The Hounds

I stifled a laugh. I just couldn’t help myself, you know? I just couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that they have no idea what is coming. They’re simply oblivious to what it’s going to happen to them, safely inside their houses,

Locked you’re locked and can’t get out

living their everyday life. Outside.

Up above the world so high…

I laughed again. I can’t stop. The guard hit my cell and asked me if I was okay. I only kept laughing. He’s one of them too. He’ll follow them all. I’ll just stand here and watch while it happens. It’ll be like looking at broad daylight again.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

Oh yes. Yes they will.

***

I’m writing this on the walls. You know this, don’t you? But you’re probably asking yourself why, my good reader, I am confined to such a state, maybe? Oh, I hope you do. I like to tell my story to all the good little fillies and colts, even though I haven’t seen a foal in years. They’re so small. So fragile. I feel sorry for them, they have done nothing wrong. But they don’t forgive anyone, may it be a foal of a strong stallion.

I’m hungry. How did you get here anyway? Am I here with you? I don’t have food for the both of us. I keep splitting my rations into two and then I hide them in a rip of one of the pads. It hurt my teeth to do that, but at least they can’t see me storing all away. I’m always hungry, but it’s for the better. They’ll stop serving soon.

Very soon.

I feel a little bad for that nurse though, the grey maned one. When she saw my ribs sticking out she started giving me a double ration. That was good. More food in the pad. I don’t care for the flies and maggots, the more the merrier. I might actually last even longer.

I’ll miss that nurse.

***

Today they tried to wash it away. I gnawed at them as long as I could until two others came and pinned me to the floor. When I saw biting wouldn’t solve the problem, I begged them not to. I had to get on my knees and cry. I begged not to wash away my last words for this world. They left me alone, but they took out the food. All my food. It had taken me months to collect it. It was all black and crawling, green in some places. I probably couldn’t have eaten it when the time would have come.

Maybe.

I’ll have to keep scavenging. At least they let me keep my writing. My beautiful writing. Not everything is lost.

***

One day one pad. Soon the whole room will be covered with my beautiful writing, but I won’t stop then. I’ll write on the floor. I’ll write between the previous lines. I need to keep writing. By the way, they call me Screwloose. It’s not my name you understand, but perhaps appropriate if you have to recognize me by just looking at my flank. My real name is Grasshopper, which by itself seems a nickname. Isn’t that funny? I feel like laughing again, but I don’t want the guard to interrupt me.

Am I dead in an angle of the room? Am I still there? How did you get here?

So many questions. But you’ll have all the time in the world to answer me them when you come here, whether to my corpse or to me. Not that in this place being dead or alive makes such a difference. I’ve seen ponies just stare in front of them breathing. Skeletons. They eat nothing. They drink nothing. They have to spoonfeed them and even then they scream they don't want to live anymore. Have they seen the same things I have seen? Am I one of the lucky ones? The ponies outside of the cell think we’re insane. Are we really? Maybe we’ve just accepted reality the way it is. Then again, what is reality…

So many questions, so many questions. I hope you’ll be a good talker, it’s been a while since I have talked to anyone that isn’t carrying a baton or a straightjacket—and we both know that a dead mare is a poor conversationalist.”

I was sent here because I told of their arrival and tried to save them. They didn’t want to believe me, you see. They didn’t want to see the truth that lies behind my words! Oh, but they will regret it. Yes. As always the mouse discovers too late that the sweet cheese is a deadly gift. I may not be perfect, but my words are wise and when the time comes they’ll be sorry they never listened to me, treated me like an animal! They tossed me in this hole with nothing but a basin of water and a loaf of bread each day, never letting me see the glorious light of the sun,my beautiful, beautiful sun, always playing those stupid songs that want me to rip my ears off!

I need to calm down. You might get a wrong impression of me, dear reader. I really like you, you know? You’re taking your time to read this. Please don’t go. This cell is secure. We can have fun together. We could play games! Oh, it’s been so much since I had a good game of chess with someone. Or friends. Or anyone. I talked to the meat yesterday. Of course, you’ll have to move the pieces for me, but it’d still be fun, right? And while we’re playing you can read my entire story. All my life written on these walls, white to black and never washed because I begged and begged and begged. They have even read it, in the beginning. They said something about delusional and schizophrenic. I let them talk, as long as they don’t touch my beautiful words.

I was once Grasshopper, as I said before. I was a history teacher oh so long ago. but there’s no reason to delve in the good memories. Good memories are bad. Bad. Make me sad. They always make me sad and angry and when I do that I start hitting things and then the guards come by and I’m scared because I don’t want them to erase my life and my work and everything was fine back then. Have to be happy. Happy. Be happy.

I can’t make things go back the way they used to be. Not after what I have discovered. I indulge in the path of madness too often. Sometimes I have these moments—I don’t quite know what to call them—when everything seems to be melting and the bounds of reality become no more than the weak and helpless grasp of a foal. In those moments I wish I were dead, because I know I’m becoming like the skeletons. Constantly staring. No movement.

I need to keep writing.

I had to keep them safe. I was the only one that had foreseen their coming. What I did was only an act of mercy, nothing more. It would have only been slower that way, I made it quick and easy. Slippery. Too slippery. I couldn’t stop one from escaping. He didn’t understand and knocked me to the ground. I tried running after him, but he was too fast.

I look back at what I’ve done and I don’t see anything wrong. No one wants to see a foal in pain.

No one.

***

They sedated me. My hoof still hurts, though. They cleaned the blood on the door and read everything. I know that because they took me out of my cell after all these years.

I screamed and kicked until they sedated me again. When I woke up I was in another padded cell, but there was a thick glass in front of me. They asked me if I really believed I had killed them to save them.

I said yes.

They asked me who I was saving them from. To that I could only laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

They took me back to my cell after that. They don’t know I’m trying to save them too. If I told them the name of the things that will come for us they might turn insane too. I don’t even want to think of that name, but it’s etched inside my skull. I can barely see it shimmer in front of me when I’m losing it. I don’t want that knowledge, but it’s not like I can just forget about it now. My only future is in this cell. With the food I keep storing until they come. They keep cleaning there but I keep doing it nonetheless. One day they’ll surrender.

***

I woke up today in the large room with the glass again. They kept asking me questions and stayed there even though I kept laughing and I started hitting the wall with my head. They kept me still, but I didn’t answer. No one should have it as bad as I

We? Are there more prophets of the coming? Where are you?

do. They keep giving me crayons though. Black crayons. They asked me if I wanted some sheets of paper and I said no, because paper fades. The humidity of this chamber is controlled, just like the light. My writing will stand as long as this cell stands. Not very long. They're always hungry.

***

There have been more attempts of trying to “understand my case”. Some of the doctors say it’s stress. I don’t believe their lies. I don’t want to believe their well-prepared questions. They’re rats trying to corner the cat, but I’m an old cat. I can feel it in my bones. One of these days I could snap and tell the name. I’d love to see their reactions.

I can’t, though. If I remember the name they will come. I’m not prepared yet. I need to finish telling my story for everyone. Maybe they’ll be able to hold them back to where they belong and I’ll be finally understood. They’d understand why I did that merciful act and say they’re sorry. These pads will be put in a museum and I will be finally at home. No padded cells. No soothing music that makes me want to stab myself. Unfortunately, it’s impossible for them to stop them. Nothing can stop them. Ponykind will only be a fairytale by the end of their reign. But a fairytale told by who? My head hurts. I wish they could just stop it with this damn music.

***

The music is gone. I looked up and they had taken out the speakers. They are reading. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. One of the ponies even called me Grasshopper in the big mirrored room.

I want a place to store my food. I don’t know if they will do this, since it’s a padded cell, but it’s worth a try. Maybe they understood my importance? Maybe they’re trying to understand the name of the thing so that they can fight it? It’s useless. But it’s still worth a try.

Maybe.

I don’t hate the ponies out of my door so much now. They’re nicer.

***

They gave me some small packages where I can put the rest of the food I don’t eat. I’m crying right now. I’ve never felt so happy in years. They listen to me. I will write a letter of name down on the wall every day, so I’m probably not going to feel it too hard.

The first letter is T.

***

The doctor asked me to finish the name, but I didn’t. I told him to wait another week. I don’t want to look at the letter. I tried to cover it with some of the sheets, so I won’t think about it. He didn’t get mad. Instead he just smiled at me and said we have plenty of time.

The fool. We don’t have time. I can hear them barking already. My head hurts and the name is moving before my eyes. I looked at the second letter and head-butted the floor. It hurt, but at least the word wasn’t there anymore. Please make the pain stop. It hurts to think about it.

The second letter is I.

***

I don’t want to think about the name. I don’t want to think about the name. I don’t want to think about the name. The hounds are coming.

They will get here. I’m not safe. I thought they couldn’t get me inside, but I saw one. Watching me. If I finish the name, they will kill me.

After today I will wait. If they retreat, then I’ll talk to the doctors and tell them I can’t do it because I can’t remember.

The third letter is N.

***

They moved me to the glass chamber again today. They told me to stay there and say the fourth letter. The hound was there always by my side, but they couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to say the letter.

I’m not insane.They are real.

I don’t want to die. I did it for a reson. It can't have all been for nothing. Not those faces. Not those beautiful little fages without life dead and pale staring ever so gently, staring at me.

What a curse it is the stare of a foal's dead eye. I wish I could stop seeing them in my dreams. I miss you too, little ones. Mommy misses you all every day.

The hospital staff is good, but I'd prefer them to be mad at me. Everything is better than the hounds.

I’m not going to say the name.

***

Two. Two came around today. They’re not pleased. They will come and get me. I’ve been marked. They’re staring at me right now. I see them. I keep seeing them. They’re behind me. They’re in front of me. Even if I close my eyes I can hear them. I can’t do this. If I’m going to die I’m at least going to tell their name. I press my hooves against my eyes as deep as I can until it hurts and I can still see it.

The fourth letter is D.

They’ve started barking louder.

I hope I survive the night.

***

I’m still alive, but they didn’t stop howling all night. They kept doing it over and over. There are three of them now. They keep staring. I found myself barking too after some hours. I slapped myself and I started talking to myself. I mustn’t cross the line. I mustn’t. I’m the only one who knows. If I hit it the bottom they won’t listen to me. They’ll treat me like one of the other insane patients.

I asked the nurse to bring me to the glass room. I saw some others come around from the corners. They followed me. Grinning.

They’re toying with me.

I’m easy prey, but it wouldn’t be fun just to end it, would it? No. And moving through time and space must make anyone hungry. I know my days are numbered. I just want to understand if they’ll let me finish the name.

A. The letter is A.

***

There are four now. Growling. I can’t do anything.

I found myself in a fetal position writing “mommy” on the floor. I want my mommy.

I’m hitting the bottom. Please save me. I want the music back. Anything but the growling. Make me deaf if you have to. Deaf and blind. Just make it stop.

Make it stop.

L.

***

The music is back. Glorious hated music. It stops the growling a bit. I’m a foot away from the edge. The doctor told me I started growling in my sleep. I asked him how did he know it was me and not them.

The hounds of—

I can’t do it. I can’t put those letters together. One at a time.

One at a time.

I get nightmares every night. They follow me and get me. I try to crawl away, but even when I close a door behind me I find them in front of me. I've seen myself dying hundreds of horrible ways. It’s hilarious sometimes. It almost makes me want to laugh.

I cry every time I try to.

***

Almost all the walls are covered. I found some strange doodles and drawings on the sheets of paper that I can't recognize or understand. Some kind of weird alphabet made of interwined curves surrounded by small circles and lines. They told me I made them while doing the sounds. I start growling and barking sometimes. I hit myself every time it happens. My face is becoming a canvas of bruises. They stopped giving me food. I have enough for me in the bags though. They’re afraid to get inside. For some reason i feel at ease while watching the. It's like finding a long lost friend.

O. What a beautiful round letter. Full of perfection. Nothing can get inside that small circle. Not even the hounds.

***

I have to I don’t have to I need it I don’t need it they’ll get me anyway they’ll get me I can see them I can see through them they’re beautiful we should accept to be devoured and become part of something so beautiful I never want to be me again me is bad they are good

S

I am them and they are me and we are all together

We are TINDALOS

***

“How is 6-2-3 doing?”

“Unstable, Doctor. I don’t know what happened, but she snapped. She only barks and growls. The nurses say she’s a real biter, too. She refuses the food and keeps eating that… stuff in the plastic bags. I’m surprised she hasn’t died of food poisoning already, really. That food is mostly mold.”

Shrinking Cog started rubbing his temple. and nodded absent mindedly. He was getting some terrible migranes these days. He shook his head, regaining his composure.“Did she stopped writing?”

He already knew the answer. That poor bastard had the look of someone who had seen something he'd rather forget. Good heavens, he wasn't even a rookie. 6-2-3 must be have been really messing with everyone these days.

“She ate the crayon. When we gave her another one she ate that too. She acts like a rabid dog, hitting the door every time she sees somebody. We will need to move to another cell if she keeps going like this, one that has a padded door, but the tricky part is moving her without getting hurt.”

The doctor bit his cheek, repressing a swear. “I want her under sedatives, you understand? She may damage the writing. I—" he stammered "I mean herself. She might damage herself. I will be needing photos of those too, when she has cleared the cell. Do we have any information on what the name on the wall means? ”

“I don’t know sir. Never heard that one before in my life. Some… dogs of tindagios or timmagros. I don’t know.”

“Report to me if there’s any kind of behavioural improvement. I don’t know why the damn video feed is no longer working.”

“Yes, doctor.”

He watched him go. He had seen his uneasy look. He heard the rumors. They said he was getting too involved in this case. What did they think, that insanity was contageous? He had spent every day of the last fifteen years looking at people bashing their heads against walls and screaming that it was all a conspiracy from the government against them. If insanity was contageous, he'd been bathing in it so much that now he was immune.

He locked the door behind him. Nobody would have understood the mess inside. They'd have called him paranoid. He wasn't paranoid. He knew they thought he was, but he was just being cautious.Seeing things without context could lead to questions and those questions to other questions and before they knew it he'd be given a golden watch and they'd call it early retirement. He couldn't permit that. Not now. He was so close.

He looked at the pile of sheets of paper and old books, the stack of video tapes on top of the television and the pin pointed map in front of the cluttered desk, dimly illuminated by the ceiling lamp. He had drawn the courtains a while ago. The staff wouldn't have liked what they could have seen.

Slowly, he walked to the large bulletin board and tried to look for a place to write not already occupied by various old photos of Grasshopper and notes in various colours. Blue for minor happenings, orange for problems and red for emergencies. He took a red note, and after a minute found the force to write the message.

"24 November. Name completed. 6-2-3 gone postal. No more writing." He underlined it several times.

He pinned it next to the last entry, stared into the dead eyes of a close up photo of the mare and whispered "Why are you doing this to me?"

He walked with his head low to his chair and poured himself a large glass of bourbon from a drawer. Half-covered by the bottle was an old newspaper page, with a smiling mare watching the reader, surrounded by kids.

KINDERGARTEN TRAGEDY, TEACHER SLAUGHTERS NINETEEN, ONE SURVIVOR
The ponyville press is shocked to announce an act of ruthless and shocking crime happened today between the same walls where most of us have been taught how to write and read, by the hooves of the well known Grasshopper, beloved teach—

Shrinking Cog shuddered as he felt the liquor run down his throat and then slammed the glass hard on the desk, covering the rest of the article. He really needed that. Now he could start to work. Funny how some things swam into focus only when you looked at them through the bottom of a bottle.

He started to page through some dog eared old books. It had taken him a while to get them, but luckily he had connections within the castle. Nobody in the library would care if he borrowed some of the weird tomes, they only worried about the ones of dark and primeval magic, which were kept under lock and key with an extremely more severe guard than these. Still, words had a magic in themselves, didn't they? Couldn't let anyone get them. Pagan cults. Worshipping of the forces of nature. Traditions and ancient rites still observed to this day in the most remote regions of Equestria. Pony sacrifices. All things that could put a sane mind on the edge. Knowing that someone, somewhere was killing his brother or friend only because they thought that the sun wouldn't shine tomorrow ,trying to propitiate some forces of nature to give them a good harvest. Barbarians.

Now this was the end of all. She had written the name. That was it. End of the line, please evacuate the cabins. With every letter his faith had grown dimmer and dimmer. It wasn't N'yurlah, the spirit of winter, or grandfather Nèrgahul, leader of the Wendigos. It wasn't anything. Just a stupid fictional name. He had wasted months on her thinking there could be anything behind this more than just a simple schizophrenic mare, so different from anythign he had ever seen. This was the time he should have opened the windows, let the fresh night breeze come in, throw away the bottle and start cleaning the office. He would have done that. He really wished he could.

But how could she know the language then?

He couldn't explain that. That's why every day he didn't throw away the bottle but drank again from it and that's why instead of throwing everyhting in the trash he just kept spending more and more time on the books, looking for clues. The writing was the problem. Anything else worked fine with regular schizophrenics and paranoids but this... nobody could write that by mistake, or could she? The symbols looked like the ones on the stone tablet. She had even added some others. It was unmistakably a language. It had vowels, consonants and some kind of syntattical structure. Nobody had ever really understood how it could have been pronunciated, only a handful of various readable letters had been deciphered after years.

The language was the key and the language was the root of the problem. it was older than anything else, any other cult or religion or pagan belief. There were no written records because there was no paper or historians, just stone and clay that explained nothing and instead posed more questions. He would keep her alive, as useless as she could be now in her feral stage, and then he'd go to Celestia. Or Luna. He'd ask innocently if they knew what those weird letters on her padded cell meant anything or they were just the ravings of a demented maniac, because—"I know it sounds crazy, but they do look some kind of alphabet, don't you think?" he said out loud.

There'd be investigation. He was prepared for that. There'd be questions and answers. He was a good liar. He didn't know if he was good enough to fool the princesses, but he would try. For now, he wanted to just finish the name and go home.

He looked up at the latest photo. 6-2-3 was a restrained figure in the left corner of the photo, barely visible, probably held steady by at least a pair of sturdy earth ponies.

The last letter was S. A huge S, covering the whole pad.

“T-I-N-D-A-L-O-S. Tindalos.” He looked at the word half smiling and half dreaming. He was tired and half drunk. He wouldn't spend the night here again like yesterday, he wanted his bed and his jackhammer of a wife snoring beside him.

He inhaled deeply, got up and got his coat. The air was getting rather stale inside there. There was the smell of something rotten, too. He'd have to do something about it.

Just while turning the doorhandle, he thought that he had never smelled something so disgustingly rotten in his life.

He didn’t even have enough time to scream as the grinning monstrosity tore off his throat.

In a room, Grasshopper was howling. It almost seemed like a crack of laughter.