HAUNTED, CHAPTER 1: Climb the Ladder.

[thehaunted]

TW: ERIK HOLLAND DISCUSSES ANXIETY, SUICIDAL IDEATION AND SELF HARM IN THIS PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL. READ WITH CAUTION





LOCATION: BOSTON, MA

We open on a back-room shot somewhere in the TD Garden Arena in Boston, MA. It's a concrete flooring of a space that doesn't look completely built out yet, as if it's still undergoing remodeling. A low synth track plays in the background, brooding and foreboding, as we land a tight shot of an open ladder, lit up by a backlight. There is a hulk of a man sitting on the third-to-the-bottom rung of the ladder, head down, seeming like he is gently rocking back and forth.

ya know, the pills..the pills stopped working for a little while.

Yep. It's him. The light illuminates him now, because the lighting in here is a paid actor evidently, and it illuminates EPW's brand newest signing Erik Holland, who clearly wasted no time getting to the venue. 

'swhy i dropped off the face of the earth, yknow? my back was getting worse and worse and the pills stopped working and every chance I took at my sixth world championship ended in brutal, embarrassing failure-- so.. no calls, no emails, and im usually real punctual about that shit. i missed some events and missed some opportunities because my mind, my MIND was betraying me. nightly panic attacks. nightmares. anxiety so bad i would sit there frozen to the spot for hours. i stopped calling the people i need to call. the world felt as if it was collapsing in on me. because the pills didnt work anymore.

The Haunted being incredibly vulnerable with us now, as a tight shot of his face features his usually sharp brown eyes softening and almost glistening as he speaks of some incredibly bad times.

i self harmed. i did. whatever i could get ahold of. i thought i was ready to be done as soon as humanly possible. with the ring, with the business, with life. i was ready to delete the twitter account, sit in the bathtub with some painkillers and hope it goes quick. but as im gettin' ready to do that I...it's stupid, sure, but I tripped over my wrestling boots. I sat on the floor with 'em for a while and i thought. 

He wipes a hand across his scarred features now, the clear evidence of tears making themselves known on his face.

i thought about the one thing that i did right in my life and that was being a professional wrestler. all the times ive had, the memories ive made, the history ive written. i ain't gonna lie to one of you, i cried for a long time like i'm doin' now because i was almost stupid enough to throw it all away. to be remembered as yet another casualty of this business that's never loved any of us as much as we have loved it instead of being remembered as THE HAUNTED, as the Deathmatch guy, as the guy who will show up anywhere, fight ANYBODY, as long as there are fans to watch it go down. 

so what'd i do, i flush those fucking painkillers down the toilet and i go to the gym and i tweet out that I'm retiring in two years, that my final match is gonna be January 2, 2026, my birthday, when I shouldn't even BE here doing this and I tell the entire wrestling world that Erik Holland is coming for you with bad intentions! and IMMEDIATELY my twittah starts blowin' up, my merch starts blowin' up, my phone's blowin' up with the promoters tellin me 'what do we gotta do to bring Erik Holland into our ring, because our great fans want to see YOU.'

Erik laughs sardonically, slapping the ladder behind him which makes a dull metallic slap against his flesh. Promise you that is far from the first time he has felt the cold bite of a ladder.

gotta say, EPW putting me in a ladder match is one of the more creative pitches. they know what i can do with one of these babies, and knowing I will have a golden opportunity at any championship that I want if I can put my mitts on the Revival Championship--that's something that puts me in a particular state of mind.

Erik's eyes pop, his eyebrows raising, as his hackles are starting to flare. He's starting to get intense. The quiet vulnerability replaced with intense anger.

The other newbies in this match - Jax Jagger, Rooster, Ricky Sanchez - i'm just gonna' guess they wanna make an impact in EPW as much as I do and I can't blame 'em, but it's not gonna be October 13. Morbid Wolf, I know he wants to be the World Heavyweight Champion, i know he wants Stevie Satisfaction's head on a stick, but you're gonna have to wait another night because lucky number October 13 is not your night, my man! As for Shawn Savage, apparently he thinks winning is gonna' get him in bed with the boss and let me tell Shawn Savage something - you better look for a way to get in the boss' pants that is less hazardous to your health! October 13, IT AINT HAPPENING, SHAWN! You ain't getting one over on me that night! NOT THAT NIGHT! YOU are not built for this! And Stevie Satisfaction--only thing that Howdy Doody lookin' creep is gonna be satisfied with is how bad I kick his ass, because HE AIN'T GETTING THROUGH ME EITHER! October 13! IT DOESN'T BELONG TO YOU!...

Erik trails off, his teeth gritting, his eyes wide with an intensity he was apparently surprised to see still burned hot in his chest. He puts a hand on the ladder next to him to steady himself, sweat or maybe tears still spilling from his eyes.

Because this moment belongs to me. Belongs to everybody who hit rock bottom. Everybody who ever thought they were done and ready to meet you on the other side. The moment means, as long as we never EVER stop fighting, we can acheive things we never thought possible! We can throw everything they ever said about us back in their fucking faces as long as we give ourselves..one moment to decide to stand up and keep the fight going. EPW, MY FIGHT is still going. THROW EM ALL AT ME! I'm going home with the Revival Championship whether I walk out or you DRAG me out!

Erik JABS a thumb downward as he says this, sending the feed to color bars and then to static. 

OFF CAMERA

Erik stands there, staring at the camera, seething, until the red light goes off. With a frustrated roar he grabs the ladder and SLINGS it to the far end of the room with some surprising strength, a bellow of FUCK IT accompanying the metal clatter. He covers his face with his hands, still seething, until he takes them away and a very familiar look is in his eyes. He nods to himself, sucking in a deep breath through his nose and storms off, his boots echoing in the hall.