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 18th 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.
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