The Bus Stop at Faga’alu

I wasn’t born on this island, but after thirty years, I’ve come to know its rhythm better than my own heartbeat. They call it American Samoa, but for us, it’s just home. My father, a Navy man, dragged us from base to base until we finally dropped anchor here. I thought it would be like all the others—a temporary post, a place to leave scuff marks on the floor before moving on. But this place stuck. Maybe it’s the humidity, the way it wraps around you like a blanket. Or the smell of the ocean, always there, even when you’re inland. Or maybe it’s the fact that here, the dead don’t stay dead. They don’t float or glow or rattle chains. They just… live here. Same as us. They walk into the Piggly Wiggly, buy a can of corned beef, and walk out. You don’t notice them unless you look close. Sometimes you don’t even notice them then.

I work at the only hardware store in Nu’uuli, a dusty little place that sells everything from lumber to fishing line to, oddly, ice cream. It’s a Tuesday, the slowest day of the week, and I’m restocking the nail shelves when I see a man by the front entrance, examining a kerosene lantern. He’s tall, with skin the color of dark honey, wearing a faded aloha shirt and khaki shorts. His sandals are worn, the kind you’d buy at a swap meet. I nod at him, but he doesn’t nod back. He just picks up the lantern and walks to the counter.

‘Morning,’ I say, sliding the lantern across the counter. ‘Need anything else?’

He shakes his head, pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill, and pays. His fingers are cold when they brush mine, but I don’t think much of it. The island is full of oddities. As he turns to leave, I notice his feet don’t quite touch the floor. But I blink, and they’re normal. I shrug and go back to my nails. But something nags at me. I’ve seen this guy before, but I can’t place him. Maybe he’s a cousin of a cousin. Maybe he’s a new teacher at the high school. I decide to follow him, just to satisfy my curiosity.

I step out into the heavy afternoon sun. He’s walking down the dirt path towards the bus stop, a wooden bench under a breadfruit tree, with a sign that reads ‘Faga’alu’ in faded paint. He’s carrying the lantern, swinging it gently, and he sits down, placing the lantern beside him. I walk up, maybe a bit too eager, and say, ‘Hey, I hope you enjoy that lantern. It’s a good one.’

He looks up at me, and his eyes are dark, like the bottom of the ocean. ‘Thank you,’ he says. His voice is gravelly, like stones rolling in a wave. ‘I needed it.’

‘You waiting for the bus?’ I ask, even though it’s obvious.

‘Yes. It should be here soon.’

I nod, standing there awkwardly. The heat is pressing down, and I’m sweating through my work shirt. ‘Well, have a good one.’

I turn to head back to the store, but something makes me look back. He’s still sitting there, but I feel a cold draft even from ten feet away. The wind picks up, and the breadfruit leaves rustle, and for a split second, I see the lantern flicker, even though it’s not lit. I shake my head and go back inside.

Later that evening, the owner, old Tui, is closing up. He’s a Samoan man, pure, with a face like weathered rock. He’s known me for years, but he’s always quiet. I ask him, ‘Hey, you know that tall guy who bought the lantern today? He looked familiar.’

Tui pauses, keys in hand, and looks at me with an expression I can’t read. ‘What did he look like?’

I describe him. Tui’s face goes pale, the color draining like water out of a bowl. He whispers, ‘That was Fale. He died last year. Hit by a van right at that bus stop. They never found the driver.’

I feel a chill crawl up my spine. ‘But he paid. He had money. He bought the lantern.’

Tui shakes his head slowly. ‘He always buys the same lantern. Every year on this day. He’s been doing it since I was a boy. His wife died, you see, and he used to buy her a lantern to light her way home. He thinks she’s still out there, looking for the light.’

I’m frozen, my heart thumping. ‘So… he’s a ghost?’

Tui gives me a sad smile. ‘Here? Who isn’t?’

That night, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Fale, sitting there, waiting for a bus that will never come. The next day, I drive by the bus stop on my way to work. The lantern is still there, on the bench, but Fale’s gone. I park and pick it up. It’s cold to the touch, and when I lift it, I notice that it’s full of fresh kerosene. But that’s impossible—he never lit it. Unless…

The days pass, and I start to see more of them. A woman in a floral dress browsing the fabric aisle, her hands passing through the cloth. A little boy by the register, staring at the candy display, but his feet don’t leave marks in the dust. An old man sitting in the corner, reading a newspaper from ten years ago. I mention it to Tui, but he just waves his hand. ‘They’ve always been here. You just used to be blind.’

A week later, I’m at the store, halfway through a shift, when a woman walks in. She’s pretty, with long black hair, wearing a white dress that seems to float around her. She doesn’t look at me, just walks to the back, to the kerosene section. She picks up a small can, comes to the counter, and sets it down. Her eyes are hollow, and I see the faint outline of an injury on her temple. I try to smile, but my voice is thin. ‘That’ll be five dollars.’

She hands me a ten, and I give her change. She nods, and as she turns to leave, I see the bus stop through the window. There’s a man there, sitting, holding a lit lantern. The flame is steady, unnatural, like it’s not burning anything. It’s Fale. He’s looking at me. And he’s smiling.

My hands tremble as I put the money in the register. The woman walks out, and I watch her walk towards the bus stop. She sits next to Fale, and he hands her the lantern. They sit together in silence, while the bus comes and goes, and no one else seems to notice.

I quit my job the next week. I couldn’t bear to look at that bus stop every day, knowing that those two are still waiting, still hoping for a ride home that will never come. But here’s the thing: even though I moved to the other side of the island, I see them everywhere now. At the market, at the beach, in my own reflection. Because I finally see the truth: American Samoa is not haunted. It’s inhabited. We all are. And the only difference between us and them is that they know it.

Now, I keep my own lantern by my front door, and every evening, I light it for just a minute. I don’t know who I’m lighting it for, but I know they’re out there, watching. And maybe, someday, they’ll find their way home.