Dead Weight

Even worse, her mind didn't challenge the phantoms.

The shadowy presences, uniform in their vaguely stallionesque figures, merely lurked. They never entered the direct forefront of her sight, never touched her nor made a sound.

Sketchy would have called them shy, but once or twice she was distinctly aware of a specter inches from her face. She could certainly tell that size was not an illusion. The stallions were twice her filly-like stature and thus very much proportional to the space they occupied.

They seemed to be watching her. Clearly, that was the only thing they were doing, but as for why she couldn't say. They weren't answering her questions. It was upsetting.

"So, do you have any other hobbies?"

No response.

"Are you one stallion or-" Sketchy tried to count. "One, two, three - " She blinked, and her room was suddenly overrun with ghosts.

Sketchy jumped. "Hey, be polite, I'm trying to keep track of you all!"

They were soon another number. And then a different number.

She sighed in relief. They were always changing, she remembered. Every blink, they jumped in their driftings and did their thing, unhindered by any obstruction.

"Do you have a name?" Sketchy asked.

No response. But then, that had been the fifth of that question. She was running out of ideas.

"Fine, then I suppose I'll call you my Dark Legion, and we will conquer Equestria tomorrow." Sketchy huffed, falling back onto her bed. "No arguments, don't talk to me."

Humor was all she had going for her to stay sane at this point. But then, she wasn't supposed to address her hallucinations, was she? This was probably only making it worse. On a technicality, this was a ghost, right? Ghosts, plural? She was haunted, not crazy.

There was no reaction from the apparitions, not a sound, and so she was left to her own thoughts.

Sunlight streamed through the blinds in cheery rays. It was a comfort, but she didn't know what she'd do once it went dark out. She had the sneaking paranoia the shadows would get stronger and hurt her.  After all, that was what always happened in the movies, and dark magic itself was inherently evil. There was a very strong chance of something bad happening whenever the sunlight couldn't keep the dark at bay.

Ghosts didn't tend to act like a bunch of stupid goldfish in the movies. That there was a stipulation to counter her fears. Maybe she was just crazy. Sketchy breathed and shifted, stretching out her legs. She should probably call somepony about this. Perhaps get checked by a doctor, too.

"How do you feel about check ups and shots?" She asked the spirits in a soft voice.

When they didn't answer, she pretended they did.

"Oh yeah, I know what you mean. But then, it's only supposed to hurt a little, and it's for the greater good." Sketchy paused. "I'm sure the 1800s were terrible though, weren't they? You must be sick of leeches."

"Oh no, they don't use leeches anymore," She continued. "Although sometimes ponies act like them. But that's nothing new to you, huh?"

"Right," She sighed, and then gave up on trying to improve the situation. With humor at least. Humor didn't really work well, ever.

The room was slowly growing colder, she noticed, which definitely wasn't a good sign.

Her eyes drifted to the fan as it spun overhead, the blades a smear of brown wood until her eyes found the right pace to track them. Silver party-beads were tangled about the necks of the pull-chains, sparkling with light, and clicking softy.The opposing wall was a caramel brown, and beside the headboard of her bed were a row of large posters. Band gigs that had looked interesting, a world map stylized from the 16th century, a few prints from some major locomotive companies of their steam-engine designs.  White shreds of paper marked where her 'Visual Guide to the Equestrian Armory' and a few family photos had hung. The poster was out with the trash, but the photos were probably in a drawer somewhere.

What if she died, and somepony had seen this wall? What if the house killed her, and they had to search for evidence for a suicide? Would they think she broke in out of spite, or-

The sound of chiming bells elicited a scream before Sketchy recognized her phone and fetched it. "Yes?" She answered, attempting to sound busy, but the word turned into a squeak. Her heart was pounding in her ears.

"Sketchy? I'm on break, and I realized we hadn't spoken in a long time until this morning. How are you?"

"Ah." Sketchy made a series of noises, her voice cracking with the inability to say anything for the moment, before she took a deep breath and steeled herself.

"I know we left off badly a couple years ago at the Royal Guard Academy," Peppermint Stroke continued, " And it was really surprising to see you as a maid of all things- Sketchy, hello?"

"I am perfectly happy and fine, thank you very much," Sketchy ground out. " Very happy, very healthy, and no, I don't care about your rank! I don't even envy it, not in the slightest! Don't even care, nope. I don't even care if I get fired now either."

"Sketchy, you're, ah. Yelling. And I can barely understand you."

"Duly noted," Sketchy snapped. "Do you want fries with that?"

Oh Celestia, she would have to wind up working at some hayburger-selling restaurant, wouldn't she? She was completely useless for anything else, right? This proved it. Shhe couldn't even keep a cleaning job. She would have to go out and get applications, wouldn't she? So she could write up her reasons why she should be covered in fry-grease and get fat off the extras. Then she'd become the only fat pegasus for miles -

There came a sigh. "I'm not going to pretend things are alright and peachy. Clearly, you're still upset over what happened, and you know, I understand that. I know what it's like to lose dreams, believe me. And you were.... Are, a very amazing mare, and you have such talent and intelligence. If we can perhaps talk over coffee one day may-"

Click.

Sketchy's hoof was shaking as she set down the receiver with great care. Her eyes burned. She rubbed them furiously, but that only made it worse, the tears bubbling forth and flowing despite how hard she pressed. That stupid... She could only think of one thing in her stream of fury.

That stupid stallion, She finished, with his stupid ideas and stupid pity and stupid gloating shiny armor... Stupid face.

She had never been good with insults.

The tears thankfully didn't take long to stop, but her nose was stuffed. She ripped a tissue from it's place on her nightstand, and tossed the used wad in the trash.

The specters continued to watch. Without emotion, without care, without any soul at all.

Sketchy threw the tissue box at one of them. With great pleasure, the silhouette vanished. She watched as the cardboard clattered and fell uselessly onto the floor. This only fueled her rage. She had the power over these little things now.

"Why don't you have a sense of privacy, you stupid things?" Sketchy snarled. " Why don't you care, or say something, or just do something, huh? Stop staring at me! Quit judging me, and if you want to kill me do it alrea-"

A squeak ended her sentence.

A figure filled her vision.

Sketchy fell over.

It was no longer simply a shade. The details of fur and withered grey flesh were visible now, if shadowed; the figure gaunt, the neck, a spindled tower for a bulbous skull with dark sockets and sunken cheeks, a rotting nose and a perpetual grin. It was a living mummy, and it's sightless eyes -his, rather- were focused on her. Expectantly. The pony hung before her, the details of his lower form coalescing into shadows hinting at long, powerful legs that were a bit too long for an average stallion.

Expectantly staring. Expectantly.

Wanting something.  Her paralyzed mind was piecing the sight together. It could think.

Sketchy screamed and threw herself under her desk, wings and hooves folding themselves over her head and neck, curling into a ball while all she could do was bellow out prayers and pleadings and insults, none of which came out coherently but still her mouth ran on and on, babbling to safe her life, babbling to make noise to prove she was alive - could the dead make a sound?- and she was still conscious. There were no thoughts, only compulsions, and she found herself lulling into a sleep after awhile, completely exhausted and soaked with sweat.

Maybe. Maybe she had just had a nightmare.

Peace wouldn't be possible otherwise, right? Peace meant things were okay.

Sketchy crawled out with all the grace of a skittish cat. She felt like one.

When the coast was clear, she got up, breathing so deeply she swore her body rose on it's own. But, there was nothing there, and that's what mattered. Not her numb hooves or addled brain, but that she was perfectly and utterly okay.

There was coffee to make. She could make coffee, and pretend that absolutely nothing had happened, and her life was normal, and she wasn't sick.

Sketchy clung to these positive thoughts.

Vanilla, she promised, would do the trick. Vanilla-flavored coffee with a lot of milk.

It was regarding her from over the kitchen counter. It's head was through her coffee-maker.

Sketchy could only stare with as much hate and fear she could possibly muster, a mouse in a cobra's vision. She didn't blink.

"Fuck you."

There was only that expectant stare.

Sketchy turned on her hooves and stomped back into her room.

The sunlight did nothing to it, passing through it's tattered ear harmlessly without interruption as it met her above her bed. Sketchy continued the glaring contest. Yet no reaction.

"Don't," She managed, "Do that to me again. Don't get in my face, or I'll exorcise your scary butt, do you hear me?"

Silence. Nothing.

As she blinked a few more times, she realized that the multitude of shadows had dwindled permanently to that single figure. Who didn't want to get in her face anymore.

Yet, She corrected herself.

Sketchy gracefully crumpled onto the floor a second time, wrapped her head in her hooves,and moaned about her terrible, stupid luck and life. Stupid respectful hauntings to boot. Stupid respectful hallucinations rather. She couldn't even tell. Didn't even know the difference, if there was a difference. Even in the world of magic, ghosts weren't real.

After a long silence, during which nothing occurred, nothing surprised her, and nothing was heard except the sound of her heavy breathing, Sketchy peeled herself from the floor and with a sigh, set about straightening up what she could of her bedroom.  It helped her think, to organize things. And she needed to think. Even... Even if she was crazy. Or haunted. She didn't know which was preferable now.

Her room was a much more cheery presence than it's occupant. Even though she wasn't an artist, she enjoyed the look and feel of difference materials, different hues, and how light and shadow bounced off of each and every one. She had tried to incorporate as much as she could for the sake of interest, balancing the dancing sights with the structures of her desk and filing cabinets so that things wouldn't get cluttered.

There wasn't really anything messy aside from the patterned-hemp floor pillows, but those were in a stack anyway. She kicked those under the bed.

Then, moved her pink desk lamp from the desk to the filing cabinets, then her fishbowl to the desk.

Then, she moved her hairbrush to the windowsill along her bed.

Then, she moved her fishbowl to her nightstand. Studied it. Then moved it back.

She made her bed, and arranged the crocheted blankets. Stood back again.

She opened the floral curtains above her bed,  and moved her crimson-laced oval rug closer to the front door.

Sketchy moved the rug a bit to the middle of the floor, and then seeing the dust, fetched the broom from the other room to clean it up.

Then, she moved the rug back toward  the bedroom door, after judging it's worth for a good minute and a half.

It was positively inane, but the motions helped the pegasus settle down. A plan was forming in her mind. She had already considered sneaking back into the house that night - and the clock read 1:09 in the afternoon, so there was plenty of time to prepare - but as to how, she hadn't an idea. Or even the time.

But -and here she glanced at the figure standing through her printer- tonight would probably be unlikely. Not only due to the possibility of her spooky little friend getting nasty, but if the house was condemned then it would be demolished as soon as the guards were done doing their thing.

Whatever their thing was.

Sketchy sighed deeply. Peppermint. He had tried to make things up. She could use him as an excuse for visiting and snooping.

It would be a horrible experience, but she could do it. She could talk to him.

The ghoulish pony seemed to smile, encouraging her to go on with it.

"I hate you," She told it.

No reaction.

With another deep breath, she tucked her keys under her wing, and left the room.

It had been cool that morning, but as the sun rose so did the temperature. Now, with Her Divine Light high overhead, Peppermint Stroke found himself itching in his heavy armor. The others had retreated into the tainted house with his permission. It was unnaturally cold in there, but the danger had passed. The enchantments woven into the layers of metal of their armor would protect them from the majority of the curses that yet lingered after centuries in the dust.

Peppermint himself was relegated to standing outside in the weeds, facing the street for the arrival of the legendary Shining Armor. It was unnerving that the Princesses themselves had sent out a request for his involvement, one Peppermint was trying not to think terribly much of the implications for.

His mind was at an impasse; either consider the present situation, or perhaps the failed remedy with the young mare? Both were impossible to navigate. He dropped both scenarios altogether, clearing his mind to resume a stoic expression. It was the most practical thing to do in order to maintain mental integrity in the field.

Or would have been. Unless the dehydration enchantment was failing and he was hallucinating, Sketchy Schematic was trotting down the road towards him.

The stallion sat more upright, watching the mare as she came near. He noted in surprise that he hadn't been mistaken, although took a glance to her flank for a good measure. An eight-pointed, sky-blue star was the backdrop for an oddly-shaped white cloud with crisscrossing lines. This was without a doubt, Sketchy.

The mare was smiling. Peppermint watched her closely.

"I thought you were upset," He said.

Sketchy's smile thinned. "I was." Before her eyes met his, they wavered to the house. Her feathers were ruffled. Her shoulders, hunched.

Peppermint ignored the signs, inclining his head. "And what changed?"

Sketchy huffed a breath. "Well," And here her gaze flicked to the grass, while she took a seat along the curb, "You...Wanted to make amends. Make me, you know, feel better," She said. " But I wasn't ready for that. I'm still not, to be honest. I don't want to change anything yet."

Her jaw clenched. "But you were a great friend and role model. I don't want to let that relationship go to waste. It...Has been a long time, after all." Her eyes flicked towards his.

Peppermint had long since realized that belying her sharp mind and charming personality was a mare ten years his junior. She had been barely out of her fillyhood, Mint recalled, when she had been presented with a generous scholarship to the Royal Guard Academy. It had something to do with her talent, and her skills with making things work - he wasn't sure exactly what - but she had a difficult time fitting in with the older students, and never had had a friend her age before that. Sketchy had been emotionally immature then, and he sensed that she was still immature in some ways now.

"We can still be friends,"Peppermint answered, carefully. "I could invite you over to dinner at some point. You can meet my wife."

Sketchy's brow knit. "You...Got married?"

"Yes," He answered. "Three years ago, actually."

The mare's posture shifted between her forehooves, clearly not sure what to do with this information. "Do I know her?"

Peppermint decided she would not. "She went to the Academy," He answered thoughtfully, "But I don't think you two met."

Sketchy huffed a sigh, and flexed her small wings. "Alright then," She said. "Well. I suppose you can just hit me up with an invitation sometime."

"It was nice seeing you," Peppermint told her softly. He smiled, hoping to encourage her mood.

Sketchy's eyes flashed up in alarm. "Oh! No, I'm not leaving yet. There was still more to talk about!"

"Sketchy," Peppermint sighed, "I'm working right now, and it's a heavy duty operation."

"You're sitting in the grass," Sketchy remarked. "And you're guarding a house." She shot him a look.

"I am waiting on somepony to show up," Peppermint corrected her firmly, "Because we need a certain expertise to finish the job, since a certain magic is involved that could leak into the population and cause havoc if it isn't contained."

He narrowed his eyes, realizing what he had said through his hints, and clicked his teeth. "Great. Now I've compromised my own intel. I hope you're satisfied."

Sketchy smiled a touch. She looked worn, he realized, and her eyes, overshadowed by something. "I suppose I have to stay then, don't I? Otherwise I will compromise your mission further, if say, I were to blab to the neighbors what's going on?" Her tail flicked.

Peppermint gave her a look. "You will do no such thing. I will call somepony down to pick you up and wipe your memory," he grunted.

Wireframe, I need you to send somepo- Damn!

When his horn flared to life in an aura of green, Sketchy had took off running.

Peppermint was forced to sit still in order to complete the spell.

What? Came a gruff voice from the other end, faintly.

We have a civilian interference, Peppermint finished, before hauling himself off the ground in pursuit, his hooves thundering through the weeds after the smaller, flitting shape who zig-zagged across the yard and vanished around back.

"Damn it, Sketchy," He whispered to himself, as he slowed. "Not now."

There was no sign of her. She was either on the roof, or gone.

Peppermint inhaled deeply. He would pretend nothing had happened, and everything would be all right.

Yes.

Peppermint headed back around to wait in the yard.  Despite his failure, he was still praying Sketchy would not get into trouble. He was trusting her not to be stupid.

Would she be stupid though?  He could never predict her easily. He didn't know. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn't.

But a good guard never panicked and always took things in stride.