The Red-Eyed Myna

My husband Daniel and I had been living in the old plantation duplex on Maui for barely a year when we realized we weren’t the only ones hearing things at night. We were stationed at the base nearby, and the duplex was a relic from the sugar cane era, its walls thick with coral and its floors uneven with age. Our neighbors, the Hales and the Kimuras, were also military families, and we often gathered on the shared lanai for beers after work.

It was on one such evening, as the sun bled into the Pacific, that the topic turned to the noises. I mentioned, almost in passing, how I kept hearing a faint scratching in the walls, like something trying to get out. Daniel added that he’d seen a flicker of movement in the backyard, a dark shape that vanished when he turned on the porch light. To our surprise, the Hales exchanged a knowing glance, and Karen Hale said, ‘We thought we were the only ones. The kids have been waking up screaming about a woman standing in their room, whispering in a language they don’t understand.’

Mike Kimura chuckled nervously. ‘That’s nothing. We’ve had a persistent cold spot in our hallway, and once, I swear, I saw the reflection of a man in the bathroom mirror when I was alone in the house.’ We all went quiet, sipping our beers and listening to the wind rustle the palm fronds. That night, Daniel and I lay in bed, the overhead fan clicking rhythmically, and I felt a chill despite the warm air. I told Daniel about the native Hawaiian village that had been unearthed during construction, and how the land had been a gathering place for centuries. He nodded, his eyes thoughtful, and said, ‘Maybe they don’t want us here.’

The next evening, I was in the kitchen when I heard a child’s laugh from the utility room. I opened the door, but it was empty, the washing machine spinning with a load of whites. The laugh came again, this time from behind me, and I spun around to see a small shadow darting under the dining table. I called for Daniel, but he was in the shower. When I peered under the table, there was nothing. I laughed it off, blaming my imagination, but as I turned, I saw writing scrawled on the wall in the hallway—a series of symbols I didn’t recognize. They looked ancient, almost like petroglyphs, and they seemed to shimmer as I stared. I called Daniel again, and he came down, towel around his waist, and we both stared at the markings. He tried to wipe them off, but they wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s like they’re burned into the wall,’ he said, his voice low.

Over the following week, the disturbances escalated. The Kimuras reported that their refrigerator door swung open by itself, spilling milk and eggs. The Hales found their children’s toys arranged in a perfect circle in the living room. And Daniel and I experienced our own share: our radio would turn on at odd hours, playing static that sounded faintly like chanting, and I once found a single black feather on our pillow, though we had no birds inside. I began to feel a presence, a weight in the air, and I’d catch glimpses of a figure out of the corner of my eye, always disappearing when I turned.

One night, I woke to find Daniel standing at the foot of the bed, staring out the window. ‘Daniel?’ I asked, but he didn’t respond. I got up and touched his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to face me. His eyes were wide, and he said, ‘There’s a bird out there. A myna. It’s staring at me.’ I looked, but the yard was empty. He shook his head, seeming to snap out of it, and we went back to bed. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

The next day, I decided to do some research. I went to the local library and found an old book on Hawaiian folklore. I discovered that the land we were on was once the site of a heiau, a temple, and that a powerful kahuna had been buried there. The book warned of a guardian spirit, often seen as a bird, that would torment those who disturbed the sacred ground. My blood ran cold when I read that the myna bird was a known form for the aumakua, a family spirit, but also that a red-eyed myna was an omen of death.

That evening, I confronted Daniel with the book. He looked pale. ‘I saw the bird in a dream last night, except it wasn’t a dream. I was awake, and it was on my chest, pecking at me. I couldn’t move.’ I held his hand, and we agreed we needed to do something. We decided to ask the landlord if we could be transferred to another unit, but the landlord, a local man with deep-set eyes, simply said, ‘The land doesn’t like to be disturbed. You can leave, but the spirits will follow you.’ He refused to discuss it further.

Desperate, we sought out a kahuna who lived in the hills. She was an old woman with a gentle face. She listened to our story, then said, ‘You must make an offering. A true offering, from the heart. And you must ask forgiveness.’ She gave us a small bundle of ti leaves, sea salt, and a white stone. She told us to place it at the edge of the property at midnight, and to say a prayer in Hawaiian.

We did as she instructed. The night was still, the air heavy with moisture. We walked to the far corner of the yard, where the jungle began. The ground was uneven, and we noticed a faint depression, as if a grave had been there. I placed the offering down, and Daniel began to recite the prayer the kahuna had written for us. As he spoke, the wind picked up, and we heard a rustling in the trees. A myna bird landed on the fence, its eyes glowing red in the dark. It let out a piercing cry that seemed to pierce our souls. I felt a cold rush, and then the bird flew away, disappearing into the night.

For a time, things seemed to calm. The scratching stopped, the cold spot dissipated, and the children stopped having nightmares. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. And then, one morning, I found the offering gone, and in its place was a single red feather, I knew then that the spirit wasn’t appeased. It was just biding its time.

The final incident happened on our second anniversary. We had a small party with the neighbors. As we were toasting, the lights flickered, and I saw a woman in a white dress standing at the end of the hallway. She had no face, just a blank expanse where her features should be. I screamed, and everyone turned, but they saw nothing. Daniel rushed to me, but I couldn’t speak. I just pointed, trembling. Then, a strange compulsion overcame me, and I walked towards the utility room. I opened the door, and on the floor was a small carved wooden bird, its eyes painted red. I picked it up, and it felt cold and heavy. I knew we couldn’t stay.

We moved out two weeks later, packing our belongings in a frantic haste. As we drove away, I looked back at the duplex, and I saw the bird again, perched on the roof, its red eyes following us. Daniel said nothing, but I knew he saw it too. We never spoke of it again, but I still have night terrors, dreaming of that faceless woman. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of something red in the reflection, and I know, with a cold certainty, that the spirit will find us wherever we go.