She lay on the ground panting, her thick blond hair covering her pale face. Her hands were pressed tight against her enormous swollen belly. Shocked, he realized she was with child. Pushing her hair from her face, he saw that her lips were full and red. Her eyes were closed as she cried out again, not in terror, but in labor.
“We must hurry! We can go to my farm nearby! There you can have your child, but we must go! The monsters return!”
He grabbed hold of her shoulders and tried to lift her. As he did, he saw that her pale white hands were tipped in long, curved black claws. His gaze fell back to her face and eyes opened to reveal those of a wolf. In one swift motion, she opened her mouth, revealing long wolf fangs, and tore out his throat.
He fell to his side, his blood a river of red against the moonlit snow. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against his neck, trying to staunch the flow of his life. As his eyes dimmed, he saw the woman crawl over to the body of a tall, dark-haired man lying nearby in a gruesome puddle of blood.
The man took his last breath as the woman raised her head over her fallen mate and howled.
The Mummy
The Twilight Zone was a huge influence on me when I was growing up. The disturbing stories often kept me up late at night. When I decided to contribute to The Library of Horror Press’s THE SCROLL OF ANUBIS mummy anthology, I drew on The Twilight Zone for inspiration.
Amunet is set in three parts, much like the old format for The Twilight Zone. Each scene layers onto the one before it to build to the climax of the story. I also wanted there to be a distinct mood to the story and have it be a bit claustrophobic.
In the end I was very pleased with my mummy short story. I think it hits all the right notes for a gothic horror tale and has a disturbing ending that would have probably made Rod Sterling proud.
Enjoy!
Amunet
Cairo, 1901
Darkness filled the house. It swallowed up the dust-filled light seeping in around the thick curtains covering the windows and the pale yellow light filtering through the lead glass of the new gas lights glowing in all the rooms. The dark and heavy English furniture was clumsy and grotesque in the Egyptian house, but a reminder of home.
Mathilda stood at the top of the stairs with her daughter, staring down into the darkness below. Bessie’s tiny fingers clutched her hand as they stared into the gloom. Mathilda let out a whisper of a sigh, glancing over her shoulder at the big window behind her. The curtains were thrown open, but the light from the hot Egyptian sun pooled on the thick carpet and didn’t defy the darkness.
“I don’t like the other mummy,” Bessie said at last.
“I don’t either, darling,” Mathilda agreed. She shifted on her feet, her hand pressed under her swollen belly. The baby would be arriving soon and the bitterness that her child would not be born on English soil tainted her voice.
“Why does Papa love her so?” Bessie rubbed the top of her shoe against the back of her ankle, her petticoats rustling. Her long brown hair was curled into ringlets and her large brown eyes turned up toward her mother. They were like a doe’s eyes, dark and innocent.
Her daughter was the very image of Mathilda at her age. She was precocious for a six year old, but wonderfully behaved. Usually animated and loving, the little girl had been quiet and withdrawn since her father’s obsession had entered their hot, stuffy home in Cairo.
“Your father is very dedicated to his work,” she answered her daughter. Her fingers traced over the bulge of her unborn child’s foot—or was it a hand?
The constant drone of the vendors and people moving through the streets was eerily absent. All Mathilda could hear was her daughter’s steady breathing matching her own. It was as if the darkness filling the house pressed out all traces of the world beyond the walls. Mathilda felt as though it were consuming them all, bit by bit. Together, mother and daughter stared into the darkness below, the dim outline of the furniture in the hallway resembling large hunched monsters.
“I don’t want to go down there,” Bessie decided.
“It’s time for tea. Don’t you want some delicious cakes?” Mathilda smiled, trying to infuse it with a reassuring aura. She had to stop giving into fantasies and reclaim her home, husband and daughter. They would all sit down to tea like normal people and enjoy the afternoon.
“Yes, but...will he want some?” Bessie chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. “All he wants is her.”
“Roland!” Mathilda called out into the darkness dwelling below, determined to draw her husband out of his obsession. “Roland, come now. Tea time.”
The door to his study cracked open with a reluctant squeal. Her husband peered up at her, his brow furrowed above his dark eyes. His pale complexion was waxy and a sheen of perspiration gave him a rumpled appearance.
“What is it? The baby?”
“No, darling. Tea time.”
Mathilda took her daughter’s hand and together they descended the staircase. Their footsteps echoed as if they were in a mausoleum. And in some ways, they were, now that she had come among them.
Roland glanced over his shoulder before reluctantly stepping into the hall. Rubbing the glass of his spectacles with the edge of his untucked rumpled shirt, he started toward the parlor. Mathilda reached the main floor and he obligingly kissed her cheek before lightly tweaking Bessie’s.
Tea was laid out when they entered the parlor. Their only remaining servant, Agatha, was pushing back the curtains on the windows. All the other servants had left once she had arrived. The Egyptian servants had been afraid of what Roland had brought into the home and had left almost immediately, muttering about curses. Only their servant from England remained. She was old and not as spry as she once was. The house was not as tidy as Mathilda desired, but she was grateful she had some help.
Agatha finished with the curtains and hurried out. The light was a little better in the parlor, but the sun still seemed to have difficulty pressing into the house. Mathilda remembered how she had been enchanted by the sun-drenched rooms when they had first arrived a year ago. Now every room was dank and dark.
It was because of her. Mathilda knew it, but dared not speak it. Her English sensibilities made it difficult for her to even admit to such a thing, but in her heart, she knew that the woman in the sarcophagus in her husband’s study was haunting all of them.
Bessie hopped up onto a big chair, her stocking feet swinging in her polished shoes. Mathilda took her seat, arranging her silk dressing coat around her. She was too far into her pregnancy to even attempt to wear her regular clothing anymore and she had not the will to have maternity dresses made for her. She was making do with her nightgowns and Roland didn’t even seem to notice. She tucked her long dark hair back from her face and poured tea for her husband.
Roland began shoveling food onto his plate, stuffing an entire sandwich into his mouth. Bessie giggled, her fingers playing with the edges of her cucumber sandwich. Roland heard his daughter’s laughter and became aware of her presence. A genuine and loving smile touched his lips.
“Why do you love the mummy so?” Bessie asked abruptly.
“You mean Queen Amunet?” Roland tilted the sugar bowl over his tea, letting a good amount slid into the dark depths.
“Is that her name?” Mathilda lifted an eyebrow as she carefully poured tea for herself.
Roland didn’t look up, but continued to stare into the dark tea swirling in his cup. “Didn’t I tell you? The scrolls we discovered inside the coffin are fascinating! They tell her story and, yes, her name was Amunet. It’s a marvelous name. It means ‘hidden,’ which is quite a coincidence since her tomb was hidden beneath the one of her brother.”
“Why is she a mummy?” Bessie was having difficulty understanding how the dead thing in her father’s study could possibly be called by the same endearment as her beloved mother. “Did she have babies?”
Roland looked up startled, not understanding his daughter’s confusion. “Two. They were buried with her in
jars. Which is highly unusual unless they were removed after death. That is possible since they were infants. Just as her organs were removed, so might her children once she had died.”
Bessie stared at her father, her mouth agape, holding her biscuit in one hand.
“Roland, I don’t think this is the proper conversation to have with your daughter,” Mathilda said softly.
He shoved another sandwich in his mouth, regarding her with faint disdain. He used to gaze upon her with such adoration before he was given the task of deciphering the mystery surrounding the Egyptian royal’s tomb. As an archeologist, his excitement to delve into the mysteries surrounding the unknown queen was understandable, but these last few months he had become consumed. He barely noticed her swelling belly or their daughter. It was as if nothing in the world existed for him but the mummy in the coffin.
“I dreamed about the mummy,” Bessie said into the uneasy silence that had filled the parlor.
Mathilda delicately picked up a spoon to stir her tea. Neither Bessie nor Mathilda had seen the mysterious queen in her coffin. Roland had forbidden them from entering his study since her arrival.
“Did you?” Roland looked at her with keen interest.
“Yes, she came to my room and stood over my bed. She was very white, with hair like gold and eyes like...” Bessie pursed her lips and furrowed her brow as she considered her next words, “blue, like a robin’s egg.”
Mathilda smiled at her daughter’s imagination. Of course, the Egyptian queen had been dark and exotic like the people outside in the hot sun.
Roland stopped chewing and stared at his daughter with an intensity Mathilda didn’t like. “What did she say?”
Bessie nibbled on her biscuit, her dark eyes staring into her father’s. “That she wants to love you.”
***
The night was stifling and Mathilda couldn’t sleep. Her daughter’s dream and Roland’s lapse into silence after hearing his daughter’s words had terribly upset her. The baby inside of her had settled at last, her poor ribs feeling bruised. She tossed and turned in the huge bed, the covers kicked down. The night breeze barely stirred the curtains drawn back from the windows. The heat was too much to endure, so she rolled from her bed.
The gas lamp beside the bed gave off a sickly yellow glow. She fumbled with her robe as she walked toward the bedroom door. Roland was down below, locked in his study. Though she loved him, she resented him. Her loving, adoring husband of a year ago was buried in his obsession.
Walking down the hallway, she was struck by the quiet that filled the house. The shadows were thicker and blacker than ever before. As she walked, she thought she saw the shadows moving along beside her in the darkness. Gasping, she turned about, but she was alone. Trembling with cold, she pulled her robe tighter about her and continued to walk. Again, in her periphery, she saw the shadows following her. Suddenly terrified for her little daughter, she rushed to the little girl’s room and flung open the door. She was gripped with the fear that she would see a sickly wraith hovering over her child. Instead, she found her little girl peacefully sleeping in her bed.
With a sigh of relief, Mathilda began to draw the door closed.
A soft murmur drew her attention to the bed. Bessie was whispering in her sleep. Mathilda slowly crept over to her daughter’s bedside and leaned over her, straining to hear.
“She...wants...to...love...you, Papa,” were the softly-spoken words.
Mathilda felt the cold hand of fear slide down her spine. Rushing from the room, she felt tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Her stomach felt full and heavy as she hurried down the stairs, her hand gripping the railing. Reaching the door to the study, she began to pound upon it, crying out for her husband.
It took several minutes for Roland to open the door. When he did, he was flushed and agitated.
“What is it?” he asked impatiently.
Mathilda pushed past him, stumbling toward the sarcophagus resting on the table at the far end of the room. The lid was propped against the wall. An artist had exquisitely captured the visage of the dead woman using the lid as a canvas. A beautiful, cold face gazed out from under the red crown of an Egyptian queen. The eyes were painted a vivid robin’s egg blue.
“Mathilda, how dare you—”
“How dare you, Roland? What have you brought into our house?” Mathilda stared at the woman painted on the lid. The dead Egyptian was painted with pale colors, depicting unusually-fair skin. Mathilda felt a scream of horror building up in her chest. Gold braids of hair fell to just above the Egyptian royal’s ornate collar. “What is she? What is she?”
“She’s amazing, Mathilda. You don’t understand,” Roland said in a low voice, ignoring the hysteria in her voice. “She was an albino. Golden hair, blue eyes, and white skin. They thought she was a goddess. They named her Amunet.” He motioned to the scrolls on the table. The notebooks filled with his meticulous notes were strewn about on his desk. Two jars sat near the inkwell, ancient and terrible to look upon. The bodies of infants were painted on them. “Just like Bessie’s dream, she was the golden queen of the Nile, blessed by the gods, granted the name of a goddess.”
Mathilda felt horror building inside of her, swelling up from her heart and choking her. She wanted to scream, but her voice was lost.
“She married her father at thirteen and ushered in the greatest era of his rein. With her as his wife, he did such great things. Built wondrous buildings, conquered his enemies, elevated Egypt to a power that none could deny.”
“His own daughter?” Mathilda found her voice as she turned to look at Roland. Terror made her tremble and her child inside of her twisted and turned in agitation.
Her husband wasn’t looking at her, but at the dry shriveled thing bound in bandages in the coffin tucked into the sarcophagus.
“It was their way. To keep the bloodlines pure. She was power. The gods made manifest. Her uncle was a high priest to the great god Ra and wanted her. He knew her power had to be harnessed to serve Ra, so he murdered the pharaoh. He took his throne and his wife/daughter.”
Mathilda felt her baby lash out inside of her and she reached out a hand to steady herself. It rested on the edge of the coffin. She could not help but look down at the thing within. It was a dry husk and nothing more, but she was afraid of it.
Roland reached down and gently touched the cheek of the dead woman. The dead flesh was drawn back from her teeth, her nose merely holes, and her eyes shrunken within her skull. Yet, Roland gazed at her as a lover.
“His rule was short. She killed her father with poison and ruled Egypt until her younger brother was old enough to claim the throne. She married him and was going to give birth to their twin sons when...” Roland hesitated. His face contorted with barely withheld rage.
“Until what?” Mathilda wanted to smash the thing in the coffin to bits. Her own anger rose in her voice. “Until what, Roland?”
“Instead of a gift from Ra, the priests decided she was the curse of Set. Angry at her for the death of her father, who had been one of their own, they murdered her!” Roland shook his head violently. “Then they murdered her husband and put one of the uncle’s younger sons on the throne. They wiped out her rule and that of her brother’s from history and hid her tomb beneath her brother/husband’s.”
Mathilda shivered, cold gripping her. She tried to release the edge of the coffin, but could not. Her dark hair swung around her face as she looked upon her husband in disgust.
“Don’t you see? Her power was cut short. She was not allowed to do what she was meant to do. She was the power of the gods on earth. She had a sacred edict that she was not allowed to carry forth. Her children would have been the new gods of this earth.” Roland smiled and looked toward Mathilda slowly. “But she is too clever for them, you know. They think they won, but they never understood her power.”
Mathilda felt the wet, hot gush of water and blood flow down her legs. She let out a cry of pain and wrenched back from coffin. S
he fell to the floor and coughed as puffs of chalk wafted up from thick carpet. Slowly, she realized an intricate design was etched into the floor around her.
Roland stepped over her, drew a white robe from a bin beside his desk, and pulled it on. Solemnly, he lifted the two jars with Amunet’s infants from the desk and set them on either side of Mathilda. She tried to get to her feet, but another wave of pain wrenched a scream from her throat. Opening the jars, Roland pulled the mummified infants into the light. They were grotesque and terrifying. Solemnly, he laid them next to Mathilda’s heaving stomach.
“What are you doing, Roland?” she gasped. “What are you doing?”
Don’t you understand?” Roland answered. “She has called to me. I must answer.”
Mathilda screamed as he donned the mask of a jackal.
***
Her womb was empty. It had been for nearly a month since she had lost her children. She had been dimly aware of her twin sons being born on the floor of her husband’s study. Later, she was told they had died before birth, tangled in the cords that had given them life until that horrible night. Roland had been tender with her, sitting at her side at the hospital, morose with their loss.
The scene in his study was a faded memory now. A nightmare. She was certain now that in her fevered state she had imagined it. It was terrible that her illness had brought on such hallucinations, but her mind was once more her own. The potions the doctor had given her to calm her nerves had brought her peace. During her bed rest, she had not seen anyone but her doctor and Roland. Bessie had been beside herself at the death of her twin brothers and also put to bed. Mathilda missed her sorely.
Turning in her bed, she felt drugged and restful. Outside she could hear the vendors calling out to passersby, peddling their wares. Sunlight played across the floor, dust motes dancing in the heat.
Bessie’s childish laugh sounded beyond her closed door, and Mathilda pushed herself up on one elbow.
Cthulhu's Daughter and Other Horror Tales Page 7