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Peter Parker had been dead for a while.
It wasn't a long time -- at least, he didn't think it was a long time. But it had been definitely for a while. Maybe not long enough for the world to change, but definitely long enough for the house to be empty.
Mostly empty anyways. He tried not to think about his corporeal body being buried in the backyard. They couldn't all have nice houses, after all.
It wasn't much but Peter still thought of the house as home. More or less at least. Everything was a little bit of some things these days.
Maybe it was because he was dead.
But, barring that, home was where Aunt May burned cookies half the time. Home was building his lego Death Star and watching Aunt May frame their completed puzzles on the walls. Home was staying up late watching reruns of TV shows and doing homework, more or less, and playing video games, definitely more of that.
The walls were bare now and no trace of home remained, but Peter still felt a ghost of the memories.
Ha ha. Ghost of the memories.
So, no, he didn't really feel like haunting anywhere else. Not that he could even if he wanted to. He was stuck here. Something almost physical stopped him from stepping a foot outside their front yard. It was like running into an invisible wall.
He didn't really question it. And if he did, he didn't really feel like sharing how he did.
Then, the Jones moved in.
It was surprising, actually, how a family could liven up a house by so much.
Peter watched enthralled as Mrs. Jones sang while she cooked, the scent of spices filling the air. He hadn't been able to smell, taste, or touch anything in so long. Never needing food was a curse now because he hungered for whatever she was cooking.
Mr. Jones' booming voice overtook much of the conversation at the table and Peter hung onto every word. He was a hardworking man, Mr. Jones, yet he was always cracking wise, much to his wife's chagrin. His children scoffed at his antics but Peter could only bring himself to relinquish a sad smile. Uncle Ben had been like that, once.
Their energy filled up the house in a way Peter hadn't thought possible. Sure he and Aunt May had a great time in here, but it had never brimmed with so much life. And it was life that the house burst with now.
Maybe he was biased, though. Maybe he only thought that because Michelle Jones was the most beautiful girl he'd ever laid his eyes on. Not that she cared. All his attempts to woo her ended in vain.
She didn't even seen very affected by the idea that their house was haunted, rolling her eyes every time Peter made the lights go out or tried to move her pen to scribble hello. He spelled out greetings with her little brother's legos; legos that she ended up stepping on.
He was used to being see through, but it hurt so bad when it happened with her.
It didn't stop him from continuously trying, however. Flipping channels when she was in the middle of watching something. Flickering lamps on and off. Nudging objects to the left by a centimeter. He was being annoying, he knew that, but he'd never had been so entertained.
She was cute when annoyed, but he liked seeing her happy better. And maybe he just wanted something to do. To distract himself. It had been a long time since he had anything to do.
"Hey ghost," she said into the dark one night. She was in bed, wrapped in her covers, but her voice was wide awake. "Maybe next time you can make yourself useful and turn off the lights for me."
He did what was asked the next night, heart leaping to his throat. He'd never been called out directly before.
It became a new normal, starting out with small favors before Peter was able to get the hang of controlling bigger objects. Michelle only ever called him Ghost, but that was fine. He was glad just to finally be able to interact with her.
"On off for one, on off on for two." Michelle listed as she mindlessly surfed between two channels. She was the only one in the house currently, the others out grocery shopping.
Peter thought about it for a second. Michelle liked horror movies but was also a secret sucker for romantic comedies. He turned the lamp on, off, and on again.
"Good choice," Michelle hummed her approval before she reached over to turn off the lamp. Her hands went through Peter's and he shivered, but Michelle didn't notice. "This is a good slasher, I heard there's a sequel coming out soon."
Was that so? Peter mentally added that to the list of things he had to catch up with. He thought he was there to watch this slasher come out in theaters, but he couldn't be sure.
"I never asked for a name." Michelle flipped her sketchbook to a new page and set her pen down. "Do you have a name?"
Peter furrowed his brows and tried to pick up her pen. It took a couple tries before he could write the five letters that made up his name. After, the pen clattered to the floor.
"Peter," Michelle read slowly. "Nice to meet you, Peter." She slid off the bed and picked up the fallen pen. Going back to the same page of her sketchbook, Michelle wrote two letters -- her initials. "My friends call me MJ."
Nice... to meet... you, Peter wrote out shakily. MJ.
"Is that you?" MJ's voice lowered to a hush.
They were in the attic, dust motes floating all around them. MJ had a framed photograph in her hand, the dust obviously blown off it. She'd found it while she was getting the Halloween decorations. Now she clutched it tightly, her knuckles going pale. In the frame was two smiling people: him and his Aunt May. He studied the photo, trying to figure out what MJ saw in him.
Peter drew on the dusty shelf. Yes.
"Oh my god, Peter," She breathed out. "I... I didn't know."
It's okay, nobody does.
"Who is she?"
My Aunt. Aunt May.
"She looks cool."
She's the best.
"How long has it been since you..." she hesitated.
I don't know. But not too long, I think.
MJ rubbed at the picture with her sleeves, cleaning it up. She cleared the shelf so that the picture was in the center. "There you go. We'll find your Aunt May."
Peter didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he'd want Aunt May to see him like this. Still, he wrote down two words, eight letters: thank you.
"It's just a date." Peter didn't need to look to know that MJ was crossing her arms.
He shuttered the blinds in response.
"Don't be so dramatic. He's nice."
The curtain lashed out from an invisible breeze.
"Okay, whatever. Good bye, Peter."
The door slammed shut as soon as MJ walked out, and not of her own doing. She sighed and made her way down the stairs.
Peter drifted aimlessly around the ceiling fan. It was back to the attic, he guessed. Being so dramatic now only meant an exasperated MJ later. He floated upwards past the wood and past the dust to where he claimed as his own room. It was nothing much at all, just dust bunnies and one framed picture of him and Aunt May a month before his death.
In his mind's eye he could still see MJ, a vision in her worn aviator jacket over a nice blouse and fashionably torn jeans. She was going to watch a movie, the sequel to that slasher they'd watched together. She'd done some makeup too, the tiniest hint of blush and lip with a lot more mascara. She looked beautiful -- was beautiful.
But it wasn't Peter who couldn't step a foot outside the lawn taking her to see the slasher, it was some guy with working lungs and working arms. It wasn't Peter who traced I love you's on her window and turned off the lights for her every night. It wasn't Peter taking her out and it was never going to be Peter.
He guessed boys with beating hearts were better than boys buried in the backyard.