The driver shrugged and pocketed the notebook, taking the reins in both hands. “Like the damn thing just appeared out of thin air.”
Othrid chuckled. “Some glamor placed by the old cunts of this land which finally wore off.” He swallowed as he realized what he’d just said. If those old bitches had wanted to keep that place hidden from everyone…did that mean something valuable was inside? Something who’s discovery might earn him a place higher up in Dainn’s ranks?
He bolted up in his seat. “Get us there, double-time!”
“On it, sir!” The driver pulled out his riding crop, bringing it down with skill and practice. There was a yip from the reined beasts, and speed immediately picked up, giving a little jerk that Othrid had to fight hard to correct.
Licking his lips as he stared ahead, Othrid wondered what was so important here that those old royal hags would want to keep it hidden? It was no secret this town had been the home of the Element Bearers, what else were they hiding? He chuckled. Speaking of, though…
“Move it, slut!” He shouted, scooping up the riding crop and bringing it down on the former Bearer of Honesty’s flank, right on the angry red mark already growing there. The bitch let out another yip and doubled her speed, bare chest heaving as she fought to gain a few more inches, powerful legs bulging with muscles as she led the train ever-faster. Othrid leaned forward, grinning into the wind. Was this finally his ticket out of running podunk patrols and getting to sit in the warm offices of the old Palace of Friendship? Heh. One could only hope.
Othrid gazed over the mansion with wide eyes. The sprawling, decrepit estate crawled with overgrowth and shaggy bushes. The buzzing of a million cicadas filled the air, crowding out everything else with the noise. To the side, he thought he could make out a sprawling hedge maze in between the shifting leaves and crawling vegetation. The whole estate had been surrounded with a massive brick wall, opening to a set of wrought iron gates flecked with rust, just beyond which he could see a rotting wooden bridge spanning a creek. At the center of the mass of vines and assorted decay, there was a house. Dirty columns, once white, held up a massive stone porch that led into a set of double-doors. The house itself towered over them: five floors of moss-covered brickwork, studded with windows that from where he sat appeared miraculously intact, despite the look of the estate’s lands.
“Dainn preserve us…” he whispered. “How many damned castles does this town need!?”
“Orders…sir?” His driver asked.
Othrid paused for a second. This wasn’t right. Something like this couldn’t just stay hidden, no matter what magic those whores placed on it. There was something wrong about this place, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was only now learning about it. Looking up at it felt wrong. Like it was gazing back into him, judging his heart, maybe even evaluating what he’d taste like. He felt like a little filly that had just wandered into his barracks during morning roll call, wanting to escape the cold and the wanting grasp of the Faithfuls only to stumble headlong into a room filled with nude, waiting stags. Except he could still turn around. Fill out a report, say they looked around and things seemed abandoned. ‘Not worth looking into,’ he could say, could write it up on the way back, be done with his patrol on time for once, maybe even get out in time for last call at Sugarcube.
But that…that was weak thinking. That was fearful mare-talk there. He grimaced, glaring up at the mansion. “S’just a house,” he mumbled, then gestured to the gates. “Line up some of the bitches and get those open, then get the column through. There’ll be plenty of space on the lawn to tie the whores up with the carts while we look around.”
There was a moment of hesitation, but the driver nodded. “Yes, sir.” He said as he disembarked to pass those orders down the line. Within minutes, two lines of whores had been lashed up to the gates and were pulling with the crack of riding crops and whips.
“C’mon, you sluts!” Othrid screamed, his personal whip snapping against the tender flanks of some teen from the heart of town. “Put your back into it! You wanna eat tonight, you’ll get these doors down in a—“
He didn’t even have to finish his sentence as the gates suddenly squealed open, sending the sluts stumbling to the ground. Flecks of rust filled the air, but Othrid grinned. Of course the gate wouldn’t stand long, not against the might of Dainn’s army.
He chuckled, stepping around the first line of sluts. He gave a kick to the ribs from one whose hand got a little close as she splayed out on the grass, gasping from the effort, but other than that, nothing stopped him from taking those first steps through the gates. He stood there, chest puffed out, drinking in the inside of the estate with the utmost confidence, even as that ice-cold feeling of being watched by something large and hungry tightened in his stomach. It was why he hung back as his men marched forward, scooping up the reins and dragging the sluts with them as they went. With their usual, brutal efficiency, the stags dragged the mares over the bridge, those in front already retrieving stakes and hammers from the carts to drive into the ground. Dainn’s army was always ready to make hitching posts where there weren’t any.
Just as the first hammers started slamming stakes into place, the front doors creaked open. In spite of themselves, the stags all paused in their work for a second, over two dozen eyes turning to look up at the stag approaching them.
To their immense relief, another stag descended the stairway, clad in a three-piece suit, impeccably pressed and buttoned. Othrid stepped forward, mouth open to chide his fellow stag for wearing something left over from the days of mare domination, but the words caught in his throat. Despite the fragile, prissy suit, there was something off about him. Even with his average stature and the receding hairline typical of stags twice Othrid’s age, there was a look in his eye that set him off. As if the newcomer would just as soon rip your throat out with his bare hands as open his doors to you. And besides, there was the rust on the gates, the overgrown nature of the rest of the estate…nobody should have been here, not with the way those gates had looked…
Again, Othrid had to shake the weak, mare-inspired thoughts from his brain, reminding himself that he was a commander in Dainn’s army. They were the greatest force the world had ever known. Not even the once-mighty Equestrian Empire had stood a chance against them!
Squaring his shoulders, he puffed out his chest as he approached the stag. “I am Othrid, Commander in Dainn’s glorious light! Who are you, stranger!? Answer now, and speak plainly!”
For a second, the stag’s eyes narrowed, but his face morphed into such a genuine smile it was easy to play it off as a mere trick of the light. “Oh, I’m the caretaker of this estate.” He said simply. “Excuse me, I was a bit late in answering the door, and I just came down to see if maybe this was all some sorta misunderstanding.”
Othrid instantly relaxed. The stag spoke in a plain and simple manner that told him this was just another normal country stag, a regular colonist as opposed to some upper noble high-up in the clans. Sure, his eyes were still a bit off, but the sun was setting, odds are Othrid himself looked intimidating in the right light as well. Still, he kept his shoulders back and his chest up. “Perhaps it is, perhaps it’s not, all I know is that this place appeared from nowhere.”
“Ah,” the tuxedoed stag nodded sagely. “We are a little isolated back here, maybe some idiot finally noticed us after some time and thought we just…uh…materialized out of thin air?” The stag let out a friendly chortle at the mere idea.
Othrid mulled it over a bit. That definitely sounded reasonable, certainly more reasonable than a glamor spell so powerful it withstood the scrutiny of the whole damned Caribou army all this time, or even that the place had just appeared from nowhere. He suddenly felt foolish. This was just a case of a few colonists keeping to themselves, and here he’d gotten so worked up, even damaged their property! He knew he wouldn’t be expected to compensate them, but still, damned if it wasn’t embarrassing!
At the same time, though… “You said ‘we,’ there are others here?”
“Oh, plenty.” The stag motioned to the gaping doors at the top of the stairs. “Why don’t you come and meet the whole family? The Master of the household is off, but we’ve got plenty of room and wouldn’t mind a few guests for the night.”
A few guests!? This stag was proposing housing a whole platoon for a night! Still, that sounded a lot more entertaining than his plans to get drunk during last call and stumble back to base to fall asleep on the couch in his office. Besides, a full report needed to be made to ensure they were thorough in checking up on the place, now didn’t it? With a grin, he clapped the stag on the shoulder. “We might just hafta take you up on that offer!”
“Excellent, excellent!” The stag laughed. He waved his hands out to the cluster of stags and mares, the stags having lost interest in the large stallion in suit and letting their eyes wonder all over the estate, drifting over ivy-covered walls and ornate stonework. “You can have your men take those…wenches around back. We’ve got a nice, big stable, with space to accommodate them all without mussing up our lawn.”
“Ah…” How was this guy being so patient? Even loyal colonists would be getting snippy with him at this point. “Yes, indeed…my apologies for your lawn.”
The caretaker shrugged. “Nothing our gardener can’t handle,” he said, and almost as if on cue, a massive stag rounded the corner of the mansion to walk into the middle of the lawn. All eyes instantly went to him in awe. This monstrous example of maledom was eight feet tall, at least, with a pot belly and arms that rippled and bulged beneath a thin cloth shirt as he walked. Most disturbing of all, he wore a large burlap sack over his face, tied around the neck with a ratty cord, and the front of his body was clad in a long, flowing apron covered in years of grass stains and…
“Is that…blood?” Othrid asked, already wondering why his voice had gotten so small.
“Yes, Lester is a great help in the kitchen,” the caretaker said with an easy smile. “He may not look it, but he’s a master with a butcher’s knife. He and our head cook here can fix ya up just about anything you can imagine.”
Othrid nodded, watching the absolute beast of a male as he lumbered off to a shed on the other side of the yard, returning with a trowel and a sack of dirt. “That’s an…interesting mask he has.”
“Yes, unfortunately, Lester does have some image issues,” the caretaker sighed with a pitying shake of his head. “Terrible accident when he was younger, likes to keep his face covered up.”
“Indeed…” he gaped at the monster of a man as he sank to one knee, carefully patting dirt in place with the trowel. He shook off his awe, wondering just what a beast like that could do to some of those Resistance whores, and returned his gaze to his stags. “Alright boys, get everyone all locked up, nice and secure for the night. Move it!”
Once again, the stallions all gathered up their gear, stakes and hammers going back into their carts, sluts being hauled up by their reins. One stag passed close, holding a couple of bitches in one hand and coming to a stop as Othrid motioned him over. “Tie up the bitch we just caught with the rest of the whores.” He said, mumbling low in his subordinate’s ear. “Make sure the son watches you tuck her in later.”
Grinning, the stag nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Othrid turned back to the caretaker, only just realizing he’d had his back on the stag. In an instant, he realized what a fatal mistake that could be. The caretaker glared up at him, his eyes bulging with a sort of manic glee that screamed for Othrid to dart back, to run away, to leave this place screaming with his hands waving around his head. But only for a second, then it was gone, and the servant of some unknown Master was back.
“Maybe you’d like to sit in the Master’s place tonight, Lord?” The caretaker asked, sweeping a hand out to the gaping doors.
Now used to pressing down those prissy feelings of non-masculine fear, Othrid strode forward, heading up the stairs. “I would, actually. I would like that very much.”
A few rounds of mead later, and Othrid had really warmed up to the idea of being the master of the house, if only for the night. A long table had been set in the dining hall, and though the doors to the hall had been locked, there was nary a speck of dust to find anywhere. Othrid had taken the large chair at the head of the table, his men taking the rest of the seats circling it. They were promptly served spotless plates covered in ornate designs, inlaid with gold that threaded around the edges in intricate loops. Servants came shuffling in and out constantly, a neverending stream of mead flowing out of bottomless pitchers and into the caribou’s flagons.
And that was to say nothing of the food. Great steaming dishes of…well, he couldn’t rightly say, but Othrid could firmly say the food here was unlike anything he’d ever tasted before. Literally otherworldly, as though it were made by hands trained on another world.
“Prench cuisine,” the caretaker explained as he ladled more gravy over Othrid’s serving. “With a few personal twists and flares here and there, courtesy of the chef.”
“I never expected such a prissy people to come up with somethin’ like this!” Othrid guffawed as he tore meat from the bone of some unknown animal, cooked with…almonds, maybe? Whatever. It was good, and the mead flowed with it, what else did he need?
Between bites, his eye fell on an older whore in a maid’s uniform, bending over to serve one of his soldiers a plate of steaming crepes, and flinching as a hand smacked into her flank. Sure, the sparkle may have left her eyes and her gray coat didn’t shine like it probably used to, but lately, that had been doing it for him. He wasn’t going to be messing with the green mare the apple slut called ‘granny’ anytime soon, Dainn no! But a cunt that looked like this had a little more experience under her belt…
“Say…” he pointed with the half-eaten drumstick in his hand. “What’s that one’s story?”
“Oh? Ah,” the caretaker shrugged. “That’s just Pam. If you wanna spend some time with her, you’d have my blessing. Frankly, nobody here can stand her for too long.”
Othrid turned to him, brows knit in confusion. “Stand her?”
“Oh, it’s a real tragedy. Just ain’t been the same since her little colt drowned in the swimming hole out behind the estate.” He tsked, shaking his head.
“Ah.” Othrid nodded. Losing a colt could be such a tragic inconvenience for any stallion looking to pass their legacy on. He let out another sympathetic grunt as he raised the flagon to his lips again. “So, why even bother with her? The whore’s gotta be useless now, just slit her throat and toss her out for trash collection.”
For a moment, the caretaker’s hands tightened against the table, tendons standing straight out of the skin. Just for a moment though, then he relaxed again.
“That’s thanks to the Master,” the caretaker sighed, shaking his head. “The little guy was touched in the head, see, and the Master trusted his safety to a few of the younger stallions and household whores when they wanted to go out for some ‘alone time,’ if you catch my drift.”
Othrid nodded with a smile. He remembered his old prudishness well, and though it made him cringe to think about now, just mentioning those days brought back warm memories of carefree afternoons when he was free to just wonder the country around his village, dragging whores into bushes and using them with hands that shook from uncertainty.
“Rest ain’t hard to put together. Nature took its course with the others, and the kid wound up alone when he got it in his head to go for a little dip, even though he could barely doggy paddle. I’m guessin’ the others were too wrapped up in what they were doin’ to notice him gone, or hear his cries as he started goin’ under.”
Othrid shook his head with another sip of mead. “A tragedy. I don’t understand the thinking, but perhaps there is something to the bitch that keeps your Master coming back. If only to memorialize the boy somehow.”
The caretaker only smiled, and the smile knew something, Othrid felt it. It was laughing at him. Knew something he didn’t, and was relishing in it. “Well, if you think a good hard dicking’s all she needs, you’re sure welcome to try!”
With a grin, Othrid raised the flask to the other stag. “I’ll drink to that!”
The evening wore on. Food and mead flowed across the table. The group got rowdy, and quickly died down again as the mead really took hold. Before long the food was getting cold and the candles were dying down as night took hold outside. The caretaker glanced at the window. “Ahh, it’s getting late,” he sighed, standing from the table. “I take it you’ll want to retire for the night.”
“Y-yes…” Othrid slurred, standing up with considerable effort. “Just gotta…rest my eyes a bit.”
“I’ll make sure to wait a bit before sending Pamela up to you, then,” the caretaker said with that damned, knowing smile.
Othrid wanted to protest, but as the room tilted around him he thought better of it. “Yeah, sure…wouldn’t be a bad idea…” he managed as he stumbled to his hooves. His stags joined him, all slurring words and drooling faces as they shuffled and stumbled back out into the hall, towards the ornate staircase. As usual, Othrid led the way, taking the first step into the staircase and cringing as it let out a loud creak.
The caretaker frowned. “Gonna hafta bring out the handyman for that one,” he muttered. Almost as if it were a cue, a lanky stallion stepped out from behind the staircase, a hat pulled low over his face.
“I’m already on it, Jack,” he rasped as he knelt with his toolbox.
Othrid leaned in closer. “You’re the handyman?”
“Just call me John,” the stag stood, giving a small bow. His voice held a deathly-serious rasp, as if he’d done nothing but smoke his entire life and now had to go tell his son that the cancer diagnosis was positive. “John Kramer, sir.”
“Commander Othrid…” Othrid said as he shook the proffered hand. Kramer nodded at this and returned to his work.
“Excuse him, he gets real focused when it comes to his work,” the caretaker said as he stepped around the stallion, leading the way into the darkness upstairs. “We’ll let him get to it and I’ll just show you to your rooms.”
Nodding, Othrid followed him up, keeping an eye on Kramer as he passed without knowing why. They entered a long hallway, lit by flickering candles and lined with gaping doorways, and in an instant, his heart stopped. Again, he didn’t know why, but just for a second, he knew, simply knew, that this was his last chance to turn around before he went to sleep and never woke up again.
“Sir?” The caretaker stepped in front of him.
Shaking his head, Othrid took the lead again, glaring into the dimly-lit hallway. “It’s nothing.”
The feeling didn’t get any better as they walked. The dimly-lit hallways and creaking wood under their hooves just added to the unease, and as each of his soldiers slowly filtered out into their rooms, something crept up his spine. The rooms looked fine from first glance, but then he’d catch a glimpse of something: a weird doll standing on the bedside table, a closet door creaking open on its own, a painting of a tall, dark figure in a hat, gazing up at a brick building.
Finally, they reached the end of the hall, and the caretaker stepped around him to open the door to a small room with a dresser, a twin bed, and a squat end table with an oil lamp. “I know it’s probably not what such a high-ranking official in Dainn’s army is used to, but I hope it’ll do for the night.” He said with that big, weird smile. “I’ll give you a few hours, then tell Pam to get her ass up here. Thanks for that, by the way, I’m sure you’ll do her some good.”
“Oh, sure, sure,” Othrid slurred, waving him off as he stepped inside. “Maybe...a few hours of sleep would help.”
“I’m sure they will.” Inclining his head, the caretaker stepped outside. “Goodnight, Sir Othrid.”
“And to you, Mister...” he paused, then chuckled at himself. “Well, damn me for a fool, but I never caught your name.”
The caretaker gave him that wide smile. “Torrance, Sir Othrid. Jack Torrance.”
“Well,” Othrid chuckled. “Good night, Mr. Torrance. Thanks for the hospitality.”
“Have a nice sleep, Sir Othrid,” Torrance said, finally stepping outside as Othrid crawled in under the covers and, fitfully, sank into a deep sleep.
The colt held his mother’s hand, gazing out into the darkness of the stables. The caribou knew they didn’t need to keep him in chains: no, a mare-loving cuck like him could be held by simply keeping the mother. The heavy length of chain running from her collar to the staple on the wall made sure neither would be going anywhere anytime soon, and the mother knew it.
“Just...go, honey,” she said, choking back another sob. “Please. Just go to the woods, find the resistance. I’m already done for.”
The colt just shook his head, his eyes remaining open, fixed on the darkness inside the stables. In the next stall over, somepony shifted, making their chains rattle. Somepony else started to cry. The mother squeezed the smaller hand in her grasp and followed her son’s gaze, wondering what he could be gazing out at. Eventually, she just shook her head, squinting through the rising tears. “I’m so sorry, honey, so, so sorry...we knew it was a risk, but we thought...if we just saved a little something from before...we knew how much you loved today...”
Suddenly, the smaller hand squeezed back. The mare sucked in a breath, her tears stopping suddenly. She gazed over at the colt, who still stared into the darkness with an intensity she’d never seen on his face before. “Honey?” She whispered.
“I’m not the only one who loves tonight, mom.” He said suddenly.
The mare paused, then with a sudden, dawning realization, it hit her that those were the most words he’d said to her all night. “Honey?” She asked, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering, he turned that glare towards the stable doors, eyes narrowing as they burst open. The mares all let out frightened gasps as two caribou stepped in, having booted the doors down and exploded in. The colt kept the glare up, following their forms all the way in, the caribou naked but for their military boots.
The first took one looked at the colt and snorted. “Lookit this one!” He guffawed. “Lookit his balls, glaring at us like that!”
Again, he said nothing, even as the mare lowered her gaze and took his hand. “Honey, please...” she whispered.
A booted hoof collided with her chin, slamming her back against the stall, the colt’s hand slipping out of her grip. Blood gushed down her muzzle as the colt whipped his head around to her, eyes wide in surprise.
“See that, son?” The caribou said with a little sneer. “That’s how you teach a bitch her place. Look at her, speakin’ to ya and touchin’ ya like it’s her right to!”
The colt stammered, shoulders heaving with his breath. Then, he turned back, his glare wondering upward, a hateful sneer crawling across his face. For a moment, the caribou’s smile wavered, but then he looked back at his buddies and chuckled. “Got some spirit, for bein’ raised by a mare-lovin’ cuck!”
With that, he backhanded the boy. The mare screamed, watching him go down as a spurt of blood gushed out of his mouth, planting a dark, shimmering streak along the wall. She cried for him, running to the end of her leash, only to be held back with mere inches between her fingertips and his side. The colt just laid there, looking up blankly.
“F-freaky little shit!” The caribou spat.
“The hell, Raghor?” His companion shouted. “Thought we weren’t supposed to get too rough with him! Just s’posed to show him how to handle a mare nice an’ proper!”
“I didn’t like the way he was starin’ at me, okay!?” The first caribou looked away, getting his breathing under control, trying to psych himself up, remind himself he was the one holding all the cards here. “Let’s just do this and get outta here…too damn dark…just want some pussy…”
“Ladies first, as the cucks say,” the second caribou guffawed, the first giving a nervous little chuckle as he stepped over the colt and advanced on the mother. She whimpered, but stood, tears rolling down her fuzzy cheeks as she held up her hands in offering to the caribou.
The colt’s head rolled around on the ground, turning as the caribou advanced on his mother, an erection clearly visible in the moonlight. The second caribou snickered down at him. “Keep watchin’, colt, you might learn somethin’ useful.”
The colt did not reply, his face didn’t change, but he suppressed the tiniest smile on his face. Distracted as they were, nobody else heard the creak of the barn door behind them, the heavy breathing filtered through a tiny opening, or the quiet tapping of soft steps on the wooden floors, too soft to be hooves. His gaze darted up to the caribou still watching, eagerly anticipating the rape of his mother, and the colt allowed a smile at the dark shape behind him and the silver glint in its hand.
The caribou’s gaze sank to the colt. “The hell’re you smiling a--” he started, only to be choked off as a massive, pale hand locked around his muzzle. The humongous shape completely muted him, then the titanic blade in its other hand carved a line of red across his throat. He gagged, choking on his own blood as he scrabbled hopelessly at the arm holding him prisoner.
“Aldor, I toldja to--” the rapist trailed off as he turned, his eyes going wide, his jaw slackening. His penis deflated mere centimeters from the mare’s vagina. A bit of moonlight fell on the shape’s face, revealing messy hair and a thick, pale, white mask. The breathing was audible now, rasping in and out at a calm, steady pace. The caribou’s shimmering eyes slid to the dead stag on the ground, choking and gasping as he clawed at the torrent of blood pouring from his throat and pooling on the hay-strewn ground.
“Wh-what are…” he started before a hand whipped out of the darkness and locked around his throat, choking him off. He strangled as the massive shape lifted him off his feet, pressing him to the wall. The caribou kicked, feet dangling as he let out strangled sounds. A dribble of piss left his fully-shrunken cock at the sight of the knife. He shook his head frantically, unable to do more than choke as the knife slowly rose, glinting in the moonlight before his widening eyes. In a last desperate move, he punched at the shape’s ribs. From the sound of it, he might as well have hit a stone wall.
The knife plunged. The wooden wall gave a small creak. The stag instantly went limp, the light fading from his eyes as the shape’s hands retreated, leaving him pinned there by the knife like an insect on a piece of plasterboard.
The mare had curled up in the corner, her breath heaving, still not drowning out the shape’s long, heavy rasps. But still, the colt only rose to his hooves, smiling as the shape turned to face him. After a moment, the shape reached into a pocket on its long coveralls and pulled out a set of keys.
“Honey?” The mare gasped, crawling back over to her son’s side and taking his hand as he offered it. “Honey? Who is that?”
Slowly, the colt turned back to her, and a wide, unsettling grin spread across his face, his teeth visible in the dim light. “The boogeyman.” He whispered with a gleeful little jingle in his voice.
Othrid bolted up as the door creaked open in his room, waking him from the strangest nightmare he’d ever had. He was running from something...a fiend that cackled and laughed as he ran through a maze of pipes and steam. The thing had something in their hands, a few sharp somethings in fact, and ran them along the pipes as they gave chase. He didn’t remember much else besides a dark hat and weird, striped clothing. Then the door creaked open, and there was Pamela, unwittingly saving him from the strange nightmare.
The mare gave a tiny curtsey, spreading the skirt of her frilly maid’s uniform. “You asked for this slut, Lord?”
Othrid allowed a tiny smile to slide across his face. “Get in here, slut. On your knees.”
Like a proper whore, she obeyed. Warm gratitude washed over Othrid even as he sat up on the edge of the bed. The Master of the house may have hired some real characters to manage his estate, but at least he knew how to manage a bitch. The stag threw the covers off, his penis already half-engorged as he pulled her roughly onto the bed.
A look of surprise crossed Pam’s face as he forced her around on her back, hiking up her skirt. Never one for foreplay, he gripped her breasts as he worked to move her panties aside. A strange, blank stare had settled across her face.
“You want…to have sex with me…” she stated, not sounding concerned or eager, just a low, robotic voice.
He grimaced. This wasn’t supposed to be how it went. He gripped her mane, pulled, hoping to at least get some tears. “Bitch, have I not been clear!?” She screamed at least, had the decency for that as he pinned her down by the shoulders.
“Now, stay like that, and if you’re good enough, maybe you’ll still have some of your teeth come morning,” he hissed as he hiked her skirt up again, finding what he wanted thanks to years of practice. Still, she looked straight ahead, blank eyes staring through the ceiling. Othrid scowled, what started as an exciting new venture was quickly becoming an unsatisfying shitshow.
Oh well, a hole’s a hole.
He pumped his hips, thrusting up into her as her head rolled around on the pillow. His hands wrapped around her waist, forcing her lower and lower onto his shaft. Unexpectedly, her pussy still had some tightness to it, and here he was expecting someone her age to be all used up!
“Heh..not bad at all…” he hissed.
Something escaped her mouth. He paused in his thrusts, leaned in close to listen.
“I am Jason…” she whispered. “I’m coming to help…”
Othrid frowned. Just what the hell kinda name was Jason!? He raised a hand, winding up for a powerful backhand. “I’ve had just about enough of you, you little…”
His hand sailed out, and came to a sudden halt with a meaty thwack. He blinked, looked over at it in surprise, and found the largest butcher’s knife he’d ever seen embedded in his palm, the blade sliding through his clenched fingers, the handle in Pamela’s grip. He gazed at it, at the massive blade sticking out of his flesh, and he let out a little, horrified squeak. No. No, that didn’t just happen…
His gaze slid back down to Pam, except she wasn’t that pretty, older mare anymore. She had become a hairless, pale thing, with beady eyes and dull teeth that shone brilliantly as they locked gazes. The hate he saw there, the rage…he had led Resistance whores around town in chains, parading them like trophies before leading them to the barracks personally to be broken in by his stags, and those mares hadn’t gazed at him with the rage he saw in this thing’s eyes, this portly thing that glared up at him.
“You let him drown!” It rasped, teeth bared as it pulled the knife from his hand. “You never paid any attention! Look what you did to him! Look what you did to him!”
Othrid fell back, years of military life lost at seeing his own blood. His naked body crashed to the floor as the thing snarled, rising from the bed, the knife raised. Somewhere outside, as if in another world, a scream sounded. Othrid didn’t think, didn’t evaluate things, he just took one look at the crazed, flat look in the creature’s eyes, and he turned, and he ran for the door.
“He’s getting away, mama!” A strange, high-pitched voice echoed up from her throat. “Get him! Kill him! Kill him!”
The door crashed open into the sounds of battle. Low thuds and shouting and a strange, low hissing filled the air. Othrid heard nothing but his own panicked heaving, clenching his bleeding hands as he kicked the door shut behind him, just in time to block a jarring thud from the other side. Thanking Dainn for these precious few seconds, he threw himself into the next room, where one of his men slept peacefully despite the hell breaking loose outside. No time to focus on that, no time. The door out in the hall slammed open, and without thinking, he dove to the first thing he saw: the gaping door of a large dresser.
Easing it shut, he finally had a moment. He could even out his breathing, regulate his racing heart. He could absorb the shouts outside, the racing thuds, and the sinister whispers. What was this…what was going on!? Dreaming, that was it…Torrance must have served them something besides the usual mead, and his body was reacting accordingly! Yes! That made sense, it had to, it just—
“Mama!” That awful voice squealed as the door crashed open, the child’s voice mixed with a middle-aged mare’s. “Mama! He had to go in here!
“Oh, I know, Jason, I know,” The thing’s normal voice responded as she stepped through the door, the boards creaking as she crept past the bed. “Your mother’s gonna find that filthy, filthy man and make him pay, don’t you worry!”
Othrid sucked in a breath, holding it without even realizing.
“Kill him, mama! Kill them all!” The childish voice echoed, the knife catching a glint of the moon’s light from the window. “Kill them all, mama! Kill them! Kill, mama! Kill! Kill! Kill! Ma! Ma! Ma!”
Then she paused, her gaze fell on the dresser. Othrid forced down a cough, pressing his hands to his mouth as he tried desperately to control his breathing.
“Ki-ki-ki, ma-ma-ma…” she whispered under her breath, nose raised as if to try and scent him. Othrid’s hands lowered to the door, ready to push it open and rush her for the knife, but just then, the creature’s head whipped around. Her chubby shoulders rose and fell with her racing breath. “J-Jason?” She gasped, running out of the room.
Othrid sighed with relief. He fell back against the rear of the cupboard. Another loud thump resounded from a few rooms over. Cripes, now he had to go figure that out...
“Aww,” a little voice rasped from beside his head. “She left before the fun could begin!”
Othrid craned his neck up in time to see two red, glowing eyes in the dark, illuminating a small, freckled face. He had time to let out a gurgled choke before a gale of laughter assaulted his ears and another butcher’s knife plunged into his shoulder. Blood spurted on the wood. A painful howl rose from his chest. He fell out, tripping over his own feet.
“AHEEEHEHEHEHAHAHA!” The voice laughed as he stumbled back to the bed, tripping over the footboard and landing on the mattress. Only there wasn’t a satisfying creak of boxsprings. That was drowned out by a loud squelching. His head whipped around at the gore-filled bedsheets, blood turned black by the moon’s light, and he suddenly realized the soldier in this room hadn’t simply slept through the hell outside.
The stag’s head had been nearly cut off, his eyes staring blankly back as he laid there, Othrid’s screams mimicking the dead soldier’s own silent, gape-mouthed howl. And then, a small figure clambered up onto the headboard. “Hey, youngblood!” It growled, raising another knife in its tiny hand. “Respect your elders! Leave some for me, goddammit!”
Screaming, Othrid rolled out of the way just as the tiny figure leapt at him, its knife jamming deep into the dead soldier’s thigh instead of his throat. “Dammit, hold still!” The tiny figure barked, and in the moonlight, Othrid saw high, rosy cheeks, a deep scar along one eye, little buck teeth, and a striped shirt that would’ve looked more in place on a toddler.
“What...are you!?” He gasped.
The figure chuckled, then it let out another of those little laughs. “Your worst nightmare, bitch.” He rasped, then a little hand went to his mouth. “Oop...did I just take Freddy’s line? Eh...”
With a shrug, the figure leapt at him. Screaming, Othrid tumbled back out of bed and rushed for the door. He felt a wisp of air at his bare heel. “Ooh, damn Gage, almost got his calf!” The small figure laughed as he crashed out of the room.
Othrid kicked the door open, rocketing out of the room and bouncing off someone’s large chest. He paused, waiting for a knife to slice into his neck or wedge into his stomach, but instead a set of hands grabbed his shoulders.
“Commander!” A voice barked, and Othrid had to choke back a relieved sob as one of his soldiers gazed down at him. He stood there for a long second as this soldier shouted in his face about bodies everywhere and death everywhere and what were his orders, please sir, please get them out of this! He knew he was supposed to say something here, but damn if he could only wobble on his feet and stare blankly into this stag’s face.
Finally, another exclamation of “Commander!” apparently reset something in Othrid’s brain. His head slowly craned around, gaze falling on the quintet of soliders with him, all sharing the gape-mouthed look he held, but all looking at him with the full expectation that he would do something to unfuck this situation.
Stammering, Othrid let out a breath. “Move…” he gasped. “W-we have to move…get out.”
The soldier holding him stared blankly, then slowly nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course, brilliant as always, Commander.”
Even shocked half to death and suffering blood loss from his hand, Othrid could hear the shallowness in that compliment, but he was a bit beyond caring. Stepping out of the soldier’s grip, he circled around to the head of the group, knowing full well he was trying to put more distance between himself and the other rooms. Letting out a breath, he turned, nodding to the other soldiers. They offered thin, shivering smiles, but nodded back. Raising a finger to his lips, the group crept along, making their way past closed doors that rattled in their frames.
“I’m your marefriend now, bitch!” A voice echoed from one room, followed by the sounds of blades sliding into meat. “Your father sucks cocks in hell!” Another voice rasped. A massive blade exploded through a door, right by Othrid’s face, splinters sailing past his nose. Othrid straightened up, hands clamping over his mouth to hold back a scream. The small column paused just behind him. Then the blade retreated, giving him a tiny, slit view of someone in a pale, white mask and black robes hacking into another of his soldiers. He held a finger to his lips and crept past, thanking Dainn himself that none of the boards were creaky.
“Okay,” he said as they neared the top of the stairs, turning back to his soldiers. “I think we—” and then his voice hitched.
A tall, dark…something was behind the last stag in line. Something with a massive, black carapace like those changeling abominations, but with a skeletal frame and an elongated, curved head. And most of all, teeth. Long, glistening fangs dribbling saliva that hissed and sizzled as it dripped on the floor. And as the fangs parted, a second, smaller mouth glided out next to the stag’s ear, letting out a hiss.
“What in Dainn’s name…” the unlucky stag started before the snake-like thing clamped its tiny fangs around his throat, the rest of the creature wrapping skinny arms around him. He screamed. The stag screamed the entire time he was dragged off into the darkness, cradled to the demon’s chest like a toddler even as it tore into his throat.
Letting loose a horrified shout, another stag whipped around, running down the stairs. Othrid reached out for him, tried to get him to stop, to tell him he was going to bring down Dainn-knows what nightmares on them, but just then the stag reached the bottom step, and there was a snap as the wood gave out from under him.
Othrid was maybe halfway down the stairs when the stag’s leg whipped up, a snare closing around his ankle and hoisting him up over their heads. Screaming in horror, Othrid lunged, reaching for the dangling hands, but all too late. His grip closed around thin air as the stag, half-naked and panicked, was hoisted up over the center of the hall. A moment later, the floor beneath him opened up with a loud grinding of metal, and a familiar voice rasped:
“Hello, soldier of the caribou,” the handyman growled from someplace unseen. “I would like to play a game.”
Othrid half-listened as he ran around the pit, something rumbling into position beneath him: “The camaraderie between soldiers is legendary, but how far will soldiers of Dainn go for their brother-in-arms? Perhaps even harming their chances of leaving this house alive?
“At the same step where you triggered your test lies a trap designed for taking down manticores, surely it will severe the limb of any stag that is placed within its maw.”
Behind him, another of Othrid’s soldiers yipped, dancing over the gleaming metal jaws that shone within the splinters of the step.
“But do that they must, for the alternative is to watch their brother die, and surely that would be unthinkable for squadmates? Know that only the weight of a body over a foot will trigger the trap and save your comrade, any attempt to fool it will result in him plummeting to his death. But decide quickly, for you only have thirty seconds.”
Othrid had circled the pit as a massive grinding sound filled the air, emanating from the pit. From the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of something metallic and sharp spinning into motion, like a hungry mouth waiting to swallow a snack. At the sound, he finally turned fully, gazing up at the soldier dangling helplessly over the pit. A few amber drops dribbled into the waiting maw from the captured stag’s pants.
“Live or die. The choice is yours.” The handyman said before his voice clicked off.
“Guys...” the soldier whimpered, tears welling.
“Pathetic.” Othrid sneered before turning back down the hallway, his remaining soldiers flanking him.
“Wait…guys! It’s just one foot! That’s all you’d have to lose!” The suspended soldier wailed. “Don’t let me diiiiiieeeee!”
His cries fell on deaf ears, and were drowned out by the roar from the pit. Othrid and his remaining cadre dashed from the hall, past a flickering screen that held a ghostly hand with some whore crawling from a well, past a black thing in a bowler hat that scurried along the ceiling with foot-long claws, past the screams of the trapped and the dying, the squelching of blood and guts being torn from bodies, finally making it to the end of the hall where a single door stood open. They rocketed through, slamming it shut behind them. Othrid braced himself against the door, gazing over his three remaining soldiers as his breath raced. Outside, a buzzer sounded, and there was a sharp scream cut short by a loud grinding noise.
“Monsters…” one of the remaining soldiers gasped, a lanky private who’s eyes darted around as he stepped back into the room. “We have stumbled into the realm of monsters.”
“S-stow that defeatist talk, private.” Othrid stammered.
“Oh, shove it up your ass, old man!” The lanky soldier barked. “This is something those whores cooked up, don’t you get that yet!? We walked right into their trap!”
“Private, th-that is defeatist talk that could result in...”
“I said shove it up your ass!” The private was screaming now. “We’re fucked! Don’t you get that!? The Resistance must’ve planned something, or maybe we woke up something today when we killed that whore-loving cuck, but I’ll tell you right now it’s got us in its fucking jaws! We’re fucked! We’re worse than fucked, we’re...”
Othrid had been about to respond with a backhand to the jaw, but he stopped. Something rose from the dark corners of the room. It occurred to him that they’d never cleared the place, never actually made sure this room was safe. An oversight. A simple mistake made in the heat of the moment. The sort of thing he’d beat a cadet for back at the Academy. And now, he was regretting it as a towering shape grew from the corner, flanked by two others. As the trio stepped into the moonlight, his balls clenched up into his stomach.
They bore pale, hairless skin and jet-black clothing. They all held themselves with ramrod-straight backs, allowing them to tower over the entire group. To the right, a thing with a head of quivering muscle stalked, its face a mass of pulsing tissue but for the exposed teeth gnashing at the front of its muzzle. To the left, a female of flawless skin, her complexion whiter than the frozen fields of Hraljord after a freak blizzard. She might have been lovely if it wasn’t for the gaping hole in her throat, held open by a metal apparatus bolted to her skin. And finally, in the middle, a being so tall his head nearly scraped the ceiling, advancing with a small puzzle box in his claws. His skin held the same unworldly pale quality as the female, but most horrifyingly, his entire face was coated in a network of pins, spaced maybe an inch apart and covering his entire skull like a mesh.
“We have such sights to show you.” The central figure bellowed.
Before anyone could react, a hook on the end of a chain lashed out from the darkness, snagging right into the skin of the complaining private. He screamed, and a quartet of hooks latched onto his lips, stretching them taut, exposing the gums. More hooks rocketed out of the darkness against his gurgling cries, digging into his skin, pulling taut. Stretched out, the private wailed in agony, a canvas of pain as his blood pooled on the ground.
Othrid stumbled back with the remaining privates, falling back against the door, his breath racing in and out. He watched as the private cried, slowly hauled back into the darkness, still gushing blood and skin and organs. Then, he blinked, and they were all gone.
“Wh-wha-what?” One of the remaining stags in his command moaned.
“I don’t—I don’t--” Othrid stammered, and then, he was interrupted by a voice on the other side of the door.
“Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!” A voice oozed into the room.
“Oh...nuh...” a private cried.
“Oh Dainn...Dainn, no...” the other added.
“Not by the hair on your chinny-chin-chin?” The voice cackled, taking on a deeper, almost comical quality. “Then I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in!”
A split-second later, a massive axe blade slammed into the door, the edge appearing in the wood as it shuttered. Then the axe reared back, slamming in again and again, wood splintering, cracking, falling away in a shower of splinters until it finally fell away. Another pale monkey with deep stubble appeared with its face in the hole.
It was Torrance. Somehow, Othrid knew. This was the caretaker himself, transformed into his original form, this he also knew. And most of all, he knew the look of absolute insanity in those eyes was not only universal, but it was what Torrance really looked like, what he’d barely kept concealed as he sweet-talked Othrid’s ear and stuffed him with booze and food.
“Heeeere’s Johnny!” The caretaker screamed; dull, white teeth shimmering in the dark.
A private screamed, snapping the spell that kept Othrid transfixed in place. They all bolted up, scrambling for the window as more blows fell against the door, hacking away at the wood. By simple virtue of being faster, the private was first, whipping up a massive candlestick from a wall sconce and sending it crashing through the glass in a cascade of shards. He dove through, Othrid and the other remaining private on his heels as the door gave way with a final crash.
They tumbled out into thistles and rosebushes. Thorns dug into Othrid’s skin. They screamed. And then, blessed, soft grass blades. After what felt like an eternity since the nightmarish encounter with Pamela, the grass felt like the softest pillow in the world. Othrid gasped, laughter coming in hysterical pants as he sat up.
“We made it!” A private laughed, blood running in long trails down his arms. “Thank Dainn, we made it!”
“Yeah,” Othrid laughed. “We did it...” he turned back to the room, expecting to see the groundskeeper there with that damned axe, but all he saw was an empty room, the door hanging open by the few planks still held to the hinges. He closed his eyes, still panting, breath heaving in and out hard enough to make his shoulders rise and fall.
Slowly, the privates staggered to their feet, carefully rising with eachother’s help, to Othrid’s disgust. He joined them anyway. He thought for a second that maybe they could lean on eachother, but figured they might as well not even deal with such a cuckolded display of unmanliness at the end of what was already an unmanly retreat.
They stumbled down the cobblestone, adrenaline still keying them up. “What...” one of the privates swallowed. “What the fuck was all that?”
Othrid grimaced. “Something the army will deal with. When we get back to base, we’ll call a full army group in here, and they’ll burn this whole fucking place down, with all the monsters in it. And any whore we find...” he shivered, pausing just short of saying ‘mud farms.’ “We’ll burn ‘em with it. Burn the whole fucker down.”
They made it a few more steps before the other private chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I-I think I remember, hearing it from one of the whores, sir. On this night...they also liked to tell scary stories.”
Othrid’s grimace expanded. “What’s so damn funny about that?”
The private’s chuckling stopped. “I was...just thinkin’ this’d make for one helluva scary story, s’all...”
“Well stop it. Partaking in old mare-ish traditions is grounds for treason. Keep your mind on the stories of the heroes of old, let them push you forward to victory.”
The private fell silent at the old saying as it rolled robotically out of Othrid’s mouth, so much so that they finally noticed the idle grinding sound behind them. “What’s tha--” he managed, turning around as the grinding bellowed into a roar. Othrid turned as something sliced into the private’s side. He screamed as his arm fell away. Blood spewed everywhere. The giant was there. The gardener was there and his mask was made from a face and it was still fresh and it was made out of a face like fucking leather and it was a face a face a face--
“Dainn, no!” Othrid shrieked, running as the gardener’s tool sliced through the private’s body with a loud roar. Not knowing if the remaining private was with him. Not caring. Then the gardener was after them. The buzzing blade of the tool screamed. Othrid ran. He ran along the path. He ran screaming like a filly, not caring who heard. He ran as the massive nightmare with the distended gut chased him with the blade buzzing away and letting out a stream of smoke. He ran, and he screamed, and after awhile, he looked over his shoulder.
The giant was moving, still coming like a tidal wave. He turned back. A shape loomed from the darkness. “There!” The private gasped. “The bridge! We’re almost out!”
Othrid gasped in relief, nearly crying as the gravel under his feet gave way to cobblestone. If they made it over the bridge, they could make it to the woods, they could hide. There was a chance. They had a chance…
He turned to the private, still miraculously running at his side, and a monkey thing with a half-decayed face and pale, glistening skin mounted the side of the bridge, grabbing the private by the throat and flinging him into the darkness of the water. The poor guy had time to gasp out a quick “Oh...” and then the creature dove back upon him, the pair crashing into the water below. So Othrid ran. He ran from the nightmares, he ran from the horrors, he ran from the knives and claws and axes and hooks and saws and cackles that he knew would haunt him to his dying days.
He ran. He ran, and it wasn’t until he’d run a solid mile down the road that he realized he’d pissed himself.
It was rare for the mansion to have guests. It was even more rare for those guests to find a seat at the table inside the kitchen, rather than the opulent dining hall. But tonight was a special night for all involved, everyone knew that. Well, perhaps not the guest. Not that it would matter soon enough.
Jack Torrance – the caretaker – walked into the kitchen, leaving the axe by the door. He sighed as he strode in, eyebrows rising at the guest as a blast of heat hit him from the burning oven. The chef had his back to him, though even from behind his impressive back flexed and rippled beneath a tight undershirt.
“Hey there Doc,” Jack said with a smile. “What’s cookin’?”
“Aww yeah…I wanted t’know that myself…” the guest said with a bit of drool escaping his mouth, dribbling down the kerchief wrapped around his neck.
“Tonight?” The chef said with a pronounced accent Jack could never quite place. “Brain.” He turned back to the table with a pepper grinder in hand. Taking position behind the guest, the chef gripped a single antler and gave a sharp yank. In a moment, the skin fell away, pre-cut incisions revealing themselves as the skull parted to reveal the warm, fleshy treasures within.
“Brain?” The caribou at the table groaned as the chef worked the grinder over the exposed gray matter. “Sounds weird…”
“It’s an acquired taste for certain, but in the hands of a skilled chef, can be quite the delicacy.” The chef chuckled as he patted the caribou’s shoulder. “And believe me, I am a very skilled chef.”
“That you are, Doc, that you are.” Jack chuckled as he took a seat at the table. He’d just settled in when the rear door opened, Leatherface’s massive form stepping in, hauling a mangled body behind him.
“Leave that by the door, Thomas, and then if you could help with cubing the meat?” The chef asked.
With a grunt, the monster of a man dropped the body and turned to the sink, washing his hands. The chef kept his kitchen clean, even the monster knew and respected that. The last couple guests for the kitchen that evening stepped in behind him: Michael still breathing heavily, his jumpsuit blanketed in blood, while Jason dribbled river water behind him, both stepping casually over the body as they took their seats beside Torrance.
“Gentlemen! So glad you all could make it!” Jack bellowed, clapping both fiends on their shoulders. “It’s a real treat t’see the whole gang here, truly wonderful!”
Both only sat there, staring straight ahead. The caribou coughed, spattering blood on the table.
“Now, we’re gonna be meeting with everyone else on the lawn soon, and the guest of honor will be there.” Jack said, still with that massive smile. “All that’s left to settle is who’ll be there to greet him and lead our little band of misfits to the countryside.”
“Well, I for one should think that’d be obvious,” the chef smiled to the jumpsuit-clad man to Jack’s right. “Michael, of course. Who else?”
At that, Jason turned slowly in his seat, locking his black eye sockets on him. The chef only smiled right back. “Now now, Jason. You have your day every year: tonight is Michael’s.”
“Can’t say I have any arguments there, Doc.” Jack continued, clapping both ghouls on the shoulder. “It really does make sense, tonight’s special to all of us of course, it’s a celebration for everyone. But it’s especially for Mikey.”
The shape in the mask only sat there, breath heaving in and out. In and out.
“Whaddya say, Michael?” Jack asked. “Feel like leading the whole gang around for tonight’s last hurrah?”
After a moment, the breath paused, then the butcher’s knife flashed out, embedding itself into the table, where it stood straight up.
“Well that settles it!” Jack whooped.
A moment later, the caribou at the table fell forward, blood leaking from his exposed skull cavity. The chef immediately turned to him, pulling at the antler to expose the brain and let a delicious smell out to waft around the room.
“Now that’s settled,” he said, breathing in deeply, eyes sliding shut in ecstasy. “Who’s hungry?”
By now, the stables had been emptied, the mares simply released and allowed to go on their way, their collars torn asunder with fingers and muscles built by years around other people’s throats. Maybe they would make their way to the Resistance, the orange mare with them certainly seemed driven to do just that. Jack didn’t think it mattered much. At least, not for tonight. The only ones they really needed were right here: a lone mare, and her son.
They all gathered on the front lawn: freaks, killers, ghosts, ghouls, monsters that had spent years lurking in closets and under beds, entities so unknowable it was impossible to label them, all gathered around the flayed and mutilated corpses of their victims, all thirsty for more. Always the leader, Jack raised an arm, gazing out over the crowd. In a moment, maniacal laughter and heavy breathing all came to a halt, the lawn falling silent. He gazed up at the moon shining down on them, basking in its blood-red color with an enjoyment that could only be described as existential, and he grinned.
“We’re gathered here…” He bellowed. “…to right a wrong! Because the creatures here thought we could be disrespected! Cast aside! That the old ways could just be erased, with fear forgotten!”
A chittering cry went up from the crowd, beasts screaming in the purest, most white-hot form of absolute anger. Somewhere among the crowd, a lone caribou stag let up a pathetic wail from the butchered remnants of his voicebox, his throat held open with hooks on rusted, barbed chains.
“We came because a cry for help rang up from this world! Someone who knew to pay us our respect, someone who remembered us and was punished for it!”
The mare held her son’s hand tighter, eyes darting around at the horrors surrounding her, but then his hand slipped from hers. She gasped as the colt stepped away, drawing nearer to the strange pale thing with wild eyes. “D-Dreams?” She gasped.
“It’s okay, mom.” He said, looking over his shoulder with a smile, then back to Torrance. “They’re here for me.”
With a warm grin, eyes still blazing with simmering madness, Jack bent over and scooped the colt up, hoisting him under one arm. The cheers rang up from the crowd, victorious squeals and grunts rising from the abominations, and Jack’s voice rang out over them again:
“Because of this colt, and his love for us, we were made aware of a world where things are backward! Where stupid, pitiful men have taken over, and proclaimed themselves the monsters! They think they are the things that go bump in the night! They think they have nothing to fear from the ones that crawl inside walls and scratch at windows!”
Somehow, that wild gaze darkened, Torrance’s teeth flashing in a grin as his voice grew low. “Let’s remind them we’re still here. That it doesn’t matter if they try to forget us, we’ll always be here. Always lurking. Always waiting for them. Always.”
Another cry rang up from the crowd, the monstrous army turning towards the front gates, ready to descend upon an unsuspecting world. However, Jack hung back, along with another. He turned to the colt, smiling that madman’s smile. “Hey there, doc, what’s your name?”
The colt paused, hunched his eyebrows, then took a deep breath. “Copper Dreams, sir.” He said eventually.
Jack’s grin widened, tilting his head. “Oh, you sure about that? You didn’t sound too sure, there.”
The colt gazed back, looking confused for the first time.
“Tonight, right now, you’re not Copper Dreams anymore.” Jack set him down, turning him to face the massive form of Michael Myers gazing down at them both. Michael’s breath wheezed in and out. In one hand, he held his iconic knife. In the other, a ragged burlap sack. “That’s why you had a hard time remembering, doc. Do you know what your name is for tonight?”
The colt turned, gazing up at Jack with the sort of eagerness reserved for foals on Hearthswarming morning.
Jack grinned as Michael lowered the burlap sack over the colt’s head, turning it so a single eye could peek through a stitched hole. As he did, the colt shrank, arms and legs pulling into a doughier, almost babyish body. “It’s Sam.” Jack hissed as the creature before him ran stubby, clawed fingers over its new form.
The lone eye blinked out at him. Jaw dropping with glee, Jack produced a single orange lollipop in the shape of a jack-o-lantern, apparently from nowhere. “Here doc, to getcha started for the night.”
The colt gazed at the lolly, then quickly snatched it up. It pulled the mask up a bit, revealing orange skin and blackened, rotted fangs as it took a bite out of the candy, munching away gleefully.
Jack took a step back, gazing up into Michael’s hollow eyes. “He’s all yours, sport!” He grinned, watching as Michael took the small creature by the hand, turning to lead it down the path off the estate.
“Wait…”
Jack paused, turning to see the naked mare, now collarless, watching the shape walking away with her colt.
“Where are they taking him?”
“Ohh, dontcha worry your pretty little head about that,” he chortled, walking after the parade of monsters. He continued to yell over his shoulder: “We’ll be back late, but he’ll be nice and safe with us! We’ll only go into stranger’s houses if they ask politely! And we’ll make sure to eat as much candy as we can before you can check for razor blades!”
“I…” the mare raised a hand as they left, but as she gazed at them, the army of ghouls and horrors marching into town, she paused. Slowly, a blank look covered her eyes as an empty smile crossed her face. “Okay…dears…” she said with a tiny wave. “Have…fun…”
She was still standing there, waving with that blank smile on her face when the first screams rang out from the town, followed by the cries and howls of insane laughter. Her smile would be shared by numerous others as the streets ran with blood. Her smile would spread across the faces of ponies everywhere, only fading with the morning dawn, when the visitors melted back into the shadows where they belonged.
And as the sun rose the next morning and her little Copper Dreams returned to her, his body returned to its normal proportions, her smile would finally gain a more normal appearance. She would pull her colt into her arms and, listening to the unending, eerie quiet rising from the town, she would whisper:
“Nightmare Night…what a fright…”
Epilogue
Othrid stumbled along, his hooves bloody from countless sticks and pebbles jammed into them, more twigs sticking to the coat along his legs. But he was free. He was breathing. Him and nobody else…at least, the lucky ones.
He’d diverted from Ponyville when the first screams started to rise up from it, knowing full well what was happening and realizing he’d rather take on the manticores of the deepest parts of the Everfree than ever face something so horrible. Now, the top Lieutenant of occupied Ponyville stumbled along the road, nothing on him but a small dagger and an old pair of cotton pants, hoping he was heading towards Canterlot, or that a wagon would pass by, or…
A sign loomed ahead in the pre-dawn gloom. He squinted, hope rising in his heart to find a wall: the side of a building. He picked up the pace, his thighs screaming with effort. Even if it was just a barn, it was shelter: someplace indoors, and most importantly, someplace to hide.
He couldn’t make out most of the sign, but the bottom read ‘inn.’ As in a place to stay, with meals and drink and a bed, dear Dainn above an actual bed! He straight-up ran into the building, sprinting as if the hellish army was right behind him, nipping at his hooves. He pressed his arms against the door and shoved his way in, stumbling into an empty lobby. He immediately twisted, slamming the door shut behind him and pressing himself against it with a relieved groan. He bathed in the low light maintained by the few oil lamps spaced on tables throughout, gazing at all the dangling keys for free rooms on the wall behind the counter.
“Coming, coming!” A skinnier stag hurried from the back, eyes widening at the sight of Othrid. “Golly mister, looks like you’ve been through the wringer.”
With a frantic chortle, Othrid stumbled across the room to him. “You have no idea,” he rasped. “And you wouldn’t believe me if I tried to tell ya.”
The stag watched him make his way to the counter, practically throwing himself over it. “Commander Othrid, Ponyville Occupation Corps.”
“Ponyville?” The stag arched an eyebrow. “Mister, you’re a long way from Ponyville.”
“Good,” he shook his head. “It’s…I can’t even explain it, the hell’s happened back there.”
“Oh, I believe that.” The stag said with a smile. “I hear Ponyville was weird even before the Conquest. I’m sure just about anything could happen back there and anybody would believe it.”
“Yeah…” Othrid coughed, lungs sore as he imagined the looks on his superiors’ face back in Canterlot when he arrived with something so outlandish. Hopefully, they’d listen, but that was a problem for the future. Right now, he just needed a place to rest, maybe even bathe. His eyes went to the wall of keys behind the stag.
“Oh, of course!” The stag quickly turned, hand running over the keys. “This place is all empty, mister, I can putcha just about anywhere.”
“Walls.” Othrid said simply. “Anyplace with as many walls between me and the outside, please.”
If the stag was surprised at the politeness in Othrid’s words (hearing a ‘please’ from a caribou officer was almost as rare as an uncollared mare these days, even when said officer was basically ordering free room and board from someone) he didn’t show it. Instead, he smiled, turning back with a key in his hands as he pushed a bound book Othrid’s way. “If you wouldn’t mind signing yourself in, just a formality mind you.”
As tired as he was, Othrid was in no shape to argue. He only picked up the feather quill on the desk, signing his name on the next bare spot and gratefully taking the key.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr…Uthrid?” The stag asked, glancing at the ledger.
“Othrid.” He corrected, holding the key tight as if it were a lifeline that would mean death were it to be dropped.
“Ah, my mistake,” the stag maintained that smile. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Othrid.”
Nodding, Othrid started for the stairs, then paused. He looked back over the wall. “Say, this is the road to Ponyville from Canterlot, isn’t it?”
“That it is,” the stag nodded.
“Uh-huh…” Othrid frowned. “And it’s just you here? No other guests?”
“Oh, just me and my mother, sir.”
“Uh-huh…” Othrid’s frown deepened. A road as well-traveled as the Canterlot-Ponyville route should have been busy as all hell. Even in the off-season, a place like this should have had at least a few guests.
The stag looked back at him, concerned. “Something the matter?”
Figuring it wasn’t worth risking the only shelter he’d seen for miles, Othrid shook his head. “No, no, just…something on my mind.”
The clerk nodded, maintaining that smile. “Get some rest, Mr. Othrid. I’m sure it’s nothing. Dainn’s still on his throne and the whores still know their place, after all.”
“Yeah, yeah...” Othrid chuckled, starting for the steps again. “Oh, and one other thing? I didn’t catch the name of this place on my way in.”
The stag’s nice, even smile didn’t so much as flicker. “Bates, mister. You’re in the Bates Motel.”
“Bates...” Othrid nodded, mumbling the name to himself as he stumbled away to his room. Yes. Bates. Had to remember that for the report when this whole thing blew over. That was later, though. For right now, he could use a nice, long shower...
Author's Note
Just a quick little reference-laden thing I put together as an ode to one of my favorite genres, in time for one of my favorite holidays. Sorry if you didn't see your own fave horror in here, there was only room to feature so much.
And yes, I listened the hell out of this song the whole time:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7zCZ5c3fSM&ab_channel=FearlessRecords
Killer Key:
The Caretaker - Jack Torrance, "The Shining"
Pam - Pamela Voorhees, "Friday the 13th"
Leaster - Leatherface, "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre"
The handyman - John Kramer, "Saw"
The boogeyman - Michael Myers, "Halloween"
The fiend in Othrid's dreams and slashing another stag later - Freddy Kreuger, "A Nightmare on Elm Street"
Red-headed dolls - Chucky, "Child's Play"
Hand that slashed Othrid's ankle: Gage Creed, "Pet Sematary"
"Your father sucks cocks in hell" - Pazuzu, "The Exorcist"
Pale white mask and black robes - Ghostface, "Scream"
Tall dark being that killed the first soldier - The Xenomorph, "Alien"
The ghostly hand out of the flickering screen - Sadako, "Ringu"
Black thing with a bowler hat - Mr. Babadook, "The Babadook"
Pale, hairless thing with hooks on chains - Pinhead and the Cenobites, "Hellraiser"
Final villain stooping out of the creek - Jason Voorhees, "Friday the 13th"
The chef - Hannibal Lecter, "Hannibal Lecter Franchise"
Copper Dreams's transformation - Sam, "Trick 'r Treat"
The innkeeper - Norman Bates, "Psycho"
