New Story: Where Shadows Breathe (Part I and II)

 Hey there!

I got a bit bored and found myself inspired by Lisa's book once again, so I turned that inspiration into a little story. I mostly write these for myself, just to play around with ideas but maybe someone out there will stumble upon it one day and feel like giving it a read.

🩵

Part I

January 13, 2010

Rotherfield

 

 

“Michael...”

God, what a fucking relief it was just to see him again, to feel him standing right there in front of me. Finally, I wasn’t alone anymore.

“Yes, princess?” His voice was warm and teasing, exactly how I remembered it and I smiled, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat.

“Just... just...” The words jammed somewhere deep inside me. “I couldn’t wait to see you again...”

He grinned at that, tilting his head in that way that shot a bittersweet ache straight through my whole body.

Fuck, I had missed him.

“You do realize I don’t show up for free, Lise, right?” He teased and I huffed out a laugh, daring to step a little closer.

“I’ve got a whole fortune in hugs and kisses if that’ll do... what do you say?” I shot back and he smiled again, that damn smile that always lit something inside me.

Something I hadn’t really felt for months.

We stood there, just looking at each other, no words, no rush and I drank him in like I was dying of thirst.

But then I noticed it.

“You’re... you’re breathing.” I whispered.

Michael froze for half a second, like I had caught him in some kind of lie before his smirk slid back into place effortlessly.

“Old habits die hard, I guess.” He shrugged, still smiling, but I knew that smile. That was the one he used whenever he wanted me to stop asking questions.

“Michael...” I started but before I could say more, a sharp sound ripped through the stillness enough to make my head snap up.

“What was that?”

He didn’t even flinch and just kept smiling at me. “A curlew.”

“A what?” I frowned, turning back to him.

“A curlew.” He repeated slowly. “A bird of moors and lonely places.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I swear, half the time you’re just making shit up to sound clever.”

“Sometimes I am...” He chuckled. “You’ve never called me out, though, baby.”

We fell quiet again, just staring and the longer I looked at him, the lighter I felt. Like I was free, full, untouchable. Like nothing bad could get to me while he was this close.

Then he moved and lifted his hand to brush the back of his fingers against my cheek and the touch was so gentle it sent a shiver tearing down my spine.

“God, you’re so beautiful... I should never have let you slip away, girl.” He whispered and I let out a shaky sigh, leaning into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut. But then, just a second later, I blinked them open again quickly, a shock slamming into me so hard it almost knocked the air out of my lungs.

“Your hand... it’s... it’s warm.”

He froze, then yanked his hand back and stepped away quickly, fast enough to make me gasp and I saw something shift in his face, some shadow I couldn’t really name.

“It means I’m closer than I should be...” He said, his shoulders sagging before he took another step back. And then another.

“No... wait!” I choked out, trying to reach for him again. “No, Michael, stay! Don’t leave! Please.”

But he just shook his head and then the darkness behind him started swallowing him whole, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but me standing alone, gasping for air...

I shot awake with a violent gasp, bolting upright and clutching the sheets in both fists. My heart pounded against my ribs so hard it almost hurt, sweat sticking my tank top to my back.

Well, fuck...

The room was pitch dark and quiet and I blinked hard, trying to slow my breathing before my dream spiraled me into another breakdown.

I turned my head.

Lockwood was lying next to me, his face buried in the pillow and I let out a shaky sigh, cursed under my breath and then swung my legs over the edge of the bed, snatching my robe off the chair.

I crept out slowly and carefully like if I made a single sound, he would wake up and see me falling apart again.

Yeah... that sure as hell would go over like a fart in church.

I slipped into the bathroom and eased the door shut, then flicked the light switch and finally let myself exhale loudly.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I peed, washed my hands and then braced myself against the sink, forcing my gaze up...

I swear it was a stranger who stared back at me from the mirror, wide-eyed and wild-haired and I had to press my lips together hard to stop myself from crying all over again.

Another dream.

Another curse dressed as a blessing.

What a fucking mess these past seven months had been.

The funeral.

The memorials.

Michael’s face plastered across every goddamn tabloid and me sobbing into a pillow every night, whispering his name until my throat felt shredded.

The pain didn’t ease. There was no soft landing and no shortcut through it.

I had failed him and he had died alone.

Alone...

That word never stopped ringing in my ears.

In the last weeks and months of his life, he had been surrounded only by vultures, people who didn’t give a single fuck about him beyond the profit they could squeeze out.

Never his health, his happiness, his peace.

Just money.

And I had stood there, turning a blind eye, letting them gut him slowly.

I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, swallowing the tears because I was so freaking tired of crying.

Seven months of tears and guilt and regret... but yeah, served me fucking right, after all...

I had let them kill him and now here I was, stuck living in the hell I had built for myself, a custom torture chamber where I was both the jailer and the prisoner.

No one else was allowed in. Not even Lockwood.

Especially not Lockwood.

"I can’t compete with a ghost, Lisa. You’re sleepwalking on thin ice here...”

He had said it more than once, maybe a hundred times, maybe a thousand. Fuck if I knew. He was tired, that much was clear. Tired of tiptoeing around me...

"I feel like a consolation prize every time you look at me...” He had spat one night, his eyes shooting daggers at me. “You mourn him more than you ever loved me! Maybe if you actually spent time with me instead of living in the past, we’d be happy. Just tell me, Lisa... are we ever going to have sex again or should I just castrate myself and be done with this pathetic charade?”

Yeah, our marriage was circling the drain.

I knew it.

He knew it.

And the twins were the only real reason I hadn’t completely gone under.

They were my lifeline, the proof that I still had something worth fighting for. Without them, I probably would have shattered completely because everything else... my marriage, my sanity, my so-called life just felt... static. Dead.

I started living for sleep.

That was the only escape hatch I had left, the one place where I felt like myself again. Because it was the only place where I could see Michael, talk to him and even touch him if I was lucky.

Because in the dreams, he wasn’t dead.

He was there, smiling at me, teasing me, humming tunes under his breath or singing to me like he used to... and it felt so real that I would wake up swearing I could still smell him, still taste his lips....

Yeah, I loved the dreams.

Michael had been visiting me often enough that it almost felt like some kind of routine. And no matter how much it gutted me to wake up every morning, I still couldn’t get enough.

And yet... I could swear there was something off.

Something I couldn’t shake.

A wrongness I could feel in my bones.

I splashed cold water on my face, then grabbed the towel and pressed it hard against my skin. My reflection still looked like hell but at least I wasn’t crying this time. That was something...

With a long sigh, I turned the light off and crept back to the bedroom, oh so careful not to wake Lockwood...

 

***

 

I tore the croissant in half and watched flakes scatter across the plate, then brought a piece to my mouth. It smelled amazing but tasted like cardboard and I chewed without thinking, unable to focus on anything, really.

“Maybe it’s just your brain messing with you, Mom. You’ve been through a lot...” Riley said calmly as she sipped her coffee and I shrugged, my eyes still fixed on the plate, biting my lip as I twisted a piece of the pastry between my fingers.

“You might be right... it’s just... God, I don’t know...”

“Mom.” She set her cup down and let out a low sigh. “I’ve been meaning to say this for a while now. You’ve got a husband and two little ones depending on you. I love you, but... you can’t stay wrapped up in those dreams forever. It won’t do anyone any good.”

“I know, I know...” I mumbled, rubbing my temple and blowing out a breath. I knew she was right, of course I did. “I just can’t help it. They’re... he’s... different.”

Riley tilted her head and frowned a little.

“Different how?”

I glanced up at her for half a second, then back down at the croissant, twisting its edge nervously...

“Hard to explain. I... I can feel something. Something’s not right. He’s there but it’s like... it’s like he’s somewhere else too... Not all the way gone but not here either and it’s driving me crazy.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms and then gave me a rather worried look.

“Mom, seriously... they’re just dreams. You can’t judge dreams. They’re... they’re supposed to be weird.”

“I know, pookie...” I said softly and forced a smile. I knew she was trying to help and she wasn’t wrong, either. My marriage was hanging by a thread, Lockwood hadn’t spoken more than two words to me in weeks and from what I could tell, I was seriously losing my grip on reality. “God, I feel like I’m going mad.”

“Mom...” She almost whispered and I looked up.

My girl.

My twenty-year-old baby with the messy bun and perfect eyeliner, drowning in an oversized sweater.

She had grown up too fast and now she was sitting across from me, playing the adult in this slightly unhinged morning conversation because I sure as hell wasn’t one.

I gave her a weak smile and she gave me one back but hers was careful, like she was afraid I was really going nuts.

“Is Lockwood still... angry about all this?” She asked, lifting her cup again and taking another small sip.

“Yeah.”

“Shoot, I mean... you can’t let this destroy everything. You and Lockwood were solid before all the shit with Michael happened. I miss him too, you have no idea, but... but you can’t let this eat your marriage alive. You gotta fix it before it’s too late.”

I groaned, dropped the croissant back onto the plate and shoved my face into my hands. Should I even tell her?

Oh, to hell with it... she already thought I was insane anyway.

“He... he breathes...” I muttered into my palms.

“What?”

I dragged my hands down my face and met Riley’s gaze.

“In the dreams. He breathes. And... and his hands are warm.”

Her expression froze and I swear I could see it... That unmistakable flash of oh, God, she’s gone completely off the deep end now. And yet, Riley didn’t say a single word and just looked at me, blinking, waiting for me to spew another string of ridiculous things without a single thought for common sense.

“You... you have to understand...” I went on, already on a roll, choking out the madness I had been swallowing for weeks, maybe even months. “When I see my dad... when I talk to him sometimes, he doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t blink. And he’s... he’s not warm. But Michael is. Michael feels alive. And it’s wrong because he’s not supposed to... God, I’m fucking losing it, aren’t I?”

“Mom.”

Her thousandth ‘Mom’ of the morning like she was already exhausted with my circus of bullshit.

“No, no, baby... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be unloading this on you. It’s... it’s nothing. I’m fine. Everything’s gonna be fine. I promise.”

But even as the words left my mouth, they sounded like a lie.

Movement flickered at the edge of my vision and my head snapped toward the wide doorway just in time to see Lockwood strolling past, his gaze fixed anywhere but on me.

Not a glance.

Not a word.

“He’s pissed, alright...” I groaned under my breath, more to myself than to Riley. “And he’s got every right to be.”

She stayed quiet, still watching me as I straightened up in my chair.

“I think... I think I should talk to him.”

 

***

 

Which was exactly what I did later that day... I tried talking to him, not just snapping at him or rolling my eyes like I had been doing for weeks on end.

I had made up my mind or at least I convinced myself that I had to end this madness...

I would stop obsessing over the dreams and drag myself back from whatever cliff I had been teetering on before I completely torched whatever was left of our marriage.

If that meant popping enough sleeping pills to knock me out so hard I didn’t dream at all, so be it. If that meant faking every ounce of desire, slathering on lube beforehand so Lockwood wouldn’t realize I was cold as ice inside, then fine. If that meant screaming my throat raw over another fake orgasm just to keep him believing everything was fine and dandy, I would do it.

Whatever it took to play the part.

Because this... this obsession, this mess with Michael, was fucking insane.

I couldn’t keep grieving a man who wasn’t alive anymore like he was still mine, and I couldn’t burn what little I had left for someone buried six feet under.

Yeah, I had failed him.

In every way a person could fail someone, I had done it.

I shouldn’t have filed for divorce.

I should have given him the kids he wanted.

I should have stepped in when I saw him popping pills like candy.

I should have fought back when the vultures started circling him.

I should have stayed. I should have fought harder. I should have been there.

There were a million should haves but not one of them mattered now, not when there was no rewinding and no magic button to undo every fucked-up choice I had made.

I had cried myself to sleep enough nights to know that.

Lockwood actually listened that afternoon and when I apologized, he even looked relieved.

I saw it in the way his shoulders dropped, like I had just handed him something he had been begging for and the guilt just ate me alive for how far I had let things actually slide.

That night, as I spat out the last bit of toothpaste facing the bathroom mirror, I took a deep breath, looked up and whispered...

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for everything... but I really have to let you go now. I just have to.” My voice cracked on the last word and I slapped my palm over my mouth, forcing the sob back down like I could choke it to death. “Keep an eye on me, will you? God knows I stir up shit and get myself in trouble all the time... I’ll always love you, Mike. Forever.”

Tears blurred my vision but I blinked until I could see again, then swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to walk back into the bedroom.

And I actually held it together, surprisingly enough...

I slipped under the covers and turned off the lights and even when Lockwood’s hand slid up my thigh, pushing my nightgown higher, I managed not to cry.

I didn’t cry when he kissed my neck or when he pushed inside me either. I just lay there, still, letting him take what he needed but then, a few moments later, the tears came after all, sliding silently down my face no matter how hard I bit my lip to hold them back.

He didn’t notice, thank God.

His face was buried against my shoulder, his breathing ragged, his hands gripping my hip and the pillow, moaning and panting desperately in my ear.

I stayed quiet waiting it out, waiting for him to finish, waiting for the storm to pass so I could curl up on my side and hold myself together until morning...

 

***

Before I knew it, over a month had blown by.

A fucking month of fake smiles and nights staring at the ceiling, pretending sleep was anywhere close to happening.

Yeah, right...

On the outside, I was the picture of the “good wife” ... smiling on cue and trying to convince Lockwood I was all in when really I felt like a hollowed-out shell just going through the motions.

He would look at me sometimes and I just couldn’t tell if he knew I was full of shit or if I had just gotten really good at acting. Either way, he never called me out and never pushed and instead, he just went along with the charade, helping with the babies, cracking jokes at dinner and pretending we were happy because that’s what people in our situation were supposed to do, I guess.

From the outside, it looked just fine. Solid, even. Inside, however, I felt like rotting wood under fresh paint, just ready to splinter any second.

Sex had become a chore, a box to tick off whenever Lockwood would start sighing about how “it’s been a while” and so when he did I would simply grit my teeth, flip the switch, moan at the right times and let him think everything was fine.

The guilt, however, was suffocating and every time I lay there afterward, I felt like the lowest kind of trash...

And yet, as pathetic as it sounded, I really was trying to save our marriage. I didn’t actually want to leave Lockwood. Deep down I knew he was it for me... well, maybe not the epic, storybook “one” but the safe choice, the sure thing. He cared, he showed up, he was solid and I wasn’t about to throw that away just because my own head had been screwing with me for a while now.

And so I was clawing at whatever scraps I could salvage, forcing myself not to think about Michael, ripping him out of my mind like tearing pages out of a book I wasn’t allowed to read anymore.

But no matter how hard I tried, he just wouldn’t stay gone.

Twice last month, he had shown up in my dreams and both times he had looked so goddamn beautiful it hurt. And both times, he vanished before I could even say his name, slipping into the darkness with a sad look on his face...

And then came the third dream...

I had been tossing and turning for hours again, until exhaustion finally yanked me under and there he was... Standing just out of reach and a wave of relief slammed into me so hard I almost cried, even though I knew I shouldn’t want that, shouldn’t want him anymore...

“Michael...” I whispered but before I could say anything else, before I could even take a breath, he spoke...

“You’re not looking for me anymore, Lise?” His voice was soft, distant and so freaking sad. “I understand... It’s probably for the best.”

I gasped and tried to step forward, tried to reach for him, to say something but he was already fading, his edges blurring into the dark until he was gone.

I jolted awake, gasping and sitting straight up, shaking so hard I thought I might be sick. Something felt ... wrong. So fucking wrong I could barely breathe.

I didn’t know what it was, couldn’t explain it in any way that made sense but my gut was screaming at me and my gut had never really lied to me before. That much I knew...

And so before I could even think about what I was doing, I slipped out of bed, moving as quietly as possible so I wouldn’t wake Lockwood, a routine I had perfected over the last few months... I checked on the babies first just to make sure they were okay and then quickly crept downstairs to sit at the computer in the corner of the living room. The blue light washed over my shaking hands as I opened the browser and I swear I didn’t even know what I was searching for but my fingers moved fast on their own, typing in names, places, anything that could lead me somewhere...

TMZ.

Perez Hilton.

Radar Online.

Daily Mail.

All the trash sites I swore I hated had suddenly become my lifeline, my only window into the truth or whatever scraps of it I could find.

I dug through every piece of gossip I could click on, desperate for anything connected to Michael’s family, even the smallest mention...

News blurbs. Travel reports. Paparazzi sightings. Anything.

I fell down the rabbit hole hard, scrolling and reading until my eyes burned but most of what I found was vague, almost as if the press had finally decided to leave them alone and to give the Jackson family a break for once after years of tearing apart every single member.

But then, maybe an hour later, maybe three or four, who knew anymore, something caught my attention.

Michael’s mom and the kids had been spotted on a European trip back in August, finishing up in Scotland and staying there for a bit but there was nothing specific... no hotels, no dates beyond the bare minimum, no clear pictures, just a passing mention.

I dug deeper, scrolling through endless gossip blogs and blurry paparazzi shots but there was nothing else.

Then I found another tiny scrap, another breadcrumb that didn’t make sense or perhaps didn’t really mean anything at all...

Tito and Randy were seen in Ireland in September, boarding a private jet to an “undisclosed location” plus some bullshit line about them probably escaping the wildfires in California that had been choking L.A. with smoke. But... nothing else.

Then November. Rebbie and La Toya wandering Edinburgh in the rain, dressed down and dodging cameras.

And December. A few blurry shots of the kids in London, tabloids guessing at why they were there, only for them to vanish again a couple of days later without a trace, slipping onto a small jet. The news article even pointed out it wasn’t really the type that could make it all the way back  across the ocean, so probably just a detour somewhere closer where the Christmas markets were still in full swing but that’s where the information ended...

I leaned back in the chair still staring at the glow of the screen while this cold, creeping dread climbed up my spine.

I had told myself I would let him go, that I was done chasing ghosts but sitting there in the dark with my heart pounding, I wasn’t so sure anymore...

I wasn’t sure he was a ghost at all.

 

Part II

 

My hands tightened around the steering wheel, the wipers struggling to keep up with the storm hammering the windshield... half rain, half sleet, a total mess. I kept drifting too close to the center line because I still wasn’t used to driving on the left and quite frankly maybe I never would be.

The dash lights glowed dimly, the heater barely keeping the glass from fogging up and the radio had been off for over an hour now because I had played every CD I had with me at least three times...

It was just me straining on some narrow Scottish road in weather so brutal it felt like driving through a car wash in the dead of night... even though it was only seven p.m.

I had to be insane.

There was no other explanation for what I was doing because this was completely, utterly crazy.

After piecing together all those scraps of info about the Jacksons and their random appearances in London, Edinburgh, Ireland and wherever the hell else, I couldn’t stop. Once I started digging, something inside me flipped and suddenly I was this woman possessed, desperate to uncover something I couldn’t even name.

And so after days of sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night just to scroll and dig because I was flat-out obsessed, that one night I had sat hunched over the computer at four in the morning again, the house dead silent, scrolling through gossip blogs like a stalker. I knew there had to be something, I could feel it just out of reach like it was taunting me and daring me to find it.

And then Janet popped into my head.

She hadn’t shown up in a single photo from any of those trips... not one. No paparazzi shots, no gossip page mentions, nothing.

According to everything I could find, ever since Michael’s death she had been holed up in L.A. and New York working on her new album and taking “much-needed personal time”, completely out of the spotlight beyond a few press releases.

However, there was no record of her jetting off to Europe like the rest of the family, which kinda blew my little theory out of the water. My totally unhinged, maybe-he’s-still-alive theory where the family was visiting him every now and then but Janet would have shown up somewhere in the UK too, right? They had always been so close... And yet, she hadn’t.

I was this close to shutting the computer off and dragging myself back to bed ready to check myself into a mental institution first thing in the morning when something popped into my head.

I pushed back from the desk so fast the chair nearly tipped over and I bolted out into the hallway, moving as quietly as possible so I wouldn’t wake Lockwood or the kids who were still sleeping upstairs.

I didn’t want anyone to hear me and I didn’t want anyone to stop me.

I needed to be alone for this madness I was now drowning in.

I slowed down in front of the dresser, my eyes landing on what I was looking for... the answering machine.

Bingo!

I remembered Jan leaving me a message months ago, back in the fall but I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

I had called her once that week just to see how she was doing but she didn’t answer and then there was this breezy voicemail the next day, something about “chillaxing” in Florida with some guy.

Nothing I would have thought twice about, nothing worth saving but Lockwood actually always saved everything.

If I could find that tape, if I could play it back, maybe I would notice something I had missed before. Maybe there was a clue buried in there, some small detail that would explain why I couldn’t let this go and why I felt like I was losing my mind.

I knew exactly how insane it all sounded and yet I stood there in front of the dresser anyway, yanking open the drawer we always kept locked, digging through old cassette tapes, yellowed scraps of mail and birthday cards we had refused to throw away because God forbid something personal ended up in the wrong hands.

Fame does that to you.

It makes you paranoid, makes you hoard every tiny fragment of your life like you are building your own defense case in advance...

And then I finally found it... A small black cassette labeled “Oct. 2009” in Lockwood’s handwriting.

I yanked the whole answering machine out of the wall and carried it into the kitchen so that I could play it without waking anyone.

I sat down at the table, plugged it back in, shoved the tape in and hit play.

The first message was my mom guilt-tripping me into calling her back.

Fast-forward.

The second was from my manager...

Fast-forward.

The third was Danny checking in.

Skip.

The tape whirred and clicked, spitting out one useless message after another until I finally hit the fifteenth or sixteenth, whatever the hell it was, and I finally heard her voice.

“Hey, Lisa! I’m so sorry I missed your call earlier, I was... uh...” Janet’s soft laugh came through and I rested my chin in my palm, listening. “I was busy with, um, Tyrone? Yeah, I think that’s his name...” Another chuckle. “I’m really sorry... I... I know I’m impossible to reach. I’d love to see you, girl, but I’ve just been swamped, I swear. I’m gonna be here in Florida for another week or so, then flying back to L.A. Any chance you’ll jump on a plane and come visit the good ol’ Fake-ville? I miss you... Hope you’ve been great...”

The line clicked dead and I just sat there frowning at the machine.

Nothing.

There was nothing strange about it. Just Janet being Janet. The only thing that stood out was some soft noise behind her but nothing else and I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair and leaning back in the chair, staring at the dim kitchen.

Okay, this was clearly going nowhere and yet... I rewound it. Played it again. Because apparently I was already too far gone.

“...I’m gonna be here in Florida for another week or so, then flying back to L.A...”

And again...

“...I’ve just been swamped, I swear.”

And again...

“...I was busy with, um, Tyrone?”

And then, halfway through, I froze.

There.

I slammed the pause button, my heart suddenly thundering against my ribs.

Something. A sound I hadn’t noticed before.

I rewound again, pressing the speaker hard against my ear.

A call. A long, rising trill that I hadn’t really noticed before.

And yet I had heard it before. I knew I had...

“Shit...” I whispered, my fingers trembling as I replayed the message again.

Once. Twice. Over and over.

And then it hit me.

“Oh my God...” I breathed. “That’s the bird... from the dream!”

I scrambled through my memory, Michael’s voice already slipping through my fingers like water.

He had said the name of that bird in that dream! What the hell was it, though??!

Something like “curfew”...

Or, or... “curler.”

No. Not that.

“Curdle”?

No, dammit... not that...

“Curlew!” I let out a minute later, the word finally snapping into place and I bolted out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over the chair, fumbling for the computer again.

I typed “curlew bird call” into Google with shaky fingers, clicking the first audio clip I saw and when that warbling, haunting sound poured lowly from the speakers, I gasped audibly.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck...”

I had lived in Florida for years and had never heard that sound. Not once.

Scrolling frantically, I found it... curlews weren’t even native to Florida! They were common in one place, though.

Scotland.

I sat back hard in the chair, clutching fistfuls of my own hair, feeling dizzy enough to faint.

Janet had lied to me... Florida and Tyrone my ass! She had been in Scotland or somewhere very close to it!

After that, things took rather a fast turn.

I had gone off the rails, hellbent on finding answers no matter how insane it made me feel as I started raking my head every night, trying to figure out where the hell to even begin.

Was there even the slightest chance he was alive? Really? Was it possible? Could Michael really have pulled off something like this?

In all fairness, if anyone could, it would be him.

He had always been too clever for his own good and had the kind of imagination that could turn a simple lie into a masterpiece... And God knows he also had enough money to make the world believe whatever story he wanted them to... even despite all the debts.

Faking his death, vanishing off the map and starting a whole new life somewhere else? Yeah, it wasn’t entirely impossible.

Then again, maybe I was just chasing my own tail, seeing patterns where there weren’t any. Some random family visits in the UK, a bird sound and a bunch of dreams didn’t really mean anything, not to anyone sane, anyway...

And yet, I wasn’t about to let it go.

That night I had decided to be inconspicuous and better go back to bed.  I shut everything down and walked back upstairs quietly... I needed to think first. Lockwood was still asleep and I just lay there next to him staring at the ceiling, listening to that damn bird call over and over in my head.

The next night though, just as he fell asleep, I crept back downstairs and started digging once again. Night after night, I went through everything I could find, searching for any trace of him.

Maybe he was tucked away somewhere in England, maybe Scotland, hiding out, watching the world think he was dead.

Maybe...

I swear I scrolled through everything... news archives, fan forums, conspiracy blogs, places where people swore they had seen him alive and where they posted shaky, blurred photos of men who kind of looked like him but ... not really.

The stories were insane, some claiming he was in South America, others swearing they had seen him in Japan. All crap. Nothing that would mean anything.

By the fourth night, however, I was running on empty. I sat there slumped with my chin propped in my hand, my eyes burning from staring at the screen for so long.

I had almost given up, almost closed it all down and gone back to bed but then I saw something else... a small headline buried under other stories, barely noticeable: Michael Jackson Estate was considering selling Neverland...

I frowned so hard my temples hurt.

Those fucking bastards!

That place was his, he loved every inch of it and the thought of some boardroom prick deciding its future made me want to throw up.

That ranch was supposed to stay in the family and his kids should have been the ones making that call someday, not a bunch of executives looking to cash in.

And that’s when it hit me...

He had loved that land more than anything, hadn’t he? It was his safe place, his sanctuary...

If he had to leave it behind, wouldn’t he want something similar? Wouldn’t he try to kind of recreate it somewhere else, far from everyone who knew him?

I sat up straight and narrowed my eyes at the screen.

Okay, here goes nothing...

Land registry.

It was a long shot but I was also out of fucking options.

I found the site and immediately groaned out loud.

There were thousands and thousands of listings.

If I wanted to comb through every single property in the UK, I would be sitting here until I was old and gray.

Just great...

I rubbed my face, feeling the frustration boiling over.

God, I was pathetic.

Nights and nights in a row of this crap and for what? To sit here in my pajamas with wine stains on my shirt, half-drunk and bleary-eyed, trying to chase a ghost?

I grabbed the glass next to me, took another sip of the red I had been nursing all night and yawned so hard my jaw popped.

My neck ached from sitting hunched, my shoulders were tight and my brain felt like it was melting. But then I looked up at the top of the page and it clicked.

Bam! Filters!

I could set the search to only show properties purchased in, say, the past year! Last ditch effort...

I clicked through menus, adjusted the settings and hit search.

The screen flooded with listings and I started scrolling through them, clicking one at a time, shaking my head with each.

The first was some tiny flat... um, not him. Next was a renovated farmhouse turned B&B, also not him, another was a modern mansion near Manchester that according to the description sounded like Barbie’s Dreamhouse merged with a Cold War missile silo... Definitely not him.

I kept clicking, scrolling, yawning. At one point my chin slipped from my palm and I jerked awake without realizing I must have dozed off...

“Jesus...” I mumbled, rubbing my face.

Okay.... one more, I told myself. Just one more before I shut this down.

I clicked the next link and.... froze.

It was a large estate in the Scottish Highlands, tucked away so deep in the hills you would have to hike miles just to see another house. The registry didn’t have any pictures, though, just a bunch of numbers and coordinates no normal person would ever care about and so I copied the reference and stuck it into Google, because why not? I was crazy alright, anyway...

And to my utter surprise it worked.

Some old property listing came up and that’s where the photos I had been hunting for were hiding. I clicked the first one.

The house almost looked like a castle but not quite... More like a big old Scottish manor with ivy climbing up the stone and with an orchard with gnarled trees off to the side.

I bit my lower lip, leaning closer to the screen.

I flipped to the next shot... endless hills drowned in mist. In the third photo there was a lake with water so dark it looked like crude oil, ringed with tall, brittle reeds and beyond that, there was a stretch of colorless moorland that just kept going until it blurred into the sky. The fourth picture was just land... acres and acres of it and then the last one showed a gravel drive curling up to the house, no neighbors, no lights, nothing. Total isolation.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it but one thing I knew: this was not a normal house. Ordinary people didn’t buy places like this. And... Michael was anything but ordinary.

The listing date said January 2006 and I clicked back to the registry and there it was... purchase date, April 18^th, 2009.

Two months before his death...

That kinda sealed it for me.

I glanced between the photos and the paperwork again and again, then my eyes caught on the buyer’s name.

Malcolm Barrie Silverstein.

“What the fuck kind of name is that?”

My hand raked through my hair as I stared at it until my vision blurred, trying to convince myself that this whole wild theory I had built - Michael alive, laying low on some creepy, fairytale-looking property I had stumbled across by sheer dumb luck, wasn’t slipping through my fingers like sand.

I pressed my knuckles into my forehead, shaking my head.

It was time to go to bed.

Actually, I had been telling myself that for hours. Hell, for days! But for the millionth time, I ignored it and narrowed my eyes at that name again.

Barrie. Barrie... why the hell did that sound familiar?

I drummed my fingers on the desk, trying to fish the memory out of whatever fog my brain was swimming in but it was like trying to grab smoke. I leaned back, half-closing my eyes, muttering the name under my breath over and over like repetition alone would trigger something.

At first it didn’t but then... then it slammed into me.

James Barrie. Wasn’t he the author of Peter Pan?!

“Holy fucking shit.”

I clicked over to a new tab, my fingers flying across the keys. One quick search later and the second I saw the result, a jolt of adrenaline shot through me.

I was right! He did write that damn book!

So Barrie kind of made sense, but Silverstein? I had never even heard that name before and I knew I wasn’t going to figure it out on my own. I typed it into Google again, not expecting much but as soon as the result popped up and I saw it, I gasped and slapped a hand over my mouth.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck...”

Shel Silverstein. The author of the book named The Giving Tree!

I didn’t even realize it was a book but I knew damn well about Michael’s beloved Giving Tree at Neverland! Our first kiss and all the nights we spent there sitting, holding hands and listening to the night sounds all around us.

My pulse was pounding now... Could this actually mean something?

The “Malcolm” part still didn’t add up but I knew Michael had always admired Malcolm X and talked about him like he was some kind of prophet, so maybe that was the connection??

Maybe...

All I knew was that I could barely breathe and my hands shook so bad it took me two tries to actually grab a pen before I scrawled the coordinates of that place onto a scrap of paper...

And that’s how I ended up here... frozen stiff in this uncomfortable car, nine hours deep into what had to be the worst road trip of my entire life.

My back ached from being glued to the seat, my legs were screaming and I hadn’t felt my toes in hours.

The drive was hell, no doubt, but honestly? What came before it was actually way, way worse.

It was one thing to chase down a dead man I was half-convinced wasn’t dead and a whole different nightmare to explain this impulsive trip to my husband, who was already fed up to his eyeballs with my late-night meltdowns and my mood swings. And now I needed to tell him that after months and months of being mentally gone I was about to go physically too?

Hmm.

Anyway, of course I didn’t tell him the truth. Duh. I wasn’t some rookie at this kind of thing.

No, I had actually planned the whole thing out like a pro and told Lockwood I was going to spend a few days with Sarah, playing it off like I needed a girls’ getaway... Space to recharge, sip too much wine and gossip until I felt like myself again.

He wasn’t thrilled I was ditching the twins, sure, but I batted my lashes, promised I would come back all chill, maybe even slightly fun again and that was actually enough to get him off my back.

I called Sarah right after and made sure she would cover for me. She had been in one of her bubbly moods, giggling too much, nosy as hell, but I couldn’t tell her the truth, either.

If I was right... if Michael was alive and hiding out, I couldn’t risk blowing his cover by running my mouth.

And if I was wrong, which honestly still felt way more likely still, I didn’t need her thinking I had finally gone mad.

And so I gave her something easier to swallow and told her Lockwood and I were hitting rough patches and that I just needed some air. Maybe she heard it in my voice because she stopped digging and just sighed.

“Oh, darling, you can always count on me to help you when you need a break. Be safe and let me know you’re okay wherever you’re headed. I’ve got your back.”

And that was that.

Now here I was, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, my eyes glancing at the GPS every two seconds.

Seven minutes to destination.

Seven fucking minutes and I would either be staring at the biggest discovery of my life or the dumbest mistake I had ever made.

The road ahead looked like the first shot of a horror movie.... dense fog curling low to the ground and trees leaning in from both sides like a tunnel.

Not a single streetlight, no houses, nothing but creeping mist, endless forest, complete darkness and the regular swish of my windshield wipers.

The heater had given up hours ago, blowing a pathetic stream of cold air and now I was shaking so hard my teeth actually chattered. My fingers were stiff around the steering wheel and my toes were like ice blocks.

Six minutes now. I could handle six more minutes.

At least, I thought I could, until my brain started playing out the other scenario... Me pulling up to this massive property only to meet the real Malcolm Barrie Silverstein... Some stranger who looked nothing like Michael.

I pictured him sleazy, short, obese, crusty, balding and wearing a satin robe, cigar dangling from his mouth, muttering something creepy like, “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

And then what? I would be stranded in the middle of nowhere, no cell service, two hours from the nearest town, stuck with a guy who either just thought I was insane or... or wanted to turn me into a damn lampshade.

A minute later, my headlights cut through the fog and landed on a massive steel gate looming ahead, stretching across the entrance to a long, winding driveway.

It was tall and sturdy, dark metal twisting into vine-like shapes with razor-sharp spikes on top.

Just great...

I eased the car to a stop, my heart hammering and I rolled down the window. The icy night air immediately rushed in, smacking me right in the face and I shivered again.

There it was... an intercom mounted on a post, just a black box with a scratched-up speaker grille and a single button.

My finger hovered over it.

This was it.

Either Michael was behind that gate or... or quite simply he wasn’t.

I pressed it and the intercom crackled before a deep voice cut through.

“State your business.”

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my hands on the wheel but they wouldn’t stop trembling no matter how hard I tried.

“Hi, um... Good evening...” I said and cleared my throat after. “I’m... I’m here to see Mr. Silverstein.”

“Mr. Silverstein does not receive visitors. Turn your vehicle around and leave immediately.”

“Please, sir...” I gripped the steering wheel tighter, fighting the quiver in my throat. “I drove nine hours to get here. I just need five minutes. That’s it. If...if he doesn’t want to talk, I’ll leave the second he tells me to.”

“You are mistaken, ma’am. No one sees Mr. Silverstein and he is not interested in seeing anyone, either. Leave now.”

I bit down on my lip so hard it hurt, blinking fast to hold back the tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

This was a mess. A colossal, flaming mess! Not that I had imagined it would be easy.

“I’m not mistaken...” I said, my voice breaking a little. “Just tell him Lisa Marie Presley is here... Please. He’ll...” My words faltered. “He’ll know. I just... I just need a few minutes.”

The line went dead quiet for a little too long, almost like he had frozen up or something and... and I caught it.

My pulse spiked.

Could that be good or was I just reading into nothing?

“That is not possible.” He spoke again a few seconds later. “You are trespassing. Any attempt to proceed further will be met by armed security. Please, leave now.”

“I understand. But... but, like I said, all I’m asking for is five minutes. Five minutes and if he says go, I swear I’m gone. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

There was no response at first, just static but then I heard a simple... “No. Leave.”

And then silence.

I jabbed the button again, desperation cracking my voice. “No! Wait! Please! Fuck!”

Nothing. Not even static this time.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!!

I sagged against the seat, shivering so hard my teeth rattled.

A scream burst from my chest and I wanted to kick the intercom or pound my fists against the gate, anything to get someone to hear me.

All this. All this, for nothing...

My hands locked around the wheel while hot tears spilled over and I broke down, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe.

I don’t even know how long I sat there, hiccuping through tears that blurred the world around me, choking on the mix of anger and hopelessness but just as I was about to throw the car in reverse and drive to the nearest town to look for a hotel to spend the night, a faint crackle burst through the silence and I froze.

There were muffled voices murmuring through the intercom now but they were so low I couldn’t make out any of the words said.

I thought about speaking up and begging again but some small voice in my head told me to shut up and listen.

And so I did.

I swear it stretched on forever.

Maybe a minute. Maybe five. Maybe ten or fifteen. I had no sense of time anymore, only that my fingers and toes were going numb and my totally empty stomach kept flipping, twisting hope and dread into a knot that made me feel sick.

Then the static cleared and the same deep voice returned.

“Proceed through the gate. Move slowly and remain on the driveway. Any deviation will result in immediate interception by our security team. Understood?”

My heart stopped.

No fucking way!!

“Yes, of course...” I let out and eased the car forward as the massive gates groaned open.

The fog swallowed me whole, the headlights catching only fragments of a driveway lined with towering trees that seemed to lean in, watching me carefully.

Minutes passed before the huge, dark house I already knew from the photos emerged from the mist and my pulse slammed in my throat.

There was no backing out now.

My heart threatened to explode. I had no plan, not a fucking clue what I would say if it wasn’t Michael.

That I was selling vacuums door-to-door in the middle of nowhere or preaching some bullshit about Jehovah?

“Fuck...” I whispered, smacking the wheel with my palm. “Fuck, fuck.”

This could get really dangerous and not just because the voice on the intercom hadn’t sounded like a man with a sense of humor.

I was fucking all alone on someone’s property... someone who clearly didn’t roll out the welcome mat for strangers.

Eight PM, pitch dark, not a soul in sight, perfect setup for disaster.

Congrats, Lisa, you’ve officially outdone yourself. Top-tier idiot move, no contest.

I pulled over, killed the engine and for a second, I just sat there, staring at the shadowy house, shivering.

Then, slowly, I forced myself out.

It was now or never...

My legs felt like wet noodles, my knees weak and every step up the massive front steps was like dragging myself up a mountain.

I grabbed the heavy brass knocker and rapped it three times, the sound echoing far out into the fog-choked darkness.

Nothing.

I waited, my breath coming in white puffs and then the door creaked open and a mountain of a man stood there, dressed in a dark suit, an earpiece in place, frowning. His face was blank, but he sure as hell looked like he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

The door swung wider a second later and two more appeared behind him, carbon copies, all eyes sizing me up.

The first guy finally stepped back, just enough to let me inside and I slowly and carefully stepped over the threshold.

The place was huge.

The first thing I saw was a staircase that split in two, curling up to a landing with a door at the top. The railings were dark and twisty, the walls were pale and there were a couple of statues standing like sentries near the stairs.

I stood frozen, staring and no one spoke... Not me and not them either and so I finally turned to the first man, my throat dry and my voice trembling when I forced the words out.

“Is... is Mr. Silverstein here?”

But his expression didn’t change and he didn’t answer either and I felt my throat closing again.

Was he ever going to say anything? What kind of some sick game was this?

But then, finally, a voice behind me spoke.

A voice that struck me to my core, awakening something I had thought was lost forever.

“Yes, Lise... he is.”

The sound of it ripped through me and I spun around, my hand flying to my mouth.

There he was.

On the staircase, descending slowly and carefully, was Michael.

My Michael!

Dark slacks, white shirt, hair shorter and a beard framing his face but it was him.

It was fucking him!!!

Alive, breathing and looking at me with those deep beautiful eyes of his...

“Oh my fucking God...” The words tumbled out of me as tears welled up and my heart slammed so hard I thought it might kill me.

And then my body betrayed me...

Next thing I knew my knees buckled, my vision tunneling as the room tilted while heat and cold clashed in waves. Desperate for balance I grabbed the air but the ground gave way under my feet and the last thing I felt before the tile floor rushed up to meet me was that impossible, surreal relief... He was fucking alive! Michael was alive!

And then... darkness.

To be continued...