stop harshing my vibes with your murder

Rarity Belle liked to think she deserved a great life. 

She was an up-and-coming designer; she’d graduated from school with honors, been hired immediately after a successful internship with a prestigious designer, and rented a one-bedroom apartment in the city without a guarantor—she was, by and large, successful. She was supposed to be living her best life. 

She was living her best life, she thought to herself, staring down at the sketchbook on her desk inside her private office. 

Well. Used to be private. 

She heard it. That distinctly unpleasant shwoomph and the cold breeze that followed. Maybe, if she pretended really hard that she hadn’t heard it, nothing would happen. Maybe—

“Hey,” said the dead woman’s ghost, “are you still working on that same dress?”

According to at least six forums she’d stayed up late reading, ghosts were only real if you acknowledged them, so she kept examining her sketch, tracing a line here and there. Dresses were real. Dead ghost women were not. 

“Oh, hey, that’s looking a lot better,” a voice said behind her, sending cold shivers down her spine. “I’m glad you followed your gut and not what Bluebelle told you. I passed through her office on the way here and—” She whistled. “Still not sure how she got to be head editor.”

Ghosts aren’t real, Rarity told herself. Ghosts aren’t real. 

“Anyway.” The woman ‘sat’ herself down criss-cross on the edge of Rarity’s desk, where she could not be ignored. Her yellow-and-red streaked hair was tied up in a ponytail—could ghosts do that?–, her torn jacket was unbuttoned with the sleeves-rolled up, and her bloodied translucent palms were pressed on either side of her on the desk. A detestably pleasant grin shaped her lips. “If you’re done pretending I’m not here, I think you should know I finally have a lead on our killer.”

“Perhaps,” Rarity said, cold, “you should lead yourself to the door.” 

“Aw, you don’t mean that. You said last time you’d bring a priest, and you haven’t yet.”

“I will!” Rarity hissed, finally gracing the ghost with a glare. Always with her back-talking and remarks and being funny! She might almost prefer a scary ghost. “I’ve just been busy! Don’t you see? If I don’t even have the time to rid myself of you, what makes you think I’ll have the time to go find your killer? Not our killer, by the way. Your killer, your murder, your business.” 

“You say that,” the woman hummed, “but then you stopped by my old apartment last night and asked questions? Gotta keep your story straight, Rares.” She jumped off the desk and walked over to the mannequins by the end of the room, admiring the different dresses on display. “Has Bluebelle seen these yet?” She sounded genuinely impressed, that liar. “What did she say?”

“Don’t pretend you care,” Rarity snapped, watching the woman examine the dresses. The blood all over her face used to unnerve her. Now it didn’t so much, which itself was a haunting realization. The things one could get used to. “I work in the fashion industry, I know when someone is trying to flatter me to get their way, and it doesn’t work with me. I would have thought the past three weeks of this would have shown you as much.”

“I do care,” the woman replied, stern. “It’s hard to not care for someone after you’ve been around them for three weeks straight. You work hard. That says a lot about you.” After a moment, she turned towards Rarity, crossing her arms. “Look. I’m going to be real with you. The sooner you help me, the faster you never have to see me again. If I could change who can see me, I would, but I picked you, and I can’t change that, so—”

“Why?” Rarity demanded, slamming her pencil down on the table. “Honestly, why? Why did you pick me? Four of us found your body! Out of all of us, why did you go for me? Being a fan of true crime podcasts does not make me a detective!”

“You have a big network,” the woman replied. “You know a lot of people.”

Rarity turned her sights back to her sketches, incensed. “Stars. Even the dead are social climbers.”

“It’s because you know I don’t have anyone else in this world.”

Rarity looked up. “Plenty of people don’t have anyone in the world, and yet they don’t come to me asking to solve their murder.”

Sunset grinned. “Not what I meant. It’s because you literally know I don’t have anyone else.” She lifted her hand, four bloody fingers on display. “Only four people found my body with no ID whatsoever.” Three fingers. “Only three detectives took my case, and then closed it off a week later saying I was a homeless person with no name or trace in the system.” Two fingers. “Only two of the four people who found me bothered to follow-up on what happened to me.” One finger, pointed at Rarity. “And only you were upset enough by the fact that my family would never know what happened that you researched enough to find out I didn’t have any family to speak of. Nor that I was from this world, but—” Again, that grin. “Details.”

Rarity was quiet a long time. Then, she spoke, softly: 

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Yeah. And that’s why I picked you to help me. So!” She strode all the way to the desk and placed her palms on it, leaning in. “As I was saying, I got a lead.”

After a moment, with the greatest sight of her life, Rarity opened a drawer and pulled up a notebook. “I would say I wish I could kill you, Sunset,” she murmured, “but someone already beat me to it.”

“See? All the more reason to find them. This is all literally their fault.”

“Stop being cute and start giving me details before I change my mind.”