Grant Society File #18317-04 Kaimuki. 2nd Avenue
“There’s been speculation over the years about your house being haunted,” I said.
“That’s troublesome,” Mr. Riley replied, “for the duration of my time in this house, I have not seen, heard, felt or have been bothered by anyone or anything. The floorboards don’t creak, the cupboards don’t open and close on their own, the air is never cold and as far as I know, there are no burials of any kind on my property.”
“I see, what about the electricity?” I asked.
“Perfectly in order,” Mr. Riley replied, “nothing turning on or off on its own.”
“Nothing moving about independently or levitating suddenly and moving across the room?” I asked.
“Nothing of the sort,” Mr. Riley said, “The only thing that has bothered my peace of mind are these amateur ghost hunters standing in my yard at all hours of the day and night armed with their cameras and recorders hoping to capture a glimpse of the ghosts that haunt this house. Well, they’d be very disappointed if they knew just how uneventful things are around here, very disappointed.”
“Are you a skeptic Mr. Riley?” I asked.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Mr. Kapanui, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he answered, “In my life, I have seen enough to know that man is not all there is to the universe. We’d be fools to ever make such an assumption, but to answer your question? No. I am not a skeptic.”
Taking a deep breath I said, “I know that you’ve been here for a few years, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Mr. Riley replied.
“Well,” I continued, “let’s pretend that you’ve lived here for all of your sixty-one years, okay? This is where you’ve spent every single day of your life, day in and day out and all the significant events of your life have taken place here in this very house.”
“Alright,” Mr. Riley remarked.
“Wouldn’t it make sense then that after you’ve passed away that some part of you, your essence, your mana, some part of Mr. Edward Riley would remain within the framework of this home? ” I smiled.
“It is a very good possibility,” Mr. Riley nodded.
“In the world of Parapsychology it’s called, residual energy,” I said, “It’s like a DVR recording except that it keeps looping back on a singular event at a specific time on a specific day in some cases. However, being that it’s residual, that event by itself, has no awareness of us, the living.”
“How do you suppose then that others are able to say that they have seen a ghost and have had a conversation of sorts with it?” Mr. Riley queried.
“Telepathy,” I answered.
“Telepathy?” Mr. Riley was genuinely confused. “Why would a ghost need to communicate telepathically if it’s already talking to you?”
“We’re talking about a manifestation of telepathic energy from a consciousness that has survived the physical death of its own body. As a projected telepathic image of PK, or psychokinesis, it would make sense that this image would not have a voice box the way that living people do. In many documented cases, people who have said that they have spoken with a ghost, don’t ever remember its mouth moving, but they remember that they could hear the voice of the ghost in their own heads,” I said, “Thus we have communication by mental telepathy.”
“Interesting,” Mr. Riley replied, “This telepathy falls on anyone who encounters a ghost?”
“No, not with just anyone,” I said, “There are three types of people; those who can see, hear and feel, and then there are those who can only do one of each of those things and those who can’t do either of the three. The latter are the skeptics.”
Mr. Riley got up and walked away from the table and headed toward the kitchen counter where he removed the pot of coffee from its holder and walked back to the table to pour himself a hot cup of Joe. Holding the coffee pot out he asked, “Interested?”
“No thanks,” I smiled, “Coffee and I don’t agree.”
“As you wish.” Mr. Riley sighed.
Taking his seat again he managed a careful sip from his cup and pointed at me and said, “Just so that you’re aware, I have seen a ghost or two in my time but never in this house. I suppose my antennae are rusted out?”
“Not in the least, sometimes its as simple as life-us-interrupt-us. We all have other things in our life that require our attention and that’s really no one’s fault. We can’t all be fully locked and loaded twenty-four hours a day.” I replied.
Leaning forward and putting both his hands together, Mr. Riley went on, “So then, what is it? This house has gained such a ghastly reputation over the years what with a mass murder of a family while they sat in this very room taking in their dinner, and a few years thereafter, there was the poltergeist of a woman who was murderously upset that her Samoan son married a Palangi and that she bore him children who were ‘Afakasi. She returned from the dead to physically assault her own grandchildren! Did you know that she was buried in the back yard on this property? Talk about keeping your enemies closer! Yet, in all the years that I’ve lived here, there hasn’t been a peep or a nod. Neither a creak nor a sigh, well a creak and a sigh, yes, but those sounds are logically relegated to, ‘the old house is settling’ category. He paused for a moment right then as if some other divine thought had suddenly struck him.
“It’s rather humorous when you think about it,” he chuckled.
“Humorous?” I asked.
“I apologize,” Mr. Riley said, “ I just had an unusual thought. I wonder how many of these paranormal investigative teams are actually psychic? How damned frustrating it must be to be in that field and not be clairvoyant, clairaudient or have the gift of psychometry or ‘PK?’ Could you imagine?”
“You’re not too far off Mr. Riley,” I smiled.
“Have your findings revealed anything?” Mr. Riley asked.
“Nothing sir, the house is clean. Just as you said,” I replied.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I plan to sit here and take in the rest of this beautiful morning,”
Mr. Riley was smiling now.
“On that note, I will take my leave. Thank you for your hospitality and patience Mr. Riley,” I bowed my head slightly and made my way out through the front door.
Just then Mr. Riley called out from the kitchen, “Would you happen to know the time? My clock is in the den and I’m too damned relaxed to get up at look at it!”
“It’s 7:38 in the morning Mr. Riley!” I called back.
“Ah, thank you!” he replied, “Have a good rest-of-the-day!”
It was 11:38pm and the rest of the team walked up to the entranceway of the old empty house to meet me and assess my findings. “So?” Raymond asked, “Was our theory correct?”
“On the money. It’s not residual, it’s cognitive to a point,” I replied.
“To a point?” Tommy asked.
“Yes,” I answered, “this Mr. Riley was shot in the back of the head while he was in the middle of drinking coffee at his kitchen table at approximately 7:38 in the morning. He was a Professor of American History at the University Of Hawai‘i. A student of his became psychologically and emotionally distraught when he found out that Mr. Riley had flunked him out of the master's program. Said student went to Mr. Riley’s house one morning and put a slug right into the back of his brain, killing him instantly. He never knew what hit him. As far as his last conscious thought is concerned, he is still having coffee in his kitchen and it’s still 7:38 in the morning.”
“Man,” Moonie said, “That’s tough, he’s stuck there.”
“Stuck repeating the same routine somewhat,” Anissa agreed.
“Was his mouth moving hun?” my wife, Tanya, asked.
“No,” I replied, “No movement of the mouth at all.”
“That whole encounter was telepathic… damn… holy crap,” Raymond said to himself.
The members of The Grant Society sat back and let the music of Bad Company blare through the speakers in our vehicle as everything was already loaded up and ready to go. We were headed back to base with one more theory made to be a reality; we had put one more notch under our belts as a psychic investigative team. We got all the audio and video we needed for one night. Indeed, we were lucky that no one called the cops on the strange group of people in the blacked-out van parked on the sidewalk or on the crazy Hawaiian man dressed in black in the hoarder’s house sitting in what used to be the kitchen for a whole hour by himself. Glancing at my cell phone, I happened to notice that it was almost midnight.
“Hey, make a beeline for Zippy’s!” I said, “I’m buying!”
“What’s the occasion?” Tommy asked.
“We’re going to share a meal and a toast in honor of the dearly departed Mr. Riley,” I replied.
A sudden silence fell over the group and finally, Tommy chimed in, “I could use a good meal after putting depositions together all day.”
“I could eat for three people, now that you mention it,” Moonie agreed.
“It’s settled then,” Tanya said. “But we have to stop at a bathroom real quick.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve been holding for the last half hour,” Anissa nodded.
…...
Mr. Riley’s old house is gone now and in its place is a small two-story stucco style structure that is colored in a strange beige motif. It’s quite the anomaly among the older houses in Kaimuki and there isn’t a way that you could miss it. No reports of Mr. Riley’s ghost has surfaced from the occupants of the new space but that all depends on the people themselves. It’s just a matter of time. As for now, we’ve received a report regarding a house that is located about four blocks further up Harding avenue. I know the house and I know it’s reputation, looks like the past is calling. Funny, the more you try to distance yourself from your past, the faster it seems to catch up to you. Wish us luck.
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