Rockinghorse by William W. Johnstone

over, turned her back to him, and without another word went to sleep.
    Pissed her off again, Lucas thought.
    On the second-floor landing of the mansion, the painted-on grin of the rocking horse changed into the ugliness of a homicidal maniac after a fresh kill. Its painted-on eyes took a new life, beginning to shift and slowly blink. The hobbyhorse listened to a voice only it could hear, and began to rock slowly back and forth on its wooden runners. And in the timber surrounding the mansion, shadowy forms began to gather, to squat and stare at the dark shape of the house. To stare in silence. The night was their world, for they could not live in the light of God’s day. As they squatted in the midst of their stink, hate and loathing for those who resided inside the mansion glinted and gleamed out of their eyes.
    One of them defecated where it squatted. The others gathered around to smell. Another softly grunted a command. The others went back to their positions, assigned by age and rank in their primitive pecking order.
    These beings, these creatures, these not-quite-animal but not-quite-human things were all that remained of the direct ancestors of those who came before them. They had always lived here. That was as much as they knew of their history: that they had always been. And in some form or another, they would always be. It had been promised those who came before them. They knew they were supposed to hate all those who did not command them. They did not know why they were supposed to hate—they just did as they were told. For hundreds of years they had carefully avoided all contact with those not like them. They had lived peacefully in the dark timber, venturing out only at night. As long as those who were not like them did not hurt one of their own, they would hurt none of the others.
    But then, longer ago than even the oldest of the creatures could recall, something had changed all that. They could no longer live in peace. Those who had come before them had had a leader that could not be seen. And now those who came after had to obey. That was the way.
    It was all so strange..
    Where once half a thousand had lived, now there were no more than a handful of the Rejects, as they were called. And for years now they had been forced to obey one not of their own kind.
    As a faint, nickering sound, a whinneying sound, drifted through the night air, the Rejects slipped back into the deep timber. Back to their carefully concealed holes in the earth, where those who came before them lived. To lie quietly at rest during the daylight unsafe time. And to hate those not like themselves.
    The Rejects wished they knew, wished someone would tell them why they had to hate. But no one ever did.
    It was all so strange
    And the forest was once more silent as only the shadows created by the night crept through the brush and timber. But even that seemed alive. And evil.
    â€œHell, it’s cute,” Lucas said.
    â€œTold you,” Tracy smiled, as she stood by his side on the landing.
    Lucas put his hand on the hard painted rump of the rocking horse and gently pushed. The horse rocked back and forth as its tail twitched up and down and back and forth with the movement. Lucas felt an almost-electric sensation run from his hand to his shoulder. But it was a very pleasant sensation—almost erotic.
    The little hobbyhorse was so cute all thoughts of destroying it left Lucas’s mind.
    â€œWell?” Tracy asked. “When do we start the bonfire?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou said you might burn it, remember?”
    â€œYou’re taking me literally, Trace.” Lucas looked down at the horse and shrugged. “Hell, what harm could this thing possible do?”
    Man and wife walked down the spiraling steps, leaving the rocking horse alone on the landing. Had either of them turned around, they might have seen the shape of a young boy materializing by the horse’s side, one hand on the hobbyhorse’s