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Cursed Be He That Moves My Bones
It was half past bedtime, but the feel of midnight had arrived early: that tremblesome feeling when the world lay silent, and monsters lurked beneath the hospital bed. Sweetie Belle couldn’t sleep. She was too ghostweary to sleep, and so kept glancing at the closet, where a pack of shadows had gathered to escape the moonlight.
“But you know,” said the closet in a voice fit for knarred trees in a winter’s storm. “It’s not bad being a ghost, not once you get used to it. You can scare ponies you don’t like! You get to visit your own funeral!”
Sweetie shivered under the blanket, reminding herself that closets didn’t speak. Closets were wood, brass bolts, and steel screws, and whoever had heard of screws that talked?
Even so, she gulped and said, “Wh-why would I go to my own funeral? Isn’t that weird?”
“Weird?” replied the closet. “Weird?! Why would you not go? Why would you not want to see how loved you were? Going to my own funeral was the best decision I ever made.”
Sweetie stared at the closet. The closet stared right back, unblinking.
“Closets don’t go to funerals,” Sweetie said at last, though her voice was only half sure and a quarter certain. “They don’t die, and they know when to quit lying.”
The closet shook its head. Or rather, with no head to shake, the doors opened and shut, opened and shut, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. “Hah!” it said. “I myself died right there, in that bed of yours. Such a gruesome, ghastsome death it was too – a dozen doctors by my side, and not a single pony one of them could save me...
“But I digress. I merely haunt this closet, because the bed is for patients. It’s for the most terminal of foals. The no-hopers. The final-stops. The end-of-the-lines.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why don’t you have a looksee behind my doors?” said the ghost. “You’ll be joining me come morning, I shouldn’t wonder, so have a peek. What are they operating on again? Your horn? It sounded serious.”
“N-no it’s not.”
“Spell pox leads to horn-rot, which leads to magical terror trembles and the dreaded hoof-and-horn disease. Of course it’s serious.”
“No it’s not," Sweetie wailed. "Leave me alone.”
“You should think of something put on your tombstone, Sickly Belle, while you have time. Here. You can take something I’ve been working on. It’s a work in progress, but you get the idea.”
The ghost cackled, then began to chant. Its voice was that of tombs and graveyards, and maggot-stinking coffins buried in the earth.
“Cursed be he that moves my bones,
Cursed be she that digs.”
Sweetie clambered out of bed. Her horn ached with every step, a pain like a hammer to the forehead. Yet she fixed her eyes upon the closet, and walked.
The ghost continued.
“Cursed be they who crack this stone,
Be boiled alive
Like pigs, oh pigs!
Be boiled, be broiled
Like pigs!”
“Ponies don’t eat pigs,” Sweetie snapped. “Stop lying to me!”
With that, she opened the closet to shout at the ghost.
The closet was empty.
Little shadows nipped at Sweetie’s hooves, and the room seemed bigger than before, larger, huger, vaster, greater, grander. She was alone. Her eyes watered, and with all her heart and soul, blood, bile and bones, she wished she was home again – yet the earliest wishing stars had yet to rise.
“R-Rarity,” Sweetie whispered. “I… I know there’s no ghosts in here. Not really. But I need you...”
A moon gleaming pause. It was followed by the sound of hoofsteps, but Sweetie didn’t dare turn to look. If she didn’t look, then that meant Rarity was really in the room with her, and nothing could prove otherwise.
“Whatever is the matter, darling?” said Rarity behind her.
Sweetie gulped. “I’m…”
“Come along, dear. Spit it out.”
Sweetie spoke in a mouse-voice. “I’m... I'm so scared. I’m scared that something’s going to go wrong tomorrow, and I’m not going to see you again.”
Rarity whispered in her ear. “That’s O.K. Everypony gets scared. But no matter what happens tomorrow, know this: you are brave, and you are not alone. Don’t forget that. Don’t you ever.”
It was an hour past bedtime, but the feel of midnight had arrived early: that special feeling of sister hugs, and of facing the morning with bravery and courage.
Sweetie yawned, then finally turned and climbed back into bed.
She fell asleep.
“But you know,” said the closet in a voice fit for knarred trees in a winter’s storm. “It’s not bad being a ghost, not once you get used to it. You can scare ponies you don’t like! You get to visit your own funeral!”
Sweetie shivered under the blanket, reminding herself that closets didn’t speak. Closets were wood, brass bolts, and steel screws, and whoever had heard of screws that talked?
Even so, she gulped and said, “Wh-why would I go to my own funeral? Isn’t that weird?”
“Weird?” replied the closet. “Weird?! Why would you not go? Why would you not want to see how loved you were? Going to my own funeral was the best decision I ever made.”
Sweetie stared at the closet. The closet stared right back, unblinking.
“Closets don’t go to funerals,” Sweetie said at last, though her voice was only half sure and a quarter certain. “They don’t die, and they know when to quit lying.”
The closet shook its head. Or rather, with no head to shake, the doors opened and shut, opened and shut, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. “Hah!” it said. “I myself died right there, in that bed of yours. Such a gruesome, ghastsome death it was too – a dozen doctors by my side, and not a single pony one of them could save me...
“But I digress. I merely haunt this closet, because the bed is for patients. It’s for the most terminal of foals. The no-hopers. The final-stops. The end-of-the-lines.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why don’t you have a looksee behind my doors?” said the ghost. “You’ll be joining me come morning, I shouldn’t wonder, so have a peek. What are they operating on again? Your horn? It sounded serious.”
“N-no it’s not.”
“Spell pox leads to horn-rot, which leads to magical terror trembles and the dreaded hoof-and-horn disease. Of course it’s serious.”
“No it’s not," Sweetie wailed. "Leave me alone.”
“You should think of something put on your tombstone, Sickly Belle, while you have time. Here. You can take something I’ve been working on. It’s a work in progress, but you get the idea.”
The ghost cackled, then began to chant. Its voice was that of tombs and graveyards, and maggot-stinking coffins buried in the earth.
“Cursed be he that moves my bones,
Cursed be she that digs.”
Sweetie clambered out of bed. Her horn ached with every step, a pain like a hammer to the forehead. Yet she fixed her eyes upon the closet, and walked.
The ghost continued.
“Cursed be they who crack this stone,
Be boiled alive
Like pigs, oh pigs!
Be boiled, be broiled
Like pigs!”
“Ponies don’t eat pigs,” Sweetie snapped. “Stop lying to me!”
With that, she opened the closet to shout at the ghost.
The closet was empty.
Little shadows nipped at Sweetie’s hooves, and the room seemed bigger than before, larger, huger, vaster, greater, grander. She was alone. Her eyes watered, and with all her heart and soul, blood, bile and bones, she wished she was home again – yet the earliest wishing stars had yet to rise.
“R-Rarity,” Sweetie whispered. “I… I know there’s no ghosts in here. Not really. But I need you...”
A moon gleaming pause. It was followed by the sound of hoofsteps, but Sweetie didn’t dare turn to look. If she didn’t look, then that meant Rarity was really in the room with her, and nothing could prove otherwise.
“Whatever is the matter, darling?” said Rarity behind her.
Sweetie gulped. “I’m…”
“Come along, dear. Spit it out.”
Sweetie spoke in a mouse-voice. “I’m... I'm so scared. I’m scared that something’s going to go wrong tomorrow, and I’m not going to see you again.”
Rarity whispered in her ear. “That’s O.K. Everypony gets scared. But no matter what happens tomorrow, know this: you are brave, and you are not alone. Don’t forget that. Don’t you ever.”
It was an hour past bedtime, but the feel of midnight had arrived early: that special feeling of sister hugs, and of facing the morning with bravery and courage.
Sweetie yawned, then finally turned and climbed back into bed.
She fell asleep.
This was interesting and haunting and a perfect way to describe the nightly terrors and the fears of a child (or, in this case, of a foal).
There's really not much I can say here, the wording is wonderful, the descriptions themselves are splendid, the ending is touching. I loved it.
I'm quite sure we have a finalist here.
There's really not much I can say here, the wording is wonderful, the descriptions themselves are splendid, the ending is touching. I loved it.
I'm quite sure we have a finalist here.
Excellent pacing and tension, though the inventive vocabulary took a little getting used to. Aside from that minor quibble, fantastic work.
single pony one of them
The "pony" insert makes no sense here.
>>Orbiting_kettle
I don't think this was an allegory for simple fears. I think it's clear that the supernatural component was real, and Sweetie is dying.
I think the author could stand to make things a little clearer than they are, though. The resolution didn't give me the impression that Sweetie had learned acceptance, only that she was tired.
>>Trick_Question
Maybe there is a supernatural element, maybe not. It changes little in Sweetie's perception and in her fears. We are still seeing a terrorized filly going alone through the night at the beginning and with the comfort of her sister at the end.
I appreciate the story for making sense being read in both ways.
Maybe there is a supernatural element, maybe not. It changes little in Sweetie's perception and in her fears. We are still seeing a terrorized filly going alone through the night at the beginning and with the comfort of her sister at the end.
I appreciate the story for making sense being read in both ways.
>>Orbiting_kettle
What I mean is, regardless as to whether or not there's a supernatural element, Sweetie Belle is very ill and is presumably going to have surgery tomorrow. That makes this story about significantly more than mere childhood fears.
What I mean is, regardless as to whether or not there's a supernatural element, Sweetie Belle is very ill and is presumably going to have surgery tomorrow. That makes this story about significantly more than mere childhood fears.
This has some really great tension and atmosphere building, but I think I have to disagree with other people about the ending. I don’t like it. I think this would really benefit from the ‘Let your characters suffer’ mantra. Rarity feels too perfect here, and the conflict (which is set up very well) is resolved far too easily. You have a good opportunity here for really digging into these fears, but it’s wasted because you let Rarity resolve things too quickly.
Sweetie Belle is worried about her surgery in the morning. She thinks she hears a ghost taunting her from a nearby closet, who sings a little song to her. In the end, Rarity shows up and comforts her.
This is one of those stories that could have turned into a horror story, but instead was a bit of drama – Sweetie Belle is scared about undergoing a medical procedure, and her fears are somewhat justified, but are being amplified either by a ghost or (more likely) her own imagination, which is scaring her.
This was a kind of cute piece in the end, and a bit WAFFy with Rarity’s appearance - I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or not. >>HoofBitingActionOverload brings up a valid point - Sweetie's fears are dispelled easily by her big sister, and while that might work for a story being told to a child, I'm also not sure if it is more valid than having her work out her fears a bit more.
>>Trick_Question
I don't think that there's any textual evidence that she's actually dying. Really, it seems like the sort of thing a half-asleep person might dream about that scared them. Indeed, the ghost's line suggests whatever it is is unlikely to kill her - it is the sort of ridiculous medical chain of terrors that people sometimes face.
This is one of those stories that could have turned into a horror story, but instead was a bit of drama – Sweetie Belle is scared about undergoing a medical procedure, and her fears are somewhat justified, but are being amplified either by a ghost or (more likely) her own imagination, which is scaring her.
This was a kind of cute piece in the end, and a bit WAFFy with Rarity’s appearance - I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or not. >>HoofBitingActionOverload brings up a valid point - Sweetie's fears are dispelled easily by her big sister, and while that might work for a story being told to a child, I'm also not sure if it is more valid than having her work out her fears a bit more.
>>Trick_Question
I don't think that there's any textual evidence that she's actually dying. Really, it seems like the sort of thing a half-asleep person might dream about that scared them. Indeed, the ghost's line suggests whatever it is is unlikely to kill her - it is the sort of ridiculous medical chain of terrors that people sometimes face.
There's an abrupt transition from the supernatural stuff being there to being gone. I get that it's because she opens the door and is confronted with reality, but I think this would be stronger if the effects of that (beyond just Sweetie's fear) had a bit more time to linger.
The very last line is a bit flat. Consider cutting.
Otherwise, this is great stuff!
The very last line is a bit flat. Consider cutting.
Otherwise, this is great stuff!
Cursed Be He That Moves My Bones - A quality material here, although my inner pedant says ‘That’ should be ‘Who’ in the title. Intriguing plot even though I’m not normally much for Dark fics, and held me to my seat while reading. Goes right up into the top collection. Darnit, now I’m going to have problems sleeping tonight. (Hi CiG or TD, although I'm leaning to CiG for this one)
I quite liked this one. Very atmospheric. I rather enjoyed the more unique phrasing going on.
It's interesting to wonder how much is real and how much is not. Even more interesting is possibility that some things lie somewhere in-between.
Sweetie Belle was used to great effect. She helped keep things from getting too dark.
I'm glad I got to read this. Thank you for writing.
It's interesting to wonder how much is real and how much is not. Even more interesting is possibility that some things lie somewhere in-between.
Sweetie Belle was used to great effect. She helped keep things from getting too dark.
I'm glad I got to read this. Thank you for writing.
This wasn't on my ballot and now I'm sad. It would have easily, effortlessly taken the top spot.
Lucky Dreams, why you so good?
Lucky Dreams, why you so good?
>>Cold in Gardez
Honestly, that feeling of disappointment at missing out on some of the interesting stories is what drove me to read them all this time. It probably isn't a scalable approach to every Writeoff, but I might at least start reading all the finalists.
I may start being a lot more selective about submitting multiple stories, too. It seems like a fun idea on the surface, but both times I've done it, my primary accomplishments were losing points and wasting people's time with inferior stories.
Honestly, that feeling of disappointment at missing out on some of the interesting stories is what drove me to read them all this time. It probably isn't a scalable approach to every Writeoff, but I might at least start reading all the finalists.
I may start being a lot more selective about submitting multiple stories, too. It seems like a fun idea on the surface, but both times I've done it, my primary accomplishments were losing points and wasting people's time with inferior stories.
>>Cold in Gardez Did you click to add another fic when your initial Finals ballot was read through and sorted? I almost missed three I hadn't read that way. The text contrast is too low, and I was expecting the entire run at one shot. I just hapened to see it and added the last three.
Congrats on the gold, btw. It's about time. ;)
Congrats on the gold, btw. It's about time. ;)
If she didn’t look, then that meant Rarity was really in the room with her, and nothing could prove otherwise.
Nobody else commented on this line but I'm very curious, does this mean Rarity had died and she was appearing as a ghost to comfort Sweetie?