The Lantern Man in the Kukui Grove

I’ve always been a little too aware of the spaces between things—the gaps in the light, the hush before a door opens on its own. Growing up in the arid stretches of New Mexico, I saw figures in the corners of my vision, silhouettes that bled from the walls. They were harmless enough, just watchers. But I learned to ignore them, to train my eyes to slide past the dark spots, to keep my mind busy so I wouldn’t have to see them clearly. I thought it was a desert thing, a product of heat and lonely highways. Then I moved to the damp, green island of Oahu, and the rules changed.

My first few months in Hawaii were a sensory overload. The air was thick with the scent of plumeria and rain-soaked earth. My rented cottage sat at the edge of a kukui grove, the trees leaning in like curious old men. I tried to settle, but I felt the presence of the watchers more acutely than ever. They weren’t the wispy, half-formed shadows of the mainland. These were solid, almost corporeal, with a weight that pressed against the air. I saw one my first week: a tall figure with a featureless face, standing at the edge of the grove, its head cocked as if studying me. I closed the blinds and didn’t leave the house for two days.

One evening, my friend Malia invited me to her place. She lived in a plantation-style house up in the hills, surrounded by ginger and ti leaves. We sat in her living room, talking story and sipping iced tea. The conversation drifted to our shared unease, the feeling of being watched. Malia, who had grown up with old Hawaiian beliefs, told me about the night marchers and the spirits of the land. She said I was ‘ho’omaka’—someone blessed or cursed with sight. Just as she finished saying it, I saw her eyes widen. She was looking over my shoulder, her face draining of color. I turned, but there was nothing. ‘It was leaning over you,’ she whispered. ‘Like it was breathing you in. Then it just… flashed to the hallway.’ We both stared at the dark hallway, but nothing moved. I didn’t sleep that night.

Then there was Keahi, a friend from work, who swore a demon had attached itself to him. He’d been doing EVP sessions, recording white noise and catching faint whispers that spoke in a language we didn’t recognize. He played me a clip: a guttural voice that seemed to sync with my heartbeat. Keahi said it called out my name. I laughed it off, but I couldn’t shake that the voice sounded familiar, like something I’d heard in a dream. He gave me a recording to take home, warning me not to listen alone. Of course, I did, in the quiet of my cottage, with the lights out. The voice on the recording said, ‘I will show you the grove.’ I woke up the next morning with soil under my fingernails.

Last night, Keahi and I went to another friend’s house, a place I’d visited many times before. It was a modern home with big windows, nestled in a valley where the fog rolled in early. We were sitting on the lanai, talking about what we’d seen and heard, when I felt the familiar chill in the air. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and the garden lights flickered. I saw a shadow detach itself from the wall of the living room, and it moved with a deliberate, fluid gait toward the kitchen. I wanted to look away, but something told me to follow. I excused myself and went inside. The kitchen was empty, but the back door was ajar, and a trail of damp footprints led from it to the pantry. I opened the pantry door and saw a figure inside, crouched, its head turned to the side. It wore a wide-brimmed hat, like an old missionary. It slowly stood, and I finally saw its face: it was a hollow void, but within that void, I saw my own childhood home, the hallway from Arizona, the man in the fancy hat. He was the same one.

The figure stepped forward, and I didn’t scream. I stood frozen as it raised a hand, and I saw it held a paper lantern, unlit. It gestured to the dark outside. ‘Come,’ it said, and the voice was like the rustle of dead leaves. I heard Keahi call my name from the lanai, but I was already walking toward the door, toward the grove that bordered the yard. I stepped into the night, and the air was cold and wet. I looked back, and the house lights were ordinary again, but I knew I had crossed a line. The lantern man walked ahead, and I followed, my feet moving without my permission. We entered the kukui grove, and the trees closed around us like a wall. The lantern man stopped and turned. ‘You have always belonged to the spaces between,’ he said. ‘But here, they are not empty. They are inhabited. And they have been waiting for you.’ He lit the lantern with a ghostly flame, and I saw all the watchers I’d ever glimpsed: the man in the hallway, the thing that leaned over me in my sleep, the figure from Malia’s house. They were all standing in a circle, waiting. They were the same being, and they had finally gathered me to them.

I woke up this morning in my own bed, but I was not alone. The lantern man was sitting in the corner of my room, watching me. He hasn’t spoken since, but he doesn’t need to. I know what he wants. He wants me to become like him, a watcher, a shadow in the grove. And I’m afraid that I will. I’m writing this down because I know they’re recording me. Every time I look in a mirror, I see a flicker of the lantern. Every time I close my eyes, I see the grove. I’m no longer in Hawaii; I’m in the space between. And I think I’ve always been there. The lantern man knows my name. He told me last night. It’s the same one he’s always had.