Ghosts Next Door

Ghosts Next Door
by Lopaka Kapanui

May 24, 2022

Linger 2022

We filled out all the forms, crossed, and dotted everything.

Then, finally, we got the loan, and we were looking forward to bringing some life to this old place. What was surprising was that the site sat empty and unbothered since July 12, 1979, when disco officially died. Up until then, this was the Hawai'i version of Studio 54. It's where everyone wanted to see and be seen. Presently, it's a cloud of a dust-layered sunken dance floor that would lite up whenever it was filled to the hilt with patrons dancing the night away. But then, there was nothing but a pile of chairs and furniture, an empty bar, a catwalk with overhead spotlights, a DJ booth, and Casablanca album posters. So we had our work cut out for us. We spent time throwing things out for the first few days until my wife got to the old DJ booth, where she came across a crate of old record albums. The following day, she walked in with a record player, plugged it in, and placed one of the vinyls on it.

"How's this one?" She asked. 

The song played, and I couldn't help but comment. "It's the same thing, the driving bass, the strings, the chorus of singers, it gets predictable. No wonder disco died."

"It didn't die," she said. "It went to sleep for a little bit, but it's making a comeback."

"Sure," I laughed.

"How long have we been married?" She asked.

"Forty years," I replied. 

"Where did we meet?" She affected, waiting for me to forget more than remembering.

"Club Miranda," I winked.

"Where you're standing right now is where we met," she pointed and winked.

"You're kidding? Right here?" I pointed.

"Yup," she smiled. "Right there,"

"No, we met at the Club Miranda, not here," I countered.

She opened her arms and gestured to her surroundings, "Club Miranda."

"No," I whispered. "It can't be. I didn't see it on any of the paperwork."

"That's because I did most of the initial paperwork," she said. "I figured that it would all come back to you once you saw the place."

"Wow, I must be slipping," It bothered me now that I couldn't recall such an essential moment in our lives.

"Here's some strange news about this place; according to the realtor, there's a ghost here. No one knows how or why, but that's what he said," she nodded.

"Great; if anything, maybe this ghost will scare up some business for us," I laughed.

"It's not funny, George; I thought a ghost might be a great addition to our bookstore. If we treat it right, it could actually protect us," Cathy twirled her finger in her hair. 

"Any idea as to how this ghost got here?" I asked.

"That's the mystery," she shrugged her shoulders. At that precise moment, the needle on the record player made an ear-splitting scratch across the vinyl and played a duet called "No More Tears (Enough is enough). Cathy slowly walked over toward me, and I met her halfway. "We're sorry," she began. "We don't mean any disrespect, and we don't want you to leave either." The volume cranked up louder until the sound became distorted,  "Enough is enough, is enough, is enough," the song droned on. Then suddenly, the vinyl jumped off the record player and went flying across the room, where it split into shards the second it hit the wall. 

"I don't think it wants to protect us," I said. "I think it wants us to leave."

"Well, we can't," Cathy argued. "We've sunk everything into this place along with the loan, so we have no choice but to make it work." be continued

Credit: Magnetic Magazine


17A Productions Presents

Lopaka Kapanui at Hawaii Theatre

A storytelling concert at the historic Hawaii Theatre. This master storyteller is one of Hawaii’s most popular teller of tales and has been in the business of scaring people for more than 20 years. Lopaka is terrifically skilled at provoking that sudden chill going down one’s back or causing the small hairs on your arms to stand up. Chicken skin is what we call it in Hawai‘i. Others might refer to it as chills or goosebumps. Sharing real accounts of Hawaii’s supernatural culture, Lopaka often leaves audience members questioning the darkness on their drive home and anxiously leaving the light on at bedtime.


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