Frances awoke with a start.

Her heart hammered hard against her ribcage. Her chest heaved with short gasps–as if she'd returned from running a marathon. Wheezing through her teeth, she laid in her sweat-soaked dress, choking down the nausea that bobbed in her throat. When the feeling passed, she pushed herself up. Sniffling, she took a tissue from her bedside, wiping at the beads of sweat on her forehead, her neck, and under her arms.

She had that dream again.

Legs trembling, she threw off her thin silk sheets, swinging them over her bed. Her cotton white dress swayed just over her ankles as she shakily stood. She stumbled to her vanity, throwing aside the chair sitting in front of it. The iron legs scraped against the polished oak floors, clattering onto its side. She stared long into the mirror.

Heavy, dark bags hung under her emerald eyes. She pulled at their bruised edges, noting how bright red veins ran across the corneas. Drops of dried black blood dotted her lips. Sores ran across its chapped surface. She wanted to cry. They had once been a pretty hue reminiscent of the pink inside of a conch shell. The liver spots she would hide appeared darker. She couldn't last remember when she had a peaceful rest. She only slept in fits.

Her gaze drifted down, lingering on the polished sheen of her jewelry box. She frowned, though she couldn't muster enough strength to make it severe. Wetting her bottom lip, over the stinging sores, she swallowed. She reached for the golden knob that adorned its top with bated breath. Ceramic clinked finely, as she placed the cover down gently. She dug through pearls and gems, searching for the shape of a teardrop gem. When her knuckle brushed against its ice-cold edge, she shivered once, before placing her forefinger and thumb on its sharp tip and round bottom.

In the long shadows cast by the full moon, it glimmered black. She raised it high above her head, turning it this way and that, seeking the deep emerald hues when the light struck it right.

She picked up the gem on her visit to Shadowglen with friends. The tour guide had warned them not to take anything from the forest, regaling them with silly children's tales. "You might bring home an unwanted visitor." Of course, she didn't believe them. Hundreds took the tour every year. Yet, not one soul left harmed. She figured the story had been told to discourage poor behavior–and encourage gift shop sales.

So, she took something: a little gem that glinted so prettily in the light. The color matched her eyes.

The gem slipped into her pocket with ease. Feeling a small amount of guilt, she purchased a few other overpriced trinkets from the gift shop, as recompense. The guide's warning echoed in her head as she peered into the gem's deep, infinite depths. Her breathing turned quick, chest going tight. Flashes of heat erupted across her skin. Her blood boiled. Abruptly, she shoved it back into her jewelry box, her prized pearls and other precious gems swallowing it.

What was she thinking? She didn't believe in curses or silly kid stories. The tour only told them that story for their own purposes. Otherwise, it wouldn't make sense to hold tours in such a dangerous place. There'd be more guides or–or they'd hire security to empty the pockets of every tourist who visited to make sure they didn't take anything that could hurt them.

Her dreams must be stress-induced. She'd taken on several new clients in the last few weeks; perhaps, more than she could handle. She should hire an assistant to help her balance her schedule. She'll plan for a vacation–maybe a stay at Delphi's resort or a cottage on Veta's lake. She could do with some fresh, untainted air.

Yes, how silly of her to consider that tour guide's word for a second. How could she think of discarding the most beautiful gem she'd ever laid eyes upon?

---

The First Dream

She woke in a white room–no, she couldn't call it a room. A room implied walls and shadows and an end. She woke to a bright nothingness; a near-blinding white, reminding her of the sun glinting off of snow. Once her eyes adjusted, she spun this way and that. Her night dress swayed and floated over her hips, as if weighing nothing. She laughed, tapping on her heels like a carefree child again.

Then, she saw it: a wooden door standing–she estimated–twenty paces away. How had she missed it? A sense of wrongness stung her, unease welling up in her throat.

Suddenly, she realized she couldn't hear her own breathing anymore. The world had gone silent, like a black-and-white film. She clenched her throat, gasping–not from lack of breath, but from an abrupt desperation to hear herself. Had she gone deaf? No... even a deaf person could feel themselves breathing. She didn't feel anything. Not even the rise of her own chest.

A frustrated panic seized her. Breathe! Breathe! She screamed, but no sound tore from her throat. She screamed and screamed–and nothing, again.

A sudden heat descended around her, suffocating and heavy. She froze. She could hear... a dull pawing and muffled snuffling, much like the sounds of an animal's rooting. Heart hammering–she couldn't feel it, but she could tell–she peeked over her shoulder.

Two black pin-sized holes punctured the space behind her. The air around it... warped. Thin tendrils of a dark fog poured out of it, like smoke from a cheap cigarette. She stepped back–or did she–as the holes melted wider. Thick black sludge started to ooze out, dripping onto the ground. Though instinct told her to flee, curiosity rooted her to where she stood.

The nothingness tore further, rips appearing in the space. The shuffling and snorting hastened, loud in her ears.

Oh, she needed to run.

A polished, onyx hoof pushed out of the gaping, melting maw of blackness. A snarling snout poked out next, followed by a starved, barreled chest. White, glowing orbs glared at her. Row upon row of sharp, jagged teeth snapped at her. The beast melting through the nothingness towered over her, its three tails snapping against its hide. For a long second, she watched. Then, it threw back its head; a shrill, garbled whinny piercing the smoky air.

She turned and started running.

She swung her arms, even though she couldn't feel any of her limbs. She only knew she needed to reach the door before–before that thing reached her. Hoof beats thundered behind her, a rotting heat nipping at her heels. Putrid ash stung her eyes and nose. In her peripheral vision, she could see wisps of grey smoke threaten to wrap around her.

She didn't know how long she ran. Time stretched and compressed somewhere between an eternity and a single second. When her hand touched the door knob–

She woke up.

---

The Last Dream

Though Frances lost all senses in her dreams, she could tell the door was getting further and further each time. She could tell by the way she woke up more and more tired, limbs sorer and sorer–even reaching a point where she once threw up on herself upon waking.

How much longer must she live like this?

As soon as the white emptiness blinded her, she took off in the direction of the door. Every second was precious to outpace the beast. She gasped and wheezed, the tinge of iron welling in her throat. The pads of her heels ached, begging for rest. Her heart hammered and her chest stuttered on every intake of breath. She blinked away the sweat and tears pouring into her vision.

When the salt of a tear dissipated on her tongue, she fell into despair. When had she started to feel? Her limbs slogged, as if moving through tar. A putrid, rotting scent filled her flared nostrils. Hot smoke singed her skin. Tears blurred her sight. Hoof beats shook the ground; awful, screeching cries whinnied behind her.

She lunged for the door–a dot in the distance–

Then it all went black.

---

The Cursed Gem

Police gathered in the lobby of an apartment located on the outskirts of Centropolis. Residents lingered outside, whispering among themselves. "Did you hear? Someone died. They said she... melted."

A foul stench had been reported by a resident on the ninth floor two weeks ago. The owner received no response when he knocked on the problematic resident's door. When he went into the unit, he discovered the body of the woman who lived there: a 28 year-old freelance designer named Frances. Those who knew her only knew she worked late nights–and that she was nice.

A tall slim figure entered the lobby, then. No one noticed their entrance. They drifted past the crowd gathered by the front, heading for the two elevators in the back. They tapped the cracked yellowed buttons with long sharp nails, stepping inside after the doors opened. They headed for the eighth floor, to Frances's unit.

They stepped over the markers left in front of her door. Their boots left no mark in the beige carpet. A repulsive stink tainted the air. They stopped short of entering her bedroom. Broken bottles of perfume, pulled pearls, and shattered glass littered the carpet. The wallpaper had been shredded, streaked with black. Gingerly, they made their way over to the bed.

The mold of a body was charred into the center of the twin-sized bed. Deep, dark blotches stained the violet duvet. They clicked their tongue. Poor fool, they thought. To die in one's sleep was considered a peaceful affair. However, it seemed the owner suffered until the very end.

Well, they supposed, theft beget punishment. They didn't pity her too much.

Turning away, they walked over to her vanity: the only undisturbed piece of furniture in the room. Though numerous fingerprints marred its mirror, and much of the contents on its desk were scattered; a single, ceramic jewelry box sat untouched. Pink painted roses blossomed on its white surface; gold trimming lined its edges.

They pinched the knob between their forefinger and thumb, setting the lid aside. It clinked. They sifted through the pearls and worthless gems, feeling for a familiar cold touch with the top of their finely sharpened nail. When they found the gem, they took it.

Holding it up to the sun's light, they watched its depths shimmer and shift. The gem they held trapped the ghost of a long, long passed Nightmare. When in possession of those equipped to wield its powers, its Curse can be a boon in battle. However, in the possession of the untrained, the Curse would be inflicted upon them. The owner would suffer terrible nightmares, forever fleeing from the sadistic ghost haunting it. To be rid of it, they would need to give up the gem and be cleansed by divine power.

They sighed, slipping the gem into their inner pocket. Poor, poor greedy fools, they thought. Ah, well. On to the next.