The Amulet

by Michael McDowell

  One by one, piles of stationery on typists’ desks top­pled, and the sheets flew out in all directions, as with will, and literally shredded the skin of the women who hud­dled around their desks, whimpering. Untouched, the type­writers in the room set up an intolerable clacking, joined by the adding machines, the duplicators, and the posting machines, until the machines erupted with an oily smoke.

  In every office, the lights in the ceiling glared brightly, more brightly still, and then exploded. Immediately after, the ceilings started to give way, and great clouds of plas­ter filled the rooms. Pipes burst in all the walls, which bellied ominously, and water poured out of every crack and seam.

  Workers trying to leave were hampered by the water that was now inches deep in some places, by doors that suddenly swung open or locked shut, by drawers that shot out of desks and cabinets, by piles of anything at all that without cause toppled heavily over. But they stumbled forward, screamed and struggled, and a few even aided one another. Some even managed, whimpering and scared, to get out of the building.

  Those who tried to escape by the windows regretted the attempt, for when they were halfway out, the window would smash down heavily enough to shatter the glass, splinter the frame, and break the back of the secretary or administrative assistant caught beneath. One of these un­fortunates could be seen in half a dozen windows all around the building, dazed, or unconscious, or already dead.

  Smoke gathered in the rooms, and fire traveled from office to office, apparently unhampered by the quantity of water on the floors.

  Nearly all of the workers were now out of the main plant building, in which Becca Blair had died. Two women were still trapped beneath shelves that had fallen, but they were likely to remain there, since no one had seen them disappear. Those workers who had been near the exits now stood about the parking lot, staring at the factory, still unable to comprehend what was happening. Smoke billowed from the center of the building where a portion of the roof had collapsed. Everyone was watching for flames. The last workers were struggling out, many with torn and bloody clothing, some limping. A fe­male worker held the hands of a man while he lowered himself out one of the side windows. He ran off im­mediately, and she jumped down to the ground after him.

  An explosion, loud but still somehow indistinct, blew out part of the side wall of the plant, and directly after­ward large sheets of flame appeared in that part of the building. When it seemed likely that there might be more explosions, the people panicked and ran to their cars.

  Many had left their keys inside the building, and banged futilely on the car doors; others who had left the automobiles unlocked cowered in the backseats. Those who could drive away immediately locked bumpers in their rush, or dented fenders so that tires would not turn. A limping woman was run down, and the guilty driver, though he knew he had been seen, kept going. Two pickup trucks parked on the edge of the lot drove off, each carry­ing twenty people in the back.

  In the line of cars parked nearest the building, one automobile suddenly began to roll backward, and ran down a man with a broken leg who had taken shelter just behind it. In halting succession, the other vehicles in that row also began to move backward, or turn in wide slow arcs, until they had smashed into something else. This set up a chain reaction that spread all over the lot, but in a haphazard fashion, so that it was impossible for those fleeing through and among the automobiles to avoid being hit by the rolling, unoccupied cars.

  These collisions were not violent, but they prevented any more cars from leaving the lot. Those fortunate enough to have remembered their ignition keys were now forced to abandon their vehicles. The injured and the simply frightened fell over into babbling hysteria and un­controlled weeping when they realized that they had to dodge through nearly an acre of these marauding vehi­cles before they reached the safety of the street—and who knew if they would be completely free of these in­explicable dangers even then?

  Residents of the houses directly across from the lot came out and stood on the curb, staring with wonder at the destruction of the factory, and the lumbering mayhem of the automobiles. The braver and kinder of these ven­tured across the street and helped to the relative safety of their front yards the workers who at last had made it to the edge of the factory property. But there was nothing to do for those who struggled and stumbled and screamed, trying to avoid the cars that rolled about the lot at ran­dom, nothing to be done for those with broken limbs and severe burns who had taken shelter in the automobiles, and were now rigid with fear at being trapped in cars that were driverless but mobile.

  After the second explosion in the building there was sudden quiet. The automobiles in the parking lot halted, as if hundreds of emergency brakes had been drawn on at once.

  Under the smaller, random screams of the injured and the merely frightened, it was possible to hear the soft sounds of the fire, peeling along the wooden floor of the buildings. Someone pointed to the administration build­ing; it too was on fire, though it appeared impossible that the flames would have spread from one building to the other across a barren strip of asphalt forty yards wide.

  Those who remained to observe the destruction turned at the sound of sirens behind them. At last the fire de­partment had been alerted, and was on its way, though the executives of the place whispered that it would do no good. These men began to speak of sabotage and the two hippies who had passed through town the week before. It was probably they who had planted a bomb in the factory, set to go off a week later, when they would be long gone.

  What other explanation was there?

  Chapter 70

  Sarah Howell was out of sight of the factory, running down the sidewalk on a shaded street a few blocks away from the Pine Cone Munitions Factory. She turned to glance behind her and saw a great cloud of black smoke churning up from behind a clump of oaks. Sirens wailed before and behind her.

  A car coming down the street pulled up to the curb near Sarah. An old woman leaned out of the passenger window, and asked, “What’s happened, dear?”

  Sarah shook her head and hurried on.

  The old woman and her husband exchanged curious, concerned glances, then turned to watch Sarah running away.

  The town’s second fire engine wheeled around the cor­ner just then, and Sarah leaned against a light pole for a moment, to allow the vehicle to pass and to catch her breath.

  In ten minutes more she was home. She struggled up the sidewalk, disheveled and panting. There were oil stains on her forearms, and one of the straps of her shoe was broken. Jo rocked peaceably in a chair on the front porch, and with an idle hand she was pushing the glider back and forth. Dean was scrunched into the corner, unmoving. The sun shone hotly against his bandages.

  Jo stared at the column of black smoke in the distance and smiled. Wearily, Sarah threw herself onto the bottom wooden step. Her breath for a time was hot and irregular. She sat very still until it was under control. The sun dried the sweat on her brow. She moved her head slowly about, and stared at the smoke in the distance. Jo stared as well, and the rocker creaked rhythmically.

  “Well,” said Sarah, in a voice that was calm and sure, “it’s gone, Jo.”

  “The plant,” said Jo with a small smile.

  Sarah nodded slowly.

  “Ohhh,” said Jo, with a tiny squeal. “You’re a sight, Sarah! You go in and change them clothes!”

  Sarah turned and looked at her mother-in-law. “You’re pleased as punch, Jo! People were killed, Jo. People were killed at the plant this morning.” Sarah spoke evenly, unemotionally.

  “Good thing it happened in the morning,” Jo ad­judged. “That way you got home in time to fix me and Dean some dinner.”

  “Becca Blair was one of them that’s dead,” said Sarah quietly. She leaned against a pillar of bricks and stretched her legs out along one of the porch steps.

  Jo rocked a few seconds more, and looked closely at Sarah. She was very puzzled, and couldn’t make out Sarah’s attitude. It was not possible th
at Sarah wasn’t cut up by her best friend’s death—but Sarah sat perfectly still, turning her head in the shade of a large azalea.

  “Anybody told Margaret yet?” Jo asked in a few mo­ments. “That phone’s been ringing there the whole morning long. Nearly went and answered it myself.” She realized that something was amiss, and that she must dis­cover it as soon as possible. Sarah wasn’t herself. She was acting resigned, and appeared to possess that strength that always rises out of a despairing resignation.

  “Margaret’s gone on a picnic,” said Sarah, “and there’ll be plenty of time when she gets back to tell her about her mother being dead and all.”

  They were silent a few minutes more. The smoke was denser and blacker now, and the sun disappeared be­hind it.

  Still Jo could not make out Sarah’s attitude. The fat woman was vastly uncomfortable and tried to think, for her own comfort’s sake, that the change signified nothing. Sarah was simply bowled over by the events of the morning, by the fire at the plant, by the death of Becca Blair. Jo decided that she must quickly regain the upper hand, and therefore said, in her accustomed tone, “Sarah, after you change them clothes, I want you to fix Dean some dinner. And give him some meat. He’s got to have his strength up, ’cause I am gone cut his bandages off this afternoon! He’ll heal faster now, I know he will . . .”

  “Because of the plant, you mean,” said Sarah, but did not look at Jo.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Jo. “I just got tired of seeing all that tape. You know where my sewing scissors are, Sarah?”

  The two women exchanged glances. Sarah’s was hard and tired, but Jo’s was unsure and timorous. Sarah rose and went on into the house. She did not even look at her husband.

  Chapter 71

  Less than an hour later, just at noontime, Dean Howell had been moved to the breakfast table in the center of the kitchen. Sarah sat close beside him, methodically spooning soft food into his mouth. Jo sat across the table from them, nervously clacking a pair of scissors together, in the expectation of removing the bandages from her son’s head and neck.

  Sarah had gone about silently complying with Jo’s commands. She had changed her clothes and washed and had prepared dinner for Dean. There was a casserole already in the oven for her and Jo.

  Jo decided that she had been correct. Sarah was only momentarily disconcerted, but now she was her usual compliant self. In fact, she seemed even more docile than before. She performed all her duties without a breath of recalcitrance or protest. Perhaps, Jo imagined, Sarah had given in completely now. Perhaps all the resistance had been drained out of her.

  Jo smiled her most unpleasant smile, and snapped the scissors together again.

  “I sure do wish we could hear some more news about the plant,” said Jo. “How many’s dead. Who’s dead be­sides Becca. Maybe they’re gone close the place down. Maybe they’re gone take it somewhere else, down to Mo­bile or over to Jackson maybe.”

  Sarah did not reply.

  “How’d Becca die?” said Jo. “She get shot with one of the rifles that you two was always putting together?”

  Sarah replied shortly, “She got caught in some machin­ery.”

  “Did it hurt?” Jo demanded.

  “Didn’t take long,” said Sarah.

  “D’you see the body?”

  Sarah nodded. “Closed coffin on Becca too.”

  Jo whistled and clacked the scissors again. But in­wardly, she couldn’t declare herself pleased that Sarah spoke so callously of her friend’s death. It wasn’t at all like Sarah. “Bad things happen to you when you work in a place like that,” said Jo. She stared at her daughter-in-law, expecting some reply to all of this. But Sarah only sat very quietly, and continued to feed her husband.

  “I waited a long time for this day,” said Jo.

  “You talking about the plant or the scissors—cutting off the bandages, I mean?” said Sarah expressionlessly, and reached for another bowl of food for her husband.

  “Couldn’t take off Dean’s bandages before today,” said Jo, in an ambiguous reply.

  “You never was a patient woman,” said Sarah, with a small noncommittal sigh.

  Jo nodded acquiescence to this opinion. Then she leaned forward across the table. “How much of that you gone feed him, Sarah? I tell you, Dean must be anxious as I am to get them bandages off him.”

  “He gets all of it,” said Sarah, and stuck the spoon again into her husband’s mouth.

  “It’s not mashed-up okra is it?” said Jo doubtfully. “Dean hates okra.”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “He’s eating it,” said Jo, with a little maternal pride.

  At that moment, there was a slight jerk in Dean’s body. His mother trembled to see it. “Dean,” she whis­pered with alarm.

  Sarah removed the spoon from her husband’s mouth. Silently, she held it out for her mother-in-law’s inspection. The bowl of the spoon was filled with thick, discolored blood.

  More of the nauseous liquid spilled out of the corner of Dean’s mouth, dribbling slowly down the bandages on his chin and neck.

  Jo was speechless with astonishment. She leaned for­ward in her chair, and reached helplessly out to her son. Her short fat arms could not touch him. The folds of flesh in her neck trembled, and her tiny black eyes shone moistly.

  Sarah wiped a little of the blood away with a paper napkin, and continued to spoon-feed her husband.

  “Sarah!” cried Jo, “what are you doing? What’s wrong with Dean?”

  Sarah made no reply. Dean’s body moved again, more violently, shifting awkwardly in the chair. He would have fallen over on the floor, had not Sarah steadied him with her arm.

  Jo began to drag her chair around the table to get nearer her son. She scraped across the floor crying, “What you giving him, Sarah?” Jo reached out to protect her son. Sarah pushed her husband’s head back and poured the remaining contents of the bowl down his throat.

  “What is it!” Jo screamed.

  “Applesauce and lye,” Sarah answered quietly, and pointed to the opened can of lye on the kitchen counter, sitting next to an empty jar of applesauce.

  Jo’s expression was horrified, but then a terrible en­lightenment entered into it. Her breathing became labored and short.

  “Give it to me,” she hissed. The flesh closed in around her eyes.

  “What?” said Sarah.

  “Give it to me,” Jo repeated. “The amulet. It was in the plant, and you got it out of there.”

  Dean’s head was thrown over the back of the chair. Black blood poured out of his mouth, spilled down his cheeks, and dripped onto the floor underneath the chair. Jo stared at her son, and then turned her head away. “You got it and I want it back,” said Jo. “You got it on under your dress.”

  Quietly, Sarah said to her mother-in-law, “I found it on the belt. Becca had it on when she fell into the ma­chinery, and somehow it got off her and onto the belt. That was what caused the factory to explode, just like you wanted, just like you planned. But I found it again and I took it off the belt and stuck it on the end of a rifle. Then I held the rifle over a fire until the thing got melted down. I nearly got caught myself then, ’cause the fire was spreading. I nearly got burned up myself, but the amulet is gone.”

  Jo stared at Sarah uncomprehendingly. She was not sure whether to believe her or not. It sounded like a story that Sarah was making up as she went along. “Then how come—”

  Sarah smiled then.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael McDowell was born June 1, 1950 in Enterprise, Alabama and attended public schools in southern Alabama until 1968. He graduated with a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree in English from Harvard, and in 1978 he was awarded his Ph.D. in English and American Literature from Brandeis.

  His seventh novel written and first to be sold, The Amulet, was published in 1979 and would be followed by over thirty additional volumes of fiction written under his own name or the pseudonyms Nathan Aldyne, Axel Y
oung, Mike McCray, and Preston Macadam. His notable books include the Southern Gothic horror novel The Elementals (1981), the serial novel Blackwater (1983), which was first published in a series of six paperback volumes, and the trilogy of “Jack & Susan” books.

  By 1985 he was writing screenplays for television, including episodes for a number of anthology series such as Tales from the Darkside, Amazing Stories, Tales from the Crypt, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. He went on to write the screenplay for Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice (1988) and The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993), as well as the script for Thinner (1996). McDowell died December 27, 1999 from AIDS-related illness. Tabitha King, wife of author Stephen King, completed an unfinished McDowell novel, Candles Burning, which was published in 2006.