Write

The embroidery was hard to steal. Laser beams criss crossing the museum walls and floors. Two hours later I was opening the bag of cash, counting, shaking hands with my client, ignoring the warning thoughts invading my head since the moment I'd been hired.

'Moonlite Glow' was cursed. Apparently, anyone who handled it suffered misfortune. The last four owners died unexpectedly, gruesome and slow. One fell out of his bedroom window straight onto steel sharp railings, not found until the next day. Another drowned in his hot tub after his big toe got stuck somehow. He shut off his mind to the rest of the images.

Tom Watson drove home, looking down to turn the music as loud as it could go, thinking of his bag of cash. His car hit another and drove straight off the bridge into the foaming water below.

Meanwhile the new owner slipped downstairs and broke his neck. He lived alone.