This parcel of land along Kamehameha Highway was once a family farm long before Windward Mall opened its doors in 1982. Our friend Bill remembers it fondly as a gathering place for weddings and funerals, with more than a dozen kids playing and running around on any given day. He recalls chickens, pigs, cows, bananas, coconuts, sugar cane, and mangoes.
“You could go and pick your breakfast,” he says.
A small creek ran through that block of land where a few small houses stood. Sometimes at night, they would catch a hint of smoke drifting upon the wind, and the adults told the children it was the spirits of the ancient people who used to follow the path along the creek.
Locals later remember it as an undeveloped lot where they used to race, play hide-and-seek, and make up other games. Around the edges grew haole koa trees, their seed pods collected by nimble fingers to make lei and small crafts. These quiet, ordinary moments of community and play were woven into the fabric of everyday life in Kāneʻohe.
Yet even in this natural playground, there were boundaries the children dared not cross. On the Alaloa side of the property stood an old, modest cemetery, its headstones weathered and tilting, once marked off by handwritten signs declaring “Kapu.” The unspoken rule here was clear; respect the dead.
The oldest headstone in the cemetery dates back to 1893, marking the grave of a Sacred Hearts priest. Scattered around the area are also unmarked burials, the identities of their occupants long forgotten. The final interment took place around 1973, after which the burial ground became overgrown with thick foliage, hidden from view and unknown to many who passed by.
When developers selected the site along Kamehameha Highway for their planned 80-store complex, they briefly considered purchasing the cemetery land. However, the residents of Kāneʻohe refused to give in and allow their loved ones to be moved. A representative later admitted that the idea of relocating the graves was “entertained,” but ultimately proved unfeasible. Instead, the landowners and developers reached an agreement. The cemetery would remain untouched, preserved in its place, as it had been for more than a century.
When the mall rose on this ground, Liberty House, Sears, and J.C. Penney anchored the building, along with dozens of smaller stores. But memory lingers beneath the concrete and becomes evident when it’s least expected.
For decades, the Sears store at Windward Mall stood as one of the anchor stores, its long aisles lined with neatly arranged clothing racks and orderly displays. But employees who worked beneath those fluorescent lights spoke of a presence that had little respect for retail order.
One former worker recalled how, without warning, clothing would sway violently on their racks as if some unseen person just whipped them aside. It was not the gentle brushing of a passing customer, but a deliberate, forceful motion, sharp enough to leave the clothes and hangers tangled. Just as unnerving, entire racks would sometimes shift out of place when no one was looking. Workers would return to find the metal stands shoved into the aisleways, blocking the path as though something wanted to make its presence known.
These disturbances were not limited to the merchandise. Staff and customers described moments when an unseen force would shove them outright, sending them stumbling and, in some cases, crashing to the floor. What frightened them most was the aggression. What they felt was not a gentle nudge or a bump, but a purposeful push.
One informant even spoke of a security tape that seemed to capture the impossible. On the screen, a small child appeared, running toward an elderly shopper in the tool section. The figure pushed the senior to the ground, yet as bystanders rushed to help, the child vanished. No one else had seen a child in that part of the store that day. When the tape was reviewed again, the figure flickered, almost translucent, before disappearing altogether.
Speculation over the hauntings at Sears has long lingered. Some point to the nearby cemetery, where the resting places of earlier generations lie on a grassy hill overlooking the mall and its parking lot. Others believe the disturbances echo the laughter and raucous play of the dozens of children who once roamed the lot before the mall was built, their energy built up over the years.
Whether restless spirits of the departed or the echoes of youthful energy unwilling to fade, the hauntings at Sears left a mark on those who worked there. Even now, with the store long closed, stories persist that the building bears the imprint of things unseen yet impossible to forget.
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