Skeletons in the Closet

It was quite strange to wake up after being bludgeoned in the head. Lyra opened her eyes and looked around as the room hazily faded into existence. Her head throbbed. She could feel every heartbeat as if it was her own brain pumping blood through her body. Where was she? She looked around and saw nothing but dark shapes, silhouettes that her eyes couldn’t quite make out yet. The next sense that returned to her was her hearing. She heard muffled exclaims, breathing and rustling. There was no wind, no birds, no speaking.

This alarmed her. Her eyes widened as she looked around again, but more desperately this time. The shapes were becoming sharper as her eyes adjusted. Some of them moved around, some of them were eerily still. Lyra tried to scream, but the fabric gagging her stopped her. She closed her mouth around it, convinced she could somehow tear through it, but her jaw wasn’t strong enough. Her cry came out muffled, and her blood froze once she realized what she had been hearing before. Her eyes were finally used to the darkness and she looked around her. She became aware that she was tied to the wall, her front hooves pulled behind her. There was what seemed like a blindfold around her neck, and she wasn’t sure if she was thankful that she could see, or unlucky that she was able to see everything around her.

All of the ponies that had disappeared. Or at least, three of them. They were tied in the dark room, almost unrecognizable due to the lack of light to see in anything other than shades of gray. The difference between herself and them is that they were frail and visibly starved. They wore blindfolds—ones that served their purpose—and the same white fabric in their mouth that Lyra had. Some of them had the stains of long-dried tears on their cheeks, and some of them silently cried fresh tears. There was one who occasionally pulled on the restraints, muffled sounds of grunting escaping them.

Then, there were the ones who weren’t moving much. Staggered breaths, twitching, or a complete lack of movement. The sick, metallic scent of dried blood found its way to Lyra’s nose and she gagged, unable to do anything but. She writhed around in an attempt to break free, but the rope that held her down was expertly tied and moving only caused her pain and what would soon turn into rope burn if she kept struggling. She strategically gave up trying to escape and instead looked around as much as she could. She tried to light up the room with her horn but was unable to perform any kind of magic. Whenever she tried, searing pain shot into her skull, causing her to wince.

Lyra looked around once more, hoping to see something that might help her. A way out, somepony who could help, something to identify where she was, anything. But there were only the shapes of silent, unmoving ponies, and the sounds of the ponies she called friends surrounding her giving up. With a defeated sigh, Lyra felt her body relax into the dirt floor she was forced to sit on. Tears swelled in her eyes. What would Bon Bon do?

Bon Bon wouldn’t have been taken. She would have never walked up to the pony that called her over. It was a cheap trick, and Bon Bon wouldn’t have fallen for it. Why did she have to go up to…

Lyra couldn’t seem to recall who it was that called her over. She tried to remember the moment, but all she was able to recollect was that somepony needed help with something, but she couldn’t remember exactly who it was. Her head pounded whenever she tried to remember. It was somepony she knew. She had to remember.

Would she ever get out of there alive? Lyra exhaled through her nose in the closest thing she could get to a sigh. And to think all she wanted was to surprise Bon Bon. Now, she wasn’t even sure if she would ever see her again. The tears that threatened to fall finally did, but she cried quietly. If her captor was listening, she didn’t want her to have any kind of pleasure in her grief.

The door at the other end of the room opened, and the dim lantern light made Lyra blink. “Well, well,” her captor spoke. “You’re not supposed to be able to see.”

Lyra looked up at the pony that stood over her with a glint in her eye. She blinked groggily, her head suddenly spinning. That voice. It was undeniable. Lyra’s eyes widened in shock at the silhouette she faced. The pony reached behind her to grab a wooden club. There was no mistaking her. Lyra let out a whimper in realization. It couldn’t be. Lyra shut her eyes. She couldn’t believe that it was—

WHACK.

Lyra fell forward, her body limp from the impact to her head. The cloaked pony sighed and readjusted her hat which had strayed forward on her head from the force of the swing. “She’ll be fine,” she told herself. “For now.”

She reached down and removed the fabric from Lyra’s neck and instead tied it tightly around her eyes the way it should have been the whole time. Somepony sniffled in the candle-lit darkness, causing the mare to sigh as she stood back up. There'll be another one soon enough.

But for now, the slight smell of death was the thing that needed fixing. She put the wooden club back in its makeshift sheath and followed the odour to a body. As she suspected, a yellow mare with a blue mane laid on the ground, completely unmoving. Routinely, she tied a rope around the pony’s limbs, undid her shackles and dragged her out the door. “This one oughta do the job.” She shut the entrance to the room behind her and blew out the candle, leaving the only source of light in the damp tunnel as the light from the candle outside. The mare dragged the body out of the underground effortlessly and looked around. Silence, as usual. She shut the trapdoors and kept walking.