Ghosts Next Door

Ghosts Next Door
by Lopaka Kapanui

Oct 14, 2020

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2020 #17

  Corruption doesn't come in the guise of a group of hardened older men dressed in suits and ties holed up in a musty back room smoking illegal Cuban cigars and sipping on twenty-five-year-old scotch.

It comes in the guise of a familiar face and a trusted friend. Corruption breeds a friendly kind of convenience that is resistant to anything that may upend in its ensconced old boy network. New ways and new methods of improving an antiquated system are as offensive as is calling your mother a whore; nothing can ever change, even if it's for the betterment of all. I was a part of this corrupt system, having never known that it was evil in the first place until I saw a wrong that I felt needed to be made right.

Big mistake.

One would have thought that I'd murdered someone, considering how the powers that be came after me. It caused me many emotional duress moments and many sleepless nights; I ceased any activity with this group and just kept to myself. One night I received a call from one of the members who wanted to know when I would return?

"Probably never," I said.

"Why not?" This person asked.

"I don't believe anymore," I replied and hung up.



I can hear Finn Greely milling about his bedroom right above me. His belt buckle makes a big enough noise as he puts his pants on that anyone in the house could hear it; the floor creaks at a slow pace, and I've figured that Finn is now making his way to the bathroom. The water in the sink turns on while he simultaneously takes a piss at the toilet, he forgets to flush, and his footsteps reveal that he has returned to the sink to wash his face and brush his teeth. The moment of truth is now soon at hand; his footsteps descend the stairs and come across the linoleum floor that leads to the kitchen. I take the safety off of my Springfield 1911 and ready myself, my breathing is even, and my nerves are perfectly calm.

He stumbles into the kitchen, wearing a T-shirt and faded work jeans. He's barefoot; the look on his face is a complete surprise when he sees me sitting at his breakfast table. Suddenly comes the realization that it's just he and I in the house. Instantly he pumps himself up and makes a run at me; I point my gun at him; it stops Finn dead in his tracks. 

"Sit down," I tell him calmly.

 I can see his wheels turning; he's trying to decide if he should lunge at me or if he should run. I fire off one round, and the bullet grazes his cheekbone; it's enough to change his mind from getting anymore-stupid ideas.

"Sit down," I repeat.

"Please," his plea is expectedly pathetic.

I pull the hammer back on the Springfield to emphasize my point; Finn gets it and takes a seat. " Illuminare Iter Transeundum,"

 Finn looked at me strangely and shook his head, "I'm sorry, I don't understand?"

"Shit," I said under my breath. This is the wrong Finn Greely; the one I'm looking for is a Fynn Greely. "Sorry," I apologized and put a bullet through his skull. be continued

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