Rainbow Dash and Twilight Sparkle returned to Twilight's library home after a friendly day of visiting. There was a package waited for them on the doorstep.

“Is that another letter from that creepy pony in Hoofington you were telling me about?” Dash asked.

“He's not creepy,” Twilight replied, “he's a kind old stallion, but there is something fishy going on.”

They went inside, and Twilight opened the package. It contained a wax photograph record, various photographs, some maps of the Hoofington localities, some notes, and an explanatory letter. Twilight read the letter first.

Dear Miss Sparkle,

Thank you for continuing to write me more of your encouraging letters. It has done wonders for my morale to know that you are at least accepting the possibility that what I claim may be true. I received your last letter on October 8th, and I'm sending this package on the 10th. Please include receipt of this package with your next letter. It appears, based on breaks in our correspondence, that my initial fear of spies was correct. It appears that somepony has been intercepting our correspondence. I only hope this package goes through correctly, it is the most important yet.

I had to go to Saddleboro to send this. Even there I saw familiar lowly looking faces that followed me as I went. I believe they know I have the idol, and now I fear they know I have the recording. They have stepped up their intrusions. While in Saddleboro, I also purchased more hunting hounds from the kennel, as well as a box of ammunition for my big game rifle. While returning to Hoofington, I found the road blocked by a freshly fallen tree, and my dogs began to bark furiously. I don't believe I would have made it home if it hadn't been for my dogs. I don't dare go out at night anymore.

They've stepped up their attacks at night as well. Whatever they are, they are getting closer and the barking is getting louder. They did not leave my property last night for three full hours. I had my rifle loaded and ready, although I did not need to use it. Something landed on the roof and set the dogs to a fury. I do not know what it was; it did not have hooves. This morning there were a number of tracks in the mud outside my home. Some of them were pony tracks, whether from the educated pony I've recorded (see transcripts), or from one of the locals, I do not known. There were also other tracks. Sort of rounded furrows that I've seen elsewhere, deep in the woods. I don't care to think about what made them.

This package should contain a number of photographs, including photographs of the prints outside my home, more prints located in the Everfree Forest which I just mentioned, photographs of various Hoofington locations including the graveyard, photos of some of the strange holes I discussed earlier, photos of some strange cave entrances I believe may be related, and a photograph of the idol. There is also a photo I made while testing my new camera. Also included is a wax phonograph record. Please excuse the quality of the recording, I am only an amateur.

I caution you read my attempted transcript of the phonograph recording before you listen to it. I could not get very close to the actual event, and it is even harder to hear in the recording. Also, I caution you harden yourself before listening. Even I still find it disturbing.

I hope this letter finds you and your dragon well.

Yours,

Horace W. Martingale

Twilight continued to rummage through the package, looking at the photographs first. She took a good look at the photo of the idol that Martingale had mentioned. It was poorly hewn out of stone, but appeared as a sort of bat-winged goat standing straight up on its hind legs, with two great curved horns that looked more like an ox's than a goat's. It stood about a foot tall on Martingale's cluttered desk. In the background were numerous shelves of books; it appeared much like Twilight's own library.

The photographs of the “tracks” seemed strange. The pony tracks were common enough, but she didn't know what to make of them. They were shapeless, perhaps looking a bit like worm tracks, only on a much larger scale, as if some large mass had been slithering about. The ones closest to Martingales house frightened Twilight the most. The last photo was a self portrait. It showed Martingale on the wooden steps of his fine old home. He was an old gray pony with a long gray beard. Two massive hounds sat at either side of him. He had a smile, but it was a nervous smile, as if he was being haunted.

Twilight read the transcript next, and it chilled her to her core. Martingale described three different voices. The first sounded erudite, as if coming from an educated unicorn of Canterlot. As far as Martingale knew, he himself was the only pony in miles that had any kind of education. A second voice, or series of voices, was in Hoofington vernacular. This sounded a bit like Applejack's rural dialect, although distinct. Even Twilight, who had never been to Hoofington, was familiar with the accent and knew what Martingale meant. The third voice, Martingale cautioned, sounded like no pony at all. Nor cow, or mule, or any other creature he had ever heard. It sounded liquid, globular, burbling. Twilight was lost here, she would have to listen for herself. She read the entire transcript and then read it again. That transcript itself was broken, as presumably the recording was. It only contained glimpses of speech. It read like a lecture, or perhaps sermon. There was chanting, or maybe seeing. Twilight did not understand it, but she could feel as if it had some terrible importance.

“We need a phonograph,” Twilight finally said aloud.

“Pinkie's got one at the Corner,” Dash said in a rush, “let's go!”

They found Pinkie Pie at work behind a counter.

“Oh hi, girls,” she called, “are you out shopping?”

“No, we were hoping to use your phonograph,” Twilight said.

“Ooo, you want to listen to music?” she chirped, “I love music.”

“It’s not music, Pinkie Pie,” Dash said, “this is way creepier.”

“Oh, you mean like a ghost story?”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Pinkie,” Twilight said. “And this isn’t a story. It’s a real recording that… a friend of mine made.”

“Hmm, OK, let’s listen to it,” Pinkie made a game of acting serious.

Twilight placed the needle on the wax cylinder. Static and popping filled the room from the flower shaped bell of the phonograph. It was, like Martingale admitted, a poor recording. Phonograph recordings were grainy even when made by professionals in a proper studio. This was an amateur’s work, and under the worst sort of conditions. The ponies struggled to make sense of the sound. There was struggling and rustling as Martingale managed the dictaphone; they heard the sound of hooves stepping on leaves as lightly as possible. The sound was replaced by the sound of hooves stepping on something softer. It was grass, according to the description in the transcript. It was the grass in the graveyard, as Martingale was inching himself to a gathering of… it was impossible to say. The ponies heard the voices then. It started out on the edge of their senses, and gradually grew louder as Martingale approached. It was only a recording, and Twilight knew Martingale had made it home safe; still she began to shiver in worry. A chill crept up her spine as she could make out the first voice. It was the erudite unicorn Martingale had mentioned. The transcript appeared to be accurate.

“… is the lord of the night… the black mare of the dark… with a thousand young… the well of the pool of death that holds the key to the end… Ia Tirek! Ia Sch’Ma’Utz!”

Then came the chanting of other ponies, they sounded like townsfolk from Hoofington, based on their accent. They had an odd synchronicity, it was impossible to tell if there were a half dozen hundred.

“Ia Sch’Ma’Utz! Ia Sch’Ma’Utz! Ia Sch’Ma’Utz!,” they chanted, almost in song.

The erudite pony continued. “Ia Sch’ Ma’ Utz! Ia Grogar… the five mares in the night with five thousand.. Ia Nightmare Stars! Ia Nightmare Comet… the seventy seven steps to the widening gulf… Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Tirek… wgah’nagl fhtagn… Sch’Ma’Utz, It of all aeons of sinew awaits dreaming, awaits arising.”

“Ia Sch’Ma’Utz,” the crowd of ponies chanted or sang again.

Then a new voice arose. If the previous group of ponies sounded like a hundred, this sounded like a thousand, ten thousand. But these were no ponies, and they all spoke with a single mind. It was like Martingale had described. This voice came from no mortal throat with real vocal cords. It sounded like air being forced through some gelatinous mass. Like an evil presence trying to make a form out of formlessness. It burbled, it chortled, it burped. There were a hundred adjectives that might describe it, yet none worked properly. Every hair in Twilight Sparkle’s coat stood on end. The ponies were filled with abject dread to hear this new voice.”

“Ia Sch’Ma’Utz!” It chanted. “Go forth among the ponies and bring them to the gulf of the end. Tirek, of the world of the four suns holds the gate. Ia! The Great Messenger… Hydia, scholar of the three tripartite planes, of which this is but a mirror…bring down upon… stalker among them…”

The recording ended, exactly as Martingale had transcripted. The cylinder continued to spin, and emit pops and squeaks continued to hiss from the phonograph until Twilight removed the needle. The three ponies were silent for a long moment.

“I don’t think I like that song,” Pinkie Pie said dejectedly. “I don’t think I like that song at all, and I like all kinds of songs, even scary ones.” She walked off into the kitchen. She looked nauseous.

Rainbow Dash looked at Twilight, “what are we going to do now?”

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