100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #11. Horace.

One night, out playing football late at Pu'iwa park, Horace and his friends played tackle past the park's closing hour.

The only reason the game stopped is that Horace and his friends saw bouncing orbs of fire passing behind the park bathroom, the playground, and the tennis courts. Without fear, they ran to see what it was. It was a foolish mistake because when they came upon the curious sight, Horace and his friends didn't realize that it was a massive procession of night marchers. They walked up on them without taking their clothes off and lying face down. Horace and his friend were brutalized by the nightmarcers, pierced with several thirsty spears through their entire bodies. Torn in two with shark-toothed weapons. Their forms broken asunder by stone adzes and clubs. Skulls were crushed with other stone tools. It was not a sight that even the most seasoned war veteran could look upon unless they were doing the killing themselves.

Poor Horace, he was one of those football jocks from high school who would only reach his peak in his Senior year. He'd never be able to cut the tryouts for the NFL or any other professional league. He had the athleticism but not the discipline and drive he needed to get there. Neither did any of his teammates. Because of it, they would be bitter being has-beens before they ever were. They'd take it out on their wives and children by drinking too much, by womanizing, and by coaching football in some capacity. If by chance some child, some teenager, shows any kind of real promise to make it to the big leagues, Horace and his friends, who are just like him, will crush any ambition or hope they ever had. Everyone will pay for an insecurity that they could never face. The fact that they were not good enough. They couldn't measure up. Class reunions were the chance to relive part of his glory up until graduation. That's when all the questions would come.

"Horace, brah, what happened? I thought you were getting scouted for the NFL?"

"I was only one walk-on, brah, but at least I got to do that," Horace would lie, and his classmates bought it. 

So, at this game at Pu'iwa park, things got physical and emotional because Horace was a poor sport and a crybaby. The friendly game devolved to pushing, shoving, tripping, and fistcuffs. It's at the crescendo of this immature playground foolery that Horace and his friends saw the red torchlights of the night marchers. In taking their lives, the night marchers were doing them a favor. While Horace died of his wounds, the last thing he heard were the cries of his teammates, wailing for their mothers before their throats were crushed by a Newa weapon.

People who worked at the state office with Horace, who found him insufferable, didn't bat an eye when the announcement of his death came from the division supervisor. There was a moment of silence, but not a tear was shed. Horace was a bully, always pushing his weight around. Consistently harassed the pretty young employees and always made fun of the women who were overweight and not attractive in his book. Always picking on guys who were smaller than he was, and always backing down when someone called him on his bullshit. Horace was at the end of his tether. It was a state job, so he'd been moved laterally a few times, but there was no more lateral left to give. The day his death was announced was the day that his supervisor was going to call him into his office and tell him that he was terminated. You know how it is sometimes that people are in the wrong place at the wrong time? On that night in Pu'iwa Park, it might have been that Horace and his friends were in the right place at the right time. They were skin tags on the armpit of life; they served no purpose except to be unsightly and bothersome. They were a drain on their wives, who aged ten times more than they were supposed to. Everything centered on Horace; the wife and kids were secondary. As a father, Horace would see his children grow up despising and abandoning him at the first chance they had to leave the house. In fact, when Horace's son was selected in the draft, he shared the news with his mother and sister only. Horace didn't find out until he was sitting at Champions sports bar, feeling up the waitress who was the wife of his workmate. Horace got to see his son achieve a goal he had never achieved himself. 

"I want to thank my mom and my sister for having my back growing up," Lima said. "It was the only way I could have made it!"

" What about your father?" The news reporter asked. "Wasn't he a draft pick for the NFL during his day?"

"The operative word being, 'Was'" Lima began. "He couldn't cut it, but I can because I've got what it takes and I've got the support of my mom and sister like I've had my entire life."

"You mean your dad never supported your dream to play for the NFL?" The news reporter couldn't believe it.

"He was so caught up in his failed NFL dream that he couldn't see anything else happening around him," Lima said. "But hey, this is about me! Let's celebrate.