The Bleakmire Account

by Commissar Rarity

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 3275

A perplexing journal of a pony's descent to madness.

Upon the disappearance of my dear uncle, I discovered the following documents underneath a floorboard in his house. It tells a strange story indeed, and I find myself turning to you for assistance. I realise you do not know me, but rest assured I have word from Princess Celestia Herself that you are an authority on strange occurrences. I beg for your assistance in this matter.

Additional Tag: [Cosmic Horror]

Image used under the umbrella of a creative commons licence.

Published 2012-10-28 07:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-10-28 07:10:01 UTC

The Bleakmire Account

Upon the disappearance of my dear uncle, the somewhat famous arch-mage Arclight, I discovered the following documents underneath a floorboard in his house. The contents are perplexing to say the least. He was obsessed with chronicling his life, and it would seem he continued writing until whatever happened to make him disappear. His journal tells a strange story indeed, and I find myself turning to you for assistance.

 I realise you do not know me, but rest assured I have word from Princess Celestia Herself that you are an authority on strange creatures and occurrences, so I beg your assistance in this matter. Deciphering the madness in these texts and discovering what truly happened to my uncle is something close to my heart, and I would very much be grateful for any help you can provide.

 Sincerely,

Illustrious

The Eyes of the Princess

Tuesday the Sixth

1374 NCE

 Today I have unpacked the last of my belongings, and I feel truly at home at Tarryton Manse. Were I less humble, I would feel a lord over the ponies of Hoofshear, the town below me.

 Of Hoofshod, I have mixed feelings. It is a quaint enough town – early Colonial era architecture – but the denizens are… strange, to say the least. Their coats are singularly of a sickly sheen, and their gruff, curt speech seems hostile towards me.

 The innkeeper, Flickershade, is possibly the nicest pony I have yet met here. He too is an immigrant to this peculiar town, though his coat was just as waxen as the ponies of the town. I inquired of this and he had explained that the constant gloomy weather of Hoofshear had taken its toll on him. I can only hope I will not suffer the same fate.

 “I’ve been here twenty years, since I was a young stallion,” he said one evening while I stayed in his inn waiting for my sundries to arrive in the manse. “They still don’t quite accept me as a real citizen. It’s strange, really. Tight-knit bunch of folks.” He did not speak of this afterwards, no matter how much I pried.

Now onto the arrangements of the manse: There are two storeys, the top storey being the living quarters, and the bottom storey for entertaining guests and the like. Interestingly enough, there is a watchtower accessible from the master bedroom – in fact, I am writing this entry from there.

 I can see the town and the moors surrounding it. It’s lovely in that depressingly grey Yorkshire way. Speaking of the moors, I have heard from the ponies of Hoofshod – the few that would talk to an outsider – that it is frighteningly easy to take a bad step, sink into a mire and drown. Despite this fact, I desire very much to visit the moors and investigate the ruins I see below. They resemble Steedhenge in a way. Perhaps they are less mysterious and will yield their secrets easier!

 The moon is at its apex, and I must retire for the night-

Wait, there’s something in the moor. A light of some kind – green. It flashes a few times and has now disappeared.

 No! There it is again, steady and moving.

 I must investigate this further…

Thursday the Eighth

1374 NCE

 I was bedridden with a particularly violent migraine yesterday and was unable to explore the moors. Feeling of a much higher spirit today, I left my sanctuary and went down to Hoofshod. Along the way, I ran into the postmare. To my surprise, she was friendly and immediately likable. Much like Flickershade she was an immigrant, though much more recent than him.

 We chatted amicably for a short while, and we departed from each other’s company after I inquired about the location of the library. Yes, I am ashamed to admit that until now I have not desired to visit the library.

 It took several hours of digging through dull texts on the history of the town until I found a weathered, mouldy journal detailing events like I experienced the other night. There is quite a bit in the journal, but I have not the room to fully reprint it, but I found this passage of interest:

The lights in the dark have return’d. Six of them this time, floating in the moor. I swallow’d my feare and went to uncover at last what they are.

Of the white ruins, there was nothing but a blackness I could not gaze upon. When I reached out to touch it my hoof went through them. It hurt deep inside and I couldst not bear it longer. The green lights are in my head now and I see them ev’rywhere[…]

 This seems to indicate that the lights are of a memetic origin. I have no fear of being driven mad like the writer, as my mental fortitude is immense due to my years of training under the Princess’s wings.

 The reference to the disappearing ruins is perhaps more interesting than the meme qualities. It would take powerful magic indeed to shroud the ruins in blackness, much less shift them out of this world. What manner of unicorn or beast could do such a thing?

 I still feel weak from yesterday’s migraine, so I plan to return to bed. Tomorrow I shall set out for the moors and gaze upon these disappearing ruins.

[There is no date on this next entry but it appears to have been written that same night. The writing is shaky.]

 There are two lights tonight.

Friday the Ninth

1374 NCE

 I packed provisions and set out early in the morning to the moors. They call it Bleakmire, or so Flickershade informed me. It is an apropos name, given the moor is grey and littered with jagged rocks rising from the quagmires like teeth from a monstrous beast.

 The journey was arduous, for I was taking special care with my steps as not to sink into the moor and breathe my last (what a loss that would be to Equestria!). I saw marsh conies and a few foxes make their way through the mires gingerly, and I followed their careful steps.

 At one point during my trek, I saw a deer trapped in a pit. The quick slowly consumed it as it wailed horribly. I knew better than to attempt to fight the quick, and I found myself morbidly watching its slow demise.

 As the final bubbles from its agonized breath popped on the surface of the mire, I shivered. To be trapped in the tug of the moor’s pools was a horrible death. I did not wish to share my fate with the deer.

 By the arc of the sun, it was around two when I reached the ruins. I am still in awe at the magnificence of them. For every smooth curve and etched beauty of the runes, there were Cyclopean shambles. Strangely, they seemed to fit in a natural way.

 The smooth stones were set so they curved inward, like great talons. By my estimation, each was about a hundred feet tall. What little sun escaped the grey skies shone on them, it seemed as though they glowed from within. It was a lovely sight indeed, and I wished I had a camera to capture its glory.

 I measured the circumference of the ring, and it came out to exactly three-hundred-and-twenty paces.

 In the centre of the circle was the Cyclopean mound. Atop it was a twisted altar of thorns, which I managed to reach with great difficulty. The stones that made up the mound were, for the most part, stable. Several times, I came across a loose stone and stumbled. I tripped on one and fell back to the ground. A quick cast of slow fall saved me. What a story I can craft when I write my memoirs!

 The altar, as I mentioned, was a mass of thorns bent and twisted through some arcane ritual. Rust-coloured blood stained the thorns. Druids had been here. I am excited, as druids are rare and have never been properly documented. If I could observe one of their rituals…

 Much to my dismay, I discovered that the entrance to the mound was sealed by a boulder I could not move. It appears to be sealed by some magic that is much stronger than mine. If I am lucky enough to eavesdrop on a ritual, I may be able to learn the spell to undo the lock on the entrance.

 These events have excited me greatly, and I cannot wait for when I am able to observe such a ritual!

 The alignment is next week! I had forgotten there would be a celestial alignment. The planets Atreides, Tash, and Vulcan will be aligning in the heavens for the first time in three thousand years. Not only is it an exciting astronomical event, but I am confident that the druids will be having another ritual at that time.

 As I gaze upon the moors this night, I see two lights again. They come from the ruins. What are they?

[Once again this has no date but appears to have been written that same night. Much like the previous addition, the writing is shaky.]

 I hear clawing at the floorboards.

Saturday the Tenth

1374 NCE

 I ran into Flickershade as I left the library with the old journal bundled in my bag.

 “Hallo,” he said. “I figured you for a reading type.”

 I laughed. “Of course I am. I was the arch-mage in Canterlot, after all.”

 “Speaking of, why did you move here of all places?” Flickershade’s expression was strange, questioning and dark. “It’s not very friendly. Bleak as Tartarus as well.”

 “I desired a change of pace. The ruins in Bleakmire interested me as well.” He nodded at this and I changed my tack. “Have you seen the lights from the mire? What are they?”

 The questioning look fell from his face and there was only darkness. “Things that are best left alone, friend. If you’ve any sense about you, you’d ignore them.” He glanced about in a frantic manner. “I’m late, if you’ll excuse me.”

 I bid farewell, trying to grapple with this odd exchange.

 The journal is of no more use to me. The entries are nothing but babble and scrawls. What little I can decipher is about a god of disease and decay. Bunk! There are no gods but the princesses.

 Aside from the strange encounter with Flickershade and the disappointment of the journal thereafter, I am afraid to confess nothing more happened that day.

 The alignment is on Tuesday. I must get ready.

Sunday the Eleventh

1374 NCE

 I heard the clawing again, and this time I set off to discover what was making that blasted sound. Being it was under the floorboards, I discerned it was in the cellar. I have not been in the cellar since I inspected the manor before buying it.

 From what I remembered, there was naught but a few casks of lantern oil and a few empty wine barrels. At the time, I figured it was a rat trapped in between the floor and the cellar ceiling, trying to squeeze its way through one or the other.

 The steps to the cellar were made of stone, slick with the dew of a cavern. I recalled briefly that the manor had been built over a closed mine. Perhaps whatever was making the noise got in through there.

 I found the cellar empty and black. The light from my lantern seemed feeble, inching slowly ahead of me. Gazing at the ceiling, I found nothing but dripping stone. On the far wall there were messy scrawls of red paint. I scowled. Some vandal had broken in through the old mine and was trying to force me out of my own home. The natives were restless.

 The good thing about this act of vandalism was that I now had access to the mines, for the brute had smashed his way through the wall that sealed the mine off from the cellar. I plan to enter after provisions are gathered.

 I entered the mines a few hours after discovering the entrance. It is not a mine at all, but a labyrinth. Runes similar to the ones from the ruins in Bleakmire covered the walls inside. Oh, how I wish I could decipher them!

 I could hear skittering from further inside the labyrinth. Being the scientist that I am, I immediately set forth to investigate. Not without a copious supply of oil, I might add.

 Using chalk, I marked the path back as I walked. Getting lost in a place such as this would be a poor thing indeed. By my estimate, the labyrinth would appear to navigate the entire hillside. I did not explore the entirety of the maze today, and given the events that occurred, I will never.

 After what seemed several hours, I came into an antechamber of sorts. A sickly green glow emanated from the ceiling, the only light source in the room. I stepped gingerly inside. I could still hear the skittering, and it was coming from somewhere close.

 As the lantern illuminated the room more, I saw that there was a great pit in the centre of the room. Enrapt by the sounds, I leaned over the edge to gaze down into the pit. My stomach turned as I saw what lay below.

 There in the Cyclopean pit was a shambling mess of horrors. Like giant spiders they crawled over each other, skittering and making gargling wails to each other. Their bulbous bodies oozed with some foetid pus that dripped and sizzled on the floor. They each had ten legs, though a few were lacking and a few had more. One glanced up at me and in the flickering light of the lamp I saw, with horror, its face. It was like a monkey’s face, only misshapen terribly. It had scores of teeth, some sticking out in odd places and angles like tumours. As I watched, frozen in terror, it made a keening, gargling wail, and began to shamble forwards towards the wall of the pit.

 I backed slowly away as it rose out of the pit, gargling at me. This close I could see its colourless eyes, a wan honeycomb of baleful half-intelligence.  The pale light behind those eyes seemed to bore into me, a spotlight on my soul. As it pulled itself towards me on its front limbs, my paralysis broke. A fully formed idea blossomed in my mind. I knew what to do now.

 I magically threw an oil jar at the creature. It shattered on its face, glass shards sticking out as though it had grown more teeth. Then I flung my lamp. It struck true, the frame shattering and letting the flame free. It hungrily licked at the slick face and soon burst into full fury. The creature squealed in pain, and slid backwards into the pit, plunging the room into darkness.

 A feeble spark of magelight guided me back through the winding tunnels. I have concluded I must seal off the labyrinth. Whatever spawn of Tartarus the spider-daemons are, they cannot be allowed to roam freely. I will set about this in the morning.

 There are four lights.

(deadlights)

Monday the Twelfth

1374 NCE

 Today I sealed away the labyrinth, using mortar and bricks I bought from the local store.

 The ponies won’t talk to me. Not Flickershade, not the postmare, not a single one.

 I have prepared for my journey tonight. At midnight the planets align and the druids commit their ritual.

 I will be waiting.

▓xX▓▓▓

 I have seen IT.

 My notes on the ritual are gone like chaff in the wind.

 There in the mire, I saw the ritual. A blood sacrifice on the altar of thorns, six green lights spinning round the circle. I could not see the sacrifice very well, but I believe it was a goat of some kind. Poor bugger – they may not be the smartest creature around, but they still don’t deserve a death like that.

 The druids murmured an animalistic chant, almost hypnotic in its rhythm: Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Schmuujze I’ceheth wgah'nagl fhtagn! Soon the leader of the druids stepped forward.

 “We are His grandchildren,” he boomed. “Let Him return to us!”

 The green lights spun faster before glowing steadily. The leader paused in his meanderings when he looked in my direction. “Children!” he barked. “The outsider is here!”

 I broke off into a run, not caring about the treachery of the bog. I ran as fast as my old legs would carry me. I could hear the druid ponies behind me, led by their leader. As he shouted orders, I recognised his voice: Flickershade. My mind reeled at this revelation, distracting me long enough to trip on one of the jagged rocks.

 I spun, head over hooves, finally crashing to a stop at the edge of a pit. I lolled my head to see where my pursuers were. In the eerie light of the witchfire, I could see them coming ever closer. An icy fist grabbed my heart as I realised I would die here.

 Then all Tartarus broke loose.

 From the circle, the lights melded and something emerged. It towered over the ruins, a sizable feat in and of itself. In the fading light of the witchfire and the grossly pregnant moon, I could see it was a sickly purple-grey. From my far-off vantage point, it appeared as though its very skin was sloughing off. The skin of the thing was a horrible sight, like melting plastic.

 That horrible beast made a deep bass rumble that shook me down to my very bones. My pursuers froze and turned towards their foul god.

 “Schmuujze has risen!” Flickershade shouted. He started forward, running for that incomphrensible terror. He suddenly pitched forward, starting to sink out of sight.

“No!”

 At that moment I realised he had taken a bad step in his hurry and was sinking in the mire. His companion druids backed away from him. He was thrashing about in a frantic manner, his efforts only increasing the sucking force that was pulling him down.

 I watched in a horrified, sickened fascination as his body vanished into the sludge, as I had been with the deer the first day I entered the moor. His head finally dipped below the surface, a horrible gurgling and popping sound slowly fading away.

 The spectacle of Flickershade’s terrible death over, I lifted my eyes to the great, oozing mess that was slowly moving beyond the circle of talons. Its body consumed the ruins as it shuddered maddeningly forward.

 As it passed the ruins and entered the moor proper, it slowly sank into the ground. The same sucking sounds that had accompanied the gruesome demise of the innkeeper were echoed here. Before the final sloughing flesh of it disappeared, I fancied I saw the same pale honeycombed eyes of the spider-daemon in its form. The baleful half-intelligence I saw in the spider-daemon was replaced by intelligence far beyond equine understanding. Even now I cannot describe what I saw in those eyes.

I am here as always.

It is here as always.

The only safe place is below.

Below, with the Children.

It is over for us.

[The text ends here – or at least, the intelligible text. The rest of the journal is awkward scrawls and a rough sketch of what appears to be a pile of sludge. Further on are runes and drawings of strange beings. This continues until the pages are covered in brown stains.]