"Go to bed and wait for the Sandman."

Even as it came out of Thunderlane's mouth it seemed to him a strange thing to say, and he was not sure why he had, but for some reason it worked: Rumble went to bed.

The next morning, though, Rumble asked: "What does the Sandman look like?"

Thunderlane was making breakfast. Rumble sat at the table, his hooves shaking. "Nothing, really," Thunderlane said. "It's just an expression."

"What does it mean?"

"Just something people say." He put a plate of eggs in front of  and kissed him on the top of his head. He thought that would be the end of it.

Until he saw the Sandman for himself.

He was getting ready for bed and stopped by Rumble's room to check on him while he slept, as he often did. It was such a routine precaution that when he saw a pale, naked stallion sitting on the edge of Rumble's bed, rocking back and forth, it took a moment for him to process what he was seeing.

He reacted the way any father/brother would, of course: He ran into the room screaming, and for a moment he thought about attacking the intruder, but then the stallion on the bed turned, and that's when Thunderlane saw that it wasn't really a stallion: It was a pale, slithery thing, hairless and warped, its joints turned the wrong way and its body out of shape with itself. When it moved it was like an insane marionette dancing on a stage.

Thunderlane froze. The skittering thing watched him. Only when he remembered that Rumble was still there in bed, staring at the broken-shaped thing sitting a hoof away, did he regain the courage to move. He grabbed Rumble and ran. In the hall he turned to see if the thing would follow them, but it didn't. For a moment it watched and then, moving like a stop-motion nightmare, it crawled to the window and jumped out, leaving only the billowing curtains to mark its passing.

Thunderlane had trouble talking to the police. He reported a break-in, but when asked to describe the intruder he didn't know what to say. How could he make the ordinary stallion in the blue uniform sitting at his kitchen table while two of his colleagues searched the house understand a thing like he'd seen? He couldn't even understand it himself.

To make it worse, Rumble's memory did not correspond to Thunderlane's: He described an ordinary looking burglar. "A stallion in a mask," he said. Thunderlane's thought about it: Had it been a mask? No, it would had to have been a full costume, and an elaborate one, something like they would use for a movie. And that would not explain the way it moved...

But in the end he simply echoed his son's testimony: "A stallion in a mask," he said. "A burglar." The lie unsettled him almost as much as what had happened.

The doctors said Rumble wasn't hurt and showed no signs of molestation. Thunderlane was relieved. They stayed at a motel for a couple nights until they felt ready to come home, and then Thunderlane had a new security system installed, along with bars on the windows. He didn't like the sight of them in Rumble's room, but it seemed like the only thing to do.

Thunder was frightened that first night back in the house, but Rumble, strangely, was not. When asked if he felt okay sleeping alone, he just said yes. In the end it was Thunderlane who found himself wishing he were not sleeping alone. He was up all night listening for the sound of anything moving in the house. Although he had convinced himself that his memory was faulty and that it had been a normal (albeit probably deeply disturbed) stallion in his brother's room, when he closed his eyes even for a moment he pictured bloodless skin and a twisted, inpony face. He found himself wondering, why my house? Why my brother? He knew, of course, that there didn't have to be a reason. But still, he wondered.

Two weeks later Rumble stopped talking. Thunderlane didn't notice at first; kids went through quiet phases sometimes. But eventually he tried to get Rumble to talk, and he wouldn't. Eventually, it became clear that he couldn't.

Back to the doctor they went. Nothing wrong with him that we can see, was the diagnosis. Was it the trauma, Rumble asked? Could be, they said. Sometimes these things come on late. Children can be a mystery even to those who know them best. They recommended a child psychologist, whom Thunderlane couldn't afford. He could not, for that matter, even afford the bill they were giving him now.

Nothing seemed to help. Rumble would write out answers to questions sometimes, but never more than a yes or no. When Thunderlane would ask him what was wrong, or if he'd seen or heard anything that frightened him, Rumble would only stare. He seemed furtive and bemused. Thunderlane found himself missing the sound of his son's voice. Sometimes he wanted to hear it so bad that he ached. But it seemed that Rumble would not talk again until he was ready.

Thunderlane had other things to worry about, too. He was convinced, beyond reason, that the intruder was not really gone. Though the alarm never went off and the locks and bars remained undisturbed, he was sure that he heard movement in the night. Not normal movement: It was a sound like a huge snake slithering through the house. When he heard it, he imagined horrible things. Nothing was ever there when he went to investigate, though he often thought he glimpsed something just out the corner of his eye, a pale, dehydrated hoof or a misshapen shadow that would slink away as soon as he turned.

He rarely slept, and when he did he had haunted dreams.

Soon he realized he had not left the house in weeks except to go to the bank and buy groceries. He felt hemmed in. With Rumble acting mute he hadn't had an actual conversation with anyone in weeks, so he wrote to his mother. The letters took longer to deliver, since something happened with his "Instant Letter Delivery" Module.  But when he did get a letter, it was fairly long.  She asked him if he was okay, and if he would come to visit her sometime in the future, and if he would ask the gentlemen in the nice uniforms would stop taking her everywhere she went.  "I guess I'm okay, Ma," he wrote.  He stopped writing to wipe the sweat from his brow and then make sure he could hear Rumble playing in the next room. "But things have been a little rough. We had a break-in."  

The letter came by half an hour later.

"Oh how awful! Did they take anything?"

"Nah. Just ran off. It was weird though. I haven't really felt comfortable since then."

"Are you still working with the weather ponies."

"No Ma, I left last year, you know that."

"Oh. Well, have you been getting out? What about that nice mare you were seeing last year, the one who played the piano?"

Thunderlane scowled.  He was about to write back, when something made him pause.  A sound, like... slithering!

Thunderlane charged outside of his room and practically tore the place up looking for whatever that thing was.  He found nothing.  

He began giving Rumble a light physical exam every week. His CNA training was a little rusty, but you never really forget. It was an absurd thing to do, of course; even if there was a physical cause for Rumble's behavior, it would be nothing he could discover this way. And he was aware on some level that it was compulsive behavior. Nevertheless, it made him feel better.

One morning Rumble's set the diaphragm of the stethoscope against Rumble's chest, but he could not locate a heartbeat. He moved his hand in search of the right spot, to no avail. Then, to test it, he listened to his own heartbeat; it came through steady and clear. But when he checked Rumble again he didn't hear anything. A thought came unbidden to him of the Tin Man in "The Wizards of Oz", whose chest was empty as a kettle.

A sick feeling roiled his stomach. He threw the stethoscope down and grabbed Rumble by the shoulders, looking into his face. Rumble stared back with bright eyes. He even smiled a little, with the corners of his mouth. Thunderlane felt the tingle of tears. He swept his brother up and hugged him, and Rumble hugged back. Then Thunder sent him to play. The stethoscope, he decided, was broken. He threw it in the trash.

Things got worse. Thunderlane's terrors were no longer relegated to the long hours of the night. Now it seemed that some creeping, some skittering and scuttling, some unknowable noise in some dark corner or another, filled every second of his day. The thought of how big the house really was started to weigh on him: There were so many rooms he wasn't in at any given time, so many places someone—or something—else could be. He imagined strange figures occupying the rest of his home when he wasn't around, melting into the walls or merging with the shadows whenever he turned on a light or opened a door. How would he know if they were there? How would he ever know?

Soon he didn't even have to be outside of a room to imagine it. When he walked up the stairs he pictured pale figures lurking beneath them. When he went down the hall he pictured a crawling thing slithering behind the walls, shadowing his every step. If he sat too long in the same chair he imagined that it was right behind him. And he was never comforted when he turned around and found nothing there, as he could only guess that meant it had moved, swiftly and silently, behind him once again. Wherever he was not looking right now, that was where he imagined it to be.

He was losing his mind, he knew. The only thing that helped him cling to sanity was that Rumble seemed undisturbed. Other than his muteness, his behavior was perfectly normal. And whenever he seemed to sense that his father was troubled he would hug him, or squeeze his hand, or even smile. Sometimes, when he left the room, Thunderlane cried.

One night he found himself creeping around the house with no lights on at two o'clock in the morning. If the intruding thing had taken to violating his daytime activities then he would get revenge by confronting it on its own terms: the night. And really, night was no more frightening to him now than day. They were almost interchangeable.

He padded barehoof down the halls, up the stairs, in and out of disused rooms. Sometimes he stopped to listen, hoping to locate it by sound; it was a stealthy, creeping thing, he knew, but it was awkward at times, and it couldn't always keep its strangely shaped limbs from making their distinct, irregular footsteps. The smallest noise would give it away...

There was one room he suspected it spent most of its time in: the spare bedroom. Not a bedroom at all, really, more like a closet just large enough to accommodate a bed if one were so inclined. It was unpainted and uncarpeted and drafty; he'd always meant to fix it up. He didn't come in here very often because he disliked the bare, unused look of it. It made him think of a partially dissected corpse.

He came in now, though. If the thing made its nest any one place in the house, this would be it. Of course, there was nothing there now...but that didn't mean there was nothing there.

He cursed, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. What was he missing? How did it hide from him? What was its secret? He peered into the room's empty corners one by one, getting his face a few inches from the plaster and floorboards so that he could be certain—certain!—that there was no space for it to conceal itself.

The light bulb flickered. He froze. My Celestia, he thought, it's on the ceiling! He pictured it crawling above him like a huge, pale lizard. That’s how it gets around, he thought, that's how it escapes anytime I should have it cornered, it just scuttles up the wall and hides right over my head! He imagined it dangling down behind him like a spider. If I turn around, he thought, it will be there, hanging with its face right next to mine. He held his breath. He did not want to turn around, but he had no choice; it was between him and the door.

With a quiet sob, he turned around.

Of course, he was alone. There was no stallion on the ceiling; he checked twice. Maybe it crawled out and was waiting for him in the hall...but when he checked there the coast was once again clear. It should have been a relief, but it was not. After all, it had to be in here somewhere. If the ceiling was not its trick that just meant it was something else, something even more strange, even more clever...

He went to Rumble's room. He had not stopped checking on him at night, like he always had. This time, though, rather than open the door he listened at it first, pressing his ear against the grain of the cheap wood and holding his breath, terrified that he would hear a skittering sound on the other side of the barrier. What he heard instead shocked him more:

Rumble was talking to some pony.

Thunderlane recoiled for a second and then, when he'd caught his breath, he all but kicked the door in. Rumble was already awake, indeed, sitting up in bed, but he was not saying anything now. The light flashed on and Thunderlane stalked halfway into the room before stopping, suddenly torn: What did he want more, to confirm that his brother could speak again or to find whomever he was speaking to?

The creak of a door hinge settled the matter for him. He ran to the closet and threw it open: There was nothing inside, or at least, nothing that shouldn't be there. He swept aside clothes on their hangers, but nothing was hiding between them. Then he dragged a box out and emptied it into the floor: Nothing. He combed along the bare walls and floor and, yes, the ceiling, pushing aside every last bit of rubbish and stray knick-knack so that he could be sure, absolutely sure, that nothing was hiding.

All the while Rumble watched him.

After a few minutes Thunderlane was panting and covered in sweat and the closet was bare, and there were neither intruders nor answers inside. It struck him as funny, somehow, and he started to laugh, very quietly. He kicked his brother's stuff out of the way as he went to sit down on the bed, dazed. He became aware, all at once, of several things, first being that he had not slept in days and was nowhere near his right mind. The second was how close he'd come to really losing it, for good.

Tomorrow, he decided, they would both sleep until the afternoon, and when they did wake up he and Rumble would get out of this creaky old house. No more staying cooped up like prisoners, and no more checkups, and no more dreams about monsters. He would even take the bars off the windows. It was time to get back to living like real ponies again. It was time to—

Thunderlane saw it when he brushed a hand through Rumble's hair. He pulled Rumble (a little too roughly) closer. His brother acquiesced to the examination without fidgeting or complaint as Thunderlane pawed the side of his head, hoping that what he was seeing would somehow stop being apparent. He stared and stared until he ached from not blinking, but there was no denying what was right in front of his eyes:

Rumble was missing an ear.

No, he realized with mounting nausea: both ears. There was no injury, no incision, no mark where they should have been, simply smooth, blank flesh. As blank as Rumble's quiet, unperturbed demeanor.

Thunderlane swept him up, cradled him in his wings and ran into the hall. He was not sure where he was going or what he meant to do when he got there, he just knew that there was now nothing more important than getting his brother out of that house. But their path was cut off: A naked stallion sat in the hallway with his back to them. No, not a stallion: Thunderlane recognized its stretched limbs. The pale thing squatted on its haunches, rocking back and forth like it was palsied. It almost seemed to be in pain. Thunderlane hugged his brother closer and backed away. Then he heard Rumble's voice: "Big brother."

Thunderlane turned to Rumble, and he heard the voice again:

"Big brother."

But Rumble's lips hadn't moved.

Thunderlane looked back at the hunched figure. Its head jerked when it talked, like a tic:

"hello. big brother."

Thunderlane's mouth went dry. It took several tries before he could speak. "Don't call me that."

"it is. this voice's name. for you."

"Go away. Leave me, and my brother alone!"

"but i am. your brother."

The longer it talked the more the voice became distorted and blurred. An icy feeling nestled in Thunderlane's stomach. "Who are you?"

"somepony. who came to visit."

"Why here?"

"you. invited me."

Thunderlane's heart thudded against the inside of his chest. "Why?"

"i had. something you wanted."

Thunderlane licked his dry lips. "You're lying. You don't have anything I want. I want you to leave. Leave, and never come back."

"who. is. daniel's. mother?"

James blinked. "What?"

"who. is. rumble's. mother and. father?"

"What the hay kind of question is that?"

"how. old. is. Rumble?"

Thunderlane blinked again. The thing's voice caused a pinching pain in the center of his forehead. "Stop asking me these things."

"when. is. rumble's. birthday?"

"...I don't know."

"what. is. his. middle. name?"

"Shut up."

"what. was. his. first word?"

"I said shut up!" Thunderlane wanted to tear the thing apart with his bare hooves. Only the heaviness of Rumble cradled him in his arms kept him where he was.

"you were. alone. you wanted. a brother. so i. made one. for you."

Thunderlane began to shake. "That doesn't make sense. Made out of what?"

"out of. myself."

Thunderlane's stomach turned over.

"but now. i need those parts. back."

Rumble picked at Thunderlane's shoulder to get his attention. Something was strange about Rumble's face. "Rumble? Open your eyes."

Rumble scrunched his eyes shut tighter.

"Open your eyes. Rumble? Rumble. Open your eyes. Open your eyes!"

Rumble shook his head, trying to refuse, but he couldn't hold it forever. Eventually his eyelids flicked up and Thunderlane saw the truth.

Rumble's eyes were gone.

Thunderlane almost dropped him. For a second he wanted to throw his brother down so that he could stop looking into those empty holes in his face. Rumble opened his mouth, as if to speak, but of course, he had no voice.

"he is coming back. to be part of me. again."

"No. No, no, no, give him back, give him back!"

"i. cannot. it has been. too long. i warned you. this. would happen."

"You're lying! You're lying, you're a bucking liar, give me my brother back, give him back!"

"i. do not lie. i. warned you. he could not exist forever. but you. do not remember. you. can only remember. what i want you to. you forget. all the times. we have talked."

Rumble felt like a doll, or an empty bag. His hair was falling out, disappearing before it touched the ground. His hooves vanished into thin air. Thunderlane cradled the air. Tears streamed down his face. Soon he held nothing.

He looked around the house; toys disappeared, photos vanished from their frames. Thunderlane turned toward Rumble's room and confronted a wall where the door should be. He groped the blank surface. He hit his head against the wall. The pain didn't feel real. "Why did you do this?"

"it was. what you wanted. and i learned. so much."

"This is impossible. Ponies will ask, ponies will wonder: the police, the hospitals, the ponies in the neighborhood!"

"they. have already. forgotten him. they only. remembered. what i wanted them to. like you."

Thunderlane pressed his hands to his aching skull. "Will I at least remember him after this?"

"you. can try. but your mind. will fail you. now that everything. he was. is part of me. again."

Thunderlane sat on the floor, looking at the blank wall. Out the corner of his eye he saw the thing creep toward him and even felt its wet hoof on his shoulder, but he did not look at it.

"If I won't remember any of this," he said, "then why tell me?"

"because. a father. should know."

And then Thunderlane was alone.

***

Grace worried about Thunderlane sometimes.

When they met a year ago, he said that he'd never been married and he'd never had kids, that all he did was take care of a little brother, but there was a certain pained expression he assumed when he said the last part. Grace knew that look: She'd met brothers who lost siblings.  

And there were other things about him that worried her too. Sometimes she would find him staring at a particular spot on the wall, brow furrowed in concentration. He did not seem to realize he was doing it. And of course there was the insomnia, and the sleepwalking to consider too. Yes, there was lots to worry about. But she loved him all the same.

Thunderlane still said he'd never had foals, and neither had she. She'd long wanted one, but it was impossible, and she worried that Thunderlane wouldn't stay with a mare who couldn't be a mother (though he constantly assured her that it was not so). There were times—and more and more often of late they were the nights when Thunderlane took to sleepwalking, and even Grace imagined that she heard strange, scuttling noises in the house and saw impossible shapes in dark corners—when she thought she would do anything, absolutely anything, if it meant having a little daughter for she and Thunderlane to raise.

And at those moments, she became truly afraid. But she never knew why.