The Blank Pony

Contrary to popular belief, Hitch did not, in fact, live at his office. As proud as he was to be Maretime Bay’s sheriff, he had long ago realized that maintaining an appropriate work-life balance was key both to his substantial personal and professional success. Through a combination of careful money management as well as some smart investments—being careful to avoid conflicts of interest, of course—he had been able to fully pay off his mortgage within five years of purchasing a small house on the edge of town.

The structure was comfortable, but he had previously found it somewhat lonely. Gaining the ability to speak to the various winged rats in his walls, the opossums in the attic, and the uniskunk under his porch helped somewhat—although Sparky had truly made the greatest difference.

On this particular night, Hitch was afflicted by a case of peculiar insomnia. He believed it likely had something to do with the wind outside. He could hear it coming off the ocean, buffeting his house and sometimes making his double-paned windows shake. That, and his neighbor’s crabapple tree kept scraping the eastern wall of his house, making an ominous and intermittent noise.

Sparky did not especially care. Hitch knew this because, after waking up, he had checked on the baby dragon to ensure he was sleeping peacefully—and had determined that he was, in fact, asleep.

Which had left Hitch alone and awake. He had gone down stairs and made himself some tea, a gift from Izzy, and sat down on his couch to listen to the wind and stare at his reflection in the off-brand television he never used. He was not thinking about anything in particular. The air was chilly— and there was no sense in starting up the furnace in the summer—but he did not mind.

Hitch, unlike his core group of friends, did not have a space at the Brighthouse. Which made sense, considering he lived only a few blocks away in his own house. And also considering that he was the only stallion of the group. It would have been awkward and borderline inappropriate. Considering that the majority of the population was female, such situations were not unusual—even if it left him sometimes feeling like the protagonist from a budget dating sim.

They were at least safe and warm, and together—save for Misty, who had insisted she return to Opaline’s castle. Hitch had been there once, and although he did not like to admit it, the place had scared the willies out of him. He felt bad that Misty had to go there—but ultimately understood that it was her choice to make.

He sipped the tea. He could taste the effort Izzy had put into it, and it would have even been better than Alphabittle’s own tea had it not been for the traces of glitter. At the very least, Hitch appreciated the thought. Even if it was not making him sleepy in the slightest.

The wind gusted harder, and Hitch shivered. He paused, looking down at his tea—when he heard a set of three knocks against his door.

He froze, confused as to who would be knocking so early in the morning.

It surprised him enough that he had stood up—although he did not approach the door. For a moment, he wondered if it had been real. Perhaps he had dreamed it as he fell asleep on his couch, or maybe just imagined it while he was lost in thought—but it came again.

It was followed by a voice. A voice preceded by a slight, barely perceptible sound of static or distortion. Then, as the voice came through, it seemed tinny and strange before fully resolving into the voice of a filly.

“H...ello?” it called. “Hello?”

Hitch frowned, because he knew the voice. He walked toward the door, calling back to it.

“Seashell?

“I got lost,” the filly called back, through the door, sounding on the verge of tears. “The storm...something scary came...I ran. I need help. Please open the door. It’s so cold out here.”

Hitch’s sheriff instincts prickled—and the urge to help overcame him. He walked to the door.

“What are you doing out this late in a storm?

“I need help. Please open the door. It’s so cold out here.”

Hitch’s hoof had been on the doorknob—but he stopped. He did not realize why for a moment, but was confused at his response. A little filly had wandered off, maybe from a failed game of hide-and-seek in the dark, maybe from a prank gone wrong—and Hitch, both as a pony and as a sheriff, felt an overwhelming urge to help.

Then something occurred to him, if only incompletely.

“I need help. Please open the door. It’s so cold out here.”

The voice did not vary. Seashell had repeated the phrase three times—but with no variation. The same meter, the same cadence, the same tone—with a slight, barely perceptible warble beneath each time. Like a recording.

Something hummed and Hitch nearly passed out from surprise—only to realize that it was his phone. He took it out of his bag when he got home, and sometimes forgot it on the small table where he kept his keys and pony wallet. It lit up with a picture of Pipp’s smiling and perfectly lit face in the center, indicating that it had come from her—and even at a distance, Hitch could read the text from the notification alone.

“Don’t open it,” the text read.

“Sheriff Hitch,” called the filly, now clearly through sobs. Or something like sobs. “I’m so scared. I’m so cold. It...I think it’s still out here. Please let me in. I’m so...so cold...”

Hitch felt a buzzing in his head, a kind of strange hiss that pushed back his doubts. A feeling of profound, icy loneliness. He reached for the door, grasping it—only to be forcibly wrenched out of the trance by a single, quiet sound.

He froze in place, suddenly overwhelmed by a different emotion. He turned to see where Sparky was standing at the end of his foyer hallway, still holding his little dragon blanket—and Hitch's protective instinct pushed back the cold fear and obedience that was creeping into his soul. The desire to protect Sparky burned too brightly, and it was like waking up from a dream. He was struck by the realization of the obvious: that it was far too dangerous to open that door.

His gaze lingered on Sparky, though. The dragon, though a baby, did—in many ways—not behave as a pony foal would. He did not get cranky as easily, and he did not show the fear and timidness of pony babies—instead, he proceeded almost invariably with reckless joy.

The expression on Sparky’s face was not one of fear, or one of curiosity. His pupils had narrowed into disturbing vertical slits as he stared at the door, perfectly still and nearly expressionless. In the dim light, Hitch found it an oddly terrifying pose—as if he were looking not at a baby dragon or his adopted reptilian son, but at a fully adult dragon, looking past him and prepared to attack whatever was on the far side of that thin wooden door.

Instead, Hitch recalled that he had installed a peep-hole. It was not a common appliance in Maretime Bay, or really anywhere in Equestria—but being so safety minded, he had appreciated the novelty of it. He had always known that it was there—but the idea of looking through it only then occurred to him. It was a thought he did not want to face. He did not want to look, and as he lifted himself toward it, he realized he was desperately shaking. Behind him, Sparky did not move a muscle or make a single sound.

“Please, sheriff Hitch...I’m so cold...let me in...”

Hitch gulped and tried to steady his eye over the little glass lens. It took him a moment to look through—and when he did, he stared at his empty porch, confused.

No one was there. He had a full view of it, and no filly was present, or any pony at all. The view was clear and well-lit, thanks to a streetlight nearby just beyond his small garden and white picket fence.

He stared for what felt like minutes, confused—and then his whole body seemed to ice as he heard it again.

“Please open the door. Please let me in. Please.”

The voice sounded as if it were on the other side of the door—but there was nothing there.

Then Hitch saw it move.

He almost screamed, because he had been looking at it the whole time. It had always been in his view, always obvious—but so still he had not noticed it. Until it lowered its faceless head. A tall, narrow figure standing next to the street-light pole by the street, not hiding in any way but totally unnoticed simply due to its peculiar shape. As soon as it broke the illusion, though, Hitch could not look away form it.

It was standing far from the door—but speaking close to it. For a moment, it seemed to stand still again, watching—and then it walked off, its gate occurring with extreme, rapid precision but also ab unnatural, jerky motion that carried it far too quickly down the dark street and past Hitch’s house. It departed in silence back to the shadows, heading toward town—and in less than a second it had jolted its way out of Hitch’s view.

He slid down the door, tears running from his eyes out of fear—and out of the realization of what he had almost done. He barely noticed as Sparky came to him, hugging him—and he hugged the baby dragon in return.

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t a mannequin,” squeaked Hitch, shaking uncontrollably from fear. “It wasn’t a mannequin and I...and I touched it, and...oh pony, I don’t...it was trying to steal my bones...it’s headed for town but I don’t...I don’t know what to do...”

The worst part by far, though, was the reason he could do so little. Because no matter how hard he wished he was brave enough, Hitch knew he could never open that door to chase after it. To follow it into the darkness. He had seen its head. It had no face. No eyes. It did not need light to see, and he knew it.

As he held Sparky, though, he realized he did not need to. Not yet. He was not alone. This task was probably far beyond what he could do alone—but with his friends, there was nothing he could not do.