His Name Was Eugene

Welcome: This is the first ghost story on the blog, so I'll take a moment to explain how these work. For each blog, I will write a 'real life' ghost account in prose. Some of these will be my own experiences, others will be accounts of friends, family or strangers who get in touch. For each, I try to unearth the real history behind the story. If you have an account worth telling, let me know via my contact form and your story could be next.

Disclaimer: I haven't directly contacted any of the descendants of the person around whom this story revolves. I hope that if they find this story, they can recognise my good intentions and deep respect, and that they reach out to me.
While the story is based on a true account, I have taken some creative license with the timing of its telling and the people involved (the 'characters'). The history, though, and the activity described is all true. Like everything I write, I won't say with absolute certainty that the experiences I relay are fully paranormal, mere coincidence, or simply great tech. Can any of us ever really know for sure? I'll leave it to my readers to decide.

Let's begin...
It was 2020. The air was thick with heat and humidity. Insects buzzed around my legs as I walked down the slope and through the garden to the back of my yard. I crinkled my nose as the smell of diesel, rubbish fires, and tropical fragrances mingled in the breeze.

Before me was the bunker. I'd been told about it when the house was assigned to me. Larger and more intact than I expected, it certainly looked like a WWII bunker, with its rough metal edges and camouflaged exterior. Despite the heat, as I crossed the threshold a chill descended over me. I instantly knew, this bunker was special.
"It's haunted," my husband said, as he jogged down the hillside to join me. "The guards told me if they fall asleep inside, they'll be shaken awake, but there's no-one there!" He wiggled his hands at me, teasingly, emitting a cheerful 'woooo'. I looked up the hill to our gate, where the local Solomon Islander guards stood looking down at us. Despite my husband's jest, there was nothing funny about the expression on their faces.

I wasn't convinced it was haunted - yet. But my interest had certainly been captured.
Years passed, and the bunker stood as solemn and proud as it had over the past eight decades. Friends came and went, visiting the house, and sharing their own stories of the bunker. 'It's an American Quonset hut,' one told me. 'They used it behind enemy lines to communicate during the war.'

'It's haunted by the white ghost,' another said, pointing to graffiti inside which wrote 'white ghost' across the wall. 'I've seen it, walking in the yard at night. It's an American soldier.'

'I played here as a child in the 1970s,' another told me over a quiet drink. 'The bunker was buried then, but even still... we always knew it was haunted.'

It wasn't until mid-2022 that I had my own experience. A group of close friends and colleagues had joined me to drink kava - a powdered drink that suppresses the nervous system. I'd enjoyed the beverage since my days teaching high school (English of course) in rural Vanuatu. Despite its peppery, muddy taste, it was a personal favourite. My lips tingled as I swallowed, and a numbing and calming sensation swept my body. I clapped three times to show my appreciation to the 'chief' who'd served me, before returning my attention to the conversation.

"I believe in spirits," one friend said slowly, already enjoying the effects of the kava. We sat in almost complete darkness, a camp lantern buzzing weakly in one corner. The dark, cool bunker was the perfect place for our ceremony. The dark was very much welcome to our kava-relaxed eyes. "Of course I believe. We've all had some kind of experience."

I motioned to the graffiti, "there's a spirit here," I said softly. "The 'white ghost'." The group turned to observe the writing on the wall behind me. "He shakes the guards awake if they fall asleep. My friends have seen him, apparently." As my guests leaned in close, hooked on my every word, I felt my courage pluck, and the story teller in me come alive. "He's a soldier, they say. An American who was killed here in the Battle of Guadalcanal. Maybe he still thinks there's a war, and the guards are his soldiers?"
As I spun my tale, pausing for dramatic effect, a pile of papers on the table next to us was thrust violently into the air, scattering and falling to the floor. There was no breeze - nothing to explain what had just happened. We all froze, our breaths caught in our throat, our eyes wide and white in the gloomy light. A moment later, one of the paper cups on the table spun in a circle, before also flying into the air and clattering to the floor.

In our shocked silence the chief loudly declared, "no more talk of spirits tonight."

Only a couple of months later, on 22 November 2022, everything changed. I was sitting in my office at work, talking with a colleague, when we felt the unmistakable shake. The walls rattled, the floor rumbled. We both paused, eyeing each other in stunned silence as we waited to see if the shakes would continue.

"Under the table!" I yelled, as the shakes did begin again in earnest. We faced each other, hunched in a ball beneath the desk as the rattles not only increased in frequency, but intensified. I felt myself panic as the building began to sway from side-to-side - the two of us on the top floor. "It's okay, it's okay!" I yelled to my colleague, as I saw panic in her own eyes and feared she might try to run. In my own head, I felt anything but okay, especially as items began crashing to the floor around us.

The 7.3 magnitude earthquake was the largest to hit Honiara, the capital of Solomon Islands, since the 1970s. By some fluke, damage across the city was minimal. At home, however, there was one major casualty. The bunker would never be used again. A large crack had split one wall, and the ceiling had buckled. Two separate structural engineers agreed: the bunker, which had survived the second World War, the ethnic Tensions, and many natural disasters in-between, was finally coming down.

"What do you think I should do?" I asked my Mum, who was also an avid history buff and keen to know the truth about the bunker. "If the bunker comes down, will the white ghost be alright do you think?"
"Have you tried communicating?" my Mum asked, her face distorted on our video connection - she was based in South Australia, which felt like a world away. "Maybe with one of those spirit box apps they have for mobile phones?"

The thought of trying to communicate with the ghost, after what had happened that night drinking kava, riled me. However, the idea of using an app of all things made it seem almost ordinary. And everyone knew those apps were bollocks, right? What was the harm?

A breeze had picked up the night I chose to go down to the bunker, my mobile phone grasped in my hand. Now acclimatised to the tropics, the wind prickled the back of my neck, giving me a chill as I approached. The spirit box buzzed noisily, its static adding to my nerves as I came to the entrance - which had been fenced off since the earthquake.

"Hello?" I said tentatively. "My name is Jess. I'm here to communicate with the white ghost."

'Johnston' the app immediately replied, loud and undeniable. I jumped, thinking this must be a fluke. 'America' the app said next, my doubt slowly fading.

"Hello!" I said, looking behind me to make sure the guards weren't laughing, embarrassed to be talking to a ghost. "Hello, Johnston. Yes, we thought you must be American. Do... do you know that you've passed?" The static continued, several words coming through that I couldn't quite grasp. "Why are you lingering? Why haven't you moved on?"

'They are still here', the app said, suddenly crystal clear.

The next day, I refused to go to the bunker. At this point, I considered myself both open-minded and a skeptic - if that's even possible. The accuracy of the app had spooked me. "I found three American Johnstons who died in Solomon Islands during WWII," my Mum told me later the next day. "Paul, Eugene and James."
"Okay..." I replied, still feeling a little nervous at reaching out - but excited that we might very well have identified the 'white ghost'. "I'll see if he replies to any of these names."

Standing in front of the bunker once again, crickets chirping, mosquitos whining in my ear, I leaned towards the gate. The spirit box app was crackling. I spoke each name slow and soft 'Paul Johnston?' Nothing. 'James Johnston?' Nothing. 'Eugene?'
'Around...' the app answered tentatively.
"Am I speaking with Eugene Johnston?" I asked, leaning so close to the barrier my nose was almost sticking through the gaps in the new fence.

'It's me.' I gasped, holding my breath. The words had been so clear.

"Eugene..." I said, feeling deep inside that this was him. After so long, we knew the name of the white ghost. Almost in celebration, the sound of bugles played through the spirit box. Until that moment, I'd had no idea these apps could even play music. Another word persistently sounded through the evening: six, six, six.

"I have to tell you..." I finally confessed. "This bunker, this place you've been lingering for so long, it's been badly damaged. So badly damaged that they have to take it down."

There was a drawn out pause before the spirit box said, suddenly again so clear, 'act!'
"I... I can't..." I responded. "There's nothing we can do. It's not safe, it has to be brought down." A light, which had been set up at the entrance to the bunker, buzzed - the glow growing brighter, almost flashing as its intensity peaked and troughed. My heart started beating strongly in my chest. "I'm sorry."

'Get out!' the app said, firmly. The light buzzed again. I didn't hesitate before obeying.

It took me a couple more days to pluck up the courage to return again, worried I'd angered Eugene. If he could make papers fly, cups spin, lights buzz, and physically shake our guards - what else could he do?
"According to my research, he passed away 9 October 1942," my Mum told me, as we caught up over video call. "He was a Private First Class in the US Marines, from North Carolina."

"Wow," I said, my excitement and interest slowly surpassing my fear. "I can't believe there's so much information about him online. Later that night, I started my own research, finding two archived newspaper articles from the 1970s. It turned out Eugene's body had been lost during the war, and only rediscovered in 1970 along with three others from his battalion. To this day, however, three of the bodies of his comrades were still lost. The number 'six' suddenly made a lot more sense, as did Eugene's statement when we'd first talked: they are still here.

I poured over the article, reading it over and over again, feeling such a strong connection to the history of the bunker through these printed words. Eugene had served in Company E, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines, in Samoa and Guadalcanal. The bodies 'were buried by the Japanese after they were killed,' the article reported. 'Then the jungle closed over the graves. That, plus the way the land was torn up from the shelling, kept them from being found sooner.'

A second article from The Reserve Marine, 20 July 1972, told the story of how Eugene's mother, Ms Mollie Johnston, had been 'mortified' her son's body was lost after the war. She'd written to the Commandant of the Marine Corps in September 1946 saying 'I want him brought back if it takes a hundred years to find him.' Thankfully, it didn't take 100 years, but unfortunately, poor Mollie had passed away before they could bring her son home.

My third time heading to the bunker, I did so with much more confidence and excitement. "Eugene!" I said excitedly as I approached.

'Private Johnston,' the app said.

Feeling chastised I responded sheepishly. "Sorry Eugene... ah, sorry Private Johnston. I have some news. They found three of your friends, and they found your body as well. They brought you home." Several words came through the app so quickly I couldn't understand them. "Your mother, Mollie, was so upset they hadn't brought you home, that she wrote to your Commandant and demanded they find you. Can you believe it? She told off the head of the Marines." Again, the app threw out so many words at once I couldn't understand.

"Private Johnston..." I said finally, slowly and deliberately. "Do you think you might be able to move on now? You served your country well. The Allies won the war. You've done your duty. You've been loyal to your friends. Perhaps they're even waiting for you on the other side? Are you ready?"

A long pause answered, in stark juxtaposition to the barrage of words until now. Finally, once again crystal clear, the app asked 'Is it heaven?'

My heart pinching in my chest, overwhelmed with emotions, I said "Yes, if that's what you believe, then yes. I believe it too. You've been such a good person, Eugene. Heaven must be waiting."

The app went silent. I waited there another few minutes, willing with all my being only peace and rest for this loyal soul.

Finally, I returned to my house, phoning my Mum to let her know what had happened. After sharing my news, my Mum said excitedly, bursting at the seems "you won't believe what I've discovered."

I leant closer to my phone, "what?" I said eagerly.

"Now that we have Eugene's battalion number, I was able to find the account of the battle in which he died. They were trying to stop the Japanese from advancing further into Guadalcanal. There was a map, see," my Mum swivelled the camera to show me her laptop screen, revealing an old map of the battle front.

"Oh my goodness!" I replied. "Please, send that to me. I can't believe you found that. You know, I wonder..."

"Yes, I wondered too," my Mum replied, reading my mind. "I brought up Google Maps, and your house... I overlayed the map of the battle..."

"No..." I said, already guessing. "Really?!"

"Yes," my Mum said. "Eugene died where your house is now."

Did Eugene move on?
I'm not sure, honestly. He had lingered such a long time, loyal to his friends, not wanting to leave them behind. But I like to think that he did, finally able to find his rest. Perhaps Private Eugene Johnston was not, in fact, tied to the bunker, but to the friends he served and died with.