I have always been fascinated by costume parties and masquerade balls. I have found a note of the mysterious when people congregate in one place, all dressed and appearing to be something or someone they are not. Of course, this friendly deception is done all for the sake of fun and amusement. But in this story, a young party-goer will find nothing fun or amusing when she encounters a strange and small man…
“The Small Man”
A Michael Jackson Horror Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
(
Featuring Cameos by Marlon and Jermaine Jackson!)
Los Angeles, California
September, 1985
As a soft, classical piece--composed by of Mozart, but played by someone born in the twentieth century--spilled from the small radio affixed to the wall, a young woman sat before a lighted vanity, putting the final touches of make up to her face.
She was a stunning woman, with a fine brown complexion, slanted, dark, and deep set eyes, beneath pencil thin brows. Cascading over her smooth shoulders was long, thick black hair, that had been painstakingly curled and picked into place, almost as sort of a dark halo around the woman.
Her face, quite attractive when bare, now was made up in a becoming way: white and metallic silver shadow frosted her eyelids, off set by the black liner and mascara, a smattering of dark raspberry blush applied to hollows of the cheeks to make the bones stick out more, and leaning into the mirror for a closer look, she was painting her small, pouted mouth, with strokes of a bright red, glossy lipstick.
She was distracted from her own beauty by the meek and timid knocking.
“Camille? Camille, are you decent, Dear?”
Came the sweet, almost musical voice from the other side of the closed door.
A contented smile came to the woman’s face and she chuckled to herself as more knocks were placed.
For the last two years, Camille Dufrense had lived in the same condo with her boyfriend, Michael Jackson.
He could have rightly barged into the bathroom at will--Lord knows he footed all the bills--but he was a gentleman. He scarcely ever entered Camille’s private bath without knocking first.
“Come in, Darling…” She called and picking up a powder sponge was dabbing her nose with it.
A moment later, the door cracked and a lovely creature slipped inside.
Michael Jackson, a tall, fairly slim and gangly man, leaned against the doorframe, and reflected in the mirror behind Camille.
Michael was beautiful in his own right, with a skin tone that matched that of his girlfriend’s perfectly. His hair, jet black and arranged in short, glossy curls, a few falling into his eyes, bounced as he moved from side to side.
Even from where she sat, Camille could tell Michael was wearing his own cosmetics--kohl around the eyes and bright red blush on the cheeks.
He never left the house without it and even in bed she rarely saw his natural skin glow without his blush.
His taut, lithe body was hidden by a blue velvet robe.
Oddly enough, his feet and skinny legs were covered by hunter green tights.
“Camille, I was wondering if you’re almost done putting on your face…” He announced starting to stride over behind her. “We still have to get dressed and drive out to Beverly Hills to get to Marlon’s house.”
Again Camille smiled.
Michael’s older brother, Marlon, who was very fond of throwing parties for absolutely no conceivable reason, perhaps there was a bit of Gatsby in him, was giving a costume party at his estate that night--though Halloween was over a month away.
(And they had RSVP’d almost a month ago for the festivities.)
“Yes…” Camille turned and started to beam at Michael. “You know perfection takes time--”
She stopped abruptly, when she noticed that Michael was not returning the beam. Instead, he appeared to be frowning.
“What’s wrong?” She questioned, her small lips pushing out with misunderstanding. “Don’t you think I look pretty?”
Longs hands were shoved into the pockets of his robe and Michael groaned loudly,
“You look gorgeous, Camille, you always do, but…” He hesitated and his dark eyes met hers for a moment. “But, we’re going as Peter Pan and Wendy to the party, Baby.”
When her face showed she still didn’t understand her error, Michael elaborated.
“You’re done up like you’re going as Iman to a photo shoot. Wendy is supposed to be like, an adolescent or teenage girl. She wouldn’t be as made up as you are--”
“You mean you want me to take my make up off?” Camille, gasped aghast at the notion. “Do you realize it took me forty-five minutes to look like this?”
“Well--”
Rising up and placing hands on her hips, she continued,
“And I’m not a kid or teen, Mike! I’m twenty-five! It’s already enough I have to simper around Marlon’s party in a nightgown. Let me keep my face as it is! I‘m going to be at a party with all our friends--I can‘t go around with a bare face! It‘s….it‘s inhuman!”
Camille would have rather died than gone around their crowd looking pale and sallow with no color or accent to her face.
A cool, smug smile came to Michael’s pointed face as he looked down on the lovely and dismayed one scowling up at him.
“Even if I ask, you won’t take it off, will you?” He wondered, and stubbornly, Camille shook her head.
“Fine…” A long arm was draped around the woman and her forehead smooched lightly. “…I’ll take a ‘sexy’ Wendy with me to the party, then!”
Pretending to be angry, though she had won the battle, Camille continued to frown, as Michael continued pecking at her face, before his lips collided with hers, sweetly.
“I just hope no one tries to steal you away from me…pretty young thing like you…” Michael murmured between smooches.
Camille couldn’t stay angry, real angry, at him for long anyway. It was impossible to.
But if only she knew who would try to steal her away.
Three Hours Later
Beverly Hills, California
“…There’s something strange, in the neighborhood…Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters! …”
Marlon Jackson’s grand and palatial estate, a soaring and sweeping, white Italianate structure, was a hotbed of activity that unseasonably warm Fall night.
All through the home, and spilling out into the expanse backyard, were over a hundred attendees, all wearing some form of costume, from a woman, dressed as a gorilla and carrying a Barbie doll--obviously King Kong carrying Fay Wray--to a man dressed as President John F. Kennedy--after the gunshot, with half his brain oozing out the large wound in back of his head.
Camille was having a pleasant time, dancing across the front foyer, packed with people, and sampling various appetizers as handed out by waitresses dresses as French maids. And from time to time, winking at the other males whose eye she happened to catch.
But she wasn’t going to flirt, she was intensely loyal and faithful to Michael.
Also he was nearby.
A few feet from her, Michael Jackson conversed with two of his siblings--he had eight others in all--Jermaine and Marlon.
Jermaine, who was notorious for changing partners like he changed drawers, had come as Casanova, a just characterization if there ever was one, dressed as an eighteenth century gentleman with a white powdered curly wig and heavily powdered face. For effect, every so often, he’d drop a pair of silky panties out of his pocket.
A pink and gold brocade suit and crisp white blouse covered his tall, chunky body.
(Already a scuffle had broken out between two of his girlfriends who happened to run into each other during the fete.)
The host of the party, Marlon Jackson, a man who always had a loud laugh coming out of his mouth, was a pirate.
A bit shorter and thicker of body than his siblings, Marlon was costumed, as a pirate.
He wore a ruffled, gold silk shirt, tucked into black spandex trousers, with patent leather knee-boots, all of which hugged his muscular frame. A gem-studded patch covered his left eye. A large, gold hoop dangled from his left ear and reflected the light, like his golden saber, hanging from his hip by a leather belt.
Jewel encrusted rings--all real--glittered as Marlon, talking about something in an animated fashion, was waving his hands around.
It was a good party, a good mood and Camille was prepared to party until the sun came up--as such shindigs did go on until the last patron stumbled on home in a drunken stupor.
As Camille paused, watching her boyfriend, now hooting boisterously with his brothers, she got the sudden feeling that she, herself, was being watched.
Tearing her gaze from her Suntanned Peter Pan, she began to look around to see just who was watching her.
Near her were several couples, but all were engaged in their own conversations, speaking and looking only at each other.
It took several moments, but Camille was able to locate the source of her creepy feeling.
A few yards away, leaning in the open doorway, leading off into the formal living room, a man stood.
He was a small White man, not really a midget, but much shorter than the general population milling about him. He had a strange, pale face, with large, wide and darting green eyes and short, dark hair, that was a bit tousled. He wore an ill-fitting light brown suit and held a fedora in one hand.
He amused Camille the moment she saw him, because he reminded her of some old film actor…she just couldn’t call his name.
Raising a hand she waved at him and he waved back.
What a strange, small man indeed.
“Caviar and crème cheese canapé, Ma’am?”
A voice questioned and mildly startled, Camille saw that a waitress had come up to her, balancing a large, silver platter in her hands.
“Yes, thank you.” Camille partook of a treat and as the woman moved on, looked to the door for the small man.
He was no longer visible.
Still curious as to the name of the actor he was portraying, she sauntered over to Michael, who remained clustered with his brothers by the winding, spiral staircase leading up to the second and third floors.
“…I’m glad I could make the party…” Jermaine was commenting, sipping from a flute of champagne. “…cause I’m taking off for Fiji tomorrow. Going on vacation….”
“HA!” Marlon screamed with laughter and gave Jermaine a playful push. “You ain’t fooling anybody man! Vacation my round black ass! We know you got a girl there--you got a girl everywhere! Don’t forget, you owe me for that Chinese urn your two battling babes broke earlier tonight!”
“Hey man,” Jermaine took another drink. “You knew you were doing wrong inviting Amanda and Shelly here in the first damn place! It’s your fault they got into it over me! I don’t owe you shi--”
“Can’t believe anybody would get into it over you.” Michael tossed his head, hair bouncing.
“You know what, Michael, fuc--”
“Hi, Boys.” Camille interrupted Jermaine, knowing that once he got wound up, it would be hours before his long-winded self would clam up. Or say something that caused Peter Pan to become a grown man knock the powder out Casanova’s wig.
“Hey, Baby!” Michael instantly had an arm around her and was tugging her close. “I hope you don’t feel abandoned, we were just shooting the breeze.”
“Man talk!” Marlon grunted and his plump lips were parting in a bright smile. Jermaine merely drank more.
“No, Honey…” Camille patted at Michael’s soft chest. “I wanted to ask you something--Who was that little guy we watched in that horror film the other night?”
A frown crossed Michael’s face as he pondered. “You mean that movie, “The Mad Hands”?”
“Yes…who was that funny looking guy in it?” Camille repeated, her own mind scrambling,
“I heard of that film.” Marlon interjected. “Y’all and your old ass movies--that actor is Peter Lorre.”
“That’s it! Peter Lorre!” Camille clapped her hands happily. “Who’s the guy that came dressed as Peter Lorre, he looks just like him!”
Taking an appetizer off a passing tray, Marlon popped into his mouth and shrugged,
“Hell, I don’t know; I invited half the people here and the other half, my wife invited. Might be someone she knows.”
“Where is Carol?” Camille inquired, ready to go find Marlon’s spouse, if she didn’t bump back into the small man herself.
“Um…” Marlon mumbled and rubbed at his chin. “Lord, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I popped the first bottle of bubbly, two hours ago. She’s somewhere--we kicked off the party in the rose garden out back, she might be there...”
“One of these days, you’re gonna lose that woman and not find her!” Michael cackled and scowling Marlon snapped,
“Aw, shut up and go find your damn shadow, Peter Pan!”
Kissing at Michael’s rouged cheek, Camille excused herself.
Making her way through the house, and dodging a partier who was vomiting in the kitchen trashcan, she made her way out to the backyard.
The party was even wilder outside, than in.
Several people were flopping around in the marble rimmed, liver-shaped pool, and a woman, completely nude--not Carol though--went running by whooping it up, four men, dressed as the Marx Brothers giving pursuit.
It then dawned on Camille that Carol could be anyone there, as she had neglected to ask Marlon just who or what his wife was dressed up as.
Was she a female pirate, or something else like a princess or a fairy or a fencer?
Starting around the pool, she began looking at every Black woman she passed, hoping to find Carol.
After squinting at a half-dozen women, and not discovering the elusive Mrs. Jackson, only a line of imitation Diana Rosses, Camille saw a welcomed sight.
Up ahead, and waving at her again, was the small man.
“Hey, wait!” Camille called and started towards him.
Much to her chagrin, the man turned and began pacing away.
There was no true rhyme or reason why Camille suddenly felt compelled to pursue this man.
She was not attracted to him in any way, as he was small, and quite ugly, and she had marvelous Michael whom she was more than pleased with.
But the small man piqued a rare interest in her, and she wanted to meet him.
That is, if she could catch him first.
She completely circled the pool trying to reach that strange creature and almost shrieked an obscenity when she lost track of him a second time.
This was starting to get ridiculous, now.
How could she lose such a distinctive looking person?
Resigning herself to the idea that she would never know who he was, and could not seem to locate Carol for help, Camille started back into the house to find Michael and spend the rest of the evening with him.
At least she knew where she had left her boyfriend.
Coming to where the spiral staircase met the foyer, she was dismayed to see Michael, Marlon and Jermaine were no longer there.
“Damn it all to hell!” Camille gasped to herself, pounding a fist into the palm of her hand.
Was she doomed to spend the entire party alone?
Passing the spiral stair, something just barely caught her attention.
Standing, about a dozen steps up and in the first curve of the staircase, was the small man.
This time, instead of waving, he appeared to be beckoning Camille. Wiggling a finger at her to come and join him.
Glancing around, and wanting to avoid a full-blown scandal, she saw that no one was watching her, and advanced up to the man.
Standing that closely to him, Camille was surprised to see that she stood a good foot taller than him.
“Hello.” She greeted him with a smile, and for the first time all night, he grinned, revealing tiny, weirdly crroked white teeth.
“Hello.” He had a light, brisk British accent.
“You’ve been a hard guy to catch all night…I must say, I do like your costume very much. It’s very simple. You make a great Peter Lorre--you look exactly like him.” Camille giggled.
“Costume…?” The small man echoed and was crumpling his hat in his hands. “You are very beautiful, Miss…”
Camille was quite used to being complimented, and took it as normally as discussing the weather when getting a bit of praise.
“Thank you, I’m Camille Dufrense, and you are?” She introduced herself.
“Timothy Alastair.” The man nodded, hat turning to a mess of felt in his hands. Was he that nervous to be speaking to Camille? Or was her beauty unnerving to him?
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you. Who invited you, Marlon or Carol?”
Timothy’s green eyes sparkled,
“Why, Carol did.”
“Oh, Carol did--and how do you know Carol, Timothy?” Camille was feeling at ease with this odd little guy and leaned against the banister carelessly.
“Carol and I work together.” Timothy replied, moving closer to her.
It was a simple benign statement, but one that struck Camille strangely.
Carol Jackson didn’t work.
She’d never needed to. She came from an old, well-moneyed Southern family, and had married into a well-moneyed West Coast one when she took vows with Marlon.
Carol was a woman who’s only work was to remain slim, pleasant and pretty for her man.
She didn’t need to work!
Camille gazed down at Timothy, who was so close to her it was becoming indecent. She could smell pipe tobacco on him plainly.
“Are you friends with Carol?” Timothy asked, a sleepy, half-lidded look coming to his eyes as he leaned yet closer to Camille.
“Yes…” Camille instantly aware of his sordid intentions, stiffened.
“Her husband’s brother is my boyfriend…if you’d please…”
Putting her hands up, Camille gripped Timothy’s tiny shoulders to push him away. He was too close for comfort, and Michael, once he got a few snifters into his thin body and system could be as fiery as a bull with red before its eyes if he saw someone on the make for his girl.
As she touched Timothy, she was keenly aware that he was cold.
Colder than any person she touched in her life.
Colder than anyone should have been on that balmy night, in a house spilling over with bouncing, dancing, drinking bodies.
She stared down into those green eyes, eyes that were sharply piercing her own brown ones. Eyes that seemed to be staring beyond her face, and were peering off into her soul.
Eyes with a gaze as cold as the body in which they were fixed.
And then everything went black.
Every, single, solitary light bulb illuminating Marlon Jackson’s home and property, all, at once, blew out.
Bathing everything within the iron gates surrounding it in sheer blackness.
“I’LL BE GODDAMNED!”
Came Marlon’s panicked cry a few rooms over, carrying above the din of surprised shrieks and intoxicated chuckles.
“A FUSE MUST HAVE BLOWN! CAROL! CAROL! CAROL ANN!”
Marlon’s voice passed under Camille as he went running through the mass, hunting his wife and the fuse box.
After a few moments of quite loud cursing between the host couple--Marlon had finally found his wife--the lights came back on and the pop music resumed blaring.
And Camille nearly came to leaping over the banister.
The small man was gone!
Timothy Alastair was gone.
Camille’s hands remained out, where she had been gripping his shoulders, but he was no longer under her grasp.
She held nothing but air.
Where was he? Where had he gone? The staircase was made of pure marble; anyone walking up or down made clear noise. He was gone and she had heard NOTHING! How was that even possible?
“Camille?”
Room spinning, the confused woman turned, and saw that Michael, dressed as that resplendent boy who refused to grow up, was mounting the stairs to her.
“Baby, are you alright?” He questioned coming and wrapping his arms around her, and went to peck her forehead.
“Camille!” He gasped, eyes growing large. “You’re trembling! What’s the matter? Were you afraid of the dark?”
Hugging her lover tightly, Camille hoarsely begged,
“Please…please take me home now! I want to go home now!”
Seeing just how stricken his girlfriend was, Michael nodded and took her hand. She cherished the loving warmth of his meat hook, after touching that cold small man.
“Oh…okay, Sweetie. We’ll go home. I’ll take you home.”
She just wanted to get out of there.
And put as much space between her and the small man as humanly possible.
One Week Later
“…which one of these do you think will go best with grey slacks and a white shirt?”
At the gentle inquiry, Camille looked up from the magazine she was flipping through.
Standing at the end of the couch on which she was draped on lazily, Michael stood, holding a belt in each hand.
One was about an inch thick and encrusted with pave crystals the other was much wider, and resembled a prize fighter’s belt, featuring several moldered starbursts, and was a gleaming silver plate.
Setting her magazine down, Camille replied,
“I like them both, but what’s the occasion?” She couldn’t recall them having an outing that afternoon.
“It’s not for me--it’s for Marlon.” Michael informed her. “Carol’s parents are in town and they’re having dinner at some place in the Hills. Anyway, he wanted to borrow one of my belts to offset the look.”
“Oh--the simpler one, if it’s for the ‘rents.” Camille snickered as the doorbell began to chime.
“Okay.” Michael nodded, tossing the larger belt onto an armchair and proceeding to the door, where he allowed Marlon in.
Marlon, already dressed for dinner, thought it was barely three in the afternoon, as he faced a long drive back into Beverly Hill from Los Angeles, breezed into the room in his loud and exuberant way.
“Hey Mike! Damn, that belt is perfect! Hi Camille!” He announced, taking the belt from Michael and waving.
“You came a long way for a belt.” Michael commented as Marlon stood in the front hallway, in front of the full-length mirror and began looping the belt around his slender waist.
“I know, but you always have the best junk just laying around. And besides, I don’t see the Parkers that often, since they live in New Orleans. I like to always make a good impression when I see them.”
Marlon explained, pulling a small comb from his pocket and ran it through his own thick black curls and picking at the thin mustache gracing his top lip.
“Yeah, I hear that. Seeing the in-laws would worry anyone.” Michael chuckled, as Marlon continued primping.
Camille, a silent spectator from the couch, opened her mouth and had spoken before she intended to,
“Who is Timothy Alastair?”
“Huh?” Both brothers distracted, hummed in unison.
She repeated the questioned.
“I’ve never heard that name before.” Michael blew off the inquiry and went to say something to Marlon, when Marlon, lock of hair still tangled in his comb, wandered from the mirror and over to the couch.
Looming over Camille, he stared at her, his light eyes full of strange glow Camille had never seen in them before.
“How on God’s green earth do you know the name Timothy Alastair?” He whispered, eyes growing larger.
“I met him at your party last week, he was the little guy I saw that was dressed as Peter Lorre.” She glanced at Michael, who seemed clueless, then back to Marlon.
“Why?”
Taking a seat beside her, Marlon still held his comb in his head.
“You met a man at MY party, and he said his name was Timothy Alastair?” His voice became even lighter in his incredulity.
“Yes, Marlon!” Camille insisted eyes blazing. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because…” Marlon finally got his comb free of his hair and tossed it on the wicker coffee table.
“Because, Timothy Alastair is the man that owned my house, before Carol and I bought it.”
“Oh…” Camille sighed. “You invited the former owner to your party. That was nice.”
“No it wasn’t.” Marlon shook his head and all his carefully tended hair flew.
“Timothy Alastair is dead.”
Camille went cold all over and was struck speechless.
“Marlon, what are you talking about?” Michael pushing his discarded belt aside, it falling to the floor, sat in the armchair.
Turning to gaze on his brother, Marlon said quietly,
“Just what I said, Timothy Alastair is dead…” Head lowering and starting to fiddle with his hands, Marlon started to explain.
“I never told anyone this, but when Carol and I bought that house, about ten years old, we got it cheap. Real cheap. Much cheaper than what it was worth. That house, when we bought it, was worth fifteen million dollars, but we purchased it for less than a million.”
Throwing his head back, Michael joked casually,
“You got that humungous place for one-fifteenth of it’s worth? What happened? Someone get murdered in there?”
The grin left Michael’s face when Marlon bobbed his head,
“Yes.”
Staring back down at his hands, Marlon continued solemnly,
“My house was originally built in 1931 for a wealthy playboy as his bachelor pad.” His eyes drifted to Camille,
“Timothy Alastair. He’d made his money on Wall Street and jumped ship shortly before the stock market crash in 1929. Anyway, Timothy played the field before sinking some of his money into a modeling agency. In 1934, according to the realtor, he fell in love with one of his employees, a model named Carole Sinclair…
Camille’s head buzzed at the fact. The small man said he had worked with Carol. Not Carol Jackson, but another Carole entirely!
“…They got married shortly after. But it seems Timothy refused to give up his playboy ways and had numerous affairs. In 1945, it reached a head. Timothy got one of his mistresses, a young woman, half his age, pregnant, and announced to Carole he wanted her gone. He wanted a divorce and wanted to marry and bring his younger woman into the house…”
Marlon sank back into the cushions of the couch.
“Well, Carole agreed to leave, and the divorce papers went in. Timothy married the second woman, I think her name was Jobyna, and they settled in. About three months after it all, Timothy and Jobyna were getting ready to leave on a delayed honeymoon. They were both in the front hall when the doorbell rang. Thinking nothing of it, Timothy went and flung the door open. And was immediately shot by Carole, who had come wielding a shot gun. Timothy died right there. Jobyna died a few feet away, trying to make a run up the stairs…she was six months along…Carole then went and phone the authorities. She spent the rest of her days doing a life sentence in prison…”
Michael, Marlon and Camille all sat quietly, the story sinking in.
Michael, still skeptical finally spoke,
“You mean to tell me…tell us…that Camille saw the ghost of a guy that got killed--over ten years before you were even born? Do you hear yourself?” He gasped shaking his head, his disbelief clear on his face.
“Michael!” Marlon fixed his gaze on his sibling. “I’ve seen a picture of Timothy Alastair. He was a man of short stature, and he did bear one hell of a resemblance to that Peter Lorre guy. And Camille did say she saw a Peter Lorre look-alike at my party. I don’t know anyone that small, neither does my Carol when I asked her about it.”
Marlon turned back to Camille and what he said next did nothing short of shock her.
“I’ve also seen Jobyna Alastair. Though it was unconventional at the time because people were backwards and pig-headed, Timothy, though he was White, married a Black woman. And if I squint hard enough at you, Camille, I can see Jobyna. Different decade, different make-up, different hairstyle, but the face is there.”
“Oh my God!” Michael, put his hands to his face
Camille, horrified stared off into space.
What had she seen in Marlon Jackson’s house?
Had she really encountered a ghost?
A ghost that was drawn to her because she resembled his second, murdered trophy wife?
A trophy wife he was riddled with bullets for?
Camille never did find out the answer.
Nor did she ever attend another party on Marlon Jackson’s property ever again.
If she again ever ran into Timothy Alastair, the small man, or the spirit thereof, who knows what might have happened to or become of her?
I have always been fascinated by costume parties and masquerade balls. I have found a note of the mysterious when people congregate in one place, all dressed and appearing to be something or someone they are not. Of course, this friendly deception is done all for the sake of fun and amusement. But in this story, a young party-goer will find nothing fun or amusing when she encounters a strange and small man…
