Journal entry #80

I’m done.

Rags slowly walked down the hall, floorboards creaking under his weight. His lantern cast a faint orange glow over the space around him. He made his way into the living room, waving his sickly flame around, inspecting every element in the room. Nothing amiss. He sighed a deep sigh. He stepped over to the window and set the lantern down, placed both his hooves on the planks, and pushed his weight against them several times. They were stable. He picked up his lantern and performed the same actions with the other windows.

Every night he paced back and forth inside the home, checking for any flaws in the defenses. There was never anything. Every night he sat and listened to them, their breath blowing against the walls, their awful language reciting wicked limericks, their claws scratching at the house. There were too many now. He never looked, but he felt it. Their presence grew stronger every night.

He felt like a rat in a cage being prodded with a stick. He was trapped in the house, performing the same routines or risking death. At any instant the rules could change once more and he could be murdered in the blink of an eye, but until that happened, he adhered to the list of things that kept him alive.

Even though he could hear them all out there, their every move, their every breath, the silence was deafening. How could it be so quiet with them being so loud? Before, silence meant death. Now, silence was all he ever heard. Death was always hanging over him. It unnerved him to know that they were all waiting for the exact moment when they could come in. They wouldn’t hesitate for a second. All it would take was one little slip and they’d come down on him.

So, he made his rounds all throughout the night, each and every night. The house was small, easy enough to check. But he always had to stay awake, remain aware. If he slept, he would be assaulted by his nightmares, bringing him fear and worry. Such things spelled surefire doom. He needed to keep himself awake, but that was becoming harder and harder to do as the days went on.

He could hardly stand anymore. His fatigue was at an all time high. He quietly sat down on the couch, setting his lantern on the coffee table. He held his head in his hooves, feeling like crying, but having no more tears to shed. He began bobbing in and out of consciousness, occasionally pounding against his forehead in an effort to jolt himself awake. No such luck. He grimaced in anger at his weakness. Fed up, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small syringe. Thanks to a few helpful medical books he borrowed from the library, he’d discovered a marvelous method of keeping himself alert.

Nougat’s ritalin pills were no longer sufficing for keeping him up. He needed something with a little more kick to it. Through a visit to the herb specialist outside of town, he was able to come into possession of a wondrous little concoction that would satisfy all of his needs. He wasn’t exactly sure how it worked or what most of the substances inside were called, and the zebra even seemed wary of supplying him with these specific chemicals, but he read that it would make him hyper aware and on edge, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

He stuck the needle in the crux of his foreleg, letting the wonder drug flow throughout his veins. Almost immediately he could begin feeling its effects. He could hear better than ever, smell things he’d never been able to before, and see what he could never see. They’d never get through his barricades now. His senses were heightened to a point where nothing could slip through without his knowing. He smiled at the excellent sensations coursing through him. Now he was safe.

He could hear so well, every little movement. Every particle and speck of dust colliding with one another. Everything became so clear. So clear… that he could pick up on something. A droning sound. He scrutinized the space around him. Nothing. It didn’t grow in volume at all, it was merely there. His flesh became itchy all over. His teeth hurt. His eyes felt as if they would explode. It must have meant that something was near. He looked around again. Nothing again.

He heard a whisper in the dark corner of the living room. His head shot up as he looked into the shadows. After a moment of being frozen, he snatched the lantern off the table and cautiously took small steps towards the dark place, slowly fighting back the blackness. When the pathetic light stretched over the corner, he saw a small foal and gasped. It wasn’t a ghoul from outside. It wasn’t a malformed beast or a twisted monstrosity in the shape of a foal. It was an actual foal. It was the same color as him in both mane and coat, and on its flank was a mark picturing… a dish with a washcloth? That was his mark. The tiny colt looked up at him with green eyes and a sad look on his face. He said nothing to Rags, remaining still and keeping his teary eyes fixed on the stallion.

Rags kept his gaze trained on the colt, trying to piece his thoughts together. A creature? It certainly didn’t look like one. A vision? Surely. But that didn’t explain the sound. The buzzing, static-like noise that hummed throughout the room. It wasn’t very loud, but it irritated him nonetheless. And he didn’t even know why.

Such a sad sight.

The noise stopped.

Look at those big, green eyes and those tiny little tears trickling down his face. Gets ya right in the feels, don’t it?

Rags didn’t even need to look around for the speaker. He knew the voice all too well. He had his suspicions about the supposed saboteur in his mind. The one who tried to tear down his foundations and break his sanity. He’d suspected for a while that it’s been him. But why now? Why not sooner? In fact, Rags had noticed that he’d fallen out of contact with him ever since the attack on the boss. Time to get reacquainted, he thought rather irately.

It’s you. It’s been you.

You’re gonna have to elaborate.

You’ve been the one screwing with my head all this time, trying to tear down my defenses against the night.

Really? Is that what’s been happening? Hmm, interesting how you know for a fact that it was me, especially when you’ve got about twenty other probable causes. Stress, fear, no sleep, and let’s not even get into your, ahem, habits… Namely your drug ones.

I don’t have a drug... whatever. Where have you been? And why are you doing this?

In the blink of an eye, the foal before him aged several years into a more recognizable teenager. The teen was rather unattractive. Fairly scrawny, acne troubles, and an angry look on his face as he scowled at Rags.

It has been a long time, now that you mention it. What, two months? As for the where, I’ve been off… thinking things over. And I’ve had an epiphany or two. You see, I tried to be your best friend, tried to give you a new lease on life. I always used to tell ya that I’d be giving you great advice that would help you take control. And you, well… you spat in my face. You told me to piss off once and for all. You cut me deep with that, Rags, you cut me real deep. So I went off to mull things over a bit. And you know what? I’m done too. I’m done trying to salvage a miserable piece of trash like yourself from the gutter that you’re so persistent in staying in. Why spend all your money fixing up something so abysmally broken… when you could just buy a new one

What’s that supposed to mean?

Another blink of the eyes transformed the teen into an adult, losing the angry expression and bad complexion for a miserable expression and an appearance of total normalcy, to the point of coming off as boring.

What do you think it means?

I think it means that you’re a sick prick that likes messing with my head.

Not exactly. True, I guess I can be partially blamed for your lack of stable brain functions, but I’m not the one muckin’ up your skull. That blame goes solely to you.

I don’t think so. I’m not the one giving myself hallucinations.

Aren’t you?

No!

Well, it’s certainly not me. I’ve been sitting on the sidelines pondering away. Besides, I think we both know that I was bluffing when I said I could screw with all sorts of things in your head. I haven’t done a thing to you.

Liar.

Whatever floats your boat. If you need someone to blame for your own stupid faults, go ahead. Heap it on.

What are you gonna do then? You don’t honestly think I’m gonna buy that load about you sitting on the sidelines, right? You’re just gonna let me take the helm here?

Yes… and no.

What’s that mean!?

Due time.

What?

In due time.

In due time what!?...

The stallion before him changed once more into a new shape: a tar-pony. It gurgled at him and leapt forward with unimaginable speed, a bloody cleaver in its grasp. Rags sucked in air so hard that he choked on it and fell on his back as the thing swung its weapon. He shut his eyes in expectation of a piercing pain, but it never came. He slowly parted his lids to nothing.

Breathing heavily through his nostrils, he got to his hooves and picked up his lantern. His expression was one of anger. The voice was a malicious devil, and his plans were never obvious. He wanted something. But what he said… just raised more questions than it did provide answers. Questions… always with the questions.

There were always questions… They never stopped coming. Everything was an enigma. Ever since the whole mess started, there had been nothing but non-stop uncertainties. Every little facet of the situation was shrouded in mystery. Even the very things he did to keep himself alive he didn’t quite understand. He knew nothing of the monsters, nothing of how the night thought, he didn’t even know anything about what was going on inside of his own mind.

There were always questions. Never any answers. He always inquired and investigated to the best of his abilities, but it never lead to anything. He was always just left with more questions. The more questions he got, the more afraid he became. He was never sure of anything. He could never comfort himself with the knowledge that things would go a certain way. He was never able to say ‘this is how things are going to turn out.’ That was the worst part to Rags, his inability to find ‘yes’ instead of ‘maybe.’ He was always left unknowing. He was always left in the dark…

Left in the dark… The irony of that phrase was stinging. It also served to highlight everything wrong with what he was doing. He was prolonging the inevitable: A terrible death. For what cause? What was it that he fought so desperately for? Answers? He would never find them. All he ever found were more questions. A goal? A purpose in life? That would require answers. The right to live?... Why? What was he living for? Answers. That was what he wanted more than anything else. That was his goal in life… and he couldn’t achieve his goal. His purpose for living was to acquire answers, and that was impossible. His purpose for living… was null. He had nothing to live for…

The revelation was not as impactful as one might have assumed it would be. The realization that he had nothing left to fight for was not a huge surprise. He’d had his suspicions, he’d pondered it before. But he’d always told himself to keep pushing. He always forced himself to keep moving forward in the face of the bleakest adversity. For a while, he’d even lost contact with the voice and he still managed to fight for himself. But… it’s been months. For months, every single night was a struggle just to keep his pulse going. Every single night was a never-ending downpour of fear. But he always told himself to pull through. That maybe the next sunrise would bring an epiphany.

But this was never the case. He always fought and killed and feared for nothing. The days all blended together in an endless bout of terror. There was never an end. There was never any peace. There was never any… point.

He sighed and sank into his seat. The beasts clawed and scratched even harder at the walls. There was no point. His struggle was simply drawing out his torture. He took note of the machete sitting on the table. Its blade gave off a dim glow in the faint lantern light, beckoning him. Perhaps… there was an answer.

He took up the oversized knife, looking it over. There were few things one could control in their life, evidently. Most things seemed to be left up to fate. Fate was a fickle wench, handing some a bad lot. In retrospect, his former life wasn’t all that bad. Boring, and a waste of all possible potential, but he had food, shelter, and never had to worry over sustaining himself. He eyed his foreleg, pressing hard on certain points up and down its length. But this life was something he could not cope with. It was unrelenting in its cruelty. It left him alone, afraid, dirty, and despaired. But now there was something he did have control over. He lightly pressed the cutting edge of the blade on his arm. The monsters howled and cried as they banged against the walls. And…

“Hey, Rags, I know you’re kinda screwed in the brainpan and all, but why did you put up Hearth’s Warming Eve lights--” Nougat stopped in the doorway after coming in the front door and witnessing the sight before him. Rags was poised with a blade on his leg, staring right back at the pegasus with equal amounts of shock. “It’s ok, bro… just put it down,” Nougat quietly begged, newly formed tears brimming.

Rags stared in disbelief as sunlight from behind his friend partially blinded him from the doorway. Sunlight… Nougat… neither should have been there. It was just night a second ago. He was sure of it. He could just hear the monsters clawing and screeching…

“Come on, man, just put it down. I know it’s bad, but I’ve got something here that will help, ok? So just… put it down.” Nougat held out a scroll and paced slowly towards Rags with it presented to him.

“Bu… But… You shouldn’t be… I just heard them… How did you come back...?” Rags asked, setting the blade down.

“I don’t know what you mean. You watched me leave for work this morning. Here, just take this. A mailmare dropped it off at work for me to give to you. Said you didn't answer the door.” Nougat handed over the parchment.

Rags took the scroll reluctantly, still unsure if he was even conscious. He unfurled it and began reading.

Dear Rags,

I realize that you must have been put under so much duress since my hasty departure several months ago. I can’t begin to apologize enough for leaving you without my assistance for so long. I would have sent one of my mages to aid you in my stead, but my reasoning for not doing so will be explained later.

I have good news! There is a feasible solution to your predicament! It is completely possible that an end to your stress may very well be in sight! Although, I’m afraid that isn’t a guarantee. There is a slight chance that it may not work. I will expound on this when you arrive, which brings me to my next point. For the solution to be viable, you must be here in Canterlot, so I have taken the liberty of sending a royal escort to transport you to the palace.

You will be given your own suite for the duration of your stay and supplied with royal accommodations. But first and foremost, we must converse about a very significant matter when you reach Canterlot. It is of the utmost importance. Again, I offer my deepest apologies for my lack of presence in your crisis, and… for a great deal of things yet to come.

Sincerely,
Princess Twilight Sparkle.

Rags released the scroll and let it furl up back into its cylindrical form. He set it down on the table and rested his cheek on a hoof. An… end? The princess has an answer?

Nougat put a hoof on Rags’ shoulder. “The princess has a plan, bro. You won’t have to deal with whatever it is you’re dealing with anymore. We’ll have you back to normal in no time. Then we can go peep on the mares in the spa just like old times.” The pegasus smiled a warm, brotherly smile to the dishwasher, tears staining his cheeks.

Rags was hesitant, ruminating on the connotations of a few key points in the letter… But he let Nougat’s words jump to the forefront of his mind. A plan. Soon, he returned his friend’s smile and offered a celebratory brohoof, which was promptly returned.

Rags slowly rose from his seat. “Alright then… time to get ready.”

“You mean for your trip?”

“Not exactly, Nougat… Not exactly.” Rags walked towards the front door. Time to get to work.

Rags watched the clock tick away as he’d been doing for so many nights now. Five minutes until nine. They would be out in full force tonight. Rags was leaving in the morning to go to Canterlot and possibly see an end to this endless nightmare. There was no telling how the beasts would react to this. They always watched him. The night was clever. It was very good at spying on the enemy. They knew he was leaving. They knew he was within reach of a way out, a way to escape their grasp. They would be desperate, so there was no telling what they would try.

A lump caught in Rags’ throat. A familiar sensation of unease crept down his spine and made him ansty. If everything that happened was dependent on what he felt, then how would this night play out? Did that mean that the glimmer of hope inside of him would act as a stronger barrier than before? Or was his uncertainty bound to strengthen the beasts? Such a conflicting state left the matter wide open. He supposed he’d just have to find out the hard way.

Three minutes now. It was odd, but despite his trepidation about the coming storm, he still felt a splinter of glee deep down. He was going to Canterlot to lay his troubles to rest! No more terror! No more death! No more insanity! He would soon be able to rest, to sleep at night! Those words felt like curses to him. Sleeping at night? The idea was blasphemous. It actually brought a small smile to his face, thinking about finally ridding his hooves of this madness. Perhaps after it was all over, he might even be able to stay in Canterlot for a little while and see the sights. He remembered how he once considered saving up for a vacation to the royal city, planning on soaking up its luxurious atmosphere to take a load of his mind.

Two minutes. Although, there were a few things in the letter that seemed very off. Twilight mentioned ‘things yet to come’ and apologized for them. Plus, she mentioned the possibility that it wouldn’t work, whatever the solution was. There was a faint trace of negativity in her words. It added a degree of uncertainty to the matter. Uncertainty was not something Rags was very fond of…

One minute to go. He couldn’t focus on any of that now. There was no time for working himself up over something that hadn’t even come to be yet. They were coming, and he had to be ready. He’d spent all day setting up a few nasty surprises for the monsters. The house looked like some sort of junk store, the way it was covered with various items with no apparent rhyme or reason. But Rags had reasons. If he’d gained anything out of the affair, it was the discovery of his hidden ingenuity. He found it amazing, what all he could accomplish when put under supernatural pressure.

Ten seconds. He didn’t bother turning off the lights.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

He heard breathing directly behind him. He spun around to see a shadowy figure standing in the corner. It had no definite shape, only a vague silhouette with glowing red pupils where what could be designated as a head was.

They watched each other, staring straight into each other's eyes. As the sounds of horror began escalating outside, it spoke to him in a nigh inaudible, but decidedly unnatural voice.

“They want… to see you…”

Blackness overtook his vision as he wrestled with an invisible foe. His sight returned to show him a room illuminated by a flickering light with the shadow figure missing from view. Rags’ breathing became erratic as a chill ran up his spine, prompting him to reassure himself that everything was alright. He knew what they were trying to do. They were trying to make a crack in his defenses. He had to stay secure. He needed to reinforce his mental barriers. The shadowy figure was merely a projection, nothing that could harm him. They hadn’t gotten in yet.

The clawing and scratching noises began. Rags started pacing around the room, making sure he felt it was secure. He sucked in air through his mouth and exhaled through his nose. The light bulb in the living room popped in a bright flash, showering the coffee table with gleaming sparks. Not good.

Rags heard similar bursting noises throughout the other rooms of the house. Crap! How are they doing this!? I was right, they really are desperate! Rags had fortunately lit candles in each room, providing enough light to ensure he wasn’t fumbling around in pitch black darkness. Grabbing one of the candles, he retrieved his lantern off the table and used the flaming wick to light it.

He swung the lamp about, casting light on every corner to verify that nothing was lurking around. When he felt reasonably safe in the living room, he started for the hall, but stopped just before traveling down it. He could see things, small things, skittering from room to room back and forth across the halls. Are they inside!?

No… They couldn’t be. He was safe, he told himself. He was safe. They couldn’t get in. This was his fortress, his sanctuary. It was impervious to the darkness outside. But then, what was he looking at? He could see them moving in the hall, infesting the shadows. Or… were they?... No. No, they weren’t. They were not in the hall. They were not in the hall. He stormed down the corridor, teeth gritted and lantern presented in his outstretched foreleg. The things vanished under the flickering light, running from its purifying properties.

He stepped inside every room, holding his lantern out in front of himself, banishing what wasn’t there. What couldn’t be there. He finished with Nougat’s room, seeing for a mere instant something in his bed. It disappeared with the coming of the light. After he was done, he double checked every room, reinforcing that there wasn’t anything there, that everything was secure. With every sense on high alert, he lightly tread back into the living room.

He began hearing whispers from the places where his light didn’t reach. They enclosed on him. He climbed atop the table and growled, “This place is mine. Mine! You aren’t welcome here! You can’t come in!” The whispers became legible, telling him dreadful things.

Your house.

Not your house.

In.

Inside.

Let us.

Let us in.

Let us in.

Let us in.

Let us in!

Let us in.

Let us in.

Let us in. Let us in.
Let us in.

Let us in.

Let us in!

Let us in. Let ussss innnnn.
Let us in!

Rags could feel them getting stronger the longer he listened to them. His rage emerged as he shouted as loud as he could, “NO! NO NO NO! SHUT UP!”

Let us in.
Let us in.
Let us in.

The whispering died off.

In a very unexpected turn, the telephone began to ring. Rags gawked at it as it rang out three times more, judging whether or not answering would be prudent. He was on to them. He knew their game. But this was a new one on him. Curiosity thoroughly piqued, he descended from the table and to the phone on the small stand by the couch. Reluctance abound, he picked up the receiver. “H-Hello?”

…

“Hello? Who is this? What are you?”

…

A filly's voice responded. "Are you lost like me?"

Dead air.

Rags stood there, pondering the meaning of such a message. He shook his head to clear his thoughts of the matter. It only invoked questioning, which was what always got Rags in trouble. That must have been the point. It wanted to knock Rags off balance with a question. He held steadfast to his thoughts. This place is mine. This place is mine.

He turned, still repeating his mantra in his head, to grab his lantern from the tabletop. When he held it up to spread out its light, he saw that the walls had all been covered nearly completely in a message scratched onto the surface.

Lost like me.

He took a deep, shaky breath and took a seat on the couch. They can’t come inside. This place is safe. Suddenly, all of the noises stopped. There was no clawing sound, no whispers, no thumping, no growling. Everything outside became dead quiet. Silence was not good. He tried not to think about it, not to feed the beast. He’d done well keeping everything locked up in the past, but they were so persistent on this night. There was no doubt about it, whatever it was waiting for him in Canterlot, they didn’t want him to get to it. Or…

Or maybe they did. Perhaps that is where Twilight’s “slight chance of failure” came in. Maybe they knew something the princess didn’t. Maybe they had a plan, a scheme to get Rags out of the safety of the house and into their malicious clutches. Was it even Twilight who sent the letter!? Was that just part of the ploy!? They were cunning, the devilish freaks. He had almost walked right into their trap. But they would not have him, not if he had anything to say about it. It was then and there that he made his decision: he wasn’t going to Canterlot.

He was never going to leave the house. Never.

All at once, the walls exploded inwards with a deafening roar, sending debris and bits of wood and concrete into the space around Rags. When the dust settled seconds later, he could see that dozens of dark, tar covered hooves had penetrated the house. Oh Lords, they’re inside!

The hooves tore and shredded the walls, trying to make space for their owners to squeeze their rotten faces through. They screeched and shrieked in fury, finally laying eyes on their prey for the first time in months. Rags’ mind had overridden its orders not to think about it. How!? What happened!? Where did they find a crack!? I was safe! I was SAFE!

After a moment, Rags came back to reality to find himself dumbly watching the chaos with his mouth agape. He slapped himself across the cheek and sprung into action, quelling his thoughts for the time being. He dashed to the front door to find it crumbling under the immense evil behind it. A red eye peeked through one of the cracks in the frame and a voice called to him, “!esproc rouy epar annog er’eW” He payed no mind to the foul thing and made a move towards a small generator he’d set by the front door earlier, dodging wayward legs that reached for him. He flipped a small ‘ON’ switch and was met with ear piercing squeals of agony from all across the front side of the house, followed by the stench of burnt flesh.

He peered out one of the gaps that wasn’t plugged by a limp limb to see numerous, smoking corpses lined up along the exterior; All of which standing, or previously standing, in a large puddle of water that soaked the sidewalk in front of the home. Hearth’s Warming Eve lights hung from the eaves, exposed wiring making contact with the liquid. It didn’t take a genius to know that a cut wire laying in a body of water was lethal.

There were stragglers that prowled and screeched at him from beyond the deadly puddle. It wouldn’t take them long to calculate another way in, and backup was sure to arrive soon. Tar-ponies were the least of his worries, tonight. They’d all know that there was a crack. They’d all be drawn to his home like flies to dead flesh. But the crude method of defense would buy him enough time to regain his composure. His greatest weapon against the hordes was peace of mind.

They’re in, they got in! How? What went wrong? What did I do wrong!? Ugh, nevermind! I can’t focus on that now. There’s no point in dwelling on it. I need to make sure I don’t give them an inch! This is my place, MINE! They might have busted the walls, but they won’t set a hoof inside without losing a couple first!

He clenched his teeth and went to work, preparing the rest of his makeshift armory, starting in the kitchen.

Atrocious sounds began coming from all around. Every direction roared to life with the sounds of furious brutes thundering towards his location. Nervous sweat emanated from every pore on his body, nearly drenching his coat instantly. He berated his hooves for only being able to move and work so fast. With death but a gnat’s wing away, he prepared his improvised armament for battle.

A high pitched shriek shredded the air, too loud for anyone to tolerate. A banshee. Rags clapped his hooves around his ears in a vain attempt at shielding them from the deafening cry. It brought him so much pain that he was forced to fight off the urge to curl up on the floor. After at least half a minute of the unrelenting scream, it finally quieted, leaving the stallion with a shrill ringing in his ears and intense nausea.

With his sense of balance shot, he staggered to his hooves and released the bilious results of his nausea all over the floor. Great. The best part? All the monster bits and tar will be gone, but that will be right there where I left it in the morning.

He wiped his mouth and grabbed his first line of defense, wasting no time in getting back to the front of the house. The next couple of creatures had already arrived, from the sounds of it. He stumbled into the living room and took up a position by one of the windows, aiming through a hole in the broken seal of boards. Another batch of tar-ponies gathered outside, keeping their distance from the electrified puddle. Clever little devils. But little did they know they were within perfect range for a potato gun.

Rags leveled the foal’s plaything at the closest tar-pony and pulled the large trigger, sending a glass Hearth’s Warming Eve tree ornament rocketing through the air and right into the monster’s head. Upon contact, the fragile decoration shattered across the creature’s face, simultaneously burying glass shards into its flesh and unleashing a white liquid into its eyes. Tar-ponies were nothing if not tough. They weren’t likely to feel glass fragments lodged in their flesh, but the eyes were a whole another story, and with the addition of bleach filling the hollow insides, the tiny decorations made excellent deterrents. All it took was a shot to the face.

The beast faltered for a moment, as if attempting to deduce if it was just hit. Soon, the predicted effects began kicking in, and the tar-pony started squealing and clawing at its eyes, only compounding the issue. As it flopped to the ground in pain, the others looked back to Rags with incalculable hate burning in their eyes. Rags dumped a bag of ornaments on the floor, all dripping white fluids from the loose caps. He plucked one from the load and popped it into the barrel of the potato gun. He would have to be excruciatingly precise with his shots, seeing as he could only fire once before needing to reload.

He took aim at another and fired again, successfully scoring a hit in the eyes. The creature followed its ally’s example and began howling in pain as it fell to the ground. The others proved Rags’ presumptions about their growing intellect true, as they displayed immediate learning capabilities. The next ornament he fired failed to hit its mark as the next tar-pony sidestepped it and growled. Rags cursed under his breath as he loaded another and fired again, and again missing. He repeated this procedure again and again, sometimes missing, sometimes hitting a part of the body other than the face, and sometimes getting lucky and downing another beast.

Too often they dodged his shots. Rags’ frustration grew with every target missed. They had figured out his firing patterns, where he was lobbing projectiles the most. In a stroke of tactical awareness, Rags decided on ducking back inside for an instant, taking himself out of their line of sight. He grabbed up his ammunition and sidled along the wall to another window with enough damage done to allow the barrel to poke between the boards. Moving quickly, he got into a firing position and took a shot from his new location. The tactic succeeded in throwing the beasts off, as they were taken back enough to allow for Rags to make several shots hit their mark. When they grew wise, he did the same to another location, changing spots at random every time they got into a groove and began dodging his shots.

He swiped at his ammunition pile one last time to find it empty. He had managed to disable at least twenty of the creatures with this method. In hindsight, it wasn’t a particularly reliable means of warding them off. The utmost accuracy was required to hit a moving target’s face, and he was no professional marksmen by any stretch. He decried himself for wasting time with the potato gun when he could have simply continued working on far more dependable defenses.

A loud popping sound made it to Rags’ ears. He looked towards the front door to see the small generator sparking and malfunctioning. With one final burst of sparks, the machinery stopped working altogether. His electrified miniature moat was rendered ineffectual. It wouldn’t take long for them to realize they could begin tearing the walls down again.

Cursing incessantly, he ran into the kitchen with the oven in mind. He turned off the gas, killing the fire underneath a pot of boiling liquid on the stove top. He grabbed the handles and lugged the rather weighty pot back into the living room, where tar-ponies had already started ripping through the barriers. Looking down to the pot, he found that he was missing something crucial. Running back to the stove, calling himself all manners of ugly words for forgetting the object, he snatched a frying pan up and returned with lighting speed to the action.

A tar-pony rammed its head into the boards hard enough to punch a hole large enough for its skull to fit inside, tearing off large chunks of decayed, tar covered flesh as it did. It looked at Rags and hissed through jagged teeth, “!doolb ruoy knirD !ecaf ruoy ffo piR” It thrashed its dome about, seeming to have gotten itself stuck.

Rags fought off the urge to shed tears of fear as he looked upon the hideous mug of the rancid thing. He bared his teeth and forbid himself from losing to fear. It would only make them stronger, it would only let them win. He dipped the pan into the pot and filled it with the boiling fluid. “Ever gotten a grease burn!?” He spat angrily at the creature, more for the sake of mentally hyping himself up than anything. He swung the pan through the air, hurling a wave of scalding cooking grease at the thing’s face.

The fluid splashed across the tar-pony’s face, immediately beginning to make its flesh sizzle on contact. It wailed in utter torment as it repeatedly tried to yank its head free of the hole in which it had been lodged, unable to move as its skin literally melted off its face, revealing the searing rotten flesh beneath the tar. It wildly attempted to fight, flailing as it howled and howled. Seconds later, its movements began to slow, and it merely twitched as its head drooped and it stopped screaming.

A dreadful stench violated his nostrils as the steaming body hung lifelessly. It made him want to throw up again, but he couldn’t spare the time. There were more and more of them coming in by the minute, slowly but surely ripping his barricades apart. He briefly pondered why they had such a difficult time getting through. If he was weak enough to let them begin tearing them apart, then why was it so hard for them to go all the way with it? Maybe it was because he was still willing to fight, unwilling to let them take him without a struggle. Maybe.

Whatever the reason, he was glad of it. A dark hoof burst through a small slit and grabbed at him. With a start, he filled the pan with more grease and slung another batch onto the limb, sending it reeling back as its owner squealed in pain. He snapped out of his thoughts and again reloaded his pan. He went back and forth across the walls tossing globs of burning oil on faces, forelegs, whatever was exposed. The monsters shrieked and retreated, snarling and snapping at him from just outside of range. Some limped and curled on the ground in torturous pain. Twice now they’ve been beaten back.

Rags sighed in infinitesimal relief. He had another temporary reprieve from attack. He eyed his grease supply and found he still had half a pot left. It was surely enough to tide him over for a little longer.

Suddenly, the screeching and roaring stopped, and he heard a peculiar sound, one he’d never heard from any monstrosity he’d seen before. It was the sound one made when they moaned without breath, a sort of croaking noise. All other abominations had stopped making noise altogether, and silence was never good. With a lump caught in his throat and a pit forming in his stomach, he cautiously peeked between the damaged planks to see if he could spot the possible new threat.

The tar-ponies all stood still and silent, glaring vehemently at Rags. One by one, they all began to split into two groups, parting ways to create a path for a strange new abnormality. Illuminated in partial moonlight was what ostensibly looked to be a corpse. A corpse of a mare, so old it appeared mummified. It shambled on spindly, decayed legs towards Rags fort, croaking all the while. Rags wondered how the creature even stood upright. It didn’t appear to be anything special, with no apparent weapons, special abilities, or even menacing qualities. Granted, a walking corpse was a bit disconcerting, but nothing compared to everything he’d seen so far.

It stopped about twenty feet from the house and stood stock still, simply frozen before Rags. He looked back at all of the tar-ponies, seeing more and more coming in to stand by the others and simply watch. Admittedly, Rags did find it fairly ominous that they’d sit back and simply observe as they sent this sickly looking, dusty bag of bones over to him. It was a sign that they surely had a trick in store.

The mummy shifted awkwardly on its decrepit legs, trembling as it slowly began to stand upright on its hind legs. It could hardly support its own weight as it took its unnatural, bipedal stance. Its legs even gave out audible cracks, signifying bone fractures. Utterly confounded, Rags wondered if the night had perhaps gone mad. This was its next weapon against him?

A ripping sound reach Rags’ ears as the long dead mare’s stomach convulsed and pulsated before his horrified eyes. Suddenly its dusty skin tore apart, and hundreds upon hundreds of small insect-like beings skittered out, crawling up and down the body before leaving their vessel and crawling onto the sidewalk. The cadaver began going limp from the head downward, as if the insects were what was holding it up. As the last bugs exited, the corpse fell slack and dropped to the ground. The hundreds of crawling things then began charging as a horde towards the home.

They raced up the walls, covering the entire front side in a mass of teeming carapaces. Rags could faintly recognize the creatures as parasprites, the odd creatures that nearly devoured the town whole a number of years ago, only these were different. They had no wings, only eight long, skinny legs, and their two large eyes had been added to, making for six in total. Each was white as snow, save for a splash of red across their mouths, with two long, crimson fangs fiercely protruding. Unanimously, they all began to tear into the wooden defenses.

They shredded through the boards and nails at an alarming rate, displaying that ravenous nature that Rags remembered them for. Of course, Rags thought. What better way to destroy his fortifications than with the very creatures that nearly wiped the town off the face of the map?

Rags spared no time and dipped his pan into the hot grease again and started swinging away. He splashed the sizzling liquid over every bug he could, the tiny terrors that were soaked dropped to the ground in a twitching, steaming heap. But it was of no use. Rags could not sling enough oil fast enough to dispose of hundreds of foes as once, but that didn’t stop him from trying. One squeezed through a window and leaped towards him, causing Rags to stumble back as he yelped in surprise and swatted at the thing with his pan.

His swing was too early and his pan flew right in front of the oncoming parasprite, missing it. Before he could go for a back swing, the small creature buried its fangs into his foreleg, garnering an intense scream from Rags. It twisted and ripped at his flesh, bringing forth fountain-like spurts of blood from his skin. The abomination managed to strike an artery, it seemed. The pain was utterly excruciating, prompting Rags to continuously howl in torment as he punched at the parasprite.

Just desperate to make it stop, Rags violently brought the pan down on the disgusting little thing’s head as hard as he could, rewarding him with a crunching sound… two crunching sounds, with a new, even greater pain shooting up his leg. In his panic, he had accidentally struck with the edge of the pan. He clenched his teeth as tightly as he could and screamed through them. This new agony was quite inarguably the worst pain he’d ever felt. He coddled his hurt area and sucked in air through his teeth, keeping his eyes wrenched shut as he begged for the pain to die down. When it wasn’t too horribly painful, he spared a look at his limb, readying himself for the dread of looking upon an undoubtedly awful wound.

Not only were the parasprite’s fangs still lodged within his arm, but he could see, through the massive amounts of still actively flowing crimson drenching his coat, a deformity in his arm. A rather large bump protruded opposite the side of the place on his leg where he struck with the pan. That was where the most pain was concentrated. If that’s what I think it is… then I’m thoroughly boned.

He tested his leg by placing it lightly on the ground, receiving a fresh dose of pain and a small spurt of blood from the wound. He choked back another cry as he once again held his damaged leg. Blood dripped from the gash at a steady pace, and Rags had begun to feel dizzy. Either the tiny creature pumped him full of some sort of venom, or he was losing contact with the land of the living. Or both.

He found it hard to think straight, the anguish leaving him disoriented and confused. His attention was drawn back to the walls as more parasprites were digging their way through. He began breathing erratically as he tried to file through his brain for a solution, lacking the contingency for something like this. The night was deviously creative with its atrocities. Rags hadn’t the slightest clue how to counter evil parasprites.

Although… the last time they invaded, they were stopped. Stopped by what? What was it that deterred them… sound, Rags remembered. Music, to be more precise. He found that this information didn’t do him any good. He wasn’t a musician, nor did he have any instruments on hoof. He hastily probed even deeper into his mind, hurriedly searching for an alternative.

More had fully breached the walls and were now skittering inside and towards him, darting this way and that across the floor. He started to hyperventilate as he fell backwards because of his injured leg, now scooting away from them across the floor. They were nearly upon him, hissing as they bared their fangs that glistened in the dim light of the room.

His mind was drawing blanks as his back hit a wall and he began shouting at them in a pathetic, last ditch effort at self-preservation. “No! Get away from me! I said GET AWAY! NO!”

They had finally reached him, and started crawling up the length of his body with the intent of biting into his throat and eyes. In a final moment of desperation, Rags thought of the only thing he had even remotely close to an instrument. Gasping and crying, he reaching into his bag and pulled out an air horn, hitting the button and wincing just as a parasprite was about to sink its teeth into his flesh.

The blast of the ludicrously loud horn, made even louder by the fact that he was inside, cut through the air like knife through butter. The parasprites all jittered and hissed, suffering spasms as the air around them violently vibrated with the sounds of the horn. Suddenly, one by one, they began to explode into small clouds of hibiscus fluids. Like little pustules, the popped and covered anything within two feet of each individual creature in gore.

Like a string of firecrackers, they had all burst, dousing Rags in even more blood. When they were all dead, and the air horn had run out of pressure, Rags slowly opened his eyes. He was met with the sight of the room covered in rampant blood splatters, as if a group of foals armed with water balloons filled with paint had waged war on the place. He glanced downward to find his own coat stained red from head to hoof. Ok… This is only kinda the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. That’s better than totally the most disgusting thing.

He tried to push himself up, forgetting momentarily about the damage to his left leg and attempting to use it, receiving a pang of unbridled pain as a reminder. He was forced to use his other leg to stand back up.

He heard the familiar roar of enraged monstrosities outside, but they had yet to begin attacking the walls again. Rags began hobbling awkwardly to a spot closer to the windows so that he could see outside and find out what was happening. Almost toppling over twice and consistently dipping in and out of consciousness, he was slowly becoming assured that his situation was heading in a southward direction at a rapid rate.

He finally reached a position close to the ragged windows where he could lay eyes on the beasts. There were hundreds of them now, possibly thousands if the horde stretched all the way around the block like he imagined it did. The crowd was composed of all manners of abominations. Big and small, some hideously mutilated, some distortions of things familiar to Rags. They advanced menacingly towards the house, throats rumbling with demonic growls of anger and starvation.

As Rags felt feelings of panic rise within himself, the ceiling erupted downward on him, dozens of dark, tar covered hooves grabbing at the space between them and the frightened stallion, forcing him to drop to the floor. He fell in a way that somehow made everything all over sting like tartarus.

He beheld the situation. He was broken, uncountable numbers of evil spawns were marching toward his house to tear it down and break him further, and the ceiling was on the verge of collapsing on top of him under the weight of a dozen wretched hooves. He was curled up, almost unable to move, on the floor, sniveling and cowering, unable to defend himself from the coming onslaught. There was a frightening truth to it all. Something that he could deny no longer.

He had lost. The battle was over. Months of fighting off the unyielding hordes all for naught. Months of tricking himself, constantly duping himself into thinking that a new hope, a new reason to go on, would come with the next sunrise. He actually found an inkling of dark irony in it. He lived like a nobody, and he would die like a nobody. No killing monsters until the end, no heroic last stand, just torn limb from limb and wolfed down by odious slime-covered monsters. There probably wouldn’t even be anything left for the papers to report on. He’d just be a missing pony. None would remember him in a few weeks. No one would speak of his legendary acts of valor. They’d simply say “Why isn’t that dishwasher washing the dishes?”

The ground shook with thunderous vibrations. A booming noise came closer and closer, advancing in his direction. With the last shred of his strength, he pushed himself up enough to get a look out the window.

Walking down the sidewalk across the street was bar none the largest horror Rags had ever seen. It was a bipedal behemoth, maybe thirteen feet in height, rippling with bulbous, tense muscles. It’s hairless flesh was ripped and stretched over its gargantuan body mass. Massive metal spikes were pounded into its flesh, like something of an ancient torture technique. Held firmly in a chain sling on its back was what surely had to be the biggest axe in existence, glistening blood coating the rusty, double edged weapon. Its head was shrouded in a black burlap hood, with two ivory horns, one broken off, penetrating the material on either side of its skull. Its steps made the earth tremble as it positioned itself directly in front of the house across the street, turning to face Rags after it was in place. It dug one of its hoofed feet into the ground and planted the other behind it. It bowed its head towards Rags, aiming its humungous horns at him. With a powerful kick of the back leg, sending whole chunks of concrete rocketing into the air, it blasted off from its position into a full-on charge.

Time seemed to slow for Rags as the titanic beast stampeded towards him from across the street, sending smaller monsters flying as it plowed through the horde. This moment, these few sluggish seconds, seemed to serve as the final nail in the coffin, driving home how utterly futile his situation was. There was no doubt about it now. Nothing would save him. He was dead already. This was just the night’s cruel way of making it slow and painful. All of the negativity he felt, the sorrow he’d accumulated over time, came flooding back into his mind at this singular instant. It all culminated to form one, soul crushing, heart breaking, spirit destroying word.

Hopeless.

The behemoth plowed into the house head-on, easily providing enough force to completely blow through the walls. Rags was sent flying towards the back of the home from the sheer power, colliding so hard with the walls behind him that it created a depression and cracks in the material. He couldn’t even scream in pain, his voice replaced by a gush of blood spewing from his maw. He could feel nearly everything break simultaneously, a sudden sensation of cold overrunning his senses. He slumped down to the floor, listless and gargling bodily fluids. His vision was occupied by flashing lights and blurred colors.

He could faintly make out the shape of the massive creature encroaching, its steps shaking the floor and Rags’ sight, but he could not feel the vibrations or hear the explosive stomps. An undefined shape towered over him, having to slightly bend down to duck below the ceiling. It raised its gargantuan arms over its blurry head, preparing to crush what was left of its victim. This, Rags thought to himself, was his last hazy glimpse of this mortal coil.

He shut his eyes and let his head fall to the ground. What an embarrassing way to go, he thought. Crumpled on the floor with tears staining his eyes and his muzzle damp with blood and saliva. He waited for the final, painless blow. It would probably splatter him all over the place, spilling his innards across the floor for the other little demons to gnaw upon. At least it would be the last hit.

He waited... and waited... nothing came. Perhaps he was experiencing another of those slowed-down moments in time, he thought. So he kept waiting. Still nothing came. He was becoming somewhat perplexed by the delayed action, but he didn’t want to open his eyes. He wanted his last moments to be filled with visions of something more pleasant than a deformed atrocity preparing to tear him apart. Though too much time had passed. He had to know what was taking so long. Finally, he cracked his eyes open, and once the blood pooling within his lids trickled away and he could vaguely make out what was in front of him, he found that the beasts were gone.

There were no tar-ponies, no unholy spawns, and no humongous minotaur creatures preparing to murder him. There was only… a light. It was a bit brighter than the moon and stars, and almost warm in its glow. He suddenly felt very sad, and he probably would have shed a tear or two were his ducts not filled with blood. He believed this to be it… that final light that they always talked about. It was done.

He was dead.

Two figures appeared from the light and traversed the space before him, coming to kneel beside him. One was powerful looking and almost angelic in appearance, with large wings and a strong body adorned in exalted golden armor. The other wore a darkly colored cloak with a hood that concealed the wearer’s face. The reaper and his assistant. The angel gently scooped him up in its forelegs and began flapping its wings, moving towards a shining chariot in the light. The hooded figure followed.