by Peter Ravensway
The
beam from Michael's flashlight; duct taped to the top of his helmet, revealed
eerie shadows hiding along the floor and walls of the ancient cavern. The
constant motion of the disarmingly dim shaft of light sent the silent phantoms
that lurked in every crevice into unending game of cat and mouse. They
would scurry for cover at the approach of the foreign spark of daylight,
and peer after it in wonder, from the corners, after it had passed. The
light pursued the shadows without ever finding them, only chased, as if
that were the only part of the game it enjoyed. If it ever actually caught
a shadow the game would lose its fun.
Michael, carrying the flashlight atop his head, was not finding the contest
at all amusing. In fact in scared the life out of him, but he was more
intrigued by what he had come in search of to run away. The scampering
demons that mocked him as they flitted about the cave always lurched in
the back of his mind, reminding him continually to run in panic if he did
not find what he sought. In an environment such as this, it was impossible
for him to shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He now understood why the members of the team had been so strictly instructed
not to visit the excavation site after dark. They had been told horror
stories of cave-ins, and archeologists getting lost in miles of winding
passages. It had also been mentioned that these tombs were really really
scary at night. Michael thought that more emphasis should have been placed
on that last point.
Michael was not actually an archeologist, he was a translator. His job
was to interpret the rows and rows of prehistoric Egyptian hieroglyphics
that literally covered every surface of this tomb. They spun the most interesting
yarns. They told tales of a lost civilization. Tales of an ancient forgotten
people. Tales of the life and death of their ruler, and of his passage
to the world that lay beyond…
And Michael had only just begun.
He was so captivated by what he was discovering that he simply had to come
back. He could not sleep as long as the incomplete stories floated around
inside his eager mind. He had to come back and continue his work, to finish
the story. It was like going to a good movie and having the projector break
half way through. You, the viewer are faced with a choice, to leave and
come back another time; paying twice to see the ending once, or waiting
for the projector to be fixed. Michael wanted to see the end of the movie
now. Even if that meant venturing into the inky, black unknown to do so.
His thrill with his job was greater than his fears. Besides, if he scared
himself to death in the process, he would at least die happy.
The tomb that held Michael in such rapture was one dozens of unexplored
eternal resting places in the Valley of the Kings, near Thebes Egypt. For
every of the more than sixty excavated tombs in the valley, there was at
least one more still waiting to be dug up. This was one of those tombs.
The name of the pharaoh buried inside had not even been documented. Discovering
this was one of Michael's many tasks. All he had been able to find out
was that the man laying in some still concealed cavern, was a descendant
of Ramses. This was why Michael loved his work. The thrill of being the
first person to gain the knowledge of something forgotten ten thousand
years prior was a feeling unlike any other.
Michael rounded a corner and the gleam of his flashlight revealed the imposing
statue of Osiris, the god of the afterlife, which marked the point where
his translation had stopped. He gazed at the statue for a moment. It towered,
nearly ten feet tall, it's slightly eroded features still demanding a mark
of respect from anyone who looked upon it. It's arms spread wide, appeared
to invite all who dared venture this far to follow him into what lay on
the other side.
As Michael looked at the illustrious figure, he was suddenly reminded of
a show he had once watched on television years ago. On the show, archeologists
uncovered a tomb, much like this one, and unwittingly released an evil
mummy curse onto themselves. The resurrected angry pharaoh had rampaged
through the excavators camp killing everyone in sight until the undead
menace had finally been blown to kingdom come with dynamite. Michael did
not know any one, outside of Hollywood, who had ever unleashed a mummies
curse. His extensive knowledge of the ancient Egyptian religion proved
that such a thing was unlikely to ever actually happen. During daylight
hours he thought those kind of films were really quite silly. He found
that his opinion of those sort of things liked to change when he was standing
alone in a really creepy tomb, staring at a statue of the god the dead.
It being three o'clock in the morning did not help at all.
Don't be ridiculous, He told himself angrily. Mummy curses, bah!
He pushed his nervousness as far out of his mind as he could and knelt
down by the wall of the cavern, to continue his work. He carefully brushed
dust and debris away from the inscriptions and, pulling a pen and paper
from one of a multitude of pockets on his coverall, began to copy them
down.
After several minutes of interpretation, Michael's flashlight began to
flicker. He removed his helmet and tapped the flashlight with the heal
of his hand, hoping to restore the sickly beam to full health. It did not
help. He searched his pockets for more batteries, and, finding none, cursed
himself to straight hells flames. His flashlight could not die, it simply
couldn't. Not only because the story on the walls was just starting to
get interesting, but also because he would never find his way out of the
tomb without it. In this foggy darkness he could wander for hours and,
for all his trouble, get himself hopelessly lost.
At that moment, as if to play a cruel joke, the flashlight winked out.
"No!" Michael cried out as darkness enveloped him. He pounded the back
of the flashlight, hoping beyond hope that it would come back on. It didn't.
He dropped the hat and light to the ground and began to rummage blind through
his pockets. Batteries, matches, anything would be fine, just so he could
see to get out. Is fingers touched a familiar object and he let out a shout
of relief. His lighter! He had forgotten about that. He pulled the small
cylinder out of his pocket and flicked it to life.
Much better, he thought, Now I can see. Barely.
Michael then was dismayed to find that the specters which had been so timid
in the presence of his flashlight, were suddenly such more bold. The shadows
wove a demonic dance around the feeble glimmer of the lighters flame. They
darted from crevice to crevice, stopping often in the open to taunt him.
They crowded around, whispering in his ears, tugging at his clothes. It
was terrifying.
He heard noises behind him. The sounds of footsteps shuffling across the
scattered debris. The sound of loosely wrapped mummies stumbling stiffly,
arms outstretched, like some prehistoric Frankenstein, an unquenchable
thirst for blood burning in there undead stomachs. Who could tell what
the pitch darkness hid.
Michael's heart pounded in his chest. His pulse race in is temples, as
his intrigue dissolved into literally blind terror I've released a curse
on myself, Michael, now frightened beyond reason, thought. Just like in
the movies. I'm doomed.
As if to affirm this suspicion, the lighter's flame flitted out.
Michael finally panicked. He flicked the light back on and ran desperately,
without direction. The flame almost immediately went out again but he did
not care. He stumbled blindly down the passage, the baneful footsteps sounding
closer with ever staggering step he took. In his haste he dropped the lighter
and heard it crunch against the sharp stones on the floor of the passageway.
He did not stop for it. There was no time to stop. He could hear the cursed
ghoul, the ancient hexed king, crashing along just behind him, He could
feel its hot breathe against the back of his neck. He…
Suddenly a thunderclap went off inside his head, as he sprinted face first
into a wall. He let out a grunt of pain and tumbled over backward to the
ground. He felt hot blood running down his chin as it gushed from his nose.
He reached up and wiped it away, but it did little good. It kept pouring
out like an vehement waterfall. His head pounded between his temples as
it very well should have. He moaned in pain.
I'm done for, Michael babbled frantically to himself, as he clutched his
fractured nose, The cursed mummy is going to get me. He made my light go
out. He made me ram into a wall. He is to powerful, we should never have
dug this tomb up. I'm as good as road kill. He's gonna get me, he's gonna…
He's here!
The malevolent creature loomed above him. He could not see it in the darkness
but he knew it was there. He felt it. He sensed it gazing down on him,
as he lay bleeding and helpless, contemplating which part to eat first.
He could smell its breathe.
Now there were more of them! Dozens, hundreds! Spawns of hell rising from
the floor all around him. Gesticulating with their deformed arms. Beckoning
him for him to follow and join them in the underworld, where they could
have there way with him for eternity. They oozed forward, leaving a trail
of slime behind in their wake. Thousands, hungry, angry, advanced toward
him. He pushed himself back, the gravel underneath his body scraping his
back. He knew that there was no escape. He could not see anything but he
knew they were there. No one could help him now.
The appearance of Osiris, the god of the underworld, in front of him only
affirmed this belief.
He is here
to punished me, Michael thought, still inching back along the ground.
Osiris, loomed above him, his eyes glowing red with an evil inner light,
his arms spread wide, as if to welcome him. His eyes flashed.
Just then he heard a new set of voices far off behind me. They caught his
attention for a reason he did know. The mummy, the demons, were forgotten
for a moment, as he gave the voices his ear. He knew those voices.
A stone hit him on the top of the head. He looked up. Sunlight filtered
through a hole on the ceiling. A single ray fell upon the statue of Osiris.
It's large ruby set eyes glimmered, reflecting the sun.
It was morning, he suddenly realized. He looked around and was not surprised
that there were no demons stalking him, and no bloodthirsty cursed mummies.
Had he imagined it all? Had he spent the entire night fleeing from imaginary
monsters? Or had he knocked himself out when he ran into the wall. Michael
did not know. All he knew was that he must be a dope because he felt very
foolish.
How did I end up back here at the statue? He suddenly wondered. Did I run
in a circle? Or was that also a figment of my imagination? Had he only
dreamed that he was running? He wondered. Finally he decided that he had
not because his nose was still bleeding.
The voices, which he now recognized as those of his fellow excavators,
sounded closer, as they advanced down the tunnel to continue their trip
into the past. He pushed himself to his feet, wiped the blood from his
face and picked up his helmet and flashlight, which still lay where they
had fallen. He ripped the flashlight off from the helmet and stuffed it
into one of his front packets. No one ever need know that he had been at
the site after dark. He glanced around the floor for his lighter and saw
it, broken, a few feet away. He picked that up too. No one would ever know.
He pulled a rag from a pocket and scrubbed his face and nose, which had
stopped bleeding finally.
Michael retrieved his pencil and paper from where they had fallen. He knelt
down by the wall and continued translating where he had left off. The voices
of his coworkers sounded closer.
Mummy curses, bah, he thought as he scribbled away on his note pad.
The End
Copyright1998 Peter Ravensway
