Ghosts Next Door

Ghosts Next Door
by Lopaka Kapanui

Oct 23, 2021

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2021 #8

 "I feel a little drained today. Despite all my efforts, the sun rose from the east.

The waters at Kaimana beach still ebb and flow. And people are out and about, enjoying their day. Cars travel to and from wherever their destination may have been or was. All the good, not so good, bad, and horrible went on as if the previous day never mattered," I removed my Vape from my sweater pocket and took a hit from it. 

"You know," the psychic medium Bob Morrow began as he adjusted himself in his beat-up leather chair from Cambridge. "Hiding that fact that you're smoking Ice in a vape doesn't deplete the aroma."

"Who could tell?" I asked him.

"I can," he replied. "Don't smoke that in here, please."

"I want my money back," I told him. "You're reading came out false; you said I'd be dead today, and I'm still alive."

"The day is still young," Bob replied. "It's not technically over until a second after midnight. If you're still alive by then, come see me, and I'll give your money back."

"Very funny," I snickered.

"To prove that I'm an honest man," Bob opened his desk drawer and removed a thick envelope. "I'll give you half your money back." He pulled it and handed it to me over the desk.

"Alright," I was pleasantly surprised. So I guess Bob is the real deal and not just a fake money taker.


Sure, I was dissatisfied because I was still alive. I was looking forward to dying because I was too much of a coward to end everything myself. An unexpected painless death would be ideal, especially if it's not long and drawn out. I don't want to suffer. Otherwise, my day went on like it did the day before. Sitting at home, channel surfing, not really settling or watching any one thing. Jumping online, staring at YouTube, then taking a shower, a nap, and doing it all over again. By eleven fifty-five in the evening, I was sitting in front of Bob Morrow, the psychic, who predicted my death a total twenty-four hours previous. "Really?" Bob was incredulous. "You're gonna wait it out here until the shoe falls?"

"I figured it's the best place to be," I shrugged my shoulders. "Hopefully, there's no blood and guts splatter all over your Cambridge,"

"Alright," Bob adjusted himself and relaxed in his chair with a paperback in front of him. "Might as well make ourselves comfortable."

I tinkered on my cell phone, looking at the time stamp every few seconds. It was eleven fifty-eight. We were close. It was tense, and I felt a tiny bit of sweat surfacing on my forehead. My kidneys turned around like I had to take a piss seriously. Then it was gone. Eleven fifty-nine, my phone blooped, showing that I got a couple of e-mails. I opened it. Fucking spam, on the last minute of my life on earth. Figures. Midnight and it's the worst slowest minute of my final existence on earth. I am beginning to hyperventilate, and Bob Morrow just sits there reading his paperback. He makes no effort to offer any sympathy or at least hug me, for god's sake! Fuck him and fuck this world! 

It's a minute after midnight on the money, and I'm still here. Still whole, still very much alive. Bob slides the rest of my money across the desk. My phone rings, and I nearly jump out of my pants. The caller ID says it's my twin brother Patrick. When I answer the phone, it's Melissa, his wife. "Paul, it's Melissa,"

"Hey, muh-liss," I reply. "What's happening? Where's Patrick?"

"The police called me. Patrick was in an accident. I just got here to the hospital; he died a minute ago at midnight." She broke down after that. She was inconsolable. 

Bob looked up and saw the look on my face and asked me if something was wrong? "My twin brother Patrick was in a car accident earlier, that was my sister-in-law just now. Patrick died at the hospital just now, at midnight."

Bob reached across his desk and took the envelope from my hands and placed it back in his desk drawer. "It was your twin brother's death that I saw then? Not yours? I guess we're good then?"

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