Ghosts Next Door

Ghosts Next Door
by Lopaka Kapanui

Jul 26, 2016

96 Nights Left! 100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! "Head down, drink coffee"

Homeless men who gather at the local Starbucks and sit for most of the day, are good at keeping to themselves. They purposely don’t get in anyone’s way and choose to remain as invisible as possible. They’re aware of their appearance and the reaction that their countenance evokes from the majority of people who see them, and so they stay reticent and unassuming. However, the homeless man who sits two chairs away from me is a contrary character to his counterparts. He is loud and obtrusive and demands that everyone tear themselves apart from their phones and pay attention to him. When no one gives him a second glance, he begins to threaten them with bodily harm and still nothing, not even an indication that they see him. It is when he retrieves a wrought iron chair and heaves it across the open space toward the picture glass window that he has a severe mental break down. Rather than shatter the glass, the hefty sized chair disappears right through it and does not materialize on the other side. The window is perfectly intact and unharmed. The homeless man is not, he becomes unhinged and cannot stop crying and screaming. No one can hear him or see him, no one.

He was killed one late night as he fell into a drunken slumber beneath the bus shack fronting a fast food restaurant. Earlier that afternoon, he’d assaulted a young man who was quietly playing a game on his phone. He hadn’t a clue that the young man he accosted was the son of a local drug dealer. After finding out from his son the cause of his black eye, broken nose and a busted lip, and the location at where the assault took place, the drug dealer by the circumstances of pure dumb luck found the assailant directly across the street from where the beating took place. He was sleeping at a bus stop. The father of the boy parked his car and casually walked over to where the homeless man lay and plunged the switchblade into the heart of the vagrant. The poor homeless man died in his sleep, but as far as his ghost was concerned, he was still alive and still angry over people paying attention to their phones.

So yes, no one could hear him or see him, except for myself. However, I don’t need the company of a crazed manic conscious following me around and harassing me over the use of my iPhone. It’s easier to keep my head down and keep my mouth shut and appear as oblivious as everyone else.

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