Amulet of Doom (7 page)

Leaning over the 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.

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.”