Chapter Text
Frank Iero was not a superstitious guy. He didn’t believe in luck, he didn’t believe in miracles, and he didn’t believe in ghosts. So it wasn’t out of character for him when he laughed at the woman who sold him the cabin at the edge of the woods when she told him that it was haunted. It sounded too much like a horror movie setup. A haunted cabin that no one has lived in for years at the far corner of a small town next to a forest? Give me a break.
Frank’s family didn’t understand why he chose to move to the most remote location possible. He had friends, a job, and a perfectly fine living situation back home. But what Frank didn’t have was the one thing he needed the most. An escape.
It had been six months since he had come home after being discharged, and he had spent the majority of that time either sitting alone in his room or sitting on the couch in his therapist’s office. Turns out being an army veteran at 23 does some shit to you. But no matter how hard he tried, how long he spent in therapy, how many “mind-clearing” walks he went on, he just couldn’t shake his presence. He was everywhere. His laugh was in the whistle of the cold autumn wind. His eyes were in the leaves and the knots on the trees. His face was in the posters on Frank’s bedroom walls. He was in the thunderstorms, the stained glass windows of the church down the road, the dirt in the backyard. Frank couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t keep seeing him. He had to leave.
When Frank pulled into the driveway of the cabin in his beat-up Camry, on a cold-ass night in November, it did look like the set of a horror movie. Fallen leaves covered the steps of the front porch, the grass- though nearly dead- had clearly not been mown in a very long time, and there were cobwebs draped in every possible corner.
“Oh you’ve gotta be shitting me.” Frank said under his breath. He despised spiders.
Duffle bag in hand, he walked carefully up the stairs, which creaked loudly, ducked under the cobwebs, and opened the front door, which creaked even louder.
The woman who sold Frank the cabin had told him that it was fully furnished. Frank quickly realized that was an overstatement. In the main room was a single musty couch sitting behind a musty coffee table, on top of a musty rug spread across the musty floorboards. In the far corner was a musty kitchen. Frank hacked out a dust-induced cough. He knew he should’ve listened to his mom’s advice to bring cleaning products.
If I don’t develop asthma from this place I will be thoroughly shocked.
-
The first night in the cabin was no different than nights back home. Frank’s dreams were still haunted by his face. His ears still rang with the sound of landmines detonating. He still shot awake the next morning breathing heavily, his tattooed back slick with cold sweat.
Guess there really is no escape, huh.
Maybe he just needed time. Maybe he just needed a few days and then the nightmares would stop. At least, that’s what he told himself. He didn’t want to think about the possibility that the nightmares would never stop. That he would never be able to think about something other than his dead best friend again.
Frank sat up fully in bed and shook the ringing out of his ears, the dreary November sun shone through the grimy window. He took a few deep breaths like his therapist told him. The room smelled distinctly like mothballs and very intense lavender air freshener, with just a hint of despair. The faded quilt was crumpled at his feet, he must have thrashed it off at some point during the night. Man, this really sucks.
Every single floorboard in that cabin creaked. Despite Frank’s rather delicate shuffle to the kitchen, every step he took was met with a creak so loud it sounded like the whole house was buckling. At least I’ll be able to tell if someone breaks in. Something about it was almost comforting. As dusty as it was, Frank appreciated how peaceful the cabin was. There was no loud ass highway, no cokehead neighbors, no ambulances blaring past at three in the morning. The only sounds were the birds outside the window and those goddamn floorboards.
Frank’s morning improved significantly when he discovered that one thing the house did come with was a coffee maker. He dug his favorite Frankenstein mug out of his singular moving box, set it down on the counter, and then rooted around in the grocery bag his mom had sent him with for some coffee. Frank hadn’t even turned his back on his mug for five seconds when he heard the sound of ceramic shattering. He winced, not wanting to turn around and face the inevitable demise of his favorite mug. How the fuck did that even happen? Frank could’ve sworn the mug was nowhere near the edge of the counter, and he definitely didn’t knock it off himself. Maybe the counter is slanted. Wouldn’t be surprised. Frank turned around and looked sullenly down at the sad corpse of his mug. It had been a birthday gift from his friend Ray back home. Frank was obsessed with monster movies, so much so that his friends called him ‘Frankenstein’. He sighed heavily and picked up the shards of ceramic and dumped them in the trash. He had other mugs, but it was upsetting to lose his favorite.
The second that Frank sat down on the dusty leather couch to drink his coffee, his mind started to wander. He thought about how the woman had said that this place was haunted. Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe my mug got knocked off the counter by a ghost. Frank shook his head and chuckled under his breath at how fucking ridiculous the thought was. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He never had. In fact, he thought the whole concept of the afterlife was stupid. Probably the catholic school trauma.
And maybe the war trauma.
Either way, no matter how many “paranormal experiences” he heard about, he could never bring himself to believe in ghosts. Frank was very much a “don’t believe it till I see it” kind of guy.
—
Frank’s first week living in the cabin was about as far from normal or okay as it possibly gets. Weird shit was happening every single day. Not the typical Jersey weird shit he was used to, either. This was some fucking Ed and Lorraine Warren type weird shit. The windows of the house would shake violently even when it wasn’t windy outside. The cabinet doors would slowly creak open and then slam themselves shut again. Pots and pans fell off the hanger on the wall. At one point, Frank woke up in the middle of the night to the loud THUNK of all of his books being thrown off the shelf and hitting the floor. It was absolute and total fucking chaos. As the days went by, Frank began to contemplate whether these strange happenings were his best friend finally showing up to haunt his ass. With every new act of paranormal property damage that occured, it got harder and harder for Frank to not believe in ghosts. But, despite the fact that he was living through a Ghostbusters-worthy experience, Frank was nothing if not stubborn, and still tried to come up with a logical explanation for everything.
And the logic worked, at least, it did until one night when he was rudely jolted awake by a deafening CRASH from the main room.
For several minutes, he didn’t get out of bed. He didn’t care enough about the stupid ghost to leave his warm cocoon of blankets. But curiosity got the best of him eventually and he crept into the living room. He reached to switch on the lamp next to the door, only to discover that the lamp was-
Well.
Gone.
The lamp was gone.
A combination of confused and concerned, Frank squinted his eyes in the darkness. On the other side of the room, he identified the shape of the lamp lying on its side. Something- or someone- had launched Frank’s floor lamp across the room.
“Okay, what the fuck.” Frank said, purposely raising his voice to try and provoke whoever was throwing his furniture around. He waited for a few seconds, waiting for a response. Nothing.
“Listen asshole. I don’t care that you’re haunting me or whatever but I actually don’t own this furniture so I would appreciate it if you didn’t break it.”
And then he saw it. Right next to the front door. A brief flash of movement in the pitch black. It was merely a foggy outline, but goddamn clear as day it was a ghost. Frank shook his head violently. He had to be seeing things. He had to be. But if his eyes were playing tricks on him, they were certainly playing the long game, because much to his horror, the fog began to solidify into the shape of limbs. He wanted to crawl back into bed, throw the covers over his head, and pretend like none of this had ever happened, but it felt like his feet had turned to cement. He just stood there, glued to the floorboards that creaked, as a whole ass ghost began to assemble in front of him. The thing floated a few feet off the ground, and looking up at it made Frank feel like an idiot. It glowed too, washing the dark living room in an eerie blue light. The ghost had taken the fully formed shape of a man who had clearly seen better days. His button down shirt was dirty and ripped in several places, his face was bruised and scraped and there was a substantial dent in his forehead, and his hair was matted with twigs and leaves and probably blood. He crossed his arms and gave Frank a twisted smile. He was missing a tooth. That did it for Frank, he turned on his heel, marched back into his bedroom, and practically suffocated himself burying his face in the pillows. There was a fucking ghost in his house. He wasn’t scared exactly, more so alarmed.
You’d be alarmed too if you spent your entire life not believing in ghosts and then suddenly there was one in your living room.
Frank didn’t go back to sleep after the whole ghost incident. He just stared at the ceiling, his eyes creating apparitions in the static of the pitch black. He couldn’t get his mind off of that ghost’s horrible smile. It made his bones turn to ice just thinking about it. Maybe he wasn’t afraid of the concept of a ghost as a whole, but he was definitely afraid of that smile. He dreaded the possibility of walking into the living room in the morning and seeing it again.
–
The ghost wasn’t there the next morning, and Frank was able to have his usual bagel and coffee in somewhat anxious peace. That peace didn’t last long, though, as the ghost did show up later that evening. But this time, he didn’t destroy anything- other than Frank’s psyche. He materialized while Frank was lying on the couch reading, and caused him to almost throw his book. He levitated a few feet away from Frank and stared him down with empty, hollow eyes. Frank met his gaze.
“Hey, man, I really don’t get why you’re doing this.”
“Doing what?” The ghost’s voice bounced off the walls like the living room was a cave. His tone was mocking.
“Oh Jeez, I don’t know, fucking haunting me?”
“Isn’t that what ghosts typically do?”
Great, not only does this ghost break my shit, he’s a smartass too.
“Well, yeah, but why me specifically? What did I do to you?” Frank asked, exasperated.
“It’s not you. I’m tied to this house.” The ghost examined the room casually, then fixed his eyes back on Frank.
“Why? Did you die here? How did you die?” The living one of the two pressed.
The ghost huffed irritably, “God, you ask a lot of questions.”
“And you’re not giving me very many answers.” Frank retorted, crossing his arms.
“I was a mafia rat who betrayed the higher ups by spilling their secrets to a rival gang and it got me shot. That’s how I died. Happy?”
“Bullshit.” Frank said bluntly, “If that’s really how you died, you wouldn’t be haunting a cabin in the middle of nowhere. What actually happened to y-”
But the ghost had disappeared before he could finish his sentence. Frank sighed and leaned back against the couch cushions. If that was what every interaction with the ghost was going to be like going forward, he wasn’t particularly excited.
“Can you at least tell me your name?” He asked the empty space where the ghost had just been.
“Reginald.” Echoed the ghost’s goosebump-inducing voice from nowhere in particular.
Frank snorted. He immediately knew that “Reginald” was lying about his name, just like he was lying about how he died. He lay back down on the couch and found the page he had left off on. He had already started devising a plan.
He was going to find out what the fuck happened to that ghost.
-
The fact that he and Frank had made contact did not mean that the ghost allegedly known as Reginald stopped wreaking havoc on Frank’s material possessions. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Reginald would show up almost every day to knock anything he could off of various surfaces, slam doors, rattle the windows, etcetera. It was like having a very large cat that was invisible half the time and frequently made bitchy remarks. He was also unrelentingly resistant to every question that Frank asked him, no matter the topic. Although the questions about how he died seemed to upset him the most. Every time Frank asked what happened to him, he would come up with some bullshit story.
“How’d you get that dent in your forehead?” Frank asked one time while sitting on the kitchen counter, watching Reginald drift aimlessly around the living room.
“I was cliff diving in the Caribbean and I hit my head on a rock.” Reginald said nonchalantly.
“Well then why are you tied to this house and not somewhere in the Caribbean?” Frank was nothing if not persistent.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Because I want to know why you’re haunting this place.”
“Well, I guess you’re just going to have to deal with not knowing.” And with that, Reginald vanished.
Frank groaned loudly. It had been about a week and a half since he and Reginald had first spoken to each other, and he was making zero progress towards actually knowing anything about him. Reginald still hated him and would always respond with a lie or an insult whenever Frank asked him anything.
In a way, the ghost did kind of remind Frank of his best friend when he first met him. Stubborn, standoffish, and very averse to opening up. Frank had considered a few times that Reginald could be some sort of manifestation of his best friend. A figment of his PTSD nightmares. But the physical evidence of the ghost breaking his shit argued against that idea. Maybe it was just the fact that Frank saw his best friend in anything and everything.
The next day, Frank was sitting on the couch eating dinner when he saw Reginald materialize out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re early. You usually don’t show up until at least eight” Frank said, too involved in his freezer aisle vegetable casserole to look at the ghost.
“Yeah, well, I tried to catch you off guard.” Reginald said coolly. No matter how many times Frank heard his voice, it still gave him goosebumps. Must’ve been a ghost thing.
“I’m always on guard because of you.” Frank said, taking a bite of casserole.
“What, don’t you enjoy my presence?” Reginald clutched his chest in fake offense.
“Do I enjoy your constant torment, rude comments, and all around shitty attitude? Yeah no, I really don’t.”
Reginald clicked his ghostly tongue, “Well I don’t enjoy your presence ei- can you pay attention? You know I don’t like it when you don’t look at me when I talk.”
Something about the way Reginald said that made Frank’s insides twinge. He felt his heart rate quicken slightly, but chose to ignore it. He would deal with whatever emotion that was later. Right now, it was question time. Frank set his plate down on the coffee table and looked up at the ghost.
“Okay. I did a favor for you. Now you have to do one for me.” Frank said, narrowing his eyes.
“And what would that be?” Reginald looked suspicious of his living counterpart.
“Tell me how you died. How you really died.”
Reginald didn’t have pupils, but Frank could somehow just tell that the ghost was rolling his eyes.
“I was a world famous Hollywood stuntman and I died while trying to perform a legendary motorcycle trick over a pit of fire. My death was an absolute media spectacle.” Every word that the ghost spoke was dripping with sarcasm.
“You’re a terrible liar, you know that, right.” Frank said, matching Reginald’s demeaning tone.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve changed your story every single time I’ve asked you that question and every story has been a complete lie.”
“But I’m not lying.” Reginald said, feigning innocence.
“Okay, y’know what? Go fuck yourself.’
“As you wish.” The ghost hissed and then vanished.
What a dickhead.
-
Frank knew something was up when he walked into the living room one morning to see Reginald sitting on the couch. It had been almost a month since the ghost had started appearing to him physically, and Frank had not once seen him show up this early. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom for a moment, studying the phantom on his sofa, rubbing his eyes a few times to make sure he wasn’t just imagining it.
“Hey Reg-”
“Gerard.” The ghost interjected.
“What?” Frank took a few steps toward the couch.
“My name is Gerard. I was getting tired of hearing the name Reginald. It was stupid that I even told you that in the first place.”
“It’s a terrible name.” Frank agreed.
“And I wasn’t a mafia underdog, or a cliff diver, or a motorcycle stuntman. I died on this very piece of land, when me and my brother were building this cabin. We were hoisting one of the roof beams up and it fell and crushed me.”
Somehow, despite all the bullshit that the ghost had spewed before, Frank knew that he was telling the truth.