I like stories about about something that is deadly to everyone who handles it. Is there a special genre for this type of fiction? It seems there should be. In horror, in general with the paranormal, macabre, misfortune and tragedy associated with something beautiful, precious, luxurious, expensive and for some reason sinister, ominous, or foreboding (another good word).

Recently I read, The Mystery of the Five Hundred Diamonds, by Robert Barr. Its an old story, written over 100 years ago. In France, a diamond necklace is found forgotten in an attic of an old chalet. The man who finds it was working on repairs to the house. He attempts to sneak out over the roof with the necklace. He falls to his death. In this story there are further deaths in the backstory and the ongoing story after it is found.

It would be fun to write a story like that. Coming up with scenarios for a cursed necklace (or something else).

... created by a jeweller who dies in a fire, inherited by his son who is lost in the Amazon jungle, never found. Given to the sister in the family who is murdered by her fiance a week before their wedding. The caterer takes the necklace from her corpse and is hit by a streetcar dying in the hospital two days later. The family are all deceased so the necklace is sold at an auction. The auctioneer who sells the necklace dies after mistakenly eating a poisonous mushroom. A rich businessman buys it for his mistress. He goes bankrupt and disappears before he gives it to her. His wife, trying to handle all that debt and creditors goes crazy and is locked in an asylum the rest of her life. Then there is a time of rest. The diamonds are forgotten in a secret vault, in the mansion of the businessman. The wife didn't know about them and the mistress wasn't given them. Of course, decades later, the house is being demolished by a builder who hopes to find old blueprints for the house, or something valuable in the vault at the house. He does... unfortunately.

You know that can just go on forever. Diamonds, in particular, are not easily destroyed. Plus, human greed alone will keep them from disappearing for long. Of course, I've read this type of story with assorted items: a doll, a car, but jewellry seems to be the most popular. Its not heavy, or bulky, doesn't really need maintenance, and it only becomes more valuable over time.

The thing is, is it cursed or is all this just happening around it? Does greed cause all this misfortune? The necklace is just blameless while horrible things happen to people around it? That's the mystery.

Write your own story about a cursed(?) item.

Some times I get creepy ideas that would make a good story but I only have the idea and not enough to tell the story. I could build the story around the idea but its so creepy... I can't think of a starting point for it.

This morning I thought about a man who goes in to identify Jane Doe women. He comes in often enough the police know him. There is, supposedly, a woman he is searching for, a woman who has gone missing. He gives a name at least and it is a missing woman.

At first I was thinking about how hard it would be to see dead women and try to look for evidence, distinguishing marks, to be sure she is (or is not) the woman he knew. Then I thought... what if he likes it? Feeling their skin, touching the little curl in the middle of her bottom lip... and so on. Even if the body is in bad condition, has been decaying, burnt in a fire, mangled by animals (or humans), or just cold and dead. At some point police might begin to think he is showing up too often and taking too much time over the bodies. But, what can they really do, as long as he claims he is looking to identify a real missing woman.

So there is the idea. Creepy. Is there even a real missing woman he is looking for? He could just have picked out the name of a woman who went missing. Or, worse, he could be the one who murdered her and has hidden the body, very sure it will never be found. Is it a good thing that he only killed that one woman and instead goes to fondle others already dead? Not good, but better than being a serial killer?

How does it all start, if you were to write it?

There is a world of difference between having such an idea and writing it, putting your name on it and sending it out to the public, having your family, friends, co-workers, everyone you know or don't know yet, reading it. Horror writers are at least a little brave to put their name on their creations. Maybe not the standard horror stories, typical stories, used over and over in media. But, an unusual idea, had to come from somewhere, some part of the writer's brain. What kind of brain do you have with something like this floating around in it.

You've come all this way for a confession, to "tie up lose ends" as they say in detective stories. I think you should avoid bad tropes. But, I've made tea and sandwiches with all the crusts cut off. The children are away at school so its just you and I for the afternoon. Let's bring everything out to the garden, its such a lovely day out there. It will feel like a garden party - white linens, red roses, a light breeze.

I love wearing red. Someone can tell you the scientific reason why red turns dark black in old photographs and movies. I believe real red, the darker red, especially, is dark at heart. Film shows its true colour.

I love a dark red, empire red I've seen it called, even as a child. I made my parents uncomfortable. They gave me what I wanted and avoided me. I loved the freedom, the lack of censor and judgement. I did everything my way. I learned so much about getting my own way too. However, "She's just a child" can only work for so long. I found it an exciting challenge to work around. I was young, attractive, my family were of good reputation, professionals of fine standing in the community. All elements in my favour. Looking confident with a vibrant red lipstick, being pleasant, listening to people talk about themselves, can open so many doors for you. It did for me.

This is all more than you wanted to know, you asked about Frank. Are you feeling a little uncomfortable?

Frank was an ordinary man. I thought he had potential, and he was easy to look at. People liked Frank. I thought Frank would be a nice, easy, stable husband. So I said yes when he asked. Frank thought I was a great asset on his arm, at his beck and call, at least when someone important was there to see it. I always wore red, with red lipstick, red shoes and deep red rubies too. Now and then a spicy little hat. I enjoyed wearing red, but it became a uniform, a tool for Frank when he wanted a promotion at work, then favour from his new boss.

The more Frank got, the more he thought he should have. Still, if he had just kept his pants on, literally, I think we really could have grown old together. Poor silly Frank. He thought he could blame me when he began showing up with all the tell tale signs: lipstick on his collar, late nights and days away, pink panties under the seat of his car... Frank said I wasn't a good wife. His version of what that was supposed to be.

Expectations can be so off track, so sexist. When I should have been home baking cookies I was out, making my own money. When I should have been washing his clothes I was buying new clothes and having a good time wearing them. When I should have been limp and waiting in his bed I was traveling. I didn't sleep with anyone else but I didn't sleep with him every night either.

Frank said I was misleading, just a tease in a red dress. He complained about women not having enough sex drive. I think women are underwhelmed and afterward there's just more laundry. I wasn't his maid, or his Mother. Why is it assumed the Mother is the nurturing soul who stays home to do laundry, make dinners, sew, cook, and clean?

Frank fooled around and thought he could pass the buck, for all of it, to me. Frank was wrong. I'd been behaving badly myself for so long I knew better. I blamed Frank, not the women and girls he spent time and money with. I didn't make that mistake.

Frank had stepped out of line and been caught. Like a child, or a dog, he needed some training to correct his behaviour. That's how it began. I'd wear shiny red suits, high heeled boots, and... The rest is more than you need to know. Retraining Frank took time, energy, and patience. I ran out of patience and had so many other places to use my time and energy. Frank became just a body to dispose of.

Does the how really matter? Why do you want to find the body, that seems kind of ghoulish.

Your lips are looking blue. Feeling the urge to cough?

Red is such a wonderful colour, but if it gets on your clothes it tends to turn the red into black. I wore white today, it can be bleached back to white. You can't do that with red.

Written by me. I sent this to an editor of a podcast. Nothing back from her. I think it needs a rewrite, to take all of this as half of a dialogue and add two people having this conversation. Fleshing it all out into more than a narrative. But... I don't want to rewrite it. I often feel the fiction I write is as-is once I've written it. Probably silly, not very productive as far as getting published. I don't think it matters. The story is told, as is.

I'm not sure why but I get a lot of ideas for fiction stories which I seldom write. They just come as bursts of ideas without enough steam for a long form. I try to build onto them and find a beginning, grow the middle and then give them an ending. But, by then the steam has evaporated and the story is mostly gone, or no longer seems important or worth writing.

Today, the old song "Take All of Me" came into my head and later, as I was washing dishes, this story shaped itself. This time I wrote it down, in short form. I'd guess its a horror story, but I'm not sure.

Taking All of Her

So then I chopped off her other foot. Then, when she could no longer stand, clinging to me, leaning on me and unable to leave me now for sure, I no longer wanted her. So I went back to the huge furnace in the industrial plant, and I asked it, "What can I do with her now, when she is no longer beautiful, when I no longer enjoy watching her even?" The furnace said to bring her there and throw her in. Her bones would melt and become part of skyscrapers being built, trucks used to build them and no one would ever blame me.

Written by Laura Brown February, 19, 2025