The Blank Pony

by Unwhole Hole

Chapter 7: Stranger in the Cold

Elsewhere in Maretime Bay, the night was progressing as usual. Ponies were in bed, sleeping. The streets of the already quiet hamlet had progressed to total silence, save for the sound of the blustering coastal wind and the crashing of waves. The storm out in the ocean had not fully arrived, although the wind was increasing and an unseasonable chill had collected in the air. A pony walking the streets might have found it especially ominous, this combination of silence and unseasonable wind—but no pony was awake to notice it. All were safe and warm, snuggled into their beds.

In one house, though, a small light was still on—because three fillies were laying on the floor, groaning, unable to sleep.

“Ugg…” moaned Glory, trying to roll over but finding herself stuck on her wings. “That was a mistake...”

“Agreed,” replied Peach Fizz. “I feel...urp...awful...”

“But we ate the whole thing.” Seashell winced from the effort of speaking. “And some extra.”

“Hey,” protested Peach Fizz. “How was I supposed to know you aren’t supposed to eat the cardboard?”

“Because it’s cardboard.”

“It tasted the same as the...ow...vegan pepperoni. I think?”

“I thought those were mushrooms...”

“It was a cheese pizza...”

All three of them groaned. They had eaten an entire uncooked frozen pizza from Seashell’s mother’s freezer—only to later realize that it was, firstly, difficult to fit a whole pizza into three small fillies; second, that frozen pizza was not exactly an ideal food for any pony at all, especially when uncooked; third, that it had expired well before Seashell had been born; and, finally, that Peach Fizz could not tell badly expired pizza from the cardboard it came on.

“I want to go to sleep but my tummy is fighting my guts and...ugh...losing...”

“I’ve been on a diet of leaves and sticks and tea my whole life,” moaned Peach Fizz, rolling on her side. “Cheese is so good...but it hurts so bad...” She paused, groaning in pain. “Where does it even come from?”

“We don’t ask,” said Seashell.

“Yeah,” sighed Glory. “I know. And I know you don’t want to know.” She shook her head. “I know it’s rude, but I’m going to be honest. You earth-ponies have no idea how to make a pizza.”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was furry, Seashell. Pizza isn’t supposed to be furry.”

“It...isn’t?”

Their discussion was interrupted by a knock at the door. All three fillies froze, and the room fell silent—save for the sound of the ever-growing wind against the outside of Seashell’s house.

The pain of the expired pizza departed as the three sat up and looked at each other.

“Was that...”

Another knock came. The exact same knock. Three rapid taps of a hoof on the wooden door. The three fillies turned slowly to face it.

“Who’s...who would be awake at this hour?” asked Peach Fizz, her voice quavering.

Another three knocks. Rapid, but identical to before. There was no additional urgency. Although none of the fillies actually calculated it, they were all subconsciously aware that the sets of knocks came at exacting, mechanical intervals of silence. It manifested in their minds as extreme discomfort that they could not attribute to any particular source. As if the knocks where the result of some sort of mechanical process—a branch scraping on the door, or one of Seashelll’s mother’s hanging fuchsias tapping on the door as it blew in the breeze.

It came again. Seashell stood up.

“Don’t!” whispered Glory. “It might be...”

“What? The Bonestealer?”

The sudden reference made them all laugh slightly, knowing that it was a story for babies that not even young fillies would find scary—but their laughter stopped as the knock came again.

Seashell shivered. She was not sure why she felt so cold. Why her humor and happiness were seemingly leaving her, leaving only a distant sadness and anger in their wake. She found herself approaching the door. Her friends watched, but they did not move to stop her. They were too afraid.

The knock came again. The rate had increased almost imperceptibly. Becoming more urgent. Calling her forward, as if the mysterious visitor could perceive the filly through the door. Ordering her forward. To open the door. To let it in.

Seashell reached up and grabbed the knob to the door, pausing for a moment—as if something deep within her self were impressing logic onto her tiny child brain. That it was a bad idea to open the door at two in the morning when a stranger knocked. As a pony, though, she had never developed a good reason to listen to that tiny voice of reason. Everyone in Maretime Bay was nice. They were all her friends and she knew all their names. She always had. They were her neighbors. Even the bogeymares she had been trained since foalhood to fear had turned to to be not scary at all—two were in fact waiting behind her, a pegasus and a unicorn, her two best friends. Her mind perceived no possible danger—but was aware of the possibility that a pony might need help. Her pony instincts compelled her to help.

She opened the door and stared out into the night, confused. She frowned, looking out, and tilted her head—seeing nothing at all. No one was there.

And yet, in her head, a terrified voice was screaming at its own subconscious perception. Of the tall, lingering figure looming over her. The faceless shape of a pony, blocking the doorway. The voice screamed at Seashell to slam the door, to run, to hide, to protect her friends—but something quieted it. Forced it into silence. Seashell winced at the sound of a kind of cold static moving through her mind. Like turning on a TV during a bad storm when the signal was out—and she could not see the faceless pony waiting on her doorstep. She could not see it because it was not allowing her to see it.

“Hello?” she called, looking around the figure’s legs without even being aware of its presence. She shivered, seeing her breath come out as a puff of steam. As if it were the middle of winter instead of late summer.

Behind her, Peach Fuzz had begun to compulsively shake her head back and forth. Her magic was weak, but strong enough to partially negate the mental effect—and she was almost aware. She could not see it or make out its form, but she was aware of her own inner self screaming. She did not know what form it would take, but only that something bad was on the verge of happening.

“Seashell, nopony’s there,” she lied, “come back from the...from the...”

Seashell looked back. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Must have been some ding-dong...”

The tendril placed itself gently on the back of her head—and then for her, the whole world went black.

Comments

[ObsPerson]

“But we at the whole thing.” Seashell winced from the effort of speaking. “And some extra.”

Ate

“It tasted the same as the...ow...vegan peparonii. I think?”

Pepperoni