The Third Grave

by David Case

  “You would have done that to me?” she asked.

  “My dear—”

  “You’d have made me—like Sam?”

  Mallory stood up, shaking his head.

  “No, no. Not like Sam. Like yourself, forever. I will give you immortality, Arabella. And you, Ashley. We will live forever, we will never die. Can’t you see? We will be immortal! We will watch the Earth itself grow old, we will venture to the stars.”

  Arabella shook her head. Her lips moved soundlessly. She trembled and rushed from the room.

  Mallory sighed and turned to me.

  “Why will they not understand, Ashley?” he said.

  He sounded pitiful, tired, confused.

  “I’d better get to work,” I stated.

  He nodded. I no longer felt hatred. Whatever emotions actuated my sensibilities were too primitive to be expressed. I went back to the workroom, and when I passed the barred door I did not glance at it.

  9

  They meant nothing, those strange symbols, which could have bearing on Sam Cooper. One by one, as the meanings became clear, it was evident they were magical incantations and mystical formulas, nothing more; means by which gods could be placated or cajoled, perhaps, but no method by which to confound those emissaries of corruption which feasted upon Sam’s flesh. A great jumble of discarded and crumbled paper accumulated on desk and floor as I moved rapidly from symbol to symbol, not attempting to make proper translations now but merely abstracting the essence invoked by the sigil.

  At length, tired and discouraged and striving mightily not to confront the ultimate implications of failure, I pushed back my chair. Perhaps it was time to attempt deduction rather than doggedly laboring over the papyrus. But I didn’t know where to start. I am no chemist, no doctor, no—a grim thought—mortician. If the process were not spelled out in the runic writings, there was no help I could offer. Well, there was one thing, that was all. I could give Sam peace, as Mallory had destroyed the dead man in Haiti. But I balked at this alternative on two counts: the first was that it would be akin to murder; the second that it might not be possible, for I feared Sam with all the icy chill of horror. Could I persuade Mallory to destroy his living brain? I was doubtful. Was there some intermediate answer? Could he, perhaps, be frozen in a hypercold solution, granted some form of cryogenic suspension which would yield us further time? I considered that seriously. But it would mean revealing the truth, which Mallory would not endure, for such would entail legal complications impossible to unravel in the time we had.

  I felt absolutely helpless. When I addressed the papyrus once more my eyes were blurred, and I could hardly see the document. It no longer seemed important, merely the superstitious rituals of the dark past, chirographic adumbrations from the Middle Kingdom. Suddenly a chord resounded in my mind and suggested something I should have considered before. During the Middle Kingdom religious freedom had been granted to the masses; the rites of mummification could be claimed by all people, even the peasants, although of course the ruling classes had more elaborate funerals simply because they could afford them. I glanced at the mummy case. I hadn’t bothered with the inscriptions carved upon it and thoughtlessly had assumed that Encephalon was a high priest or minor pharaoh. I now perceived that was not necessarily true, although it seemed unimportant; his station in life could not alter the fact—the living fact—within his skull. Or was I overlooking some obvious point? Something dimly realized nagged at me; something to do with all the other mummies I had seen in Egypt, in museums, in the field; some negative fact I should grasp.

  I started to fill my pipe.

  It came to me then.

  The priests, the pharaohs, the nobility contemporary with Encephalon, had not been preserved as he had! They rather had been disemboweled and brained. Why, then, had Encephalon been treated differently? What great man had he been, what hero, what mortal god, to merit an immortality denied even the kings? What magician, sorcerer, necromancer, to be granted more than the pharaohs themselves?

  I rose and walked over to the mummy case.

  The lid was inscribed with incantations and symbols, but I ignored them and instead examined the side where the lid opened. The coffin had been sealed with an elaborate inscription; broken with the opening, the writing fitted together again with the case closed. I traced the hieroglyphs with my forefinger, then cursed myself for a fool. I had been seeking knowledge hidden in runic designs, while all the time that knowledge was carved here in simplicity. The message had not been hidden or obscured; it could not have been more apparent, there for all to see, intended for all to see. It was not only written in hieratic but in the simpler demotic, reiterated to insure it would not be misunderstood. Nor did I fail to understand it.

  I also understood Mallory’s terrible mistake.

  Arabella was poised on the stairs, one hand clutching the bannister, like a cat that has clawed its way up a tree and is afraid to descend. I paused. She motioned to me silently. The door to Mallory’s study was closed. I walked over to the stairs.

  “Is it true, those things he said?”

  “Yes,” I told her.

  She bit her lip.

  “You can’t mean to be a part of this, Thomas.”

  “No. I had to try—if there was some way. But no.”

  “Take me away with you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Lucian—might not like it.”

  I shrugged.

  “Is he insane, Thomas?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I want to leave now, right now.”

  “I have to explain something to Mallory first.”

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Get your bags packed, if you will.”

  She gestured, knifing the air. Her possessions were not important.

  “All right. Wait in your room. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Be careful, Thomas.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But—Sam—”

  “He’s safely locked away.”

  “Just be careful,” she admonished.

  Mallory started abruptly as I entered. My face felt stiff, I must have looked grim. He studied me for a moment, then blurted, “Well? What is it?” I shook my head. “Have you found anything?”

  “Something—”

  “Then we must hurry. What is it, the formula, the—”

  “Not what you imagined.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Something has been wrong for a long time, Mallory. Say, four thousand years. Mallory, there is no secret process for preserving the body. It can be dried, tanned like leather, but not kept as in life.”

  “But—there must be.”

  I shook my head.

  “There has to be, Ashley. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise.”

  “You’d better come down to the workroom. I’ve something to show you.”

  He rose deliberately, hands on the desk, then came around with an agitated stride. We slowly descended to the workroom without speaking. The bar across Sam’s door seemed very prominent, as if the new metal gathered whatever light was available in the dark corridor. We entered the workroom. Mallory watched me, his face heavy with worry and doubt. All the assemblage of ikons and statues watched me. It would have been a dramatic situation, but for the overriding horror. Mallory moved toward the desk, but I went on to the mummy case. After a moment he followed me.

  “Did it never occur to you that the priests and the pharaohs were not prepared as Encephalon was?” I asked. “They were brained and gutted. Why did you imagine they were denied the immortality granted your lowborn mummy?”

  He looked amazed. “Why, I never considered that. It didn’t seem— Do you know why?”

  “Yes, Mallory. I know why.”

  He looked back and for
th between me and the mummy case.

  “Better oblivion than such eternity,” I stated.

  “What are you saying?”

  I touched the broken seal.

  “Shall I translate?”

  Mallory nodded.

  The message was already seared in my consciousness, and I had no need to concentrate, but I stared at the seal to avoid looking at Mallory. I read it:

  Know ye then, despoilers of the grave, that herein lies the archfiend Nistarah, abomination to man and god, condemned to the torment of the ages; be bound then by the curse of Set; disturb not his torment but let him dwell within, denied Life and Underworld, so long as men may walk the earth; such were his sins.

  “What does it mean?” Mallory asked.

  “Mallory, your mummy was a fiend, a criminal of the highest order; God knows what his sins were. His mind was preserved, yes; preserved in the manner of the foulest defilers of the ancient laws. Immortality was no gift, Mallory! It was a punishment!”

  Mallory licked his lips. His eyes darted about as if seeking to bury themselves in his skull. “No,” he croaked. “That can’t be—in Haiti—”

  “In Haiti—that should have been the clue. Not seven years, Mallory. Seven weeks, perhaps. Is it a virtue, to serve your master even after death?”

  “No, no, it can’t be. You must continue to work, Ashley. The answer must be in the papyrus—”

  “There is no answer.”

  He glared at me. He turned sharply and walked over to the desk, then stood looking down at the rolled script for a moment, leaning on his hands. His shoulders rose and fell, he tilted his head. Suddenly, with an explosive gasp of breath, he snatched up the papyrus and tore it apart. I started toward him instinctively, to prevent the destruction of the ancient document. Then I slowed, as if my feet were reluctant before my mind, my body before my instincts. Let him tear the papyrus apart, I thought; better it had never been found; better that ancient Egypt had been covered by the sands forever than that one man should live as Sam Cooper lived.

  Mallory had gone berserk.

  He hurled a jade ikon against the wall, swept the desk clear of papers, kicked violently at a packing crate, toppling a faience deity. He seized a heavy idol, a bull-­headed god, and seemed about to dash it to the floor. Then he halted and sighed, looking at the statue as if it were the Minotaur at the end of his maze of frustration. He seemed calm enough now. I approached.

  He peered at me obliquely.

  “There’s nothing more I can do,” I said.

  He remained sullenly silent.

  “Give me the keys to your car.” I tendered this request in a calm voice, reasonable, logical, wanting no difficulties now. There were sufficient difficulties in the burden of my knowledge.

  “What? Why?”

  “I want to leave, Mallory.”

  A sly look registered in his eyes.

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and meant it. What could one do? Could a dead man be locked up for a crime? Imprisoned to await a trial while his flesh rotted from his bones? What could anyone do? Peal would not believe me. He might check, but then, the truth known, what next? Would the authorities debate the issue while Sam decomposed into stinking corruption? No, that was not the answer. I said, “Sam must be destroyed, Mallory. Surely you can see that? Will you do it?”

  “Destroyed? No! He lives.”

  “Destroy his brain. You must. If you’ll do that, Mallory, I’ll say nothing. The evil is done, it cannot be rectified by legal vengeance.”

  “No, no, you fool. Sam must be studied. Perhaps it is true, perhaps there was no method of preservation, but can we not find one? By studying Sam, others—?”

  There was no reasoning with him. The dreams of his lifetime had been shattered—the dreams of far more than a lifetime. I knew it was cowardly, but I had only one thought—to get away from that place. I held out my hand.

  “The keys.”

  “You’ll go to the police?”

  “Give me the keys, damn you.”

  “Ashley—no, not with my work undone.”

  “Your work? Better had it never begun.”

  I stepped closer, prepared to take the keys by force if necessary, not fearing Mallory physically. He turned pale. He reached into his pocket and brought out the keycase; handed it to me. I started to speak, to say something, perhaps to express regret.

  Then Mallory struck me.

  He spun sideways, and I saw the blur of the bull-­headed idol as it came around. I threw up my forearm, too late, and felt an explosion inside my head. Suddenly I was sitting on the floor, a trickle of blood at my temple. The car keys were on the stones beside me. I blinked and shook my head. Mallory stood back, frightened, peering down the angle of his face. As I started to rise he wheeled and ran. I reached for the keys, not thinking clearly. Let Mallory go, I wanted nothing from him. I heard his footfalls in the corridor. They stopped abruptly, and, in the sudden silence, the truth shrieked within me.

  I lurched to my feet and took one staggering step.

  “Mallory! No! For God’s sake, no!” I screamed.

  My cry echoed in the corridor.

  Through the echo, I heard the bar clang back from Sam’s door—

  I was staggering—perhaps from the blow on my head, perhaps from my horror—as I moved toward the door. I still held the car keys, a symbol of salvation clutched before me like a crucifix against a vampire. I knew only one slight hope. Sam could not act quickly, his responses were delayed—if I could get past his cell before his living brain sent impulses to his body—if I could get to the car—

  I stumbled into the corridor. Mallory stood there, holding Sam’s door back with one hand and, with the other, pointing toward the workroom where I stood. As I stepped into the corridor, he glared at me, his face contorted with malevolence and evil. He shouted some wordless command, the veins in his neck standing out starkly. I had to force my second step, my body cringed from the corridor.

  Then it was too late.

  Sam lumbered out.

  He walked stiffly, bent at the waist, hands hanging limply at his thighs; he came directly out and then turned unerringly toward me. Mallory hovered behind him, still voicing those wordless commands. I took a step backward, Sam lurched on, moving more surely with every step. His hands were huge, heavy, the fingers starting to distort into hooks, while his eyes began to assume a bestial ferocity. His footfalls were rhythmic on the floor.

  I retreated back into the workroom, too terrified even to close the door. His bulk blocked the entrance, passed through. I backed against the mummy case and crouched there, my heart volcanic. Sam seemed to have lost sight of me for a moment. He stood inside the door, craning his huge head from side to side, seeking me with his yellow eyes. His stench flowed out before him, and I saw the dripping blotches grained into his face. I looked at Mallory, pleading with my eyes, prepared to beg on my knees, to make any promise, if he would call back this horror. But there was no reprieve in his face. He glowered with triumph, pointing me out. Sam’s head swiveled, following Mallory’s thrusting forefinger, then stopped, dead eyes fixed upon me. They were the eyes of smoldering sulphur. His mouth opened and he roared, but no sound emerged; without breath, he roared silently. Instead of sound came a terrible emanation of odor, the stench of his rotting guts. He shuffled forward, hands extending, grasping—

  I hurled the mummy case between us.

  The heavy coffin struck Sam in the chest and plunged down, smashing upright against the floor. The lid burst open and Encephalon flew out like a broken doll, directly into Sam’s hands. Sam turned his eyes down. The blackened mummy twisted and flopped in his grasp. Mallory was shouting. Sam seemed confused. Slowly, remorselessly, he tore one shriveled arm from its ancient socket. He shook the dismembered mummy by the throat. I tried to slip by him whil
e he was thus occupied, but he suddenly threw the mummy aside in rage and lunged for me again, intercepting my flight. He was closing in. I quivered against the wall, all strength gone, my muscles turned to fluids. As he reached for my throat, his mouth instinctively dropped open.

  A cry tore through the room.

  Sam could make no sound.

  It was Arabella, screaming at the door.

  She shocked me from the stupor of fear.

  “Run,” I cried. “Arabella, run!”

  But she stood there. She cried out again. Suddenly I realized it was not a scream of terror, that she was voicing words, a plea, a command.

  And Sam had halted.

  With his putrescent fingers inches from my throat, he stopped. His massive body quivered, his eyes glazed, the blemished skin of his brow drew up in deep creases. “Sam!” she cried. “Sam, no! Sam!” Ponderously, he turned toward her. His shoulder brushed against me. “Leave him alone, Sam!” she shouted. Mallory too was shouting. He glared with hatred at Arabella. Sam trembled. I saw his monstrous face in profile; saw—most terrible of all—human indecision writhing on the countenance of a corpse.

  Mallory gasped with comprehension. He had not believed Sam capable of emotion, or decision. Snarling, he rushed at Arabella. She flinched away as he seized her. He slammed her back against the wall and his long fingers reached to her throat, to stifle her cries, to eradicate the indecision tormenting his hideous creation.

  But Mallory had moved too late.

  As his hands clutched Arabella’s throat, Sam reared and lurched forward. Mallory heard him coming. He looked back over his shoulder and his mouth dropped open. Terror transfused his face. The door was there beside him, but he was frozen in place, watching that which he had created advance upon him. He released Arabella and held both hands before him, palms open. Sam took him in his arms. Slowly, almost tenderly, he turned Mallory from the wall, bending him back, bending over him. They sank to the floor together, coupled in embrace. Mallory uttered no sound as Sam’s savage face lowered to him.

  I waited to see no more.