Journal entry #3

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. It happened again. I was almost killed again, just like the night before. The tar-pony came after me again. Only this time he wasn't alone. They came after dusk. I think they only come out at night. But there is another problem. Everyone else… they’re gone. They’re gone after dark. I’m alone in the evening.

I have no idea what’s going on. These aren’t just crazy ponies, and they aren’t creatures from the Everfree either. There is something in Ponyville. A darkness. Some kind of force that… I don’t know how to explain it. From now on, this journal isn’t just a means of therapy for a loser with too many self-inflicted problems, this is a record of the events to come. That is, if I live long enough to see them.

Hey...

Hey, wake up...

Wake up, ya varmint...

Get yer drunk flank outta mah barn...

The distant voice was becoming more clear with each poke. Something was jabbing Rags in the forehead, something with a thick southern drawl. His eyes began fluttering open, but he wasn’t really trying to wake up. He was trying to see who the annoying voice belonged to. He caught a glimpse of orange and yellow. He pried into his brain, trying to remember who he knew that was orange and yellow. Ah, yes. Applejack. Applejack? Rags wondered what the country mare was doing in his home.

In his home? He wasn’t in his home. His bedding was itchy, and the walls were red. His walls weren’t red. He thought long and hard, trying to figure out what was going on. He put the pieces of the puzzle together and came to the deduction that he was in the apple farmer’s barn. The apple farmer’s barn? Why was he in the apple farmer’s barn? Maybe...

Recollection of last night’s events exploded vividly into his mind all at once. The thing. The thing.

Rags shot upwards, eyes bugged out and hooves frantically flying in every direction, swatting at an invisible foe, and shouted at the top of his lungs, “THE THING!”

POW

And he was out like a light again.

Rags stirred from his coma-like state. His eyes cracked and harsh sunlight blinded him. As his eyes adjusted, he could see ponies silhouetted against the cloudless blue. He groggily began to sit up, but a throbbing headache pushed him back down. “What hit me?” he slurred.

“A pissed off apple bucker, yah looney varmint!” a familiar, southern accented voice barked. Rags tried once more to push himself up, fought throughout the process by the harsh pain in his skull. He was nearly upright when two sets of foreign hoofs grasped his own tightly and thrusted them behind his back, then plowing his upper body face-first into the ground, warranting a muffled “OMPF!”

“You have the right to remain silent,” a baritone voice began, “Anything you say can and will be used against you.” A pair of cuffs were brought down with a loud clack on Rags’ forearms.

“Wait, I’m under arrest!?” he confoundedly asked around the earth. “For what charges!?”

“Trespassing, attempted battery, and substance abuse,” the guard stated authoritatively.

“That’s what ya get for drinkin’ in mah barn n’ trying to attack me, yah lousy drunk!” AppleJack fumed.

“Drinking!? Attack you-- no no, I’m the one who was attacked! The thing! The thing attacked me!” Rags hastily defended.

“Thing?” one of the guards asked.

“Yeah! the thing! It was big, and, and it had, like, voices, and, and, and it was covered in tar, and it had a cleaver! And, and--”

“Sounds like you was just drunker than 40 buffalo and saw some sorta hallucination, to me,” Applejack cut in, and from what he could see from his constrained position, was casting him a suspicious sideways look. Rags thought about it for a split second, and realized that he sounded like an utter psycho with his talk of muscular, cleaver wielding tar beasts. He collected his facts and tried again with a greater degree of tact in his presentation.

“It’s true! There was this thing! Some kind of creature! It was like a pony, but different! It destroyed my house! It chased me across town with a cleaver! I had to hide in your barn!” Rags could hardly see the apple farmer, and the two guards behind him were invisible completely, but he had a feeling that the testimony was at least being taken into consideration, judging from the silence momentarily hanging in the air.

“It...destroyed your house?” one of the guards asked.

“Yes! It was insane!” Rags exclaimed. Another silence hung in the air

“Is your name Rags?” the other guard asked this time.

“Yes, sir! Wait, how do you know me? Have we met before? This is the first time I’ve been arrested, right? I mean, was I, like, drunk one night and didn’t remember? Or--”

“Oh dang, I’m real sorry ‘bout that,” Applejack cut in with a surprisingly soft tone. A complete change from her stance mere moments ago.

“Uhm…” Rags didn’t know what brought on such an attitude adjustment, and the suddenness threw him off.

“Call an ambulance. Tell them to meet us at this pony’s address,” one guard spoke to the other as they lifted him off the ground.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Rags asked, becoming distraught.

“Stay calm, sir. We found your home destroyed this morning. We’re investigating the matter as we speak,” the guard said. Now that Rags was sitting up, he finally had a clear view of the group of ponies around him. The apple farmers, a solemn looking Applejack, the pensive Big Mac, the wide-eyed smaller sister of the two, and a very perturbed looking elder mare, the owner of the farm. Behind him stood two tough-as-nails-looking guards, the younger looking like he was not but a few months out of the academy, while the older had the attitude of a veteran. The latter was the one doing most of the talking.

“Then… does that mean you believe me?” Rags asked hopefully.

“Well, not really, but something definitely did some serious damage to your home. Come with us, please.” And with that, the veteran officer released Rags from his cuffs, and gestured to the wagon the two enforcers hauled with them to the farm. On the back of the cart was a heavy set of iron bars, intended for the apprehension of ne'er-do-wells. Fortunately, it rarely saw use, as Ponyville was famous for its peaceful nature.

Rags was ushered into the back of the barred cart, assured by the guards that he was only in there to be lifted to his home and not the jailhouse. Applejack and her older brother approached the wagon to offer words of condolence before Rags’ departure.

“Uhm… sorry ‘bout buckin’ you in the face. I, uh, thought you were crazy,” Applejack smiled sheepishly, “If ya need a place to go, we have a guest room here for ya. Or I could always get a hold of mah friend Fluttershy n’ work somethin’ out.”

“Uhm, sure thing… thanks?” Rags said bewilderedly. The thing only tore down a few doors and broke a few windows. It wasn’t like it burned his home down or anything. Why was such kindness being offered to him? With a jerk of motion, the wagon was on the move, and picked up speed at an urgent rate.

“You take care now,” AJ waved as the vehicle made haste down the road. Big Mac mimicked the gesture and offered a “Eeyup” to support his sister’s words.

The guardsponies vanished moments later in a cloud of dust further down the rural dirt road. Applejack whistled in amazement and turned to Macintosh. “Poor fella. I saw his house this mornin’ after Rainbow told me ‘bout it. Looked like a manticore plowed through the place.”

Mac was not one for conversation, typically, but concerns scratched at his mind that demanded more words than he was used to giving. “He said it looked like a pony, and it chased him ‘round with a cleaver. Ahm thinkin’ we got a real psycho prowlin’ ‘round town.” Mac affixed his sister with a stoic stare. Applejack picked up on the suggestion hidden in his words after a moment and nodded.

“Right, I’ll get the tools.”

Rags sat on the sidewalk with his eyes wide and pupils shrunken, fixated on his home. A throng of guards stood vigilantly, keeping rubbernecking onlookers at bay. EMTs surrounded Rags and performed numerous checks and procedures on the stunned stallion to ensure he wasn’t harmed or wounded. They suspected mild shock was at play, but they couldn’t tell whether it was the prior night’s events that did it, or the sight before him. Investigators had been called in once Rags mentioned the bloody corpse in his story, and they searched for any shred of evidence that would reveal the identity of the culprit… or for that matter, the location of the cadaver. The gore splattered kiosk and the carcass of the child upon it was gone.

The crime scene was established hours ago, when the mare by the name of Rainbow Dash, the Element of Loyalty, had reported the destruction to the authorities. She said that she’d been sleeping on a cloud and woke to find herself floating above the domicile. A perfectly reasonable alibi, until she brought up the fact that she’d been sleeping in that same location all night. Rags didn’t believe her. It’s not that he suspected a national hero and element bearer of lying, but it just didn’t make any sense. How could she have been there, suspended over Rags’ house, and not have been stirred by the commotion? She couldn’t possibly have been that heavy of a sleeper. Nobody is.

But that was not the question most prominent in his mind. The bigger question was what the hay happened to his house? If the mangled heap before him could even be designated as such anymore.

It was an unbelievable development. His house had received even more punishment since last Rags saw it. The shingles on the roof were all but gone, and a gaping wound where his living room ceiling once hung spoke of something crashing through the structure with tremendous force. One wall, in his kitchen, had collapsed, bearing the twisted plumbing and gnarled wiring for all to see. The plumbing, electricity, and gas had all been shut off so as to avoid any accidents. Every window was smashed, every piece of furniture was outside and torn to pieces, and every square inch of the building was covered in scratches, slashes, and bite marks. It looked like a lynch mob stormed the place in search of Rags. Had the thing returned after losing Rags and taken its fury out on the house? Supporting this theory was the fact that none of the surrounding buildings received any damage whatsoever.

The Investigator, a stockier fellow with an accent clearly of Manehattan origins, stepped out of the front door, shook his head, and approached Rags. “So lemme’ get this straight, you say that this… thing… was some kind a’ psycho coated in black tar?” Rags didn’t register the question, still gawking at the ruins that used to be his living quarters. The Investigator cleared his throat audibly, bringing Rags’ disbelieving gaze to him.

“Huh?” Rags slurred.

“You’re gonna have to work with me here, pal, else I can’t work with you. So let’s run through this again, you came home from work,” he stated, waiting for confirmation from Rags on this fact before continuing.

“Uh-huh.”

“You came across this thing standin’ on the sidewalk, choppin’ up some poor kid?”

“Yeah…”

The Investigator took a moment before going on, the last fact about the child leaving a trace of sadness in him. “And it then proceeded to pursue you with the weapon?”

“Yes.”

“Into your own home, right? And it was covered in some kind of substance?”

“Tar. Dripping everywhere.”

The Investigator sighed and removed his fedora to scratch the top of his head in thought. “Well I’ll have to take your word on that, because I didn’t see any tar or blood or nothin’.”

Rags, still in a confused stupor, furrowed a brow slightly and quietly asked, “What?”

“Yeah, not so much as a hoof-print, ‘cept for yours,” he said, letting the words hang in the air for a second before placing his hat back onto his scalp. He peered at Rags from under the brim. “Kinda odd, ain’t it?”

Rags was no fool, he picked up on the underlying theme of the words and became perturbed at the accusations this investigator was making. He suspected Rags of lying? The insolence! His life was put in jeopardy and this stallion was putting him on the list of suspects? Of course, Rags could not justify his story with infallible proof. With all signs of the thing being strangely absent, and the foal’s body nowhere to be found, Rags supposed that he was beginning to look a tad bit fishy. Nonetheless, Rags knew what really happened, and he was going to make sure that this stallion knew too. “Are you for real with this? You can’t possibly think that I’m behind it all?”

“I’m just staying open to all possibilities, is all. I mean, this is pretty tough to swallow to begin with, bub. A tar-pony with a cleaver cut up a kid, chased you around, leveled your place, and disappeared without leaving a single shred of proof that it was even here? And not one witness to attest to any of it? That’s out there, don’t you think?” The Investigator’s steely-eyed stare did not discriminate. He was just as suspicious of Rags right now as he was of this alleged black beast.

“What motive would there be for me to make something up like this?” Rags snapped.

“I see this kind of crap all the time. Some down-on-his-luck sap gets the idea in his head to try and fake some kind of accident or hoax to get welfare checks, commit fraud, get his face plastered over every newspaper from here to Baltimare, you name it,” the Investigator explained, keeping a close eye on Rags’ face for any tells that could give away his intentions.

Rags argued, “Then what’s supposed to happen here!? I either get the book thrown at me for something I didn’t do or you guys just leave while some kind of savage creature hungry for some Rags stew is still on the loose!?”

“Calm yourself, buddy. I didn’t say that you are guilty. I’m just keepin’ an open mind.”

“Alright then, think about this with your open mind: Even if I was the one to do this, for some stupid reason, how is it that there aren’t any witnesses?” Rags said venomously. “A mess this big doesn’t pop up overnight without someone waking up to the sounds of a building being wrecked! I ran all around town last night, and I never saw a single pony get up to see what was going on!”

“Well like I said--” The Investigator began but was immediately interrupted.

“And let’s talk about the wreck, shall we? Its got bite marks. Bite marks for crying out loud! If this was the work of a regular pony, wouldn’t it look more, I don’t know, possible!? How would a scrawny, non-unicorn dishwasher be able to silently destroy his house with his teeth without a single witness!?” Rags barked louder than necessary, releasing his accumulated, pent up stress in one outburst.

“HEY! You better fix that attitude right the buck now!” The Investigator barked back, getting in Rags’ face. He took a step back from Rags, who had quieted himself after the sudden eruption from the fedora-wearing detective, and sighed. He then spoke more calmly, “Like I was sayin’, I’m just keeping an open mind. Which also means that facts, like the ones you just went on about, keep the limelight off you for the time being.” He pulled a cigar and a lighter from his coat pocket and sucked in a few relaxing puffs.

“Who knows, you might be totally right and there is some kinda monster lurking around. I mean, crazier stuff has happened, eh? This town has had swarms of hungry insects eat everything in sight, been attacked by an ursa minor, and even seen some action from the pits of Tartarus itself. Heck, there’s a resident livin’ here that once grew a hundred feet tall and smashed half the place up after kidnapping that fashionista broad. The idea of a gooey psychopath runnin’ around is not that hard to wrap your brain around now, is it?” The Investigator conceded. Rags didn’t quite know how to respond. He had just been challenged and sympathized with by the same stallion within the same conversation. So he just nodded.

Before the Investigator could continue, a yelp of great concern popped into the air. “RAGS!” Nougat cried, sprinting as fast as his legs would take him towards his friend, disregarding the agitated shouts of the guards he barreled through. He skidded to a halt mere feet from colliding with Rags like a freight train.

“Where have you been!? They sent guards looking for you this morning! Y-Your house! What happened, man!? You alright!?” Nougat sputtered. Rags was surprised at his friend’s enthusiasm, considering the crowd around them, usually something that caused great duress to the pegasus. Though it brought great relief and thankfulness to Rags to see his loyal friend vehemently charging in to make sure he wasn’t harmed.

“It’s a long story, and the punchline is I almost died. But, uhm… I didn’t, so don’t worry about it,” Rags chuckled meekly with an obviously fake smile, trying to cover up the fear and consternation that still had him in its iron clutches. The Investigator, either from seeing that Rags needed time to cope or out of annoyance from being interrupted, took the opportunity to excuse himself.

“We’ll talk later. If anything unusual comes up, gimme a call,” the Investigator said flatly while giving the dishwasher his card and turned to make his leave. Rags caught him looking back for half a second with a scrutinizing leer.

“Looks like we found somebody who’s a bigger stick in the mud than you are, bro,” Nougat forcibly joked, trying to brighten his friend up. He got the feeling Rags wasn’t in the mood. “Hey, you ok? I mean, you said you almost died. What happened?”

“Like I said, Nougat, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you later, but first, I need to check into a hotel and grab a stiff drink,” Rags said sadly.

“Check into a hotel? Why?” Nougat idiotically asked. Rags shot him a deadpan glare, which the pegasus took several moments to catch onto. “Oh… right… Well, why don’t you come stay at my place?”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah! It’ll be like a sleepover! Except more masculine! And you’ll probably spend most of the time there drunk on the couch!” Nougat beamed.

“You got that right. Thanks, buddy. You always know just what to say to almost-victims of tar covered maniacs,” Rags said while giving his pal a pat on the shoulder. Nougat grinned at the good he had done, but then his face contorted into one of confusion.

“Wait, what?”

They started off for the pegasus’ hovel. Rags would first have to converse with the guards about his whereabouts, how things were going to be handled, and so on. But their destination was set nonetheless, and they’d be there soon enough.

5:00

The sun was beginning its slow descent when they reached Nougat’s humble abode. It wasn’t as nice as Rags’, but Nougat hadn’t worked as hard or for as long as the dishwasher has, so it was understandable. Besides, Rags didn’t have a place worth writing home about either, especially not in its current condition. But he was just thankful for his friend being one of the few pegasi to own a ground-based home in Town. He never asked him why though.

As they entered, Rags could smell signs of Nougat’s profession immediately, and could clearly see why his cutie mark was of a pile of assorted candies. The thick whiff of pastries flooded his nostrils and aroused his appetite. Nougat worked as an apprentice baker at the Sugarcube Corner, under the mentorship of a mare that Rags was none too fond of, Pinkie Pie. Rags found her to be annoyingly intrusive, annoyingly happy, and annoyingly…everything. She once threw a surprise party for Rags in his home, but stopped the practice very quickly thereafter when he gave her an irate earful about breaking and entering and minding her own business. How did she even know it was his birthday? He’d never even met her before that. Her expansive collection of data on everypony in town was...unnerving.

But Nougat seemed awfully happy with his job, particularly with working around the pink mare. He seemed to become very shifty when she was brought up in conversation, and he always came back from work in a saddened mood if she was out sick. Rags was sure that she was the one who Nougat had his eye on. While he didn’t quite approve of his friend’s taste in horrifically irritating mares, he still supported Nougat, yet he teased him relentlessly about it.

“So, bro, you asked Pinkie out?” Rags nonchalantly asked as they made their way into the kitchen. Nougat was taken severely off guard and nearly fell over himself but caught the edge of the counter just in time. He glared at Rags and tried to find the words to describe his seething rage.

“What’s it to you!?” Nougat settled on.

“It’s nothing to me, I just wanted to know how it was going.”

“It’s none of your business!” Nougat fired back.

“Okay, okay, yeesh, I was just messing with you,” Rags dismissed with a wave.

“Well go back to being traumatized or something!” Nougat spat. He reached into the fridge and pulled out two bottles of cider and begrudgingly thrusted one into Rags’ grasp.

Rags gave an infinitesimal smile. “Make no mistake, I still am. I’m just trying to ease the tension. I’m really trying not to think about it,” he said.

Nougat hadn’t noticed before, he wasn’t very observant, but he could now see that Rags’ stance was uneasy. He kept throwing glances to the window and he stood close to the drawer where he knew Nougat kept his kitchen knives. There was a slight tremble in his hoof as he took a gulp of cider.

Fearing that he might have crossed a line with his comment, Nougat risked the question, “So… what happened, anyway?”

Rags looked down to his bottle and sighed, “Let’s go sit in the living room. I’ll need a comfy chair for this.”

Rags told his story, not for the first time that day, and Nougat listened, adopting increasingly intense cringes as he did. When Rags finished, tears brimmed on the edges of his eyes. He already relived the memories several times for the ears of the law to hear, but this time, he was able to confide in someone who knew that he wouldn’t spin a false yarn for the sake of a hoax, and that knowledge somehow brought out emotions that made Rags feel childish releasing in front of another full grown stallion.

Nougat set his empty bottle on the messy coffee table covered in miscellaneous items between the two. He had hardly an inclination on how to respond. Rags and Nougat were far from the type to partake in drama. Despite Rags' overall negative attitude and the recent influx of existential bantering, which worried and annoyed Nougat to no end, they were a rather light hearted duo, barely ever succumbing into discussion of grave life matters. Hardly ever, in all the years they’ve known each other, have they shared real emotional moments beyond the occasional “moment of understanding,” as Nougat came to call them. Seeing his one and only buddy so crushed, fearful and completely defeated, made Nougat feel helpless. What could he do or say to assist the earth pony? Tell him it would be alright? Tell him not to worry? He had no response.

They sat in the waning orange sunlight of the early evening pouring through the window behind Nougat, casting a long shadow up to Rags’ chair. The latter looked to his friend, who sat perplexed and silent, and smiled. ‘Thanks, bro.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You listened. Sometimes that’s the best thing you can do for someone,” Rags chuckled. He stood from his chair and stretched. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“That I didn’t turn up for work this morning. My boss will have my head on a platter for that. I should be stressed. I should be worrying and freaking out. But I don’t even care, after last night. Let that chode whine, I say,” Rags confidently stated.

“What brought this on?” Nougat asked.

“I don’t even know. Like I said, I should be concerned, but I’m just kind of numb right now,” said Rags.

Nougat, thinking the mood was starting to brighten, seized the opportunity and cautiously joked, “Maybe it’s the feeling of triumph. You just avoiding a snarling psycho and dodged the Grim Reaper!”

“Yeah,” Rags agreed with chest puffed out, “I’m invincible! This is the start of my reign as a king!”

Nougat hopped from his seat and ecstatically added, “Now is your time! Climb the tree of life and guzzle it’s sweet nectar of victory!” At that moment, the two stallions, posing heroically on top of the coffee table and shouting war cries, noticed two mares walking by the window, looking at Rags and Nougat like they each had two heads. When they passed, the two looked at each other and absorbed the goofiness they had just participated in, and began laughing. They laughed harder than they had ever laughed at anything in their time as friends. They laughed so hard they rolled off the table and both cried out in pain as they hit their heads on the furniture around them. And then they laughed some more.

8:00

Later, after they had nickered and carried on about all manners of subjects, including jobs, alcohol and foalhood escapades, the sun touched the horizon as if preparing to pull back the covers and go to bed. Which was exactly what Nougat seemed to be getting ready for as well. He yawned a wide yawn and fought to keep his heavy eyes open.

Rags arched a brow, and inquired into this. “Are you tired already? It’s only 8:00! Pansy!”

Nougat yawned deeply again, “Yeah, that’s weird. I wasn’t really that tired a little while ago. I just feel,” he yawned, “exhausted, all of the sudden.”

“Trying to comfort a clinically depressed dishwasher will do that to a guy,” Rags said facetiously.

Nougat yawned again, “I mean, I’m really tired! Jeez, I can hardly keep my eyes open.” And he did not jest. His entire aura had gone from energetically jovial to riding low in the saddle in a flash. His lids fluttered in a vain attempt to keep him awake, but they were losing the battle. ‘Oh man,” he yawned, “I guess I’ll turn in. Goodnight, I suppose,” he mumbled as he began walking down the short hallway to his bedroom. Suddenly, he jolted and turned to Rags. “WAIT! I forgot to set up a place for you to sleep! Ok, uhm,” he swiveled around, looking for the answer, his sleepy brain completely uncooperative, “Oh! I know! You can take my bed!”

“Or, I could just get a blanket and take the couch,” Rags said, nodding to the sofa.

“You sure? I got an awesome bed. And a nightlight!”

“Ok, one, you still sleep with a nightlight? And two, you seem very excited about getting me in your bed,” Rags deadpanned.

“I was just trying to be nice. Why does every little nice thing I try and do for you have to be gay? Do you have something against gay ponies?”

“No, but if I was gay, I certainly wouldn’t be attracted to you,” Rags snarked.

“Whatevs, too tired to argue. Couch is yours. Blankets in the hallway closet. Goodnight,” Nougat said drowsily. He lurched and wobbled as he slowly but surely made his way into his bedroom and shut the door behind himself.

Rags laughed softly at his friend. He could not ask for a better one. Though he wasn’t entirely certain he appreciated him enough. Nougat extended such kindness without even the slightest hesitation. Rags vowed then and there, quietly and to himself, that he’d make it up to him one day. How he would do so, he didn’t know. Maybe he’d set him up on a date with the pink one. If he could tolerate being around her for long enough to set it up, that is.

With contentment in his heart, he ventured to the closet and retrieved the wooliest, most comfortable blanket he could find. Upon coming back to the living room, Rags found himself observing his surroundings for the first time, and was mortified. The place was a mess. Trash covered the table, several pairs of socks were draped over the chair Nougat sat in earlier (he tried not to think about that too much), and pastry crumbs littered the carpeted floor. He huffed, not willing to tolerate such uncouth untidiness. Perhaps this would be a good way to start repaying Nougat.

Almost as if it were an intrinsic trait, he set his blanket down and searched for cleaning utensils and garbage bags to deal with the mess.

8:30

Cleanliness is close to godliness was the philosophy that Rags had lived by all his life… though it wasn’t one he necessarily adopted of his own accord. The point is that he was a whiz at picking up after others. And after he was done with Nougat’s living room, it was practically sparkling. Not a single spec of uncleanness anywhere in sight. He stood and admired his work, mocking dirt, and daring it to set its nasty little dirt feet into the room, so that he may smite it with extreme prejudice.

As he cleaned, he noticed a few things that were very peculiar about the room. For starters, there were no pictures on the walls. Not a single photo of family, important life events, or even a self-portrait. A small black book lay under one of the cushions on the sofa, containing a list of phone numbers, most scratched out and marked off, with the names of mares Rags had seen around town beside them. From the looks of it, Nougat was highly involved in the process of acquiring a significant other. Love was a large blip on his radar of life, to a near obsessive degree, apparently.

Rags was slightly frightened, but more so when he spotted a ghastly sight. The blinds on the window were left open, making visible a portal to the vast realm of darkness that was the outside. He knew he was safe within the home, but images of the thing flashed in his mind, filling his head with paranoid fantasies centered around the open window. He gulped down his reservations, and set to closing the shades.

A cold sweat broke out as he inched his way to the glass, taking small baby steps. When he was within range, he peeked his head up onto the windowsill, and scanned the outer world for anything suspicious. The streets were caked with darkness, only the occasional streetlamp providing a pockmark of light in the blanket of black. The moon, that watchful guardian over Rags, made a valiant effort to penetrate the darkness with its light, but only succeeded to the extent that objects in the darkness were made somewhat darker than the things around them, creating silhouettes that just barely allowed Rags to tell where things were at.

Spotting no murderers or hockey-mask wearing chefs ready to make some horse steak, Rags felt ease wash over him. He reached up to the cord and gave a tug, getting ready to release the string and drop the blinds. Before he did, he stopped to eyeball a shape in the dark outside. With squinted eyes, he could make out the figure of a mare, strolling down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Exhaling a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, Rags let the blinds drop. Shrugging off the episode of paranoia, he stepped back over to the couch.

He pulled back the blanket and squirmed into the pocket of warmth between the covers and the couch cushions. Though it was fairly early by his standards, he might as well just go to bed, he thought. There was nothing left for him to clean and Nougat was already asleep so chewing the fat with him for several hours was no longer an option. Besides, he could use a full eight hours for once. It would be the best sleep he’d gotten in a while. He extended a hoof from under his blanket and flipped the switch of the lamp on the small table beside the couch, submerging himself in darkness.

9:00

Before he could close his eyes and fall into sleep, he was aroused by a rattling noise. The sounds of objects in the dark vibrating and dancing. He flipped the switch of the lamp again, providing light for him to see what was happening. Sure enough, every small object that wasn’t nailed down was trembling, shaking as if a train was passing by the house.

Then came the ear splitting scream.

The bloodcurdling howls of a mare in unfathomable pain, so loud that Rags wondered if his eardrums were pierced. The scream came from outside, but was clear as day. The mare walking down the sidewalk came to mind. He didn’t know what to make of it, though. This was too loud to be a pony.

Rags sprang up and hopped over to the window, throwing up the blinds with great quickness to search for the troubled female. But what he found instead was that he was the one in trouble.

Under the flickering luminescence of a street lamp on the sidewalk in front of the window was a ghoulish hag, looking starved as her pale skin was stretched tightly over her twisted and malformed bones. Her snow-white mane and tail thrashed about like a cluster of angry snakes. Tears of blood trickled from the place where her eyes should have been. Most horrifying of all was the gaping orifice of blackness that was her mouth, elongated like the unhinged maw of a python. The rim of its depths vibrated from the continuous agonizing wail

His veins ran cold with the most frigid of ices. Hot tears of terror seeped down his face. Every hair on his body stood on end. He recognized this thing. He had seen it before. In his childhood, he was fascinated by the supernatural and got books from the library on the subject of mythical creatures. Most of it was malarkey, created to keep children indoors at night. But one image always stuck with him from one of the books, vivid and clear as day. And now it came to him.

The creature before him was the spitting image of a banshee, whose shrieks foretold imminent death.

Rags screamed, his own fearful yells drowned out by the increasingly intense wails of the wraith. The window cracked and the street lamp flickered out, and the creature’s cries vanished with the light. The light returned shortly after, but the banshee was gone. Rags stood stock still, bugged out eyes darting this way and that, searching for the horror. The darkness seemed even thicker than before. To his everlasting disbelief and his eternal dread, into the light stepped a slimy black hoof, dripping with glistening tar.

No.

A gnarled figure coated in slime shambled fully into view, red eyes, or rather eye, boring into Rags like a beam of magic energy from the horn of the sun goddess herself, glowing with pure, boiling, fury.

Please no.

Rags must have been dreaming a horrid dream, because several similar figures followed suit, all equally filled with rage. The twisted ponies, mares and stallions alike, glared at Rags from the place under the lamp. Behind them, Rags could see a multitude of ruby eyes seemingly pop into existence, searing anger in all of them as they watched from the darkness, weapons dimly glinting with the insufficient light of the lamp. It was an entire mob of tar-ponies. Returning also was the several voices of the thing that would forever haunt his nightmares. The voices of foals, mares, colts, all coming from the same throat of the wounded cyclops from the previous night, spoke in some form of garbled language.

“.mih lliK”

A bolt of energy chased a rabbit through Rags and he tore himself away from the window, just in time as a shadow burst through the glass with a demonic hiss, rolling several feet and knocking over the lamp, consequently bringing darkness to the room. Rags plodded down the hall and nearly tumbled into Nougat’s bedroom.

“NOUGAT! WAKE UP!” Rags urged, slamming the door behind him just as a tar-pony tossed itself into it. Rags, with his body pressed against the door, looked to the sleeping Nougat with frantic and shrunken pupils. No, something was wrong. There was no sleeping Nougat. There wasn’t any kind of Nougat. An empty and disheveled bedspread met Rags’ pleas. That answered a few questions, none of which he could process now as the few precious seconds of reprieve ticked away and it was time to make his escape, with the cracking and snapping of the door frame acting as an alarm clock.

He desperately looked around the room for a means of escape, the only worthy one being the window above Nougat’s empty bed, leading to a space in between his house and his neighbor’s home. The upper half of the door caved inwards and tar-ponies began scraping and scratching at the barrier and each other, trying to get a foothold to hoist themselves into the room. With no time to fiddle with opening the latched window like a civilized pony, Rags did something quicker, but more primitive and dangerous. The panicked earth pony leaped onto the bed and propelled himself into the window with enough force to rival the beasts behind him. Glass cut his flesh, opening three large gashes on his back.

He hissed in pain as he plopped on the ground, but never stopped moving. The monsters were closing in on him, and couldn’t spare a millisecond dawdling. He jumped to his hooves and ran out from between the buildings and onto the street, never sparing a look back in case the tar-ponies acted as quickly as he did and were already in pursuit.

He huffed and coughed, running as fast as he could go down the street.

Again. It’s happening again!

Rags’ mind was reeling from the adrenalin surging through his body. He could hardly think of anything besides the primal instinct to run as far away from the danger as possible. He threatened his brain with idiotic, brain cell killing activities if it didn’t formulate a plan, a strategy, a better option than running blindly through town. Anything!

He ran for four minutes, gaining a burst of speed when he heard the sounds of hungry creatures rallying behind him. His lungs already began burning and air was becoming a rare commodity. Before he knew it, he was nearing the marketplace and exhaustion. He could hardly believe that he’d been able to run so fast. A horde of hell beasts giving chase would give one such prowess, he reckoned.

He asked himself why he was running to the market, and found that he couldn’t adequately answer it. He had no scheme in mind. He was just running. The market was what was ahead of him, so he ran there.

He rounded the corner of the final block before the marketplace and dug his hooves harshly into the ground to stop his forward momentum when he witnessed the sight ahead. Among the nest of kiosks, in the dim light of the moon and the street lamps, were dozens more tar-ponies, bumbling about among the stands. They hadn’t seen him yet, but the mob behind him would surely alert them upon arrival.

It was all he could do to reign in his terrified thoughts and control his mind long enough to make his next move. With delicate steps, he ducked down and inched his way to the closest kiosk, praying that the tar-ponies would continue meandering without any purpose and wouldn’t turn their heads his way. Staying as quiet, low, and quick as possible, he finally made it to the first kiosk and slid under the counter. If it weren’t for the circumstances, the meagre 15 yards he traveled would be nothing to write home about.

He assumed that since he wasn’t being dragged out by the tail and broken in half, he hadn’t been spotted.The earth rumbled as a nebulous rabble of angered shadows charged down the street Rags had been on not but a few moments ago. The tar-ponies awkwardly swaying around the market snapped their attention to their brethren and ran off to join the fray, thinking the mob had the prey in sight.

Rags waited, watching several stragglers chase after the crowd. When the last few seemed to have gone, he tentatively stuck his head out from under the counter. Seeing no lingering threats, he slithered out away from the kiosk, and into the cover of a fancier one nearby with a tent. In the darkness of the tent, he sat nearly hyperventilating.The screams of enraged monstrosities perforated the night. It was so odd to Rags how so many different sounds could come from the mouths of the tar-ponies. Some screeches sounded furious and bloodthirsty, while others sounded almost mournful. No matter their variety, they filled the air with a constant stream of unnatural noise.

What… what’s going on? Where is everyone? Why is this happening too me? How did they find me? Have they been watching? How did they all get here? When? Why are they trying to kill me!? I don’t know what-- I just-- I can’t-- I DON’T KNOW! I don’t know what is going on! I don’t know what to do! There are more of them! I’m going to die! I’m going to die here! I’m going to--

NO! SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP, ME! Stop panicking! Just think! I may not know what’s happening, but I know what we can do! We can stop bellyaching and start focusing on getting out of this alive! Ok, let’s take this one step at a time. We can do this, Rags.

The powerful voice of tenacity in his head calmed to a more soothing, comforting level.

Alright, now let’s look at what we know. All this crazy crap only seems to happen after dark, and it looks like everyone vanishes at night. So I have a feeling that the best chance we’ve got is waiting for daylight. I don’t see why daylight would ward these things off, but I can’t think of anything better, so get off my back! NO! Calm, Rags!

He took a deep breath.

So the plan is to wait for the morning. Cool, cool. So what’s the subplan? We need to figure out a way to survive until then. Lemme think for a second…

The sound of wheezing breath and dragging hooves outside the tent stopped his brain, and he held his breath while the unseen foe lurched away. Once the danger passed, he went right back to thinking.

Weapons? Should we even bother? Those things outnumber us and they’re pretty strong individually. I don’t think just grabbing up a bat and wading into battle is a very smart idea, especially not with my wormy physique. Or maybe it is? Why shouldn’t we arm ourselves? A crowbar or a knife to the face would buy us some time, I’d wager.

But that’s not as important. If I find suitable weapon, I’ll grab it. Higher up on the list is hiding. We need to hole up somewhere. Will anywhere do? No, I’ve seen quite a few horror movies and read enough books to know that in the case of an overrun town, it’s always best to get away from populated areas. Is that why I didn’t get any fallout at Sweet Apple Acres, yesterday? Wait, the farm! Of course! Why didn’t I come back to that thought sooner!? It’s out of the way and they’ll probably have some farm equipment we could use as a weapon! Oh man, I hope that AJ chick doesn’t mind that we’re about to turn her farm into a fort. Hold on, have I been referring to myself as ‘us’ and ‘we’ this whole time? I am definitely not making it out of this with all of my marbles.

More wheezing breaths loomed outside the kiosk, followed by sharp intakes of air through nostrils. The thing growled, “...raef ruoy llems nac I”

Crap! Is it sniffing me out!?They can do that!?

Rags felt a warm sensation on his back. He touched a hoof to his lumbar region and was met with a sharp sting. He brought it to his face and made out some kind of thick, dark ooze stained on it. Tar? Mud? Hesitantly, he tasted the substance, tastebuds labelling it as coppery and metallic. Blood. He was bleeding profusely. Was that the smell the thing was detecting?

Great, now what do I do about that?

The wheezing became louder.

I gotta move!

With the utmost discretion, Rags lifted the back flap of the tent and skittered into a dark alley behind the kiosk. With remarkable stealth, he zipped through the alleys, silently bounding over trash and watching for broken glass and other noisy discarded odds and ends. He didn’t know exactly where he should be running, but he knew that he just had to get to the farm somehow.

After covering an acre’s worth of buildings, he reached the end of the alley he’d been running in and found a rather open stretch of space where a small collection of tar-ponies patrolled in random patterns. Privately owned businesses, establishments, and more expensive housing encircled an area with a large tree, decorated with furnishings and sporting a couple of windows and a large red door, jutting out of the center. The Library. Nothing of relevant use to be found within, unless Twilight happened to posses a book along the lines of ‘how to become a monster killer in five minutes or less,’ or, ‘how to stitch up cuts you got because you were an impulsive moron.’

Across from him was a road that led to the main bridge into and out of Ponyville. Beyond that was the outskirts of town, where a few more rural residences could be found. Rags analyzed the situation and rubbed his chin in contemplation.

With a little bit of finesse, I could get into the outskirts. I would have a better chance for survival out there, I think. I’d be willing to bet that these things will stay behind and keep searching town, if I can sneak out unseen that is.

It was a shot in the dark. There was no telling what the outskirts would hold for him. But he couldn’t stay in town, that was undeniable. He caught sight of bright red in his peripherals and retracted himself back into the shadows of the alley, narrowly avoiding being seen by the angry eyes of a tar-pony. Whilst hunkered down, he did his best to concoct a decent distraction. With a quick once over of the trash before him, all he found to be of any practicality was an empty cider bottle. If he could hurl it with enough force, maybe it would be a suitable distraction.

He grasped it firmly and scootched as far as he was willing to get out of the shadows, maximizing the range of the bottle. He paused to breathe. He would have to run like the wind as soon as the bottle touched down. There was no room for error here. If he was spotted on the way out, there was no way he would be able to lose the tar-ponies. With the mob already agitated, they wouldn’t let him out of their sight again after they’d already lost him once.

Mustering his reserve, he stretched his forearm out behind him and got ready for the toss. Just as he funneled the power into his arm, he halted himself. A window on the library caught his attention. He concentrated on it for a moment, then looked to the bottle in his hoof. He dropped it and rummaged around through the garbage again, searching for a better solution. At last, he found it. A hefty brick. Before he could second guess himself, he got into position and sent the brick sailing through the air, the hardened clay gracefully twirling and spinning in a delicate dance before gracelessly crashing through the library window, creating even more ruckus once inside.

The tar-ponies all immediately alighted to the tree, the sound seeming to take a moment to register with them. One brayed demonically and rushed to the library, the rest mimicking that one’s actions. They piled around the door and tore into it, smashing the barrier into splinters within seconds, and pushed and shoved each other for access. The distraction worked perfectly. Rags made his move.

Rocketing out of the alley while drawing as little attention as possible, Rags ran straight across to the main road and set his course for the outskirts. He chanced a look back to see his plan working even better than he thought it would. The tar-ponies all fought for entry into the library, believing their prey was the one making noise on the inside. Rags was flummoxed by the unpredictable behavior of the beasts. They were intelligent enough to speak some kind of evil language and use weapons like knives and clubs, but at the same time they seemed to fall for the most simplistic of tricks and red herrings. Their senses also seemed to be dulled, allowing Rags to sneak by where he shouldn’t have been allowed to. Not that he didn’t appreciate the lucky break.

They were all inside the tree now, and an unearthly yowl emanated from within. They might have fallen for it in the first place, but they were apparently smart enough to at least figure out when they’d been had. Rags didn’t think it wise to wait around for them to come out so he could mock their stupidity. He summoned his inner wonderbolt and dashed away into the outskirts.

Once over the bridge, Rags felt that he was out of the frying pan, but he had yet to deduce whether or not he had stepped into the fire. As he ran, he could swear that he saw glimpses of a dark mare watching him from the distance, from behind trees, rocks, and bushes. It wasn’t like the screaming ghoul from earlier, but somehow seemed more sinister. The figment was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He couldn’t describe it, but he didn’t like it.

Worse yet, he heard things coming from the fields of tall grass and flowers on either side of him. Giggles of amused foals. There would be a subtle rustling, then the nigh inaudible, but unmistakable, snicker of foals. They weren’t pleasant, joyful laughs of innocence, but sadistic chortles of malevolence in a child’s voice. Rags dared not venture off the road.

Rags passed cottages and rural homes, humble little cozy huts that were so inviting and warming from the outside, but not without the same whiff of evil that the night brought to everything else. Occasionally Rags would spy a window illuminated by candlelight, with shadows of ponies inside. But the shadows were wrong. The silhouettes were all manners of unsettling, ranging from waving cheerfully at Rags, to shadows of ponies hung by the neck, lifeless corpses dangling by a rope from the ceiling. One depicted a mare getting stabbed repeatedly by a stallion, dark shadows of blood splattering the window.

He tried not to focus on the surroundings. So far, all that the gruesome phenomenons were doing was frightening him. As long as they weren’t attacking, he could overcome the creepy occurrences. Rags knew the landscape, even if distorted by the darkness, very well. He played all around town and in the meadows as a child. Whenever he wasn’t working, that is. The next right turn would take him past the Carousel Boutique and straight to the apple farm.

Coming up was the workplace of the famous fashionista of Ponyville, the Carousel Boutique. One would think that such an establishment should be closer to town, but the idea was to catch travelers on their way into or out of the village. Rags payed no mind, keeping his target of the farm in mind. But then he stopped, standing before the palace of fashionable wears, and stared at it intently.

You know, working around all of that fabric must necessitate the use of sharp implements. Perhaps I could... just take a peek inside… maybe pick up a pair of scissors, and… No! Bad Rags! You don’t know what could be in there. The farm isn’t too far away, just keep moving.

And so he did. Or at least tried to. After taking a few steps, he looked to the horizon to see the outline of a tar-pony standing on a hill, scanning the fields. He dove into a bush to avoid detection.

Those scissors are sounding pretty tempting right about now.

What would you do to those things with a dinky little pair of scissors?

Well, it’s better than nothing. Besides, who knows what else I could use them for?

Am I talking to myself in my head again? I’m trippin’ balls.

Yeah, you kinda are.

Stop that.

He crept out of the shrubbery and crawled to the door of the boutique. He slowly and silently pushed the door open, eased his way in, and silently shut it behind him. He stood fully upright, sighed contently, and turned to the interior of the room. And he immediately regretted coming in.

The mannequins the seamstress was known for working with were all lined up in rows on both sides of the room. They were desecrated, peppered with pins, needles, and scissors. They looked like pincushions. It was like some madpony grabbed up everything in the building with a point on it and harshly jabbed it into the dummies. Streaks of blood oozed from the gashes and wounds and dripped onto the floor at a steady pace and pooled around the stands holding the figurines up.

Rags was about to soil himself. He wasn’t comfortable with mannequins as it was, but now? He was surprised he kept it together as well as he did. He gulped down his reservations and slowly began walking around the room, searching for a suitable weapon, always keeping an eye on the dummies. As if he were tiptoeing around a sleeping giant, he made his way around the store, softly opening drawers and cabinets, looking for anything that would pierce rotten flesh. He came across a saddlebag that he didn’t think looked too expensive, and picked it up, hoping the seamstress wouldn’t notice this specific bag was missing. His search left him with no stabbing tools though, and his only remaining option was to pluck a weapon out of one of the mangled mannequins.

Like a child about to steal from the cookie jar, he shifted on his hoofs and eased up to the closest mannequin, the middle one in the row. Taking his time, he grasped the biggest pair of scissors he could find and gave them a quick tug, but they wouldn’t budge. He tugged harder and they still held fast to the dummy’s forehead. He used both forearms and gave one last herculean pull, finally dislodging the tool from the skull and unleashing a gush of blood from the gash. As soon as he did this, the rest of them came to life and turned their heads towards him, staring at him with featureless faces.

He squeaked and froze, waiting for their next move. But it never came. They were all motionless once again. He exhaled, relaxed his tense muscles, and turned to leave, coming face to face with a mannequin inches from him, poised to kill with a brandished pair of gory scissors.

He gasped so hard he was unable to scream. He ran towards the exit, hardly able to get any air in his lungs from his frightened, rapid breathing. He made it outside and spun around to shut the door, thinking the malevolent dummies would be where he last saw them. Yet he was horribly wrong. The mannequins were all crowded around the threshold, stuck in statuesque poses with various sharp tools raised and ready to raze flesh.

Rags slammed the door, took a few steps back, and fell onto his withers, the mannequins evidently giving up the chase after their last attempt. He didn’t get back on task right away, feeling the need for a rest. He shut his eyes and whimpered once or twice, wanting desperately to wake up from the nightmare. He just wanted it all to go away when he opened his eyes. His wish went unfulfilled. He wondered how much more he would be able to take. How much stress could a pony get from events such as these before they just collapsed? Before they were broken? How would anyone be able to cope after they’d seen these things?

He clenched his teeth and stood up, forcing himself to press on. Answers. They were what he needed. In much the same way he needed clarity in life, he now needed clarity on these strange happenings. And the only way to even have a chance of getting those answers was to survive until the morning. At the very least, that would answer his theory on whether or not the monsters would disappear with the coming of the sun. Answers were his drive, and he would do everything in his power to get them.

He stuffed the scissors in his bag and hesitantly put one hoof in front of the other and set his sights on the farm once again. The farm was his ticket to survival, and therefore his ticket to answers. He was going to make it there even if it killed him. Which might very well be the case…

It was a tiring trek, and several times he needed to think on his hooves and act quickly to avoid confrontation with the random tar-ponies that wandered the fields. Once he was actually spotted by one of the wretches, but it was hundreds of yards away and by the time it had gotten to where it had last seen him, he had already found a hiding place in a ditch. The creature was livid with this failure, and ran howling down the road back towards the town. Rags worried that the incident would come back to bite him.

When he had gotten to the farm, it was the middle of the night, with daybreak still a great deal of time away. The moon loomed above, formerly a beacon of hope for Rags, now a symbol of the deadly night. The stars were like freckles in the sky, sometimes being blocked out by a passing cloud. A cool breeze swept over the plains and in between the trees, making the leaves and grass shimmer in the moonlight as they swayed.

He was tired and out of breath, his legs felt like giving out beneath him, and his coat was sticky with sweat. Even with this exhaustion, he kept on high alert, head always on a swivel, eyes carefully taking in everything. When he felt that the surroundings were secure, he focused on his target, the farm. He stood on a hill a few hundred yards away, leaving him in the perfect position for scouting the place out.

He saw no immediate threats. No tar-ponies, no demented mannequins, nothing. Just a scarecrow propped up in the front yard of the house. He surveyed the land around him once more, making sure he would not be blindsided. Nothing. This should have pacified him, but he only got more tense. Where were all of the horrors that were so plentiful not too long ago?

He decided not to give them a chance to show up and descended down the hill. He bounded over the white picket fence that designated the property as that of the Apple family’s, and weaved through the trees. He didn’t use the front entrance to the farm out of fear of making himself too big of a target. He prefered the cover the apple trees provided.

The wind blew through the treetops and brought the familiar rustling sound of lush branches in the wind. It was such a gentle, calming noise, putting Rags in a state of peace as he walked under them. He felt safe, at this point in time, like the farm and its acres of fruit bearing trees were a haven. The gust picked up and the rustling turned sharper, more defined, almost like voices.

As he walked, the sound grew more intense. At first he attributed it to the increasing winds, but then he noticed that the wind had actually died down. The sound was becoming louder. No longer did it sound like the rattling of leaves and branches. Now it sounded like whispering. It started out a quiet murmur, slowly pitching into almost discernable speak. The feeling of peace was lost on Rags, replaced with a growing sense of dread. He hurried his pace into a trot, then a gallop. It was all around him now. Ragged whispers coming from everywhere.

“You should not be here.”

Rags’ heart skipped a beat as these words reached his ear. He stopped and listened, trying to pinpoint the speaker. More whispered words came from seemingly nowhere.

“Run for your life.”

“Flee.”

“You will be eaten by the damned.”

“You intrude in the garden.”

“They will drag you to the place with no light.”

“They hunger for your fear.”

Rags was becoming disgruntled with not being able to see the source of the hushed speak. It almost seemed to come from above him, but all he saw were the leaves of the trees highlighted in moonlight and the silhouettes of plump apples hanging from the tree. Something cold and sticky struck him in the eye as he gazed upwards. As he was wiping it away with his forearm, another droplet dripped onto his head.

“Leave this place.”

Rags’ face turned to shock as he realized what was happening. Slowly, not wanting to be right, he looked up to the apples again. He stared at them as his eyes adjusted. When they did, he found that they weren’t apples, but severed heads, hanging from the branches, blood dripping from their eviscerated necks. The milky-white dead eyes of a stallion shot open and the head whispered harshly, “Get out of here!”

Rags’ skin turned to gooseflesh as he backed away and frantically bolted out of the wood. When he exited the treeline, the farmhouse sit directly ahead of him, with the barn to the right. Again, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but then again, neither did the trees from a distance. He was still as he surveyed the area once again, double checking for unruly beasts. Again, nothing. Not even the sound of angry roars in the distance like what he had been hearing all night. Just the same scarecrow sitting in the yard.

He progressed forward with tentative steps. He made a list of all the places that would be likely to contain tools that could double as effective weapons on the farm. The barn was where he would look first.

I wonder how many more times I’m going to come to this barn before this is over.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a crow cawed behind him from a nearby fence post. When he figured out what happened, he chuckled at his scaredy-cat tendencies. Another crow landed beside the first. Then another. Then on top of the barn. Then on the limb of a nearby tree. Crows conjugated all around him at a disturbing rate. One landed on Rags’ flank squawked, almost as if greeting him. Then it pecked him.

“Ow.”

A harder peck.

“OW!”

A final, blood drawing peck.

Rags cursed and swatted at the feathered aggressor, but the bird flew off before he could land a blow. It landed atop the scarecrow and Rags was taken over by the feeling of a terrible epiphany.

That scarecrow wasn’t there before. And it didn’t belong in the yard.

The stuffed and stitched figure glared at Rags from under the brim of its stetson, its pupils pinpricks of red in a sea of blackness. It wore denim overalls and a tattered shirt underneath, sewn stitches running over the course of its body, trails of blood and tar-like slime leaking through them. It twisted and snapped the bonds holding it to the post, and landed in a way that suggested it had no joints. It balanced itself on straw hooves... no, not straw. The sprigs moved and writhed. Worms. It was filled with maggots, not straw! It returned its focus to Rags and raised a forearm to him, signalling its flock to begin their assault.

They fluttered all around him in a tornado of feathery fury, swooping down and swiping at him from every angle. They tore away patches of fur and tangles of mane, every so often scoring a peck that warranted a bloody trickle. Rags covered his head with one hoof and used the other three to escape the torment. He barreled into the barn and slammed the doors, only a scant few avian agitators making it in with him. In smaller numbers they were far less of a threat, only cawing madly at him as they circled around the interior of the barn.

He fell to the dirt out of fatigue, but remembered that the barn had windows and doors on the upper portion that the birds could fly through. He sprang up and darted around the room, trying to find every single opening to the outside that would allow the crows to continue their onslaught. Lady luck finally smiled down on him for once this night, as everything was shut securely.

Well, looks like hiding out here is a bust. Now I’ve really gotta find a weapon.

He scrutinized the interior and noted a cellar door hanging open. He slinked over to it and saw a light in the room below. He cautiously descended the steps and was dumbstruck as he entered the light. Ferocious looking farm tools littered the wall ahead. Scythes, shovels, mallets, pitchforks, and hoes all glittered under the dim light of a lantern. Lady luck was feeling pretty generous.

He expected to find something useful, but nothing like this. It was the best thing to happen to him all night. Adopting a determined expression, he snatched up the scythe and the leather straps that went with it that allowed for earth pony use. Attaching the wicked device to himself and taking the bit in his mouth, he was now equipped to properly defend himself.

The scythe was cumbersome and awkward, with a shaft nearly six feet long running along the length of his body in a way that allowed a non-unicorn pony to still swing it while granting optimal power. The blade was two feet long and sharpened to a deadly degree, but maneuvering the blade was just as inelegant a process as it was to hold the tool. He briefly considered switching for another, more accessible, weapon, but the nasty blade was just too tempting to pass up. Surely, the lethal-looking scythe would be the most potent tool he could use.

He unhooked a lantern from the low hanging ceiling and took it with him as he ran back up into the main portion of the barn. There, with maybe just a hint of madness about him, he plotted out his next move.

Tapping and scratching noises came from the outside. The crows were relentless. He didn’t know how he’d deal with them, but one thing was for sure: the first pony-sized monster to set a hoof in the barn would be cut down like wheat. He set the lantern down on a nearby barrel and climbed the ladder to the loft. He wanted to have eyes on the outside so as not to be caught off guard by any unsuspected threats. He made his way over to the loft doors, boards creaking under his hoofs as he walked, and cracked one open.

The murder of crows still encircled the barn, angry blurs of motion cawing indignantly. Through it all he could see the scarecrow, now slowly approaching the structure with a pitchfork pointed menacingly in Rags’ direction. A crow saw Rags peeking outside and tried to squeeze through the crack in the door, but was met with a hoof to the beak. He shut the egress and ventured back down to the lower level.

He had no clue what to do next. The demons knew where he was, so there was no hiding. The flock was waiting for him to emerge, so there was no running. His only choice looked to be a war of attrition. The sun would be raised in a little over five hours. All he had to do was hold out against a bunch of birdbrains and a freaky doll with a pitchfork until the day. Easy enough.

The barn door cracked and splintered as sharpened iron prongs ripped through them. They left a head-sized hole as they were torn out of the wood, and peering through it was the scarecrow. Rags and it glared at each other for a moment, like combatants bowing before a fight, and then the scarecrow got back to work on the door. Rags chomped down on the bit and took a stance. With a few more thrusts, the hole was now torso sized, and the scarecrow contorted and bent in ways nothing should be able to and managed to squirm through the crevice.

As it maneuvered its way through the hole, the crows forced their way past the scarecrow. Birds squeezed by the doll and into the room, spewing out from around the scarecrow like dark blood spurting out from around a leech digging into a cut. When the creature dropped into the barn, the crows now had free reign to fly in, creating a gushing flow of black feathers. They swirled around, cawing like mad, but not attacking. They instead perched atop the rafters and stared daggers at Rags with their beady red eyes. It was almost as if they held back for their master to make the kill. They acted as an audience to the coming clash.

The scarecrow picked itself up and leveled its merciless eyes and threatening pitchfork at Rags.

This is it, Rags! There’s no running this time! No place to hide! It’s time to nut up!

The silent foe lurched forward and attempted to run him through, but Rags sidestepped just in time. With its body outstretched in a position of vulnerability, he saw his opening, and he swung the scythe with all the force he could put into it. The blade was unwieldy in his inexperienced grasp, and to swing it accurately required him to twist in a painful way.

But luck was still with him, as his strike was true and hit its target. The scarecrow’s neck made a sickening fleshy sound as it was detached from the head, and worms lolled out of the headless body.

The cranium went rolling when it hit the ground and stopped with the expressionless face turned upwards. The body staggered and twitched, seemingly unaware that it was supposed to be dead. Never having worked a field with a scythe, Rags put too much force into his swing and overshot his target. The blade lodged into the soil, and he pulled and yanked on it in an effort to free it. When he jerked it loose, his backward momentum sent him stumbling back until he hit a wall.

He sat slumped against the wooden planks panting, relaxation washing over him. He closed his eyes, intending to revel in the opportunity to just sit in silence with no impending doom breathing down his neck.

His eyelids flew open at the sound of hoofsteps coming his way. He looked up and gawked at the headless, worm-ridden body shuffling towards him, pitchfork still latched to the torso by straps similar to Rags’. It threw itself at him; the dishwasher flinched out of the way in the knick of time as the prongs lodged into the wood behind him. He kicked both hind legs into its chest and sent it bumbling back. The body shivered and shook again before reacquiring its prey and continuing forward.

Rags tried to comprehend how this was possible, and was appalled to see the decapitated head of the scarecrow still gazing at him from the ground with those emotionless red dots. He didn’t have an adequate backup plan for fighting such a durable ghoul. He could only think of one thing to do - keep slashing it until it stopped.

The body came at him again like a raging bull, and again Rags dodged the jab. As it rushed past him, he awkwardly swung at its back legs, missing as it careened past him. It was obvious why his special talent didn’t involve scythes. It came again and he attempted the same strategy, somehow landing a successful hit on the back legs, taking both off at once. The upper half fell forward into the ground, but pushed itself up on its front legs.

Even with two missing legs and no head, it determinedly dragged itself at Rags. With its decreased speed, he had an easier time maneuvering around it. He slashed again, this time turning his whole body with the scythe as he cut through the air. This technique was not pretty or skilled, but it proved to be more effective than what he was doing before.

His strike chopped off the two front legs, putting an end to its mobility once and for all. Then he stabbed the thing in the torso with a downwards slash, through where its heart should have been. He hacked the thing over and over, the worms inside making repulsive squelching sounds as they were massacred. He put as much energy as he could into a final slice, grunting as he did so, adding a sense of finality to the battle. His carelessness again got the blade stuck in the soil beneath the body, and he harshly tugged on it with a growl. Similar to the last time his weapon was stuck, his backward momentum made him fall onto his rump once it was freed. From this position, he could observe the end result of the struggle.

He might have won, but he did not succeed in killing it. The parts of the scarecrow twitched and squirmed, still trying to find a way to kill Rags even when dismembered and ripped open. Upon seeing the scarecrow fall, the crows all began cawing like mad, and descended from their high perches. They circled the body before diving on to it, pecking savagely at the shredded worms oozing out of the scarecrow’s lacerations. Even with these birds devouring its innards, the scarecrow’s parts still writhed, and its eyes still remained glued to Rags.

The stallion gagged at it all. At the sight before him, at the thought of something wanting so badly to kill him, and at the act he just committed. He knew it wasn’t a pony, he knew it was for survival, but the fact of the matter was that he just sliced and diced a creature like he was some kind of psycho from a slasher film.

As he watched the scarecrow spasm under the carnivorous flock, he realized that he found an answer to one of his questions from earlier. How does a pony cope with all of this? The answer is: they don’t. He would never get over this. No matter how hard he would try, no matter how talented the shrink, no matter how much medication he consumed, the things that happened to him tonight would always be with him, attached to his brain like a tumor, eating away at his sanity. The dishwasher's hooves would forever be dirtied by brutality, by cruel acts of destruction that he would be reminded of whenever he cleaned. Tears streamed down his face as he sat down, staring at his sullied hooves. Tears of fear, of loneliness, of stress, of knowledge of what the future would bring. He knew that the annihilated scarecrow would only be the first of many more.

The night was still young, after all.

Rags stood in the threshold of the open barn door, taking in breaths of fresh air. The crows had all lost their vigor when the they had their fill of their master, and now either sat idly by or had flown out of the barn and into the dark of the eventide. He marveled at the serenity of it all. If another pony had reappeared from wherever they had all gone at this particular moment, they would think that it was simply a stunningly beautiful night. He thought about the farm he occupied and the Apples that lived there. It must be so amazing to be able to live out in such lovely country and do what you love for a living, he thought. This made him think about what would happen if he made it out alive. Would he go back to work as a dishwasher at the diner? He hardly wanted that to be the case.

He inhaled one last gulp of air before shutting the doors and returning to the interior. The smoldering remains of the scarecrow warmed the surrounding space. He set it ablaze utilizing the lantern, finally putting an end to its existence. He sat down nearby and let the macabre source of heat warm him. Before he burned the squirming remains, he used the scissors he got from earlier, cut cloth off the scarecrow’s attire, and used it for bandaging his wounds. He hadn’t had any idea that he’d lost so much blood until he got a good look at the bags resting over his back and saw that they were soaked with dark red. He had no real medical expertise, but he suspected that was part of the reason he was so weak.

His expression solemn, his heart weak, and his mind hazy with sleep deprivation, he waited patiently for that glorious fireball to rise into the sky and save him. He would not have to wait much longer, as the eastern sky was beginning to brighten. His rescue was just over the hill.

And something else was too. He heard something coming from over the hill. It started out low, a dull roar, but was steadily growing. As it neared, he could identify it. He quickly grabbed the scythe and checked all of the entrances and openings the barn had and made sure that they were shut firmly and locked up. He stacked boxes and barrels and whatever else he could find in front of the hole in the door and barricaded it. Then he waited. The roar came into the Apple property, shaking the loam beneath Rags’ quivering hooves. It spread over everything, consuming the acres in a torrent of savagery. Thunderous pandemonium erupted from all angles. Crashing and banging, demonic braying, and exasperated growls overtook Rags’ eardrums.

Biting down on the bit of the scythe, he readied for what was to come next. There was a great slam against the door, followed by enraged screaming and more slamming. The barrage of blows reverberated through the barn. The wood groaned under the immense pressure, and a hole was formed at the base of where the doors met, through which the first tar-pony stuck its head in and howled in ire at Rags

At that moment, he lost what little fire he had in his heart, and his fear attempted to convince him that running was the best option. He started backing away, sweat drenching his coat, teeth clattering over the bit, but the powerful voice in his head that helped him out of previous jams earlier that night came back in full force.

NO! If you start running now, you will die! They’ve surrounded us! There is nowhere to run! So this is it, Rags! You’ve done enough hiding and crying for one night anyway! Time to nut up!

The voice’s tone was harsh and brusque, but it was just the push he needed. He stood his ground and tightened his hold of the scythe.

You’re not going to let these things kill you know, are you? Are you going to let them end your life before it’s really started? We haven’t achieved anything! We haven’t accomplished any of our goals, made any dreams a reality! If we let them end us now, it would be a waste of the time we’ve been given in this world!

His eyes hardened and he gritted his teeth around the handle.

Who would even remember us? Nougat, maybe Mom and Dad… and? Who else? No one cares about us! We are a nobody, through and through! If we go tonight, then the only thing folks with remember about us is that we turned up mutilated in the Element of Honesty’s freakin’ barn!

The tar-ponies widened the gap and began squeezing through, but too many tried to enter at once and slowed the process.

We haven’t experienced love, success, or even real happiness! Will you let these slavering mutants deny us that!?

They tried so furiously to get inside that even in the midst of the roaring and garbled language, Rags could hear the snapping of bones. They wanted so badly to kill him that they were destroying themselves. The wood groaned under all of the pressure and the doors began to buckle.

Look at these repulsive abominations. Rotten sacks of meat covered in sickening tar! Are you going to let everything you hope to achieve, everything you hold dear, everything you are, be taken away by this hateful filth!?

Rags hadn’t thought about it before then. He hadn’t considered anything about them besides how to avoid them. But now he truly saw it. He didn’t know how he knew, he just knew. The tar-ponies, and the other creatures he had been encountering all night, were hate incarnate. Their only purpose for existing was to brutally end those they set their sights on. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know anything about them except for the fact that they were pure evil. He could feel it. It was practically palpable. The aura of sick maliciousness around them was overwhelming. They loathed Rags. They couldn’t possibly live with the knowledge that he was alive. His life was an irritant to them. They needed him to die.

The resistance of the doors was put to an end, and they crumpled under the power of the tar-ponies. The barriers were flung to either side and a mass of tainted black flesh flooded in. Rags’ muscles clenched tightly and prepared for what might be his last moments. He couldn’t pinpoint what he was feeling. A combination of anger and sheer terror. Was this how a cornered animal felt?

The ones at the head of the horde charged at him, some with weapons, others bearing broken and jagged teeth. Having become more comfortable using his troublesome tool now, he raised his scythe for a strong slash into the skull of the first when it suddenly stopped a few yards away from Rags and reeled at him, the others performing similar actions. They encircled him, snarling all the while, but they never came in for the kill. He watched in confusion, until he realized that he was standing right next to the flaming scarecrow remains.

They’re afraid of fire!

True as this may be, their hate of Rags was greater than their fear of fire, and they were closing in at a considerable pace, slowly overcoming their fright. The first foe finally leap at him from the side. he saw this coming and he swung the scythe around, sticking it firmly into the monster’s forehead with a grotesque shlink. It instantly went limp but took Rags off balance, and he struggled to remove the tool from the corpse. Another one brave enough to approach the fire tried to cave his skull in from behind with a crowbar. He twisted out of the way and the attack and it struck the head of its comrade. The cranium exploded in black gore, and Rags freed his scythe from the loosened mess and separated the second assailant’s head from its shoulders, dark fluids spurting from the neck.

A vice-like grip clamped around Rags’ midsection and he screamed in pain. A tar-pony had sunk its teeth into his ribs and tightened its hold. He threw his head back and caught the beast’s gullet with a low swing, and rotten innards spilled out from underneath it. He kicked the thing back into the slowly advancing crowd and was immediately grabbed from behind. Another of the twisted ponies had leaped over the fire and wrapped its forearms around the terrified stallion’s head, and was trying to get a good enough grip to snap his neck. Instinctively, Rags put his weight into the monster behind him and forced it backwards. A deafening squeal pierced his ears and the hold around his head released. He turned to find that the tar-pony that jumped him had stepped into the fire and had caught ablaze, flailing around in an attempt to put out the inferno that was quickly consuming it.

It ran into the crowd and the others repulsed away from their burning ally. This gave Rags an idea. He snatched up a flaming arm, burning himself, and tossed it at the mob. Screeches and cries of pain and disgust followed. He did the same with another arm and tossed it in the other direction, then he threw a hind leg in another. When he finished, his hoofs were charred and tar-ponies ran all over the interior, some on fire and others running from them. The bulk of the mob was now distracted. Some, however, were focused enough to disregard their dying brethren and still rushed Rags.

Two came at him at the same time. He was able to slit the throat of one, but the other pounced on him. They wrestled with their hooves, Rags trying to get control over the situation and the creature trying to bash the stallion’s brains in. He lost his hold of the monster’s hooves and it got a good whack in, making blood pool in Rags’ mouth. The shock gave him rush of strength and he shunted the monster off of him and onto its back, whereupon Rags got up and loomed over the tar-pony. He was swift in his dealings as he thrust his scythe into its belly. It wailed and he struck again. It twitched and he struck again. blood brimmed over the dishwasher’s lips and he struck again. And again and again after that.

A flaming tar-pony bumped into the barrel with the lantern atop it, knocking the lamp to the ground and starting a large fire that quickly spread. The atrocities all yelled fearfully at the fiery madness and retreated outside the barn. Rags wobbled as he tried to stand upright and look at the demons barking at him from a safe distance.

“Oh what!?” he slurred, “You freaks scared of a little campfire!?” He spat a mouthful of blood at them and staggered, nearly falling over. He coughed and his eyes began to sting. Smoke was filling up the barn at an alarming rate, and it was becoming difficult to breath. He did his best to limp to the exit but was stopped by an uppercut to the chin that came from seemingly nowhere, sending him tumbling to his back. With spots in his blurred vision, he could see a one-eyed tar-pony towering over him. Though its left eye was damaged to the point of uselessness, it packed enough hatred for both into its good right one. It salivated as it growled and cocked its arm to deliver the kill with a bloody cleaver. Rags, too fatigued and hurt to make a move, watched in horror as his death loomed right above him.

“...traeh ruoy tae lliw I”

You blew it, Rags. Now we’re dead.

Frightened whinnys found their way into his distorted hearing, and the ground rumbled and shook. Just then, a translucent beam struck the cyclops in the back, and it bellowed in agony. Its flesh began bubbling under the layer of tar, and steam came off in large puffs. White bone was becoming visible as tar evaporated and rotten skin sizzled. With its last breath, it loathingly hissed at Rags.

“...luos...ruoy...ekat...tI”

Its one red eye burst from its socket in a gush of ickor and it vomited vaporizing bile before its decayed, tar-covered face deteriorated into a skeletal form. And before Rags’ eyes, it turned to ash and was scattered by the draft coming from the heat of the flames. He would have liked to ruminate on what just happened, but he first had to escape the fire. Coughing on smoke and blood, he got to his hooves and teetered out of the burning barn.

It put a massive strain on his body, and he collapsed the moment he believed himself far enough from the danger. He drowsily looked around to see that the noises he heard before the cyclops’s demise were indeed that of the tar-ponies fleeing, as they were all gone. Then he looked ahead for the one who cast the mighty light spell that warded off and killed the murderous atrocities. But there was no wizard, warlock, or master mage. Just the sun.

He smiled meekly. He didn’t mean to. He wasn’t even happy in the slightest. He just became aware of the fact that he had won. He had triumphed over the unholy masses. Through all the hiding, running, and desperate struggling, all based on the assumption that the sun would somehow save him, he had finally won. He hacked up a few globules of some sort of cocktail of blood and mucus, and dropped back to the ground, unconscious.

6:00 AM

Applejack yawned and sat up in her bed. The rooster hadn’t crooned yet, but she didn’t need that to wake her up. Her body was so used to getting up around this time that she long ago started waking up naturally. She slid out from under the sheets, adopted her stetson, and began her groggy trek downstairs. She expected Big Mac to be up before her as always, with Apple Bloom still lounging about upstairs. Any second now, she expected the smell of apple pancakes and warm coffee to welcome her to the new day. When she reached the bottom of the stars, she saw neither Big Mac nor Granny Smith in the kitchen cooking. She smelled no breakfast waiting for her. Though she did smell something burning.

It was a smell she knew from years ago, when an accident with a cow and a lantern cost them their barn. The dreadful realization dawned on her and she rushed out the front door and was met with a soul crushing sight. The barn was nearly halfway consumed in fire, emanating a black billow of smoke from the charred wood. Granny Smith was standing on the porch shouting at someone to hurry up. From the smoke emerged Macintosh, dragging something, no, someone out of the fray. She ran to his side as he lugged himself and the other into safety. She knew the pony sprawled out on the ground. Yesterday she sympathized with him, but now, she didn’t know what to think about the stallion before her.

She would expect one who was just pulled out of a fire to be damaged, but not anything like this. He was covered in blood and blackened fur. Scratches, gashes, burn marks, purpled bruises, and various other wounds ran along his length. A vicious looking bite mark was implanted in his side and blood ran through it at a steady pace. A blood-soaked, makeshift tourniquet wrapped around his midsection. He looked like he was just tortured by a band of griffon bandits.

She was in mortified awe at the scene. A bloodied pony and a burning barn. What did it mean? Was he somehow responsible for this? But it looked like he was the victim, not the criminal. She asked the question that Big Mac, too, was contemplating.

“What happened here?” she asked with a mixture of concern and somber emotion.

“Dunno,” Mac simply stated, keeping his eyes glued to the fire.

She sat down beside him. “Did you already call the weather team?”

“Granny did. Rain cloud’ll be here any minute. No wind, so we don’t have ta’ worry ‘bout the trees, ” Mac said matter of factly.

“Ambulance too?” Applejack asked.

“Eeyup.”

They said nothing more after that, and watched the barn turn to cinder.

Rags stirred beside them. He could barely move. All he could do was glimpse the inferno and the two ponies sitting beside him before his head fell back down and his eyes shut again.

Take it easy, Rags. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m here.

Author's Notes:

Over 14,000 words!? What's wrong with me!?

Me and my editor went over every inch of this thing and took out every error that we could possibly find. If you see any, they most likely came from the process of getting this chapter from GDocs to fimfiction.

Speaking of my editor, a big round of applause for Corwin Freiss for making this possible.