100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #12. Alika.

When I sought the solace and silence of one of our native forests, it didn’t last long because of the propensity of tourists who inundated my once quiet spot.

I was pretty sure that I spat on the ground with disgust. I thought it prudent to seek this same sort of solace at an out-of-the-way beach, but all I found there were more tourists, and this time they were involved in sex, while recording videos from their cell phones. All was not lost, however, because one evening I parked in downtown Honolulu at the post office and decided to stroll around the block from South King, up Punchbowl, then to Beretania. Turning left on Richard Street, walking past the war memorial, I heard it as clearly as the quiet night air. 

A violin not just being played, but being seduced by whoever it might have been that made love to its strings. The palace gates, of course, are closed in the evenings, but my footpath led me to stroll closer to the palace fence, peering intently onto the royal grounds now swathed with light and shadow. Where is the player of the violin? 

He was there, sitting on those wooden benches that circled a tall tree around its trunk. The interior lights from the palace illuminated this person enough that I could see him wearing a hoodie, jeans, and shoes with no socks. The bow he used so expertly evoked heart-wrenching notes from the violin. There were high pitches that made one look up to the dark heavens in search of stars that could shine bright enough to bathe you in their celestial light. Was it light, though? Or was it a quest for absolution? The player of the violin did that, his music made that happen, made you think it. Time did not exist as the brooding sound awakened other spirits from a time long gone. Men and women dressed in their Victorian era best. 

I thought it wasn’t real because the executive director of the palace wouldn’t allow that sort of thing due to safety concerns about its delicate collection. Yet, there they were dancing, talking, and finding their way out to the veranda. Their eyes locked on the violin player. He sensed this because I saw him look up at the spirits from a bygone time. Gently, he laid his violin beside him and then removed a ukulele from another case, which I couldn’t see from where I stood. He strummed the strings a few times and began to sing the Kimo Hula.

Aia i ka uka

‘O Pi’ihonua

Ke kihapai pua

ulu māhiehie

I laila au la

Ike I ka nani

o na pua ala a he

nui wale....

A gorgeous, lilting voice this young man possessed that went from a flawless tenor to a high soprano and back. I had no idea that a woman sat on the other side of him until she stood up and began to glide along the pavement, dancing a hula that would have awakened the gods to sit in her presence, simply to watch her ethereal performance. At its conclusion, the spirits lent their applause, but no sound came forth as they slowly dissolved into the shadows and light. The young man bowed deeply, as did the woman beside him. He packed up his instruments and strapped one to his back, while he carried the other in his left hand. He and his female companion walked to the Kauikeaouli gate, where a waiting security guard let them out. 

Ha’ina ia mai

ana ka puana

Moani ke ala

i ka uluwehiwehi

hea aku makou,

eo mai ‘oe.

Kimo o ka uka ‘iu’iu, he inoa...

I found my solace on a night like any other. A night of no significance, a date without history or celebration, or a holiday attached to it. I continued with my walk after, even with weak knees and thighs, which felt like the fibers of my muscles were about to cramp due to dehydration. I was surprised to see the young man and the woman walking toward me. I nodded and smiled as they and I passed one another. You can imagine my surprise when the woman sweetly offered, “We’ll be here around the same time for the rest of the week. Please come listen if you are so inclined, please.”

I nearly fainted at hearing this, but for the rest of the week, there I was standing outside the Richard street fence at that same late evening hour, intently listening to a rendition of Ka Ipo Lei Manu as a spectral horse and carriage rode through the front palace gates holding aloft the casket with King David Kalakaua’s remains within. I’ll say that I was more than wrecked for the rest of the night. My next work day was a blur, but the evening was a sumptuous offering of Aloha ‘Oe. A lone spirit wearing a full-length black gown materialized through the front palace doors. It sat at the top of the steps, listening as though the boy played and sang a kind of emotional truth to whomever she was, this spirit that took in the music in her arms and gently rocked it back and forth. When the song was complete, the spirit gathered herself to stand and turned to enter the palace, slowly fading into nothing as she went in. The next night, the music was festive and fun. He sang Kalena Kai, Kauoha mai, and Ia ‘Oe E Ka Lā. This evening, the spirits came from behind the palace on both sides. They spread out lauhala mats and sat around the young man, with eyes fixed on him. Their faces light up, changing their shadow-like complexion to that of flesh and blood. Even the spirits of the keiki are attentive and suddenly appear sad when he sings the ha’ina, the conclusion. The music went on like this for a few more evenings until one night, the young man wasn’t there, and neither was the woman who regularly accompanied him. Neither was he present the following night, nor the nights thereafter. I thought that his time playing for the Hawaiian spirits was done, and the week passed as the woman said. A month had passed, and during my lunch break, I decided to sit on the wooden benches on the palace grounds to have my meal. Nearby was the woman who appeared as if she hadn’t slept for several nights.

“Aloha,” I said as I sat near her, with my Tupperware in my hands. “I’m the one who stands outside the palace gates, and I listen to that young man play.”

“He’ll be here tonight,” she nodded while looking down. “You should come listen.”

She bid me aloha, and getting up, she headed toward the Kinau street gate. I was certainly there later that same evening, and to my surprise, it was the woman who sat there playing the violin and then the ‘ukulele. The young man wasn’t there as she said. It’s the woman who begins to sing Po Mahina. Shadows emerge from all parts of the palace, the second floor, the first, and the basement. They all take their places and sit on the palace steps. Among them is the young man, now a spirit like the ones he played music for on nights like this, no longer corporeal,

“He was sick,” the woman told me the next afternoon as we had lunch while sitting on the palace lawn. “I told him he needed to stay home and rest, but he refused; he wanted to play music for those who lived and worked in the palace. I couldn’t stop him, so all I could do was to come and help him.”

I found myself shedding tears, but the woman told me not to worry. “Until I join him, my son Alika. I’ll continue to play music for our kupuna. You’re welcome to join me if you wish.”

I did wish to do so. On those evenings, if you are walking along the fence of the palace and you hear brooding violin music, or Hawaiian songs, it is I, helping Ha’ili, Alika’s mother, with whatever she may need. Come listen, and perhaps soon, my turn will come to play music, and you can be my helper.