The road between Ponyville and Canterlot is both well-traveled and well-maintained. It is a wide dirt road with fine old stone bridges that cross the many brooks, and there is even paving on the final stretch into Canterlot. Travelers can expect many happy miles of sunshine and the smiles of passersby as they make their way in either direction. There are fine views of productive apple orchards and vegetables along the way, and the hotels and restaurants along the route are both friendly and professionally staffed. It's advised, however, that the traveler avoid taking the wrong fork at mile post 11. If he does, he will soon find himself in the Everfree Forest. Here the road narrows and descends into a creeping, swampy morass. The ancient decaying trees block out most of the sun, even during high noon, leaving the forest floor in perpetual twilight. Whippoorwills chatter away unseen. The road becomes torn up by roots, vines, and deep ruts; travelers pulling their own wagons will find progress difficult indeed. Noisome skunk cabbage and creeping gray joak overfill the choked ditches. The air becomes filled with an unhealthy yellow vapor. If the traveler ignores the warning signs and continues down this path, he will find himself on the other side of the Everfree forest in the hoary town of Hoofington.

Unlike the noble and productive town of Ponyville, which was founded by earth pony immigrants from Canterlot, Hoofington was founded by pegasus ponies. Over many feckless generations these pegasus families degenerated, and they are now decadent and repulsive to the outsider. The houses are decaying hovels with roofs more mold then thatching. These ponies are content to let the weather fall where it may, preferring instead to crime and drunken rutting.

Few families have managed to stay above the squalor and maintain their dignity over the long years. One such was the Martingale family, who had lived in a large many-gabled house just outside of the village proper. Here lived Professor Martingale, an old stallion with no family left except for a grown son who had moved out to San Whoase many years ago. Only Martingale knew of, or at least appreciated the horror that haunted Hoofington. No one, not even Martingale, knew the extent of it. He quickly scrawled out a letter to explain his story, and was careful not to say too much. He worked in his parlor, where sunlight came through a large window and comforted him. He was flanked on either side by his two large hounds. They were equally nervous.

Rarity came by to Twilight Sparkle's library for morning tea. It had become a daily ritual. Conversation had just progress from small talk to juicier gossip when Twilight's layabout dragon assistant came down for his usual spiel. Twilight rolled her eyes. What's he going to say this time, Twilight asked herself.

“Sooo, Rarity, I...,” Spike's eyes crossed. He coughed once, twice, and finally purged a large wet envelope purged onto the biscuits. A greenish yellow stench of sulfur poisoned the air.

“Eww, gross,” shrieked Rarity. Spike ran himself back upstairs, having outdone himself once again.

Twilight quickly opened the envelope. She received regular correspondence by magic scroll from Princess Celestia, but most of the regular mail came via conventional means, brought over manually by the town imbecile.

“Whoever is it from, darling?” the curious Rarity asked.

Twilight quickly scanned through the letter. “I don't know... it looks like.. a Professor Martingale. Used to teach at Canterlot University.”

“Did you take classes from him?”

“I've never even heard of him. He must be very old. Or not even emeritus, if he's telling the truth at all.”

“How odd,” Rarity said. “Read aloud, if you don't mind.

Dear Miss Sparkle,

I have read, with great interest, a recent article in the Equestria Daily about the recent discovery of a zebra living in the Everfree Forest just outside of Ponyville, and your efforts in dissuading fears in the general populace that she may be an evil witch-enchantress who places curses, voodoo, devil-worship, etc. I commend your efforts in dispelling superstitions. This is typically the position of any educated unicorn, particularly one from Canterlot University, such as yourself. I used to share the same skepticism when I myself taught at Canterlot University (I have long ago retired). Indeed, I have become a bit of an amateur ethnologist and folklore historian since I returned to my hometown (my academic specialty was in the physical sciences, not the equinanities). Indeed, Hoofington is the perfect place for such studies, the local townsfolk are quite uneducated and have developed any number superstitions and myths over the ages. One such myth is popular throughout the region and it is one that you are obviously familiar with, the story of an evil pony who practices dark magic in the forest, is dressed in a thick dark robe or shroud, digs strange holes, etc. In fact, this ghost story goes back at least two hundred years in these parts. I've met a number of ancient decrepit centenarians who can remember their grandmothers telling them stories around the fire late at night. Stories of this evil unicorn who would visit graveyards on the new moon, and prance with the dead. It's no surprise that the residents of Ponyville mistook the zebra castaway as their boogeyhorse. The story is deeply ingrained in local tradition. It appears, based on the article, that you still have difficulties in alleviating their fears of the zebra in specific and the Everfree Forest in general.

I am afraid to say that the superstitious townsfolk are closer to the truth than you might imagine. Not with regards to the zebra, she is harmless inspite of her race. Rather it is the forest and this “necroprancer” of legend they should fear. They persist in believing in the stories for all the wrong reasons- superstition, fantasy, hearsay. You, however, attempt to debunk their fears for all the right reasons- skepticism, rationality, reason. If I didn't have reason to believe as I do, if I didn't have actual evidence, I suppose I would feel the same way you do.

I'm having trouble getting to the point. I have evidence. There is a necroprancer; he is working evil. I have seen the holes. They aren't little furrows kicked up by lowly zebras looking for water, but sorts of tubes that things have been crawling through. There are other things, hoofprints for instance, although to call them prints made by hooves is to give them too much credit. I have heard strange voices in the night, and I am currently attempting to acquire a phonograph, dictaphone, and black wax cylinder for when I attempt to pursue it again. There is also an idol. A strange, black stone idol that I discovered while searching the forest. There are strange heiroglyphics, ideograms, or perhaps runes on the surface which I cannot translate. I am looking at the object right now as I write this. Since I found it, things have gotten worse. Somebody has been paying my home a visit in the night, and if it weren't for my dogs barking at whoever they are, I fear they would come inside to take it back.

I don't mean to right this to challenge your beliefs or to start some kind of controversy or public debate. Publicly I agree with everything you say. Please, keep this private. I believe I am being watched. I have sent this to you magically via your dragon because I do not trust the local postal service. I believe there are spies among the local townfolk, some of them are quite degenerate and insane, you see.

And this leads me to my other point. Please, keep ponies out of the Forest; I'm begging you. They must also not come to Hoofington as curiosity seekers after our recent publicity. I know you have no reason to trust me at this point, but I am sure I can provide substance to my claims if you are interested. You could, of course, throw this letter away and never trouble yourself with it again. I wouldn't fault you for thinking me insane. There are hints of details in these heiroglyphs, or call them what you will. Things that recall memories from my time in the library at Canterlot University, things which you may remember with dread if you had seen the idol as well. Hints of horrors that predate all of Equestria- the Hydia and Tyrek Cycles mentioned in the Ponakotic Manuscripts.

I fear I may have to go live with my son in San Whoase. I suppose it is some bittersweet comfort that my wife did not live to see my hobbies turn to such darkness. It will be difficult to leave the home my grandfather was foaled in. Still, it hardly feels the same anymore when the dogs bark every night at whatever is approaching my house. It has only been getting worse.

I don't mean to cause you any undue burden with this letter. I certainly don't meant to cause you any peril.

Sincerely yours,

Prof. H. W. Martingale

P.S. If you are still interested, I can send you evidence. I will use the post-office in Saddleboro, where I trust the postal service, so as not to trouble your dragon.

Rarity continued to sip her tea for a few minutes as she considered the letter. “Well that was certainly odd,” she finally admitted. “I didn't understand half of that. Especially the last bits at the end.”

“Neither do I,” confessed Twilight. “I've had all these ponies act so stubborn about giving up their beliefs about Zecora and the forest and curses. By all accounts this guy should be the most ridiculous one yet. Yet there's something about this letter that's different. For some reason I actually get a bit of a chill from this letter. Maybe it's because he used to teach at the University, or because he's a unicorn. That sounds odd, I know.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Rarity asked.

“I suppose I'll write to Celestia,” Twilight answered, “she'll know what to do."

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