Hi Y'all!
As you all know, I dabble in various mediums of writing. And I particularly like working in horror. Now with Halloween around the corner I wanted to share some of my scary MJ tales, I hope you enjoy them and aren't too spooked!  ;D

Prostitution. It’s the world’s oldest profession. As long as there have been women, there have been women selling their “wares” for money. No matter the town, big or small, there, somewhere, is a red light district with these women. Very often it’s the same story, told over and over and for one man, it’s the last story he’d ever want to hear.




http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b191/guarinigirl2000/46750138-bf8c-493a-a018-aaf6c566e473_zps3c401ec1.jpg
“A Pretty Streetwalker”
A Michael Jackson Horror Story By:
Tiffeny


The Philips Hotel
Downtown Los Angeles
May 9th, 1982

It was a wild frantic scene outside that old hotel on that balmy summer night.
A few dozen people, of the sleazoid set: hookers, winos and drug addicts were crowding around and gazing on at the scene unfolding.
Several police cars were parked haphazardly on the street, red and blue lights flashing, sires screaming into the night.
Police milled on the sidewalk doing their best to keep the rejects of the city from getting underfoot, some conversing into walkie-talkies.
Wee-ooh! Wee-ooh! Wee-ooh!
Over the din caused by the police cars, an ambulance came to a slick halt outside the building and almost automatically, two medics leapt out, taking the gurney with them and rushing past the cops and on into the rickety old building.
“Stay back…I said stay back! Don’t make me club you out here!”
Officer Carl Withers was threatening as some of the crack heads weren’t really cooperating with him.
“Aw, you ain’t gonna do a damn thing, Brother!” A crack head, skinny and toothless taunted, but did move back a few paces.
He knew better than to mess with Carl who was nearly seven feet tall and three hundred pounds, if he was an inch and ounce.
“Hey Carl!” At the call, the cop turned and saw one of the friends on the force, Johnny Ringwald approaching him, clipboard in hand.
“What’s going on man? What’s the problem? All I got from headquarters was that there was a disturbance.” Johnny, a tall--though not as tall as Carl, and a bit wiry wondered, standing beside him.
“I don’t know, man. All I heard was that the guy who owned this place rented a room to some guy for the night and about an hour later he started screaming his head off. We don’t know if he’s high on something or just plain loony.”
Carl began to explain when suddenly over all the noise of the night they could hear a man screaming shrilly.
“She’s dead! She’s dead! She died! She died! Blood! Blood everywhere! Oh my God! Help me!”
A moment later, the medics reappeared and were pushing their gurney.
Strapped to it and flailing wildly against the restraints, was a young man in a dingy white t-shirt, and blue jeans, a royal blue satin bomber jacket draped over his lap.
He was shoeless, a hole in one of his socks.
Large, dark doe eyes focused on the officers as he was wheeled past them.
“Blood! Blood! She’s dead! Help me! Police! Help! Please!” He begged as tears sprang from his eyes and were streaming down his reddened cheeks.
Carl and Johnny looked on solemnly as the man was hoisted up into the back of the ambulance and the doors slammed on him.
A third officer, short and stocky, Chester Bailey appeared, a clipboard of his own in his hands.
“Hey, you guys, we got a little information on that kid.” He announced and started to look at his board.
“Yeah, you caught the one that flew over the cuckoo’s nest!” Johnny exclaimed and he and Carl laughed heartily.
“Be serious for five damn seconds, will ya?” Chester grumbled glaring Johnny and Carl with agitation.
The two men did quiet down, but their eyes flashed with amusement.
“We found I.D. on that kid. Name’s Michael Jackson. I don’t think that kid’s high or insane. His I.D. says he’s from Encino--good neighborhood too.”
“Then what was he going ape-sh*t bonkers for, then? If he’s clean?” Carl inquired  and was scratching at his bald head with curiosity.
“My guess is he was chasing the “muff” around and else saw or did something that spooked the hell out of him. That kid--he’s scared. I could see it in his face. Whatever he saw or did, it’s gotten the best of him.”
Removing the shades he wore--though it was dark--Johnny squinted at Chester and stated,
“Now, I wonder just what happened….”

The Previous Afternoon

As the day’s last strains of sunlight were turning to dusk, just before night was to settle in, a car appeared on the horizon.
Easing along the cracked and crumbled concrete on the seedy side of town, it was instantly apparent to anyone looking on that the car was out of place.
In a place where the median income was less than ten thousand dollars annually, the car was a piece of misplaced luxury.
A deep grey, Rolls Royce Coupe pulled to a halt at an abandoned street corner, where the burnt and charred remains of what had been a liquor store stood.
As a drunkard, his booze concealed in a brown paper bag stumbled by, staring at the car, the door opened.
Michael Jackson, seated in the front passenger seat, peered out nervously, as he’d never been that deep in the underbelly of the city.
“Fellas…I…I don’t know if I want to do this…” He said nervously, and was running a shaking hand through his short black tendrils.
“You should have thought about that before your little happy ass pulled the short straw!” Michael’s older brother Jackie, guffawed from where he sat behind the steering wheel.
Three more of Michael’s brothers, Tito, Jermaine and Randy were laughing from the backseat.
“Yeah Mike! Get out the car before someone steals the hubcaps!” Jermaine ordered, evoking the car to crow and was shoving Michael’s shoulder in an effort to make him exit the car.
“I’m going! I’m going! Stop!” Slapping at Jermaine’s hand, Michael timidly slipped from the car and was closing the door.
“Now remember, we’ll be back for you in three hours, Bro.” Jackie pointed.
“Yeah, and you better have some proof! Or we’ll dump you right here all over again!” Tito declared and Randy was waving in amusement.
With that, the car pulled off, tires squealing.
And Michael was alone.
Standing there, he watched the cars tail lights in the distance.
After a moment, the realization of the situation hit him and anguished he covered his face with his hands.
He couldn’t believe it. He had no idea how he’d even gotten talked into this cockamamie scheme.
It had all started at Jermaine’s house.
He and his brothers had all been sitting around, shooting the breeze and knocking back root beers. Just talking and carrying on like brothers do.
Somehow the conversation had come around to outrageous stunts they had pulled in their youth--though none of them were over the age of thirty, really.
There was the time Tito had eaten one hundred large marshmallows on a dare. (And puked immediately after swallowing the last one.)
Or how Jermaine tried to give himself a home perm and burned all the hair off his head.
Silly, wild things.
It had been young Randy that came up with the idea:
Drawing straws to see who would come into city to solicit the “services” from a lady of the night.
Michael had no clue as to what the hell possessed him to reach up and grab a straw. He didn’t believe in prostitutes and usually felt sorry for the women who felt that they had to sell their bodies for a little bit of change.
He was a bit disappointed in his brothers for even considering the idea.
So he’d nearly passed out for dead when he came up holding the short straw.
Actually he had passed out.
And when he came to, he was already halfway to Los Angeles, his brothers hooting that Michael was about to “get busy”.
Standing there on the corner, next to the skeleton of a building, Michael finally lowered his hands and grumbled.
How was he going to pick a hooker? He’d never done such a thing in his life.
Hell, he had trouble picking “good” girls to ask on dates!
He’d never thought of such a thing in his life.
Pacing in a small circle, Michael worried to himself.
How was he going to pay the woman? How was he going to protect himself from any of the multiple diseases that these women could possibly be crawling with?
It was all so frightening. Especially the idea of VD. He didn’t want to get sick or have important body parts suddenly fall off.
Michael was so unprepared for that.
Or so he thought.
Shoving his hands in to the pockets of his blue satin jacket, Michael was surprised to feel wads of paper in his pocket.
Pulling out the wads, Michael was surprised to see that his brothers had actually had the nerve to stuff his pockets with the essentials--a hundred and fifty dollars, and a little strip of prophylactics.
Michael made a mental note to break all his brothers noses if he survived the night.
Standing there, looking at the paper in his hands, Michael hatched a quick scheme of his own.
He was going to find a streetwalker, a clean looking one if possible, and pay her to just sit with him. Just sit and talk with him until time was up.
No using his body or her body or breaking any moral codes.
Yeah, that would work. It had to.
Straightening his shoulders and hopefully looking confident enough to avoid being mugged, Michael started on his way down the street, towards an adult theatre where a bunch of people, and possible hookers, were loitering.
Easing over, near the front of the theatre, trying to be inconspicuous as possible.
Lord what would his mother have said about him being out there?
Where the attractions being shown that night were entitled The Glory Hole, Golden Shower, and League of Super Freaks?
Michael tried to quickly banish the thought as a drunken pair of men, both warbling How Dry I Am, came stumbling by, throwing their empty bottles to the ground, causing them to shatter.
“Hey Baby Boy, looking for a date?”
Startled by the sudden question, Michael turned and found he was no longer alone.
Standing there, and grinning at him with a mouth full of chipping gold teeth was a hooker. 
And looking at her was causing Michael’s stomach to turn.
The woman was skinny, like she hadn’t eaten in several weeks, and her poor, malnourished body was just barely covered in a dingy blue dress, that dipped low in the front and was high in the hemline.
The look might have been sexy, had the woman had a body. But since she was built like a ten year old boy, the effect was completely lost. Not to mention all the scars and pockmarks covering her body.
She looked like she had been through ‘Nam. And lost.
Plus the little bit of hair on her head was moving.
“No…no thank you. I’m fine. Bye!” Michael gasped, scared and was running away quickly a few other prostitutes shouting catcalls and whistling after him.
“I bet you’re gay anyway!” The dejected hooker yelled after him angrily.
After he had ran for about a block, Michael stopped and was crazily scratching at his scalp thinking he was now dripping with lice just after talking to that woman.
Feeling hopeless, Michael looked around at his surroundings.
He was in front of an adult bookshop--how the hell did his brothers even know places like this existed?--and still alone.
None of the women he saw looked like anything he’d dream of touching, all beat up, and scarred looking. Walking cases of VD probably. All in all, he just felt sorry and pitied these women.
Downtrodden, he lowered his head and was kicking after the extinguished cigarette butts on the glass littered sidewalk.
“You look lonesome Honey…want a friend?”
A soft, sultry voice cooed and caught Michael’s attention.
Head bobbing up, Michael had never noticed the streetwalker standing on side of the building, smoking a cigarette.
Michael put his hand to his throat, taken aback by the woman’s appearance.
After seeing a dozen dames who looked like they’d been dragged a mile on their faces, this woman was nothing like them.
She was…beautiful.
She was very tall and slender, with pale, smooth skin, ringlets of long black hair and almond shaped, honey colored eyes. Her body was clad attractively in a gold camisole, that dipped in the front, displaying her ample cleavage, and a pair of red spandex pants hugged every curve on her lower body.
She was heavily made up, but still alluring. Not tacky in any way.
The woman looked young, close to Michael’s age, if she was even twenty.
Drawn, almost entranced by the pretty streetwalker, Michael found himself approaching her.
She was so pretty, her pouted lips curling around her cigarette as she took another puff. And she smelled nicely too. Her cigarette smelled of vanilla and her body, of peppermints.
She did appear “clean”.
“Hi…” He said nervously. “Um…how much?”
The woman paused to blow a smoke ring in the air, and chuckled,
“Slow down, Speed Demon. We’ve got all night. I’m Aura.”
“Hi Aura…I’m Michael.” He introduced himself.
Shaking ashes from her ciggy, Aura wondered,
“Now what exactly do you want. A straight is seventy-five--”
“I don’t want to…you know…” Michael, suddenly embarrassed discussing such matters stammered.
“Baby, I’m not selling Girl Scout cookies out here…” Aura tittered, and finishing her cancer stick, tossed it to the ground, mashing it under the spiked heel of her gold stiletto.
“I know…you see…” Michael was still stuttering. “You don’t have to do anything with me. Just sit with me and talk to me for a while. Keep me company. Please I have a hundred dollars. You can have it. Just, let’s sit somewhere.” (He reserved the last fifty for the hotel room…was he really doing this?)
He managed, and grasped Aura’s cool, smooth hand in his.
Aura looked Michael up and down, seeming to contemplate the idea of just sitting with a “client”.
“Well you don’t look very much like Jack the Ripper.” She giggled seductively and was placing her arm through Michael’s.
“I know a place about two blocks from here. We can sit and…talk there.”
It was a silent walk as Michael and Aura made their way to a run down tenement, The Philips Hotel.
As they got to the door, Aura hung back.
“You get the room, Michael. If the man that owns the place sees me before you get it, he might not let you have it. He doesn’t like tramps.” She warned.
Leaving Aura at the door, Michael apprehensively entered the battered lobby of the hotel.
Seated behind the counter, and deep into a set of racing forms, Juan Garcia, a thick, lumbering man sat, a smoking cigar hanging from his thin lips.
As Michael got to him, he merely barked, in a light Spanish accent.
“How long you stayin’ Amigo?”
“Um, just the night.” Michael remarked, still not really connecting in his mind just what he was doing.
“Twenty dollars--Room 213.”
As soon as Michael got the little key in his hand, Aura was on his arm, and pulling him upstairs.
Michael was kind of emotionally checking out as he and Aura entered the room. 
(Was he really there? With a streetwalker? A hooker? )
The room was horrendous. A bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, a little cot of a bed with bed clothes that needed to be burned.
And was that REALLY a dead rat in the corner?!!!!?
“So, I’m on your dime now.” Aura spoke up and much to Michael’s disgust, she went an sat on the edge of the dirty bed.
“Yeah…” Michael sighed and was shoving his fists into the pockets on his jeans. He remained standing and made a note to throw his shoes away once he got home.
“Well since you wanna talk, Michael…tell me about yourself. What do you do? How old are you? Where you from?” Aura produced another cigarette and lighter out her cleavage, and was smoking.
“I’m twenty-three. From Encino--”
“Encino, classy. I got a little rich boy.” Aura teased and was letting another smoke ring off into the air.
‘Yeah.” Michael nodded, still nervous. Would he ever be calm again?
“I own a dance studio.”
“Really?” Aura spoke, smoke seeping from her mouth. “I wanted to be a dancer--before I got into this racket.”
“How did you end up doing this?” Michael questioned, then added. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. I answered an ad in the paper. I’m from Salina, Kansas. Saw an ad looking for dancers. I thought it was legitimate. Turns out it was in a nudie bar. I didn’t have any money or anything to last on, so I had to take the gig. Then I met this guy…” Aura paused to take another drag off her cancer stick. “Now he’s my pimp.”
“But you’re so pretty.” Michael commented coming over to her and grabbing her hand again. “You seem so nice. You shouldn’t be doing this. No woman should. It’s not a good thing.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Aura flicked ashes on the floor. “I don’t like doing this you know. I’m only twenty years old. I know its not a good thing. I’m just trying to survive, man.”
Going over to Aura, and jumping as a large cockroach scampered over his foot, Michael placed his hands on her thin shoulders.
“Do you want to go home? Do you want to go back to Kansas? If you want to, I’ll send you back. I’ll get you a plane ticket or a bus ticket or something for you to go back home.” He offered softly, not able to bear this woman’s pain any longer.
Aura stared up at Michael, her light eyes wide with surprise.
“You--you’d do that for me?” She whispered and Michael was delighted to see tars of joy in her eyes.
“Yes. You seem like a good person, and you need to get away from this…”racket” as you put it.”
“Thank you…my…my people are good people. Hardworking people. Churchgoing. They don’t know I do this.” Aura, ashamed hung her head.
“They don’t need to.” Michael, placing a warm hand under her chin replied. “You just need to go home, and be safe again.”
Aura went to say more, but suddenly stopped.
Her lovely eyes bugged and a choking sound escaped her mouth as it dropped open.
“Aura?” Alarmed, Michael jumped back as the woman dropped her cigarette and placed both hands to her neck choking.
Michael went to grab her, to start the Heimlich maneuver, but stopped when a new sight caught his eyes.
A bright red liquid began spilling from between Aura’s fingers.
Blood.
Fresh, hot blood.
Running through her hands and down onto the cleavage that had lured Michael to her in the first place.
“Oh…oh my God!” Michael put his hands to his mouth backing away, frightened, as Aura began trembling on the bed.
Right before Michael’s eyes, some how more wounds began opening all over her chest and abdomen, blood spilling from them.
“What’s going on! What’s happening! Aura! Help! Help!”
Too shattered to make a break for the door, Michael was instead, backing into a corner and drawing himself up into a scared ball of flesh as Aura stood, staggered and was rocking as if some unseen force was rattling her.
Blood was oozing from her nose and mouth and she was gurgling as she was drowning in her own bodily fluids.
Right before Michael’s widened and flittering eyes, Michael saw that a gash opened on Aura’s abdomen and her insides, her very guts were falling out onto the floor with a sickening splat.
Her intestines were stretched halfway across the room!
“Aaaaaaah!” Michael screamed shrilly and his throat burned from the effort. “What’s happening to you? What’s going on? Help! Help! Somebody! Anybody! Please! She’s dying! She’s dying!”
Covering his face with his hands, Michael was trying to crawl away, get away.
Get help. He needed help.
Needed to get away from this heinous scene unfolding before him.
Something was evil in that room. And it was killing Aura!
It was then he heard a disheartening, loud THUD, right close to his feet.
His curiosity getting the better of him in one moment, Michael uncovered his face, and saw the last thing he wanted to in his lifetime.
There at his feet, was Aura’s severed head, the eyes rolled back, seeing nothing, mouth agape in a scream unheard.
Across the room, her disemboweled body was hanging limply off the edge of the bed, blood staining the sheets and pooling under it.
“DEAR GOD! Help! Help! Help!” Michael shrieked, sobbing uncontrollably before everything went black.
“Help me! Help me! HELP!”

Late the Following Day
Los Angeles Police Department

Officer Carl Withers sat in the break room of the precinct enjoying some half stale donuts and a paper cup of steaming black coffee.
It had been a long day, and all he could think off was punching his time card in a couple of hours and going home to his wife.
“Should have known I’d find you here.” A happy voice remarked and Officer Johnny Ringwald entered the room, pausing to pour himself a cup of java.
“Where else would I be? Trying to boost myself. After going through the ringer with that whack job this morning--” Carl started, and Johnny, sipping his drink put up his hand.
“I wanted to talk to you about that.” Johnny went over and took a seat across the little table from his friend. “I was talking with Chester as I was filling out the paperwork on this. He was right. That Jackson kid was clean. No drugs, no alcohol. The strongest thing in his system was root beer. Apparently the only reason he was in that place at all was cause he lost some bet with his brothers. We still don’t know why he went nuts though.”
“No?” Carl wondered and was eating the last of his donut.
“Well, I think I might have something, but it’s a bit farfetched, mind you.” Johnny sighed deeply and was absently playing with the shiny badge attached to his shirt.
“I was looking into that building where Jackson went crazy. And it seems that in 1978, in the same room he was in, Room 213, a prostitute was murdered in there.”
“No! Really?” Carl, interested was leaning into his friend.
Johnny nodded. “A young girl named Laura Epstein. Went by Aura on the street. Kid from Kansas. The way the case report went, the girl was planning to go back home when her pimp, some low life named Izzy Moreno, got wind of it, and butchered the girl to pieces. Sad, really.”
Seeing where Johnny was going, Carl cleared his throat.
“You don’t mean to tell me you think that Jackson kid was trying to entertain a ghost? Johnny really--” He laughed and offended, Johnny slapped the table top.
“Look, I’m telling you what the hell I see: The kid picked up a hooker. Took her to room 213 where another hooker got brutally killed. The owned of the place said he got the room alone. He didn’t see a woman. And now that Jackson kid is in a padded cell in the mental ward over at Cedars-Sinai. And all he keeps hollering is ‘She’s dying! Blood! Blood!’” What the hell else you want me to think Carl. I know it sounds crazy…” Johnny clasped his hands together an gulped. “You don’t think….”
“That the boy got spooked by the ghost of a pretty streetwalker?” Carl reached and patted the man’s shoulder.
“This is real life…not a horror movie.”
Johnny glared at his friend and remarked,
“That may be, but truth is stranger than fiction!”

THE END