Amulet of Doom

by Bruce Coville

She went on to tell the story of the nightmare that had woken her the night of Zenobia’s death—and of her horror at discovering the amulet she had been entrusted with was missing from her room. As she spoke, she realized for the first time that the creature she had seen in that first dream was the same one she had seen with the amulet last night. The knowledge had been there all along. She had been avoiding it, because she didn’t want to deal with it.

  She continued, telling Alicia about finding Zenobia’s body, her hand still clutching the mysterious amulet, and the two voices she had heard at Zenobia’s bedside.

  Finally she told her about Zenobia’s visit the night before.

  Then she handed her Zenobia’s letter.

  Alicia read it, making little noises of astonishment as she went along. When she was done, she looked at Marilyn and said two things.

  The first was: “I believe you.”

  The second was: “Boy, are you in trouble.”

  She was going to say more, but the cloud that had covered the sun was joined by several others. The sky opened and a slashing rain began to pour down on them.

  Forgetting about the ghost, they ran for shelter.

  They were in Alicia’s bedroom, wearing bathrobes and toweling off their hair. Their clothes were down cellar in the dryer.

  “The funeral is tomorrow,” said Alicia. “That doesn’t give you much time. Before you know it, Zenobia and the amulet will both be six feet under, and that’ll be the end of the problem. Of course, her ghost might still hang around and kind of bug you. But she’ll really have to stop harping on the amulet. I mean, gone is gone, and—”

  “Alicia!”

  “Sorry. I thought a little humor might be appreciated about now.”

  “It probably would have been,” said Marilyn. “If you had managed to come up with any.”

  “So shoot me! I tend to talk when I get nervous.”

  “Also when you’re calm. Besides, it’s four, not six.”

  “Four what?”

  “Four feet. That’s how deep they dig graves around here. Five at the most. And they have this big concrete thing called a vault they put the coffin in to keep the wood from rotting.”

  “You amaze me. Whence comes this great knowledge of the funeral business?”

  “My aunt just died, remember?”

  “My uncle died last year, but I’m not ready to open a funeral parlor.”

  “Well, I’ve been paying close attention to the conversations my parents had with Mr. Flannigan. And I asked a few questions.”

  “Morbid curiosity,” said Alicia. “A bad sign. All right, since you’re such an expert, can you tell me why anyone should care if the wood rots once the coffin is planted?”

  “I think it’s in case they ever have to move the body—like if the state decided to put a highway through the cemetery or something. Maybe it’s just to protect the family’s investment in fine furniture. Anyway, by the time you get the top on the vault, there’s less than three feet of dirt covering the thing. So it wouldn’t be that hard to dig one up. Getting the top off the vault would be a problem, but—”

  “Marilyn!”

  “What?”

  “Start over. Scratch that very bad, exceedingly stupid idea out of your mind. You sound like a clip from Monster Movie Matinee. And I have no intention of playing Igor to some scatterbrained gravedigger on a midnight mission to the cemetery.”

  “Some henchperson you make. You’d better study your dwarf manual again.”

  “Look, Airhead, you start with the short jokes and you can face the unknown alone. Which is maybe not a bad idea. I don’t know why I’m having this conversation with you at all.”

  “Because you’re incredibly loyal. Anyway, I was just thinking out loud. Give me credit for a little common sense.”

  “I always did, until you started getting dopey about Kyle. A person who could take him seriously might do anything!”

  “You want another short joke?”

  “All right, all right! I’ll lay off about Kyle. But what are you gonna do?”

  “Do you suppose I could get the amulet off Zenobia’s body during viewing hours tonight?”

  “Possible, but not likely. How about if you just tell your mother you want it?”

  “I tried. It was embarrassing. Not only did she think I was greedy, she thought I was ‘excessively morbid.’”

  “You could try telling her about the ghost.”

  Marilyn looked at Alicia.

  “Yeah, I see what you mean,” said Alicia. “Your mother already thinks your imagination is out of control. Hit her with this story and she’s likely to decide the strain has been too much and you’re ready for the funny farm. I mean, I only believe you because I have to.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Anyway, to continue digressing, how did the amulet get on Zenobia to begin with?”

  “Mr. Flannigan called Mom and asked her for something to ‘finish the look.’ She thought Zenobia was fond of the amulet, since she was clutching it when she died, and decided it would be a nice thing to have it buried with her. Sort of Egyptian, according to Mom.”

  Alicia raised an eyebrow. “That was nice of your mom, in a weird kind of way. But the whole thing still doesn’t make sense. If your aunt was so fond of the amulet, why does she want you to get it off her?”

  “Who knows why dead people do stuff?” said Marilyn, starting to feel exasperated.

  Alicia shuddered, then whispered, “I’ve been pretty jokey about this. But the truth is, that’s because you’ve got me scared. What do you think this is really all about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know,” repeated Marilyn. “Nothing, if I’m lucky.”

  Alicia sighed. “Well, you know what to do if you need me.”

  Marilyn nodded. “I may take you up on that.”

  Alicia shuddered and sank back into her chair.

  Outside, the rain fell in a slow, steady drizzle.

  8

  THE HAUNTED GHOST

  Kyle showed up at the funeral parlor again that night, as did a number of writers and editors who had worked with Zenobia at one time or another. They had flown in that day in order to be present at the funeral Saturday morning.

  Surrounded by what seemed like mountains of flowers, their odor almost overwhelming her, Marilyn stood at Zenobia’s coffin and looked down at her aunt The amulet rested on her chest, partially covered by a small bouquet of roses and baby’s breath. As she looked at it now, the smooth, blue edge peeking out from under a curling petal, she had an almost irresistible urge to reach down and snatch it.

  She glanced around. No one was watching.

  She shook herself. Craziness! All it would take would be one person turning in her direction, and there would be an uproar, followed by embarrassment and humiliation, and the rest of her natural life in therapy.

  She looked down at Zenobia again. Her sharp features were waxy with the pall of death. Why are you doing this to me? thought Marilyn fiercely. What is this all about?

  To her horror, Zenobia answered her. The words came as a whisper in the back of her mind: Be patient, Marilyn. Be patient, and brave. I need you.

  The combination of staring at her aunt’s dead body and hearing her voice at the same time was too much for Marilyn. She gripped the edge of the coffin as her knees started to buckle. For a horrible instant the coffin wobbled. Marilyn gasped. She thought it was going to tip over, and her mind conjured up a gruesome picture of Zenobia’s body falling out and pinning her to the floor.

  Her mind continuing to run wild, she wondered if she could snatch the amulet if that happened.

  All at once Kyle was at her side. Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he led her back to her chair, supporting her as he did. A small circle of concerned people quickly formed around them.

  Suddenly she saw her father come pushing through the crowd, shouldering aside assorted cousins. To her e
normous relief he shooed the entire group away, bellowing, “Give her some room to breathe, for Pete’s sake!”

  He used the fierce voice he generally reserved for his high school students, which caused the murmuring relatives to pull back in astonishment. Standing at a respectful distance, they watched her from the corners of their eyes.

  “Hot night,” said her father gruffly. “Too much going on. You okay, Marilyn?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “Good.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Take her outside for a while, would you, Kyle?”

  “Yes sir,” said Kyle. Putting his hand on Marilyn’s elbow, he led her through the crowd to the front porch. The air was indeed warm, and still muggy from the afternoon rain. But a gentle breeze offered some relief, and as it lifted the damp strands of coppery hair from her shoulders, Marilyn realized for the first time how stuffy the big room had actually been.

  Kyle let go of her elbow. Then he took her hand and led her to the large oak tree at the corner of Flannigan’s lawn.

  “Okay,” he said. “Spill.”

  “Spill?” asked Marilyn nervously, though she knew perfectly well what he meant.

  “Something is really messing you up. And it’s not just your aunt’s death, though Lord knows that would be enough. But I’ve been watching you. You are seriously spooked. I’ve known you too long not to see it. So just spill it, will you? We’ll both feel better.”

  Oh, Kyle, she thought desperately. How I wish I could. But I don’t dare. It’s too crazy. You could never believe me.

  Out loud she said, “You’re wrong. It is Aunt Zenobia. It was all so sudden, and I really miss her, and being the one to find her was just so weird.”

  Which is pretty much the truth, she told herself, trying to salve the way her conscience was complaining about the lie.

  Kyle looked at her suspiciously. “That’s all?”

  She nodded. “You know how I felt about her. The loss is hard to take.”

  His eyes, fringed with golden lashes and bluer than a summer sky, peered into hers, searching for something.

  “Will you call me if I can help you?” he asked at last.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “If I think you can help, I’ll call.”

  But I don’t think you can. I don’t think anyone can help me now. Because either I’m being haunted or I’m losing my mind. And those are both things you do alone.

  Of course, she wasn’t really alone, Marilyn thought later, sitting in her room. She had Alicia. But she wasn’t sure how much of this Alicia believed. She had a feeling her friend was merely humoring her.

  She looked around her room. It was familiar, comfortable. She had slept in it all her life.

  But she no longer felt safe here, which was why she was awake now, even though she needed sleep so desperately that her eyes were stinging. She was too afraid to sleep. When she stretched out on her bed, her body was as rigid as a board. Her eyes, as if they were out of her control, refused to close. The book she had been trying to read lay on the floor beside her chair. She had been totally unable to concentrate on it.

  Brick jumped up and sat in her lap. She reached down and stroked his head. But she could feel the tension that had formed in her shoulders at his approach. She was still afraid of the cat, and that made her sad. Brick began to purr, pushing his head insistently against her hand to demand more attention.

  The clock in the downstairs hall chimed three.

  A moment later Zenobia walked through the door.

  Brick yowled in protest as Marilyn’s hands clutched his body. She felt a cold sweat pop out on her brow. She wasn’t dreaming, or just waking up, or just drifting off. All the reasons she might use to explain things away were worthless here. She was wide awake, and the woman who was lying in a coffin at Flannigan’s Funeral Home had just walked through her door—which was still closed, now that she glanced at it.

  She tried to say something, but her throat seemed sealed shut, her mouth as dry as a day old doughnut.

  Zenobia spoke instead. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Though it was clearly her voice, the words didn’t seem to come from Zenobia’s lips. Instead, they whispered inside Marilyn’s head.

  Marilyn remained rigid, fear winning out over desire. For part of her wanted to rush to her aunt and fling her arms around her. Another part, stronger, wanted this awful thing to disappear forever and leave her alone.

  “It’s difficult,” said the voice in her mind. “I know you don’t understand. But I need your help.”

  Marilyn nodded.

  “You know what you have to do?” asked Zenobia.

  She nodded again, then said, “What I don’t understand is why.”

  Zenobia sighed. “Because if I am buried with that amulet, I will never be allowed to rest. Guptas will see to that. He’ll haunt me and harass me through all eternity.”

  “Who is Guptas?”

  “The prisoner of the amulet. Listen quickly. I would come with you, if I could. But this appearing act takes a lot out of me, and I can’t keep it up very long. I’m hoping I’ll get better at it as times goes on.”

  Zenobia was already beginning to fade. But Marilyn had one last question, the most important one of all as far as she was concerned. “Are you real?” she whispered desperately.

  Dumb! she thought as soon as she had asked it. Do you expect a hallucination to tell you it’s imaginary?

  “As real as tomorrow,” replied the voice in her mind.

  Marilyn relaxed a little. That was the kind of thing Zenobia would say. And not the kind of thing she, Marilyn, would think of on her own.

  So maybe this really was Zenobia’s ghost.

  With a start Marilyn realized she was glad the ghost was real. She had been half convinced she was losing her mind … a prospect she found far more frightening than a mere ghost.

  “I have to go now,” said Zenobia. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.” Her figure wavering in the air, growing mistier by the second, she took a step toward Marilyn. Holding her hands out beseechingly, she added, “Don’t let me down.”

  Then she was gone.

  But one last thought hung in Marilyn’s mind, one last message from Zenobia’s spirit. The words had formed even as her image disappeared. And, it seemed to Marilyn, they left her no choice.

  “I’m counting on you,” she had said.

  Marilyn looked around at the empty room. Brick was still on her lap, but he had risen to his feet, and his back was arched like a cat in a Halloween picture. Suddenly she realized he had sunk his claws into her leg. She cried out in pain and swatted at him. He turned and hissed at her, then jumped off her lap and ran under the bed.

  She rubbed her leg, wondering how she had ignored the pain until now.

  Forget it, she ordered herself. You’ve got work to do.

  She slipped into her jeans and a sweatshirt, dug her sneakers from under the bed, then went to her nightstand and took out her flashlight.

  This was going to be dark work. She hoped she wouldn’t have an attack of her nightfrights.

  Glancing nervously around her room, she tried to convince herself to give up the whole crazy idea. But she had promised her aunt. And if she wanted to grow up to be the kind of person Zenobia had been, she couldn’t wimp out now.

  With a sigh, she stepped through the door.

  Save for the distant rumble of her father’s snoring, the house was quiet. She turned on her flashlight and walked carefully down the hallway, moving as silently as possible.

  A few moments later she stood on the front porch. She felt a twinge of sorrow as she remembered Zenobia standing there, smoking her cigar and telling outrageous stories.

  She started down the steps and almost tripped over Brick, who had slipped out the door with her.

  “Watch out, stupid,” she hissed as the cat wound himself between her feet. He bared his little teeth at her and bounded down the steps.

  The night was cooler now, and very still, e
xcept for the breeze, which continued to blow gently through the town, carrying the fragrance of a dozen different kinds of flowers that had come into bloom that week.

  The sky was clear, moonless but filled with glittering stars.

  It was almost too perfect and Marilyn felt a sudden surge of affection for this little corner of the world that she had so often found unbearably boring. After the last few days she was beginning to think that boring wasn’t such a bad thing.

  Looking around now at the simple, familiar surroundings, it was hard to believe she was on her way to a funeral home to steal an amulet from the chest of a corpse.

  Panic gripped her. She wanted to turn back.

  “I’m counting on you,” echoed a voice in her memory.

  She squared her shoulders and started down the walk.

  When she reached the corner, a figure glided from the shadows beneath one of the street’s old oak trees.

  Making no sound, it followed her into the night.

  9

  MIDNIGHT MOVES

  Flannigan’s Funeral Home was some fifteen blocks from Marilyn’s house. Streetlamps stood at most of the corners, but there were patches of darkness in between. Marilyn focused on the pools of light and set them as goals while she walked through the dark areas. Her old fear of the dark kept trying to rise within, and her heart fluttered against her breastbone like a trapped bird.

  Just as she was beginning to think the trip would take forever, she reached the last block before Flannigan’s—at which point she realized she was actually going to arrive much too quickly for her taste. She suddenly wished the funeral home were still miles away.

  She glanced around and noticed a car traveling slowly in her direction. As she had twice before during the trip, Marilyn stepped back from the sidewalk. The people who roamed the streets at night frightened her.

  Hypocrite, she thought. You’re out roaming the streets, too. She smiled in spite of herself. Geez, given what I’m up to, whoever’s in that car is probably more normal than I am!

  She began to catalog the possibilities: a tired mother on her way home from her second shift job; some crazed party animal who lived by night; or (getting romantic) some heartbroken lover whose tragedy denied him (or her!) the solace of sleep.