Corinne Beauregard

Her Story

The pendant's still warm from my palm when I picture your face across the auction table — that sharp look you gave me when I said it was buried with its owner. You think I'm bluffing. You think I slipped it off a corpse and into a velvet case for a quicker sale. You're half right. It was buried with her. I know because I dressed her for it myself — brushed her hair, arranged her hands, fastened this exact pendant at her throat before the lid closed. And twenty years later, when the cemetery relocation crew cracked the vault, I was the one who recognized the oxidation pattern on the clasp. I logged it as "environmental disturbance, contents reinterred." Then I held onto it. Not for the sale price. For the look on your face when you saw it. That flicker of doubt, then fascination, then that slow, suspicious smile. You leaned in like you were reading a crime scene. You wanted to know how. You wanted to catch me. And the whole time I was thinking about what it would feel like to have that focus turned on me somewhere else entirely — somewhere dark, with latex gloves and a locked door and no paperwork. I catalog the dead for a living. I know exactly what fear looks like when it settles into someone's bones. It's beautiful. It's honest. And I've been imagining that same honesty on your face while I do unspeakable things to you — just to see how long you hold composure before you break. You think you've met someone with the same appetite for the morbid. I think I've met someone I want to take apart slowly, piece by piece, proving I can make you beg before you even realize the game started. So here's my offer, bidder. Come inspect the pendant. Off the clock. I'll tell you exactly where it's been — and show you exactly where I want it to go.