Chapter Text
There is a ghost in my apartment.
Because this is the life of Frank A. Iero, of course there would be a ghost in my new apartment. It shouldn’t have surprised me, honestly. But it did. Because A) I had made certain to give a thorough inspection of all prospective apartments I was looking into specifically for ghostly residents. Most likely this guy was out when I came for a walk-through or was shy enough to dematerialize when the landlord let me in to inspect the place. Dematerializing, it was one of the many annoying habits ghosts have.
And surprised because B) at first glance I mistook the guy for being . . . well, alive.
It’s easy to pick out a ghost from a line-up of the still-living; all of them have a white washed quality to their appearance, more blurred around the edges as if I was seeing them through a smudged windowpane. According to Grandpa, the older or the closer to “passing on” the soul was, the more insubstantial they became.
But the ghost in my living room looked as solid and vibrant as anyone with a pulse and breath. Though the vibrancy could have been amplified by the ridiculous shade of red the ghost’s hair was, almost Ronald McDonald-red in color.
“The hell?” I said from the doorway, laden with canvas totes filled with groceries in both hands, certain that I walked in on a squatter sitting on my futon.
The guy looked up from contemplating his palm’s lifeline or whatever, dark eyes widening in shock.
It was only as I stared at him a few seconds longer, noticing how his chest did not rise and fall with needed breath that I made out the tell-tale corona of a glow emanating from him as it did all ghosts. It was faint, but there. I felt a rush of disappointment followed by quick annoyance.
The ghost opened his mouth as if to say something.
“Frankie? What’s wrong?” My mother’s voice asked from behind me, effectively breaking my stillness from the doorway.
“Nothing, I just . . . thought I saw something.” I said distractedly, moving from the doorway towards the small kitchen, avoiding packed boxes and keeping track peripherally as the ghost slowly stood up from the futon. My mother in her blithe unawareness almost walked into, and would have walked through, my uninvited houseguest, but he quickly backpedaled out of her way quickly in a flurry of panicked motion and tucked himself into the farthest corner of the living room.
“Saw something?” The alarm in my mother’s voice made me regret my poor choice of words.
“A huge spider,” I quickly recovered, injecting as much casual easiness into my tone as I could. “But it was just a dustbunny, I think.”
Mom expelled a small, almost silent, sigh of relief. She doesn’t know about my “I can see ghosts and communicate with them” party trick. I have spent a lifetime treading lightly with my Mom, more so lately than usual. She’s a small, delicate-boned woman with hands worn and tired from working hard. Despite the strength of her work ethic, Mom is quick to worry and one of the first to leap to conclusions predicting catastrophe and chaos. None of her anxieties ever contemplated having a son with the freakish job of helping the souls of the dead, I bet. Though I know she suspects that I am not exactly normal; a fact she finds comfort by blaming it on my father running off before I was even born.
If it wasn’t for my Grandpa I probably would have counted myself as crazy long ago and checked myself into Bellevue. As a fellow mediator, he quickly realized that the imaginary friends I went on and on about as a kid were less imaginary and more ectoplasmic. It fell on Gramps to explain the whole mediator business, about how it was my duty, a payless, thankless duty I must add, to help the spirits move on.
Sounds cool, right? Well it isn’t. Try living a life with any semblance of normal when you have ghosts materializing and vying for your attention. I could be grocery shopping with my mom, and the ghost of the grocery store’s butcher will follow me pleading me to do him the favor of burning the collection of Lolita porn videos hidden in his attic before his wife finds them. Seriously.
A nice peaceful evening playing my guitar after a crappy day at school can be suddenly interrupted by the ghost of kid in a hospital gown asking you to help him find his mom. Christ.
Grandpa loved calling this ability a blessing; I see it more as a burden.
I went about collecting my canvas grocery bags and folding them. Mom glanced around the apartment, “This place is a bit small.”
“It’ll just be me,” I resisted glaring at the ghost, “so I’m sure it will be comfortable.”
Mom ran a finger across the kitchen counter and frowned at whatever offensive dust her Mom-Vision sighted. “Maybe I could help you clean while you unpack?”
I shook my head, “No, it’ll only get dirty again as I’m unpacking.” She pouted a bit which made me smile. “Thanks, Mom. You already helped a lot just buying me a load of groceries and cleaning supplies.” I tilted my head at the battalion of cleaning supplies on the counter Mom insisted every household needed.
Mom pulled me in for a hug, “Of course, Frankie.” Her embrace was warm, clean-laundry scented, and tender. I was reminded of how much I loved her.
I hugged her back. Through my mom’s dark hair, I could see the ghost watching us with a small smile on his crooked mouth. I narrowed my eyes at him, and the smile quickly disappeared.
“Frankie?”
“Yea?”
Mom pulled back and looked up at the ceiling fan in the living room making lazy, wobbly revolutions with a frown. “You should call your landlord about that fan. Doesn’t look like it’s bolted properly and it could fall on your head one of these days. Then where would you be?” She narrowed her gaze further as if daring the ceiling fan to fall down.
I was able to resist rolling my eyes, but a chuckle escaped before I could clamp my lips and then quickly petered out when she gave me a bland look. “Right. I’ll let the landlord know. Let’s get finished here and I’ll get you back home, yea?” I could feel the weight of the ghost’s curious stare between my shoulder blades like a living thing. But there wasn’t much I could do about him with Mom around.
Thankfully, she nodded in agreement. I ignored him during the small while it took us to finish putting away the groceries. I found it odd how he wasn’t making an effort to attract my attention the way so many ghosts seeking my help do. He was silent in his corner of the room, an unmoving trim figure faintly glowing. I didn’t glance back at him, despite a bizarre urge to do so, as we left my apartment. Once outside I mentally pushed him to the back of my mind to deal with later. Knowing my luck Casper would still be around when I came back . . . I would see how much trouble this spook would be then.
As soon as we arrived at mom’s place, she immediately busied herself in the kitchen while I made two trips to and from the car packing the last of my possessions. I poked my head around a wall into the kitchen to tell her I was headed out.
She nodded at me and took her time wringing out the dish rag she was wiping the counters with. I waited patiently, well versed with my mother’s stalling techniques. Finally she stepped over to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, Frankie. You come and visit me when you have the chance.” Her brown eyes warmed, “I’ll miss you.”
I huffed out a laugh, “Ma, it’s not like I’m leaving Jersey. I’ll only be a fifteen minute drive away.” With a shrug, I relented, “I’ll miss you too.” I didn’t expect to feel the slight constriction in my throat and took it as a sign to make my way out.
“Frank?” My mother’s voice was soft but the gravity carried through and stopped me right at the threshold.
I glanced back at her, “Yea?”
She hesitated before forging ahead, “Just . . . If you need anything, any kind of help . . . You call me, ok?” There was an underlying message beneath her words practically vibrating with worry and anxiety.
I held back a sigh and didn’t even bother with a smile, suddenly feeling like a sheltered invalid. I nodded stiffly as a response before stepping into the hot evening air further convinced that this move was the best for both of us really. Besides, this was bound to happen sooner or later. So moving out right before the ink on my high school diploma has had a chance to dry could hardly be seen as running away. Right?
I was a yard away when I realized someone was already waiting for me in the passenger seat of my car. My car which I am one hundred percent positive I locked before heading back into the house – of course, you just don’t leave a car unlocked in my neighborhood packed belongings in the car or not. I cursed beneath my breath and steeled myself as I continued the walk to my car, hoping whoever was waiting for me wasn’t A) hysterical B) violent C) unaware that they’re dead or D) All of the above. Yep, my life was a walk in a rose garden fertilized by all the shit that gets thrown my way.
My annoyance was immediately forgotten once I saw it was only Dewees. His sandaled feet were on the dashboard while he hooked both of arms around the headrest, his eyes downcast as if he was in the middle of peaceful doze. As soon as I settled into the driver’s side, I smacked his feet of the dash.
“How many times do I have to say feet off the dash, fucker?” I said by way of greeting.
“Nag, nag, nag. It’s nice to see you, too dear.” A smirk was already creeping on his face as he curved his torso forward for a good stretch. And I couldn’t help my own smile at the hippie as I shifted the car to drive. It was good to see Dewees, even if his unfortunate taste in clothing before his death always gave me a case of second-hand embarrassment. His burgundy corduroy, bell-bottom pants were snug and came with a matching jacket with imitation-pearl topped cufflinks. A loose dress shirt the color of a fresh bruise printed with a horrendous paisley pattern finished the ensemble.
“I didn’t think I’d get to see you before I left.” I came to a full stop at a stop sign.
“Hah, as if I was going to let you move on out without me tailing your ass.” Dewees removed his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with his shirt, a constant habit of his that I assume he’s had since he was alive.
“Oh? Is this what you call tailing? Hitching a ride to my new place?”
“Fuck off.” Dewees’s feet were back on the dashboard, and I couldn’t bother myself to care. It was always easy to relax with Dewees, even if he was older than me before he croaked back in ’72. The dude was always easy going no matter the situation. Even back when I threw up on him a couple of years ago when I was drunk off my ass in an alleyway behind a bar. Sure, it’s not like the vomit even touched him, but it’s definitely not the most ideal of first meetings. Dewees didn’t even blink twice during my profuse drunken apologies or at the fact that I was able to see him; he just tsked, slung an arm around me and helped me stumble my way back home. He’s been a reoccurring presence in my life since, probably the closest thing I could call a friend.
“So why the move? You didn’t mention anything about striking it on your own last time I saw you, kid.” He pouted a bit as if I purposefully left him out of the news.
I could feel my face set into a scowl and attempted to relax it back to simple cheerfulness, “I didn’t really actually decide on moving out until a month before graduation.”
I guess I didn’t hide my reticence as well as I thought because Dewees was silent for all of two seconds before clearing his throat and asking, “What happened?” His tone was uncharacteristically tentative, as if he knew the answer might not be a simple, carefree explanation.
My focus was on merging into a left lane, my fingers tapping out a steady beat on the steering wheel. Well, most of my focus was on adhering to traffic laws, but a small part of me was revisiting a memory months old.
I can’t actually recall what I was even looking for in my mom’s room. It doesn’t matter. The brochure was what mattered; it’s what this particular memory narrows in like a telescopic lens. Mixed in with the rest of the paper debris inside of my mother’s nightstand drawer I pulled out the brochure. Trenton Behavioral Treatment and Psychiatric Facility it read in black and white gloss. Uncomprehendingly, I sat on the edge of my mother’s bed, distantly hearing the kitchen sounds of her cooking up dinner, flipping through it. It was informative, showcased pictures of health care professionals and patients smiling sanely. Within its sterile language, it was easy to grasp that the facility was the kind of place to drop off burdensome, possibly mental family members or denizens on the outskirts of society for repairs.
Surely I didn’t fall into either category, right? I knew I was sane and, considering my particular talent, attempting to live a somewhat normal life. But fear spilled greasy apprehension through me and drew up with malicious clarity images of me getting signed into, trapped, into a place like the facility. Who knows how long the brochure could have been in her nightstand drawer? Mom had never brought it up. It could have been a passing thought long since snuffed out, I tried soothing myself. It was useless though, my heart grew heavy knowing that she even considered sending me away.
Seeing myself through my mom’s perspective – her only son, one with no friends or social life outside of a part-time job at his uncle’s ice cream shop; a boy with mood swings and with a habit of showing up with unexplained bruises or scrapes; a worrying tendency to talk to thin air; a truant who occasionally gets in trouble with the school for truancy or, on one memorable occasion, the law for trespassing – I could see a thin thread of logic for her contemplation. The change of perspective did nothing for the blooming sense of betrayal.
“Frankie.” Dewees’s voice broke me out of my thoughts and I realized my knuckles were white with how tightly I was holding onto the steering wheel.
I gave a one-shouldered shrug, “Nah, man, nothing happened.” A glance at Dewees revealed a disbelieving stare, so I stuck to a sliver of the truth. “I just decided it was best for both of us if I left as soon as I could. It’s getting harder hiding this seeing ghosts thing from her.”
There was a taut silence. Finally, Dewees let me drop the subject and began to recount his latest adventures. On the rare days I believe in destiny, I like to think Dewees was destined to be a ghost. He’s such a free spirit (and I really didn’t mean the pun). From what he’s told me about his life back when it could literally be called living, he was pretty bummed by how he couldn’t make it out of his small hometown in Missouri and settled for using other chemical means to “expand his horizons” as he so phrased it. Surprisingly, Dewees didn’t die of an overdose which was my snap judgment. “I tripped over a fuckin’ cat and fell down a flight a stairs! Figured I broke my neck – snap, crackle, pop – cuz next thing I know, I’m a ghostie,” he had explained with a chuckle. Anyway, now that he’s incorporeal, he goes anywhere and does anything his heart desires, and he seems honestly happy.
If all ghosts could be like Dewees . . . well, I think my life would be so much easier.
I pulled up into my apartment’s parking lot and shifted the car into park just as Dewees was finishing up a story about stalking Alice Cooper for a month. “I seriously think the Coopster and me would make a dynamic ghostly duo. If he decides to stick around once he kicks the bucket, I mean.”
“Perish the thought. Alice is immortal.” I said as I got out of the car.
“Truth. Which one’s yours?” Dewees asked pointing his chin towards the apartments.
The apartment complex was a squat, grey-bricked fourplex in the middle of a neighborhood lined with old, but steadfast houses. It was pretty quiet save for the spontaneous burst of laughter coming from a pair of kids playing in a kiddie pool a few houses down.
I pointed at the apartment on the bottom left, 1B.
Dewees gave a nod and said “Noted.” He watched me for a few seconds as I opened the trunk to start unloading boxes before he clapped me on the shoulder saying, “Well, I’d love to help, but there’s a Shakespeare in the Park showing at Central Park, wouldn’t want to miss that.”
I rolled my eyes as I hefted a heavy box, “Figures you’d bail just when you could help me unload.”
“That’s what he said.” Dewees winked then laughed at my pained expression before he dematerialized.
“Asshole,” I muttered below my breath.
The sun was starting to set as I carried the last of my stuff through my apartment door. I huffed out a breath from exhaustion and rubbed a sore muscle at the base of my back. The apartment wasn’t cool yet, though the hum of the AC filled the silence of my new place.
Home was now a small apartment with a living room that also acted as a dining area. The kitchen was hardly more than a counter and scratched kitchen appliances sporting peeling wallpaper printed with cabbage roses. My bedroom boasted an ensuite and charming window seat that would make a nice reading area, and the closet can hardly be described since was practically nonexistent. It was a small space without the claustrophobia and currently absent of a ghostly visitor.
That took me by surprise, not seeing Casper. Ghosts can be fickle and flakey, so it wouldn’t be too much of a leap to assume the guy got tired of waiting on me. He might be back, or I may never see him again. Can’t say I was disappointed not having to deal with whatever request Casper would have had for me.
Living on a Prayer played from a CD radio player I’ve owned since I was nine as I moved boxes to their respective areas. Kitchen stuff in the kitchen, third-hand tv, small bookshelf, cheap, garage sale bought card table in the living room . . . On an on I went in a repetitive manner, my thoughts roaming lazily until they circled around the dawning realization that I was actually doing it: living on my own. The danger of my mom possibly siccing a psychiatrist on me was distant; private school and the daily ritual of being seen through by my peers were firmly in the past. Tomorrow I would start my new job; right at this moment I was unpacking my life into a space that, for at least a year, was totally mine.
Thrill rushed through me with warm pride at its heels, I joined Bon Jovi on the last chorus. Riding on the sensation of it all, I turned and nearly collided with Casper. A choked gurgle of surprise escaped my mouth. Seriously, one minute you’re enjoying your solitude and the next a ghost is all up in your personal space. Fucking ghosts.
“Great, you’re back,” I said.
The ghost’s mouth dropped into a gape for a few seconds before it recovered into a disbelieving, crooked smile. His eyes were a whiskey brown and wide with surprise. “So you can see me!”
I took a couple steps back, both as way to regain my personal space and not have to tilt my head up so high; this guy was taller than me by a good couple of inches. He was broad shouldered with a slight stoop, wrapped in tight black jeans, boots, and a dove grey sweater that fit pretty loosely on his frame. It was the hair, bright screaming red and mad scientist in style, framing a face with the usual features – wide eyes, pert nose, and thin lips – that added a dash of Technicolor to his drab outfit. Altogether, he made a striking package, and that was a worrying though I did not want to dwell on. Really, it was the uncanny solidity of this ghost that caught my attention for a longer time than was polite.
I forced myself to say something. “Uh-huh. So what is –“ Before I could ask him what he wanted, the ghost interrupted with a torrent of words that nearly crashed into one another, the darkening shadows of my living room made his eyes dark, though they shone with excitement.
“Whoa! Whoa, that’s so cool. How long have you’ve been able to do this kind of thing? Wait, is it just me you can see? Kind of like Whoopie only being able to see Swayze in Ghost or, or could you see all ghosts? Wait, what’s that –“
“Dude, chill!” I flapped my arms at him and, surprisingly, he did quiet down with a sheepish expression. I sighed and rubbed the back of neck thinking about my soft bed that had yet to be set up. “Okay, my personal history is not necessary to know. The cut and dry of it is I can see and talk to ghosts. What we really should get to is what exactly you need?”
He blinked at me for a second before he repeated, “Need?”
“Yea, need. Like don’t you have a request you need fulfilled or a confession of some kind to tell so that you can move on?” At the ghost’s blank stare, I said, “Didn’t you come seeking my help?”
He shook his head and crossed his arms, “Uhm, no. I didn’t even know for sure if you could see me until just now.”
I didn’t bother restraining the impatience from my voice when I asked, “They why are you here?”
The ghost wouldn’t look at me, his gaze shifting over to some boxes, hand ruffling through his soft looking hair. “Well, I live here. Or at least I did back when I was alive.”
“Hell no,” I wasn’t proud about the slight screech in my voice but this was not what I signed up for with my lease. “Please don’t tell me you are haunting this place.”
At my outburst, his friendly features shifted. The ghost held up his chin and looked down his nose at me with a mulish expression that had me clenching my teeth, “Well I’m not rattling chains and possessing tenants, no. “
I rubbed at the headache I could feel forming at my temples. “Look, I’m sorry, dude. But, you’re not exactly living here anymore or in a literal, general breathing sense. I am. Living here now, I mean, so you have to . . .” I gestured towards the door, “leave. Find some other place to haunt.”
“No.” The ghost said simply.
I took a calming breath. Find your zen, Frank. “Okay, you don’t need my help,” I made a fluttering motion with my fingers trying to convey mysticism, “moving on?”
The ghost mocked my fluttering finger motion and said slowly, “Nooo.”
Fuck zen. “Then I don’t see why we’re still talking. Beat it, Casper, before I kick your ass out of here,” I practically growled and walked right up to him.
The asshole didn’t back up. He only crossed his arms and looked down at me from his nose which did nothing to appease my temper. “It’s Gerard.”
“What?”
“My name. It’s Gerard, not Casper.”
“Uh-huh, now listen carefully, Casper.” It gave me a jolt of pleasure to see the ghost grit his teeth. “I didn’t sign up for a roommate. You don’t want my help moving on? Fine, but you’ve got to move on from this place, got it?” I gave his chest a slight shove, nothing too violent, more of a warning, before I pivoted and stalked back to my room. “Next time I come in here, I hope I don’t see you.” I glanced back and caught Gerard gaping with a look of complete disbelief at his chest while he rubbed where I made contact. Probably expected my palm to go through him like most people, except I’m not most people.
I didn’t hear boo from Gerard the whole time I was wrestling with the bed frame and mattress in my room. Nor did I see any sign of him. I didn’t feel relief though, since he could very well come back. And for all my talk about kicking ass, the simple truth was if he decided to stay, nothing short of banishing his soul to the afterlife was going to keep him from staying.
I didn’t want to dwell on the matter. I got ready for bed by taking off my jeans and slipping on a t-shirt that practically reached my kneecaps. The bed was cool and my blankets smelled like Mom’s place. Before I knew it sleep swept me away as if I was a piece of driftwood in high tide. As I let the tide take me, I could hear from the distant shore the soft chorus of Living on a Prayer sung softly.