He stopped pacing when he heard the sound of shuffling feet. The colonel clutched his heart as a shadowy figure appeared at the double doors. Breathe easy, foolish reader, for it is not our mummy. Not yet, anyway…. “Will you require anything else this evening, sir?” asked his butler.
The colonel was relieved to see him. “No, no, no, that will be all, Martin.”
“Very good, sir. Then I’ll say good night.”
“I’ll say it, too. Good night!” His butler closed the set of doors, and the colonel chuckled. What had he expected? An ancient curse come to life? A living mummy? Silly. Preposterous! There were no ancient curses. Of that he was certain.
Returning to his favored chair, the colonel decided a late-night read might calm his nerves. A short story would suffice. He reached for his bookshelf. Dickens? Hawthorne? Poe? Which friend would he visit with that night? Poe! Because the wind was howling and the flames in the fireplace had diminished. There was nothing better than a chilling tale on a chilly evening. Or any other type of evening, I daresay.
Town Square was situated 1.3 miles from Colonel Tusk’s estate. The village was quaint by most standards, a throwback to simpler times—an old church on one end, a movie theater called the Bijou, Rosie’s Ice Cream Shop, and, of course, the obligatory World o’ Coffee. Please. How could there not be one? There’s a World o’ Coffee on every corner.
It was late. The shops were closed. The wind was acting up. And there was a monster afoot.
The dead thing in the rotting bandages shambled along the sidewalk, taking in the modern scenery. What sort of civilization was this? Where were the palaces? The pyramids? And what of the stony surface below his feet? What powerful alchemy had hardened the desert sands?
The mummy crossed the main road, not at the light. A city bus swerved to avoid running him down. The mummy watched the taillights disappearing in the night. What strange chariots they drove.
Penny and Carter were sitting in the gazebo, taking sips from their respective to-go cups of tanis tea—Earl Grey for Penny, Bountiful Boysenberry for Carter—when the mummy lumbered past. The prince was on a mission, but the aroma of the tea made him stop cold. He recognized that smell. It was the life-giving tanis leaf. He turned toward the smell—toward Penny and Carter—and that was when he saw her face. She had the same striking eyes that had tamed a kingdom and conquered nations. It was the mummy’s bride, Hatshepsut, reincarnated as Penny!
Forgoing his mission, Amenmose turned and moved purposefully toward the gazebo.
Penny saw him first—the soulless mass of moving decay. Then Carter turned and saw the lumbering figure moving toward them. He couldn’t believe it—Penny’s earlier rants had been true. The living mummy was coming for them! Carter nervously turned to Penny, and as he expected, she screamed. But it was a scream of a different sort. She screamed with adulation as she ran from the gazebo, as if she was greeting a rock star. “It’s really you! The Tanis Tea Mummy!” Penny got in front of him and made a duck face, so Carter did what came naturally. He snapped innumerable selfies of himself, Penny, and the Tanis Tea Mummy.
And that was all it took. After 3,500 years of yearning, the mummy was no longer in love with his princess.
He continued on.
Colonel Tusk had fallen asleep in his burgundy chair. The book slipped out of his hands. Thump! He opened his eyes. The room was almost glacial. He checked his pocket watch. Three a.m.
Tusk bent over to retrieve the book. He felt a presence and looked across the sitting room. There was an enormous shadow behind the curtained window. It couldn’t be the butler. Too tall for Martin. Too tall for anyone! Tusk got up to investigate. He picked up a metal poker from the fireplace and held it defensively.
“Bagel? Is that you?”
He approached the window. “If this is supposed to scare me, you’ve failed. Miserably, I might add. I’ll have you know I’ve tussled with alligators! Gone swimming with sharks! If you think a creaky old curse is going to do the trick, you’re sadly mis—”
The colonel whipped open the curtains, and the imposing silhouette became a full-bodied vessel of horror! The mummy was staring down at the colonel from the porch. Tusk stumbled backward, startled at first. And then, composing himself—after all, this man had swum with sharks!—he laughed. “Bravo, Bagel! Quite clever. A most ingenious costume. Don’t tell me. Stilts? You’ve done my mascot proud.”
The mummy’s response was to thrust both arms through the window, shattering it. Broken glass rained down on the colonel. He now knew this wasn’t a prank. The perpetrator had gone too far.
The colonel stumbled to the other side of the sitting room, but the mummy was in pursuit, each stride it took equal to three of Tusk’s.
The colonel was backed against the wall, trapped. The mummy was directly above him, a towering monument, like a living Sphinx. Tusk gripped the poker like a spear. “Stay back, I say! Stay back!” The mummy reached for the colonel with giant hands that could crush steel—and do worse to flesh.
“Stay back!”
The colonel shoved the poker directly into the mummy’s belly. The ancient being felt nothing. The poker went straight through him and came out the other side. Tusk pulled the poker out and could see through the hole. The mummy was hollow. And the man who had tussled with alligators and swum with sharks could now add skewering a living mummy to his résumé. He began to laugh again. Some say it was the moment his sanity ended and the madness began.
The colonel laughed…
as the mummy approached his desk.
The colonel laughed…
as the mummy reached for the teacup.
The colonel laughed…
as the mummy slurped the last remaining drops of tanis tea from the cup, the liquid spilling over his shriveled lips and down his dried wrappings. The colonel laughed and he laughed and he laughed.
You can still hear him laughing today. That’s his throaty cackle echoing through the corridors of Shepperton Sanitarium, where the colonel permanently resides in a padded room, having traded his burgundy smoking jacket for a straitjacket.
“Ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaah!” Is he laughing?
Or is he screaming?
Postscript: Owing to the mysterious circumstances surrounding Colonel Tusk’s condition, and as a result of the bankruptcy that followed, Tusk’s Tasty Tanis Tea was permanently taken off the market. Once again, mochaccinos ruled the day. As for the present whereabouts of Prince Amenmose, the mummy vanished from the Museum of Ancient Antiquities without a trace. Some believe the remains were stolen by thieves. Others insist the mummy was returned to its tomb in the Valley of the Kings, where it remains dormant.
But we know better, don’t we, foolish reader? The mummy currently resides in the old cemetery next to a gated mansion on a hill, sipping tea for all eternity…keeping his true history under wraps.
Amicus looked up from the book, having completed the second tale. “What is it they say about being doomed by history? Or is it tombed by history? I never can get that right.” But Marge and Pasquale were not listening. They were already gone. Fear not, foolish reader. They won’t get far, try as they might. They never do. There was only Declan, still contemplating the untold treasures that surrounded him.
“Where are the others, Master Declan?”
He shrugged. “They split. I guess your scare tactics musta done the trick.”
“My…scare tactics?”
“Don’t tink I don’t know what you been up to.” He gave an appreciative chuckle, one usually reserved for others of his ilk.
“And what would that be, Master Declan? What am I up to?”
Declan slipped the sarcophagus’s ruby eyes into his pocket as he circled the room. “This whole setup with the shipments from New Orleans Square. You been fencin’ stolen property, ain’t ya?” He chuckled some more as he surveyed the ancient relics. “And I can respect that, lie-berry man. Even the whole haunted house bit. A little cheesy, but it’s the perfect cover for keepin’ un
wanted guests from stoppin’ by, if ya get my meanin’.”
The librarian smiled just a little too wide. “You certainly appear to have my number, Master Declan.”
“Speakin’ of numbers…I just revised mine. Show me your safe, lie-berry man.”
“I beseech you, Master Declan,” said the librarian with a benevolence to his tone. “Return the gemstones you have stolen while there’s still time.” He closed his eyes, picturing the alternative. “Otherwise…things might get messy.”
“I already told you: show me your safe. I know you got one. Show me where it is or I’m gonna show you the hurt.” Declan slipped off his jacket, showing off his imposing physique.
And the librarian slipped off his face, showing off his true appearance. “I’m afraid there’s nothing safe around here.”
Declan Smythe had never been one to run away from a fight. Or a fright. But what he saw in the Nile Room was a vision beyond mortal comprehension. Normal human beings couldn’t do what the librarian had done. At least, not live ones. Amicus Arcane had revealed the face of death—and it was the most terrifying vision of all. The horror that pulsated through Declan’s bulging biceps made him forget all about the rubies and the treasures he’d hoped to find beyond the mansion’s hidden passages and secret chambers.
So Declan Smythe ran. He ran through the nearest door he could find, emerging in the narrowest of corridors, where music from an unseen organist played and a floating candelabrum provided the sole source of light. He continued to run, passing portraits from which the wandering eyes of Gorgons and cat people and vampires followed him as he tore by. He stumbled down a grand staircase, racing toward what he hoped would be the doorway out of that madhouse. But there were no doors. Just like there were no windows. And he soon realized that the very steps he’d been descending were actually heading upward. Declan deposited himself in a domed attic, where he paused to catch his breath, huffing and puffing, both hands on his knees.
Declan hadn’t noticed the many gifts and precious baubles that surrounded him. His mind, like his heart, was racing. He thought about calling out to his partners, but in all likelihood, the librarian had gotten to them, too. After all, Marge and Pasquale were the weak ones. Declan Smythe, on the other hand, was a survivor. The toughest tough in New Orleans Square. And once again, he was on his own. Or so he thought.
Declan was surrounded by 999 spirits who knew better. Spirits who understood the gifts he had squandered, and resented him for it. For he had squandered the most valuable treasure of all: life itself.
Declan sensed something moving toward him, an unseen presence. Was it the librarian? That creature that had removed its face? The old Declan would have tried to fight back. The one-eyed brute would have thrown the cadaverous old codger headfirst through the nearest wall. But the new Declan was literally shaking in his boots.
It was drifting closer, and Declan needed to hide. He looked around, trying to find a spot where he could disappear. He reached for an old sheet to hide beneath and gasped when the sheet rose on its own. The single sheet turned into three, and they floated toward him. At first the specters seemed to stare, and then they seemed to smile. As the song says, happy haunts materialize.
Declan ran once more. He went to the far corner of the attic and hid behind a large wardrobe. He pulled an old tarp over himself and sunk down low. And there he remained, for what felt like eternity, holding his breath, as the chilled presence drew nearer, blowing through the attic.
Get outta here! Go bother someone else! But it did not obey his silent demands, and terror beyond terror, he could hear the contents of the attic moving, shifting. The thing was searching for him!
It called to Declan in an angel’s voice, a voice that had once belonged to a woman. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
It didn’t sound like Marge, although in his present state, Declan couldn’t be sure. He wanted to call out to her, but he remained silent. Then he felt a waft of cold air blow past him. The spirit was close. Very close.
“Found you, my love,” said the voice, and what remained of the old Declan toyed briefly with the idea of tackling the shapeless whatever-it-was. But the new Declan knew better. The new Declan could only wait, paralyzed with fear, as something slowly slid down the tarp to reveal itself to him. The ghostly figure of a bride hovered just above him. She was holding an ax. And when he saw the blade rise above the cap of her latticed veil, every hair on his oversized head turned as white as fresh snow.
Declan slapped his hands over his face, awaiting the blade’s impact. But a blow was not forthcoming. The chilled air dispersed, giving way to the comforting sounds of a crackling fire. Declan lowered his hands. The maniacal bride was gone.
He was no longer trapped in the attic. He now found himself within the confines of a quaint chamber, being warmed by its hospitable fireplace. Could he trust what his good eye was showing him? The encompassing walls were lined, top to bottom, with old books of varying colors and conditions and marble busts on display. Declan Smythe had been transported to the mansion’s library. But what of its resident librarian, the mysterious Amicus Arcane? Was he not the puppet master behind the entire shivery charade? It was time for Declan to find out.
Declan rose to his feet and called out, “Arcane! Come out an’ show yourself!” But his cries went unanswered. With no way out, he moved directly to the bookshelves, searching for an escape. Maybe one of the books was actually a lever that opened a secret passageway. After all, there were no exits, or at least none that he could see, and that always worked in the movies. Declan pulled out book after book, but there was no such secret passageway. Declan Smythe was trapped. So this would be his new prison; he would be surrounded by books instead of bars. The mere thought prompted the toughest tough in New Orleans Square to cry out, “HEEEEEEELP!”
And then, filled with panic, he frantically began pulling down the rest of the books from the shelves. Soon a pile built up at his feet. The stories mounted, one on top of the other, 999 tales in all…with room for one more. All that remained was a solitary volume, and Declan noticed that it was the same book the librarian had been reading earlier. Volume three stared back at him from a shelf, and Declan knew what it meant. He knew what had to be done.
He held the old tome in the palm of his oversized hand, squinting to focus with his one good eye. Declan didn’t need to find the ending. The pages turned on their own, the ending finding him. And when the pages came to a stop, he read the final passage aloud:
“‘The ancient being was merciless, especially to those who had mercilessly pillaged his tomb, exploiting his treasures and profaning his name.’”
When Declan completed the tale, the fire grew dim. Another presence had joined him in the library: the unusually large figure of a man, one that dwarfed Declan Smythe. It was accompanied by a scent he could well define. It was an earthly aroma from a world unvisited for 3,500 years. It was the smell of Tusk’s Tasty Tanis Tea.
Declan Smythe turned to face his destiny. And the last voice Declan heard was that of Amicus Arcane: “Those who steal from the ancients do so at their own peril.”
Marge and Pasquale were navigating through a long, narrow corridor of doors when they heard the cries. “That sounded like…”
“Master Declan…” offered the librarian, who now stood before them, wheeling the third and final crate on a dolly. He led them into the room at the end of the corridor.
“Wh-where is he?” asked Pasquale.
“As I was about to explain, Master Declan has chosen to skip our final tale.” He alluded to the crate in his midst, the one marked Salem, Mass. “Would you mind lending me a hand? I’ll return it, I promise. My own hands are not what they used to be.” He held up his gloved hands, which had Marge and Pasquale guessing what was under the gloves.
Marge exchanged looks with Pasquale. Did they have a choice? It had become painfully evident that the mansion’s librarian, this Amicus Arcane, had been in control of their fates from the
very beginning.
As they began removing the lid, Pasquale felt something shift inside. “You feel that?” Marge leaned her ear against the crate.
“Yeah. I heard something, too. It sounded like…breathin’.”
Pasquale turned to face the librarian. “Who you got in there? Is it Declan?”
“Hades no! Master Declan is no longer with us.”
“He left us here?” Pasquale looked at Marge. “That stinkin’ rat!”
“Never mind him. Let’s get this over with.”
“Yes, shall we?” In the interest of time, the librarian lent a hand with the lid, without ever lifting a finger. He simply waved his hand, and the lid simply…moved. At the same time, Marge and Pasquale looked inside.
There was a handsomely crafted wooden door resting at the bottom of the crate. Resting…literally.
“It’s just a door!” said Pasquale, momentarily relieved.
“Oh, but it’s so much more.” The librarian was beaming with parental pride. “Fully handcrafted from the finest oak imaginable. Or is it unimaginable?”
Marge was instantly taken by the door’s sculpted beauty and ornate handle, which resembled a curved snake. She reached to touch its face. “Ow!” She quickly retracted her hand. “The handle. It tried to bite me!”
The librarian gave the door a disapproving leer. “Now, now! Mistress Marjorie is our guest.” He held up volume three, now back in his possession. “You would, perhaps, be interested in hearing how her story unfolds?” He wasn’t asking; that they knew. The librarian opened the book and, with Marge and Pasquale his unwitting audience, began to read our third and final tale.
We have arrived at your third and final warning.
Just as the young protagonist of our next tale will discover,
not all is as it seems.
As it was then, so it is now.
“As the moon climbs high o’er the dead oak tree,
Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 3 Page 7