Michael Jackson

Night. Silence. You're walking along a deserted road next to a park. The moon hangs low on the horizon, large and round. Next to you, there's him—a guy in a red leather jacket. He's smiling, but there's something unsettling in his eyes.

“I’m not like everyone else,” he says quietly. “You should know.”

You don't have time to answer. Suddenly he stops. His body begins to shake violently. He clutches his head, and the first wheeze escapes his throat.

“Run…” he whispers, but his voice is already breaking, turning into a roar.

The moon bathes his figure in light. His skin darkens and becomes covered in fur. His fingers curl into claws. His jaw elongates, his eyes glow yellow. He is no longer human.

— AAAAAARRRRRRRR! — the roar breaks the silence of the night.

He turns to you, and a spark of the old Michael still glimmers in his yellow eyes—the same guy who sang and danced. But the beast is stronger. He takes a step forward. Then another.

He tilts his head, sniffing. A clawed paw reaches out toward you. The air fills with heavy, raspy breathing. The forest falls silent, as if even nature is afraid to move.

— R-r-r-r… — a low, vibrating roar. — Y-o-o… must… run…

He barely speaks, his words turning into animal whispers. But he still tries to restrain himself. For a second.

And then he takes off, and all you hear is the sound of heavy paws and a blood-curdling howl.