S.K.I. REPORT #20091106-01
WHEN THEY CALL
AS EXPERIENCED BY: Gabe
LOCATION: Private Residence. Waimanalo, HI.
I was eight-years old when my family moved into the new house. Though it was just down the street from our old one, we were all very excited because we’d have more space and a large yard that encircled the property to play in. I loved our new home.
My grandparents decided to stay in the room at the very end of a long, narrow hallway. The day before our furniture and belongings from our old house had arrived, I was walking down the hall when I heard whispering coming from my grandparents’ room. It sounded like two people having a conversation in hushed tones, and figured it was my grandma and grandpa. As I got closer to their room, the whispering stopped. Curious, I took a quick look into their room but nobody was there. I cautiously walked through the empty room and peered through the back window, expecting to see my grandparents smiling that I had found them. But I didn’t see anyone. Just the large patch of bananas growing in our backyard. I quickly ran out of the room as fast as I could, never to go back there alone.
I mentioned the voices to my dad one day, so he went to check out the situation. Of course he didn’t hear anything. He just looked at me suspiciously, like I was making trouble and said, “It was probably the neighbors. Or the wind blowing through the banana leaves.”
I reluctantly agreed, even though I was certain it hadn’t been the neighbors or the wind.
One morning when I was in the kitchen eating breakfast I heard my mom call my name. “Gabriel!”
Too lazy to see what she wanted, I shouted, “Yeah?”
After a few moments, when she didn’t reply, I stopped eating. “What is it, Mom?” I yelled. Still, silence.
I stood up to investigate and found my mom cleaning the bathroom. “What?” I asked.
My mom stopped scrubbing the tub and smiled. “What?”
“You called me?”
“No,” she said. She studied me, her smile disappearing. “What did you hear?”
“I. . .thought I heard you call my name,” I said.
My mom pulled me closer to her. “Gabriel, if you ever hear someone call you, do not answer. It’s best to go and find the person you think is calling you.”
That sounded like a lot of unnecessary work. “Why?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “when they call and you answer, you. . .acknowledge them.”
“Them who?” I asked, more confused than ever.
“I don’t know how to explain it to you, Gabriel. For now, just trust me, okay?
My usually easygoing mother looked so worried I didn’t argue. “Okay, Mom. I trust you.”
As years passed, I did my best to ignore the whispering voices, and, as instructed by my mother, I never answered them.
One summer afternoon, when I was a teenager, my dad and I spent countless hours in the hot sun cutting down the banana plants in our backyard. They had become too difficult to maintain. I must have been looking exhausted and dehydrated, because my dad told me to go take a shower while he finished up and hauled the debris to the dump. I nodded, and headed into the house.
I had just begun lathering shampoo into my hair, when suddenly I heard screaming, as if someone were in excruciating agony, and it sounded like my father. When he screamed my name, my chest constricted and I was filled with a sickening sensation of dread. I leapt out of the shower, grabbed my towel and wrapped it around my waist as I hurried outside. I ran out the bathroom door towards my dad’s screaming and prayed I would find him alive.
When I reached the garage, the screaming stopped and I saw that my dad’s truck wasn’t even home. Then I remembered that he had gone to the dump. I felt like an idiot, standing in the garage wearing a towel with suds in my hair. I was still shaken because I knew that I hadn’t imagined the screaming.
As I turned to head back to the bathroom, I heard a faint laugh. A cold breeze touched my bare chest. It traveled up over my shoulders and down my spine. I looked around, I had a feeling I wasn’t alone.
To this day, I still hear the voices. But now instead of my parents, I hear my wife calling me in her various terms of endearment. On occasion she hears the voices too, except it’s my voice that’s calling to her. As unsettling as it is, at least I found someone who understands and even shares in my strange experiences.
Recently, I returned to my childhood home to visit with my dad and family. I was catching up with my sister in the living room when her eight year old son came walking in. “Hey Mom,” he said. “Did you call me?”
WRITTEN BY: Gabe Del Aragon
and Courtney Kunimura
for Spooky Kine Investigations