The idea that the past comes back to haunt people has been truer than people would assume, especially if one can't recall what they've done right away. Gregory Lloyd was on a trip to Florida. When he told his mother that he was heading to Florida, he claimed it was to take time off of work for a while on vacation, but that claim was to prevent worry. He was actually in Florida because he was assigned to write observations on an abandoned house that nobody else, not even his own coworkers, would want to explore. All that was known related to the house was that it was where a maniac had killed six children in six different rooms, the attack started at 6 PM, and the murderer was executed a few days later. Not much else was found out about the murder, but it had been stated that the children still roamed the woods and that when a priest drove down that area, he found out, not only about the possible spirits, but the idea that they wouldn't pass on until they took care of the one that took their lives.
Talon Burris just finished his work. Like a wind sweeping through a musty hall, he felt that his piece would stand as a new standard for artistry. It featured what he maintained was a gargoyle, but it remained difficult to even determine this much. Green and grey smears looked like smoke had been applied to the canvas. No sense of light or harmony existed within the image. Burris smiled. He felt in his mind that that this was his greatest work. He had to tell his fellow artist and friend, Gimble Seddon. He popped up on his mobile device.
Geraldine Farmer stared out the window over the kitchen sink, hands clutching a dishtowel. The thunderclap came again, followed by a streak of lightning. She startled and backed away, well-worn slippers scraping against the linoleum.
I was in my mid to late teens when Michael Jackson died. I knew he was famous. But I didn’t know why or who he was.
"Dr. Ben," she whispered into the phone. "William is hurt."