Amulet of Doom

by Bruce Coville

  She felt a little chill. Not only did they not smear when she ran her fingers over them, she couldn’t feel them at all! The smooth surface of the glass was unmarked.

  So how had Geoff put the message on? Suddenly Marilyn gave a cry of surprise and pulled her hand back as if she had been burned.

  Watching in amazement, she saw the jagged, dripping letters fade from view. Within a few seconds the words were gone, the mirror as clear as if they had never been there.

  All she saw when she looked into it now was her own face, staring back at her with eyes that were pools of fear.

  A light rain pattered against the windshield of the car as the Sparks family drove to Flannigan’s Funeral Parlor. Marilyn sat huddled in the backseat, still shaken by the incident with the mirror, uncertain whether the message had really been there or if she was simply losing her mind—and wondering which was more frightening.

  They arrived in advance of the regular calling hours, and Mr. Flannigan ushered them into a long room. At one end of the room was Zenobia’s coffin, surrounded by a startling number of floral arrangements. The bright profusion of gladiolus, roses, carnations, daisies, and lilies (not to mention at least a dozen varieties that Marilyn couldn’t name) seemed an odd contrast to the solemn purpose of their visit.

  Marilyn and her mother approached the coffin together. Marilyn was astonished when she saw Zenobia’s body. Her aunt didn’t look natural, or peaceful, or any of the other things her mother had told her people would say. She just looked infinitely better than she had the night she died. Marilyn wondered how the Flannigans had done that, then decided she didn’t want to know.

  She was surprised at how little she actually felt. Was it because she was numb, emotionally exhausted? Or was it because someplace deep inside of her she did not yet really believe that Zenobia was truly dead? That might explain the weird things that had happened in the last few days, including this afternoon’s crazy experience with the mirror. Her mind was refusing to accept Zenobia’s death; rather than deal with reality, it was playing tricks on her.

  She felt an urge to reach out and touch her aunt in order to make the fact of her death more real, more understandable. She held back, more out of fear of what her mother might say than fear of actually touching the body.

  Marilyn was so focused on trying to comprehend the fact of her aunt’s death that it took her a moment to realize Zenobia was wearing the amulet. Several thoughts raced through her mind at once: How had it gotten here? Should she try to get it back? What would her mother say if she asked about it?

  She settled them all with the thought that, given what Aunt Zenobia had said in her letter, perhaps the best thing to do with the amulet was bury it with her. At least then it would be in a place where it couldn’t cause any more trouble.

  She followed her mother back to the seats. Soon after, Mr. Flannigan opened the door and the visitors began to arrive, armed with condolences and curiosity.

  Marilyn had already been introduced to a seemingly endless stream of cousins, aunts, uncles, and assorted shirttail relations when Kyle came in, looking very adult in his sport coat and tie. Marilyn was impressed; she had rarely seen him wear anything but T-shirts and jeans.

  She watched him go to the coffin and stare morosely into it. When he came over to say hello to the family, Marilyn caught a nod from her mother that temporarily excused her from the receiving line. Enormously grateful, she went to sit with Kyle.

  Back at home, alone in her room, Marilyn slipped the cast recording of Carousel into her CD player. She flopped onto her bed and said, to no one in particular, “I never knew saying hello to long-lost relatives would be so tiring.”

  She kicked off her shoes and rolled onto her back. Brick jumped onto the bed and stared at her. Terrified that he was about to speak to her again, she moved to push him to the floor. She stopped herself, turning what was going to be a shove into a caress.

  Don’t punish the cat because you’re a nervous wreck, she told herself severely.

  As if to prove she had nothing to fear, Brick snuggled up next to her and began to purr.

  On the disc the characters Julie Jordan and Billy Bigelow were singing her favorite romantic ballad: “If I Loved You.” It was about two people trying hard to pretend not to be in love, and it always made her think of how she acted around Kyle.

  She wondered if he ever felt that way, too.

  She sighed.

  The rest of the house was quiet.

  Finally she began to drift toward sleep.

  The dream began simply enough: She was in her bedroom. But she was outside herself, in the way you can be in dreams, watching herself sleep.

  The dream-Marilyn tossed and turned fitfully, as if something were bothering her. Her hair was plastered to her forehead by an unhealthy sweat. She muttered constantly, words and thoughts that had no connection to one another.

  Suddenly she knew, without knowing how she knew, that she was seeing the night of Zenobia’s death.

  What she saw next made her want to wake up.

  Only when she tried, she found she couldn’t. She was trapped in the dream, which was rapidly turning into a nightmare, and there was no way to get out of it.

  “No,” she murmured. “No!”

  Her protest did no good. The dream continued. A helpless observer, she saw her dream-self roll onto its side, kicking at the covers. Then, her stomach knotting in fear, she watched one corner of her pillow lift itself up, moving as if pulled by an invisible hand.

  Zenobia’s amulet came sliding out from under the pillow.

  The dream-Marilyn thrashed about on her bed, her sleep growing more restless.

  The amulet floated across the room. Then the door opened, and the amulet was gone.

  The scene of the dream changed abruptly, and she found herself in Zenobia’s room.

  Not merely in Zenobia’s room. She was in Zenobia, seeing through Zenobia’s eyes.

  Her heart—Zenobia’s heart—was pounding with terror.

  It was the same night. The night of Zenobia’s death.

  Zenobia, and Marilyn with her, sat in bed, waiting. Somehow she knew something dreadful was approaching.

  Before long, it arrived.

  As Marilyn/Zenobia watched, body rigid, hands clamped like vises against her thighs, the door swung slowly open. And now, looking through Zenobia’s eyes, Marilyn saw what she could not have seen with her eyes alone.

  She saw the creature that had taken the amulet.

  Skin crawling, she recoiled in horror from the monstrosity that approached the bed. It walked with a shuffling crouch, now like an ape, now like a man. Oddly, the claws of its feet made no sound on the hardwood floor.

  The amulet dangled from its scaly fingers.

  “Take it!” rasped the creature.

  He extended a scaly, four-clawed hand. The amulet, catching a fragment of light from a nearby streetlamp, glittered in the darkness of the room.

  “Take it!” he repeated. “You tried to thwart me, to hide it. It won’t work. Take the amulet—so you can give it to me!”

  Zenobia’s hand reached forward and snatched the amulet from the creature.

  “Now give it back!”

  Marilyn would never have believed her aunt could be so frightened. But then, she would never have believed the world contained anything this frightful.

  Zenobia’s body trembled like a leaf in the wind. The creature leaned over her, its eyes blazing.

  “Give me the amulet. Give it to me!”

  In her dream Marilyn could feel Zenobia’s heart—or was it her own?—pounding like a long-distance runner’s.

  The creature leaned closer. Its eyes were yellow and red, flickering like the fires of hell. Scaly skin, a dark red tinged with black, covered a body rippling with powerful muscles. Where its nose should have been were two pointed slits, a fringe of membrane rustling at their edges. Its snout jutted forward, curved fangs thrusting up from the lower jaw.

  Leaning over th
e bed, the creature placed a powerful arm on either side of Zenobia’s frail body, then said once more, “Give … me … the … amulet!”

  And if Marilyn had been amazed at how frightened her aunt had been, she was even more astonished now at her bravery. With terror coursing through her veins, with a living nightmare leaning over her demanding the amulet, she tightened her grip on the golden chain and said, simply but firmly: “No.”

  Fire leaped in the creature’s eyes. A look of rage contorted its hideous face.

  “The amulet!” it roared. Its slash of a mouth drew open, and it lowered its face as though it were about to bite into Zenobia’s neck.

  Marilyn wanted to die.

  Zenobia did die. The terror was finally too much, and her heart simply stopped beating.

  7

  GRAVE CONVERSATIONS

  With a cry of horror Marilyn wrenched herself out of the dream. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding. If that raging monster—jaws open, ready to bite—was the last thing Zenobia ever saw, then it was no wonder her face had been so twisted with fear.

  “Now you know what happened that night,” said a soft, familiar voice.

  Marilyn gasped as Zenobia shimmered into sight at the foot of her bed.

  “Please!” said Zenobia, her voice desperate. “Please, Marilyn, don’t be frightened. I need your help. You have to get that amulet out of my coffin!”

  This bizarre request did nothing to ease Marilyn’s fear. But the need in Zenobia’s voice was so real that she felt compelled to at least respond. Before she could think of what to say, Mrs. Sparks came running into the room. Her bathrobe dangled from one shoulder, and she fumbled with the other arm, trying to pull it on.

  “Marilyn!” she cried. “Marilyn, what is it?”

  Zenobia faded from view.

  Marilyn shook her head. “I had a nightmare,” she whispered, pressing her face into her hands.

  Her mother sat on the bed next to her. “I’m sorry, honey,” she whispered, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

  They sat for a long time, neither of them speaking. Her mother held her close and rocked her gently.

  “Of course, given all you’ve been through in the last few days, it’s not surprising,” said Mrs. Sparks at last. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could have handled it as well as you did. That’s part of what’s helped me get through this, you know—thinking how brave you were that night when you found Aunt Zenobia. I keep telling myself that if you can hold up, I can, too.”

  Marilyn, leaning against her mother, turned and looked at her in surprise. That her mother was old-fashioned, even prudish, she had accepted long ago. That she would be bothered by Zenobia’s death was a surprise to her.

  “I thought you didn’t like Aunt Zenobia.”

  Her mother seemed genuinely startled. “Whatever gave you that idea?” Before Marilyn could answer, Mrs. Sparks made a sad little noise in her throat. “Never mind. I know what gave you that idea. I didn’t act much like I cared for her, did I?”

  Marilyn shook her head. But she didn’t say anything. She just wanted to feel her mother’s presence right now, the way she had when she was little and something had frightened her. She was still trembling from the dream—and from what had happened after she woke up. For now it felt good to press against her mother. It helped her mind block out what she had seen. At the moment, that was the only way she could think of to deal with it: pretend it hadn’t happened.

  Part of her hoped if she pretended hard enough she could forget all about it.

  Another part of her knew that was impossible.

  “I did like her, you know,” continued Mrs. Sparks, her voice defensive. “It’s just that she was so … I don’t know. So different. Rowdy, almost. As if being a woman wasn’t enough for her.”

  The defensive note had dropped away. Now her voice held only a trace of wistfulness. “I do know how you feel, Marilyn,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, I do. Because when I was your age, there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to be like Aunt Zenobia.”

  Marilyn looked at her mother in astonishment.

  “Don’t be so surprised!” The tone in her voice was almost angry. “I’m human. I had dreams, too. But I grew up. That was something Zenobia never managed.”

  Any other time Marilyn would have argued with her mother. She didn’t believe that growing up had to mean giving up. If becoming an adult meant letting go of your dreams, what good was it?

  But right now she didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to be held.

  After a little while her mother began to hum “Toora Lura Lura,” a little lullaby she used to sing to Marilyn when she was very small. Marilyn hadn’t heard it in years. She felt herself begin to relax.

  After a while, she slept.

  Mrs. Sparks continued to sit beside her for a long time, humming softly, tears rolling down her cheeks. Finally she sighed, wiped her eyes, and left the room.

  When she was gone, Zenobia reappeared in the corner, and sat watching Marilyn sleep.

  Friday was just like Thursday, a day to be passed through, endured.

  Marilyn was vaguely aware of teachers talking. She knew she should be paying attention: final exams were coming up soon, and her grades were only so-so as it was. But somehow she couldn’t bring anything into focus—any more than she could really relate to the friends who spoke to her, gently, kindly, throughout the day. All she could think of was Zenobia, and the amulet, and the horrible creature that had stalked through her dreams last night.

  She was having a hard time sorting through everything. The dream about Zenobia she could understand. It made sense for her to be dreaming about her aunt right now. But where had that … that thing come from?

  It was worse—far worse—than any nightmare her mind had ever conjured up before. Even so, it was easy in the reassuring light of day to dismiss the creature as an invention of her overheated imagination.

  What was not so easy was Zenobia. Not only was there the matter of her appearance after Marilyn had woken last night—an appearance Marilyn could not convince herself was just part of her nightmare, no matter how hard she tried—there was the fact that she had sensed Zenobia near her all through the day.

  It was insane. But she couldn’t shake the idea that her aunt was trying desperately to contact her.

  “What do you want from me?” she wanted to scream.

  But in her heart she already knew.

  Zenobia wanted her to get the amulet.

  But why? It must have something to do with the creature.

  Again, her mind rebelled. Stretched to the limit, she was willing to admit the possibility of a ghost. The idea that someone who had “passed over” (to use a phrase she had heard almost endlessly during the last three days) could actually require something of someone still living was within her comprehension.

  But that other thing? That creature? No. That had to be a figment of her imagination.

  “You know, of course, my dear Airhead, that you’ve gone out of your miniature mind,” said Alicia as they were walking home together.

  Marilyn’s heart sank. She had thought her old friend would be the one person she could confide in without ridicule.

  “Oh, not because you think you’ve seen a ghost,” said Alicia quickly. “I just meant you’re out of your mind if you’re starting to get serious about that dork Kyle Patterson. This problem with your aunt Zenobia, on the other hand, requires some serious consideration.”

  Marilyn smiled. She should have known Alicia wouldn’t let her down.

  “Now let me get this straight,” continued her friend. “You think Zenobia’s spirit is still hanging around.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  Alice shrugged. “You see something worthwhile in that blond beanpole, too. Your eyesight is not the best.”

  “Lay off, will you?”

  “Well, my credulity only goes so far. You can ask me to believe in a ghost, or you can ask me to believe that Kyle Patterson
has redeeming features. I can’t do both at once.”

  “Then I’ll believe in Kyle all by myself,” said Marilyn. “It’s Aunt Zenobia who has me going in circles.”

  “Ah,” said Alicia. “We return to the nub of the question. What do you suppose it is the old girl wants?”

  “Her amulet,” said Marilyn. “The one she asked me to take care of.”

  “Well, that makes sense. She asked you to take care of it, and now she wants it back. Why don’t you just give it to her?”

  “Because she already has it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s on her body, in the funeral home.”

  Alicia looked at her strangely. “Marilyn, what is this all about? What’s the whole story?”

  Marilyn looked away.

  “Hey, Airhead—what is it?”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  Alicia snorted. “I know you’re crazy. I figured that out sometime in third grade. That doesn’t have anything to do with the current problem. Why does Zenobia want the amulet if she already has it?” She paused, then asked cautiously, “Is there more to this than just a ghost?”

  Marilyn didn’t answer for a long time. After they had walked three blocks in silence, she said, “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  Her face solemn, Alicia drew a cross over her heart, then placed her fingertip against her lips. It was a ritual they had developed years ago to ensure judgment-free listening.

  Marilyn searched her friend’s face. Alicia stared back at her with clear blue eyes.

  “All right,” said Marilyn at last. “I’ll tell you everything that’s happened. And if you ever tell anyone else, I’ll kill you.”

  Alicia pointed to her mouth and moved her jaw as if she were trying to speak. Her lips remained sealed shut.

  Marilyn smiled. But she remained silent for another moment. Overhead a cloud moved across the sun, blocking out the light. Marilyn shivered and began to speak, this time telling Alicia not merely that she had seen Zenobia’s ghost, but all the details of the story, starting with the night that Zenobia had asked her to care for the amulet.