Ghosts Next Door

Ghosts Next Door
by Lopaka Kapanui

Oct 31, 2016

“The Aftermath Of 100 Ghost Stories”

“The Aftermath Of 100 Ghost Stories”

It was my wife who challenged me this year to thoroughly complete 100 ghost stories toward Halloween. Her suggestion was that I should take time out of each day to write as many ghost stories as I could so that all I would have to do is copy and paste each day. It didn’t always turn out that way but I never missed a post. As the days went on, people began to ask about which stories were fiction and which were not? It turns out my friends that the most fantastic stories, the ones that were almost too good to be real, were in fact true. The most basic, humdrum stories were fiction. There were a few that were marked as fictional just so that people wouldn’t freak out in case the address listed in the story was theirs or that of a neighbor. All accounts of prayers and Hawaiian chants were and are real, as were any reference to prayers performed in Latin.

Many of the stories were based on my own real-life experiences or from other stories that I’d heard while growing up. Most often I would sit here with the intention of writing one story and suddenly another inspiration hits me and we’re headed off in a completely different direction. Memories also inspire new and fun ideas for stories as well; take our beloved girl Tabby Kahana for instance. The idea for her was taken from a memory I had in regards to our daughter Hiwa. For some reason, I remembered a backpack which had her name embroidered on it and how she never took it off. It turns out that our granddaughter has a similar obsession with her Picka-chu backpack and thus, the character of Tabby Kahana was born. We love her (Tabby) because of her plucky, kick-ass attitude and how she commanded every situation she found herself in. She’s bold and confident when she had to be but secretly vulnerable inside. Of course, her story had to be fictional. Whoever heard of an eleven-year-old Hawaiian girl being an exorcist?

I can honestly say that there isn’t a story among the one hundred that is a favorite of mine, because the effort alone is what garners my favor. Not everyone is a fan of ghost stories and of course there are cowardly online trolls that will incite negativity, but be that as it may, I am proud of what I have done. However, as we are all well aware, not one of us arrives at our destination alone. Singular as we may stand, the aloha, support and due regards are given to us by those people who believe in us and genuinely wants us to be happy. There are many here to thank and you all know who you are if you know me and my family. Primarily, the one to thank is the one who pushes me when I’ve convinced myself that I can proceed no further when I feel as if I am worth less than I believe I am, and when I am worried that the impossible has finally won over my nothing is impossible attitude.

That is my wife Tanya.

Yes, I am difficult and often times brooding but she is there to pull the door back and let the light in. This indeed is the secret to my success. For in order to survive in the world that I walk in, the world that balances between the veil, a foundation is needed. She gives me all of that and more, and all she asks for in return is a good nights sleep and some good coffee in the morning. We have a crazy, fun and interesting life that is never boring. For this, I am thankful.

Finally, the answer to your question is yes. A book is forthcoming.


Lopaka & Tanya

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! Happy Halloween! "Tabby: Crossing"

Restoring the old Super Bee Mopar became a father and son project. Initially, it took up a lot of Daniel’s time, but when his father Hale (hah-leh) saw how serious he was about the rebuild, he decided to pitch in and help him out. It became THEIR restoration and it was all that they could talk about. It was January 17 and Tabby lingered around the garage for most of the afternoon after Daniel picked her up from school. It was her birthday but it seemed that the only one who really remembered the special day was Tabby’s favorite hello kitty doll, Merci. The only time Daniel and her would father notice her is when they would have to ask her to stand to one side so that they could get to a tool or a tire; even her most effective pout seemed to have no effect. Finally, the two of them instructed Tabby to stay where she was while they disappeared into the basement. The little girl was on the verge of screaming with frustration when she heard Daniel calling for her,

“Tabby! Come down here for a second, we need you to hold on to something for us!”

She purposely took her time and was even half tempted to throw her doll in the trash. However, she was stunned to see her father and Daniel standing at the bottom of the stairs with a birthday cake and a giant candle in the middle.

“Happy Birthday!” They both screamed.

“Oh my god!” Tabby squealed.

“We didn’t forget baby girl,” her father smiled.

“We didn’t forget your birthday present either,” Daniel opened one of the high shelves and pulled out a large box and handed it to his little sister.

“Go ahead,” Hale nodded.

Tabby removed the cover from the box and pulled out a Hello Kitty T-shirt that was properly glittered and bejeweled in the right places.  She was completely beside herself and jumped up and down with happiness; it was only after she hugged Daniel and her father that she began to cry. A short time later, they cleared a space for Tabby on the tool counter and sang Happy Birthday together. Less than an hour later, her father and brother would be dead.


The Ulumano wind carried the soft, gentle Ua Kea rain from the tip of Lanihuli and swept it across the teaming lanes of traffic leading down toward HPU. It’s supple formlessness made the rain appear as if it were a fine kilohana mat that was being unfurled in order to welcome loved ones. Like the nurturing hands of a mother, the wind released the Ua Kea rain to travel the rest of the way alone. It dissipated into a fine mist that caressed the form of an 11 year old Hawaiian girl who stood at the foot of two headstones in the middle of the Hawaiian Memorial Cemetery.

       KAHALEPILI KAHANA                      

Born February 8, 1962-Died January 17, 2011.  


Born December 19, 1982-Died January 17, 2011

“We’ll wait by the car,” Boy whispered. “Take as long as you want.”

Boy, Aunty Rita, Uncle Ivan and Uncle Tiny made their way back to the SUV while Tabby gazed mournfully at the names engraved on the headstones. It was the first time in six years that Tabby was dressed in something other than her plaid skirt, knee high socks, sketcher shoes and hello kitty shirt that she received as a birthday present. The shirt itself had been adjusted and altered on so many occasions so as to fit Tabby's growing form that the stitching gave it it's own unique look.

Today the old shirt lay neatly folded up in the multi facet Badtzumaru back pack; Tabby gave that up as well and placed it between the two headstones. Her trusty back pack saved her life on countless occasions whenever she needed to perform an impromptu exorcism, this time it would serve a different purpose. After that, it would be the last vestige of a life that would pass into a history that would hopefully not repeat itself.

“ I’m going to live with Aunty Rita from now on,” Tabby began. “Uncle Boy is going to see that everything is okay and that I can go to a good school.”

Reaching into the back pack, Tabby removed two lei lehua and placed it on the headstones and knelt down to kiss their names, the tears soon came after.

“I killed someone Papa,” Tabby said softly. “It was the woman who sent the spirit that hurt you and Daniel.…but I’m going to get help so that.….so that I can be okay,”

“Baby girl,” the voice seemed to echo out of thin air and it made Tabby jump. Standing in front of her were the ghosts of Daniel and her father. The girl's natural instinct was to reach into her bag in order retrieve an item that would dispel a troublesome ghost.

“Come be with us,” Tabby’s father reached out. “We miss you,”

“We can be a family again Tab,” Daniel said. “You won’t have to suffer anymore like you are now,”

Her older brother waved her over to them with his crooked smile, it was the smile that always made Tabby feel unsure as to whether he was going to give her a hug or a head lock. Her father however, would always hold his hand out as he was doing now, and wait for her to come to him.

Boy looked up just in time to see Tabby reach out, and take one step forward.

Oct 30, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! Oops! One More Night Left! "Randy"

The visibility of the mentally ill in our community was not as prevalent during my time growing up as they are now. There were very few of them back then but our plantation culture derived its manner of social intercourse from commonalities such as what school you might have graduated from or who your parents or grandparents were? Finding that association helped further the bond of familiarity through conversation, but this was the 1970’s and these people just seemed to appear on the streets from out of nowhere. They were wandering or hovering in the same places every day; it was that inability to establish any kind of common ground with these persons that made our conservative community fear them. 

I recall one person in particular who was very harmless, his name was Randy. He was dark skinned and he looked to be of middle eastern descent. His horn-rimmed glasses were obviously too small for his face and he always wore awkward fitting clothing like a pair of women jeans and a brown aloha shirt. Some days he would compliment his outfit with a scarf on his head and that seemed to be when he was most happy. The trouble maker kids were the ones that harassed Randy and made fun of him, but those kids would normally be chased off  by someone else. The community was tight back then and everyone looked out for one another. One evening while I walked back home from Karate class, I happened to take a short cut through Hans L’orange park and noticed Mr. Telles holding hands with Randy just outside the entrance to the park bathroom. A moment later, they were locked in an intimate kiss and then they disappeared into the men’s bathroom. I ignored it and kept going. The following morning, Randy’s mutilated body was found near the Waipahu stream on the depot road. Next to him was the body of Mr. Telles who had his throat cut open from ear to ear. Randy and Mr. Telles had obviously been castrated because their penises were in their mouths; the sight of it was horrendous. The question was, who did it? Was it someone 
who happened into the bathroom while Randy and Mr. Telles were being intimate? Was it the
 caretaker from Randy’s house on Kahualena street? Or did Randy and Mr. Telles do it to one another?

Really, it was Mr. Telles’ wife who did it. She’d had a suspicion for a while that her husband Michael was being unfaithful but she never suspected that it was with another man. When she saw Michael and Randy kissing,
it was too much for her Catholic mind to comprehend and so she followed them into the bathroom and killed the two men with a knife. Michael died instantly after she stabbed him in the neck and severed his spinal cord but she didn’t stop there, she slit his throat for good measure. Randy screamed and shrieked in horror but soon fell silent thereafter when Cora plunged her knife into his heart. She kept stabbing and stabbing and couldn’t remember when she stopped. However, before she could be convicted and sent to jail, Cora Telles took her own life in the old cane fields just behind the baseball field. She shot herself once through the head.

I’m standing in front of what used to be the old Waipahu Theater where all of us kids used to watch Bruce Lee movies every weekend. It was only a dollar back then. Phantom images of people from the past walk by, heading toward whatever their destination used to be. One of the images is that of Randy milling about in front of the box office, asking anyone if they had a cigarette to spare. One man stops and offers Randy a whole pack of KOOLS. Randy takes it from the man who puts his hand on Randy’s shoulder and then his face. 

Mr. Michael Telles.

Oct 29, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down Toward Halloween! 1 Night Left! "Aamir"

Entry: Wednesday, July 26, 2012

After completing a four-year tour in the Middle East, I was now catching a plane from Bagdad International Airport to Surat City just outside the border of South India. On the flight over, I become acquainted with a young man who was from Andhra Pradesh, which is located further south than my destination. He introduces himself as Aamir, and I introduce myself as who I am. He can see that I am not Indian myself and so he asks me where I'm from and I tell him. He's shocked and asks me why I would choose to go Surat instead of going home to paradise? I don't know who this kid is, but for some reason, my instincts tell me that I can trust him. If you know me, you'll know that's unusual because I don't trust anybody right off, but with this kid, I did.

I tell him that because of the war, a part of me died in Iraq. I become a cold, calculating machine. I didn't feel human anymore, and it was for that reason that I chose not to go home. He asks me where in Surat had I intended to go?

"Dumas Beach," I tell him.

A look of grave concern comes over him, he nods his head slowly and says, "Go on."

"Of all the things I've seen and done back there, of all the things that seriously damaged my mind for the rest of my days, this THING......this thing that happened is gonna mess me up for a long, long time," I tell him.

"To be fair," Aamir begins, "I will share with you my reason for returning to my home in Andhra Pradesh when you are done with your story."

I nervously clasp my hands on the back of my head before I let it trace the outline of my beard. I rub my palms together as if I were preparing to recite a sutra before I let them rest on my lap, I take a deep breath, and I begin,

"We came upon a target house where we had strong reason to believe that the family who lived there were sympathizers with the enemy. With places like that, you usually bust in, put everybody on the floor, and then drag them out. We separate the men from the women and children. We grab the head of the household and take him with the clearing team and have him unlock doors and cabinets and such, question him if anything seems suspicious. We've done that a thousand times, a thousand times. But on that day, we were the ones who got the surprise. The place was crowded with people who sat lined up against the wall. In the middle of the floor was a little boy sitting on his knees, his body was slowly moving back and forth as he bent all the way back and touched the floor behind him and then bent all the way forward and touched his head to the floor in front of him. Before you know it, the boy's entire body is whipping backward and forwards so fast that he literally became a blur; you couldn't see him.

My team is so stunned by what we see that we're speechless. The men in the house acted like we're not even there, they're all focusing on the boy. Suddenly the boy comes to a dead stop and starts throwing up all over the place, and it just keeps gushing out, and there's more and more of it like it's never going to stop. The men don't even react, they have their eyes closed, and they keep praying. When the boy is done he stands up and looks me right in the eye, and he slowly repeats in an old man's voice, "Ana Iblis, Ana Iblis, Ana Iblis,"

"I am the Devil,"

The men in the house converged on him with their hands on his head, and they slowly lower him to the floor. That little boy tossed these fully grown men around the room like they were baseballs, and he was the star pitcher, I mean that's how fast they were being thrown into the walls, just sssshhhhhewwwp!!! You could hear the sickening thud and the sounds of bones breaking....and the agonizing screams...(inhales and exhales)....that boy looked me right in the eyes, and he said,

"Tum mere ho,"

He picked up one of those old guys with one hand and threw him right at me....knocked me out. When I came to, I was on the ground just outside the door lying near the dead bodies of all the men who were in the house. Only to the left of me was the shape of the little boy. His face was pale, but his deep, dark set eyes were still open and staring into nothing; it was such an innocent, pure face. He looked as if he were just on the verge of falling asleep in his bed.

Most of his chest was gone.

My team told me later that once the boy was done with the men in the house, he started in after them even after they screamed at him to stop, he just kept coming. They had no choice, they lit him up. They reacted out of fear more than anything else, especially after they witnessed what the boy had just done. Everybody on the team knew enough of the local lingo to understand that the boy kept saying he was the devil, but the second thing he said, no one had a clue. So when we had some downtime, I went online and looked it up. Turns out its Hindi, it means, "You are mine."

A beautiful set of chills ran down my back just then, and it didn't help my situation in the least. I explained to Aamir that one of the other families in that same area shared that the previous family who had lived in the target house moved out a while ago and that while the house was empty, it became occupied by a powerful Jinn, an evil spirit. One day the little boy happened by the empty house and was playing in it when suddenly the Jinn possessed his body. Holy men were called to perform an exorcism, but they underestimated the evil entity, and it killed them. Since then I feel as if some part of that evil has attached itself to me and that since it's last words to me were spoken in Hindi, I had hoped to go to Dumas Beach where I had heard that Hindu holy men gather there to perform important rituals for the dead. Perhaps they could help me. Aamir had no reply; instead, he began with the story which he had promised to share once I had told mine.

"In Iraq, I was able to stay with an Indian family who was from the same town, like myself. I could do this while I attended school during the day and worked in the evening. One morning the youngest boy of the family who was five years old fell ill; he suffered a terrible pain night and day that would not go away. The entire family began to pray for the boy but not for his recovery but for his death. According to the south India tradition, the uncles began to gather piles of wood to erect a funeral pyre for the boy. The situation became that serious; one day, a strange man in tattered clothing appeared in front of the family house and claimed to be a holy man who could cure the boy of illness, the parents were overjoyed and relieved. However, the method of cure only proved to make the family sad. The holy man said that after performing sacred prayers over the boy, someone would have to be willing to take the boy's illness upon themselves. It was the only way the boy could be cured, the parents and the rest of the family stood around looking at one another, not at all certain of who would be willing to step forward and offer up their own health so that the boy could live. Finally, the mother decided that she would be the one to take her child's illness upon herself that is until the servant of the house stepped forward and offered himself up to the holy man in the woman's place. He agreed and crossed his arms, and performed the prayers for a full minute. The boy was cured shortly after that, and the servant fell dead at the feet of the boy's mother. Afterward, the family decided to move back to India, and I followed soon after, and that is how you and I have come to meet," Aamir shared.

"In south India, the front door of some homes symbolically marks the point where one passes from the outer world and into an area that is conceived of as protected and sacred. The doors are a combination of wood and metal and are ornately carved with beautifully detailed designs and images of the goddess of wealth and good fortune, Lakshmi. Our doors are always left open while we were home in case Lakshmi should take on the guise of a guest. It was also kept open to let out any malevolent spirits who had inadvertently drifted inside. I miss that about my house," Aamir said. "I cannot wait to see it again,"

"Guess I don't feel so weird after all," I tell him.

"I appreciate that you were willing to share your story with me," Aamir smiled.

"Same here," I reached out and shook his hand and let out a laugh.

The rest of the flight is a lot of talk about favorite foods and favorite places to hang out, what school was like and what kind of music it was that we grew up with. The fourteen-hour flight gave us time to use the facilities and to take a nap when we had to. Still, even during those moments when we weren't saying a word, I felt like we had forged some sort of bond that had nothing to do with a physical war but more like an understanding that neither of us is crazy. Maybe for Aamir, it was something that happened all the time, perhaps I was meant to meet him, but for what reason, I wasn't sure. When my plane arrived at the airport, Aamir and I parted company at the baggage claim. As he walked away, it occurred to me that said he was from Andhra Pradesh, but why was he getting off here in Surat? He had already disappeared into the crowd of people by that time. I lost track of him.

In my mind, I find myself hoping that when my parents get the handwritten letter, I sent them that they will understand why I didn't come home right away after my tour of duty was over. Of course, I can't tell them that I believe the residual evil of a Jinn has attached itself to me. Instead, I tell them that I have a few demons I have to deal with. I promised that I would get in touch with them once it was all over. My mom is probably going to take it a lot harder than my Dad.....a lot harder.

Entry: Tuesday, August 15, 2012

A month later and I am walking the streets of the Bardoli market in Surat India, it's an exciting city, to say the least. A significant difference between the hot, dry, and desolate atmosphere in Iraq as opposed to the humidity today. The street markets remind me of the swap meet where most items that are being sold are cast beneath the protection of tarpaulin tents.

 The traffic of vehicles seem to make their own pathway where ever they choose; there appears to be no shortage of pedicab rickshaws and the like. They nearly outnumber the people on this particular day. The food here is manageable, thanks to the fact that I ate a lot of Vietnamese and Thai foods back in Honolulu. On a side note, I've found it strange that I haven't had any PTSD episodes thus far, but there is one thing that was a bit unusual. While pausing to look at a vendor who sold a large pile of vegetables from an even more abundant basket, I glanced up and thought that I saw my mother walk past him. I had to do a double-take because I wasn't sure about what I had just seen, but sure enough, there was my mom walking toward an iced lemon aide cart. She seemed out of place wearing her blue terry cloth shorts and her Tanioka's shirt, I thought for a second that I was hallucinating, but when I saw that she wore her U.H. Warriors slippers with the size 6 tag still on the back heel, I knew it was her. How the hell did she get here? I haven't had contact with my family since I left the middle east, there was no way that she could have known I was in Surat! I ran over to her, and before I knew it, a moped driver and his passenger suddenly zipped right in front of me so that by the time I reached the lemon aide cart, my mother was gone. I must have searched that place for the better half of the day, but I came up with nothing. She wasn't anywhere to be found.

Entry: Tuesday, September 4, 2012

I'm pretty sure that I wasn't doused with any kind of chemical or poisoned as part of some type of military experiment during my tour of duty. Then why do I have these hallucinations? Of all things, I heard a cow mooing outside my window, and when I looked down onto the street, I saw my father standing on the other side of the road in front of a large fence. He was wearing his usual old man shirt with his faded khaki shorts and his ancient leather sandals; he was just staring at me. The din of traffic and beeping horns was disconcerting, and they all seemed to be oblivious of the white cow that just stood there in the very middle of the street, I suppose it must be an everyday occurrence. My father was still there, gesturing at me to come across the street and join him. I threw my clothes on and quickly made my way down the stairs and adeptly moved through the constantly flowing tide of cars, mopeds, and makeshift bicycles. By the time I reached the spot where my father had stood, he was gone. There was no trace of him. What the hell is going on?

Entry: Friday, September 7, 2012

Something is up; I saw my mother and father while having dinner at a restaurant. Why do they always stand across the street or just out of reach? Why don't they say something? This can't be PTSD or some kind of unresolved issue because I had a good childhood, my parents were strict but never mean or abusive. Fuck, what is this?

Entry: Wednesday, October 10, 2012

I had to leave the city, but I'll get to that in a second. Since my last entry, I've begun to see not only my parents but my sister and my girlfriend as well. At first, it dawned on me that my hallucinations must be a manifestation of my guilt at not wanting to go home. Yes, I feel guilty and less than human for the many life's that I took while stationed where I was. On top of witnessing a demonic possession, I didn't want to go home a psychological mess and scare the people that I love, but now the people that I love are beginning to scare the shit out of me. I holed myself up in my room for several days until the heat finally got to me, and I had to get out and get some air. The owner of the old Inn where I was staying didn't say much; her daughter did most of the talking. It was she who followed me out onto the street and put a paper bag in my hands with something in it, her name was Ananda, and she was all of twelve years old.

"My mother wants you to read this book," the girl said. "She says you are in grave danger, but if you read the passages that she has underlined, it will help you, and you may survive."

I walked over to a nearby park where I found a quiet spot to sit and clear my mind.  The book that I removed from the bag turned out to be a leather-bound journal with the old strap and buckle on the front. It was undoubtedly worn down enough to see that the previous owner made a lot of use of it, the opening page contained the name of the author just at the top.

"Norris Tenney"

He was a foreigner like myself and a survivor of a different kind of war. His penmanship was immaculate, and his descriptions of his time in India were melancholy and somewhat tragic. His wife and child were killed in a horrible car accident while driving home, and the guilt that ate away at him had to do with the fact that his wife begged him to come with them, but he waved them off and said he was too busy. Like myself, he wanted to fade into the background of a populace that was so great that no one would care about who he was or where he'd come from. Midway through his journal, he begins to write about his guilt manifesting into a living nightmare; he began to see his wife and child where ever he went. This raises a question; his family is dead, and mine are not. I do hold guilt over the people I killed while in service of my country, so why is it that these people are not appearing to me as well?

There is something else, Norris writes of a strange coincidence regarding the sudden appearance of his wife and child and the simultaneity of people in Surat. Their bodies are found mutilated as if consumed while still alive by a wild animal or a thousand rats. The same thing happened not long after I began to see my parents, in fact, the number of mutilated bodies found began to increase with each sighting.  His next entry is feverish in its tone as he writes about going to see a holy person who might have the answers he needs. This is where he leaves off, and no more are submitted. On the following page, the next handwritten entry is not given by Norris but by Ananda. She writes that she is taking dictation per her mother's instructions and that she is to underline everything so that I can understand the urgency of the matter at hand.

"Like the man before you whose heart was broken and whose soul was destroyed, he too became a weak wounded animal for the tigers to consume. Except, he was not killed by tigers, but by a Rakshasa. In our Hindu belief, the Rakshasa is a shapeshifter who can take on the guise of people that you most trust and most love, it is through those means when your guard is down that he will consume your flesh. Fear is what makes the flesh of the unwary victim most delectable, but for you to kill the Rakshasa, you must be stout of heart and brave beyond measure.  You must go west of Surat city in the district of Gujarat, there you will find a place called "Dumas Beach." There you will find Hindu holy men who will assist you once you inform them of your plight concerning the Rakshasa. It is they who have the knowledge as to how these shape-shifting creatures should be killed,"

Before I could even begin to comprehend what I had just read, I heard a voice from just off to my side,

"That must be an engrossing novel you're reading?"

I looked up, and Aamir was standing at the opposite side of the bench from where I sat.

"Hey," I said as I got up to shake his hand. "You know it never occurred to me at the airport to ask you why you were getting off here in Surat? You're from Andhra Pradesh, after all, right?"

"I had other family members to visit before I finally headed home," he explained. "So, what is this book that has captured your attention?'

I began to make up some story that what I was reading was just an old journal I found and that its contents were filled with a bunch of meaningless words, but I remembered the stories we shared between the two of us when we first became acquainted. We were brothers in spiritual arms, after all. Rather than explain everything up front, I handed him the journal. He read Norris Tenney's submission very intently and afterward, he placed the old leather-bound journal on his lap,

"Poor Norris, he lost everything and came here to lose himself, and in the end, it seems that he literally became lost," Aamir said.

"What about this, Rakshasa?" I asked.

"According to the Ramayana," Aamir began. "They were born from the foot of Brahma, the Hindu God of creation. In previous incarnations, they were wicked human beings, but in this life, they desecrate graves and disturb sacrifices and possess people like yourself and others. However, what bodes worse for you is that you are already dealing with the fallout from your experience with a Jinn, and now you've been targeted by Rakshasa. This is a karmic sickness."

"Karmic sickness?" I asked.

"You are a soldier who has been to war, much of what you've experienced stays with you. As you have said, you've taken a human life to the point that you did not feel human yourself; in that moment of being lost spiritually, you were vulnerable. Your environment reflects that and negative energies can take over and begin to influence your mind and soul," Aamir said. He opened the journal again and removed a blank page. Then he tore the page into four pieces and began to write something down on each piece, after which he folded each piece in half and numbered them from one to four. The first paper he handed to me and said,

"Upon your arrival at Dumas Beach, read this first note. If all goes well, read the second. After following the instructions on the second note, give the third note to the first person you see. This last note," he said as he placed it in my hand, "is for you."

He stood up and looked at his watch and said, "Time to go, I'm sorry our meeting was so brief, but I will see you again soon, perhaps?"

"Sure," replied as I shook his hand.

"Follow the instructions on the notes, and you should do well," Aamir said with a firm determination. "The dark period of your life will pass, you'll be in the light sooner than you know. Have faith, my friend, in the end, it is all that anyone can count on,"


The drive to Dumas beach, although 41 minutes long, seemed to take a lifetime. I was in a hurry to rid myself of this spiritual malady that hung over me like a dark cloud. Upon arriving, I could see that the place was not anything like I'd imagined. It was somewhat bleak in the fading glow of the setting sun. At least that's how I recall the atmosphere of the place, absent of promise and hope. The instructions from the woman who owned the Inn did not quite manifest in the way that she'd described. There were no Hindu holy men, the place was without any human presence except for mine. This is where I believed that I was beginning to hallucinate and was finally going to go mad. As I am facing the ocean, I suddenly see from the west end of the beach, the approach of my parents. My heart sinks, and the hackles rise on the back of my neck.

To make matters worse than they already are, my parents then change into my sister and my girlfriend; their mirage-like forms vacillate back and forth. I feel myself beginning to sink back into the madness which my PTSD brings forth, but of all the incredible moments to have clarity; it happens there while I am having a delusional breakdown. I suddenly remembered the four notes written to me from Aamir. I quickly remove them and read the first note,

"Whoever it may be that appears to you at Dumas beach, take faith and pray. For it is the Rakshasa; it has come to kill you. Faith and prayer is all that can save you,"

My mind is unraveling, the forms of my parents and my sister and girlfriend are changing more rapidly than before until they finally take the form of the old woman and her daughter. It's been them all along, they are the Rakshasa. They killed Norris Tenney; they were the cause of all the mutilations that surfaced in and around the city. I realized that I had no weaponry, no bomb, or a grenade that could kill them. All I had left, that is, IF I still had it, was faith and prayer. Of all the things that came back to me was a Hawaiian chant that my mother did when she stood at the back door of the house and watched as my father and my uncles would head off to go fishing overnight. She would recite the chant until they returned the next morning. After all these years, the chant came back to me as if it were yesterday, and I was sitting in the kitchen, listening to the strength in my mother's voice. I closed my eyes, and the words came to me,

“Ku’u wa’a e, holo ku’u wa’a
Holo ku’u wa’a, ku’u wa’a palolo
i ka ‘ino ‘O Puna e...
‘O Puna ka ‘aina noho a ka wahine, ka wahine i ka ‘iu
O na mauna e, I ho’okele ia e ke kapu kaikunanae ‘ike a...”

I shuddered with a strange kind of energy which coursed through my body and changed my countenance. I was absent of any sort of fear and could feel the presence of my family with me, even though they were really half a world away. Upon opening my eyes, I saw that the entirety of the beach was empty. Then I remembered the second note. I opened it and read the entry,

"My friend, if you are reading this note, then faith and prayer have saved you, and you are alive, and the Rakshasa are gone. The promise of the Hindu holy men who could heal you was a simple trick for the Rakshasa to lure you to the location in which you stand. Please follow the address below and when you arrive, give the next note to the first person who appears from within that place,"


21 hours later, and I am in Andrah Pradesh, where I have found the address written down by Aamir. It is a beautiful house with magnificent doors, just as Aamir had previously described. It is filled with ornate carvings of the Goddess Lakshmi, and both are open. I cannot see much beyond the entrance, but I can smell the familiar pungent aroma of incense. I must have lingered longer than I should have because a woman appeared from within the home,

"Hello, may I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, a friend of mine gave me this address and said that I should give this note to the first person I see. I guess that's you," I hand the third note to the woman who receives it, opens it, and reads. Her large brown eyes are filled with clarity but are soon filled with tears that fall without effort. The woman looks strangely familiar.

Her body shudders, and her face is filled with a look of disbelief and realization all at once. Her soft eyes became hard, and they pierce through me, she breaths evenly and holds the note firmly in her grasp.

"Just now, as I read this note, I thought you were mad and that you had come to play a cruel trick on my family. But I looked at this note closely, and I realized that you are not a scoundrel," she said.

"I don't understand," I tell her.

"I know," she replied. "There is no real way to understand, please come inside."

I follow her through a place that looks like the courtyard of the Honolulu art academy. We eventually enter a large living room where she stands just at the opening to the ample space and points to the left wall. There is a large black and white picture of my friend Aamir.

"Hey, that's Aamir! Is this where he lives? Is he home?" I ask.

"How do you know him?" The woman asks.

"I met him on the plane ride over from Iraq and then again in Surat. We got to be friends, really nice guy, very cool," I answered.

"When did you meet him on the plane?" She asked

"July 26, if I'm not mistaken," I began.

"Aamir worked at the house of an Indian family in Iraq," she began.

"Yes, that's right," I confirmed.

"The little boy who lived in the house fell gravely ill, and there was no cure for him; except when a holy man came to the house and told them that only someone within the household who would be willing to take the boy's sickness upon themself could cure him," she said.

"Right, Aamir told me that it was a servant in the house," I offered.

"Yes," she confirmed. "My son Amir was the servant, he took the sickness upon himself so that the boy in the house could live,"

The woman, who I now knew to be Aamir's mother, handed me the note and broke down crying.

"Mother, our debt to this family has been repaid with my own life. I was happy to do it, we will have a great fortune for lifetimes to come,"

My head was swimming even though Aamir's mother began to validate my experience,

"The date when you met Aamir on the plane coming from Iraq, is the same place where his body lay in a casket in the cargo hold. He must have sensed your troubles and appeared to you to help you in your time of need, but you said that you saw him a second time?" She asked.

"Yes, in Surat city. It was a moment when I thought I was going crazy, and all of a sudden, he was there, giving me advice," I told her.

"May I ask what he shared?" She was searching for a kind of clarification that she may have already had.

"He said that faith and prayer will answer all troubles," I gave her the abridged version.

"There is no way to deny that this is not real, because this is his handwriting on this note, I know because I taught him to write properly," she smiled through her tears. At that moment, I remembered the last note that, according to Aamir's instructions, was for me. I removed it from my pocket and read the entry,

"My friend, you now know that your journey is complete, and you also know the reason why I sent you to my home. Return to yours with no fear, the love of your family will carry you through your darkest worries. Have faith and pray,"


Aamir's mother was gracious enough to let me use her cell phone to make a call. The phone rings on the other side, the familiar gruff and gravely voice answers,


"Hey Dad," I'm hesitant because I'm afraid the words won't come, but they do haltingly, but they do.

"It's Jacob, I'm coming home Dad,"

Oct 28, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 2 Nights Left! "Practitioner"

Our Hawaiian culture has been and is a beautiful thing. We were near extinction at one point in our history and all might have been lost had it not been for a handful of brave souls who committed themselves to breathing a sense of awareness and pride back into the minds and conscience of our people. Many of us yearn for the simple times of our ancient ancestors; which is why some Hawaiian people have returned to the more traditional methods of fishing, cultivating taro and kapa beating to name a few. Other arts like weaving, feather making and tattooing have also experienced a significant return to prominence. So too has the art of Lua, Hula and way finding.

However, some of our people have also returned to the practice of the more sinister arts, like pule ‘ana’ana, or praying people to death.

A Hawaiian man appeared on the sidewalk in front of a sandwich shop one morning and lingered about for several days. His hair was long and wild and he only wore a pair of board shorts and slippers and nothing else. He bothered no one and kept to himself, however, he was not shy about accepting food or a few dollars from anyone. One afternoon, after amassing enough money to fill his pocket, the Hawaiian man walked into the sandwich shop to buy a sandwich. The owner freaked out when she saw the shirtless native man in her establishment and rushed around the counter to chase him out.

“I just want to buy a sandwich,” the Hawaiian man pleaded.

“No!” The woman screamed. “We won’t serve you! You’re filthy!”

“What if I just give you the money then? Can you bring the sandwich outside to me?” The man asked. Looking at her name tag, he could see that it said, “Karen”

“Please Karen,” the Hawaiian man begged. “I’m really hungry,”

“NO!” The woman screamed again. “Go to the gas station next door!”

With that, the shop manager pushed the Hawaiian man too hard and he lost his balance. He tried to grab on to anything to prevent himself from falling and managed to grad a handful of the store owners hair. It came right off of her scalp. The woman screamed bloody murder and the Hawaiian man ran from the store. The police were called but there was nothing they could do, at least that’s what they told her. It seemed as if she was the one who assaulted the Hawaiian man. Not the other way around.

Three days later, the Hawaiian man appeared on the sidewalk in front of the sandwich shop with a wooden bowl. In it, was the hair of the shop’s manager. He removed a lighter from his back pocket and lit the hair on fire. Once the black smoke bellowed out from the bowl, he opened the door to the sandwich shop and called out the managers name,

“Eia ka mea ho’onaukiuki, ‘Oia no ‘O Karen. E laoa a make!” The Hawaiian man hissed and left.

The shop manager, Karen was in the middle of eating a salami sandwich when the Hawaiian man opened the door to her store and began his strange incantation. She was so incensed by his brashness that she jumped over the counter with a knife in her hand, she'd had enough. In the excitement, a chunk of her sandwich got lodged in her throat and she choked to death. Just as the Hawaiian man said she would.

The Hawaiian man wasn’t really homeless per se', he was just one of those Hawaiians who returned himself to one particular ancient practice. Praying people to death. 

Oct 27, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 3 Nights Left! "Regret"

Recording on a cell phone: No date given, no time or location. Mad rambling.

“It’s my fault really. Wish I had told myself that when I was being an ass, but now it’s too late. The Hawaiians told me and so too did all the locals; the signs were even posted but here I am the ugly foreigner trying to prove a point. If anyone finds this recording then you’ll know it was me, I did it. I dismantled most of the stones from this structure; it’s just a pile of rocks right? I was a damned fool and now I’m screwed, totally screwed. They say the Menehune built this place in one night and I just got pissed at how everyone suddenly got quiet and spoke in hushed tones. I just wanted to prove a point, I wasn't trying to hurt anyone, I wasn’t. I just wanted to show them that it was all superstitious crap! But these little fuckers showed up, almost an army of ‘em. Jesus if they weren’t regular sized human beings but just smaller, like three feet smaller and cock strong. One of ‘um alone lifted me and tossed me around like I was nuthin’. I just got up and ran for my life but I fractured my ankle trying to get away; all I can do now is hide and hope that they don’t find me. I’m trying to slow my breathing so I stop perspiring; wait what? That’s stupid. Can’t they smell fear? I’m sure they can, I’m sure they can.…. they’re coming. I can hear their foot steps and their voices..their voices.…”

Recording cuts off at this point.  Coincidentally, a group tourists visiting a well known heiau that is rumored to have been built by Menehune are horrified to find fresh human body parts built into the rock wall of the ancient Hawaiian temple; including a decapitated head.

Oct 26, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 4 Nights Left! "My Worst Nightmare"

“When you’re gifted with something, you’re supposed to help people,” my wife said.

“I’m afraid,” I told her. “I don’t want to be responsible,”

“If you don’t help people, you’ll be creating spiritual karma and it’s going to bother you,” she replied. “Besides, what are you afraid of?”

“I don’t want my family to get hurt,”

-A dream

Business wise, my worst nightmare was that I’d be somewhere doing something and I’d get a phone call,

“Hello?” I’d answer.

The voice on the other side of the phone would say, “Hi, we’re here for the ghost tour and we don’t see anyone?”

But really, my worst nightmare manifested on my ghost tour the other night. It was a fear that I’d kept neatly tucked away somewhere beneath the surface of my other fears. I never gave it much attention because I never thought that this particular fear would ever show it’s face, but the concern was very real.  Sure, my rhetoric was very effective in terms of convincing everyone that my primary concern was for the physical safety of all who attended my ghost tour. My true concern was for their spiritual safety. This is the primary reason as to why I offer prayers and chants in Hawaiian at key points on my ghost tours. However, because of the massive number of people who were in attendance that night and because of the fact that I had to improvise through a last minute change, I slipped up and forgot to offer a chant as I usually do.

Thus, my worst fear came true.


We were standing in the atrium of an old building in downtown Honolulu that was built in the renaissance revival style. It was completed in 1852 and had a colorful history to it. It’s spiritual colors became more vivid once the shadow of darkness fell upon it’s walls. I wouldn’t have noticed her if even if I’d seen her on the busy streets of Honolulu during a busy lunch hour. But this was different; here she was standing among the 66 other people on the ghost tour, listening to my clarification in regards to the hauntings in that building. What happened was very subtle; not like in the movies. I caught it from my peripheral vision and I wasn’t quite sure what I saw at first, but when I looked at her straight on, it was right there, plain as day. Her head was cast down toward the floor, but I could see her eyes fluttering and rolling back white. Her body was shaking; no wait, that’s wrong. It was vibrating, that’s why she stood out. I knew the signs and the symptoms, I knew what this was and I always thought that I would never have to prepare for this moment because it would never happen.

But it WAS happening, it was happening right in front of me; my worst fear. Someone on my tour had become possessed.

The who, what and why of it,wasn’t important; what was important is that I didn’t make a big dramatic scene of it. Instead, I segue wayed my clarification to a prayer. I asked everyone to bow their heads before I began. Everyone complied, save for the one woman who stood there and continued to convulse and vibrate. The prayer was in Latin, it was a ritual prayer for an exorcism. Even as I write this, I feel vulnerable in stating that I’ve known such a prayer all this while. I’ve always been afraid of what people might think and all the accusations and criticisms that might follow. But in a situation like that, you’re not worried about the thoughts of others, you’re only worried about the task at hand. You’re only worried about helping someone.

As the prayer proceeded, I glanced up at the woman who was now looking directly at me. Her eyes were burning with rage and hatred,

“You don’t belong here, leave us alone to our misery,” I could hear a male voice in my head.

“We’ll go, but you have to leave that body,” my thoughts returned an answer but my head was pounding.

“No one understands the pain,” the voice assaulted my temples and I was getting dizzy.

“It’s your pain that is keeping you in this place, the world has moved on while you’ve remained here and suffered needlessly. Everyone you’ve known, everyone you’ve loved; they’re gone. They passed on. You don’t have to stay, you can go. You’ve always been free to go,” my thoughts radiated while the prayer continued.

“It’s the law that keeps us here,” the voice returned.

“There is only one true law,” I replied as the prayer was nearing it’s conclusion. “Matri gloria,” the prayer was done. “Go in peace, as we will,” my thoughts projected outwards to all the souls who suffered injustice in that building. To all who were consigned to hang, to all who died Innocent. The air in the space changed significantly, the heaviness lifted and everyone seemed to be less burdened by whatever it was that permeated the structure. Luckily, no one knew what just transpired and it was better that way. Everyone filed past me as they exited the building and made their way to the bus on Mililani street. I eyed the woman carefully as she headed in my direction.

“Everything okay?” I asked her.

“I’m alright,” she smiled. “I blacked out there for a second,”

“Well, we’re headed out doors so that might help?” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I like how you’re so concerned with how everyone is doing. You don’t get that on any other tour,”

“Thanks,” I smiled.


The second I stepped out of the huge double doors of that building, my headache disappeared. The night air came as a relief and it served as a sign that all would be well for the rest of the journey. My wife would tell me later that perhaps we were not meant to be in certain spaces in that building that night. I believe she was right. The bravest of people forge onward even though they are almost paralyzed with fear; but why? Courage, plain and simple. I’ve been a spiritual coward for a long time, afraid of the things that might destroy me, but a coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave, only one.

Hopefully, that’s me.

Oct 25, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 5 Nights Left! "Spirit Catcher"

“For in old Hawai’i, man and gods and nature were very close, and the curtain between the living and the dead was woven of cobwebs,”

-Kawena Puku’i

It was exactly noon when my son lay down to receive his tattoo from the master. The proper protocol was observed and the prayers to summon the protection of the ancestors were invoked in the proper manner. Those same prayers are also meant to help the ‘ili or the flesh accept the ink into the skin without physical or spiritual hindrance. The weather was soothing and very agreeable to the atmosphere which permeated my home. Even our animals who were rambunctious and noisy were now calm and relaxed. The tapping began with a rhythmic cadence that was soothing and hypnotic. I sat as I am sitting now, working on my manuscript while the master and his assistant transferred the mana of what would be my son’s design on to his thigh. I could not help but notice the simplicity of the process. The larger stick of wood is the one that is used to strike the smaller piece. The smaller piece is the one which is lashed in a way that is unique to the master; his signature if you will. That lashing firmly holds the needle or tooth-like comb in place. It is then dipped into the ink or soot and tapped into the skin. How wonderful that such beautifully ornate and bold designs can be born from such simple tools? In our culture, we believe that it is our ancestors and our family gods that inspire such living pieces of art.

At some point during the process, my son fell asleep. It’s nothing unusual as most people become lulled by the sound of the tapping and eventually doze off. However, when the process was completed and the bold dark design literally jumped off of my son’s thigh and calve, we saw that he was still sleeping. The master sterilized his work and cleaned off the seeping blood but that did not wake him either; in fact, nothing did. His form was perfectly alive and well, but he could not or would not wake. Several hours went by and after many different attempts, my son would not open his eyes. Rather than panic and call the authorities, we tried to figure out what might have happened? The master then said in a low tone of voice,

“His spirit left his body while he fell asleep; at some point, during the tattooing, it never came back. I believe someone stole it,”

“You mean a Kahuna Po’i ‘Uhane?” I asked.

“What is that?” Asked the assistant.

“A spirit catcher,” the master answered.

“There’s only the four of us here,” I said. “It can’t be one of us,”

The master jumped to his feet and ran out the door and checked the front yard, I went out through the kitchen and the assistant remained in the house, checking every room. We convened in the living room a few minutes later, agreeing that we could find nothing. From my peripheral vision suddenly, I could see an old black Lincoln Mark IV parked outside of my house on the street.

“Don’t look out the window,” I whispered. “There’s a car parked out there, just act like nothing’s wrong.”

“Let’s sit,” the master suggested. “We’ll crawl out the back door, my assistant and myself,” the master looked at me. “You stay with your son,”

“Wait,” I said. “Why would anyone want to hurt my son?” I asked.

“It’s not your son, it’s me,” the master said. “ The Kahuna Po’i ‘Uhane is jealous and a coward. People like this can’t attack me directly, so they do it through other people, like your son. I’m sorry this happened. I’ll take care of it and you’ll never have to see us again.”

“Take care of it,” I urged him. “But don’t disappear,”

The master and his assistant crawled out through the kitchen door so as not to be seen by whoever it was that was in the car. The master went around the right side of the house and his assistant came around from the left side. They both emerged; one from the front of the vehicle and one from behind. I could not hear everything clearly as it was chanted so quickly in Hawaiian that it was indiscernible. I was taken aback when I heard a low rumbling explosion that shook the walls of my home; it instantly caused me to cover my son’s spiritless form in case the ceiling began to fall apart. A short moment later, the master walked into my home with his hands cupped together. There was urgency on his face as he asked to hold my son’s head back,

“My assistant is moving the car to a safe location; right now I need you to hold your son’s head still no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

I placed my hands on his temples and held on firmly; the master’s cupped hands hovered over my son’s face for a second while he chanted in Hawaiian. When he opened his hands a thick veil of smoke enveloped my son’s face and lingered for nearly a minute. Finally, it seeped into the corner of his right eye until it was completely gone. While his body began to convulse violently, the master held his feet down firmly.

"Cover his eyes with your hands!" The master instructed. "That's so his spirit doesn't try to come back out again! I'm holding his feet so his spirit doesn't try to escape through his toes!"

The body suddenly stopped shaking and became still, a second later  my son sat up and looked around the room,

“Are we done already?” He asked.

Without saying anything about what just transpired, the master said, “You were asleep the whole time,”

“Really?” My issued asked.

“How do you feel?” I was curious to hear what he would say.

“It was a weird feeling but I felt like I was curled up in someone’s hands,” he replied.

The master, myself and his assistant couldn’t help but laugh; my son thought we were crazy.

The Kahuna Po’i ‘Uhane was a woman whose  affections were rejected by the master. She was livid and swore revenge against him. At every turn, when the opportunity presented itself, she would steal the spirit of someone that the master was either close to, or from someone who was an innocent, like my son. Whatever the method was that the master employed to retrieve my son’s spirit is unknown to me. I’m simply glad that he was able to get it back. As for the woman herself? I’m not certain if the master rendered her useless or if he took her life. What I will tell you is that now and again, a 71 Monte Carlo will park across the street from my home and sit there for most of the day. The second I emerge from my front door, it will drive off.  The license plate reads, “Pupule”

Oct 24, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 6 Nights Left! "...And scene "

The relationship was based on a heady idea of happily ever after mixed with lust. Neither person gave a rational thought beyond the physicality of the endeavor. Family and friends advised the both of them that they were rushing into the relationship too quickly but neither of the two would give a rational ear. Their love quickly waned and within less than six months they were at each others throats; they did not take the time to discuss the idiosyncrasies that either one might possess that the other might not agree with. Instead, their personal habits and ticks become a mutual source of contention. Add on a myriad of insecurities and unresolved deep seeded issues and you have a perfect recipe for disaster.

As we join our happy couple, we can see that they are enjoying a moment of respite before they continue with their murderous pursuits

(Close up. Randall is taking a breather while he sits at the kitchen table. Lucy is standing in the middle of the living room with a large kitchen knife in her hand)

This is what we’ve come to, trying to kill each other


It’s your fault, you weren’t honest. You lied, you’re not who I thought you were.


We can put that behind us, we can start fresh can’t we?


Sure, we’ll end up fucking and everything will be okay until we try to kill each other again at the end of the month. Do you get that there’s a pattern here?


Then what’s left for us? What do we do?


We have to kill each other, it’s the only way out of this.


And if we don’t?


Then we go through this same shit over and over.


Why can’t we just agree to move out and move on?


Because neither one of us wants to other to be happy outside of our relationship, if you can call it that? Neither of us is going to move to the mainland and even if we do break up, we’ll always be checking up on one another. It’s just best if I kill you, that’s the only real solution.

(getting up from his chair)
Wait, what happened to ‘We have to kill each other?’


Well, that’s what I meant. You know that.

(Overhead shot of the two facing off. Close up of Lucy and then Randall. Tension, perspiration. It could go either way, they could end up having mad passionate sex or
they could kill each other. Both emotions are the same, it’s anyone’s guess)


No, I don’t know anything.

(Lucy lunges at Randall with an overhead strike. Randall catches her wrist and stabs her through the sternum with his own knife. Lucy has a second knife and stabs him in the heart at the same time. Both fall to floor and bleed out, the light slowly fading from their eyes. Another couple enters from the kitchen and sits on the couch. Both have walked directly over the dead forms of Randall and Lucy. They turn the TV on.)


I always feel like we’re not alone in this place. Don’t you?

(puts food bag from the local eatery on the table, removes her food and starts eating)
Yeah, sometimes I can hear a couple fighting real bad, but then I remember that we’re the only ones on this floor. Kinda crazy huh?

(clearly irritated)

Why do you do that?


Do what?

We order the food, it comes in the bag, and then you start eating and you don’t even take my food out and I’m sitting right here?


You mean you can’t take it out yourself?

(Taking food out of bag. Shaking his head.)

Sometimes I wonder why I got into this relationship?


So do I; especially at night when you’re sleeping. I wanna put a pillow over your face and suffocate you.

(Putting his burger down)

Oh really?

(Perspective of Randall and Lucy. They rise from the floor, bloodied with both knives stuck in their bodies. They stand, Lucy behind Barbara and Chris behind Randall. Knives suddenly materialize next to the food bags. The ghosts of Lucy and Randall look at one another and smile)


Oct 23, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 7 Nights Left! "TABBY: Why must the flower die?"

(The story, the people, the situation and the places don’t exist. It is pure fiction)

The coroner’s report stated that the death of Buddy Hualala’i was a case of massive acidic poisoning. However, Mele Hualala’i knew better. Considering his secret occupation, Buddy had to make it a point to always be very cautious as to what he would eat or drink. He was a member of Boy Napualawa’s office, and everyone in the ‘business’ knew that Boy consolidated and controlled the world of ‘Hana Kahuna’ or sorcery in Hawai’i. One morning Buddy and three of his friends turned up dead; all from massive acidic poisoning. Witnesses say that the four men were seen with Boy and the members of his office at Young Street Zippy’s the night before.

This was no coincidence, Mele was certain that her brother’s death came as a result of that meeting. It was Buddy’s public execution, he just didn’t know it.

Word got out that Buddy became more angry than usual and was beginning to go rogue. He was casting curses at will over imagined slights and insults; he’d caused his neighbor’s dog to urinate non-stop for barking late at night. Through a curse devised from the use of a speckled fowl or the Pulepule, Buddy caused a workmate to go insane. All because this person was very late to work and had inadvertently parked in Buddy’s space. Mele knew very well that her brother had problems with anger, but what nurtured the seeds of revenge to grow so rapidly within her was the fact that Buddy and Boy were childhood friends. They had been over for dinner and playtime on many occasions. Boy, was an usher at Buddy’s wedding when he married Trenda Faleafine on a whim. Boy, knew Buddy’s children and was always present for their Baptisms, birthday parties and holidays.

“Knowing all of this,” Mele said to herself. “Why would he kill my brother?”


Special circumstances were arranged so that Flower could come to the medical examiner’s office to view Tabby’s body. The cold didn’t bother Flower so much as did the sight of the girl lying dead on a slab. The attendant offered condolences but Flower gave no indication that she’d heard the words of sympathy at all.

“I’ll leave you alone, take as much time as you need,” the man said.

Flower wasn’t her normal airy self, she wasn’t dressed in her usual caftan, rather she was dressed as if she were already attending Tabby’s funeral service’s. She was made up and had her hair done. She carried a small black purse on her arm and wore high heeled shoes that matched her form-fitting black dress. Even her black pillbox hat and sheer veil made her appear as if she were a character from an 80’s music video.

Just then she noticed movement to her right; Ivan and Tiny appeared in front of the only entrance and exit to the morgue. To her left, Rita appeared seemingly to block her from fleeing in the opposite direction. Flower turned around to see Boy standing behind her and gasped suddenly as she took a step back. Bumping into the table where Tabby lay dead just a moment ago, Flower screamed in horror when Tabby jumped up and walked over to where Boy stood.

“Come to see your handy work, Mele?” Boy asked.

Looking at Rita and trying to regain her composure at the same time, Mele asked, “How is she still here?”

Boy replied, “The thing that you sent to possess my aunty? I called out to it and it told me who IT was but it wouldn’t say who sent it. Turns out that the spirit is your brother, Buddy. Don’t worry, I released him from his bonds to you and I’ve got him tucked away nice and tight in a bamboo container. You know, just in case,”

“Just get it over with,” Mele sneered.

Boy, turned to Tabby and said, “The real Flower Kahana died of a heroin overdose long before you were born, it broke your father’s heart, which is probably why he only mentioned her to you on a few occasions with no other detail. This woman’s name is Mele Hualala’i, she pretended to be your aunt after Hale and Daniel died. For five years she pretended to be Flower Kahana. She’s a one person sleeper cell just waiting for the signal to wake up, except that she’s been awake the whole time. She pretended to send you to her ‘therapist’ for healing when she was actually sending you to be destroyed. She knows what you are and what you can do, she knew you were raped when you were still a little girl. She did her homework before she came to claim you as her niece but she was never like family to you, ever,” Boy said. “All this wasted effort for revenge,”

“So what? Getting rid of this little bitch was the best way to get back at you,” Mele spat. “Everybody knows that you got a soft spot for Keiki,”

“I figured if I called in a favor and had Tabby lay here, pretending to be dead, that the person who sent Buddy’s spirit would show themselves. Lo and behold, it’s you,” Boy said.

“Either let me go or kill me,” Mele was seething.

“In a second,” Boy held up his hand. Turning to Tabby now, he said, “Remember at Mock Chew’s restaurant when you asked me that question? The one that I told you could not be answered until you were much older?”

“Yes,” Tabby expression was deadly serious.

“Your answer is standing in front of you,” Boy replied. “The thing that possessed your brother and then your father and ended up killing them both? ” Boy gestured toward Mele and stepped back, “She sent it. It was the only way her plan could work; your father and your brother had to be out of the way.”

“You think I’m gonna let some emotionally damaged little bitch kill me? You got something else comin’ if you think I’m gonna let that happen!” Mele scoffed and simultaneously prepared herself.

“Tabby’s not just an exorcist,” Turning to Tabby, Boy whispered.  "I’m sorry Tabby, I know I said that you couldn’t know anything about how your father and brother died, but I never expected the answer to show itself sooner.” Boy, removed a swordfish bill from his coat pocket and handed it to Tabby. Looking at Mele now he said, “We’ll leave you two alone,”

Ivan, Tiny, and Rita followed Boy outside. The examiner would return later to clean up the mess that was once Mele Hualala’i.


At her insistence, Rita moved Tabby in with her where she would be able to provide the girl with as normal a life as possible. Rita would help Tabby through her nightmares and was there with her when Tabby went to her therapy sessions. Eventually, Tabby didn’t have to perform exorcisms alone because Aunty Rita became her back up. Rita would also become the mother figure that Tabby always needed.


Returning from a weekend of camping with a youth corp group from his church, Epstein was prepared to follow his usual con and pass himself off as Layden Chu. He hadn’t heard from Flower in a few days and so he made a mental note to call her later. He turned the key to his office door and backed into it in order to open it because his arms were full of boxes of incense and aromatherapy candles. Flipping the light switch on after he placed the box on the floor, he turned to see a broad-shouldered Hawaiian man dressed in a coat and tie sitting behind his desk.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my office man?”

Epstein jumped when he suddenly heard the door slam behind him; it was Tabby.

“Uhm, you’re not supposed to be here. I’m calling Flower and the cops right now,” Epstein grabbed his cell phone.

“HPD won’t help you and Flower won’t be answering her phone,” Tabby said. “But I have something special for you, a peace offering. I don’t want any more trouble; my uncle is here to make sure that I don’t lose my cookies and go crazy.”

“Peace offering?” Epstein asked.

“Sure,” Tabby smiled. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a Tupperware box filled with ripe mangos. “Try some, it’s a new batch from my uncle’s tree. It’s really good; in fact, have the whole thing,”

“Are you for real?” Epstein was still a bit wary.

“100%,” she said as she extended her hand. “I’m really sorry I overreacted and I won’t be pressing any charges of rape or anything. Have a great day!” Tabby held the door open and Boy got up from behind the desk and walked out the door.


Later that week, Epstein was found dead. His office was filled with flies that inhabited every orifice in his body. The medical examiner’s report said that Epstein’s insides had rotted away completely and that there was mango smeared all over his face.


On the night that Boy met Buddy at Zippy's, he had intended to give Buddy his own office with his own family to oversee. However, Buddy had plans of his own, he brought for 'Olohe to kill Boy in a very public way in order to make a statement. No one knew that Boy had already come prepared with a peace offering.

Four plates of cursed mangoes.

Oct 22, 2016

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween! 8 Nights Left! TABBY: "Sideshow"

(The names, events, places and situations never happened. This story is purely fictional.)

The drive to see Layden Chu made Flower very happy. Her niece Tabby seemed to be making progress from those sessions and Layden Chu was Flower’s personal guru and therapist. Tabby didn’t have the heart to tell her aunt that Layden was really a guy whose last name was Epstein. He just used the Chu moniker to make himself come off as someone who was very mystic. It didn’t matter, her aunt was happy and that was all that mattered to Tabby. Flower sang along to the golden oldies station on the radio while she drove,

“Well, I came upon a child of God, she was walking along the road and I asked her tell me where are you going? This she told me,” Flower leaned over and kissed her niece on the cheek. “I’m singing about you Tabby! Can you tell? I changed the lyrics from ‘he’ to ‘she’,”

“That’s cool Aunty,” Tabby nodded her head and smiled.

“Got to get back to the land and set my soul free,” Flower continued singing. “We are stardust, we are golden, we are ten billion year old carbon, and we got to get ourselves back to the garden,”


The session:

Tabby was lost in her journal entry for the past hour while Epstein sat at the opposite side of the room on his laptop. Only half of his attention was focused on his Facebook profile while the other half zeroed in on the way in which Tabby held her pen,

“Spencerian penmanship, interesting. I’d think that it was the last thing an 11-year-old would be interested in?”

“My Dad taught me; he made me practice for an hour every day,” Tabby kept her head in her journal without looking up.

“I remember having to do that in the third grade, I hated it. Made my hand cramp up,” Epstein mused.

“Do you mind?” Tabby asked. “I’m on a roll and I’d like to get through this uninterrupted,”

“I wonder where you go when you’re in there?” Epstein asked.

“Go where?” Tabby was already irritated by his probing questions.

“In that journal of yours or in your head. Just wondering what keeps you there?” He was curious.

 Looking at the wall clock he said, “Well, the hour is up; next week same time I suppose?”

“Sure,” Tabby said as she tucked her journal into her backpack. “Anything to make my aunt happy,” she said as she walked past him.

“About that,” Epstein began. “Making your aunt Flower happy, and all that,”

Tabby had herself positioned at the office door and had it halfway open.

“It’s obvious that you’re sleeping with my Aunt; I mean the way her face lights up when she talks about you? Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. I haven’t told her that you’re not really Layden Chu; maybe she knows but doesn’t want to face it, I dunno. We’ve been doing this therapy thing for six months and you still don’t know anything about me and if you’re smart, you’ll keep it that way. Besides, you don’t think that people in this building aren’t wondering why you’re doing an hour of closed therapy sessions with an 11-year-old girl?” Tabby eyed Epstein closer now. “You really aren’t that smart, are you?”

“Maybe I’m not,” Epstein replied. “Maybe you aren’t either?”

He had her journal, he must have grabbed it from her backpack when she walked past him. He dangled it in front of her like he was a bully in the schoolyard, keeping the ball away from the younger, weaker kid.

If Tabby was the least bit upset, it wasn’t showing on her face, “Let’s do this, I’ll count to three and then you blink. If I can’t take my journal back from you by the time you’re done blinking, then I’ll do anything you want,”

Epstein nearly fainted as a fevered lust came over him, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing,

“Your journal means that much to you?”

“Yea, it does.” Tabby said.

“Alright,” Epstein smirked, not believing that Tabby would actually be able to take her journal back in the blink of an eye. “Go ahead,”

Tabby took in a deep breath and exhaled very slowly, “Here we go,”

Epstein readied himself and kept as tight a grip as he could on Tabby’s journal. He felt that he should give her as many chances as possible; after all, he wasn’t a sore winner. He wanted to leave her with a sense of dignity before he took her virginity; 11 years old or not. Tabby stood in front of him, concentrating as hard as she could.

“One,” she emoted. Epstein waited for the next count but it never came; Tabby cocked her right foot back and kicked him in the balls so hard that it lifted him off the floor and caused him to let out a mournful grunt. In one fell swoop, she grabbed her journal and walked out of the office and left Epstein in a heap.

Boy was finishing up his meeting with George Oshiro from the state department of transportation. Uncle Ivan and Uncle Tiny were in attendance while Aunty Rita took notation.

“Without your parent's help, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my job,” George said.

“They talked about you all the time George,” Boy replied. “They loved it when you would bring ‘opihi from Lanai,”

“Oh, I didn’t mind doing it for them, they were such good people,” George was a humble man and always cried whenever Kahi and Victoria were mentioned.

The meeting adjourned and as everyone made their way out of the office, the phone rang at the front desk. Aunty Rita took the call; her face lit up and then went dark in the next second. She held the phone up and looked at Boy,

“You should take this in your office,” Rita gave Boy a raised eyebrow in order to stress the importance of the call.


Boy left his office door partially open as he took a seat at this desk and picked up the phone,

“Aloha, this is Boy,”

“Aloha Boy, this is Lopaka. I apologize for bothering you, I know you’re busy,”

“Not a bother my friend; my Aunty Rita had a look of concern on her face when she told to me to take the call in my office. So, this must be something important?” Boy asked.

“Tabby’s in jail,” Lopaka said.

“In jail?” Boy was concerned. “For what?”

“Assault; she claims it was self-defense,” Lopaka relayed the news plain and simple. “She had me listed as her next of kin, not her aunt. She said she doesn’t ever want Flower to get THAT phone call one day,”

“Understandable,” Boy agreed. “Let me guess, she’ll only talk to you and me?”

“Correct,” Lopaka said.

“By the way, who was she defending herself against?” Boy was curious.

“Her therapist,” Lopaka chuckled. “I’d bail her out myself but I’m in between paychecks.”

“No need to explain,” Boy replied. “I’ll be right there,”



Boy sat at Aunty Rita’s table feasting on the boneless Kal-bi which melted in his mouth without effort. The Korean fried rice only served to compliment the sauce which soaked the meat for most of the day. Lopaka busied himself with the impromptu meal but took a moment to pass Tabby a napkin. Rita sat at the end of the table eyeing everyone closely.

“Lopaka, I’ll make a plate for you to take home to your wife. Don’t forget to tell her that I put my recipe in the bag,” Rita offered.

“Thank you, Aunty, I know she’ll appreciate it,” Lopaka smiled.

“You bring Tanya and the kids by anytime. That’s not an invitation, it’s an order,” Rita said.

“Yes Aunty, I’ll do that,” what else could Lopaka say? No one ever said ‘no’ to Aunty Rita.

Rita looked over at Tabby while simultaneously drumming her fingers on the table, “Well? I know that the three of you didn’t just show up for a free meal, so does someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

Boy put his hand up and said, “We had a situation,”

“Situation my foot! ” Rita scoffed.

“It’s okay Uncle Boy,” Tabby assured him. “Aunty, I was arrested tonight because I assaulted my therapist. He wanted to have sex with me, but I was able to defend myself and get away.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Rita began to tear up. She got up from her chair and walked over to Tabby and took the girl in her arms and held her tight. “I am so sorry honey, I am so, so sorry,”

“It’s okay Aunty, I’m fine,” Tabby suddenly felt a sense of foreboding.

“I’m sorry that your therapist didn’t get to open you up like the little whore that you are!”

Rita screamed but it wasn’t her voice. It was a deafening cacophony of voices that caused Boy and Lopaka to cover their ears.  Rita threw Tabby to the floor and had her by the throat.  Boy and Lopaka tried to pry Rita away from Tabby but the old woman knocked them down like rag dolls. The light was slowly fading away from Tabby's eyes; she'd be dead soon.

To be continued...