The Collector

It was my first time at a swanky restaurant, let alone at a place where a single dish was worth more than I was making per week. Still, I managed to be late.

If it were a date, or even a meeting with a client, I wouldn’t bother apologizing. They probably expect a lawyer to be busy, so they’d likely let it slide as soon as I gave them some excuse about a complicated case. The person I was meeting that night, however, was someone I didn’t want getting angry and walking out.

They call him "El Coleccionista," or simply “The Collector.” The kind of man everyone seemed to have heard of, yet nobody seemed to know what lay beneath the name—and when I say “everyone,” I mean the three people who work at my local pawn shop.

Last Tuesday, I went there to sell an old mechanical pocket watch, probably from the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. I expected good money, so I obviously felt something was off when they only offered me a couple grand.

“There’s no maker’s name, no serial number, and no indication of when it was made,” they said.

Bullshit. If it was made by some unknown artisan, it should be worth more, not less.

Naturally, I took it back home and tried my luck on my go-to auction site. Most of my income comes from selling stuff online, anyways. Surely someone would be willing to offer at least 3,000 bucks, right? There had to be someone who just liked old shiny things and was willing to buy such a nice piece…

And sure enough, there was.Only a few hours after I posted it, the highest bid was $3,205. Jackpot.

Then I saw it.

“It’s a nice watch, so you must desperately need the money to be selling it. I love games, so I’ll keep bidding every time someone else outbids me, or I could give you $50,000 cash so you can buy yourself a present. What do you say?” a direct message read.

The starting price was two grand, and this rando was offering fifty? “Stupid troll,” I said to myself before ignoring him.

The second message, about an hour later, was even more direct: “I raised it to $12,000 to show I’m serious. Your profile says you’re from Boston, is that right? Pick whatever fancy place you like and I’ll be there on Saturday at 9 PM. Any place will do. Just reply with the name and I’ll make sure they have a table for us. And don’t bring the watch, I don’t want you to think it’s an ambush.”

I put my phone away, grabbed the watch, and drove to the pawn shop. Luckily, I got there just in time before they closed.

“Hey, mister! Please, there’s something I’d like to ask before you guys go home,” I yelled from the front door.

“Is it about the watch you brought earlier?” the owner asked.

“Yes. It is. I put it online to see if I could get a bit more than what you offered, and there’s this guy who wants to give me $50,000 for it. What am I missing? Is it really that expensive?” I elaborated.

I drove there on impulse, mostly because I was scared, but as I explained myself to the man at the counter, I realized I didn’t really want another appraisal. I needed them to confirm, somehow, that the man behind the username “El-Coleccionista48” was real. That the offer was real.

I pulled out my phone to show the pawn shop owner the messages, and noticed the price had just gone up to $15,000.“Oh, you said fifteen! I understood fifty,” he laughed as he looked at my screen.

“I did say fifty,” I replied dryly. “Look at the chat history.”

The man adjusted his glasses, scrolled through the messages, and his expression slowly changed. “El Coleccionista… I should have known,” he concluded.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“Not in person, of course,” he quickly clarified. “I mean, it could be a copycat, but you need the money in your account to bid like that, and no joke is worth $15,000. If it’s really him—and I really think it is—you can count on that money and even the $50,000 he promised. I’ve heard all kinds of crazy stories about him from both clients and fellow dealers, and all of them involve a ton of money,” he added.

“I see,” was all I could say.

The man continued to talk about this collector, but nothing he could say could have prepared me—a small-time lawyer in a rented suit, hoping I looked like I belonged in a place that fancy—for what came next.

Running exactly 27 minutes late, I hurried through the restaurant and did as he instructed me: I approached the hostess and discreetly asked for Ignacio. She led me all the way to a secluded corner, and there he was.

“I’m terribly sorry for being this late, sir. I had to take a detour to fill up my tank, and then I got caught in traffic,” I said.

“I can understand you being late. You left your watch at home, after all,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t worry, my friend, at least you made it here safe and sound,” he said as he extended his hand. “Ignacio Montes, at your service.”

“Edgar Monroe. Pleased to meet you,” I replied.

The name was a telltale sign, but even if he had introduced himself as John Smith, I would have known he was Spanish as soon as he opened his mouth. His English was flawless, but his thick accent was impossible to miss.

He had an enviable charisma, too, along with the confidence to wear a burgundy suit over a floral shirt. Perfectly at home in Miami, but almost deliberately out of place in Boston.

As much as his outfit looked like a costume, I could tell that none of it was cheap.

“Would you join me for some wine, Mr. Monroe?” he asked, already halfway through filling my glass.

I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I accepted out of courtesy and curiosity. After all, when else was I going to have the chance to drink wine this expensive? Even if I went through with the deal for the watch, I wasn’t going to spend my own money on something like this…

“First time in Boston?” I asked him.

“That’s right. Just got here from Quito, Ecuador, but I was born and raised in Cádiz. Have you ever visited Spain, Mr. Monroe?”

“If I’m being honest, I’ve never left the country. The farthest I’ve ever been is Plymouth.” I felt a little embarrassed admitting it; it sounded much worse saying it out loud.

After a few minutes of small talk and the usual pleasantries, we finally turned to the reason for our meeting.

“Mr. Monroe—”“Please, just call me Edgar,” I cut in politely.

“Then I will. So, Edgar, I’m here tonight to prove I’m a real person. A real buyer. But I don’t like buying things without first knowing the story behind them. How did you end up with such a beautiful pocket watch?” he asked, his tone shifting instantly.

My father was an attorney, and his father before him. Of course, I had no choice but to become one too. I remember us watching every single movie and TV show about lawyers when I was a kid. Several times each, especially around the early 2000s, when lawyers from our city were all over television.

At my young age, I could still tell my father’s life was nothing like that of the petite blonde lawyer, the bearded idealist who ran his own firm, or the flamboyant womanizer who could turn any courtroom into a stage, but they were his heroes nonetheless. I suppose it was more aspirational than something he could actually relate to.

He’d always look at me and say, “It’s funny, because lawyers are like actors.” And I guess I really am like an actor now. There’s just nothing funny about it.

Also, he meant ironic. He always mixed those two up..…

Now, I wasn’t supposed to be working that night, but it was time for the actor in me to shine. Yeah, that’s ironic.

“It belonged to my late uncle, Raymond Monroe, who died of lung cancer. He cared a lot about it, and all my memories of him are tied to that watch. I have no clue how he got it, but he had no wife or children. I was his only nephew, so naturally, it ended up with me,” I explained.

“And why sell it, then? Why upset your Uncle Ray? Wherever he may be, I’m sure he’d want you to keep it,” he inquired.

“I know, I know. Don’t remind me,” I said, trying to brush it off. “I’ve been going back and forth about it for months, but I think I’ve finally decided to let it go. Work has been scarce lately, and the bills keep piling up,” I added.

“Well, that’s a relief,” the man said, visibly pleased. “As a collector, I do transactions all the time, and for some reason I’d rather take things from people in need than from greedy ones who couldn’t care less about the item and just sell it to get a new phone or tickets for a concert.”

Despite my experience selling used stuff online, this was my first time dealing with something genuinely valuable. Yet I noticed something strange: he seemed more interested in asking questions about me or the pocket watch’s background, than about the watch itself.

I would have expected a high-profile collector to focus more on the age and condition of the piece, the materials it was made from, its authenticity, rarity, or anything else that could prove the item was actually worth what he was willing to pay for it.

I would have been happy with $3,000 in cash, and $50,000 was more than I could have ever imagined when I put the watch up for auction.

But if this man had traveled all the way to meet me just to close the deal, and the condition of the watch didn’t seem to factor into his decision at all, then it was clearly time to squeeze some more money out of him.

When the talk got to that point, I played my cards.

“Sir, I appreciate you taking the time. But there’s something I need to get off my chest. Up until now, I thought I was ready… but after this whole conversation about my uncle and the watch, I don’t think I want to sell it anymore. I just can’t,” I told him with my best fake-sorrowful expression.

He held my gaze for a few seconds while I fought every instinct to look away. Then he suddenly burst out laughing.

He reached for the napkin holder at the center of the table, pulled a sleek pen from his pocket, and passed both to me. “Take a napkin and write down a price you think is fair,” the collector said, still catching his breath.

“I’ve been doing this for years. I’ll give you credit for not raising the price as soon as you got here, but I’m good at reading people’s faces. Unfortunately, I’m just as good at giving myself away when I really want something,” he said.

He drank the last sip of wine from his glass and motioned for the waitress to bring him another bottle. The young girl—probably the most gorgeous blonde I’ve seen in my entire life—almost ran to our table, refilled his glass, then reached for mine.

“Not him, darling. Just me. Mr. Monroe here has a tough decision to make, and more wine won’t help,” he said with a smile.

And he was right. How much was too much?

I liked it better when random people on the internet were the ones pricing my stuff, and I simply collected the money. With auctions, you always get the maximum amount people are willing to pay. In this case, I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life wondering how much more I could have gotten for a simple pocket watch.

Hiding my trembling handwriting and trying not to tear the napkin, I wrote down a number, turned it face down, and lightly drummed my fingers on it before sliding it across the table to Ignacio.

For some reason, I tried to look mysterious.

He picked up the napkin without playing along, glanced at the number, and quickly said, “Okay, I’ll double it. We have a deal, Edgar. Let’s shake hands.”

The next day, I found myself driving to New York. Not flying, like Ignacio Montes would, but actually taking my old car all the way to the Big Apple—my biggest adventure since the day I skipped school to play billiards with my friends.

Ignacio told me to cancel the online auction, meet him at an art gallery, and make sure to keep the watch somewhere safe.

“I’m paying in cash, so make sure nothing happens to you on the way there. Be late if you have to. I’ll be waiting for you,” were his last words. Did I really make such a bad first impression?

I double-checked the address in the text he sent me, not trusting the GPS. I was looking for a New York-style gallery, with spotlessly clean floor-to-ceiling windows, lights everywhere, and a line of ultra-expensive cars displayed outside like works of art. This place looked like a house—a rather impressive one, but not what I had in mind.

The inside looked more like a museum, or how I imagine Indiana Jones’ house. The walls of the large hall were covered with ancient paintings, funerary masks, medieval swords, framed hand-drawn maps… you name it. Ignacio’s office, where he invited me after greeting me, was even more surprising.

“Did you have any trouble getting here, Edgar?” he asked me as I took a seat on the comfortable sofa near the fireplace.

“I think I took a wrong turn a couple of times, but other than that, nothing worth mentioning,” I said.

I noticed Ignacio gave me a weird look, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Maybe I was just being paranoid; all the statues, idols, and paintings in the room seemed to be staring at me and judging me too.

“You really are a collector, huh? This place looks exactly like I pictured your house,” I told him, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh, I wouldn’t invite a stranger to my house,” he corrected me. “As you can imagine, traveling with expensive and rare items is an inconvenience, so long ago I decided to keep parts of my collection in different properties around the world.”

“It’s been years since I last visited New York,” Ignacio added. “I’ve had quite a few business dealings in South America lately, so I’ve been spending most of my time in Buenos Aires. You gave me a good reason to come back.”

Long ago? I could have sworn he was only a few years older than me, perhaps in his late thirties…

I was dying to ask when and how he had started collecting such objects, but I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Plus, it was most likely something he had inherited from his rich parents or grandparents, without any remarkable story behind it.

But one of the objects called my attention. I wish it didn't.

On one of the display stands, almost hidden in a corner, was a crystal amulet I recognized from one of those weird pop-science magazines my crazy ex used to read. It said that the amulet was cursed by some slave woman and that it would bring terrible luck to its owner. I remember it because I bought Margaret a similar collar, and she used that article to dismiss my thoughtful, loving gift.

$2.50 down the drain.

“Is that really the Black Heart Amulet?” I asked. "Is that how it's called? I'm pretty bad with names."

“Color me surprised! I didn’t think you’d recognize anything here,” Ignacio said with a condescending smile.

“Well, I didn’t even know the thing actually existed. I thought it was nothing but a scary tale for gullible people… N-no offense,” I was quick to add. “I only said that to take a jab at my ex-girlfriend. She was dumb enough to believe all that.”

“For what it’s worth, I guarantee you the amulet didn’t kill me, as you can tell. In fact, every single piece you see here is supposed to bring misfortune or cause terrible accidents, but none of them seem to live up to their legends,” Ignacio said.

“All these diamonds, voodoo dolls, paintings, and even manuscripts nobody could decipher. They’re worth a lot of money, sure, and they all have their own myths… but they’re either fake or simply too weak,” he added. “Still, I like to think that I’m using my wealth to keep others from meeting a tragic end.”

He truly sounded like a supervillain who thought he was the superhero. Very fitting for a rich man, too.

“So… are you some kind of skeptic who collects cursed objects just to prove a point? Is that the theme of your collection?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Edgar… but perhaps you’re right,” he replied.

Wait. So that means…

“Now you must be wondering about your uncle’s watch,” he said.

He read me like an open book.

“Are you telling me this pocket watch is the reason my uncle Raymond died? Ignacio, come on…” I said jokingly.

“I don’t know about Raymond, but don’t you think the car crash involving the old woman you took it from was particularly strange?” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, looking directly at the watch on the small coffee table.

“What are you talking about, man?” I blurted out.

My first instinct was to confront him, but he was right. There was no Uncle Raymond, and he definitely knew more than he was letting on.

“You graduated from law school a couple of years ago, but never got to work for one of those fancy firms I saw advertised all over the city when I first arrived in Boston. You’re not your typical freelance attorney either, still struggling to get clients through the usual channels.”

He went on, “Instead of waiting for someone to call you, you spend your nights driving around the city and listening to the police scanner, hoping to hear about a traffic accident. Then, you approach the victim, introduce yourself as a lawyer who just happened to drive by, and offer your services to sue the other driver.

“If you’re lucky, you can even take advantage of the situation and steal something small but valuable.

“And last Tuesday, early in the morning, you got lucky.”

How could he know all that? I couldn’t make sense of it…

Near the intersection of Waldeck and Geneva, a guy lost control of his taxi, ran a red light, and hit an old lady in her deep blue Honda Accord. It was raining heavily that night, but the taxi didn’t skid—the left front wheel simply came off, and the driver didn’t even have time to hit the brakes or react in any way.

He died instantly, pinned inside the twisted wreckage, but the woman managed to call 911 after the crash. That was the last thing she would ever do.

The rain was coming down hard, and since I was so close to the scene, I managed to get there first. I tried opening the door to help her out, but it was badly crumpled. In hindsight, I should have known there was no way she could have survived, but I suppose my desperation for a client had outweighed common sense.

When I heard the sirens in the distance, I quickly looked through the car. I could have taken the woman’s phone and sold it quickly, although it would undoubtedly draw attention after her 911 call. On the floor, I found a beautiful pocket watch that looked old and very well cared for, completely intact despite the violent crash.

It should at least be enough to cover the rent for the month, I told myself.

It’s not something I’m proud of, but these days, I scrape by as an ambulance chaser.

“Carancho,” Ignacio said. “That’s what they call lawyers like you in Argentina. A scavenger bird.”

“But don’t get me wrong,” he added. “I couldn’t care less about your questionable practices—you do what you have to do to survive. But speaking of survival, a tragic car accident sounds much more like what I would expect from a cursed object than something as ordinary as cancer, don’t you think?”

“Look, I just wanted to make some quick money. Getting involved with a collector wasn’t part of my plan,” I admitted. “I suppose my lie will bring the price down, but I’m not buying the cursed object theory either. I’m just happy to go home with a few thousand bucks, if that’s okay.”

“Now, that’s certainly disappointing, Edgar,” he said. “I don’t care about the money, but I do hope this watch really does kill its owner.”

“I’ve lost hope so many times now that it wouldn’t even surprise me if the curse were fake. But the fact that the last five all died under strange circumstances gives me reason to believe it might be real,” he explained.

“K-kill me?!” I stuttered. Then I snapped. “Nah, that’s not happening. I know I tried to fool you before to raise the price, but that trick won’t work on me. I’m not selling it for cheap just because you claim it will kill me… what a joke.”

“I just want to buy this watch from you, and I want its curse to be real. Is it that hard to understand?” he said. “In the process, I might be saving your life too. And here’s the best part: I’ll pay cash, and we’ll sign a contract. If I die, my whole fortune goes to you.”

Tempting, but hard to believe.

“You’re hiding something. What’s the catch?” I pressed.

“There’s none,” he said.

He took a moment, then closed his eyes and began to explain.

“Cádiz. I think it was the 8th of May, but I’m sure the year was 1742. A smuggler was looting yet another shipwreck when he found something that changed his life. The ship had no flag, there was nothing that stood out about it, but in one of the holds, there was a small chest. Made of fine silver.

“Inside the chest, there were gold coins—sixteen of them—and a jewel. The chest also contained an inscription in a foreign language,” Ignacio continued. “Those gold coins started my collection. Everything you see here, every object I own.

“But not all treasure hunters share the same goal,” he concluded. “That man wanted something that would change his life. Now, I just want something that will end it.”

“I’m not following you,” I said. “What’s with the history class?”

“All these treasures around us, including your watch, are supposedly cursed. And yet I’m the only one in this room who actually is,” he replied.

“Now I’m a well-connected antiquities collector, but I’ve also been a pirate, a bounty hunter, a trafficker, and just about anything else that led me to objects that brought misfortune to their owners. Just as that jewel brought immortality to me.”

It was too much, I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t help laughing my ass off at the look on his face. Now I was convinced he was not a dangerous scammer, but a delusional one.

“So you’re telling me that man in 1700-something was you, and that you’re immortal now?” I asked in disbelief. “No, please give me the money or let me go. I’m not entertaining this nonsense.”

He didn’t react, which only made me more nervous.

“Give me the money we agreed on for the watch, sign the paper leaving everything to me, and I’ll kill you myself if I have to. Sounds like a plan, huh?”

“I wish it were that easy,” he said, with the tired patience of someone who had probably heard the same foolish suggestion countless times.

“You think I haven’t tried every possible way to kill myself? Or had someone else kill me?” he added. Then he showed me the scars that proved it.

As he rolled up his sleeves, I was stunned to see all the marks covering his arms. Then he opened his shirt, revealing several bullet wounds of different calibers.

“This one’s a funny one. They thought I was a vampire and stabbed me in the heart. I didn’t fight back,” he said, running his fingers over the nasty scar.

“Poison, bleeding out, shooting myself… none of them work. They either leave me unconscious, or somehow undo the damage, and I wake up as if nothing happened. If there were any witnesses, like that vampire-hunting mob, they forget it ever happened.

“Unfortunately, I might not die, but the pain won’t always go away, so I’m too scared to jump from a building or set myself on fire. I want death, not an eternity of agony.

“So, having lost everyone I cared about, time and time again, my only hope is to find another magic object. Because I’m living proof that magic exists, and I can only dream of finding a cursed item powerful enough to put an end to it all.”

Ignacio’s speech was over the top.

“So if I were to believe you, does that mean this pocket watch is the reason that woman died… and I should be next if I don’t get rid of it?” I asked.

“I have no reason to believe anyone else died before her, or that the watch had anything to do with it. And even if all that were true, there’s still no reason to believe this watch is going to kill you. Curse or not.” I was still unsure of how to feel.

“As I told you, Edgar, it’s not the first time I’ve put myself in this situation. There were many others before you, people I bought or traded for things that were supposedly destined to bring me a horrible fate. I paid dearly for some of them, dug others up with my own hands, and I’ll admit that I stole some as well… I’m no better a person than someone who steals from the dead or the wounded,” he confessed.

“And if I’m being honest, I don’t even care what happens to you. At this point, I’m desensitized to death, especially when it comes to someone I’ve only seen twice in my centuries-long life,” he told me.

“But I’ve been following that pocket watch for decades. ‘Horologium Damnatorum,’ as the first journalist to document the events surrounding it called it. Of course, it was nothing more than a catchy Latin name to sell more newspapers, and it worked.

“A British nobleman bought it about a century ago, and his entire family and horses died in a fire a few months later. But although everyone suspected the watch was responsible, they could never find it. All they had was a letter received by one of his friends, Colonel Arthur Whitmore, in which the man said he wanted to be remembered for hiding the watch and saving future victims.”

“Then I guess someone found it,” I pointed out.

“Fortunately for me, yes. And one thing led to another until someone tried to sell it online… something that British nobleman could never have imagined,” Ignacio said with a smile. “So how about we stop talking and finally get this over with? You can take your money, and I get another shot at death.”

All I wanted at that moment was to get back home and forget about this Spanish guy. I could do with a warm shower, and then I could think about how to spend my little windfall.

“The watch is yours,” I said, and nodded to the table. “Where’s my money?”

“You’ve been sitting on it,” he answered.

Sure enough, there were two bags of money under the sofa that I hadn’t noticed before. It took me a few minutes to count it all, despite my telling Ignacio twice that it wasn’t necessary. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Do we shake hands, Mr. Monroe?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

Finally, this fever dream was over, and I could drive back home with the cash—the sexiest passenger to ever grace my car.

Until a thought crossed my mind.

“Ignacio… I’m not trying to say I regret it… but what if it’s already too late for me?”

It was a stupid question. Not the kind that makes the person asking it look stupid, but the kind that has no answer.

I was afraid. Terrified.

“What if I die anyway, just for having the watch in my possession all this time?” I added.

Was that really my only concern?

I had no family, no lover… I barely had a job. Why would I care about dying? There was nothing for me to lose. And yet, the fear of death paralyzed me.

The mere idea of immortality being real also challenged everything I believed in. Not just my beliefs, but everyone’s, I suppose. A Spanish pirate from the eighteenth century, still walking among us? A treasure hunter who wasn’t after riches, but some mysterious force tied to cursed objects?

I’m sure a sane person would have countless questions to ask themselves in a situation like this, and might never be able to accept that any of it was possible. As for me, I couldn’t stop thinking about my own death.

If not because of the pocket watch I took that night, then because of one of the other cursed objects decorating the room. Including that stupid crystal amulet in the corner that would prove my Maggie right.

“What if you die, you say?” he mused.

“Then I’ll envy you, Edgar Monroe. And I’ll be glad to be next.”