It’s funny how death enters a house, Marilyn thought, lying in her bed. It comes to steal the most precious thing of all, and it doesn’t make any difference how many locks you have on the doors. When it wants to come in, it comes in.
She had often wondered if death was accidental or planned. Was there a time when you were destined to die, a time that nothing could change, one way or the other? Or was death just something that happened, willy-nilly, with no rhyme or reason?
She sighed in annoyance, then turned and fluffed her pillow. Those kinds of thoughts confused her. She dropped her head back onto the pillow and drew the covers up around her.
Brick jumped onto the bed and began kneading his paws against the comforter.
Marilyn was glad to have his company. After all that had happened, she didn’t want to be alone. Lulled by the low rumble of the cat’s purr, she began to drift toward sleep. But as she did, her rebellious mind began to replay the horror of finding Zenobia’s corpse, and all the strange things that had happened in her aunt’s room.
After several minutes of tossing and turning, Marilyn sat up and looked around her familiar room. Every shadow seemed filled with danger. She pulled Brick to her chest and held him close.
What am I going to do? she wondered. Aunt Zenobia wants me to be brave. But right now I’m scared out of my mind.
She thought, briefly, about telling her mother about the things she had heard in Aunt Zenobia’s room. But she had been chastised too many times for her “wild imaginings” to think she would get any sympathy for this story.
No, for now she was on her own.
Unless you counted Aunt Zenobia.
To Marilyn’s enormous relief her parents didn’t force her to go to school. Unfond as they had been of Zenobia themselves, they recognized their daughter’s grief and allowed her to stay home to deal with it.
She spent the morning helping her mother make a list of relatives who had to be called. Later they went through Zenobia’s clothing and picked out the outfit she would be buried in. The idea startled Marilyn; it had never before occurred to her that someone actually had to do these things.
After lunch she accompanied her father to Flannigan’s and helped him choose an elaborate mahogany coffin. That had pleased Marilyn. She thought the coffin was beautiful, and that Zenobia would have liked it.
Somewhere in her mind she was vaguely aware of her father’s concern about Zenobia’s will. The house they lived in had been hers, after all, and now it would belong to someone else. Possibly them, possibly not. Even Marilyn had to admit that her beloved aunt had been eccentric enough that she might have left the place to anyone. It could well turn out that they had to move.
She shoved the thought to the back of her mind. It was too much to deal with right now.
So the day was sad, but bearable. Things didn’t turn terrifying until the middle of that night, when Marilyn woke to find Brick lying on her chest.
When she stirred, the big cat opened his eyes. They were blazing red.
Then he spoke.
“Get the amulet!”
His voice sounded like two rough stones rubbing together.
Marilyn screamed and flung the cat from the bed. He yowled once, a sharp, horrifying sound. Then, looking oddly empty, he crouched by the baseboard, staring pathetically up at her.
Marilyn buried her face in her pillow and began to cry.
What was going on here?
An hour later, when the light began to creep over the edge of her window, she wondered if the incident with Brick had been a dream.
The last twenty-four hours had been like a dream anyway, a period she had moved through like a marionette, walking, talking, but all the time feeling as though someone else were pulling her strings. The feeling came not because she felt she was being forced to do things she didn’t want to, but simply because she felt too weak to do anything on her own.
She heard Geoff singing in the shower and heaved herself out of bed. Knowing her parents, it was unlikely she would be allowed another day off from school.
She looked around. Brick was nowhere to be seen.
She shivered. Had he really talked to her?
Or was she just losing her mind?
She threw on her robe and went to pound on the bathroom door. Geoff would stay wet and off-key forever if she didn’t.
“Be out in a minute!” he yelled, which meant she could expect him in ten.
Walking back toward her room, she stopped, almost against her will, beside Zenobia’s door.
A thrill of horror tingled through her. In the morning light the rational part of her mind dismissed what had happened in Zenobia’s room two nights ago as a figment of her overwrought imagination. Common sense told her there had been no voices, no touch from the dead woman’s hand.
Another part of her, more daring, clung to the memory and insisted it was reality.
“I’m going to need your help,” the voice had whispered.
The words had been repeating in her mind ever since. What kind of help could a dead person need?
Marilyn blinked. She had stepped into Zenobia’s room without realizing what she was doing.
She looked around. Her mother had had no time to come in here and clean things out. Other than a change of sheets, the place looked pretty much as it had the night of Zenobia’s death.
For a moment Marilyn felt like an intruder. Then she decided she was glad to be here, because it made her feel closer to Zenobia.
She had crossed to the dresser and was examining her aunt’s bottles of perfume (several) and her selection of cosmetics (minimal) when she spotted an envelope sticking out from under the dresser scarf. Pulling it out, she felt a little tingle run down her spine.
It was addressed to her.
Fingers trembling, she opened it.
Dear Marilyn,
I have just left your room, and I suddenly find myself doubting whether I should have asked you to guard the amulet for me after all. I am feeling very guilty about it.
The rational part of my mind says I am just being foolish. But another part says I may have done a terrible thing.
If I have, I hope Heaven, and you, will forgive me.
I’m afraid, Marilyn. I think I am in great danger. It may seem silly, but if anything should happen to me, there are some things you should know about the amulet.
I had the thing, as you may remember, from my “friend” Eldred Cooley, who was a second-rate archaeologist with first-rate ambitions. Eldred found it in the Egyptian desert several years ago. He showed it to me then, with the declaration that there was something “special” about it that he was going to figure out.
It seems perhaps he did. Last year I ran into Eldred again in Cairo and we went to dinner. After he had a little too much to drink, he began to talk more freely than he should have.
He told me he had discovered the secret of the amulet and that within a month he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams.
When I expressed my skepticism he rattled on with a wild story about an ancient race of giants who had created a great civilization while mankind was still grubbing for subsistence in primitive villages. He called them the Suleimans and claimed they were the basis for any number of myths and religious beliefs throughout the East. He said the amulet was an artifact of their culture.
He must have seen the disbelief in my face, because he got angry and said he would prove it to me. I ignored his comments as the ravings of a drunk—until later that night when he showed up at the door of my hotel room.
He was holding an exquisite metal box engraved with strange markings.
And he was dying.
I took one look at him and dragged him through the door. He was gasping for breath. His skin was mottled with blotches of black and purple, and his hands were horribly swollen.
“Look at this, Zenobia,” he whispered, holding out the box. “Then tell me if you still think I’m crazy.”
Ignoring the box, I threw him onto the
couch and tore open his shirt collar. It did no good. His neck was so swollen his air pipes were being crushed.
I ran to the phone to call a doctor.
“Don’t!” he whispered. “It’s too late. And I have to talk to you. I have to tell you something.”
I knelt by his side and cradled his head in my arms. I had to struggle to keep from vomiting; a terrible stench rose from his body. My nausea grew when he reached for my hand with his swollen, discolored fingers.
“The amulet,” he whispered, holding it out to me with his other hand. “I want you to have the amulet.” He smiled. It was pathetic. “I always wanted to give you something special, Zenobia. Here it is.”
He began to cough, only his throat was so swollen the air could not get out, and he shook with agony.
“Great power here,” he whispered. “But you must be careful. Be careful, Zenobia.” He tried to cough again. His fingers tightened on mine. “Be careful. And don’t trust Guptas!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
It was too late. He was dead.
The details of what happened next—the police, the government, the doctors—aren’t important, though you should know about the box.
Marilyn, that box was an unbelievable find. I know some archaeology, and the condition, the workmanship, the age of this piece made it the kind of discovery an archaeologist would kill for.
The Egyptian government has it now, and they’re not talking about it.
As for myself, I have not spent a peaceful night since then. I have been tormented by the most horrible nightmares, and …
Well, I think I made a foolish mistake. I don’t want to go into the details—if you are as much like me as I think you are, it would only tempt you to try the same experiment yourself.
Right now I just need to separate myself from the amulet for a little while.
I’m tired. Maybe with you tending the thing, I can finally rest.
I’ll talk to you in the morning. In fact, with any luck, you will never have to read this letter. I will simply reclaim the amulet and dispose of it in some other way. (I did try to destroy it once. It was impossible!)
One other thing, in case you do read this: Don’t let them get you down. You can be anything you want. Just believe in yourself.
Your loving aunt,
Zenobia
PS: Whatever you do, don’t try to use the amulet!
6
DEATH DREAM
Other than the fact that she was totally unable to concentrate, returning to school was not as bad as Marilyn had feared. Her friends were sympathetic, and they spoke to her with a kindness that was often hidden in their day-today banter. Her teachers were willing to overlook her lack of attentiveness. And best of all, Kyle Patterson caught up with her on the way home, putting his baseball cap on her head and pulling the visor over her eyes.
“Wouldn’t you rather be with Geoff?” she asked.
“I was thinking about your aunt. Geoff didn’t understand Zenobia. You do.” He blushed, and corrected himself. “Did.”
Marilyn nodded. “I loved her.” She heard her voice start to crack and turned away. She wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Kyle put an arm around her shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I did, too.”
She looked at him in surprise.
His blush deepened. “That may sound stupid. But I read all her books. I felt as if I knew her. And I wanted to be like her. I never admired anyone so much in my life.”
Marilyn hesitated. For a moment she wondered if she should show him the letter, which had occupied center stage in her thoughts for the entire day.
She decided against it.
He’ll just think Aunt Zenobia was losing her mind and end up feeling disillusioned. And that won’t do anyone any good.
“What do you mean, you wanted to be like her?” she asked at last.
He tightened his mouth for a moment, and she was afraid he wasn’t going to answer. Finally he said, “I don’t usually talk about it, because I’m afraid people will laugh. But I’m thinking of becoming a writer. It’s not the kind of thing you can just study and then go into, like carpentry or engineering. People seem to think you have to be weird to do it. But it’s what I’ve always wanted. And knowing Zenobia … well, she just made me feel like I could do it.”
Marilyn was silent for a moment. She knew Kyle had just trusted her with a secret he wouldn’t tell his best friends, not even Geoff.
“I know what you mean,” she said at last. “At least, I think I do,” she added quickly. She glanced up at him. He seemed to be waiting for her to go on. “I want to be a singer. Not just with a rock group. I want … I want to be on Broadway.”
There. It was out. A confidence for a confidence. He had trusted her, and she was responding in the only way she could think of—by trusting him, too.
But something inside her was waiting for him to laugh.
“I think you can do it,” he said solemnly.
She looked at him in surprise.
“I’ve listened to you.” He smiled at the blank look that crept into her features. “It was hard not to. You’re always practicing in your room while Geoff and I are playing chess.”
“You heard me?” she cried in horror. Blushing, but also smiling, she turned her head away. “I can’t believe you could hear me.”
“I liked hearing you,” insisted Kyle. “I wouldn’t just say that, because I know how hard it is to get the truth. But I like the way you sing. And I know a little about show music, because my old man is crazy for it and plays it all the time. So I think you can do it. And I want you to read a story I wrote,” he continued breathlessly, “because maybe you’ll tell me if you don’t like it, which is something almost no one will do, and it would be great to have someone I could trust to tell me when something I do stinks. And …” And here he paused, taking a break in the flow of words that had been carrying him away.
She waited patiently.
“And I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said at last. “I really like you.”
Marilyn’s first surge of delight was replaced almost instantly by a flood of panic and the desperate thought, What do I do now?
Kyle reached for her hand. His own was warm and strong, and it made her feel safe.
She stopped worrying about what to do next. They walked home in a comfortable silence, feeling safe with each other’s secrets. They lingered for a while on the front porch, then Kyle headed for home, and Marilyn slipped into the house.
Her sense of safety ended as soon as she entered and crossed the threshold.
Something was wrong.
She had no idea what it was … or even why she was so sure of it, other than a prickling at the back of her scalp that made her want to turn and run.
She stood in the front hallway and listened. She could hear her mother singing to herself in the kitchen while she prepared dinner. It was a nice, homey sound that should have made her feel better.
It didn’t.
The feeling persisted. Something was wrong.
Marilyn remembered a time when she was little and there had been a fire in the house’s wiring. She had had the same vague sensation of fear then. As her parents had put it together later, she had smelled the smoke but hadn’t known she was smelling it, because the odor was too weak to register at a conscious level. She had only known that something was wrong and had wandered around the house acting nervous and distracted for hours, complaining to her parents that she was frightened.
They had tried to calm her for a while, then finally they grew angry and told her to stop being foolish.
Ten minutes later the fire broke out in earnest.
She had the same kind of feeling now, an unmistakable sense that something was really wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, because it was registering somewhere below the level of consciousness.
But it was there.
And she was frightened.
She went into
the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the counter, peeling onions. “Grab a knife!” she said, tears streaming down her face. “It’ll give you a good excuse to cry.”
Mrs. Sparks believed that crying was good for the soul. Marilyn tended to think so, too, although she had not been able to cry over Zenobia—not since she had heard her voice. She was sure her mother was worried that she was “repressing her emotions,” which had become one of her favorite phrases since she had heard a talk show about it a few months earlier.
Marilyn rummaged in a drawer by the sink and pulled out a paring knife. She picked up an onion.
“I don’t know how your father does it,” said her mother. “He’s wonderful about sharing the work, but somehow he always manages to arrange the cooking schedule so that I do all the onions.”
Marilyn smiled. But the vague feeling of uneasiness persisted.
When supper was in the oven, she headed for her room. As she reached the top of the stairs she could feel her apprehension increasing.
She was beginning to feel seriously frightened. What was causing this? Was it like the fire in the wiring? Was there something real, registering in her subconscious, warning her that something was wrong? Or was the feeling merely a reaction to everything that had happened in the last few days?
She stepped into her room. A little cry of fear broke from her lips and a thrill of horror shuddered down her spine. Every inch of her skin rose in goose bumps.
Someone had left her a message—scrawled it in dripping, blood-red letters on the mirror over her dresser:
GIVE IT BACK!
Marilyn lifted the back of her hand to her mouth and bit back a scream. For a moment she stood as if frozen.
Suddenly a welcome thought eased her tension. “It’s a joke,” she said out loud. “Stupid. But a joke.”
She could see it now. Somehow Geoff had found out about the amulet and decided to give her a little scare. “He’s the one Mom should be worrying about,” she said to herself. “I don’t know if he’s ‘repressing his emotions,’ but I think he’s getting a little too weird for normal people to deal with.”
She walked toward the mirror, to see what Geoff had used to put the letters on with, wondering how much trouble it was going to be to clean them off.
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