Discord

[Merry]

The Truest Horror Story

There were things that frightened ordinary people. Footsteps in an empty house. A face at the window. A phone call coming from inside the room. Merry Vollmer feared something worse.

A horse limping for no reason.

Blood, she could deal with. Blood was practically comforting. Blood had a location. Heat was useful. A missing shoe was a gift from God. Even an abscess, miserable little bastard that it was, generally had the decency to reveal itself eventually. But a horse who simply walked out of the stall lame?

No heat. No swelling. No wound. No missing shoe. Nothing. That was horror.

The nightmare began at seven in the morning. Merry was walking down the aisle with coffee in one hand and a stack of entry forms in the other when Otto appeared beside Mito's stall.

"Mutti."

Merry stopped.

There were many ways her children said Mutti. There was Mutti, what's for breakfast? There was Mutti, Fritz did something. There was Mutti, I need money. And then there was this one. Quiet. Serious. Merry's stomach dropped before Otto said another word.

"What?"

"I think Mito's lame."

There it was. The sentence no horse owner ever wanted to hear. Somewhere, unseen, ominous music began playing. Merry handed the entry forms to the nearest person without looking to see who it was. She put her coffee on a tack trunk. The coffee would remain there for the next five hours. It was already dead.

"Walk her."

Otto brought Mito into the aisle. Mito walked toward Merry with her ears forward, expression pleasant, apparently delighted with life.

Step.

Step.

Tiny hitch.

Step.

Step.

Merry froze. "Again."

Otto turned around. Mito walked away. Completely normal.

"Again."

Mito came back.

Step.

Step.

Hitch.

There. So small that someone who did not know horses might have missed it. Merry did not miss it. Horse people could identify one abnormal footfall at fifty yards while simultaneously failing to remember where they had put their phone.

"Outside."

By seven-ten, the investigation had begun.

Pavement. Lame.

Grass. Possibly lame.

Packed dirt. Definitely lame.

Arena footing. Sound.

Back onto pavement. Lame again.

Merry stared at Mito. Mito stared back. Jim appeared carrying coffee, Bingo shuffling behind him like an elderly gray ghost.

"What've we got?"

"Nothing."

Jim watched Mito walk. "She looks lame."

"I know."

"So technically we've got something."

"We have lameness. We do not have a reason."

Jim considered this. "Ah."

Exactly.

Merry crouched beside Mito's left front leg. She ran both hands from shoulder to fetlock. Nothing. No swelling. No heat. No tenderness. She picked up the hoof. No stone. No puncture. No sprung shoe. No suspicious nail. No obvious bruise.

Nothing.

Mito calmly rested her chin on Otto's shoulder. Merry put the hoof down.

"Walk her."

Hitch on the third step.

Jim frowned. "Could be shoulder."

Merry turned her head very slowly. "Do not say shoulder."

"Could be knee."

"Do not say knee."

"Could be tendon."

"Jim."

"Ligament?"

"Jim."

"Foot?"

"Foot is acceptable," Merry admitted.

Jim nodded. "Foot."

"Thank you."

He drank his coffee. A few seconds passed.

"Could be neurological."

Merry stared at him. Jim wandered away.

By seven-thirty, everyone at Riverside knew. This was because barns had no privacy. A secret told inside a barn traveled faster than influenza in a kindergarten. Eddie emerged from Barn B.

"What's happened?"

"Mito's lame."

His eyebrows rose. "Bad?"

"No." Merry looked at the mare. "That's the problem."

"Aye?" Eddie glanced between them.

"If she were very lame, we'd know where to start."

Mito shifted her weight. Everyone looked at her feet. Mito stopped moving.

"I see." Eddie nodded slowly. He did not see. Not yet.

Marti arrived five minutes later. She watched Mito trot.

"Left front."

"Yes."

"Foot."

"I hope so."

"Abscess."

Merry looked at her sharply.

"There's no heat."

"Not yet."

"No digital pulse."

"Not yet."

"She doesn't react to pressure."

"Not yet."

Merry stared at her. Marti shrugged.

"Abscesses enjoy suspense."

That was true. An abscess was less a medical condition than a malicious little theatrical production. Merry hated abscesses. Merry loved abscesses. At that moment, Merry would have carried an abscess down the aisle on a velvet cushion.

By eight o'clock, she had the hoof testers. Mito remained unconcerned. Toe. Quarter. Heel. Frog. Other heel.

Nothing.

Merry tested everything again. Still nothing. Otto stood beside her.

"Is that good?"

"No."

"It isn't?"

"It isn't bad."

Otto waited. Merry sighed.

"It would be better if something hurt."

Otto stared at her. "That sounds terrible."

"You'll understand someday."

Mito lowered her head and began investigating Merry's hair. Merry shoved her muzzle away.

"Do not make this adorable."

Mito blinked.

At eight-fifteen, Merry texted the farrier. At eight-seventeen, she texted him again. At eight-twenty, she composed a third message. She deleted it. She was a grown woman. An accomplished horsewoman. An international event rider. She was perfectly capable of waiting more than three minutes for a farrier to answer.

At eight-twenty-one, she checked her phone. Nothing. At eight-twenty-two, she checked again. Still nothing. Somewhere in the barn, a horse kicked a stall wall. Merry nearly levitated.

At eight-thirty, Mito trotted sound. Completely sound. Merry stared. Otto stared. Jim stared. Marti stared. Eddie stared. Mito trotted past looking spectacular. Merry's eyes narrowed.

"Again."

Otto turned. They trotted back. Lame.

Jim slowly lowered his coffee."Oh."

Merry pointed at him. "Don't."

"That's sinister."

"I know."

Mito stopped and looked around pleasantly. She appeared to be enjoying the gathering. That was when Merry's brain betrayed her. A horse owner's mind did not move logically from slight unexplained lameness to probably something minor. No.

It went:
Bruise. Bone chip. Navicular. Back. Something rare. Something researchers had only recently discovered. Something requiring an MRI machine located in another state. Something with a six-month rehabilitation protocol. Something described in veterinary journals using the phrase guarded prognosis. Merry had gone from one short stride to catastrophic career-ending injury in under ninety seconds. She looked at Mito. Mito yawned.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me." Mito began chewing Otto's sleeve.

By nine, the theories had spread throughout Riverside. Someone suggested stone bruise. Someone suggested sole pressure. Someone suggested arthritis. Someone suggested perhaps Mito had "slept funny."

Merry rejected that person from the investigation.

Jim returned. "I've been thinking."

"No."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"I don't care."

"What if—"

"No."

"It's probably nothing."

Merry rounded on him. "Never say that about unexplained lameness."

Jim blinked. "Right."

There were rules. That was one of them.

The veterinarian arrived shortly after ten. Dr. Lewis stepped out of her truck carrying her equipment. Merry had never been so happy to see another human being.

"Thank God."

Dr. Lewis stopped.

"That bad?"

"No."

Dr. Lewis sighed. "That kind."

"Yes."

They watched Mito walk. Lame. They watched her trot. Almost sound. Every different movement, a different response. Mito was not merely presenting symptoms. She was curating them.

Dr. Lewis stood with her hands on her hips. Merry waited. Otto waited. Eddie and  Marti waited. Jim had somehow acquired another coffee.

"Well," Dr. Lewis said.

Merry felt a chill. Veterinarians should be legally prohibited from beginning sentences with well.

"Well what?"

"She's lame."

"I know."

"But not very."

"I know."

"And inconsistently."

"I know."

"And at the moment I can't localize it cleanly."

There it was. The monster under the bed. The true horror. Not the diagnosis. Not the treatment. Not even the veterinary bill, although that specter was lurking nearby. Uncertainty.

"Could still be foot," Dr. Lewis said.

Merry nearly grabbed her by the shoulders."Excellent."

"I said could."

"I heard foot."

"We could do nerve blocks if we need to."

"Fine."

"And then radiographs."

"Fine."

"And potentially ultrasound."

Merry's expression tightened. "Fine."

"And if we still don't—"

"Stop."

Dr. Lewis raised an eyebrow.

"I need to preserve some will to live."

Behind them, Jim coughed suspiciously into his fist. They started with the foot for the third time.

And then the horse gods, having enjoyed themselves long enough, finally offered mercy. Mito took three steps and abruptly became much lamer. Merry gasped. Which was a strange response to one's horse getting worse. But horse ownership altered a person.

"There!"

Dr. Lewis nodded. "There."

They brought out the hoof testers again.

Toe. Nothing. Quarter. Nothing. Heel— Mito jerked.

Everyone froze. Dr. Lewis tested it again. Flinch. Merry's face lit up. Otto stared at her.

"Why are you smiling?"

"She hurts!"

"That sounds worse when you say it like that."

"The hoof hurts."

Jim clasped his hands together. "Thank God."

Anyone walking into the barn at that moment would have found six adults celebrating because a horse had finally demonstrated pain.

Dr. Lewis examined the heel more closely. There was still almost nothing to see. No drainage. No swelling. No dramatic eruption. Just one small tender area that had not been detectable earlier. She pared carefully. A little more. Then—

A dark tract. Merry saw it. Her knees nearly weakened.

"Oh, beautiful."

"That?" Otto leaned closer.

"Yes."

"That tiny black line?"

"Yes."

"That's beautiful?"

"It is the most beautiful thing I have seen today."

Dr. Lewis glanced up. "Likely abscess."

Merry could have kissed her. "Say it again."

"Abscess."

Jim put a hand over his heart. "Glorious."

Marti nodded. "Knew it."

Merry pointed at her. "You suspected it."

Eddie peered over Merry's shoulder. "All this over that wee thing."

Six people turned toward him. Eddie took one look at their expressions. "Aye. Never mind."

By noon, Mito's foot had been poulticed and wrapped. She stood in her stall eating hay with the serene expression of an animal who had endured absolutely nothing. Otto leaned against the stall door.

"So she'll be okay?"

"She should be."

"And that was all it was?"

"That was all it was."

He looked at the mare. Then at Merry.

"You spent five hours panicking over an abscess."

"I did not panic."

Jim walked past. "You Googled equine MRI facilities."

Merry looked at him."You were not supposed to see that."

Otto laughed. Inside the stall, Mito bumped her feed bucket noisily against the wall. Every human in the aisle flinched. Mito looked up. Perfectly calm. Perfectly comfortable. Perfectly innocent.

Merry pointed at her."You." Mito chewed.

"You are never allowed to limp mysteriously again."

Mito stretched her neck over the stall door and searched Merry's pockets. Merry gave her a treat. Jim stopped beside them, Bingo at his heels.

"Good news?"

"Abscess."

Jim nodded gravely. "Congratulations."

There was a moment of respectful silence. Because only horse people could sincerely congratulate someone on pus.

And that was how the horror ended.
No surgery.

No catastrophic injury.

No six-month rehabilitation.

No MRI.

No career-ending diagnosis.

Just a hoof poultice, a roll of vet wrap, several cold cups of coffee, one traumatized group of horse people, and an animal who would be completely sound within days and remember none of it.

Merry finally retrieved her coffee from the tack trunk. She took one sip. Cold. She drank it anyway.

Behind her, Mito shifted in her stall. Merry spun around. Mito stopped. They stared at each other. Merry narrowed her eyes.

"Don't."

And Merry walked away knowing the terrible truth every horse owner eventually learned: The scariest words in the English language were not there's something in the basement.

They were: He's just a little off.

(1896 words)