Amulet of Doom by Bruce Coville

romantic) some heartbroken lover whose tragedy denied him (or her!) the solace of sleep.
    How weird is that, compared to someone who’s out to rob a corpse? she demanded of herself.
    After the car passed her, she counted to twenty. Moving carefully, checking to be sure it really was gone, she stepped back onto the sidewalk.
    When she reached the funeral home a moment later Marilyn tucked her flashlight into the back pocket of her jeans. Terrified or not, this had to be done in darkness. That also meant she didn’t dare risk trying the front door, since a bright light burned in the porch ceiling.
    Moving quietly, she went around to the back of the building, hoping she wouldn’t have to break a window, or anything stupid like that.
    She also hoped there was no one here. She knew Mr. Flannigan sometimes worked late. That would be all she needed—to run into the undertaker while she was trying to rob one of his corpses!
    At least the Flannigans didn’t actually live here anymore. The youngest Flannigan boy, Richie, was in her class, and she still remembered coming to his eighth birthday party, back when the family had been living on the upper floor of the big old house. For years afterward she had wondered what it was like to live in a place like this.
    She had wanted to ask Richie, but had been too shy to do it, partly because he was such a nice, normal kid and she didn’t want to embarrass him. But looking at the house now, the questions came back to her again.
    Do the spirits of the newly dead wait here until they’re buried? How many ghosts would a funeral parlor attract, anyway?
    She shivered and pushed the thoughts from her mind.
    The backyard was dark. Too dark. A wave of panic seized her, and she stood for a moment as if frozen. She reached for the flashlight, thinking, If I get caught, I get caught. I can’t go any farther without some light!
    The grass, which had not been mowed back here, was wet with dew. She could feel it beginning to soak through her sneakers. Moving the beam of the flashlight, she picked out the back porch.
    Cautiously she climbed the steps.
    The door was locked. She rattled the handle hopelessly, then stopped because she realized it was making a loud noise.
    She turned and caught her breath. She could have sworn she saw a movement in the row of lilacs separating Flannigan’s lawn from the next house.
    Holding her breath, she swept her flashlight back and forth across the bushes. When she couldn’t see a thing, she cursed the flashlight for being too weak and tried to convince herself it was just nerves.
    Don’t be foolish , she chided herself. No one else would be dumb enough to be out here at this time of night anyway!
    But the seed had been planted. She couldn’t shake the suspicion that something was watching her.
    Her nervousness doubled, she turned back to the house.
    How on earth do I get in?
    Playing the beam along the wall, she noticed a row of windows leading into the basement.
    Maybe one of them would be unlatched.
    She went to the corner of the house and started working her way along the wall.
    She couldn’t believe her luck. Not only was the third window unlatched—it was broken right out. The hole was covered by a sheet of thick plastic, the kind people put over their windows in winter to try to keep the heat in. It was held on by strips of thin wood tacked to the frame with small nails.
    She put her fingers at the edge and tried to pull the wood away.
    It wouldn’t budge.
    She put her fingernails against the plastic and tried to rip through it.
    Nothing. Made to stand up against fierce winter winds, the stuff was impervious to her efforts. For the first time, she envied those girls who took pride in long pointed nails.
    â€œHere,” said a voice behind her. “Try this knife.”
    Marilyn screamed. The flashlight flew out of her hand and bounced off the wall. She spun about and put her back to the house, as if it