The adrenaline that had intoxicated me, giving me the confidence to break into the home of my lifelong friend had passed. Now I'm driving home with the spirit of a murdered girl in my passenger seat. We had been sitting quietly for a while, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. The silence was heavy, so I decided to break it. “So… how is being a ghost?”

Heather didn’t respond. She turned her head slowly towards me, her expression one of pure indifference, before turning back to the road. We sat in silence a little longer until I spoke again. “So, are you stuck in those clothes, or can you take them off?”

This time, she turned her head sharply, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Pervert.”

“I didn’t mean like that. I was just wondering if you were stuck in that tacky dress,” I clarified, trying to lighten the mood.

Heather gasped, her face contorting in pure disgust. “This is a custom nightgown designed by the Claude Montana, but I wouldn’t expect swine like you to understand.” She turned her head towards the passenger side window with a huff, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

I chuckled softly, the corners of my mouth twitching upwards. “What the hell is…” she gestured up and down, indicating my entire outfit. “...this travesty?”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I asked, my focus on the road but my eyebrows furrowing with concern over the outfit I had been proud of.

“Well, first off, what is with the bomber jacket?” she asked, her tone dripping with disdain.

“I thought it looked cool, and it was pretty chilly out,” I added defensively, glancing over at her.

“Okay, fine,” Heather conceded in her usual over-the-top bitchy tone. “But what the fuck is with the pants? Are those green khakis?” She giggled to herself as she noticed this. “You look like a sleazy real estate agent.” She leaned over, examining my pants with an amused glint in her eye.

“My grandma got me these for Christmas… I thought they looked nice,” I mumbled, all confidence draining from my voice as Heather picked apart my outfit.

“Aww, how cute,” Heather teased, attempting to pull at my cheek like a grandmother would. I shooed her ghostly hand away. Her hand was extremely cold even with the slight contact I made. My shooeing caused her to jump back in her seat, giggling. Her laughter was infectious, a reminder of the fun we used to have.

She looked at my outfit one more time, still chuckling a little. “Wait, are you wearing just a wife-beater under the jacket? I thought you put the jacket on because it was cold out?” Her face lit up with a big, shit-eating grin as she leaned back in the seat, her smug, goody-two-shoes attitude returning. She crossed her legs and placed them on the dashboard, her expression one of pure enjoyment.

“I missed this, Al. I forgot how fun you were to fuck with,” she said, a genuine smile playing on her lips. “Seriously you make it too easy I've got so much material to work with”

I didn’t acknowledge her directly; I just kept driving, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. This was just how our relationship had been when she was alive. In middle school, we would tease each other constantly. Despite the jabs and playful insults, it was fun. Duke had always been there to act as a middleman, her kindness balancing out our bickering. Then high school rolled around, and we drifted apart. But by that point, I was already too accustomed to losing people in my life. It didn't bother me I just brushed it off and moved on… as usual.

As we drove through the quiet, dimly lit streets, the nostalgic banter brought a sense of normalcy to the bizarre situation. It was almost comforting, in a strange way, to fall back into our old dynamic.

Heather began to hum to herself, a familiar habit of hers. She loved to sing and when ever she didn't want to sing she hummed. I would never admit it to her, but she was an incredible singer. The tune was unfamiliar, but I still attempted to join in. As she hummed, I followed her lead, our voices creating an impromptu harmony. For a brief moment, my life felt a little normal again.

“Al,” Heather said, trying to get my attention.

“Yeah?” I replied, glancing over at her.

“When we get to your house, I'm picking your outfit for tomorrow.” This was the first thing she'd said in a friendly tone today. I snickered before speaking.

“Sure, but keep in mind you don't have much to work with.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” She rolled her eyes, but there was a genuine smile on her face. This might have been the first time in years anyone had heard Heather Chandler act kindly. It was the scariest aspect of my experience so far.

“So, what kind of fashion miracle are you planning for me?” I asked, trying to keep the mood light.

“First of all, that bomber jacket has to go. And those green khakis? Burn them,” she replied with a mock-serious tone, tapping her chin as if deep in thought.

“I thought the bomber jacket was cool,” I protested, though I couldn’t help but laugh.

“It was cool—in World War 2. We’re going to aim for something a bit more contemporary. And by contemporary, I mean not horrendous,” she shot back, grinning.

“Oh, great, I’m going to look like one of your minions, aren’t I?” I joked, recalling her notorious clique back in high school.

“Better than looking like a fashion disaster,” she quipped. “Seriously, though, Al. You’ve got potential. You just need a little guidance.”

“From a ghost,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“A fashionable ghost,” she corrected, leaning back in the seat and crossing her legs.

We continued to talk and tease each other as I drove, the conversation flowing naturally despite the surreal circumstances. It was strange, but at that moment, it felt like we were just two old friends catching up, the boundaries of life and death blurring in the face of shared memories and familiar banter.

As we pulled into my driveway, I glanced at Heather, who was now examining the street outside with mild curiosity. “Welcome to my humble abode,” I said, parking the car.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Charming,” she replied dryly, floating out of the car and through the garage door.

I followed the keys jangling in my hand. As I walked in, Heather continued to question me. “Hey, where are Mr. and Mrs. Larson?”

“They flew down to New Jersey to visit my aunt. They’re going to be gone for a couple of weeks,” I explained.

Heather nudged me with her shoulder before speaking again, a sarcastic edge in her voice. “You throwing a party then, Al?”

I snorted, knowing full well she was teasing me. “Yeah, right. Like I'd want a bunch of the kids from Westerburg High trashing my place.”

She laughed, a sound that was oddly comforting despite the situation. “True. You never were the party type.”

In high school, Heather and I never interacted much, but I knew she was aware of me. No one spoke to me due to her direct orders. Strangely, I appreciated it. It meant I didn't have to worry about her goons messing with me. But it also meant I never got the chance to befriend many people. Remembering this brought a bit of frustration to the surface. A part of me was still bitter about how she treated me in high school, she tried to make me into an outcast. Now was the first chance I had to press her about.

“You know, Heather, I always wondered why you did that,” I said, closing the front door behind us. “Why’d you tell everyone to stay away from me?” I tried to keep a calm tone but my insecurity seeped into my words. The fun moment we had in the car was behind me as the things she had done to me rushed into my memory.

Heather floated into the living room, looking around at the familiar surroundings. “Honestly? I was bored. But you seemed to like being left alone. You had no problems picking up chick… after chick… after chick.” She finished her sentence with a more pensive tone, her eyes narrowing as she examined a framed family photo on the mantel.

“Why does that bother you so much? Fine, I can't hold down a relationship. Why do you keep bringing it up?” I asked, following her gaze.

“It’s because you’re a goddamn hypocrite.” She blurted out, I could tell she was annoyed, and just like me, she was finally able to get something off her chest. “Don’t act like you didn’t go around telling people that I was a depraved floozy, all the while you were on your eighth girl of the week,” she shot back, her voice laced with bitterness.

“It was never like that, Heather, and you fucking know it. You make it sound like I'm a sex-crazy womanizer, I wasn’t doing it for sex. Hell, I only had sex with one of them. I was just trying to find somebody… somebody like you,” I admitted, my voice softening as I confessed what I thought was the truth.

Heather crossed her arms, her expression unamused by my sentiment. “Don’t try that corny shit with me Al. That statement is dumb for multiple reasons. The biggest reason is you thought you could find another bitch like me.” She moved her hands down her body as if to say she was perfect and one of a kind.

“I didn’t mean like that, Heather… I meant someone who was sensible… someone who wouldn’t run off into an abandoned building late at night, and disappear” I said, my voice faltering as I questioned my own words. Was Heather Chandler really my definition of a sensible girl?

Heather floated closer, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. “Sensible? Is that what you call it? You act so high and mighty all the time, you’re just as messed up as I am. You think you can play the hero now, but you’re still the same lost boy who doesn’t know what he wants.” The mild argument we were having was blossoming into something more.

I clenched my fists, her words cutting deep. “Oh no, you're not putting me on your level. Yea, I'm not perfect but I'm not a completely malicious asshole like you. I never went around terrorizing people for the hell of it.”

Heather floated near the edge of the living room, her ethereal form flickering like a candle in anger. "I wanted to protect you, Al. I wasn't actually bored. I told people to stay away from you because I didn't want them fucking with you… I didn’t want to admit that deep down I still cared about you,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly as she swallowed hard, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “You were a great friend, and when I was becoming popular, I wanted to bring you up with me, but you refused. You refused to change. You were perfectly fine losing another friend, forgetting about me like I was one of your hoes of the week.”

Her words hung in the air, a raw confession that made my heart ache. We stared at one another intensely, the distance between us seeming both vast and nonexistent. Heather's face, usually so composed, now showed a vulnerability I hadn’t seen in years. Her eyes darted to the floor, her ghostly form shimmering slightly. “I spend every day in the shell of my home, watching as everyone I knew wrote the most horrible things they could about me. Every time I saw a message about me being some sort of slut, I thought about the lies my friend spread about me, one of the few people I thought I could trust.”

The weight of her words hit me like a tidal wave. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, each beat echoing the regret and guilt that I’d buried deep inside, but my pride raged on proceeding with any other form of thought. “Heather, I’m so sorry that this happened to you. You never deserved to die, no matter what you did. I never forgot about you, when I heard about what happened to you I cried, and I skipped school for a couple of days just mourning the loss of someone I thought hated me, I thought you wrote that suicide note and it broke my heart reading it because I genuinely thought you felt that way. But I didn't make those people hate you. I didn't make them go there and write those messages. You can't pin that on me. I didn't make you throw the people you could trust to the side for fame.”

The tension in the room was palpable as we stared at each other, the weight of our past and present hanging heavily between us. The house, usually a place of comfort, felt like a battleground where old wounds were ripped open and emotions poured out like flowing blood. Heather's form shimmered more intensely, her face contorting with a mixture of anger and pain.

“You think I wanted this, Al?” she spat, her voice trembling. “You think I chose this path? I was a kid, just like you, trying to navigate a world that was bigger and meaner than we could ever understand. I made mistakes, sure, but I never thought it would lead to this. And you… you were supposed to be my anchor, my one true friend, and you left me to drown.”

Her words cut deep, and I felt a surge of defensiveness rise within me. “I didn’t leave you, Heather. You pushed me away. You built walls and surrounded yourself with people who only cared about your status. How was I supposed to break through that?”

Heather’s ghostly form flickered, her expression softening slightly. “Maybe you’re right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Maybe I did push you away. But that doesn’t change the fact that I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

“How could I have known that, Heather? I thought the Heather I knew was gone. You might not have realized it, but you were untouchable… What about Duke? She was with you, She tried to be your anchor, but then she became obsessed with status just like you. A status you'd never let her achieve, and now she despises you.” I blurted out, my voice filled with pure exhaustion. I didn’t hate her; I just wanted her to see things from my perspective. All the while, I was unable to see things from hers.

Heather shook her head, refusing to believe or maybe just unable to process how much of her fallen relationship with me was her own doing. She attempted to storm off but was yanked back to me, and at that moment, I fell to my knees in pain. I peered down at the mark on my palm as it felt like molten glass was being smeared over it.

“Oh fuck, I forgot,” Heather said, watching in fear as I lay on the ground, trying to regain my bearings. My breaths were heavy and rhythmic. The worst pain I had ever experienced came and went in seconds. I tried to stand, one knee at a time, the mark on my hand still stinging. But then, I felt Heather’s cold touch on my hand. Normally, her spiritual contact would chill me to my core, but in this instance, I felt relief.

“Are you okay?” she asked, worried, still attempting to grip my hand despite her intangibility.

“Yeah…” I said, exasperated. “Are you—” She cut me off, as usual.

“I’m fine… At this point, I’m used to it. Anytime I tried to leave my house, this would happen.”

“Shit, man, you must be stronger than me then.” I knelt there, still attempting to catch my breath. “Heather… I’m sorry. I might not fully feel like it’s my fault, but… I hurt someone I cared about. I do that time and time again and—” Once more, I was cut off by Heather, not with words but with a hug, the coldest warm embrace.