In honor of the holiday I thought I’d share a story that I wrote and entered in the local newspaper’s annual Scary Story Contest in 1995 (I think that was the year!).  I won 2nd place, missing 1st place by one point according to the reporter who interviewed me for the blurb in the paper that was published along with the story.  First prize was a $50 gift certificate to The Chart House restaurant and 2nd place was this lovely trophy….

Without further blah, blah, blahing, here is my near-winner….

WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?
© BJ Lantz

Collette smiles with satisfaction at her reflection.  Marie Antoinette, her hair swirling high in an artful arrangement, smiles back.

It’s perfect!  Collette thinks.  I’ll be the envy of this year’s Halloween Ball.

Fingering the gold braided neckline of her maroon velvet gown, Collette admires the way it sweeps down from her shoulders ending in an eye-popping display of cleavage.  Wait until the “ghouls” get a load of this.  The finishing touch will be the diamond and ruby necklace that had once belonged to Lydia.

Poor Lydia.  Pitiful Lydia is more like it.  How easy it had been, hardly even a challenge.  And Robert, why he’d been the easiest part of all.  It was only natural that he should turn to Collette for sympathy and support.  After all, she too had been mourning her best friend, Lydia.

Perching like royalty on the chair before her dressing table, Collette opens the black-lacquered jewelry box that a senator’s wife had given to Lydia as a birthday present.  The necklace is nestled in folds of black velvet, its diamonds winking like stars against a midnight sky.

It is so beautiful, Collette thinks.  She glances at the silver-framed photo of Lydia which she keeps on her dressing table.  It will look so much better on me, dear.  Just the way Robert looks better dancing with me.   

“Collette, darling, the car will be here any minute.  Are you almost ready?” Robert’s voice drifts up to her.  Collette can picture him, standing at the foot of the grand staircase, tugging at the ruffled collar of his Louis XVI costume.  She knows he feels foolish in the breeches, but what a striking royal couple they will make!

“Another minute, my love,” she sings out.

It had been a surprise to no one, least of all herself, when one year after Lydia’s tragic death, Robert had asked Collette to be his wife.  They’d become so close in their shared grief.

Snapping the jeweled catch in place behind her neck, Collette sits back to survey the effect.  Stunning.  The ruby hangs, glinting like a fresh drop of blood between her breasts.

Sliding her feet into delicate, beaded slippers, Colette’s sea-green eyes scan the room in search of her evening bag.  Spotting it on the chaise near the window, she snatches it up, stopping before her three-way mirror for a final appraisal.  She frowns at her reflection, her hand fluttering absently to the jewels at her throat.  I could have sworn this was longer.

“Oh heavens!  My lipstick!”  Collette exclaims, momentarily forgetting the necklace as she dashes to her dressing table.

Collette is bringing the little gold tube to her lips when suddenly she feels tightness, a cold, constricting hand gripping her neck, causing her to slash a line of scarlet-rose across her cheek.  Colette’s wild eyes meet her own reflected in the mirror, the stray lipstick creating a hideous lopsided grin on her face.  But no hands are about her throat, only the necklace, which has grown shorter, the jewels digging deeper still into her smooth throat.

“You!”  She croaks, knocking Lydia’s silver-framed face to the floor.  Colette’s hands, with their beautifully manicured fingernails claw at her throat, desperately trying to pry the sparkling choker from her neck.  She feels as though her head will explode, the blood pounding like thunder against her temples.

“Collette!”  Robert is calling, “The car is waiting.  We really must go.”

She tries to answer him, to cry for help, but only a strangled whisper escapes through the scarlet-rose grin.

***

Impatient and growing warm in his ridiculous costume, Robert climbs the stairs to Colette’s room.

I really shouldn’t be cross with her, he thinks.  She’s always so prompt.  She probably broke a nail at the last minute.

Gently knocking, Robert pushes the door open, “Collette, darling…”  The words die on his lips as he stands, frozen in horror.

Collette lies amid swirls of maroon velvet, her left hand resting just below the ruby, which dangles in its blood-red glory between her breasts.  A gold tube of lipstick, open, lies near her head as if a testament to the part it had played in the frightful slash of color across Colette’s face.  Her sightless eyes seem to be staring at the silver-framed photograph gripped in her left hand.

The End

 

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