The Tyranny Of Death The Unraveling

By Frank A Silva

Thirty three year old Rockstar Hank Jones is on Tour with his band when his twin brother, Thomas, is killed in action in Iraq. Hank heads home to his small hometown of Independence, Kansas for the funeral when he suddenly finds himself in the center of several inexplicable events that all seem somehow connected to himself, his dead brother, and several others in not only his hometown, but all across America. Meanwhile, someone in his hometown is hatching a sinister plot that might well spell the end for not only Hank, but all of humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank A Silva
• Release date: Jun 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463957547

Frank A Silva

Frank A Silva is an emerging author of Fantasy/Horror/Sci-Fi who has been writing since 5th Grade. His interests revolve around music, his family, his cats, superheroes, villains, zombies, Reading, History, and Writing. He lives with his wife and 5 children in the Northern United States, close to a place named Oz.This is Frank’s first book.

Book preview

PART ONE: GRIM TIDINGS

CHAPTER ONE: HANK AT THE PLAZA

1

Hank Jones walked into the Plaza Hotel without really seeing it. He heard the strains of Sinatra, playing in the background at an ever so politically correct volume. He noted the marbled columns, gleaming glass chandeliers, the probably all too real Persian rug adorning a tasteful amount of the shining marble floor, the giant archways, and yes, even the gilded skylights.

And yet it didn’t register to his over exhausted senses. His legs felt like lead, his arms felt similar, and he figured he might’ve even blown out his voice box a little with all the singing.

His band, Lift, had just played Madison Square Garden to an estimated audience of at least twenty five thousand, with millions more watching on television. In spite of his still somewhat youthful age of thirty three, this was the last leg of a tour, in a string of over forty shows in twelve short weeks.

As Hank boarded the elevator, he felt a strange tingling chill sweep over him, which caused goosebumps to pepper his skin.

Hank shivered, then shrugged it off and stepped inside the ornate old elevator, which he rode to the top floor, and headed for the Penthouse Suite. His purpose was singular, and all he could think of, at present, was falling into his giant soft bed, and sleeping until well past noon.

A card swipe later, and he was in the blissfully cool, dim interior of his huge room.

Hank gratefully kicked off his sneakers, slipped out of his sweat soaked shirt and jeans, and threw himself back on the four poster king sized bed, asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

Hank shot awake in the dark of the Penthouse Suite, a scream of agony ripping from his lips even as he sat bolt upright.

In his right fist, it appeared, for just a moment, that he was holding a shooting star, so fierce was the glow. His hand burned as if he’d dipped it into lava, but it didn’t hurt, not exactly.

The temperature of the room plummeted, a great contrast from the heat of his previous terrible nightmare which he couldn’t quite remember.

Strange, sickly blue and white mushrooms sprouted in the corner, coated with slime. The mushrooms were glowing with a pale sickly greenish light.

Frost rimed the leaded glass windows, quickly covering them with intricate unworldly patterns.

Tiny pale figures with black eyes and darker wings buzzed around like hummingbirds, singing a terrible chorus.

"Woe, woe, woe to those who fail to heed. The Bringer of Light shall perish Indeed. All Hail the Anti-Light! All Hail the Anti-Light! All Hail the Anti-Light!

Behold. He comes…"

In the far corner, a shadow slipped away from the wall, gathering the rest of the night around itself like a cloak. Drops of darkness fell like rain and pooled on the creature’s surface.

Tendrils of darkness drifted outward from the shadow, reaching towards him, probing at him.

Whatever this was, it was ancient and alien.

HANK MICHAEL JONES, the figure said in a voice that sounded like crackling frost.

Who... who the Hell are you? Hank managed to stammer at the darkness.

I AM FATHER DARK, the being replied with that strange voice, which now sounded like dissonant bells clogged with honey.

Hank screamed again, his right fist still glowing.

The figure seemed to flinch, then, and just as suddenly as the figure had appeared, it vanished along with its unearthly heralds, leaving behind no trace of themselves save for a sense of foreboding doom that pierced Hank’s heart like a dagger.

Hank sighed, and tried to go back to sleep.

It wasn’t easy, he’d been having the same dream for several days.

The old black man turned a corner, near Central Park West, near the Plaza Hotel, and saw what appeared to be a shooting star, up near the Penthouse Suite.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

Still there. And the light was violet, which meant something, in itself. Something that he didn’t want to consider.

Well, I’ll be, he muttered to himself.

The implications weren’t lost on him, but he didn’t want to consider them, just yet.

When he looked a third time, the light was gone, but he felt a presence so foul, he questioned the reality of it.

Sweet Jesus, protect me, he whispered, ignoring the burning sensation that had crept into his own right hand.

If I don’t acknowledge it, it’s not there. It’s not happening, he thought stubbornly.

Just as the light had been there in the blink of an eye, so too the dark presence was there, then gone again.

The man stared up at the Plaza for several long moments, then shuffled off, muttering to himself.

He wasn’t entirely positive, but he felt a coldness clench his gut that told him something vitally important, and savagely dangerous had just occurred, but he still wasn’t certain what it had been.

Augustus Clement shook his shaggy, dreadlocked head ruefully as he walked away.

After all, who was he to interfere?

No one, no one at all.

The burning in his hand had faded, once again, and thank God for that.

That was enough of a gift, in itself.

Hank was torn back out of sleep by the insistent sound of his cell phone ringing. He would’ve ignored it, but when he saw that it was his Mom, he snatched the phone off his night stand and swiped it open to answer it.

Hello? he said, suddenly all too alert. He listened to his blood roaring in his ears, even as he said, Mom?

What is it, Mom? Hank asked, sitting up in bed.

When he heard his mother’s soft sobbing, and the single word she spoke, he knew in his gut immediately what had happened.

After all, I’ve been dreaming it, haven’t I? He thought wildly.

In that instant, he felt his stomach drop out from the bed he was in and plummet twenty stories and straight into the basement of the Plaza Hotel.

The word she said was a name.

Thomas, she whispered in what sounded like utter despair.

What about him? Hank replied softly. But he already knew.

Hank. Your brother is dead. He was killed in action, Hazel finally managed between sobs.

Hank felt the phone slip from his numb fingers, and again, the glow of a shooting star filled the dark Penthouse Suite, lighting it up like the day.

He thought he heard a dark chuckle, and he felt a vast inexplicable rage fill him then.

Hank slid off the bed, and stood, his right hand thrumming with a power he felt could burn down the world, if he so wished.

When he finally gained the courage to look down at his hand, he heard his mother’s frantic voice, calling to him, and he snapped out of whatever trance he’d been in.

The glow vanished immediately, but the rage did not.

What’s happening to me? he murmured to the empty room.

Hank saw himself pick up the phone and heard his calm voice telling his mother everything was going to be alright.

But Hank Michael Jones knew otherwise.

That same night, a tornado struck Hank’s hometown of Independence, Kansas with a devastating ferocity, tearing down tree branches, peeling off shingles as well as roofs in their entirety, knocking down telephone poles like matchsticks, knocking down houses like they were built out of cards, and creating a general mayhem throughout the small town.

One thing that it left behind, however, in a ramshackle old barn on the edge of town, was something that no one in town saw, but that saw them.

It was like a shadow, but appeared to have slightly more substance. The sun glanced off its oily black hide once or twice while it moved, and seemed to sink into it, rather than illuminate it.

It was searching for someone in particular. It's eyes were twin pinpricks of an eldritch silver light.

It was a shadow among shadows, and did not cast a shadow of its own.

Glowing silver orbs peered out at the sun drenched land, and the shadow withdrew to a cooler, more shadowed place.

It was a patient creature, and it could wait.

But things were coming to a head, and it had been told that time was of the essence.

So to that end, it would wait until twilight and no longer.

Then it would begin its search anew.

For now, however, it slept among the shadows in the humid darkness.

---

2

Hank stood there, on the tarmac awaiting his brother's remains at the Topeka Regional Airport. It was surreal. Dozens of people watched in the most reverent silence as his brother's flag-clad casket made its way down the conveyor.

The closer the casket got to him, the more he felt as if the entire ground was disappearing beneath his feet, just like he’d felt when his Mother had first told him. His own blood sounded like a tidal surf in his ears. His skin felt too tight and too hot.

Hank noticed with his peripheral vision that the folks who were near the windows in sight of the scene were video taping it with their cell phones. He harbored no ill will towards them, at all.

Hank had seen the same thing happen numerous times at various different airports throughout the United States.

He wanted it to go viral, and at the same time, he wanted to scream his pain at the sky and never stop.

Around him, an Honor Guard of Marines marched and saluted. Though he hadn’t ever been in the Armed Forces, Hank saluted back. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Hank's eyes were so blurry, he couldn't see, and sobs wracked his chest, but he cried silently.

He'd never felt more alone, in his life. His brother had always been there...

At least until he left for the war.

Hank's hands clenched into fists at his side. He was furious. At the Government’s Endless Wars, at the Jihadist radicals who'd taken his brother's life, at the world. At God, even.

Maybe at God, especially…

Hank felt a strange warmth in his right hand, almost like a live electrical current. His fist felt white hot, but he figured it was merely a manifestation of his momentary rage. He felt as if he wanted to, scratch that, needed to smash or hit something.

His mind circled back the strange nightmare he’d had, last night, and he felt a chill, which reminded him of what had happened, just before his band took the stage the other night.

They said twins felt everything. Part of that was true even though Hank was the older of the two, by three whole minutes. When they were kids growing up, they would always find each other, even if the other one got lost.

Hank had always felt a certain close connection with his brother, and it had never gone away, even when he'd left for Iraq. Until...

Until the day he died. Hank knew it to the day, hour, minute.

Hank had just been taking the stage, walking up the side steps, when he felt a pain so great, so white hot and furious, that it staggered him. His chest felt like it was on fire, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

While he stood there, gasping for air like a landed fish, black spots danced before his vision and he felt himself falling into a black well that suddenly opened before him on the stage…

…wherever he was, it was brutally hot, and arid. It was so hot the humidity almost didn’t matter as a fierce wind swept across the desert and flung grains of sand into his face with a hiss.

Thankfully, he was wearing goggles, which protected his eyes. Unfortunately, the grains of sand liked to gather around the top outside of the goggles, and any time you’d lift them to clear your vision of any condensation, a fine skein of sand would drift eye-ward.

It was an endless, thankless battle amidst an even greater, seemingly endless old war over the same blood drenched stretch of sand that the same actors had been fighting over for thousands of years.

His fatigues were soaked with sweat, hell, even his fingers were sweating, under his gloves. His gun lay cradled in his gloved hands, awaiting his command.

Enemies swarmed all around the tiny village, which was just outside of Mosul. Apparently, their mission was to take back the dam, which ISIS had taken.

The fact that he might well die tonight had entered his mind, more than once, but he shrugged it off and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the upcoming fight.

His mouth was as dry as the desert drifting in through the doorway of the burned out house he and Donny were sheltering in. He uncapped his canteen, and took a swig of warm, metallic tasting water.

In spite of its warmth, the water helped quench his thirst. He swished a mouthful of it around then spit it out and took another few sips.

He looked at Donny, then pointed to the door, and made a gesture that indicated that he was going to go through it and out into the street.

Donny’s eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently.

In spite of Donny’s disapproval, or fear, he stepped through the doorway and out into the night, where the sand swirled, and the hot wind kissed his skin with a touch that he imagined a dragon’s breath felt like.

He hadn’t taken one step before he felt the rush of oncoming bullets, which tore into him like knives of fire. Bullets riddled his body, jerking it back against the wall of the house he’d just exited.

Blood jetted out of at least a half a dozen bullet wounds in his chest, stomach, right shoulder, and left thigh.

He dropped to the hot sand like a marionette shorn of its strings, his life blood gushing out onto the sand in what felt like burning rivers.

Just as suddenly, his body felt colder than any winter he’d ever lived through and he felt something burning in his right hand.

Several shadows with gleaming white smiles slipped off into the desert night, their dark work done for the evening.

As his vision faded, he saw something fierce and blue in his right hand, then he faded into darkness…

…As he teetered on the brink of oblivion, he heard his brother Thomas, screaming in pain and fury, and he actually felt the hot sandy wind of the Iraqi desert. The heat was near unbearable, and the pain was worse.

He could feel his life bleeding away into the hot desert ground.

Hank! Are you okay, man? What's the matter? Lenny's voice said in alarm. His voice sounded strange and warbley, like they were both underwater.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but in reality was mere seconds, his breath came back to him in a great gasp, and his vision cleared.

Lenny, his drummer, had placed a steadying hand on his shoulder that he had barely even felt. You okay, man? Should I call someone? he asked, the concern mirrored in his light brown eyes.

Hank shook his head slowly, almost like a dog trying to dry itself, in order to clear it.

The Devil is in Chicago, he murmured.

A white hot heat burned in his right fist, but he ignored it. Moments later, it faded away.

Lenny's eyes were wide with shock in his bearded face. What? What did you say, bro? And what just happened with your eyes and hand?

Hank shook his head again. He looked at Lenny, who was staring at him with a mixture of fear and worry. What?

You just said something weird. 'The Devil is in Chicago'. And your eyes and hand seemed to… glow for a second. Don't you remember? What happened, man? Are you okay? Lenny asked, his expression still grave.

Huh? Hank replied, still dazed from his vision, or daymare, or whatever it had been.

I asked if you were okay, Hank? You just got really weird, man. You okay? Lenny asked.

His hand dropped off of Hank’s shoulder, which suddenly felt lighter, for some reason.

Hank gave him a quick nod. Yeah, man. Not sure what happened. Had a weird couple of moments, there…

I’ll say, Lenny countered with a nervous smile, shaking his head in bemused befuddlement as he stood there for a few moments to make sure Hank was okay.

Hank managed a short chuckle and moved away on legs that felt rubbery, but steadied as the seconds ticked on. He patted Lenny's shoulder and moved off towards his bass amp.

Thomas, what happened to you? He wondered as he picked up his 1977 Stingray Music-man bass and slipped his head through the strap.

His fingers automatically began plucking at the strings to tune it, but it was already in tune, so he played a few little ditties to warm up his fingers, all the while wondering what in the Hell had just happened…

Hank returned to the present with a jolt, forcing himself to calm down and swallow the anger until he was sure it wouldn’t manifest into something negative. The last thing he wanted to do was dishonor his brother’s memory by freaking out in front of his soldier friends.

There was a sharp pain in his chest as if someone had ripped out his heart, shoved a lump of ice back in, and walked away with his bloody, still beating heart. Hank did his best to ignore it.

The Honor Guard continued to march in time and in place while they reverently took Thomas’s flag draped casket off the conveyor near the bowels of the plane. All of the Marines were young, but the youngest looking of them gave Hank a look after they put Thomas’s casket into the waiting Military SUV, which was a black Denali with tinted windows and Government plates.

Yeah, I guess the least the US Military can do is give my brother a ride back home, right? He thought bitterly.

The Marine seemed hesitant, then seemed to think better of it, and came over to Hank. He stretched out one hand. Hank gripped it briefly, unsurprised by the young man’s strong grip.

The Marine looked him in the eye, his pale blue eyes filled with tears.

Holy shit, that’s the kid from my nightmare, Hank thought suddenly. Did I dream my brother’s death, he thought with a chill.

"Private First Class-

"Donny," Hank breathed in faint surprise. He wasn’t certain the kid even heard him because he was so nervous.

-Donny Martin, at your Service, Sir, he finished in a crisp voice that had more than a trace of a Midwestern accent.

Hank placed him somewhere in Nebraska, Iowa, or somewhere in that area.

Nope, he didn’t even notice, Hank thought with an inner chuckle.

Hank Jones. And I’m sure not a Sir, Hank replied quietly. He wondered what the young man wanted. He looked so young. So much younger than Thomas.

Too young, Hank thought.

Donny nodded with a small grin. I know who you are, Sir. Sorry. Force of habit. You see, I was real good friends with Thomas. I was with him, when- here Donny choked down a sob and pushed on. Hank admired him for the effort.

"I was with him when he was shot. We were in a fire fight, in a village just outside Mosul, trapped in a gutted house and one second, Thomas was there, shooting the enemy and picking them off like flies, the next, he’s lying on the ground with blood gushing out of his chest and everywhere. I did everything I could to save him, but it was… it was too late," Donny explained.

Just like in my dream, Hank thought morosely.

"He was shot… uh, more than once. No one could’ve survived that, Sir… uh, I mean Hank," he added.

Hank nodded. Thanks for being there for him, Donny. I wish I could’ve been, he replied.

Well, in a way, you were, came the grim thought.

Donny nodded back, then gave Hank a shy glance. I just wanted to say, I’ve got all your albums, and I love your music. Thomas and I listened to it on my iPod, all the time. He had all your music, too.

Hank felt his throat constrict. He’d never imagined that Thomas had even listened to his music, let alone had it. Thanks for letting me know, Donny. I have to get going, now.

Well, Sir… shoot, I mean Hank. I mean Mister Jones. Damn it, I’m so nervous. I feel like a stupid teenaged girl, Donny admitted with a blush.

Hank felt his lips quirk up in a smile, he couldn’t help it. The kid was so awkward, yet so endearing. He could see why Thomas had been friends with him. What is it, Donny?

Donny swallowed, then plunged on. Well, Sir. I mean, Hank. Would you like a ride into Independence? We’re going that way, to drop off Thomas and all. We’d be honored to have you ride with us, even if it’s for just that little bit.

Hank managed to nod. It was better than taking a taxi, or having his mother drive all the way out to pick him up.

I would sure appreciate that, Donny, Hank managed.

He texted his mom and let her know he had a ride.

One less thing for her to worry about, he thought.

Donny’s face lit up. He started to turn away, then thought better of it. You know, you look so much like Thomas. Well, except for the hair and eyes, that is. Plus, he was one tone deaf son of a… well, you know.

Hank laughed and followed Donny to the waiting Denali.

Hank got out in downtown Independence, such as it was. It was a small town, but rather nice. It had all the charm of a small town, and most of the nostalgia of the Small Town America of the 1950’s or 1960’s. Hank had always loved that about his hometown and small towns throughout rural America.

There was the Independence Public Library, Olson's Drugs, Laird Hardware, and The Strand Movie Theater, which was miraculously there after all these years.

Hank had fond memories of that whole stretch of Main Street, but particularly of the library and theater, both of which he'd spent countless hours in, feeding his voracious imagination.

To Hank, the true heart of America was small towns like this, not the giant metropolises like New York or Los Angles, even though he loved the hustle and bustle of the big cities when he visited them with his band.

He didn’t want to be there when they dropped Thomas off at the funeral home. He just couldn’t do it.

So he walked.

As he walked, he winced at the devastation the tornado had wrought.

Thankfully, most of downtown Independence had been spared, but as he walked, he saw trees had been snapped like toothpicks, roofs sheared off like lids off of a tin can, houses collapsed like cards, and great gouges of dark earth where whole fields had been.

Hank passed cornfield after cornfield, wheat field after wheat field, and dusty road after dusty road before he finally came within sight of his childhood home.

Off in the distance was the tall white farm house, the traditional red and white barn, and his Mom’s battered cream colored Ford pickup, sitting in the driveway.

Hank figured Hazel Jones would drive that truck until it rusted apart around her.

That truck was the last thing she had left of their Father, Peter Michael Jones, besides the pictures and memories.

And us, Hank blurted.

Then he remembered Thomas was gone again, and he started sobbing.

His tears made everything blurry for a few moments, then he swiped a hand across his eyes.

Thomas, he whispered.

Again the heat bloomed in his right hand for several seconds. He winced and tried to ignore the pain. After a short while, it faded, like it always did.

Hank sighed and walked on.

CHAPTER TWO: THE DEATH OF MICHAEL JACKSON

1

Raymond Saint Jerome was getting his hair cut at his favorite spot just outside the French Quarters when he felt it. It was like a punch to the gut, and chest, at the same time. Like someone had ripped out his heart, and replaced it with a jagged chunk of ice.

He glanced down at his watch and noted the date and time.

3:17 p.m. June 9th, 2009

It didn't help that one of Michael's songs was playing in the background.

Everything was too coincidental.

Too.

Raymond signaled Julie to stop cutting. It wouldn't do for her to cut one of his ears off because he jerked in the chair.

Julie, please give me a moment, he murmured.

Julie, who knew Raymond as well as anyone and ever eager to please, nodded and smiled, and began sweeping up hair and cleaning her station.

Raymond sat there for a moment in order to try and get a grip on himself. It wasn't easy. Raymond had always been an emotional type of guy, prone to sentimental reactions to even the most contrived stories of sorrow or joy to a fault.

And for as long as he could remember, he'd loved Michael Jackson.

Loved his music, loved the person. He wasn't in Love with Michael, but he did love him from a super fan's perspective.

And before he discovered Michael Jackson, he found he had the ability to see and communicate with the dead. It had been with him ever since he'd been a little boy, and the multitude of spirits that sought him out because they thought he could help was overwhelming, at first.

It wasn’t something that happened as a result of a near death accident, it was something that he’d been born with.

After he learned to control his gift, somewhat, things tapered off, but New Orleans wasn't known as the Most Haunted City in America for nothing.

Spirits oozed out of every nook, cranny, and crack. Every dark alley, tomb, ancient basement, apartment building. Hospitals. Morgues. Hotels. The hotels were the worst of it, filled to the brim with confused spirits who didn't realize what had happened to them.

People would go to sleep, and wake up dead. It happened so much in hotels, that Raymond steered clear of them, once he found out. Even hospitals weren't as bad.

Suffice it to say, even before the announcement came, Raymond Saint Jerome, world renowned Psychic Medium, knew the moment Michael Jackson was dead.

Sure enough, there he was, standing in one corner of the salon, looking forlorn and confused. He was wearing tight black pants, and a frilly looking white shirt.

Raymond had to explain things to him, before he had a meltdown and a panic attack. Even before he spoke with him, he had a good inkling of what was going to happen to the poor man's spirit.

Raymond had seen it countless times. Rock Stars, Pop Stars, Movie Stars, they would die, and their spirits wouldn't move on because they became earthbound. It was as if they were paralyzed with an inability to migrate to the next phase of their afterlife.

One of the biggest reasons was because people were so obsessed with them and loved them so much, and they couldn't leave. They were like gods, in a very real sense.

Except without the associated powers. They became less than what they'd been in life.

Much less.

So it would be with Michael, no matter how much he wished it were otherwise.

Only when Julie had resumed cutting his hair did he finally notice that the glass of his watch face was cracked, right down the center.

He sighed and resigned himself to getting it fixed, after all, it was a family heirloom, handed down to him by his great grandfather, Victor Daniel Saint Jerome.

Michael was crying again. It's just so hard, Raymond, he was saying. Tears stood bright in his eyes, and he looked just like he had on the day he'd passed.

It had been nearly five years since his death, and he showed no signs of moving on.

In fact, according to the calendar, it was May 21st, 2014.

Raymond reached out a hand, and patted Michael's. It felt real. Solid.

Sure, it was cold, frigid, even, but every bit as solid as a regular person's. While others wouldn’t even see him, they might feel a bit of a cold draft, a vague sense of unease, but not much more.

Raymond’s abilities enabled him to empathize so much that the dead felt like flesh and bone to him. They existed somewhere outside of time and space, but somehow, they were on the same plane of reality as the living.

Sometimes.

Raymond felt for the poor man. He'd had a hard life, in spite of his fame and fortune, he'd been miserable a lot. His father had a lot to do with that. He'd pushed Michael and his siblings to the breaking point, and beyond.

To say he'd been a tyrant would've been sugar coating it. Men didn’t understand how much their behavior affected their children.

Their absence was far worse, but in some cases, the kids might’ve been better off. Like in Michael’s case.

It made Raymond unutterably sad to know how hard a childhood, or lack thereof, Michael had had.

But Michael wouldn't stop crying.

Michael, what's the matter? Raymond asked.

Michael looked up with glistening eyes. You don't want to know, Raymond. Really. Something terrible is going to happen. It's so horrible. I can't talk about it… he said, pulling his hand away and covering his tear streaked face with both hands.

Strange. Most spirits were the last ones to speak about portents, or future catastrophes.

Raymond's dreams were strange, that night. During the middle of the night, he felt something cold against him, and woke to find Michael in bed with him, clutching him with cold arms much like a child who had just had a bad dream.

Michael's eyes were wide, and terrified.

Did you see more, Michael? Raymond asked softly.

Michael's silent nod was answer enough.

Raymond felt a chill that had very little to do with the frigid spirit clinging to him.

2

---

Michael Jackson had been Raymond's nearly constant companion for the past several years, and he still hadn't moved on. And lately, he’d been giving Raymond cryptic hints, saying strange things that were clues to… well…

Something.

Most people had living friends, Raymond had dead ones. They were easier to get along with, most of the time.

The dead appreciated life and its intricacies far more than the living because they were beyond the physical plane, and unable to enjoy even the simple things life had to offer, such as eating a greasy mushroom Swiss burger and fresh cut fries, and washing it down with a cold beer.

Or even the touch of someone else’s hand, for however brief a moment. Or a warm hug.

The smallest kind gesture can sometimes change the world, he thought with a ghost of a grin.

Michael claimed he was bound by certain immutable laws, but he'd given Raymond plenty of hints.

Also, according to Michael, it was imminent.

The psychic knew it had something to do with an earthquake, and something apocalyptic, but beyond that, he couldn't get more from Michael.

It was not only frustrating, it was rather creepy. Kind of like walking past a graveyard at twilight and seeing a crypt door yawning wide open and sensing something was there, but not actually seeing it. It gave you chills, but there wasn’t anything you could do about it.

Raymond was getting information from numerous spirits, though, and they were all scared, which was strange, considering they were dead and beyond harm.

Word was, something terrible was coming. They kept repeating a phrase, 'The Black King', which chilled Raymond every time he heard it.

And so now he was going to see another psychic in the French Quarters. Raymond knew her to be the real deal because he'd worked with her, before, and her proclamations were unfailingly spot on.

There was a burst of static, which interrupted a Neville Brothers song, then a spectral voice came through the radio, which was a not uncommon occurrence for Raymond, but he never did quite get used to it.

A mournful voice said, simply, The Black King Comes, to the accompanying hiss of static.

Raymond glanced over at Michael and saw the dead man shiver at the name. The psychic reached over and patted the ghost's spectral hand, and Michael gave him a grateful smile.

You know, Michael, I’ve been thinking a lot, lately. About life, and death, and friendship. Our friendship is one that defies death, itself. I’m so glad we met, you do realize that, right? Otherwise I would’ve never gotten to know you, in real life. Our paths would’ve likely never crossed, Raymond said quietly.

Michael gave him a radiant smile. I feel the same way, Raymond. You’re like one of my brothers, only you know the true me. I could never really be myself with them. Everything was always focused on my Musical Persona, ‘The King of Pop’. Now I’m just plain old Michael Jackson. After all those years of playing music for millions of people, I’m finally free to just be a human, instead of a… a god that I never wanted to be.

Raymond smiled back at Michael. I’m glad that you’ve found some small measure of comfort in death, Michael.

The radio drew him back in and his smile faded as quickly as the sun could vanish behind a gray cloud on an overcast day.

After the voice was gone, the Neville Brothers song continued. Raymond recognized it as Voodoo and the words struck him and sent a little chill down his spine.

The implications of the words weren’t lost on him.

Shit, he muttered as he drove. He would’ve never pegged the Neville Brothers for singing music that could frighten a person, but here he was, more than a little scared at the prospect of the imminent future.

They pulled into the narrow ivy choked drive to Sister Chloe's Plantation house and Raymond had to suppress a small shudder.

Cypress trees draped in long streamers of moss lined the dirt driveway. They reminded Raymond of grim skeletal soldiers in rotting garb waiting stoically for the end of time.

The place was old, it was ramshackle, and it was no wonder people spoke of her with fear and respect. Her house looked the part of a grand old plantation house gone to pot.

If ever there were a Witch's House, this was one.

Raymond slowly, reluctantly turned off the car and got out.

Hey, Michael, I think- he began.

But Michael was no longer there.

And that in itself was a bad sign.

Raymond shivered again, the words from Voodoo echoing in his mind even as he walked up the front stairs to the sagging porch.

Lord God help me, Raymond murmured, figuring a short prayer couldn’t hurt matters.

3

---

Raymond's misgivings only increased as he approached Sister Chloe's decaying mansion. She lived on the very outskirts of New Orleans, a mere three or so miles away from the French Quarters, but it might as well have been another world, entirely.

The Medium knocked on the door, and waited several long moments for someone to answer.

After a long while, he heard the echo of approaching footsteps.

The door creaked open, and Michael was back, shaking his head No.

What is it? Raymond hissed as the door swung open.

Don't go inside, Raymond. There's something wrong with her, she's-

Then the door was open, and Michael was half submerged, staring with wide, terror filled eyes. He had vanished again when Raymond glanced his way mere moments later.

That’s strange, Raymond thought briefly. Michael followed him nearly everywhere. Hell, he even came into the bathroom, more than half the time.

Ray didn’t mind, it was comforting to know his friend was there, even if he was a shade of his former self.

Raymond was expecting a crone, but when the door was fully open, he saw Sister Chloe was young and beautiful. He hid his surprise and greeted her warmly, hoping she would have some information he could use.

They’d only spoken on the phone, before, but her strangely gravely voice didn’t seem to fit with the beauty standing before him.

His skin was peppered with goosebumps as he recalled Michael's warning.

What was that all about? He wondered.

Raymond followed Sister Chloe inside, but Michael, who had just reappeared, wouldn't come in, in spite of his urging.

That was more unsettling than anything else. The two of them had gone everywhere, together, for the past five years. There wasn't much he'd done without Michael present, in one way or another.

Michael Jackson was the best friend he'd ever had, living or dead.

For one of the first times in his life, Raymond Saint Jerome was scared.

His heart pounding like a bass drum, Raymond followed the beautiful seer down the hall.

Sister Chloe peered at him with her burning light brown eyes, fixing him with something that was between a glare and sympathy, maybe?

Raymond wasn't sure, but it made him shiver. This was a dangerous woman. Michael had said so. She had powers. He could almost feel the power radiating from her the way the heat shimmered over a blacktop road on a hot day.

As he glanced at her, he saw that one of her eyes shifted colors, going from mocha to blue, and back again.

He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. It felt a lot like his heart, thumping away in his