Page 28 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)
Twenty-Seven
T he island of O’ahu seems small when you live in the city.
It’s congested and suffocating to the point where you can look out of your kitchen window and see right into your neighbor’s living room.
The houses press against one another, their boundaries lost to the ever-encroaching tangle of concrete and asphalt.
Yards, if they even exist, are little more than forgotten pockets of space, neglected and overshadowed, with overgrown weeds creeping between the cracks.
The towering highrises of Waikiki loom like silent giants, their oppressive shadows falling over everything, dimming the once-pristine views of the ocean, as though nature itself is being smothered by human ambition.
But then, there is the Black estate, far removed from the clamor and grind of the cities, nestled up north.
It feels as though it exists in a different world, tucked away at the end of a winding, narrow path that seems to be a secret unto itself.
I’ve lived in Hawai’i my entire life, and even I hadn’t known such places existed—these sprawling, shadowed estates, hidden from the prying eyes of the city dwellers, tourists, and townees.
And now that I do, a lingering curiosity gnaws at me, an insatiable desire to uncover what other mysteries lie at the end of the forgotten dirt roads, veiled by the dense canopies of trees and the heavy darkness.
As I sit in the car, my gaze lingers on the thick line of trees, their gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers lost in a blanket of greenery, casting an uninviting shadow.
I find myself wondering what hides there—what moves beyond the veil of leaves fluttering in the wind.
What lingers in the deep shadows after the sun dips below the horizon?
Who resides on the other side of the labyrinthine forest?
The questions hang in the air, unanswered, as the car’s engine hums softly beneath me, and I feel an unsettling chill crawl up my spine.
When people think of Hawai’i, they think of the crystal clear ocean, the sapphire waters sparkling beneath the bright sun, shining with not one cloud in the sky.
They think of the sandy beaches littered with tourists, both pale and burnt.
Salty sea breeze, suntan lotion, and coconut scents with hints of something fruity and tropical circle their noses and fill their lungs.
Friendly locals with hands curled into a shaka and smiles that take up half their faces open their arms, ready to pull you into a warm embrace, eager to spread the aloha spirit.
It’s a warm thought, inviting. No mysteries, nothing eerie.
No, not in paradise.
Yet it’s fascinating to me to think about what might be happening past what I can see.
My imagination takes the idea by the throat and runs with it as I consider the possibility of a mad scientist just on the other end, experimenting with reanimation, a haunted mansion in the opposing direction, dilapidated and rotting as it gets reclaimed by the Earth, forgotten by time.
No one considers the chilling fear of the Night Marchers blaring their conch shells and the beat of their drums so loud, their bass rattles your heart while the stench of their decay rots in your nose, or the wailing green woman eager to snatch your children and drown them in the gulch as she mourns from grief of her own loss.
What could be lurking between the acres of sugarcane stalks and across the pineapple fields?
Maybe it’s for those reasons tourists don’t wander too far from town.
Gisella’s giggle from behind tears me from the dark depths of my paranormal fantasies.
I glance at her in the backseat, her eyes fixated on the illuminated screen of her phone as she fumbles with the silver charm hanging around her neck.
She always finds such joy on social media.
When she isn’t working, her eyes are always glued to that screen.
I wonder if it's a coping method, a mere distraction from the horrors of her reality—or maybe she’s looking at more recipes.
Either way, it’s not my place to ask, nor any of my business.
I didn’t know what it was like to lose a man who was in love with me.
I didn’t know what it was like to feel seen and to be loved for who I am, rather than for how I looked or what I could provide.
Her fingers fumble again with the charm, a delicate, unconscious movement that speaks volumes. It must have been love—the kind that leaves its mark on your soul, etched in the deepest recesses of your heart. I can only assume she feels that absence with every breath, every passing day since.
I shift slightly in the passenger seat, leaning forward to face the road, but not without a lingering glance at Mrs. Wong in the driver’s seat.
Her posture is stiff, almost rigid, her hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, her elbows bent but taut with restraint.
She stares straight ahead, unblinking, as though the road itself is an enemy to be watched.
The tightness of her form makes my own back ache, but I slouch deeper into the seat, trying to find a comfort that seems evasive.
Despite the stern set of her features, I can hear the faint hum of her voice—soft, almost imperceptible, blending with the gentle rhythm of the music drifting from the radio.
The drive to Pearlridge is a blur of concrete and steel, the relentless sun beating down from above, casting its fiery gaze upon the right side of my face.
The heat sears through the window, roasting my skin and the front of my thighs right through my leggings.
The light bounces off the surrounding cars and blinds me with its glare.
I feel as if I’m trapped in some infernal contraption, a metal box hurtling down the freeway at seventy miles an hour, as though the sun itself is trying to burn me alive.
But there is one small mercy—traffic is light this morning, and I can almost feel a pang of gratitude for the absence of congestion.
If the roads had been crowded, the heat would have surely stripped away the first two layers of my skin long before we arrived.