Ghosts Next Door

Ghosts Next Door
by Lopaka Kapanui

Aug 30, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 61 Nights Left! "According To Kimo"

He didn’t look a thing like I had imagined. A man such as he who pulls you into his world so deeply that you actually forget you’re holding his book in your hands should be as dark and brooding as the content of his work. He makes a concerted effort to be as normal as everyone else, but something about Kimo Akamu won’t allow him to be like the rest of us. He stands out, he radiates, he exudes presence. His combination of a plain black shirt with khaki shorts and black Nikes serves as a poor method of camouflage; I know it’s him.

I can tell.

Honestly, I expected him to be taller and broad shouldered and a bit more lean. However, he’s only five feet ten inches tall. He’s muscular and compact, his hands are big and his legs are like tree trunks with calves that are shaped like diamonds. There’s a composure about him, a calmness that is contrary to all the horror and manic terror that he writes about. He’s standing in the aisle of a pet store in Kahala and as he moves to one side in order to make way for an old Japanese woman who is hobbling by, he smiles at her and excuses himself. The man who writes about reptilian female Hawaiian goddesses that literally sucks the life out of her male victims before consuming them whole is humble and courteous! This only fuels my ire and confirms what I’ve thought about him all along.

He’s a fraud and a liar.

I approach him without delay and I confront him.

“You’re Kimo Akamu,” I tell him, I don’t ask him. Why should I? He knows who and what he is.

“Yes,” He’s smiles again which only makes things worse.

“All those horror stories you write, are they real?” I am pointed now so he knows I’m serious.

“No,” he says calmly. “They’re fiction,”

His voice bothers me because it’s not anything like the voice in my head that narrates the pages of his ghost stories. I am bothered because his voice is soothing and comforting; it disarms me for a second and I find that I must will myself back to reality.

“Of course it’s fiction,” I tell him. “Because your stories are fake like you are,”

He’s not rattled in the least, instead he is even more courteous than before!

“Thank you,” he replies. “If you’ll excuse me I have to go and pay for my dog leash,”

He walks past me and heads to the cashiers counter where he pays for his item. He then looks back at me and waves with another sickening smile! I can’t let that go! I follow him out of the store to where his land rover is parked. I’ve had enough! I insert myself between him and his car door and I tell him everything,

“How is it that what you write is fiction and yet with your fictional lies, you’re able to suck people into a world that doesn’t even exist!!??” I am grilling him like an interrogator at a police station. “Is that even fair to your readers?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?” He asks with such a gentle and charitable manner that I find myself giving him my name as if I’ve known him all of my life.

“I’m Ted Mitchell,”

“Ted, what is it really about my stories that bothers you so much?” He asks. I don’t sugar coat it, I tell him.

“You’re books make people like myself invest our time and emotions in your stories only to find out that it’s all lies! These people aren’t real! They never walked the face of the earth and yet you tricked us into believing they were!” I was raising my voice over the din of traffic that whizzed by because we were near a freeway off ramp.

“It’s fiction Ted, it’s all fiction. That’s what a good story is meant to do, it’s meant take you away from your everyday life to a place that is real enough that you can identify with it. Same thing with the people in the stories. You can sympathize with the heroes and hate the villains, but after the story is over you can go back to your own world safe and sound,” He tells me.

“No,” I say. “It can’t end at the ending, I want to know what happens after? How do they go on with their life after such a fantastic event? How do they live?”

“I don’t know,” he replies. “It ends at the end and that’s it, the rest is left to your imagination.”

“That isn’t fair,” I tell him. “You can’t do that to people!

I’m beyond angry and I swing a wild punch at his face; he catches my fist in his hand and slowly begins to crush my knuckles together. The pain is so horrible that I can’t bring myself to scream. In a flash, Kimo Akamu pulls me to him and holds my head with his other hand and whispers into my ear.

Right Now

According to Kimo’s mouth to ear narrative, I am to stand at the free way over pass looking down at the Phillip’s Gas Station. I am to ponder in regards to the cooling wind that caresses my face as opposed to the hot blast of air that emanates from passing traffic. I am to consider the freedom of release from the flesh and think only about my spirit and how it will ascend to the heavens once I let go of my earthly ties. I am to inhale what once was my existence and exhale what will be my rapture. I am to spread my arms out and close my eyes and let go of all earthly toils. All of these things I have done; all that is left is to plummet head first to pavement below, just as Kimo's narrative decrees.

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