100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2024. #72. Laumeki 3.

 Raymond knew he had something he couldn't hold on to.

In desperation, he went on the dark web and made the advertisement: ANCIENT HAWAIIAN SPEAR. CURSED. DON'T WANT IT. Five minutes later, a singular email pinged. Go To Messenger. 

H.PnStuff: How cursed is this spear?

Ray_Gun: It belongs to a night marcher. Kamehameha. His ghost stabbed me with it. Got stuck in my side. Had it taken out. Friend drove me home after surgery. Kamehameha's ghost showed up. Stabbed him to death with the spear. 

H.PnStuff: Fuck you. You're full of shit. Proof.

Momentarily, the chat went silent. Then, a high-pitched ping. A video is attached to the messenger window.

Ray_Gun: Proof, and fuck you back.

Henry clicked on the play icon, and there it was—the large spearhead vibrating and undulating. It took Henry's breath away, knowing he had to have it. His mouth went dry, and his breathing was shallow. He didn't even realize he had an erection until he absentmindedly went to scratch the inside of his thigh. 

H.PnStuff: How much?

Ray_Gun: Just take it. 

H.PnStuff: Location? 

Ray_Gun: Kukuihaele. Haena Road. B.

H.PnStuff: I have someone on the plane right now. His name is Walter. He'll be in a suit, so you know it's him. Price for the item?

Ray_Gun: None. Take it before it kills someone else.

More emails flooded Raymond's inbox immediately after the conversation. Millions of dollars were being offered, but Raymond just wanted to object gone. 

~

In a few hours, Raymond saw a rental car coming up the dirt road to his house. He'd wrapped the spearhead with shammy cloth and then duct tape. For safety, he placed it in a large tackle box. Raymond walked down the driveway to meet the large Portuguese man in the suit. He would hand it to him, and it would all be over. After giving the man the tackle box, the man put his big, meaty hands around Raymond's throat and began squeezing so tightly that Raymond had no time to resist and fight back. The man named Walter, who never introduced himself, snapped Raymond's neck like a graham cracker, and he was dead. 

Lisa lay there with just the sinew and cartilage holding her leg together. Her screams were unimaginably horrific. The wild pigs would hear her first and react to her cries before any human person found her. Until then, it was a long wait. 

~

The beach house in Waialua was one of those old, retro-style beach houses from the 1970s that was supposed to look superb for hosting drug, alcohol, and sex parties. It had large, spacious, big glass windows with a view of the beach and the pounding surf. Big Chevy Suburbans were parked in the front, along with Military vehicles and a few Ford SUVs, all colored black. Everyone in attendance was already in the house waiting for Henry Parades. "I hope they don't ask for a demonstration," Henry said out loud. "It might be a good thing, and it might not, oh well."

...to be continued