All through the night and early into the following day, Toomak’ s screams and moans echoed through the palace as the vultures dug deeper into her abdomen, tearing out her organs one piece at a time. Memnon slept fitfully, and to avoid any more nightmares of his dead son he rose early from his bed the next morning. Dressing quickly he decided to make his way back across the courtyard to take one last look at the woman he used to call his friend. Chilling damp mists from the surface of the Nile drifted lazily across the square so Memnon wrapped his shoulders in a blanket as he strode purposely towards the execution stage. He dismissed the two guards and stared pitifully at Toomak’s limp body. As he moved closer, hundreds of flies crawling over her lifeless frame took to the air, angrily buzzing at Memnon’s intrusion as they attempted to lay their eggs in the already putrefying flesh caused by the excessive Egyptian heat. A single bloated vulture still pecked at her insides, tearing away a fresh chunk of flesh, holding it tightly in its talons while the massive hooked beak ripped away smaller edible pieces. Lifting its ugly head, the vulture tilted his gaze to the sky and rapidly snapped its mouth open and closed, gulping the juicy morsel down its scraggy throat. Memnon watched with a heavy heart and he grimaced at the grotesque sight of smaller scavenger birds, emerging from between the exposed ribs of Toomak’s chest cavity, carrying tiny morsels in their beaks and flitting quickly away from the pursuit of the larger birds shooing them all away. Most of Toomak’s skin had been ripped away, exposing the tatty remains of scrawny muscle and sinew sticking doggedly to the blood stained bones. All of her ribcage was now visible, and what remained of her intestines spilled out onto the table and over the floor, providing rich pickings for several river rats enticed by the aroma of fresh blood. Memnon turned his back, sickened at the sight and began to walk away, when he heard Toomak softly whisper his name. Turning swiftly back in astonishment he peered closely at the hood still covering Toomak’s head. Very slowly, the linen fabric breathed in and out proving Toomak was somehow still alive. Throwing all caution to the wind, Memnon untied the knots holding the hood to Toomak’s head and lifted it away. Even in her terrible state she squinted at the bright sunlight. Her vomit caked mouth moved but Memnon could not hear the words so he moved his head closer, placing his ear near to her lips. He probably wished he had ignored her and walked away, as with her final breath, she whispered,
“My spirit will never die; I swear that I will someday find the amulet of the ancients, unite with the underworld and return to wreak vengeance on you and the rest of the living world. You will all die screaming.”
CHAPTER ONE
HUNTINGDON UNIVERSITY
Six-thirty a.m. Monday 17th November 1986
George Harding’s body physically jolted from its slumber at the shattered silence when it turned six-thirty and his bedside clock radio burst into life. The voice of a local radio DJ was far too loud and energetic for this time in the morning as he rattled on telling jokes and playing the latest release from some scruffy overpaid teenage boy band. It seemed only minutes ago that George fell into bed exhausted from the events of the night before and he now felt his brain slowly dragging itself back from the arms of Somnus into the waking world. Eventually he summed up the energy to roll over, snake out his left hand, and fumble with the buttons to turn off the racket. Unfortunately, all he succeeded in doing was clumsily knock the radio off the bedside cabinet and onto the floor with the impact cancelling the music and replacing it with the beeper alarm instead. This intense noise did nothing to ease the ache starting at the back of George’s neck, rising up over the top of his head and settling painfully behind both eyes. He groaned loudly while still benumbed and half asleep he slid out from the womb-like environment of the warm duvet to silence the painful din. In his confusion he pressed every button repeatedly until mercifully the awful sound ceased, and with the task over, he now found himself sitting with his folded legs pulled tightly to his chest, his head turned sideways, resting on his knees and the echo of the noise still ringing in his ears’. The only light on this cold dark morning was coming from the flashing illuminated display on the clock radio, still lying next to him. The floor of his room lay strewn with discarded worn items of clothing that he was too lazy to place in the wash basket and the pile of empty beer cans sitting on top of the chest of drawers across the room threatened to tumble to the floor at any moment. All of this imagery was exaggerated by the long shadows cast by the light emitted from such a low angle. As he sat, leaning back on the side of his bed George could feel the chill of the polished wooden floor seeping into his bare behind and the feeling of goose bumps spreading across his naked skin, encouraging him to roll over and stagger sleepily to his feet.
Grabbing a chocolate brown towelling bathrobe from a hook on the back of the bedroom door he quickly put it on, pulling it tight around his skinny frame to stave off the chill of this frosty November morning. Donning a smelly pair of old worn out slippers, he shuffled into the kitchen turning on the flickering fluorescent strip light hanging from the ceiling. Inside five minutes, he sat hunched over a grey Formica kitchen table waiting for his toast to pop up while nursing a mug of freshly made tea, sipping carefully at the near boiling liquid.
As the fog cleared from his brain, George yawned and stretched while piecing together the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Recalled images and snippets of conversation surfaced through his sleepy consciousness, as he tried to distinguish between fact and fiction.
Snapping back into the real world as two slices of toast popped up from his expensive chrome four-slice toaster, George stood up and reached over to the fridge for butter and jam. As he picked up a side plate from the draining board still not put away from the last wash, his mind wandered back to the time his parents gave him the toaster as a going away gift when he stood for the last time in his childhood house the day he left for university. He smiled to himself at the sarcastic comments from his younger brother Mike,
“Make sure you read the operating instructions carefully we can’t have you going hungry. See, place bread in slot, push down handle making sure plug is switched on, wait three minutes and magic! Bread goes in, toast comes out. Now do you think you can remember all that or shall I go over it again?”
Mike was still grinning, highly amused with himself as he walked outside with one of the last remaining boxes of books leaving George and his father together. He cringed as he remembered the half-baked attempt his father showed at affection while they stood in embarrassing silence facing one another in the hallway; everybody else in the house was outside finishing packing George’s old Mini Cooper as his father began.
“Your mother and I decided that this would be an ideal gift. Apparently you students survive on beans on toast.”
They both smiled and George went to give his father a hug but was faced with an outstretched hand and given a firm handshake instead. It was unfortunate that his father was unable to show his son any closer physical affection. He was a very good father in all other aspects of his upbringing, wanting for very little, presents galore at birthdays and Christmas when all George wanted was a hug or a kiss on the forehead at bedtime but George senior was unable. His mother on the other hand seemed to sense this and always seemed to over compensate trying to fill the emotional void whenever she could.
Back in the present and after fumbling for a knife in the drainer drawer, George spread butter then jam on his hot toast as he sat down to settle his queasy stomach. He had nearly finished and was feeling much better so he ran his fingers through his short brown hair and reviewed his own pasty reflection in the kitchen window when his image suddenly started to transform.
Outside his flat in the overgrown back garden, bizarre events were already underway. The Huntingdon area where George lived and studied had been enjoying pleasant mild nights for the last seven days due to a gentle south-westerly breeze but this unexpectedly changed direction, bringing an icy chill in the early morning air. It was as if God had opened his freezer door as
frost spread its icy fingers, creeping steadily through the streets and gardens. A young fox who had been rummaging through a torn bin liner full of food scraps left out behind a local takeaway, stopped, raised his head, and sniffed the crisp air. In seconds he uttered a pitiful whine and head down with tail between his back legs he skunked off into darkness, chastened by an unknown foe. A common garden spider scuttled into a niche in a brick wall when the morning dew on his newly woven web turned the gossamer strands instantly to ice and the network shattered when caught by an empty carrier bag tossed up by the change in wind direction. The windows of the parked cars in the surrounding streets, frosted over in increasing severity the closer you headed towards the epicentre of Georges first floor flat. A line of ice appeared from nowhere, traced across the garden and up the wall to the rear kitchen window where George now stood transfixed by the apparent mirage before him.
Mid- way through the second slice of toast, George had picked up his half-empty cup ready to wash down his meal, when a scream shattered the silence, confronting him with a vision of terror. He dropped his cup and stared unbelieving at the horrifying sight. Suspended in the inky blackness through the kitchen window, what should have been his own reflection was the image of a young woman of medium build with a pale complexion, the hair on her head was all but gone, roughly cut or hacked off showing bloodied nicks and cuts from an unsympathetic barber. Her hands were tied above and behind her head and attached to a rough wooden vertical post with thin hemp rope. Her trembling frame was clothed in a black cotton one piece jerkin tied at the waist with a thin leather thong. Tears streamed down her terrified face as she gasped for air between anguished gulps and sobs, eyes impossibly wide open and blood shot through crying. Her gaze fixed on something to her left and out of sight of the apparition, that George, now standing, watched transfixed and silent, unaware of the dregs of his upturned mug of tea slowly pooling at the rim of the table before spilling over the edge and splashing onto the black and white checkerboard linoleum floor.
The woman in the apparition began to thrash at her bonds desperate to free herself and she began to scream and cry. The sinews in her forearms bulged against the blood stained skin caused by the cord digging deep into the flesh at her futile attempt at escape. George watched in horror, unable to avert his gaze from the macabre tableaux unfolding before him. Wood smoke drifted across the woman’s face and she gagged on the acrid fumes snatching the back of her throat. Unable to wipe her nose, snot bubbles inflated and popped when her olfactory nerves reacted to the invasion attempting to rid her nasal cavities of the distress but only making matters worse adding mucus to the mix. The density of the smoke increased, completely obliterating George’s view through the glass pane and when it cleared, the woman was no longer outside the window but standing in the kitchen less than three feet away with the flat filling up with real smoke from the small fire that now apparently existed on the floor of the hallway behind. Random figures emerged through the walls, milling around and passing through cupboards and chairs as though they did not exist. Although no one else seemed to be aware of Georges existence the young woman suddenly stopped straining at her bonds and stared at him directly. He looked behind, expecting to see someone the woman was staring at, but there was no one else to see. Between muffled sobs and coughs the poor wretch began talking to George; begging and pleading for release. Although he did not fathom a word uttered, only a fool would not understand the meaning of her plight.
Working on instinct rather than rational thought, George looked around for something to help and spotting the bread knife still on the kitchen table he quickly grabbed it in his left hand and reached up to cut the bonds of the unfortunate woman. As the knife swung through the air he felt no resistance and he watched shocked as the blade passed through the rope and the wooden post in one swipe. Regaining his balance he tried again but the result was the same, nothing was real, no physical form or matter existed, like a hologram at the fun fair, it was there, but you could not feel it. Unexpectedly the woman moved her arm and brushed it against Georges hand; he jumped at the touch then reached out to feel the warm flesh of her cheek beneath his fingertips. The woman did not move either unaware or uncaring for the gentle touch, instead her gaze now fixed upon a hooded figure walking out from the darkness as a chant began to rise from an unseen congregation.
“Amon Ra, Amon Ra, Amon Ra.”
As the smoke began to clear, George watched as hundreds of faces emerged from the darkness. Flickering visages in the fire light, each one transfixed on the figure that now turned and faced them. He stood about six feet tall and with the pointed hood he wore, much taller. Dressed from head to toe in white linen cloth to match the hood. His arms were bare from the shoulder down with golden wrist guards his only adornment.
“Amon Ra, Amon Ra”
The crowd chorused louder with every repeat until slowly the hooded figure raised one arm out sideways and bent upwards from the elbow, instantly the chanting ceased. Before the man turned to study the woman’s face George was sure he looked at him first, perhaps he was still dreaming,
” Yes, that’s what this is, I’m having a nightmare!”
He whispered to himself, but this was all very real and the fear he sensed coming from deep within was worse than any experience he had ever felt in the past.
Two streets away Mary Callaghan walked briskly through the cold morning air. The shadows of her figure danced on the ground under the merging pools of the streetlights as she walked from under one to the next and the only sound she heard were the echoes of her own footsteps as she made her way towards Georges flat. If Mary had turned and looked behind her as she crossed the road she would have seen a young fox head down with his tail between his legs trotting quickly in the opposite direction. She noticed with some interest the line of ice running across the pavement and frost coating everything in sight. It made her feel like an actress walking onto the set of a winter scene in the production of a feature film.
Mary was a friend of George, she had known him since senior school, but he did not know of her existence until university when she introduced herself during fresher’s week. The thing was, Mary loved George; he did not know it yet but she was positive he would notice her eventually. The only problem was that George already had a girlfriend, his fiancée really but Mary was sure she did not love him the way she did herself and it was only a matter of time before he came to his senses. Mary had flirted with him outrageously at every opportunity to get his attention and it was now slowly paying off.
“Nice and easy girl, don’t blow it.”
She whispered to herself, convinced the longer George and the ‘other woman’ were kept apart the easier it would be. Luckily for Mary, George’s fiancée still lived back in his hometown, working at George senior’s hardware store, where the couple first met.
One of the main reasons for taking her degree course at this university was George, and as soon as she knew which ones he had applied to she did the same, ignoring much better seats of learning while praying they would be together. Fate intervened and much to Mary’s delight they were both accepted to Huntingdon University, an old establishment, not Oxford or Cambridge, which she would have been given a place if she had applied, but not too far down the academic chart that her parents, both Oxbridge graduates were not too disappointed.
As she turned the corner onto Triton Street she smiled at the road sign, which read Tit Street, some wag had whitewashed the r, o, and n leaving behind the rude but humorous notice. The temperature was now minus three degrees and Mary could see the vapour from her breath every time she exhaled.
“Wish I’d worn me ‘at ‘n’ scarf now!”
Mary muttered to herself as her ears burnt bright red in the icy air, so she turned up the collar of her tweed jacket and stuffed her hands into the warmth of her double lined pockets.
George’s car sat parked outside the front gate to his flat and Mary had to resist the temptation to draw a love heart with their ini
tials inside into the frost on the driver’s window so instead she drew two anonymous stick figures holding hands.
Aware of the early time of the morning Mary avoided knocking as the main door bell did not work and she did not want to wake up all the other residents. First she tested the front door which was rarely locked. Luckily today was no exception and she silently entered the lobby and crept up the stairs to George’s flat. Standing on the first floor landing next to his door, Mary sniffed the cold air, ‘was that smoke?’ she pondered while softly tapping on the glass panel in the door. As she waited for George to answer Mary cupped her hands over her nose and mouth, sniffing her breath to make sure it still smelled sweet.
Back inside the flat George stood motionless aware he too was now held in the thrall of the hooded man. Slowly the figure turned around and walked up to the prisoner. The brief silence shattered as she screamed, fighting frantically at her bonds, twisting, and sobbing as he reached out towards her. With one hand placed firmly on her forehead pinning her head back against the wooden post and the other pointing to her neck the slaughter began. His fingernails had been grown and sharpened to a fine point just for this purpose, and with a flat hand he carefully placed the pointed tips to the right of her windpipe and began to press. George retched as he watched the taught skin indent slightly then split as the needle sharp points slowly pierced the pale flesh. The crowd resumed the chant as the blood began to flow, first slowly around his finger tips, then spew outwards in a pulsating pink spray when he probed deeper and split an artery. Darker blood then emerged, running down her chest and soaking into the fabric of her tunic. George tried to look away from the unfolding horror but found he could not take his eyes from the grisly scene. Like a rubbernecker at a car crash he watched ghoulishly at the bloodthirsty show. Every fibre in his body told him to run away and the sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort but it was impossible, all he could do was watch the butchery unfold before him.
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