Amulet of Doom by Bruce Coville

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.
    â€œNo,” 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