The Legend of Annie Bagans--MJ Horror Story!

If there’s one thing I like, it a good, old-fashioned ghost story. As I a kid, I loved hearing stories that were so frightening, I’d have to sleep a few nights with the lights on1 But that was the idea that kept me coming back for more--that the stories were simply that: stories. For a couple of teens, a story will be more than just a few words of folklore.

“The Legend of Annie Bagans”

A Michael Jackson Horror Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

Rose Hill, Indiana

Summer, 1972

As dusk begins to turn the sky overhead from a crisp, bright blue to shades that are a mix of dark pink and brownish-purple, a young boy, standing near a light post at a street corner, fidgets impatiently.

It’s quite obvious to anyone pausing to pay him even a particle of attention, that this young boy, barely into his teens, is going on a date. Perhaps his very first.

The boy, tall, and gangly, is dressed casually, yet impeccably, in a red silk oxford, a few of the top buttons loosened to showcase the genuine shark’s tooth suspended from a thin gold chain around his long throat, paired with slim fitting, light-rinsed flared jeans, and on his feet, shining, brand-new red leather platform shoes.

His hair, in a rather large, perfectly picked and round afro, bobs as he shifts from one foot to the next--his feet still haven’t quite become accustomed to teetering around in four-inch heels that were the height of fashion.

Clutched in his long hands, is a single, fully-bloomed, white rose.

Absently, he begins to pace back and forth, a few steps here and there, glancing at the Batman watch on his wrist every so often.

Each time a car passes, he stops abruptly, staring, as though he has never seen a vehicle before.

He’s waiting for someone. Someone important.

This could be, perhaps, the most important meeting of his young existence.

“…It’s almost seven o’clock…where is she?”

The boy mumbles to himself, doing his best to resist the urge to scratch his head in thought. He couldn’t wreck his hair; it took him over an hour to get it that big and fluffy. And he used up all of his big brother’s Afro-Sheen to make it shine.

The boy’s dark eyes begin to dip at the corners as a saddening realization hits him.

“Maybe she isn’t coming. Maybe she doesn’t want to be seen with a loser like me. Maybe she found a better, more handsome guy to spend time with…” He ponders, vexed and dejected, holds the rose up, preparing to throw it down and proceed to the bus stop to wait on a ride back home.

“Hi Michael, is that for me?”

A sweet, almost musical voice, in close proximity to the anguished boy inquired and alarmed, he almost fell off of the curb and into the street.

Whirling around, he finds he is no longer alone.

Standing beside him, smiling coyly, is a girl.

A startlingly gorgeous girl, tall, even taller than Michael himself, and slim. Her hair, arranged in loose, black curls cascade over the shoulders of the lilac and white checkered blouse she wears with a matching lilac jumper. The lilac accentuated the queer, grayish-lavender color of her eyes, that were such a stark contrast to her even, cocoa complexion.

A complexion that matched Michael’s perfectly.

Looking up at this creature, dark eyes swelling Michael could only manage,

“H-h-hi Ursula.”

And the hand with the rose was jutted out to the girl.

Giggling, the sound sticking like warm honey in Michael’s ears, Ursula took the rose tucked it behind her right ear.

“It’s so pretty, thank you…” She was coming closer. He could smell her vanilla-scented perfume plainly and it was a delicious aroma wafting off the girl.

“I’m sorry I’m late, my little sister’s babysitter had a flat tire and I had to wait until she came, before I could leave…”

Poor Michael nearly wet himself, when soft, warm lips, sparkling with Ursula’s cherry flavored gloss pecked his cheek.

She kissed him! She kissed him!

Ursula Jenkins, the girl Michael had had a crush on since the second grade had just kissed him!

He was close to swooning as she slipped her arm through his, those pretty eyes of her on him expectantly.

It took a minute for it to connect to Michael that Ursula was waiting on him, now.

“Oh…” He snorted and was trying to maintain his composure.

Arm in arm, the two of them began ambling slowly, destined for the movie theatre about two blocks away.

Ursula ambled, Michael fairly floated he was so happy.

“Do…do you like scary movies?”

His heart immediately sank when Ursula replied,

“Not really…”

Then it soared when she added,

“…but I suppose, I could tolerate it, as long as you’re there to protect me, Michael.”

A goofy grin of unbridled glee came to Michael’s face and his small chest began to swell and poke out with a pride like he had never felt before. She wanted to be protected by him!

“What film is it?” Ursula questioned and for a moment, Michael had actually forgotten what they were going to see, his head was swimming so hard at the prospect that he had the prettiest, most popular girl in the ninth grade on his arm.

He wracked his brain for the title; it didn’t help that those eyes stayed on him and only him as they continued down the sidewalk, with Ursula never breaking her gaze as other boys went by.

Finally, the name came to him!

“It’s called Hitler’s Hell…” Michael trailed off when he felt Ursula coiling some of his hair around one of her fingers, her dark red nails glittering as the streetlamps were coming on.

She was playing in his hair, it was almost too much for him to bear. Ursula was paying attention to him; and seemed interested in what he had to say. He felt like a king!

“And what’s it about? Is it a war movie?” Ursula continued playing in his hair.

More confident than ever, Michael continued to puff up at the sign of affection and responded,

“No, not really. It’s about these historians that are researching Adolf Hitler’s last days in the bunker before he committed suicide with Eva Braun, and as they are digging around Germany, they uncover a mass grave…hundreds of bodies…” He explained as the colored, flashing lights of The Palace theatre were emerging on the horizon.

“…it was where the bodies people who were defectors where thrown, after being slaughtered for their cowardice. And now, with the grave disturbed, it unleashes a bunch of vengeful spirits onto the world. I heard it was banned in Germany, Austria and Switzerland for being too gory. I’m surprised they’re even showing it here in the States…”

Feeling bold, Michael reached out and grabbed Ursula’s tender hand, and was pleased beyond compare when she let him grasp it.

If this kept up, he was going to ask her to be his steady before the night went down!

Going steady with Ursula Jenkins…

Nearing the theatre, where a few dozen kids and teens already stood in line, Michael, with his free hand started fishing in the back pocket of his trousers.

“You don’t need to stand out here, Ursula.” He stated, the pride in him rising yet higher as several boys he knew were gaping in awe as the two of them reached the tail-end of the line.

They were clearly jealous and stewing.

Coming up with a crisp five dollar bill, he handed it to her.

“Go get in the snack line and buy whatever you like, it’s on me…”

He paused and impulsively added,

“Honey-Babe.”

He delighted in the way Ursula’s eyes danced at the term of endearment as she took the money, and turned, leaving him to bask in the glow of what Michael thought might have been love.

Yes, he had to ask her to be his steady!

It was a glow that faded less than a minute later, when Ursula returned, her small mouth puckered and quivering.

“What’s the matter?” Michael wondered as she came back to him, squishing the money into his hand.

He barely heard her whispered answer, but it crushed him just as hard as if the theatre itself had caved and landed on him:

“Hitler’s Hell is sold out.”

Normally, at such an immense letdown, Michael would have burst into tears, but with Ursula by his side, he had to maintain himself. Act like a man and not the downtrodden little boy he was. Though it hurt him badly that he wasn’t going to be able to see the film he had been waiting for almost a year to see, he wasn’t going to let it ruin his date.

He’d have stood up to Hitler himself if he had to, to keep that date going smoothly and that light of happiness in Ursula’s eyes.

Taking a hold of Ursula’s hand again, he suggested,

“Would…would you like an ice cream or something? Sardi’s is right around the corner.”

Squeezing his hand, Ursula sucked in her bottom lip and nodded.

“Come on, let’s go…”

Sardi’s Ice Cream Emporium was relatively deserted, that warm summer’s evening, as Michael and Ursula sat in a booth, near the bay windows in the front, sharing a large banana fudge sundae.

Eating an entire spoonful of hot fudge, Michael’s eyes flickered all over the place, as he tried to come up with something interesting to talk about.

His eyes washed all over the pink and light blue neon interior of the eatery, at the lone soda jerk wiping down the counter and helping himself to all the maraschino cherries he could fit in his mouth, to the jukebox that was playing a disco instrumental.

No, there was nothing there that would spark an indulging conversation.

He glanced at Ursula, she was nibbling at a slice of banana.

They hadn’t spoken one word since they had sat down! If this continued, he feared Ursula was going to think he was a dud and never want to go out with him again.

And it had taken Michael weeks to work up the nerve to ask her out in the first place!

Starting to cry on the inside, Michael desperately scanned all over for something, anything to loosen his jaw for him.

That’s when something caught Michael’s eye, and it wasn’t his girlfriend-to-be’s pretty face.

Through the window of Sardi’s, he observed, perched on a hill in the distance, the jagged, inky outline of Saint Mary’s church.

A few seconds passed, with Michael staring at the old, abandoned cathedral. He had heard a story about that place, a story that would at least get a conversation to rolling with Ursula again.

He peeked at the girl; she was slowly eating all of the banana slices in the sundae, her spoon still sticking out of her half of the ice cream.

Before he could stop himself, his mouth had flown open.

“Hey Ursula…” He called to her, and his heart skipped as those eyes focused on him. “…do you know what happened up there at Saint Mary’s Cathedral?”

Another slice of fruit disappeared and her hair swayed as Ursula shook her head.

Feigning shock, Michael leaned back against the seat of the booth, the vinyl squeaking beneath him, and said,

“You mean, you’ve never heard The Legend of Annie Bagans?”

“No…what happened?” Ursula plucked the cherry from the top of the sundae and popped it into her mouth.

Pleased that he had an audience, Michael began to recall the tale.

“Well, I heard this story from my brother Marlon…he told it to me and one night. He swears it’s true…”

Michael stopped and grinned stupidly as Ursula took a hold of his hand again.

“Annie Bagans was the only youngest child and only daughter born to Archibald Bagans, who used to be the richest man here in Rose Hill. He made his millions in the steel mills of Gary, about twenty miles from here. Before Annie came along, it was a family of boys--five boys: Archie, Jr., Arnold, Arliss, Arthur and Aaron. For the most part, the Bagans children lived a charmed life. They had expensive vacations to Europe each year, attended an elite private boarding school in Indianapolis…were members of the Rose Hill Country Club. Pillars of society here in town…”

Michael paused to eat more ice cream, Ursula’s eyes boring holes into him.

…In 1939, Annie turned sixteen and had the biggest coming-out party the town had ever seen. It was said to be a big Southern Ball, because that movie Gone with the Wind had just come out and everyone was nuts about it. It was a huge costume party and hundred of people attended. At her party, Annie met a young man, named Carl Bradley, who came from a wealthy family from Indianapolis and soon the two fell in love…”

Michael felt Ursula squeeze his hand at the mention of the word “love” and almost choked on his ice cream.

“…Both the Bagans and the Bradleys were pleased by this match and hoped that one day the two would marry and merge the families vast fortunes. They courted for two years and finally on Annie’s eighteenth birthday, October 7, 1941, Carl proposed. Exactly 2 months later on December 7, Pearl Harbor in Hawaii was bombed and the USA entered into World War Two against Germany and Japan.

Immediately after the attack, all of the Bagans boys and Carl Bradley signed up and joined the army to fight for their country.

In early 1942, they were all set to be shipped off. All the Bagans boys, though, in different companies, were going to some of the same places. Archie, Jr. and Arliss were going straight to Nuremberg, Germany, where the Nazi rallies used to be held and was the heart’s blood of the Nazi movement. Arthur, Arnold and Aaron were stationed in Berlin, with Carl being sent off to England.

Before he left, Carl promised Annie that on his very first furlough, they would marry…Carl left in February of 1942.

Annie did her part, participating in a local hospital tending to the ill and wounded who returned from the front.

In those first few months, the Bagans family suffered several tragedies.

Arnold, was shot and killed by a German sniper his third day on duty and both Arliss and Archie, though in different companies, contracted scarlet fever and died within a week of each other…”

Michael was interrupted by Ursula gasping,

“That’s just terrible! Three brothers lost like that!”

“I know, isn’t it just the pits?” Michael questioned, not really caring, just happy that his words were affecting his date.

“…In a world of horror, with their family falling apart and planning funerals left and right, a glimmer of hope and happiness came to them.

Annie and Carl wrote almost every day, and after about a month, Carl wrote that he would be coming home on August fifteenth.

After so much sadness, the Bagans threw themselves into preparing for Annie’s wedding. The whole town, with so many people losing loved ones and suffering so all turned in to help with this joyous occasion. The bakery worked around the clock with the preparing of the wedding cake, and local seamstresses worked shifts making a gown from rationed white satin for the bride.

The idea was that as soon as Carl stepped off the train in Indianapolis, he would be driven into town for his wedding.

The wedding was to be held in the Saint Mary’s Church, the church the Bagans all belonged to and worshipped at.

Everyone in town filed in for the festivities, many more from nearby cities and as the bride was primping with her mother and mother-in-law-to-be, Mr. Bagans drove into Indianapolis to pick up Carl. His future son-in-law…”

“…Over a hundred soldiers were at the train station and as Mr. Bagans swarmed through, looking and calling for Carl, someone grabbed his arm. It was his youngest son, Aaron!

Pleased beyond compare that one of his remaining sons was going to see his sister married, Mr. Bagans hugged the young man and laughed.

The happy reunion did not last for long.

As they hugged, an officer came up to them and asked if he was Mr. Archibald Bagans, Sr.

Mr. Bagans still all rosy-cheeked over his son, answered “Yes” and as happy until the man handed him two letters.

In them, his world came apart.

His last surviving son, Arthur, Jr. died in the line of duty when a bomb was exploded and he took on shrapnel, his injuries too severe to save him. In the other letter, his son-to-be, Carl, who was expected to marry his daughter that day, be home that day, was also dead…

A look of pure sadness came to Ursula’s face and Michael wondered if perhaps he was being too dramatic. He’d never forgive himself if that girl cried because of him.

“…He was crushed to death while helping to rescue children from the cellar of a bombed out orphanage.

That was it, of the six, happy, healthy young men that had left, only Aaron was left. And now Mr. Bagans is not only weighed with the task of telling his wife and daughter they’ had lost another member of their family, but that also, his daughter’s husband-to-be was dead. It was woefully tragic.

And it was a terrible scene at the church.

The church was decorated so wonderfully, with flowers and ribbons and streamers; everyone in their Sunday best and Annie looking like a princess in all that precious satin.

Everyone wad happy to see Aaron and asking where Carl was, where was Carl?

Mr. Bagans tried to bring himself to tell his daughter the awful truth but she could see it right in his face without him uttering a word. Annie became hysterical and despite everyone’s efforts to calm her, telling her that Carl was a hero for his sacrifice. she wouldn’t hear it.

Annie fled from the altar and seemed to disappear.

The entire town began combing the church and property for her.

From inside, her parents heard a scream, followed by more screams and cries for help.

They ran outside, but it was too late.

Annie, still in her wedding dress and veil lay in a crumpled heap just beyond the front doors of the church.

While some people claimed that Annie hadn’t leapt to her death on purpose, that she had been walking back and forth and become tangled in her long veil, and tripped by accident, other claimed that she had willfully jumped.

That was the final straw for the family.

Mrs. Bagans had to be institutionalized following the death of her daughter and sons, Mr. Bagans died three years afterwards of a heart attack--though others called said he died of a broken heart.

And Aaron lived until 1955, dying penniless from liver cancer induced by the alcoholism that plagued after experiencing such trauma…”

Michael leaned in, across the table, and dropped the clincher for the story onto Ursula.

“…If that wasn’t bad enough, and entire family wiped out, in 1960, fifteen years after the war ended, Carl Bradley returned to Indiana! Apparently, he’d been held hostage in a basement in England by a radical Nazi and was only able to escape after the man died. Carl had never been killed. And the whole death had been a mistake. The Carl Bradley that had died in 1942, was a man named Carl H. Bradley. And the Carl betrothed to Annie was Carl P. Bradley. He had never been killed. Carl finding out the disastrous ends of everyone, left Indiana never to be seen again…”

Letting go of Ursula’s hand, Michael pointed to the church.

“…Some people say that on dark, lonely nights, much like this one, the apparition of Annie Bagans, can be seen, wandering around and through Saint Mary’s Cathedral, still wearing her sating gown looking for Carl…waiting for the marriage that will never come…”

Pretending to be mournful, Michael dropped his head.

Much to his satisfaction, Ursula questioned in a tiny voice,

“Do…do you really think there’s a ghost there, Michael? Has anyone seen it?”

Michael had been banking on being asked something in that vein.

“No, Marlon always claimed he was too scared to go look and see, but…” Michael brought his eyes up and met Ursula’s.

“…We can go give it a look over, if you want. I’m not a chicken like Marlon. I promise to protect you…”

His heart almost popped through his sternum when Ursula bobbed her head.

She was agreeing to go! She was agreeing!

On jellified legs, Michael excused himself to the “Little Boys’ Room” but never did enter it.

Instead, just out of sight of Ursula he went to the pay phone mounted on the wall between the bathrooms and called home.

It took quite a bit of begging, pleading, and finally bribing with two months worth of his allowance, but Michael talked his brother Marlon into sneaking into their mother’s bedroom and stealing one of her white nursing uniforms--and one of her many wigs--so he could come down to the church and pretend to be the ghost of Annie Bagans, just to sort of scare Ursula. He even went to far as to instruct Marlon to slather on some cold cream so that he appeared white and dead-like.

Michael wanted that willowy creature wrap herself around him for dear life so that he could play the superhero and save her from a “blood-thirsty” spirit.

Michael told his brother to be there in about thirty minutes.

Hanging up the phone, he returned to an unsuspecting Ursula, who had managed to consume the rest of the sundae in his absence and took her arm.

This was going to be a night to remember!

The walk from the Sardi’s in the center of town, the ten or so blocks out to Saint Mary’s Cathedral was one of the most thrilling trots Michael had ever made.

Night fallen, and though the only sounds in the night, as he and Ursula walked up the heavily woodened and dimply lit lane were the sounds of their footfalls on the pavement and the odd cricket chirping, Ursula was sticking to Michael like bark to a tree.

He hadn’t thought that his story was all that frightening, but it did his heart all the good in the world to have Ursula hugging his arm so tightly it was starting to bruise. Any closer and they’d have been wearing the same shoes!

While Michael may have been swelling with a false bravado, it began to deflate, just a bit, as Saint Mary’s came into view.

His flesh did crawl slightly at the sight of the centuries old church, surrounded by a low brick fence.

The entrance marked by two, weathered and crumbling angels.

There was inside the old church, as it had stopped being used sometime shortly before Michael had been born, when a new cathedral had been built closer to the town center.

Drawing closer, Michael and Ursula could see that what had once been lovely, ornate stained glass windows depicting the life of Christ, were mostly broken and covered thickly in dust and cobwebs.

The grass surround the church was wildly overgrown around the paved and weed-taken path that led to the front wooden doors of the church, one hanging crookedly, it’s rusted hinges barely supporting it.

If there was ever a desolate place to pass a night, this was it.

The effect wasn’t lost on Ursula, who after taking less than five steps past those broken angels, had her mouth to Michael’s ear.

“May…maybe we shouldn’t have come here. I’m getting the creeps--” She whimpered her head resting on Michael’s slim shoulder.

“Aw, don’t worry Honey-Babe.” He was patting at her arm, trying to be brave, but his voice cracked with his nerves.

His mind was spinning and hoping that Marlon had made it up to the church without being beaten to death on the bus for going out dressed in drag. But he had agreed to the money and needed to be there.

Shuffling up to the door of the church, he squinted at his watch. The glow in the dark arms showed it was about twenty-minutes to ten o’clock.

Yes, Marlon had had enough time to ride the bus out to that end of town. He had to be in the cathedral.

Michael looked to the doors. Indeed, it appeared one of the rickety doors had been pushed open a bit. Marlon was there.

Trying to tug Ursula past the doors, Michael spoke soothingly,

“There’s nothing here, Honey. Its just an old pile of bricks and wood. I bet the only thing moving in there now is some rats.”

Ursula gripped his arm tighter and whined,

“I don’t like rats!”

“No girl does, unless she’s an exterminator!” Michael chuckled and raised a hand to push the door open further.


BANG!
Michael was quite literally snatched off his feet as Ursula, still holding his arm, turned and tried to flee, managing to pull Michael from the doorway and halfway down the walk.

He didn’t even have time to consider the idea that Marlon might have been hurt if something had fallen over on him or given way beneath him.

“Ursula! Ursula! It’s okay! Stop! Ursula!” Michael cried, afraid his arm was going to be yanked clean out the socket, and it took some effort for him to dig his heels in and stop Ursula from dragging him back to town.

“Don’t be scared--”

“What was that Michael?” Ursula’s eyes were bulging in their sockets, showing her fear clearly as their color. “What made that noise? Oh I just know it was that Annie person! We shouldn’t have come here!”

Wrapping her arms around Michael, she buried her face against his throat.

Patting at her back, enjoying the hug more than he probably should have, Michael cooed,

“You’re safe with me! Nothing’s gonna happen. Michael’s here, Babe--”

“Oh Michael, I want to go home! Please walk me home! I want to get away!” Ursula pleaded, and for the first time, Michael noticed that Ursula was trembling.

She wasn’t just putting on, she was truly, genuinely frightened.

“Okay, we’ll go, don’t be scared. Let’s go. Come on.”

Taking Ursula’s hand, he started to tug her along with him, and found that she wasn’t moving.

“Ursula?” He questioned, staring at his date.

She wasn’t looking at him, but at something, up over his head.

Her eyes were fixed, glassy and wide, her mouth parted, breaths coming shallowly.

Following her gaze, Michael saw what all the hubbub was about.

Way above them, on top of the church in what was left of the bell tower was a figure.

A forlorn looking creature, all in white, appeared to be gazing back down at them.

Marlon had completely outdone himself. He looked perfect!

He practically glowed in the dark, the white of his pilfered dress stood out so well against the backdrop. His face just as white was as bright as the dress itself. His eyes were deep and dark in his face.

And though no breeze was to be felt that balmy night, the long curly wig on his brother’s head was up and flowing off to the right.

If he was hearing correctly, Marlon sounded like he was sobbing, just like a grief-stricken woman.

It was sensational!

Michael went to give Ursula’s hand a reassuring squeeze and found his hand was empty.

A few yards away, he could make out Ursula beating a speedy exit through the gateway, and back onto the street.

She was running away!

“Ursula! Come back! Urs--Ursula!” Michael was doing a full-out sprint in an effort to catch her.

Ursula was moving so fast, that they were nearly back to the main street of town by the time Michael caught her.

“Ursula!” He cried grabbing hold of her arm.

She was close to hysterics!

“Michael, I saw her! I saw Annie! I saw her! She was on top of the church! I saw her. She looked at me. God, she looked at me, Michael!”

Michael could not breathe he was being clutched so fiercely, and feeling that this prank had gone far enough, and though he burned with a fiery hot shame, he confessed.

“I’m sorry Ursula, but that wasn’t a ghost, that was my brother! That was Marlon, I made him dress up like that!”

Instantly, Ursula sprang from him, eyes narrowing. And he didn’t like the look of murder suddenly taking them over.

“Your brother? That was your damn brother? Why I oughta--”

“Michael!”

Just as Ursula wound up to tell Michael a few things about himself, a new voice broke the stillness of the night.

“Michael!”

Coming towards the bickering couple, was one heck of a sight.

Michael’s brother Marlon, that poor, cross-dressing boy, in the nursing uniform, cold cream and wig, was stomping towards him.

Michael felt his brow going up in wonder.

Marlon was walking from the direction of town…not from the cathedral!

“Marlon?” He questioned, a fluttering feeling in his tummy as Ursula stood pouting beside him.

“Hey, man…” Marlon huffed as he reached them. “I’m really sorry Mike. I had to walk all the way out here. The bus driver took one look at me in this getup and said…” He glanced at Ursula. “Well, I can’t repeat it with a girl present. But he wouldn’t even let me on the bus! I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it.”

“What do you mean you weren’t able to make it? Why do you think we’re here?” Michael put his hands up into his hair exasperated. “We saw you, on top of the church man! Ursula saw you and ran!”

“Mmm-hmm!” Ursula was nodding, and punched Michael in the shoulder angrily.

Placing hands on his slim hips, what Marlon said next knocked every kink out of his brother’s head.

“I don’t know what in the hell y’all saw or thought you saw, but I’m telling you this: I JUST GOT HERE! The bus wouldn’t carry me! I had to WALK!”

Bones in Michael’s arm crunched as Ursula latched onto it again.

Michael himself was quite dizzy.

As he began to shake all over, he slowly turned and looked back up the lane to Saint Mary’s Cathedral.

The bones in his hand popped audibly, as Ursula latched onto it and demanded the obvious hoarsely,

“Michael…if your brother is here…what in God’s name did we see?”

Michael had no answers.

He had no words for what had been seen at Saint Mary’s Cathedral that night.

There was no explanation.

After a while, Ursula did forgive Michael for the prank he had tried to pull and they eventually did become a steady couple, just as Michael had wished and hoped for.

But they never went anywhere near Saint Mary’s Cathedral ever again.

Michael didn’t know if he and his girlfriend had actually come into contact with the spirit of Annie Bagans, and he didn’t want to find out if he had!


The End. 

Burned: A Horror Story

 

One of the top fears that people have, I’ve found out, is a fear of fire. Whether its burning up themselves or losing other loved ones or possessions by fire, people are scared of this most basic of human invention. As most fires do, indeed, destroy, for the gentleman in this story, it quite literally could lead to the destruction of himself and all he holds dear.

“Burned”

 

 

A Michael Jackson Horror Short Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

 

(Featuring all six of the Jacksons)

 

O’Brian, Indiana

November 26, 1968

Two young boys sat facing each other on opposite sides of that small, yellow kitchen table.

Legs folded up Indian-style on the matching chairs, both were staring at each other with determined, unwavering gazes.

Michael Jackson, the younger of the two, at only ten years old, was absently licking at his thin lips as he shoved both fists under his pointed chin.

Seated across from him, softly thumping the deck of playing cards in his hands, was Michael’s older brother by a scant fourteen months, Marlon.

Between the two of them, three cards laid face up on that Formica tabletop: A five of hearts, a two of diamonds and a four of spades.

And in the game of Blackjack, which the boys were playing, that added up to a cool eleven.

“Come on, Mike!” Marlon urged after a while, agitated by how long his sibling was taking to decide whether he wanted another card or to let the hand he had ride. “Whatever card you get next, you’ll just get next. It ain’t gonna change, no matter how long you stall!”

Young Michael glanced down at the cards, then up at his brother, who was quietly smacking on a wad of blue bubblegum, his full lips bouncing with ever chew he made.

Marlon was right. That boy chomping like a cow on a cud was right. Whatever card got thrown down next was beyond his control. He just had to go with whatever he got dealt.

Nodding his head and causing the short, well trimmed afro on his head to bob, Michael said the words.

“Hit me!”

Marlon immediately tossed down another card.

An Ace of Hearts.

Seeing that he had an exact twenty-one, Michael threw his skinny arms in the air.

“Hoo! Hoo! I won! I won!” The boy rejoiced brightly, leaping from the table and hopping in a circle. “Oh yeah, fool! I won! Ha! Ha!”

With the way Michael Jackson was carrying on, you’d have thought he’d won some extravagant prize, like a brand new car, or a jackpot numbering into the thousands of dollars.

No, it wasn’t anything as wondrous as all that, but something just as exciting to a little fifth-grader.

Marlon had bet up his prized playing marble, a gem made of round, smooth blue glass with a pure-white swirl inside of it, resembling a tiny tornado.

Dismayed at his loss, and not really wanting to give up the marble he coveted so much, Marlon instinctively held a hand over the front pocket of the green sweater he wore, a small bulge giving away the hiding place of his marble.

Michael had his hand outstretched, expecting to get the marble right then. Little thin, scraggly brows went up with earnest at the prospect of that little bit of blue glass. He was the victor, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on it.

Marlon was just about to suggest they go for two out three games, to stall off the inevitable task of giving away Ol’ Blue, when a deep and authoritative voice demanded,

“Marlon, Michael! Where the hell’s the rest of your brothers?”

Michael bumped backwards into the table, as Marlon jumped to his feet, both kids startled.

Looming in the doorway and a good foot and a half over the boys was their father, Joseph.

Joseph was the kind of man you just inherently feared as his entire aura seemed to ooze of domination. He was a tough, brisk man, not the kind of person to go about handing out hugs. He ran his home with a cast iron fist and all his children usually quaked in their tube socks whenever he opened his mouth.

As the boys stood, gazing upon their father, their minds trying to figure out which one of them might have done something to upset their father--and possibly cause a whipping with a leather strap--they realized that Joseph didn’t appear ready to beat the color off their hides.

Joseph, stood, dressed sharply in a navy blue, three piece suit, complete with shining wingtip shoes. Over his arm he held a brown trench coat and his black fedora.

This man wasn’t dressed for ass-kicking. He was dressed for a formal outing.

Staring at his sons, the blue of his suit, making the queer, blue color of his eyes stand out all the more against his cinnamon complexion, he repeated,

“Where are your brothers--answer me when I’m talking to you!”

Michael, visibly quaking, as he was the most afraid of and traumatized by Joseph, merely clung to the side of the table, close to passing out from sheer terror.

Marlon though, less disturbed, but just as frightened, managed an answer.

“Th--th-they’re upstairs Daddy.”

Turning without so much as a ‘thank you’ Joseph howled,

“Jackie! Tito! Jermaine! Randy! Get yo’ asses down here! NOW!”

Overhead there was the sound of scurrying feet and almost instantaneously four young boys came rushing into the small kitchen.

There was Jackie, at seventeen, the oldest of the bunch, and he never let you forget it.

Then, there was fifteen year old Tito, a quiet and serious boy, who looked so much like Joseph in the right lights, he would often make Michael woozy. And at times he behaved just like him too.

Fourteen year old Jermaine was a sporty sort whose mind was else on one of two subjects--baseball or which girl he’d chase after next. Right then he had a bandage above his left eye from slipping on a polished basketball court --playing indoor baseball-- and wrapping his face around a brick wall.

And then there was little Randy, only seven and the youngest of all the Jackson boys. As the baby of the group, Randy was always trying to be a little man--instead of a boy--and was forever being ragged about it by the older five.

With that much testosterone rampaging through the house on Chestnut Avenue, it was a wonder there were any strains of estrogen in that house at all.

Yet there was.

Ambling into the room in her kind and slow-paced way, was the matriarch of the family, Katherine.

Widely respected by the boys, Katherine was a pretty and petite woman, a bit stocky in figure, but still attractive even after having, and dealing with six children.

That night, just like her husband, she was dressed in her finest, a lovely silver fox fur cape draped around her shoulders looking bright against the dark grey cocktail dress she wore.

Michael didn’t fear his mother, so much as he adored her. To him, she was perfection, walking, breathing and talking. She was lovely to him--she could do no wrong.

And when she spoke, it was more like she was singing than just talking.

“Now boys, Sweethearts, I want you to listen to me.” She announced and clapped her hands, all six of the young boys paying her attention as Joseph was slipping his coat on.

“Your father and I are going out tonight for a bingo game and ice cream social at the church. We’ll be out till about one in the morning. But I promise, if you boys behave like little gentleman, I’ll bring you each back a slice of cake. Understood?”

Katherine’s lips, painted a bright red, parted in a warm smile as she gazed upon her sons.

“Yes Ma’am!” The boys all chorused, several mouths watering at the mention of sweet cake.

“Jackie, you, Tito, and Jermaine are in charge. You know the rules. No lollygagging. No girls. And you have to put the younger three to bed by nine-thirty since it’s only Tuesday.” Katherine instructed sweetly, before holding her arms out. “Now give me some sugar!”

 

“Bye Mama!”

“Have a good time!”

“We love you!”

“Bring chocolate cake!”

The boys all rushed forward and were kissing at their mother’s cheeks, allowing her to kiss thiers, before she turned, took Joseph’s arm and was escorted out the door into the night, where snow was just starting to fall.

Katherine and Joseph were leaving their six boys, with no idea that it was going to be the very last time they would see some of them.

 

A Few Hours Later.

 

“No!”

“Boy, get your little scrawny ass in the bed!”

“I ain’t sleepy!”

“If I knock you the hell out, you’ll sleep--trust me!”

“You hit me, and I’ll tell Mama!”

Randy Jackson, dressed in flannel Batman pajamas, stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed over his tiny chest and chin poked out in outright defiance as he glared up at Tito Jackson.

Exasperated, Tito looked around the room for help.

Marlon laid in his own bed, wearing blue jammies and reading an Archie comic book, while in the next bed over, Michael was in matching sleep clothes, quietly writing poems as he stared at a poster of Diana Ross, his favorite singer in the world.

Michael and Marlon were quite used to the nightly theatrics that went into putting Randy to bed and barely noticed it when the boy threw a tantrum.

“Get in the bed before I drop kick your ass!”

Tito warned and was shaking a fist at him.

“Don’t make me get Jackie for you!”

Seven going on thirty, Randy bucked up and puffed out his chest, before he simpered,

“Jackie ain’t Daddy!”

Tito regarded Randy a moment, before tossing his head back and wailing.

“Yo! Jackie! C’mere!”

At the idea that something juicy was about to go on, both Michael and Marlon put down their distractions and focused on the commotion across the room at Randy’s bed.

Almost immediately, Jackie Jackson came strolling in the room cool as usual. And he already knew what the problem was.

“He won‘t go to bed?”

Pointing at Randy, Tito explained, “Hell nah, he won’t go to bed! And I’m about to kill him!”

Hovering just inside the room, Jackie reached into the back pocket of his jeans and came up with two objects.

A long thin cigarette, and beautiful, gleaming, mother-of-pearl inlaid lighter--a gift from his steady girlfriend of two years, Enid.

He took his own sweet time placing the cancer stick in his mouth and lighting it, before he spoke.

“Steven Randall Jackson, I’m only gonna tell you once. You put your little self under those covers, close your eyes, and go to sleep. I ain’t in the mood for your bullshit tonight. Right now Jermaine is on the horn calling Enid, Dee-Dee, and Hazel to come watch a movie. I can’t have you up and getting into mess. I wanna be with my woman! You see Marlon and Michael already in bed, being good. You be good too. Oh I’m gonna put my hands on you and tear it down for you. . You understand me?”

Michael and Marlon both leaned forward, both wondering if Randy would back down and go to bed.

Not so.

Chest still puffing, Randy must have taken himself for Jackie’s equal because he bucked up to Jackie and set his mouth to argue.

The following fifteen minutes were comprised of Jackie picking the little boy up, sitting on the end of his bed with Randy on his lap and using the large open palm of his hand to spank Randy to the point where he couldn’t sit back down.

In the midst of it all, while Randy was flailing, bursting into tears, and using words much too coarse for a boy his age. Michael and Marlon looked on silently and remorsefully, while Tito stood off to the side trying to stifle his giggles.

Jermaine Jackson, downstairs and chatting up Hazel, his girlfriend, was completely oblivious of the beating occurring.

As Randy was sniffling, Jackie tossed the boy into his bed.

Blowing a puff of smoke into the air casually, Jackie cautioned,

“Now you go to sleep. You get up, I’ll give you some more of what you just got. Now sleep!” He glared over at Marlon and Michael.

“Same goes for you two. You move, I’ll knock the black off your butts. Good night.”

As he exited the room, he made a purpose of turning out the light, shrouding the room in darkness and shadows.

The room was still and silent, except for the sounds of Randy crying intermittently.

Michael, lying there and hugging his pillow, being the sweet boy he was, just couldn’t bear the sound of his baby brother crying.

“I’m sorry Randy…” He offered softly in the darkness. “Do you want to come sleep with me?

“No!’ Randy replied sternly. “Just leave me alone!”

Feeling sad, Michael was starting to slowly drift to sleep. And when he awoke, his entire world would have changed.

 

Beep…Beep….Beep

At the sound of the strange, monotone chiming, Michael Jackson slowly began to open his eyes.

And it became swiftly apparent he was not at home.

Gone were the plaid walls of his room, and that poster of a beautiful Diana Ross.

Instead, Michael was in an austere, all white room, an odd, squarish tent of plastic surrounding his head and upper body.

So scared was he, Michael did the only natural thing a ten-year-old boy could do.

“Mama! Mama! I want my Mama! Mama--Help!”

Crying out, Michael was hollering for his salvation in a world that suddenly was foreign to him.

After a few moments, a familiar face appeared over him.

Joseph.

As his father pushed the plastic tent back, Michael could tell something was truly wrong.

His father’s cheeks were damp and his eyes were bloodshot.

Had…had Joseph Jackson been crying? Big, strong, unmoved Joseph?

“Daddy…where am I?” Michael asked weakly and noticed that his left forearm was wrapped in gauze.

Gripping the boy’s slim shoulders, Joseph swallowed hard before replying tightly,

“You’re in the hospital, Son…something happened…”

Michael went to speak, but stopped when his father mashed a long finger to his little mouth.

“Mike, listen to me…” Joseph held his face close to his son’s, light eyes searching it seriously.

“Something happened, during the night while your mother and I were at the church. Somehow, the house caught on fire and burned down. The house burned, Son--”

At the idea that the house was a pile of matchsticks, Michael instantly began inquiring about his brothers.

“Is everyone okay? Where’s Jackie? And Tito? Jermaine? Marlon and Randy?” He whimpered, tears filling his eyes with worry.

“Randy’s okay, Son…look there he is.” Michael looked where his father was pointing and saw he was not alone in the hospital room.

In the bed beside him, Michael could make out his little brother, sleeping, a similar plastic tent constructed over him, oxygen hissing lightly.

(Author’s Note: I know about these sorts of tents because when my grandfather had a heart attack in 1983, he was in a similar tent the last few days of his life.)

“What about the others?” Michael pushed further, and before his father could answer him, a loud shriek out in the hall caught both their attention.

The door to the room flung open, and Katherine, still wearing her church dress and cape came flying in, sobbing hysterically.

Michael’s chest tightened as he watched his mother go racing into Joseph’s arms.

No…no…it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

And yet it was.

“Joe! Joe! My babies! My sons! They’re gone! They’re GONE!” The woman screamed at the top of her lungs before burying her face in her husband’s chest.

“Who? Who Kate? Which ones? Kate, who?” Joseph was frantically, pulling at his wife, holding her back and trying to get an answer out of her.

What she said next was the worst possible thing any father could have heard.

“All of them! All four! Jackie! Tito! Jermaine! Marlon! My babies! They’re just babies! Their lives hadn’t even started. LORD WHY?”

As Katherine sank to the floor, clutching Joseph as he began to weep, Michael just sat there.

Mouth agape, eyes widened in utter and complete shock.

It wasn’t true.

It couldn’t be true.

There was no way his four older brothers were all gone. Just like that. It couldn’t be true.

Not when he’d just seen them a few hours before.

No. Marlon still owed him that blue marble.

Jackie had to be somewhere sucking on those cigarettes his parents disapproved of for a boy his age.

Jermaine had so many girls to chase and another indoor game that weekend.

And Tito…Tito was supposed to be stealing his cake from the social somewhere.

They couldn’t be gone.

They couldn’t be…dead.

Falling back into the mattress of his bed, Michael screamed in agony.

Agony for his deceased brothers.

Looking over at the other bed, Michael realized that he and Randy were the only Jackson brothers left.

Just the two of them.

 

Fifteen Years Later

Indianapolis, Indiana

 

“Do I want ‘Coconut Paradise’ or ‘Cucumber Coolness?”

Michael Jackson wondered quietly to himself as he stood before the large mirror over the washbasin of his bathroom, carefully shaving his face with a small, golden straight razor.

Michael was no longer a little boy, but now a man of twenty-five.

Standing before the mirror, trying to avoid slicing into his jugular vein, anyone could see he was quite an attractive young man.

Tall and remarkably slim, and boasting an angular, lean taut body, it was clear that Michael had the build of a dancer.

Indeed for the last four years, Michael had been running the Starlight Academy, an exclusive dance academy. Before his work as an instructor, Michael had danced for seven years on Broadway as such productions as “Black Heat”, “Sophisticated Gentlemen” and “Nefari, the Jungle Man”.

But at the ripe “old” age of twenty-one, Michael retired from the world of stage--with the three Tony’s to credit no less--and decided his expertise would have been better used teaching a new generation the art of dance.

So there Michael was, living out his days in a high-rise apartment complex, where his biggest decision was should he teach his students how to time-step, or moonwalk?

“I really wish you would use a normal razor to shave and not that sorry excuse for a machete, Darling.” A voice, soft and heavily accented chuckled from somewhere nearby.

Leaning over the washbasin and starting to rinse away shaving cream residue, Michael grinned at the figure being reflected behind him in the mirror.

Standing just inside the open door to the bathroom was Fabienne Comteste, Michael’s fiancée.

A year Michael’s junior and standing even taller than him, Fabienne was a former ballet dancer, whom Michael had met six years earlier while performing in the Nefari show.

Fabienne was a stunning girl, of French heritage, who had been raised in Martinique before coming to the United States as a teen to pursue ballet. Statuesque and slender, with long, silky black hair and slanted grey eyes that popped off her café au lait complexion, she seemed the only natural woman that would get to Michael‘s heart.

“You know I like my golden razor. I won’t give it up for anyone. One day, I’ll pass it on to my son.” Michael chuckled as his lover came closer, her body barely covered in a thin beige satin gown.

“Our son…?” Fabienne chuckled, wiggling her brows at her soon to be husband as he was splashing on the cucumber aftershave and picking at his head of thick glossy, Jherri Kurls.

“Yes. Our son. Who will be a woolly mammoth if he doesn’t shave like I do.” Michael insisted as Fabienne came behind him, wrapping her arms around his slim waist and pecking at the flesh just behind Michael’s ear--an action Michael treasured each time she did it.

“And what will our son be named? Since you’re so sure of yourself?” Fabienne giggled and continued delivering those little spine chilling smacks to Michael.

“Prince Michael Joe Jackson, Junior.” Michael replied matter-of-factly, reaching and grabbing a towel monogrammed with his initials to start dabbing at his face.

“Prince?” Fabienne drew back in horror. “You mean like that little dude in the high heels that sings those unbearable, obscene songs?”

“Calm yourself, Bè be. Prince is my grandfather’s name!” Michael was alarmed that his wife to be was thinking he’d actually have the nerve to name their child after that tiny terror of the music community. “Jesus Christ. I’d never name my child after that freak.”

Replacing the towel, Michael pulled Fabienne around and was kissing at her little pouty mouth.

“Now what’s for breakfast, Love-Bug?”

“Your favorite…scrambled eggs, ham steaks and fried pommes de terre.” (Potatoes)

“Yum!” Michael kissed her again, holding her close. He loved her so much.

“Michael, before you get too carried away, Darling, will you please go check the mail? Remember, we did this yesterday and you never did get the mail!” Fabienne was all smiles as Michael guffawed loudly, patting her backside.

“Alright.” Michael was tucking his white tank top into the baggy red sweatpants he was wearing that morning.

As he jogged from the bathroom, leaving Fabienne to start on her own make up routine, he teased,

“When I come back, I may pick up where we left off yesterday, Bè be!”

* * *

“Water bill…light bill…gas bill--why do I get a gas bill? My entire home is electric!” Michael lamented to himself as he leaned against the large wall of mailboxes, just inside the front doors of the complex, sorting letters.

“You may have already won a million dollars. I’ve got seventeen…take a hike, Ed McMahon!” Michael snorted shaking his head.

Michael was in a pretty good mood.

At least he was, until he heard that familiar, ear-grating voice.

“Hoo! Hey, Mike! What’s happening my Brother?”

Shaking his head, Michael shuddered, before reluctantly looking up.

Staggering in through the front doors was Michael’s younger sibling, Randy.

In the last fifteen years, from 1968 to 1983 while Michael’s life was going upwards, as he was becoming world known for his dancing, Randy’s life had been slowly spiraling further and further out of control.

Starting at about the age of ten, Randy had had various minor scrapes with the law, everything from truancy from school to being busted for a possessing a small amount of marijuana at the age of nineteen.

Randy, a heavy drinker since his teens, was most often found under the influence of some liquor and had even wrapped his car around a light post when he was twenty. Now twenty-three, Randy was still Jack Daniels’ best friend and known all over the state for chasing anything pretty in a skirt.

Randy’s way with women disgusted Michael almost more than his drinking like he had an aluminum liver. It wasn’t anything strange to see Randy with no less than five different women in a week, spending his nights out on the town or in his own apartment--two floors above Michael’s--pretending he was a porn star.

There was even one time--Michael never did figure how he managed it--but Randy saw twenty-four different women in the span of seven days. But he never attempted it again once he came down with crab lice and literally had to be in the hospital for his genital woes.

Randy made more than enough money giving private drumming and bongo lessons downtown, only a few blocks away from the Starlight Agency and once rent was paid, he was all about the ladies.

Right then, as he was bumping against the wall towards Michael, Randy was dressed for attention in a pair of spandex, black and white striped trousers that highlighted his thick, toned legs and a black fringed tank top that showed off his tight, muscular torso. A diamond stud glittered in his earlobe as he neared his brother, the smell of alcohol on him plain as day.

“Hey Randy. Another wild night out?” Michael questioned tightly, vainly wondering if Randy would ever settle down with just ONE woman. Before some STD made his junk fall off!

“Hell yeah man!” Randy laughed happily as he was opening his mailbox and extracting letters. “I tell ya’ this chick I’m seeing…Heather…Hailey….Hannah…some shit with an “H”, is a damn alley cat. Girl scratched me to ribbons. But she makes love like you wouldn’t believe. Damn!” Randy cackled as he was eyeing his mail. “That body of hers…”

Trying to shift the conversation from who Randy was screwing with this particular fifteen minutes, Michael touched on a more sensitive topic.

“I…I went to see mother the other day. She looked so lonely in that place. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. It’s been so long since you’ve gone to look in on her…” Michael commented, almost timidly and the chuckling coming from Randy abruptly stopped.

“You know we’re all she has left since Daddy died.”

Never looking up from his mail, Randy replied so coldly, ice chips flew from his puckered lips.

“Like she would have known who Daddy was anyway. You know she’s been out her mind for years. And you saw her five years ago when we went and told her Daddy drank himself to death. She didn’t even react. That’s why the hell we got her in a home in the first place.”

Michael trembled at the way his brother was so comfortable relaying the truth. As awful as it was, Randy was speaking the alcohol stained truth.

Ever since that tragic night that changed their lives forever, Katherine Jackson had been unstable, and in and out of different institutions over the years for varying degrees of severity of malaise and depression. Sometimes she was conscious of the real world, but most days it was still the 1960s for her and she could be found talking to air, but in her mind, she would be addressing one of her four dead boys. At the same time, still not fully coming to grips with the idea of his sons being gone, and the idea his wife was losing her mind, Joseph Jackson began hitting the bottle harder and harder, before succumbing to complications of cirrhosis of the liver shortly before Thanksgiving in 1977.

“Sometimes…” Michael trailed off and swallowed, trying to control himself and keep from bursting into to tears at the sudden pain he felt in his chest. “Sometimes, Mama knows who I am.”

“Yeah, forever a ten-year-old to her.” Randy, disgruntled was ripping open a red envelope and perusing the letter inside. “As long as I can keep up with my half of the payments to keep her in the home, that’s all I want to do with it. I ain’t seven no more. I’m a man. I’m twenty-three. But she don’t see that. Mama don’t see that…” Randy paused and squinted at the letter.

“I gotta go man. I just got a note from Tiffani, she wants to come over later. I gotta get ready for her. Now that’s a sexy woman! Later my man!” With that, Randy was streaking over to the elevators.

Angered by the lack of care that Randy seemed to have for their mother, their last relative in the world, Michael shouted after his sibling.

“Mama’s more important than some stupid ‘physical conquest’, Man!”

As he stepped onto the elevator, Randy calmly shouted back.

“Kiss my ass!”

Unable to control himself, Michael pounded a fist against the wall, causing all the mailboxes to jiggle, he was so angered by Randy’s being void of compassion.

Leaning his head against the cool boxes, Michael sneered,

“I hope to God you get crabs again and they put a new hole in you!”

Turning on his heel, Michael head lowered, went to join Fabienne for breakfast.

 

“Darling,

I went down to the market to get some lettuce to go with dinner. Keep an eye on the casserole in the oven. I’ll be back soon.

Love you, Fabienne.”

Michael silently read the little Post-it that had been attached to the front door of their apartment.

He never quite understood how Fabienne did it. Everyday, he and his fiancée went to work at the Starlight Academy, Michael teaching jazz, tap and break dancing, while Fabienne taught ballet. Both worked the same hours from about nine in the morning until six in the afternoon.

But always, whenever Michael finally dragged himself home, dinner was almost finished cooking and Fabienne would be just as alert as she had been leaving the house that morning.

Michael had no clue how that willowy creature pulled it off, but he was glad she did.

Letting himself into the apartment, Michael started to throw his keys onto the little marble table that was a catchall for everything from keys to loose change.

A small white envelope, addressed to Michael, sat on the table. Sucking on his teeth, the young man rolled his eyes as he recognized the writing scrawled on it.

It was the five hundred dollars he received every month from Randy to help pay to keep their mother in the home.

Unzipping his red sweatshirt and hanging it on a peg, Michael, hand to his chin, made his way into the living room, which smelled brightly of the tuna noodle casserole cooking away in the next room.

Taking a seat in his favorite tufted arm chair, Michael propped his feet up on the low wooden coffee table, his mind troubled.

He had been quite distracted the entire day after his heated exchange with Randy in regards to their mother. He just couldn’t get over how his brother truly did not seem to care to see their mother. She was all they had left. Their only relation in the world besides each other.

It never bothered Michael that his mother had been disturbed since the fire. He always understood how hurt his mother was to have lost her children. How traumatic it was to her. Michael figured if he’d been through the loss of a child, he’d be unhinged himself.

Relaxing in that chair, Michael tried to recall that night, so long ago that caused his mother to go loony and his father to drown his sorrows in gin.

He didn’t remember much, just going to sleep with Marlon and Randy in the room and waking up in the hospital, his life wrecked. He had no idea what started the fire, but had heard talk that in the room shared by the older three brothers, the curtain had gone up in flames, possibly from hanging near a faulty outlet.

While it provided an explanation, it didn’t provide much comfort.

As Michael began to doze off in that armchair he never knew that already, the catalyst for one of the most terrifying times in his life was already in motion.

As he appeared to be slumbering peacefully in his chair, Michael really was feeling anything but peace. He was haunted by quite a peculiar dream.

Michael could see himself. It wasn’t quite an out-of-body experience because Michael Jackson was not seeing himself as he appeared, as a twenty-five-year old man.

Michael saw himself as a child. As the ten year old, he’d once been.

Child Michael was lying in the thick snow, flakes falling all around him, appearing asleep. His little face, body and pajamas were blackened with soot.

Looking from himself, Adult Michael could see his childhood home, being consumed by flames, the top floor pretty much charred beyond recognition.

On the front porch, Michael could see a team of firemen, axes and water hoses in hand, rushing in through the door.

Red lights flashed on the street as more fire trucks pulled up to the door.

Eerily, in all the chaos and disorder, there was absolutely no sound.

It was completely silent, as more firefighters were trying to battle the blaze from the outside, neighbors crowding around on the sidewalks, looking on.

Out the front door, another fighter came out, clutching Randy, a child again to his chest before coming and laying the boy beside Michael and starting to perform CPR on his tiny chest.

As Randy’s chest was being pounded upon.

Looking back to the fire, Michael saw it.

Just barely.

In the upstairs window, he could see all four of his older brothers, frantically beating against a window. Their mouths open, begging for help in silent screams. Eventually, one of the panes of glass was shattered and he could see one of his brothers waving their arms out in the cold night.

Then, right before his eyes, Michael watched as the roof caved in, sending the firefighters inside scattering away wildly.

One firefighter, a ladder in hand, just stood there. That piece of wood no longer of any use.

The four elder Jackson boys were no more.

“Aaaah! My brothers!”

Michael screamed shrilly as he fell forward onto the plush carpet, hand placed to his wet and heaving chest.

Disoriented, Michael looked about him.

He wasn’t at that burning house on Chestnut Avenue. He wasn’t there.

He was at home. In his apartment. Safe at home!

“Bè be?”

At the mention of his pet name, Michael looked up startled, as Fabienne, still in her leotard and toe shoes was kneeling at his side, a look of fright on her gorgeous face.

“Darling, what’s wrong? I heard you screaming!” She questioned and was wiping at Michael’s damp and feverish brow. “Michael! You’re soaking wet! Are you ill?”

“No…no…” Michael gulped and was leaning against the chair as Fabienne was now hugging him tenderly. “It was a bad dream.”

“Oh, my poor Darling…you should come eat. Dinner is ready--you’ll feel better.” The woman was standing and helping to pull Michael to his feet.

As he followed his fiancée into the kitchen to eat, Michael chose not to tell Fabienne about just what he had dreamt. He didn’t want to worry her any further.

But Michael’s worries were just beginning.

For the next several weeks, Michael Jackson was walking around as a shell of the man he once was.

Every single night, without any provocation, Michael was constantly dreaming about the fire that claimed the lives of his older brothers.

In every nightmare, Michael could see himself and Randy as children being rescued to safety, while the others had the roof collapse on them.

And every time, Michael would awaken, drenched in perspiration, breathing heavily, sometimes even weeping.

It was almost enough to drive him out of his mind. He found himself drinking more and more coffee to remain alert and it was becoming a struggle to not tell Fabienne what was bothering him so badly.

Often, Michael went to try to talk to Randy, but knowing his brother, Michael was sure Randy was sleeping his way around the city with various women. He could have been gone for months at a time, depending upon who he was keeping company with. He would work, but just occupy various homes until he and his girlfriend of the moment called it quits.

Michael had never been so alone.

Then one crisp day in April, Michael’s troubles, once confined to the nighttime, made a sudden emergence in broad daylight.

It was early one Sunday morning, and as usual, Michael and Fabienne were going about grooming and dressing, preparing to go out for breakfast as they did every Sunday, before spending the day shopping at the local mall.

Fabienne was applying her make up as Michael was shaving with that confounded golden razor again. Fabienne had been asking Michael what color lipstick she should wear, matte red or frosted pink, when Michael looked down as he rinsed his razor.

When glanced back up at the mirror to shave some more, he nearly severed his own throat.

“Bè be…I’m liking the red, but the pink looks so good on me…” Fabienne’s voice seemed to fade and was replaced by the wildly erratic beating of Michael’s own heart.

That’s because what was staring back at Michael was so utterly frightening.

Huddled together, just behind Michael, were his four brothers.

His four deceased brothers.

All four of them looking as how they must have appeared when they died. Their clothing--all four wore pajamas--were tattered and singed, patches of clothing completely missing in some places.

And their faces…lord their faces. Looking upon them threatened to make Michael vomit things he hadn’t eaten.

Burned.

That’s what the boys were. Burned. Hair gone, skin blistered, welted and peeling. Bloody.

Disfigured. Noses missing, lips gone. Bone peeking out under the charred flesh.

Staring at him from their hollow sockets, their eyes seeing nothing but death.

Jackie was smoking. But it wasn’t a cigarette jammed in his mouth. It was his body that was smoking!

Michael wanted to scream. Wanted to wail for help, jump in circles, cry. Anything.

And he did nothing at all.

Except collapse to the floor in a clammy heap.

He awoke sometime later, sprawled on the floor of the bathroom, with a worried Fabienne slapping at his face.

When asked what has caused him to suddenly faint like that, Michael once more neglected to tell Fabienne the truth, afraid that she would think he was crazy. Perhaps even have him committed like his mother.

Instead, he made light of the situation, chuckling and saying he must have passed out from hunger and suggested they hurry up so they could go eat.

It took a bit of prodding, but Michael managed to talk Fabienne into putting the rest of her face on, and he finished shaving--avoiding any sight of the mirror.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Darling? You gave me such a fright!” Fabienne was still fretting a short time later as she and Michael came strolling arm in arm off the elevator and into the front lobby.

“Bè be, don’t worry about it. I’m fine…I’m fine.” Michael assured his lover and pinched her cheek softly.

As she smiled up at him, Michael began to suggest,

“Why don’t you go ahead and get the car--oh shit….”

Ahead of the happy couple was an all too familiar sight.

Leaning against the mailboxes, trying to maintain his balance, was Randy Jackson.

His hair, arranged in curls like Michael’s was all over his head and a muzzle of a beard had begun to sprout from his chin. What was visible of his face was covered in different colored lipsticks marks, from different women, for sure.

The blue silk shirt and matching slacks he wore were rumpled and wrinkled and Michael wondered when the last time was he’d changed clothes.

Or how many times he’d slept in those clothes--if he’d slept at all.

As Michael and Fabienne neared Randy, he reached into his pocket and came up with a small flask taking a drink from it.

“God, I can’t believe he drinks like a damn fish when he knows liquor is what killed our Daddy.” Michael commented mutedly as the two of them stared at Randy, who was now shaking his flask, trying to get the last drops to fall into his open mouth.

“Mon Dieu! Perhaps he will have to hit ‘rock-bottom’ in order to see the error of his ways. You only worry for your brother because you love him. You’re a good brother.” Fabienne was giving Michael one of those little ear smacks, before taking her arm from his, and heading towards the door to get their car.

“Check the mail, ma petit.” She called as she went by Randy.

“Hey there…Fab…Fabi….you know what your name is!”

Randy snorted as she went by and she acknowledged him with a scant nod before disappearing outside.

“Hey Brother…looking sharp. I like that green leather jacket you‘re sporting. That‘s hot…” Randy chuckled as he went stumbling by Michael, destined for the elevators, to else crash or entertain more girls.

Sickened by the reckless behavior, Michael didn’t even watch him go, instead opening his mailbox to see what bills awaited him that day.

Opening the box, Michael was a bit surprised to see a lone letter in the box.

Lifting it out, he noticed it smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Curious, he saw only his name written on the envelope. And it wasn’t from Randy. No, Randy always wrote with big, sloppy script that looked as though the letters themselves were fully lit and drunk.

The writing on this envelope was even and small. Elegant.

Interest piqued, Michael opened the letter revealing a note with one cryptic sentence.

 

“Ask Randy about the mother-of-pearl lighter.”

 

 

 

Michael stared at the note, confusion on him like that leather jacket.

Lighter? What did he know about a lighter?

As far as Michael knew, Randy stopped smoking after he got busted for pot. That had been years ago.

It just didn’t make sense. Unless he swiped it off of one of his numerous lovers.

“Allons-y! Allons-y, Darling!” (Allons-y means “Let’s Go”)

Stuffing the note in his jacket pocket, Michael tried to push it from his mind as he jogged towards the door, where Fabienne was waving him on.

Michael Jackson had tried to keep the idea of that mother-of-pearl lighter out of his thoughts, but it just wouldn’t leave him alone.

All through the pancake buffet, he was trying his best to recall anytime in his life he might have seen the lighter, or what connection Randy could possibly have to it.

All through the early matinee they watched, Michael’s mind was spinning as he tried to think of who, if any one he knew of smoked.

Sure he’d known a whole slew of smokers in his dancing days--the dancers smoked to keep slim--but all he ever say them light up with was a match.

And now, at the local mall, Michael trudged along behind Fabienne, as she was bouncing in and out of different stores, purchasing anything she liked. Michael didn’t mind, whenever a pile of clothing appeared at a checkout counter, he simply handed over his credit card, his mind too troubled to care that his fiancée was taking a few thousand dollars out of his account.

But just because he was spoiling her, it wasn’t lost on Fabienne that Michael was barely paying attention to her or what she was buying.

And as they took a seat on a bench to rest their tired feet, Fabienne wanted to know what was bothering him.

“Darling…you’ve been detached all day. What’s troubling you?” She questioned, taking his long hand in her smaller one, grey eyes searching his sullen face.

Michael stared at Fabienne. That beautiful creature he was so devoted to. He couldn’t hide his troubles from her any longer.

He just couldn’t bear it. It was eating him alive to keep secrets from this woman.

In the next twenty, tear-stained minutes, Michael told Fabienne everything. From the disturbing dreams about the burning house, to the fainting after seeing the images of his brothers in the mirror while shaving, and now this odd note business.

“Are you sure you don’t know anything about a lighter? I mean even though you don’t smoke, whomever sent this letter thinks you know something. Are you absolutely sure?” Fabienne asked softly as she was brushing the stray curls falling onto Michael’s forehead out the way absently. “Think hard, Darling.”

“Bè be, no I don’t--” Michael started and his eyes bugged as a sudden thought connected in his mind.

“Jesus, Christ!” Michael exclaimed, leaping to his feet and turning back to Fabienne. “It’s been so long since I’ve thought of this, but I do know about a mother-of-pearl lighter!”

“You do?” Was all his confused woman could ask as Michael was grasping both her hands.

“My oldest brother, Jackie…he used to always sneak and smoke cigarettes when my parents weren’t around. They didn’t like him smoking around us kids. Thought it set a bad example.” Michael was rambling, his mouth not seeming to move quickly enough to let the words come out. “He used to have a mother-of-pearl lighter. His girlfriend gave it to him on their anniversary. Or his birthday. Something. But he lit every cigarette he put in his mouth with it. I literally have not thought of it in fifteen years.”

Running a hand through her own hair, Fabienne put in,

“Okay, so the lighter belonged to Jackie. What does that have to do with Randy?”

Arms falling to his side Michael shrugged. “I don’t know Bè be, but I plan to find out…”

Michael found himself pacing back and forth outside of the closed door to Randy’s apartment that afternoon. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there trying to come up with the nerve to ask his brother about Jackie’s lighter.

All the way home, he had no idea if Randy was even at home of if he was off with one of his many women. Lucky for Michael, he found Randy’s blue BMW in the parking lot. He knew it was Randy’s car because through the back glass he could see several, used, prophylactics in the backseat. That was just like Randy Jackson.

Finally getting up the nerve, Michael mashed the doorbell and listened as it chimed very faintly inside the apartment.

A moment later the door cracked open, but Michael was not looking upon his younger brother.

Instead, holding the door open, was a petite, and very pretty Hispanic woman, wearing nothing but a lilac lace bra and matching underwear. And it really didn’t seem to bother her to answer the door to a complete stranger scantily clad like that.

“Um, hi…” Michael stammered, trying to keep his eyes on the woman’s overly made up face instead of her ample chest.

“Can I see Randy?”

The woman seemed as though she couldn’t understand Michael, and when she spoke up, in a husky voice, it became apparent why.

“Que? Que?” The woman mumbled in Spanish, as Michael rolling his eyes brushed past her and off into Randy’s apartment.

It was much neater than Michael had expected, but he figured if you had as many women in your life as Randy, someone had to clean up eventually.

The lady in panties was still speaking foreign words as Michael advanced down the hall to open door of Randy’s bedroom. It wasn’t hard to find.

The door had the words “Love Chamber” painted on it in.

Hanging in the doorway, Michael gazed upon Randy, who was seated in the middle of his bed, wearing only a pair of Levis, watching music videos on his big screen television.

But it was what Randy was doing while watching the videos that captured Michael’s attention.

A long, thin cigarette dangled from his pouted lips, wisps of smoke trailing from it.

Aghast that his brother was not only pickling his liver, but also barbecuing his lungs, Michael stormed into the room.

“Randy, you’re smoking now? Is this what you’re really doing to yourself now? Smoking cancer sticks?” He demanded as he planted himself at the foot of the bed, glaring at his little brother.

Blowing a smoke ring in the air, Randy appeared more calm that usual, as he took the ciggy from his mouth, and was flicking ashes into an clear blue ashtray on his bedside table.

“What’s it to you, Mike?” He wondered and was taking another drag off it. “What are you gonna do? Wait till Mama has a lucid moment and go squeal on my ass?”

That comment couldn’t have hurt Michael any worse than if Randy had taken his fist and socked him in the nose.

Michael was so angered, he completely forgot to inquire about Jackie’s lighter.

“That’s evil Randy…talking about Mama like that…” Michael sputtered. “You know she’s the only relation we’ve got left.”

“Ha!” Randy crowed, placing his cigarette in the ashtray before standing up and placing hands on his hips.

“You got some goddamned nerve coming up in my house and telling me I’m evil!” He snapped. “You wanna talk about evil? You wanna talk about evil?”

Randy was over and in Michael’s face, mashing a finger into his brother’s chest painfully. “I’ll tell you what in the hell is evil. Our parents! That’s what’s evil. Leaving us basically to raise ourselves. Every time we looked up Mama was in and out of some crazy house because all her marbles sprang loose, and Daddy….Daddy was too damn weak to handle any of it and lived out the rest of his days in bars and taverns. Sure, four brothers died. Four of their children died. Sure they lost four sons. But guess what! There were two left. Michael and Randy Jackson! We were left. US! And we didn’t have a damn soul to look after us. A ten-year-old and a seven-year-old. We’re fucking lucky we turned out as well as we did…” Randy trailed off and was looking past his brother.

Following his gaze, Michael saw what had taken Randy’s attention so swiftly.

Standing in the doorway to the room, a sandwich on a plate in hand, was the Hispanic woman that had greeted Michael earlier.

“Michael, you need to get the hell on…” Michael turned back as Randy was addressing him in a much lighter tone of voice. Randy sounded almost sad. “I’m living my life and that’s what you need to do too, man. Leave the past in the past. Clinging to Mama ain’t helping shit. It’s not going to make her mind solid, not gonna bring Daddy or the brothers back.”

Pointing to the door, Randy’s voice returned to it’s usual bitterness.

“Now get out my house before I drop kick you out. Get out!”

Glaring at Randy with more hatred than Michael ever thought could have invaded his heart, he turned before he would have said something he regretted , and started out the room.

Pausing over the woman with the sandwich, he hissed angrily,

“For the love of God, Lady, put on some clothes! This is a home, not a brothel!”

As the woman was cursing after him in her native tongue, Michael sprinted from Randy’s apartment, slamming the door behind him. Stomping towards the elevators to get back to Fabienne and normalcy, Michael didn’t know in just a few short hours, he’d be right back there, all over again.

Michael Jackson was having the worst time that night.

Flipping back and forth under the covers of his bed, his silk pajamas sticking to his slim body as sweat seemed to be pouring from every surface on him.

As usual, he was being plagued by another nightmare, about the night the house burned down.

But this night, the dream was much different than all the others. More detailed. More haunting.

Once again, Michael felt as though he were having an out of body experience, but instead of seeing himself lying in the snow outside as the house blazed to ashes he was inside it.

Inside the house as it was a raging inferno.

Michael found himself just inside the front door of the house, his vision hazy from the thick, acrid smoke billowing from upstairs.

Unwillingly, Michael was moving towards the staircase and slowly, cautiously, he began to ascend them.

Several steps up, he discovered one of his brothers.

Sprawled out on the steps, appearing asleep, was Randy as a child. This was new to Michael. He never knew Randy had made it out of their bedroom that night. He’d always assumed Randy was rescued from his bed, as he had been.

As he passed by Randy, something gleaming in his curled up fist caught his eye.

Michael had to blink several times to make sure he was seeing properly, but he was sure of it.

There, in little Randy’s hand, was Jackie’s treasured mother-of-pearl lighter.

Michael found continued up the stairs of that house on Chestnut Avenue, and on the second floor, he found he wasn’t alone.

The door to the bedroom he had shared with Randy and Marlon was wide open.

And laying face down in the doorway, was Marlon. Just as he had appeared the last time Michael had seen him, in those blue flannel pajamas. That stupid Archie comic was even shoved in his back pocket. And by the way Marlon didn’t even appear to be breathing, it was clear…he was already dead.

Marlon was already dead.

Looking past his brother and into the room, Michael could see himself as a child, knocked out in his bed, the clouds of black smoke hovering just over his little face.

Michael could see he was advancing further down the hall to where the door to the older boys’ room stood closed.

As it opened, without being touched, a scene of pure terror was unfolding.

Part of the roof in the bedroom had already collapsed in a pile of flames and rubble, and they were trapped.

Jackie, Tito, and Jermaine were trapped in the far corner of the room, all the debris blocking them and keeping them from being able to run out of the room.

To safety.

Just like all the other dreams before them, there was no sound, but Michael didn’t need sound.

He could see clearly that all the boys were crying, shouting and coughing as they inhaled the dangerous smoke.

The three of them crowded around the only window on the east end of the room, were beatin at it, and frantically trying to open it.

Tito, tears running down his face, had his hands clasped to his chest praying. Praying so hard as Jackie and Jermaine were still banging on the panes of glass. Trying to get away out and to freedom from this prison of destruction.

Finally, Jermaine’s small fist burst through the glass, causing his hand and arm to immediately start bleeding, but the boy seemed not to notice as he and Jackie crowded the window, trying to breathe whatever fresh air they could cram into their heaving lungs and to scream for more help.

Behind the boys, Tito dropped to his knees, hand to his chest, before his eyes fluttered closed and he slumped against the chest of drawers.

After a while, Jackie and Jermaine noticed that Tito was no longer at the window with them and in a panic, both boys were on their knees at his side, trying vainly to shake him and slap him back to consciousness. But it was no use. Tito was already gone.

Realizing the tragic loss of Tito, the two other boys began to sob, and were hugging his lifeless body against theirs.

Michael went to move closer to his brothers, in some way to try to comfort them, when it happened.

As Jermaine and Jackie were mourning Tito, crouching over his body, above them, what was left of the roof gave way.

It fell in on all three boys and to his horror, right before his eyes, Michael was watching his brothers; watching Tito, and Jackie and Jermaine, burning right before his eyes.

Unable to bear the heart wrenching spectacle of the two boys on fire, writhing and yelling in pain, flesh blistering and puckering right down to their bones. Michael turned to flee the house.

That was when he saw him.

Leaning against the open doorway, was Randy.

Randy, who had been laid out on the stairs, was now standing in the doorway, looking on as the older three were dying.

What shook Michael the most was that Randy didn’t appear frightened, or sad that the boys were drawing their last breaths in front of him.

He wasn’t even crying.

What chilled Michael, right down to the bone, though the room was in heated flames, was that Randy was smiling.

The little bastard was smiling, like he was pleased.

As Michael ran, fleeing the room, he once again saw that Randy was holding that lighter in his hands.

He had that damned lighter!

Racing down the steps of the house, Michael dared a look back.

There was little Randy, standing there, flicking the lighter on and off, starting and extinguishing the tiny flame as he watched him go.

For the first time ever in a dream, Michael heard a sound.

A loud CRACK! noise. Head jerking up, Michael saw what had caused the noise.

The entire upper floor was collapsing onto him!

Desperately Michael tried to leap out the way to save himself.

Thump!

Michael awoke with a start as he landed on the hardwood floor of his dim bedroom.

Sitting in the darkness for a moment, Michael tried to collect himself and get his mind together, to try to make sense of what he’d just dreamed.

Somehow, someway, he just knew in his soul that Randy knew something about the fire he didn’t. Something about the fire that claimed the lives of their four older brothers and destroyed both their parents.

And he was going to find out right then, what that last piece of the puzzle was.

Getting to his feet, Michael paused to tell Fabienne where he was going. He found her side of the bed vacant except for the little stuffed poodle she always slept with. Normally Michael would have looked all over their apartment for her, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to talk to Randy right then and it couldn’t wait.

Making his way out of the bedroom and into the hall that led to the living room, Michael ran into Fabienne, who was coming from having a midnight snack, several Oreo cookies still in her hands.

“Michael?” She questioned sleepily as he went blazing right by her, flinging the door to the apartment open making his way to the elevators.

“Michael!”

Just as the doors to the elevator were closing, Fabienne threw herself past them, joining Michael.

“Where are you going? It’s four in the morning!” She demanded as Michael pressed the button for the nineteenth floor, where Randy’s apartment laid.

Gazing over Fabienne’s thick and unruly head of hair, Michael remarked grimly as he watched the numbers over the door flashing.

“I think Randy killed our brothers.”

Taken aback, Fabienne gaped at Michael.

“Are you joking? Michael! You think Randy killed your brothers?” She repeated, as a bell dinged and the doors slid open, Michael rushing into the hall, with her at his heels. “Will you listen to yourself? How did Randy do it? He was a child. Barely more than a baby, Bè be! Michael!”

As soon as Michael reached the door, he didn’t even hit the bell, instead, with a curled fist, he began pounding on the door.

Almost automatically it opened. Randy was entertaining again. A set of red-haired twins, both dressed as topless nurses were looking out at Michael blankly.

Not even really seeing the half-naked women, Michael forced his way in, right past them, leaving Fabienne to stare and wonder just what kind of things Randy was doing when he wasn’t stumbling all over creation drunk.

Hunting Randy, Michael began making his way through his brother’s living room. Michael didn’t have to look for long, Randy came right to him.

“Woo! Who’s ready for a complimentary mammogram?” Randy, dressed as a doctor, complete with a stethoscope, came running out of his bedroom, a grin of aroused glee on his face.

The grin instantly dissolved the moment he laid eyes on Michael.

“Goddamn, Mike! What in the hell are you doing here?” He growled stamping his foot. “I’m in the middle of doing something!”

No longer able to contain himself, Michael declared,

“Did you start the fire that killed our brothers?”

Randy’s eyes widened .

“Did I do what?” He started, then glanced at the topless twins. “Bettina, Catarina, you two go wait in the room. GO!”

As the girls made tracks, Randy, exasperated, put his hands into his hair.

“Michael, have you finally done like Mama, and completely lost your damn mind? Hell no, I didn’t start that fire. I was SEVEN!”

The comment seemed not to even make its way into Michael’s ears.

His own eyes widening with a wildness that had never been seen in his face, Michael challenged in a low voice.

 

“Where’s Jackie’s mother-of-pearl cigarette lighter?”

“How in the hell should I know?” Randy retorted hotly, throwing his head back. “It’s been fifteen fucking years! It’s probably in the ashes that used to be our house!”

Going over, he grasped Michael’s thin arm in his hand.

“Now you need to carry your loony ass on out my house. I see you got Fabienne with you. I know you don’t want her to see me kick the activator out your ass. Now beat it!”

With a strict shove, Michael was thrown forward and into his fiancée who had been standing there, silently watching the madness unfold.

As they both staggered, one trying to keep the other from falling, Michael heard a woman ask timidly,

“Randy, will you come to bed? Sister and I are lonely…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming Bettina!” Michael heard Randy reply gruffly, and the woman giggled.

“I’m Catarina…”

“Whatever!”

Getting situated on his feet, Michael spun to give Randy a good piece of his mind.

“You stupid son of a…” Michael stopped abruptly, his eyes starting to swell in his head.

A few feet behind Randy, who was still gazing at him with pure hatred, was one of the topless twins in the doorway to the bedroom.

Michael couldn’t believe his eyes. He simply could not believe them.

The nearly naked woman had a pink cigarette jammed in her mouth and was lighting it.

With Jackie’s mother-of-pearl lighter!

“I’ll be damned! Aaaaaargh!” Michael wailed, flocking over to the woman and snatching the lighter from her.

Whirling around to Randy, and shaking it, he laughed like a madman.

“You don’t have the lighter! You say you don’t know where it was. That its in the ashes that used to be our house. Well if the damn lighter is supposed to be thirty miles away in O’Brien, I’d love to know just how in the hell this tramp of yours got a hold of it. Did she go rubble digging?”

“Tramp? Kiss my ass!” The twin growled, before turned and going back in the room, slamming the door so hard a painting on the wall fell off its peg.

“Hey Mike, you ain’t got no cause to go calling my girlfriends names! I don‘t call your woman names!” Randy pointed out and was pulling at his own hair in anguish. “He didn’t mean it Bettina!”

“I’m Catarina, you dumbass!”

“I don’t give a damn about what I called her!” Michael shrieked and shook off Fabienne who was trying to get him to leave with her before the situation got out of control.

Too late.

“I hate you! You black bastard!” Randy, bending and picking up a small statue of Buddha hurled it at his brother.

Michael ducked out the way, the hunk of porcelain just missing his head and exploding on the wall behind him.

Screaming in French, Fabienne was making a hasty exit.

“I ain’t moving my ass out of here until you tell me if you had something to do with that fire!” Michael insisted and gasped in pain as Randy hit in square in the chest with his stethoscope.

Yelling at the top of his lungs, Randy announced,

“You wanna know what happened? You wanna know what happened? I’ll tell your ass what happened!”

Leaning against the wall of the hallway and huffing loudly, Randy began to tell his tale.

“I don’t know if you remember much about that night, but I remember it.” A far away look came to Randy’s stormy eyes.

“That was the night Mama and Daddy went to the social at church. Left Jackie and them in charge of us. You remember that Mike? You remember that night?”

He focused on Michael so harshly that he visibly shook.

“That’s the night Jackie beat my ass cause I didn’t want to go to sleep. You was there. You and Marlon. You both watched as that big bastard beat the hell outta me. You didn’t even try to help me!”

“What could I have done? I was only a kid. Jackie would have wailed on me too!” Michael interjected, leaning against the opposite wall, feeling a bit guilty for not coming to Randy’s aid.

Randy completely ignored Michael’s remorseful remark.

“I hated Jackie. Hated him bad for what he did, and I wanted to get him back. Make him sorry for fixing it so my ass was swollen! I just had to get him back. So after you and Marlon went to sleep, I snuck out the room….eased on off into Jackie’s and them room…” Randy wandered away and was looking out the window that overlooked downtown Indianapolis.

“…I was gonna take his cigarettes to Mama and Daddy. You know they didn’t allow smoking in the house.” Randy paused with his hand on his hip thoughtfully for a moment. “You know, I think that was Jackie’s whole problem. Sucking on those cigarettes. Thought his ass was grown. Thinking he was a man, when he was nothing but a little boy…”

A soft chuckle left Randy’s mouth.

“I was gonna fix him. All us kids knew he kept his cigarettes hidden in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. I went right to it and opened it. There was the ciggies….and that mother-of-pearl lighter.”

“Yeah…yeah, the lighter…Michael echoed stiffly, still hanging onto the wall. “How’d you wind up with it, Randy?”

“I’ve kept this to myself for too long, Man, you know.” Randy shrugged, his head and shoulders drooping. “I wound up with the lighter because even though I wanted to just squeal like a pig on Jackie, I wanted to make it worse. So I grabbed the lighter and looked for something to set on fire…that’s when I saw the curtain behind his table. You know, the one on the window that faced the backyard. All I could think of, was how it would scare the living dog shit out of Jackie to wake up and see that curtain on fire.”

Randy grew quiet and Michael, mouth starting to fall open at the realization of what his brother was saying.

“You…you set the curtain on fire? You started the fire Randy?” Michael whispered, not even really sure he was speaking.

Facing Michael, all Randy could do was nod.

There was a moment of silence.

In the next moment, Michael was on top of Randy, pummeling him with fists of rage.

“You bastard! You stupid bastard! Do you realize what you said! Do you realize what you’ve done? You killed our brothers! You killed them! You started the fire that killed them Randy! How could you be so damn stupid! How could you!” Michael shrieked, fists steady landing blows. “I hate you! I hate you!”

“How should I have known? I was only seven! I was a kid!” Randy’s voice bounced and he was struggling against Michael, two of them rolling about on the floor, each trying to get the upper hand. Randy’s mouth and nose were bloodied and Michael’s nose was swelling from the grappling.

Somewhere in the melee, Randy’s topless twins made a run for it, never to be seen again.

“I don’t care if you were a kid!” Michael, on top again, was screaming so hard he was going hoarse. “Look what you did! You killed Jackie, and Tito, and Jermaine and Marlon. Hell you might have killed me and your own damn self if the firefighters hadn’t gotten us! You made Mama lose her mind! You made Daddy drink himself to death! Look at what you’ve done! Look at all you did!”

Randy got on top of Michael, but was swiftly kicked in the stomach.

“I hate you! I can’t believe I’m related to you. I can’t believe we share the same fucking blood. You disgust me!”

Michael loomed over Randy, fists raised to punch again, when somehow, Randy managed to knock Michael down and was sitting on his chest. Hands clasped to his thin throat, strangling him.

Face close to his, Randy was ranting at the top of his lungs.

“I told yo’ ass to leave the past in the past, Michael! I told you! I told you. You wouldn’t leave well enough alone. It’s been fifteen years! Naw, you had to keep digging! And now you’re digging your grave. Die! Die! DIE!”

As Michael began to lose consciousness, the last thing he remembered was the look of complete, raw insanity that were distorting his brother’s face.

“Mr. Jackson! Mr. Jackson, open your eyes, Sir! Mr. Jackson!”

Head swimming, Michael was vaguely aware of the sensation of being slapped.

Fluttering his eyes open, Michael found himself staring not at Randy, but at the faces of two very worried looking white men, both in light blue uniforms.

“Who…who are you?” Michael whispered as the men were helping him sit up.

“I’m Charlie and this is Lester. We’re paramedics. Are you okay? Do you hurt?” Charlie, the chubbier of the two men was smiling at Michael as he placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

It suddenly came to Michael what had happened.

“My brother! Where’s my brother--Randy? Randy!” Michael called and was struggling with the men to get away from them.

“Randy’s in jail, Bè be.” Fabienne, dropping to her knees beside Michael informed him seriously. “He’s gone, Darling. I called the police. I had to. He was trying to kill you!”

Tears of relief in his eyes, Michael fell against his fiancée sobbing.

Randy Jackson was charged with four counts of second degree involuntary manslaughter for the 1968 deaths of Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, and Marlon Jackson. He was also found guilty for attempted murder in relation to the strangling of his last living brother, Michael Jackson. He was sentenced to fifty-four years in prison with no possibility of parole.

Six months following his near murder, Michael and Fabienne were married in her home country of Martinique before both moved to France, opening another branch of the Starlight Academy.

And so that what was left of his family would no longer be disrupted, Michael also brought along his mother, who was tended to by a round the clock nurse.

Michael was no longer plagued with nightmares about the deaths of his brothers. In the wake of Randy’s confession, he figured that the souls of the young boys were finally at rest.

 

 

THE END!