Death In Oils--Exclusive Michael Jackson Horror Story

 Paintings. Before the advent of the photograph, paintings were one of the few ways to record a memory. An image of someone or something, that could stand in a frame as a testament to history. Every painting out in the world is of something and behind every painting’s subject, is a story. And as the characters in this story learn, it’s a story better left untold.

　

“Death In Oils”

A Michael Jackson Horror Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

　

Bringham and Butler Law Office

Overton, California

Spring 1990

Two men--two brothers--stood together on the sidewalk that bright and crisp afternoon. One is dressed sharply in a cool grey suit, offset with a fashionable abstract print tie. The other is dressed a bit more flamboyantly in a black blazer, affixed with silver buckles and fringe down the front and hanging from the sleeves and tapered black trousers.

The man in the grey suit is as cool as he looks, leaning against the front of the five story, brick Art Deco building, hands shoved into his pockets calmly looking at the passers-by.

Meanwhile, the man in black is the complete opposite. He appears shaken, the dark eyes in his pale face, widened and rambling, his pink mouth drawn into a tense and terse straight line.

He is visibly trembling.

“Come on, Michael. I know this is hard.” The man in grey speaks suddenly, placing a large hand on the man in black’s thin shoulder. “But we have to go in. Stalling out here won’t change things. I understand. I’m sorry--”

The man in black looked up at the man in grey, a sad fierceness to his eyes.

“No, you don’t understand, Marlon.” He whispered, his lips just barely moving to let the words out. “If I go in that law office, then it means Alec is dead--”

“Michael...” Marlon grabbed onto Michael’s shoulder and stared him in the eyes.

“Alec IS dead. We went to his funeral two days ago. And now we’re at the law office because his attorney says he left you something. He is dead--”

Unable to contain himself, Michael grabbed onto his brother and hugged him close as the memories, still fresh and raw in his mind came flooding back.

Alec Warner had been a kindly, elderly gentleman who had lived across the street from Michael. And over the course of five years of visits and shooting the breeze over cups of herbal tea (spiked with spiced rum) the two had become good friends. Michael even thought of Alec, a man in his nineties, as somewhat of an adopted grandfather.

Then there had been that fateful day, just a week ago.

Michael, who had a key to Alec’s home, had come over for his daily cup of tea (and rum) and to spend time with his friend.

Michael had happily entered the home, calling Alec’s name.

When he got no response, curious and a tad worried, Michael had started through the house to look for him.

And he found Alec. Just not in the way he had wanted.

Sprawled at the bottom of the staircase of the home, bruised and battered, was Alec Warner.

Dead.

He couldn’t handle it.

Michael had fled the house in hysterics, screaming and crying for help, before collapsing in the street with grief.

The coroner later said that the cause of Alec’s death was a fracture to his skull, from an apparent fall down the stairs.

That had been one week ago. A mere seven days.

The whole thing was still too unreal to Michael.

His dear friend. Dead and buried.

It was too much.

And now he was at the law office to collect something that had been left behind for him.

By his dead friend. It was just too much.

“Mike, I’m here with you. I’m right here.” Marlon assured Michael, patting at his back and slowly leading him into the lobby of the law office.

Marlon had been with Michael the last week as it seemed Michael was truly taking the death of this old man so horribly.

Aside from an overnight stay in the hospital to treat him after his collapse, Michael Jackson was truly grief stricken. He was barely eating and without the constant prodding of Marlon, he probably wouldn’t have kept himself clean or cared for his dozen little caged pets.

He was just a mess.

Michael indeed seemed to be in his own little world as Marlon led him to the secretary at the desk and explained who they were and that they were there to see William Butler, Alec’s attorney.

And he remained silent as they were led up onto the fourth floor to Mr. Butler’s office.

It was a quite tight few moments as the Jackson brothers sat together in the wood paneled office, portraits of presidents past staring down at them.

Finally, Mr. Butler, a squat man with wide rimmed glasses, perched on a long nose entered, a manila folder in his hands.

After the cursory greetings, Mr. Butler got right down to business.

“Mr. Jackson, I am sorry for your loss. It was brought to my attention that you and Mr. Warner were friends…”

“Yes.” Was all Michael said before producing a red handkerchief from his jacket and holding it to his nose as it ran.

“Mr. Warner thought very highly of you, Mr. Jackson. You see, Mr. Warner had only one relative in the world, a granddaughter named Delphine…”

Michael nodded solemnly. Though he had never met the woman, he had heard mention of her, many times from Alec.

“I don’t know if you were aware of it, Mr. Jackson, but Mr. Warner was quite wealthy…” Mr. Butler continued speaking but Michael barely heard him.

Of course Alec was wealthy.

He’d made his money as an art dealer for the greater part of his adult life, and his home had reflected that.

He lived in a grand two story mansion right across the street from Michael, in one of the best neighborhoods in town. His home was filled with some of the finest European furniture and amenities Michael had ever seen. The nice afternoons Michael had spent in that house…


“…and, um, what do you do for a living, Mr. Jackson?”
Michael came back down to Earth at the question, and for the life of him couldn’t form an answer.

Thankfully, Marlon was there.

“My brother and I own a video game distribution company. The Players.” He replied and Michael bobbed his head.

Both men were unprepared for what the attorney said next.

“Well, clear a space in your bank account Mr. Jackson. Mr. Warner thought of you as the grandson he never had and he left you some money, the same amount as Delphine, totaling the sum of two million dollars.”

Michael’s hanky fell to the floor as shock over took him. He sat, still and silent, mouth agape as he had no words for this generosity that had been bestowed upon him. Two million dollars? He’d earned two million dollars in ten minutes? Was this the Superbowl? He was speechless and his mouth just swung as he tried to efficiently express his feelings.

Marlon expressed it pretty well.

Leaping from his seat and whipping his jacket off and over his head like a lasso, Marlon shrieked,

“Holy shit, Michael! You hear that! You hear that! You rich, boy! Lord!”

The way Marlon was reacting, you’d have sworn the money was for him.

‘Mr. Jackson! MR. JACKSON! Calm yourself!” Mr. Butler, flagging after Marlon exclaimed.

Reeling himself in, but still giddy, Marlon was clapping at and rubbing his siblings shoulders.

“Now as I was saying…” The attorney paused and cast Marlon a stern glance. “Mr. Jackson, Mr. Warner has left you something in addition to that sum of money--”

“The house? He left Michael the house?” Marlon gasped breathlessly as he had admired the sprawling Arts and Crafts mansion from afar.

“Please….shut the hell up…” Michael hissed, starting to become embarrassed at this display of greed.

Mr. Butler shook his head.

“No…he left the house to Delphine. She informed me that she will be coming from France to look it over in the next few days…” Both men noticed that Mr. Butler was signaling someone with a wave of his hand.

Two interns came carrying a large rectangular box.

Curious, Michael absently rose to his feet and going over to the two young men as they held up the box.

“Mr. Jackson.” Mr. Butler touched Michael’s arm. “As you know, Mr. Warner was an avid art collector. And shortly before his passing, he informed me that as he shared his collection with you, that a particular painting caught your fancy--”

“Oh my God!” Michael gasped, putting his hands to his face. “He didn’t! He didn’t possibly!” He never did let the attorney finish his sentence.

Yanking the box from the men, Michael was tearing cardboard away.

He eventually revealed a substantial painting.

“Jesus Christ! I don’t believe it!” Stunned beyond words and touched, Michael was kneeling before the painting, hands to his quivering chest.

“The hell?” Marlon dumbfounded was scratching at his head.

The painting was of three children, in late 18^th century garb in an outside scene.

Two infants, presumably twins, in white gowns affixed with bright blue bows, were sitting in little lace trimmed bassinets, both staring forward with wide, grayish green eyes, little mouths curled into sweet smiles.

Standing between the babies was an older girl, about nine-years-old with the same greenish eyes and long honey blonde curls. She wore a white dress and straw hat, both adorned with coral colored bows. Unlike the babies, the child appeared serious, arms folded over her chest and the corners of her mouth pointing southward.

“I can’t believe he left me the painting…” Michael unable to maintain himself any longer, had tears oozing from his eyes.

Michael couldn’t grasp it. For years he’d adored this particular painting, of which Alec knew little of, other than it had once belonged to a British aristocrat.

He had nearly coveted the painting.

To Michael, who loved children, this painting meant more than the money.

It really meant that, yes, Alec Warner had loved him like family.

And from a gesture of love, a fireball of hatred would erupt.


The Following Morning

For the first time in a week, Michael Jackson felt very close to the man he had been before losing Alec. That morning as he climbed out of his bed, clad in his little red pajama bottoms, the first thought on his mind was tending to his animals.

Across the hall from Michael’s bedroom, was a large room that held the cages of his pets--four pure white cockatiels, three hamsters, four canaries and a five foot long boa constrictor.

So happy and blissful, to the point he was almost skipping Michael crossed the hall and flung open the door to the room, which had sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows.

The light perfectly complimented Michael’s new painting which he had proudly displayed over the mantle of the fireplace in his animal’s room.

It was music to his ears to hear the little animals tweeting and chattering merrily at the sight of him.

He truly believed the animals recognized him and loved him.

“Good morning, babies…” Michael was all smiles as he breezed into the room.

Going over to the closet, where he kept all his pet’s food (even the little mice for the boa) he saw it.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

The howl broke the quietness of that morning and startled Marlon Jackson, who had been sleeping in a guest room, so badly, that he went flying out the his bed and crashing to the floor.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

Not even bothering to grab his robe, Marlon, in nothing but a pair of boxers, went flying barefoot out his room and down the hallway.

Bursting into the pet room, Marlon found Michael crumpled on the floor, clutching his hands to his chest, screaming.

“Michael! Michael! Oh damn! What‘s the matter! Are you alright?” He gasped, frightened, dropping to his knees and trying to grab after his brother to help him.

“They’re dead! They’re dead!” Michael was screaming hoarsely, his face scarlet.

“Who? Who’s dead?” Confused, Marlon’s eyes grew wide in his head, thinking Michael was having another lapse of grief about Alec.

“Teeny and Tiny! They’re dead! They‘re necks are broken!” Michael cried, holding his hands out.

Cupped in them were the little limp bodies of two of his hamsters.

Both dead.

Marlon breathed an inner sigh of relief. At least he was seeming to start to get over Alec’s death.

Hunting around for an explanation for the little rodent’s death, Marlon spied the hamster cage. Lil’ Bit, the last hamster left was walking in circles, seemingly looking for his friends. The door to the cage was wide open.

“Look Mike, the door to your cage is open.” He pointed out the cage to his brother who was still sniffling. “Your hamsters probably fell out the cage. I’m sorry. I know you love your pets.” He was trying to comfort Michael.

Michael, calming some, nodded and was climbing to his feet.

“I…I have to bury Teeny and Tiny…excuse me…” Shaken and looking frail, Michael quickly left the room.

Sighing to himself, Marlon, too, got up and went to close the hamster cage. There was no need for Lil’ Bit to fall out.

As he latched the little door, Marlon happened to glance up at Michael’s painting of the three children.

Pressing his hands to his trim waist, he stared at the painting a few short moments.

Something about the painting didn’t seem quite right.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he could have sworn something was off.

Something was wrong…

And it was about to get worse.


Two Days Later


Hoooonk!
Michael Jackson sat at the breakfast table, blowing his nose loudly.

A plate of crisp bacon and sunny side up eggs were cooling before him.

Across the table, actually eating his food, sadly watching his brother was Marlon.

Once again, Michael was down in the dumps and beside himself.

In the last two days, for some unknown reason, four more of Michael’s animals had died. Two of the parrots, a cockatiel and a canary had all been found lying on the floor with broken necks.

Neither, Michael nor Marlon could come up with a reason as to how the animals got out--all their cages were closed and latched securely.

“I just don’t understand it…” Michael spoke, his vocal chords so swollen and raw from his now daily tantrums over his pets, he could only whisper .

“First Alec dies and now my pets are leaving me…I just don’t understand it. I don’t know what’s causing it, Marlon.”

Marlon, dipping his bacon strip in his egg yolk, nibbled on it thoughtfully for a moment.

He had something he wanted to ask, and he knew he had to word it just perfectly, or risk another Michael Jackson meltdown.

“Mike…I, um…I know you’ve been through a lot lately…” He paused and was wiping at his mouth as Michael turned bloodshot eyes on him.

“This is difficult for me to ask, but given the circumstances and how you used to sleepwalk occasionally when we were kids…” Marlon began and almost immediately, Michael Jackson’s grief left him and he went stiff with rage.

“You got a hell of a lot of nerve Marlon!” Michael, just above a whisper, growled through gritted teeth, getting up from the table so quickly, he threw his chair back and overturned his untouched glass of orange juice.

“Michael!” Marlon, concerned, rose, hand extended to grab Michael.

“ Shut up! Don’t touch me! After everything I’ve been through, especially losing one of my closest friends, you sit there and have the gall to accuse me of breaking the necks of my own animals? What kind of a monster do you take me for? I love my animals, all of them. They’re my babies! I’d rather break my own neck than theirs!”

Michael slapped the table top, growing redder every second.

“I gotta get out this room, and get you outta my sight.” He muttered. “If I don’t, I’ll hurt you. Got some goddamned nerve--I’m your brother!”

With that, Michael stormed from the room and Marlon could hear him stomping up the stairs.

A moment later, his bedroom door slammed.

Sagging in his seat, Marlon grasped his head in his hands, unsure of what to do, or where to turn. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation.

The sudden and strange way the animals were dying. Almost systematically being killed.

And in his heart, Marlon knew what Michael had said was true--that he wouldn’t touch the animals.

He had one nagging little thought in his head, but it was so strange, so farfetched, that he barely believed it himself.

Somehow, in some twisted way, Marlon was partially convinced that all of the recent sorrow befalling his brother had to do with that painting.

The last two nights, while Michael had wept on bended knee beside the little mounds that served as graves to his deceased pets, Marlon had laid awake, his mind on the painting.

He just knew something was wrong with it, but he couldn’t figure what, though.


Bing-bong! Bing-bong!
Marlon’s train of thought was broken by the sound of the doorbell softly chiming.

Cursing under his breath at the arrival of this inopportune company, Marlon started towards the front door.


Bing-bong! Bing-bong!
“I’m coming, I’m coming…keep your shirt on, Hell.” Marlon, perturbed, grumbled as he got to the heavy oak door and swung it open.

Instantly, Marlon’s jaw sagged with intrigue.

Standing on the front porch was a woman.

A petite, slender, stunning creature with skin the color of café au lait and swirls of dark hair wearing a body hugging polka dotted dress.

Slanted, hazel-flecked green eyes, outlined in kohl, widened at the sight of Marlon.

Her fine mouth, painted a dark crimson curled in a pleasant and friendly smile.

“Michael Jackson?” When she spoke, it was with a heavy French accent and sounded as “Me-Cool Jack-soon?”

“Nah, I’m Marlon, Michael’s brother. Can I help you?” Marlon heard himself speaking but didn’t know the words as he was smitten with this woman.

“How do you do Marlon?” The woman extended her hand and he shook it lightly. “I’m Delphine La Larue, Alec Warner’s granddaughter.” She introduced herself.

“Oh, yes. Will you please come in?” Marlon offered and was starting to open the door wider for her.

“I can’t at the moment, I have to get settled at…home.” Delphine paused and glanced back at the house she had just inherited. “I just wanted to let your brother know I was across the street. It was nice meeting you--”

The woman started to walk away.

“Um, Delphine…” Marlon grabbed her arm gently and turned her back to him.

“Oui?” A thinly arched brow was raised in question.

Marlon averted his eyes from her lovely ones as his heart was thudding in his ears.

“Are you familiar with the painting your grandfather left my brother? The one of three English children?”

“Not too much, I had only seen it when I spoke with Monsieur Butler, Grand-Papa’s attorney. Why?” Delphine inquired prying her arm from Marlon’s hand.

“I was just curious about it…” Was all he could come up with. He certainly didn’t want to start off with telling her he thought the painting was strange or possibly affecting his brother and his pets.

“Well…” Delphine tossed her hair haughtily. “Grand-Papa was an art dealer. I’m certain he has some sort of material with information on that painting. Is there anything in particular you’d like to know.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Marlon contemplated letting the cat out of the bag.

Curtailing himself, he only said,

“Just anything odd. Like strange occurrences. You see, strange things have been kind of happening since Michael brought that painting home.”

By the way her eyes briefly lit, Marlon could tell he had piqued Delphine interest.

“Strange occurrences? What sort of strange occurrence?” Delphine repeated giving him a quizzical look.

Against his better judgment, Marlon let his tongue wag.

“Well, my brother has these pets upstairs. Hamsters, things like that. Since he’s brought that painting home, six animals have died, all with broken necks. And that painting hangs in the animal room. I know it sounds insane, but just look into it, if you could. Please.”

Delphine appeared to think it over, but did nod.

After Delphine had departed back to her Grand-Papa’s old house, Marlon, still unsettled about the painting started upstairs.

Once there, he peeked in on Michael.

Michael was asleep in the middle of his rumpled bed, hugging his pillow. He wouldn’t be any trouble.

Crossing to the animal room, Marlon stood in front of the mantle and gazed up at the painting of the three children, trying desperately to figure what was different.

It took Marlon Jackson nearly an hour of standing there, squinting, almost to the point of inducing a migraine before it dawned on him.

The infants!

The infants expressions, it seemed, had changed. If that were at all possible.

(Everything was so upside down and cockeyed nowadays…who knew?)

Staring at them, Marlon could have sworn that at the law office, the children had been looking straight ahead.

And now, as he was looking on the painting, the two babies were instead staring up at the little girl.

Completely jumbled and starting feel dizzy, Marlon decided he needed to get some air.

Going downstairs and grabbing a jacket out the closet, Marlon didn’t know just how his world was going to turn.


A Few Hours Later

Marlon was slowly sauntering up the street back towards Michael’s house, carefully balancing the box with a large “everything” pizza in his hands. It was his peace offering to his brother, and his attempt to get him to eat.

“Marlon! Marlon! Oh, Marlon!”

At the sound of his name, Marlon was startled to see Delphine La Larue, running towards him, a look of sheer panic on her face.

“Marlon! Mon Dieu!” She gasped bending to catch her breath. “I have to speak with you--now. It’s about the painting!”

At the mention of the painting, Marlon nearly dropped his pie.

“Tell me!” He demanded as Delphine seemed to finally calm down.

“I was reading in one of Grand-Papa’s books about that painting…” She started and at Marlon’s waving, they both took a seat in front of the house on the curb.

“It… it was painted for one of my ancestors. An English man named Paul Harlow. The painting is of his children. The older child is Agnes, who was eight at the time the painting was commissioned in 1782. The infants are his twin sons, Paul Junior and Saul. They were eighteen months old. Paul was widowed when his wife died shortly after giving birth to the twins--”

Delphine was breathlessly explaining and Marlon put a hand up.

“That’s nice that’s your family, but that doesn’t tell me about any of the strange stuff that happened.” He interjected and frustrated, Delphine turned her nose up at him.

“I’m getting to that!” She insisted, and half mumbled a curse in French. “You see, not long after the painting was painted, in a fit of rage, possibly because she hated her little brothers for killing their mother when they were born, Agnes murdered Paul Junior and Saul as they slept in their nursery--”

“No!” Marlon aghast looked on the pretty woman with eyes widened in shock.

“And you know how she killed them?” Delphine wondered and without letting Marlon answer replied. “She snapped both their necks!”

“What you say?” Marlon dropped the pizza box and it spilled onto the street.

His head was swirling. It seemed the entire street was tilting.

The little girl had killed her brothers, the same way Michael’s animals were dying. Two by two. Just like the boys! With broken necks!

“That’s not all!” Delphine gripped Marlon’s arm in her excitement. “When a distraught Paul found out what happened, he disowned Agnes and banished her to live with an aunt. He couldn’t stand the sight of her. Agnes didn’t live past her tenth birthday. She contracted Tuberculosis and died in her aunt’s care….” Delphine gasped for air, then suddenly jumped to her feet.

“I’m worried for your brother!” She declared suddenly and it sent chills down Marlon’s spine.

“What? Why?” He was staggering up.

“The article I read said that since Paul had the painting made, it’s changed hands more than a dozen times over the years and each person died under mysterious circumstances, all apparently of falls. Falls out of windows, off horses, off boats and drowning--” Delphine was chattering and Marlon broke in.

“Falling down the stairs….like your grandfather.” He stated grimly and a hurt tear streamed down Delphine’s heavily blushed cheek.

They stood there a moment, quietly letting the idea sink in.



CRASH!
At the sudden noise both Marlon and Delphine struck out running up the front walk alarmed.

“Michael! Michael! Mike! Answer me!” Marlon shouted as he and Delphine went tearing into the house.

Through the hallway, Marlon could see Michael slowly climbing to his feet at the base of the stairs. A side table had been knocked over, the books atop it scattered on the floor.

“Michael!” Marlon was quickly at his brother’s side, holding him up.

“What happened?”

Shaking in his brother’s arms, Michael shrugged.

“I…I don’t know. I was at the top of the stairs, coming down to get something to eat, one second and the next I was on the floor.” He stammered and glanced at Delphine.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s Alec’s granddaughter.” Marlon said quickly. “Michael. You need to listen to me. It’s about that painting. There’s something wrong with it. I think it’s cursed!”

“What the blue hell are you talking about?” Michael demanded and trying to struggle from his brother’s grip.”

“Michael.” Delphine was pushing his curls out his face. “Marlon told me how your animals are all dying with broken necks. Two at a time. Agnes, the little girl in the painting, she killed the two babies in the picture with her. Her little brothers. The pair of them.”

“What?” Flabbergasted, that was all Michael could muster.

A painting? A cursed painting. Why would his friend leave him such a thing.

Those types of things didn’t exist!

Delphine had to be making this mess up. She was probably mad that he’d gotten half of Alec’s fortune and this was her revenge.

“And we’ve got reason to believe that whatever the hell that thing is, ghost, whatever, is going to kill you--” Marlon was trying to control Michael as he was starting to wiggle.

“You’re whacked! It’s impossible!” Michael screamed and was trying to pull free of Marlon, but a week and half of not eating had left him considerably weaker than his brother and he wasn’t getting loose.

“Michael, over a dozen people have owned that painting and all of them have died from falls! Like Grand-Papa! My Grand-Papa!” Delphine pleaded.

“I’ll be damned to hell if I let you die!” Marlon professed. “We gotta destroy that painting! We’ve got to. We have to.”

“What! No! Alec left it to me! Alec!” Michael was quite literally spun as Marlon threw him to the side as he and Delphine took off running, destined for the animal room.

“Noooo!” Michael shouted after them when it became clear what was happening.

Getting to the top of the stairs and racing into the room, Marlon dropped to his knees and began building a fire in the fireplace.

He had just lit the fire when Delphine’s shrill wail made him jump.

“Marlon! The painting! The painting!”

Turning to the woman, he saw that she was staring fearfully up above him, all the color draining from her face.

Craning his neck to look up at the painting, Marlon saw what all the commotion was about.

The painting had changed once more.

And for the worse.

Both of the babies, who had been looking up at Agnes, appeared to both be dead in the painting.

Tiny, blue, swollen and with their necks at distended and strange angles, obviously broken.

It was a terrible, grotesque sight before his eyes.

Worst yet, Agnes was completely missing from the painting.

Agnes was gone!

“What the fuc--” Marlon began in awe.


“They killed Mother!”
A cold clipped and foreign voice spoke up, causing Marlon and Delphine to twirl.

In the far corner of the room….was Agnes Harlow.

Or at least what was left of Agnes.

She was a tattered and diaphanous version of herself.

The white dress from the painting was torn and shredded, one of the coral bows missing. Her hair, lovely and tended in the portrait was matted and sticking everywhere. The girl appeared gaunt, her eyes wide, dull and consuming her face.

This was Agnes, not how she appeared in then, but at the end of her life.

In the final throes of Tuberculosis.

In her little dirt smudged and transparent hands was another dead bird, it’s head hanging crazily off to the side.

“My God…” Shakily, Marlon rose to his feet.

At that moment, an exhausted Michael appeared in the doorway.

“Ah!” The gasp left his mouth at the sight of Agnes there with his dead bird.

“Tweety…” The only word he uttered before sagging to his knees, weakened furthermore.

“You can’t keep doing this Agnes! You’re dead! You’ve got to stop harming the living! You have to stop!” Marlon shouted and went to grab what was left of the painting.

Marlon found himself, along with Delphine in a heap on the other side of the room.

Agnes looming over them, and the room suddenly turning to ice.

“Mother died to bring those two brats here. I didn’t want brothers!” The girl confessed and for the first time, Marlon noticed she was hovering about a foot off the ground. “I didn’t want anyone. I was perfectly fine with Mother and Papa and me. We didn’t need them!”

Floating still higher, her voice deepened and took on a more sinister, demonic tone.

“And I didn’t deserve to die. Not in the dawn of life. I was only ten years old! No one should be allowed to live longer than me. No one--”

Mid-sentence, Agnes began suddenly contorting and jostling, before throwing her head back, unleashing an otherworldly screech so unearthly that both Marlon and Delphine clung to each other for dear life.

Before their eyes, Agnes went up in flames and a poof of sparks.

The dead canary fell to floor.

Across the room, Marlon and Delphine saw a miracle.

The painting was sticking out of the fire place, consumed with flames.

Michael, passed out laid about two feet away.

Using what was left of his bodily strength, Michael had saved the three of them by destroying the painting.

Going over, Marlon picked up Michael, cradling him against his body.

With Delphine at his side the three of them exited the room.

Alive to face another day.

And the day after. …

And the day after….

The rest of their lives.

Stones---Exclusive Michael Jackson Horror Story

 

(Originally written and posted in 2014)

When I was a little girl, I don’t know why, but I always would bring rocks from out of the yard to my mother. Every time I hit the door, I’d have some kind of stone in my hand for her. Eventually, my mother had amassed so many that she began saying she was going to use them for a rock garden. While the garden never did materialize, there is a sack of old rocks in my house. I was inspired for this story by that one, simple, innocent act. But in this tale, a young, single father will wind up with more than just a sack of rocks on his hands…

“Stones” 

A Michael Jackson Horror Story By: 

MJsLoveSlave 

New Braunfels, Indiana 
Early Summer, 1989 

“…Rock Star Barbie, Super Star Barbie, Malibu Barbie--is too damn tan…” 
Michael Jackson commented softly to himself, as he sat in the middle of the floor, removing those, twelve-inch, vinyl dolls that were so dear to his little girl’s heart, from their boxes and arranging them on a shelving unit.
Picking up and starting to open the last box, containing a Dream Wedding Barbie, a small, contented smile came to the man’s face, as he pulled the toy free from its packaging and paused to squish her teeny white, high heeled shoes back onto her pointy-toed, malformed feet.
Setting the doll on the shelf with what had to be at least two dozen others, Michael leaned back on his heels and let his large, dark eyes sweep the room. Taking in all that he had done.
The room was quite large, almost as large as his Master Bedroom, at the end of the hall, and had been painted a bright, sunny yellow.
All over the room, things that would bring joy to his young daughter’s face had been stocked: a king-sized canopied bed, draped in floral sheets and blankets and frilly dressings. A bedding set made of white painted copper.
Toys were everywhere, from the Barbies--along with ‘her’ three-story dollhouse, a pony with a pink saddle, two tiny corvettes (one pink, one red) and a stretch limo that held ten dolls--stuffed animals, baby dolls stuffed into a white pram.
There was a stereo system with all of his child’s favorite records--Tiffany, Debbie Gibson, New Kids on the Block, Alvin and the Chipmunks.
(There was no television in the room, because if he had put one there, he would NEVER see his daughter’s face.)
An entire wall was devoted to a bookshelf packed with tomes he had hand selected for the child.
The doors to the walk-in closet stood open, showing small and pretty outfits waiting to be worn.
There was even a little sitting area where a real china tea set had been placed.
Pleased with the bedroom and believing that the only thing needed in it now was the laughter of his little girl, Michael stood and began ambling out of the room.
Making his way downstairs, Michael admired his house with each footfall he made.
It had taken him over sixteen months to renovate that old, Victorian-style farmhouse to make it livable for himself and his child, but he had finally managed it.
And not a second too soon; just four days earlier, Michael had been awarded full-custody of his eight-year-old daughter, Lana.
As he left the staircase, passed through the foyer, the heels of his loafers clacking on the polished, hardwood floors--he still had marks on his knees from waxing the floor himself--and entered the living room, he got a bright, honking reminder of what had caused his divorce from Lana’s mother in the first place.
Surrounding the unlit fireplace, and decorating the mantle, were dozens of shining gold trophies and glimmering rhinestone tiaras. Sashes from various pageants proclaiming “Queen” and “Princess” titles.
Alas, these trinkets from a litany of beauty pageants didn’t belong to his ex-wife Stephanie, but his daughter.
The baby beauty pageants had always been a source of strife between Michael and Stephanie, who had entered Lana in her first contest at only three weeks old.
Michael never did care for them, and always likened them to dog shows, because the mothers would dress up their children and trot across the stage to see who had the prettiest hair, eyes or gown.
The only reason he tolerated--and paid for--the pageants, shelling out tens of thousands for custom gowns, singing, dancing and piano lessons, a hair stylist, a make up stylist, and travel and stay at out of state competitions was because it seemed to him that Lana DID enjoy the pageants. And he lived to make his only child happy.
Lana always did quite well in the pageants, if she wasn’t winning the overall title, she was placing in the top five.
After a while, it seemed Stephanie had become almost addicted to the pageants. If she wasn’t taking Lana away for the weekend to one, they were practicing for the next one. There were times when every weekend of the month would be booked with little pageants here and there.
Little Miss Firecracker, Baby Diamond Dolls, Tropical Bathing Beauties, Supreme Sirens International…if there was a pageant to be done, Stephanie was signing Lana up for it.
More than once, Lana performed at two pageants in a day and would fall asleep on the drive home, still in her formal dress with a large crown bobby-pinned to her head.
The trouble truly began when Lana was five-years-old.
Every so often she’d come to Michael, tug his sleeve as he read the newspaper or watched the ballgame and would whisper softly,
“Daddy, may I quit the pageants? Please?”
More than once, Michael brought it to Stephanie’s attention that Lana wanted to stop the pageants and that maybe she was becoming burned out.
(By the time she was five, Lana had participated in over two HUNDRED pageants! That was more than enough for a lifetime! )
Michael always got the same answer out of his then-wife,
“We’ll take a break after the next pageant, Mike. I promise.”
Those promises were as empty as the Grand Canyon.
That “next” pageant would turn into twenty, without a break in sight.
Michael began to notice that the light and life would go out Lana’s eyes each time the word “pageant” would be uttered. It was as if a small part of her was dying.
Again Michael tried to stop the pageants, pull his daughter out of them, and Stephanie would lash out at him, declaring that the pageants were good for Lana.
That they helped teach her poise, and grace and how to be a lady.
Michael argued back what in the hell did Lana need to know how to be a lady for? She was FIVE--she needed to be a child!
Round and around Michael and Stephanie went, arguing incessantly about the pageants.
He didn’t care about the money being spent--he was wealthy, the owner of a dance costume manufacturing company--he just hated what was happening to his daughter. How she always appeared tired and sad and he couldn’t recall the last time he had seen a genuine smile on her small face.
The final straw came a year later.
A new, custom formal dress had arrived for Lana and as Stephanie had put it on the child, she had began crying, as she knew the dress meant another pageant was in her future.
Michael had looked on, stiff-lipped with a broken heart, as, as soon as the dress was zipped on, Lana started to tug on it, yanking pearls and crystal appliqués off the sleeves and bodice of it, destroying a dress that hadn’t even seen a stage yet. She couldn’t stand being in the dressed and was desperately trying to get it off.
At the sight of the dress being shredded, Stephanie had screamed that Lana was ruining it and had slapped the child.
As the child fell, howling with a reddened cheek, Michael had swooped to her defense, hugging the girl and asking Stephanie if she was crazy?
That he’d never raised a hand to hit Lana in his life.
As Stephanie sputtered that Lana had destroyed a seven hundred dollar dress, Michael shrieked,
“I don’t care if the goddamned rag cost seven MILLION dollars, you don’t strike Lana!” 
And enraged, Michael left the room, returning with a pair of shears and proceeded to CUT the dress clean off of Lana’s body, sending the child, in Smurf’s panties, running to her room to put on “normal” clothes and causing his wife to call him every ugly name imaginable, and invent some new ones.
The very next day, Michael’s divorce decree went in.
He had to think of Lana and her safety and welfare. And with Stephanie becoming more obsessive and outrageous with the pageants, he had no other choice.
So divorce it was.
He sold the family home in Indianapolis and while Stephanie purchased a condo there, he moved out to the nice, rural town of New Braunfels where he bought a small farm and was now looking forward to his daughter coming to join him.
New Braunfels, was the kind of town Michael Jackson had always wanted to live in. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and people said hello to each other on the street. In a way, it was a modern day Mayberry. The perfect place to raise a child--no pageants involved.
Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong! 
At the rapid and wild ringing of the front doorbell, Michael’s heart lifted and all sadness he felt over the failure of his marriage dissolved.
LANA HAD ARRIVED! 
Excited and giddy, Michael spun on his heel and nearly overturned a side table, in his haste to get to the front door.
He couldn’t get to that oak and lead glass door fast enough.
No sooner had it opened, than a small, caramel colored blur, wearing a purple denim jumpsuit had leapt into his arms.
“Daddy! Hi Daddy!” Lana screamed happily, hugging Michael so fiercely, they toppled to the floor.
“Hi Sweetheart! Let me look at you!” Michael giggled as he held her face in his long hands and pecked her forehead.
Lana was, indeed, a very beautiful child, who looked to be a female version of her father. She had the same long face, and pale complexion contrasted by long, black curly hair and wide, somber dark eyes.
Her small pink lips were curled into a smile, the first genuine one Michael had seen in a long time. None of that put-on pageant fakeness he loathed.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Baby.” Michael chuckled standing, and grabbing onto his daughter’s hand. “Where’s your mother?”
Prior to the custodial hand-off, Lana had remained with Stephanie, a thought that gave Michael the fidgets.
“She’s leaving, Daddy, look!” Lana was pointing with a little fingernail painted a metallic blue.
Through the door, he could make out Stephanie’s convertible driving away.
He figured she wouldn’t have been civil enough to at least say hello.
He’d taken her little pageant protégé away.
“Well…come on, Lana. Let me show you your home now!”
Reaching out, Michael closed the door, on one chapter of his life, and as he began leading Lana upstairs to tour the house, he was starting a new one.
If only he had known how the plot would twist and turn before the story ended.

A Few Days Later 

Michael Jackson stood, still clad in his pajamas, plaid robe and slippers, looking over the breakfast table.
A mound of cheesy scrambled eggs shared a platter with strips of crispy fried bacon and buttermilk biscuits.
Two pitchers, one containing orange juice, and the other containing chocolate milk, were waiting to be poured.
Michael was fairly proud of himself. He wasn’t the best cook, but was slowly getting there, now that he was mother and father to Lana. And he had yet to hear a complaint out the girl about something on a plate he’d given her.
Helping himself to another mug of coffee, he blew a lock of his own long, disheveled hair out his eyes and called,
“Lana! Breakfast, Sweetie! Come eat before it gets cold!”
Overhead, there was the sound of running footsteps and a moment later, Lana, came tearing into the room.
And she looked like the child Michael had always wanted, in a yellow and white striped tee and hot pink overalls with matching sneakers. Her hair was held back by a bright pink, scrunched headband.
Not some tiny painted up baby vixen in an grossly overpriced dress.
“Good morning, Daddy!” She laughed--he never got tired of hearing that girl laugh--as she slipped into a seat. Her eyes swelled at the selection before her.
“Oh boy! You made my favorite, bacon and eggs! Thank you!” She announced starting to dig in as quickly as Michael portioned food onto her plate.
As the child gobbled like a hog, Michael took the seat beside her and inquired,
“Precious, what do you plan to do today?”
“I don’t know…play with my Barbies…” Lana mumbled in between bites and was reaching for a second biscuit. “Or color in my coloring books.”
Pinching after her round cheek, Michael wondered,
“How would you like it, if you had another little girl to play with today?”
At the mention of a friend, Lana’s dark eyes widened, a light of hope in them.
Michael knew that outside of pageants, Lana had rarely interacted with other little girls her own age. And she needed friends, not rivals.
“There’s a girl about your age, named Annie Francis, who lives about two farms down the road with her grandmother. After breakfast, she’s going to come play with you--would you like that?”
Lana had a look as though she had won the state lottery.
“Yes! Daddy! Thank you Daddy!” She yelped and was embracing him all over again.
It warmed Michael’s heart and soul to see his little girl so happy.
An hour later, Annie, a tall, freckled and tow-headed little girl appeared on the front porch of the house. The moment she and Lana laid eyes on each other it seemed they were “besties” from the start.
Lana complimented Annie on her Madonna tank top, took her by the hand and began leading her around the house.
(Michael noticed that Lana completely overlooked her crowns and trophies and barely mentioned them to Annie. She truly was separating herself from that part of her life and moving away from it,)
Lana and Annie spent the next few hours, sitting in Lana’s room playing with her Barbies and doing what they called dancing to New Kids on the Block tapes.
Around noon, over a lunch of cold tuna salad sandwiches and apple slices, through a mouthful of food, Annie spoke to Michael for the first time that day since she had said good morning to him.
“Mr. Jackson, is it okay if me and Lana go exploring? There’s a lot of fun places in town to go playing, Sir.” She had asked in a very respectful manner, a hunk of tuna stuck in her front teeth.
Michael, smacking his own meal very loudly had agreed, with only one stipulation,
“I don’t mind, as long as Lana is back in time for dinner tonight.”
Giggling the two fast friends had slapped each other a high-five, before Lana questioned,
“Is there anything you want me to get for you while I’m gone, Daddy?
Michael had thought a moment, before ruffling the hair of both girls,
“If you happen to see some pretty stones, bring them to me. I want to start a rock garden on the side of the house.”
Before Lana could reply, Annie chirped,
“I know a good place to get stones, Mr. Jackson! I’ll show Lana!”
Minutes later, the girls were gone, skipping down the street, destined for who knew where, as long as fun could be found.
And the stones.
Michael needed his stones.

* * *

Lana was gone with Annie for most of the afternoon, and Michael had taken that time to do exactly what he had intended--sitting on the east side of the house, digging a patch of earth loose in which to start a rock garden.
It made Michael feel truly “country” to throw on a dingy tee and dungarees and sit in the outdoors, breathing in the fresh air with a trowel in his hand with a tattered straw hat on his head.
Michael’s green thumb was black, so many plants had died under his care, that the only “garden” he could see himself successfully maintaining, was one comprised of rocks.
Michael was having so much fun playing in the dirt, he cleared a patch of land twice as big as he had intended, measuring around six feet across by eight feet.
By the time he realized his error, Lana was back, running towards him, waving gaily. Her pink overalls, along with her face were smudged with dirt and the bib pocket on her chest bulged.
“Look what I got! Look Daddy! Look!”
She cried proudly getting to him and dropping to her knees beside him, digging in the pocket.
Opening her small hands, Michael was quite surprised.
In them were about a dozen or so stones, all appearing to be made of else black or grey granite.
“These are beautiful, Lana…where did you get them?” Michael questioned, awed and continued to finger the slightly jagged stones, that were shiny in some places, reflecting the light in the prettiest manner.
Smiling brightly, Lana boasted,
“Over by the church in town…Annie showed me where to look. There’s just piles and piles of stones Daddy! There’s a lot of colored ones too! Do you want more?”
“If they look like this, then yes! These are very nice! Thank you!” Dropping the stones onto the ground Michael ruffled Lana’s curls, again.
“Looks like you brought most of the dirt back home with you. There’s a casserole in the oven--why don’t you go wash up and we’ll have dinner. Then you can watch some TV or read a book before bed.”
“Okay!” The child was streaking away and laughing Michael got up to follow her.
Life was good. Very good.

* * *

That night was one of the most restless nights Michael Jackson had ever encountered, since his divorce. He barely slept a hour, he was plagued with so many sudden nightmares. He couldn’t completely recall all of them, but some of the worse ones lingered in his psyche.
In one, he could make out a little boy in overalls, no older than maybe three or four, flopping around in a creek, apparently drowning. And no matter how hard Michael tried to run to save the little boy, to try to pull him out, he couldn’t seem to reach him.
The child, bug-eyed and screaming in fear, eventually stopped thrashing and the last Michael saw of him was the boy’s tiny body, an ashen shade of blue, floating facedown in the water.
From that nightmare, Michael was transported to a field, an endless, beautiful green place. He had even seen a deer quietly grazing.
As he stood watching the peaceful deer, a young woman, wearing a turn of the century-style dress, with long, flowing dark hair had gone running by him, seemingly trying to escape someone.
A moment later, a large, red-faced and hulking man, followed, giving pursuit, brandishing a hammer in one hand.
Before Michael could move to lend a hand, to stop the inevitable, the man caught up the woman and with one blow, had laid the woman out.
She didn’t even get the chance to scream.
To Michael’s sheer horror, the man continued to assault the woman with hammer until the only thing protruding from the blood stained lace collar of her dress was little more than a battered and squished stump with brain matter, tooth fragments and socket-less eyeballs falling out of it. There was so recognizable face left.
And just as simply, the man, stood, hammer in hand and walked away.
He passed Michael, staring him directly in the face as he went by.
In the last dream, Michael found himself sitting on a passenger train, filled with people.
The inside of the cabin was dim and it appeared most of the people inside were asleep. He could make out one young man reading a Bible with a flashlight, while an older man, perhaps his grandfather, dozed beside him.
All at once, the train cabin was rolling, as if it had derailed. Glass was breaking, dust was flying, bodies being flung all over here and yonder, a few being thrown completely out of the train.
And the screaming. The unholy screaming. 
Would it forever ring in Michael’s ears?
The last thing Michael saw was the night sky as he, himself were ejected.
He awoke, soaked from tip to toe in sweat, with Lana beside him, patting at his shoulder and saying she was hungry.
Michael had spent the greater part of that day, sitting alone at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee and trying figure out just what the hell had caused nightmares like that.
He hadn’t watched anything scary the night before, just Disney’s Fantasia with Lana. There was nothing frightening about Mickey Mouse.
He hadn’t eaten anything strange, only a eggplant and noodle casserole with a glass of red Kool-Aid. Hardly stomach-turning.
He just couldn’t figure it out. He only prayed that such ghastly visions didn’t began appearing to Lana.

* * *
Over the next few weeks, Michael Jackson’s rock garden grew immensely, thanks to the help of Lana and her friend, Annie. A day didn’t go by in which the girls appeared and were dumping out their pockets the gleaming, pretty polished stones, some of which now were made of limestone, malachite, obsidian, and some very small stones made of marble.
(The girls brought so many different varieties of stones, Michael had had to borrow a geology book from the library to identify them all.)
As Lana Jackson was growing happier and happier in New Braunfels, running wild with Annie each day and enjoying her childhood, Michael Jackson was anything but happy.
Every night for the last three weeks, he had been stricken with more and more nightmares. All of horrific, terrible events that ended in death for someone involved.
There was no discrimination. Michael saw men, women, and children, of all ages, of all races meeting their ends in various, traumatic ways.
A nude woman slicing through her wrists with a razor blade in a bathtub. A child stepping out in front of a speeding city bus, as he chased a rubber ball, a man hanging himself from the rafters of his barn as his stable of horses looked on.
In the last week, the dreams took a turn that Michael could never have imagined nor wanted.
Before, he had just been an idle on-looker, a spectator of the tragedies that played out in his dreams each time he put his head down to slumber.
One Tuesday night, he had laid his weary body into bed and dozed off.
And was summarily beaten the second sleep took him.
Michael Jackson was unable to see his assailant. His vision was obscured by some form of a white mist or smoke.
But he was able to feel every, single, solitary blow landed upon his slim body.
He was hit everywhere, his arms, his legs, all over his back.
Oddly enough, the only place on Michael’s body that wasn’t touched in the dream, was his face.
He had awakened gasping, trembling, and pop-eyed, but otherwise alright.
Alright, that is, until he stepped out of the shower destined to go prepare breakfast for himself and his daughter.
Staring at his nude form in the mirror, Michael was horrified to the point of tears.
Where he had felt every single punch connect with his body, a bruise was represented. Each one a large, fist-size discoloration, and as Michael stared at them through a blur of saltwater, he tried to determine if he had done it to himself.
But how could a man manage to put the impression of his own fist squarely in his own back? In his buttocks? In his thighs?
How could he punch himself all over the backside of his body?
And not feel it? Not awaken during his own fighting with himself.
It made no sense whatsoever and Michael had no words to make sense.
He was being harmed and he had no idea if he were doing it to himself or not.
It was becoming so awful that, once Lana had taken off to play and collect stones with Annie, Michael would try to take a nap in his bed or on the couch, or even on a blanket in the backyard.
It brought little relief.
A whole new wave of fright began washing over Michael Jackson as he began having nightmares in the DAY.
The same scenes of death, the same invisible beatings, the same bruises dotting him all over.
He didn’t know what to do.
Michael began to pray, read his Bible more, even slipped a crucifix beneath his pillows, to try to ward off the trouble.
(He wasn’t a church-going man, but more than once he had considered asking the local priest to bless him.)
Just something, anything to alleviate the night terrors.
It was becoming so bad, that Michael was barely able to tend to the house and Lana, which scared him even more than the dreams.
If he let his foot slip in any way, he may have lost custody of Lana, and that would have crushed his very spirit to have the light of his life taken away and thrown back to a mother who only wanted to use her as a life-sized Barbie doll of her own.
He refused that, even if he had to mainline coffee directly into his veins to be alert.
They were nightmares…just nightmares.
That’s what he told himself over and over and over again.
Just nightmares.
He figured things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
But they would.

* * *

“…Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, Snow White and Seven Dwarfs, Troop Beverly Hills, Cinderella... Do you think these are enough movies, Daddy?” Lana questioned, walking into the living room, the videocassettes clasped to her chest.
Michael, who was setting out bowls of fresh popcorn, tortilla chips and spicy salsa,  laughed loudly from where he sat on the couch.
“Well, if it isn’t, you can always run back upstairs and get more out of the cabinet in your room!”
“I know that!” Lana squawked, going over and placing the tapes on top of the big screen television, next to the VCR. “It’s just, I’ve never had a sleepover, Daddy, and I want it to be perfect. I don’t want me and Annie to be bored!”
“Come here!” Michael held his arms out to Lana and she was instantly in them, being squeezed lovingly.
“Now, think about it, didn’t I go and buy you those pretty pink satin pajamas with a matching robe, special for the sleepover?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Lana was pouting and picking at her fingernails, now painted a loud shade of red.
“And didn’t I even buy Annie a matching set in mint green? Best friends have to match!”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And didn’t I get snacks, and sodas for you to eat? Why there’s even a made-from-scratch double pepperoni pizza baking away right now. You have dolls and board games, and costumes to play dress up in. And you have the big TV all night…” Michael added, watching as Lana’s little face brightened when faced with all the fun-making objects in house for her.
Averting her eyes, Lana wondered,
“Can…can we watch Tiffany? Annie has her concert Live from Tokyo. You know I love Tiffany, Daddy!”
“If it makes you happy, you can watch Tiffany, too!” Michael snickered and patted after the girl, right as the doorbell rang.
Ding-Dong! 
“That’s Annie!” Lana bellowed as if she hadn’t seen her friend in years. In reality it had been only two hours since they had last seen each other.
Michael smiled, watching the children come back and Lana began helping her friend lay her Rainbow Brite sleeping bag beside her own Barbie and the Rockers one.
Opening a backpack and pulling out teen magazines, Annie wondered timidly,
“Mr. Jackson…I invited a few other kids I know to sleep over--I thought they’d like Lana. Is that okay?”
“Um…” Michael rubbed at his clefted chin. “How many is a ‘few‘, Annie?”
He didn’t want his house to turn into feeding time at the zoo and be overrun with rambunctious little girls.
“Only three--Carla Chang, Eileen Pierson, and Amanda Landry. They were at summer camp, but they came back yesterday! All girls! No boys allowed at this slumber party!” Annie giggled and was elbowed by Lana who pointed out stubbornly,
“My Daddy’s a boy!”
“Oh, he doesn’t count! He’s a grown-up, Lana!” She replied coolly and both girls laughed.
Michael chuckled.
Yes…this was perfect. Lana finding a nice group of kids to play with. She was getting her childhood back. That was exactly what Michael wanted.
* * *

“Has everyone had enough pizza?” 
“Yes, Sir!” 
“And enough Twinkies to start their own factory?” 
“Yes, Sir!” 
Michael glanced around the living room, where five little girls, all in their jammies, sat staring up at him with wide eyes.
“Okay, I’m going up to bed now. If you need anything, let me know, alright?” He offered.
“Yes, Sir!” They all grinned up at him--Eileen was snaggletoothed, as her front teeth were missing.
“Alright, good night.”
“Good night!”
Confident that Lana was in with a nice group of friends, and no mention of a pageant in sight, Michael turned and left the children to themselves, destined to shower and try to find some way to make it through the night.
At least he had the solace that his little girl was enjoying herself.
A half-hour later, Michael Jackson emerged from his bathroom, drying his long locks on a towel and dressed in a pair of silk pajamas.
As he stepped back into his room, something peculiar caught his eye.
The door leading to the hallway stood wide open.
“Those little snoops.” Michael chuckled to himself, rubbing after his hair.
“I turn my back for five minutes and they walk all over my room.”
Tossing the towel down, he moved to his dresser to comb the few tangles loose.
 Staring in the mirror, he reached for his comb.
And gasped.
Through the reflection, Michael Jackson was being watched.
Standing across the room, in the space between his bed and bedside table, leaning against the wall was a young girl, Annie Francis.
She was tall and freckled, her white-blonde locks falling into and hiding her face.
She wore a long, lacy, light blue gown.
Noticing the change in sleepwear, Michael went to his head with the comb, he joked,
“What’s the matter, Annie? Didn’t you like the green satin jammies I bought you? Lana picked them out especially for you. She wanted to be dressed like her best friend.”
A new voice, closer to Michael, chimed in,
“But I AM wearing the green pajamas, Mr. Jackson.”
Michael’s gaze shifted from his reflection and over to the open door.
Where Annie Francis stood, in the green pajamas, a teddy bear grasped in one hand and a half-eaten slice of pizza in the other.
Annie stared up at him, her hazel eyes huge with incredulity and added,
“I love these jammies, Sir! They’re the prettiest ones I own…”
As Annie continued to profess her admiration for her clothing, Michael looked to the mirror again.
The space between his bed and table was vacant.
There was no little blonde child in a blue nightgown standing there.
The only blonde in the room was Annie, now taking another bite of pizza.
Dropping his comb, and placing a hand to his suddenly sweating brow, he interrupted her,
“Annie…are…are there any other little blonde girls at the slumber party?”
Annie thought a moment, chomping on her food,
“No…well, Carla has blonde streaks in her bangs cause she put peroxide on them…her Mommy was mad….” Annie snickered.
“Annie! Tiffany’s singing I Think We’re Alone Now! Hurry!”
Michael heard several of the girls shouting from downstairs for their friend.
“Oops! That’s my favorite song!” Annie exclaimed before dashing away.
The room began to twist, turn and wobble as a hair-raising, skin-crawling, realization hit Michael.
That little girl in his room hadn’t been one of Lana’s friends who had come to sleep over. The little girl wasn’t Annie Francis. She wasn’t Annie Francis at all.
“My God…” Michael, jaw sagging, whimpered as he staggered and dropped onto the foot of his bed.
“I…I’ve just seen a ghost!”

* * *

Michael Jackson didn’t sleep a wink the night after he had seen the little girl .
He just couldn’t.
He’d spent the entire time pacing back and forth across the floor of his bedroom to the point where he thought if he took another step, he’d land smack dab somewhere on the first floor of the house.
He paced , trying to get some sort of understanding out of what he had seen, what had happened to him.
All that had happened to him.
First those nightmares, those awful, horrendous, maddening nightmares, the bruising from time to time and now this: the apparition of a girl.
What did it all mean? What had caused it?
Was his house really haunted? Had some unfortunate child died within the walls of that house and was now forever doomed to walk the earth?
And…was there something even worse, something sinister that could happen?
That could be triggered.
All Michael cared about was Lana. He didn’t care if anything happened to himself; he didn’t want anything evil to befall his child.
She was only eight-years-old and had already been through so much in her young life as it was.
Was that little ghost girl there to harm his little girl?
Thoughts, so many thoughts began to flood his mind.
He had bought the large house rather cheaply and wondered if the realtor had held back any valuable information from him about the house. Right there, on the spot Michael made up his mind to go into to the town hall, to see what, if anything, he could dig up about the history of his house.

The Following Afternoon

Michael Jackson sat on his porch, looking dejectedly out at the driveway curling from the house.
He’d spent three hours in the town hall, scouring everything from old property deeds to newspapers, looking for anything that hinted at something untoward having happened in his house.
And he discovered nothing.
Before his house had lain dormant and uninhabited for about fifty years, he learned that in first three decades of the century, his house had been home to an old priest. An old priest who did nothing but hold Mass at the local church, and grow roses in the backyard.
A priest who keeled over in the middle of a Christmas service in 1939 at the age of ninety-six. He’d died in the church house, not the Jackson house.
Nothing scandalous, nothing dastardly. Just an old man doing what old men did when their time was up.
No mention of any kind of children in any way.
And the priest himself wouldn’t have had a child--priests were abstinent.
Feeling hopeless and wondering if he were starting to lose his mind, Michael tried to turn his attention to the one thing that seemed to always calm his nerves: working in his rock garden.
As Michael wearily rose to his feet, a thought hit him like a thunderbolt.
The rock garden!
Why…if Michael were correct, his sleepless nights of agony had begun the same night Lana had started bringing home the stones that now decorated his garden.
Wandering absently, Michael went around the side of the house and stared at the patch that was his garden.
By now, over five hundred stones laid there, arranged to show his initials and his daughter’s: MJ and LJ.
Each one hand picked by Lana and Annie from…where?
Michael tried to make his mind remember where Lana said she and Annie collected the stones from.
“Bye-bye! I’ll see you guys tomorrow!” 
At the sound of his child’s voice, Michael looked up to see Lana down at the front gate, waving to her crowd of friends as they started back up the road after a day of play.
Michael had jogged to the child before he even realized it.
“Lana--” He panted breathlessly once he had reached her.
“Hi Daddy!” Lana beamed and began digging into the pocket of her jeans.
“These are for you.”
She was mashing more of those damned stones into his hands. There were four black stones and a pink one--all made of granite.
“Lana Ariel Jackson!” Michael gasped as the stones tinkled in his hand.
“Where--where did you get these stones again?”
“From by the church in town--”
“Where by the church, Lana? Tell me!”
“There’s a path leading from the side of the church, Daddy. You can’t miss it. Annie showed it to me--”
Grabbing on to his daughter’s shoulders, he instructed,
“Lana, I want you to catch up with your friends and go to Annie’s house. Stay at Annie’s house until I come to get you. You understand? Go!”
If there was a malevolent spirit in the house Michael wasn’t going to leave Lana alone and vulnerable to it.
Lana didn’t understand, not really, but by the crazed glint in her father’s eyes, she knew not to argue and opening the gate, was running to the group of girls in the distance.
In the meantime, Michael was rushing for his car keys.
For the first time in over a decade, he was going to church.

A short time later, Michael Jackson’s gold, Lincoln town car came to a screaming halt across the street from Saint Luke’s cathedral.
Slowly slipping from his car, Michael stared up at the church.
It was an old, weather beaten structure, made of red brick and wood.
The building was probably as old as New Braunfels itself.
It was still in use though, as a sign advertising for Bible Study that Wednesday night was posted for all to see.
Tentatively, Michael approached the church, every hair between his head and ass standing on the alert.
Did he expect the little little he had seen at his house to come running out at him?
He didn’t know, and it was the not knowing that scared him.
He stared at the old, weathered doors of the church that stood closed and began hunting for the path that Lana had mentioned.
“You can’t miss it…You can’t miss it…You can’t miss it…”
It took a bit of doing but he did locate what had been a cobblestone path on the west side of the church.
Most of the stones were gone and for a moment, Michael considered the idea that Lana and Annie had simply plucked the rocks from the path.
But no…all the stones he had were black, grey, pink and green.
All of the stones in the path were visibly brown.
The stones in his garden hadn’t come from that path.
Michael continued on, following the path, and as he got out a few yards from the church, the grass around the path became noticeably taller and it was apparent that wherever he was going, recanting his daughter’s footsteps, was a place that probably had been long ago abandoned.
Hands shoved in his pockets, Michael walked for had to be almost an hour, before he saw it.
A black, wrought iron fence that had  been taken by weeds and thorny bushes soared skyward for at least eight feet.
Nearing the fence, Michael could make out where a few of the bars of the fence had been removed, leaving a space small enough for a little girl to squeeze through.
It took quite a bit of breath-holding, and sucking in of his stomach, but Michael managed to force his way  through.
Dusting himself off, he noticed that as soon as he had walked less than two feet past the fence, there were stones.
Thousands of stones, littering the ground.
They were everywhere, and represented all the ones Lana had brought home to him. Black, pink, and grey granite, black obsidian, green malachite, various colors of marble.
Aside from looking rather old and perhaps not being the best place for little girls to play, Michael could see nothing wrong with this area.
His heart heavy, Michael realized that there could be nothing wrong with the stones.
Happy that he could keep his garden, but sad he had no solution to his problem, Michael started to leave.
At that moment, his foot happened to kick a chunk of marble.
It was beautiful, the brightest, most brilliant shade of blue he had ever seen in a stone.
Deciding he had to have it--and wondering how Lana missed something so pretty--he stooped to pick it up.
“Our Father, Who Art In Heaven, Hallowed Be Thy Name…” 
At the sound of somebody praying, Michael’s head came up.
A few hundred yards away from him, a priest had appeared and was holding a what looked like a silver pitcher in his hands.
Continuing to recite The Lord‘s Prayer, the priest dipped a hand in the pitcher and began flicking the Holy Water around onto the ground.
Michael couldn’t help himself.
Still clutching the blue stone, he approached the priest.
“…And Lead Us Not Into Temptation…”
“Father?” Michael called and so startled the priest, he received a face full of Blessed Liquid.
“My goodness! Forgive me, my Son! I thought I was alone here!” The rotund, elderly gentleman declared, immediately setting the pitcher down and offering Michael a hanky from the pocket of his pastoral robe.
“It’s quite alright.” Michael assured him. “I probably needed that anyway.”
Michael would have gladly done the backstroke in a pool of Holy Water if it would make him sleep through the night.
Returning the hanky he asked,
“You‘re blessing this land--why Father?”
A polite, yet sad smile came to the man’s face.
“Someone has to, Son. Though it probably hasn’t seen a soul other than myself  each week in the last hundred or so years, it is still very much occupied. All the people buried here, at one time, meant something to somebody, and as long as I have breath in me, I will pray for them, that they have peace…”
The blue stone Michael had been holding dropped from his hand and bounced on his foot.
The priest continued speaking at him, but Michael heard nothing of it.
A cold, clammy sweat sprang up all over him as he turned, looking at his surroundings.
The stones! 
All those stones that Lana had lugged home in bulging pockets,  and had pressed into his hands…
All the those stones he had put into his garden to decorate the yard…
All the stones laying crumbled and scattering the ground…
They were all part of tombstones!
Tombstones in a cemetery!
Every day when Lana had departed with Annie to go “exploring”, she had been raiding a graveyard, and bringing home and presenting her father with pieces of tombstones!
It all suddenly clicked and became alarmingly clear to Michael.
The nightmares of death, the bruises, the little girl that vanished from his bedroom…
Though it had been done inadvertently, Lana had disturbed the graves of only God knew how many souls.
Without so much as a good-bye, Michael left the priest and was running at full speed for home.
He completely forgot his car was outside the church and instead went on foot all the back to the farmhouse.
As soon as he hit the gate, he grabbed the first container available to him, Lana’s little doll pram, and didn’t stop until every last stone had been pulled free from that accursed rock garden.
Sure, Michael Jackson looked quite foolish pushing a child’s toy through the streets of New Braunfels, Indiana, but he was a man on a mission.
When he reached the cemetery, the priest was still blessing it, tossing water around.
Joining him, Michael began tossing stones and reciting the Lord’s Prayer along with him.
It took him nearly two hours, but Michael Jackson returned each and every stone to the cemetery.
He made the trek back home, weary and bleary-eyed, but confident in the notion that for the first time that summer he would get a full, restful night’s sleep.
He also decided to try growing flowers in the patch where the rocks had been. After so much death, he wanted to have a second chance at cultivating life.

* * *

“…sleep! I will finally have sleep tonight!” Michael Jackson mumbled joyously to himself that night, as he reached the top of the stairs and began ambling towards his bedroom.
He paused outside of Lana’s room and cracked the door, peeking in on her as he did every night before retiring to bed.
The child appeared to be sleeping peacefully, a chubby-cheeked, ugly little Cabbage Patch Kids doll hugged to her chest.
Closing his daughter’s door, satisfied that she was alright, and slinking off towards his own bedroom, Michael was focused on getting that much needed sleep.
And completely missed what happened next.
With the door closed back on her, Lana Jackson’s eyes popped open, and reaching over, she illuminated her bedside lamp.
Placing a hand under her pillow, she produced a small, pink, roughly heart-shaped piece of stone and began to admire it, running her fingers over its cool surface.
Her favorite souvenir from the plot of land at the end of the path extending from the church.
Rising from her bed, Lana inched from the room, into the hallway, down to the closed door of her father’s room.
As her father had done with her, Lana cracked the door to check on him.
Seeing her father was fast asleep, the blankets held to his clefted chin, Lana tiptoed in and over to the opposite side of his bed.
Lifting the other, unused pillow there, she placed the heart-shaped stone beside her father’s crucifix, and quietly tiptoed out.
Every night, since she had found it, in that old overgrown lot at the end of the path from the church, Lana would place the stone beneath her father’s pillow as a token of love and sweet dreams from her.
And would remove it each morning after Michael had gone down to make breakfast.
A stone that Lana had no idea had once been a part of the headstone for a little fair-haired girl, not much older than Lana herself.
A girl who somewhat resembled her best friend Annie Francis, but had lived and long died before Annie had ever come to be.
A girl who no longer had to compete with the other spirits, as all the remnants of their tombstones had been returned--with the exception of hers.
A girl who was now, slowly, stealthy, and silently floating towards the closed door of Michael Jackson’s bedroom.

The End.