The Cursed Gold

Darius had always been drawn to gold. It wasn’t just the shine or the wealth it symbolized—it was something deeper, something ancient. Over the years, he collected pieces of gold from all over the world, each with its own story, but there was one piece that haunted him—a necklace made of white, yellow, and rose gold, its delicate chains intertwining like serpents. It was beautiful, yes, but it carried a curse, a secret that Darius guarded fiercely.

The story of the necklace had come to him from an old merchant in a forgotten corner of a Hungarian market. The man had told him that the necklace was no ordinary piece of jewelry. Forged in ancient times by a dark sorcerer, it had the power to steal the life force of anyone who wore it, transferring those stolen years to its true master. Darius hadn’t believed him at first, dismissing the tale as mere folklore. But something about the necklace called to him, as if it held a power beyond his understanding.

He bought It without hesitation.

Months later, while we were on holiday in Hungary, Darius presented the necklace to my grandmother. We were sitting in a small café when he slid the velvet-lined box across the table to her. She smiled as she opened it, admiring the delicate gold threads that shimmered in the light.

“It’s beautiful, Darius,” she said, her voice soft with affection. “But why such an extravagant gift?”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on the necklace as if it held a dark secret he wasn’t ready to share. “It’s special,” he said finally. “I want you to have it, Mama.”

She took the necklace from the box and placed it around her neck. For a moment, everything seemed normal—the gold gleamed against her skin, the café buzzed with conversation—but then, something strange happened. My grandmother’s face paled slightly, her eyes clouded over as if she were lost in some distant memory. But just as quickly, the moment passed, and she smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze Darius’ hand.

“I’ll treasure it,” she said.

But Darius didn’t smile back. He stared at the necklace, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. I watched him, confused by his reaction. Why did he seem so… worried?

Months later, after my grandmother passed, Darius’ obsession with the necklace deepened. He called my mother, his voice tense and demanding.

“Where is the necklace?” he asked. “The one I gave Mama.”

My mother hesitated. “It’s with her things. Why?”

“I need you to put it somewhere safe. Somewhere no one will find it.”

“Darius, what’s going on? Why are you so fixated on that necklace?”

He didn’t answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “It’s… special. Just promise me you’ll keep it safe.”

What none of us knew at the time was the truth behind the necklace’s power. Every time my grandmother had worn it, it had drained a small piece of her life away. The years it stole from her had quietly been added to Darius’ own life, extending his time on this earth while robbing her of her own. The necklace had kept him alive, strong, even as those around him aged and withered.

And now, even after her death, the necklace still held a dark allure for Darius. It wasn’t just a piece of jewelry; it was a conduit for the ancient magic that had bound him to it. The guilt of what he had done gnawed at him, but he couldn’t let it go. The necklace had become his lifeline, his curse.

As the years passed, Darius grew more and more obsessed with the necklace. He would visit my mother, always asking about it, ensuring it was still safely hidden away. But no matter how many times she reassured him, he could never shake the feeling that it was watching him, waiting for the right moment to claim its next victim.

When my grandmother passed away, Darius, who was in France at the time, couldn’t return to Romania for the funeral. His name had long been on the Romanian government’s wanted list due to an arrest warrant, making it impossible for him to come home, even in the face of such a profound loss.

Instead, he came to Hungary, as close as he could get, yet still too far. We all felt his absence at the funeral, especially my grandfather. The weight of Darius’ absence was heavy in the air, and though no one said it aloud, we all knew why.

The day of the funeral was solemn and tense. I remember it clearly. As we approached the chapel, three police cars stood parked outside, their presence ominous and out of place for a day meant for mourning. Plainclothes agents milled about, watching each attendee, scanning the faces of the grieving. They weren’t there to mourn; they were hunting for Darius, hoping that grief might bring him home and into their grasp.

Inside the chapel, the soft murmur of prayers mingled with the scent of incense, but outside, the agents’ cold, watchful eyes never stopped moving. I could see them out of the corner of my eye, their figures shadowed in the doorway, as if waiting for something more than just the end of the service. It was unsettling, that blend of grief and fear, of mourning and the looming threat of danger.

Whispers rippled among the mourners. “Is Darius here?” they asked quietly, almost too afraid to speak the words aloud. We all knew he wasn’t, but the thought that he might risk everything just to say goodbye lingered in the air like the thick incense curling from the altar.

After the service, as the pallbearers carried my grandmother’s casket to her final resting place, the police cars still loomed in the distance. I found myself glancing back at them, wondering if they, too, would follow us to the graveyard, waiting for a glimpse of Darius. My mother stayed close to me, her face set in grief but also in a kind of determination. I could tell she was thinking about the necklace, about Darius’ strange request that she keep it safe.

She looked around every once in a while, scanning the crowd like the agents did. I think she wondered the same thing: was Darius there? Had he come without anyone knowing, hiding in the shadows, watching from a distance as we said our final goodbyes to the woman who had loved him most? It was hard to say.

Even though Darius was absent, the necklace stayed with us. My mother, after a few years, took it upon herself to wear it. I don’t know why she chose to wear it after all those years of leaving it untouched in its box, but once she clasped it around her neck, it never came off. The necklace gleamed against her skin, its beauty undeniable, but I could feel its weight, a heaviness far beyond gold.

Then, my mother’s health began to fade. Slowly at first—small things, moments of weakness—but they grew. By the time she reached 49, she was gone. The necklace, that cursed necklace, had become almost a part of her. Even as she lay on her hospital bed, her hand would instinctively reach for it, her fingers brushing the cool metal as though it held some kind of power over her.

I didn’t think about the necklace’s dark history until after she died. Left alone and broke, I found myself desperately in need of money for her funeral. There were so many costs—things I had never anticipated. Funeral services, burial fees, the casket—everything added up so quickly. I didn’t know what to do. And then, in my desperation, I remembered the necklace.

It was beautiful, after all. Surely it could fetch a decent price, enough to cover the funeral costs. It felt wrong to sell something that had been so personal to my mother, but I had no choice. I took the necklace to a pawnshop, where the jeweler marveled at its design—its intricate blend of golds, the craftsmanship—and offered me enough money to take care of everything I needed.

I felt a strange emptiness as I handed it over, as though I was giving away something much more than a piece of jewelry. But I had no choice. I watched as the jeweler wrapped it up, the necklace disappearing into a small box, and with it, perhaps, the last traces of whatever magic had bound itself to my mother, to my grandmother before her, and to Darius most of all.

But even after it was gone, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the necklace wasn’t done with us. Its story wasn’t finished.