Mr Alfred Glynt had, truly, been an exceptional host. And, as we all sat around the dinner table, dressed in white tie and finishing off an assortment of digestifs, I could not help but ponder on how spectacular the night had been.
Was it the perfectly cut, perfectly cooked, medium rare Ribeye that I had devoured?
Perhaps it was the exquisite red wine which had turned my awkward, mumbling self into a man that could exude some semblance of charm.
Or, had it all in fact been Mr Alfred Glynt himself? – for he had seen it all, and was able to transport me to and from the past and present with his conversational abilities.
Indeed, while Mr Glynt now spent his twilight years acting as a consultant for small-town archeology firms across England, he had been a renowned archaeologist in his time. His highest, and most famed accomplishment, was his uncovering of the tomb of Saqqara, the resting place of King Unis (last of the fifth dynasty of Egyptian pharaohs). Hearing his tales on this particular matter was like getting lost in a book, or like reliving a memory that had never been yours.
The setting of our dinner certainly aided his storytelling, too. The walls to my left and right were adorned top to bottom with various artifacts that Mr Glynt had (presumably) dug up in Egypt. There were daggers, pots and various other fragments of memorabilia, forming in of themselves a miniature museum.
Behind me, 4 sarcophagi casings.
I had been assured earlier, by Mr Glynt himself, that these sarcophagi were in fact vacant of human remains. However, despite this knowledge, they did make me feel uneasy, like someone was watching the back of my head throughout the course of my meal.
Still, it wasn’t enough to spoil my mood. If anything, this all enhanced the experience of the night.
Mr Glynt was sitting directly opposite me, at the far end of an antiquated oak table. Behind him was a spectacular, marble mantelpiece. On it sat a plain white whale tusk, a ship in a bottle and a few photographs of, what I assume, was a young Mr Glynt on various archaeological digs and expeditions.
Around the table itself, my work colleagues, who were taking turns in asking insightful questions of our gracious host, as they passed round the wine, sherry, and port. A truly marvelous evening.
And that’s when I spotted, on a rickety looking shelf above the mantel – an ordinary looking book that caused me an unordinary sense of dread.
It was the colour of skin, looked to be bound by bone. On its center, an eye of Horus. It made me feel sick, yet ravenous, it filled my head with utter rage until my brain erupted and I felt calm again. What in the fuck is that? I thought to myself, as I began to feel dizzy.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I relinquished and shot up, knocking over and smashing my empty glass.
“Fuck” - I exclaimed, panting heavily.
“Mr May? Are you quite with us? Or has the sherry gone to your head?” I was abruptly ousted from my brief moment of horror as Mr Glynt laughed from the head of the table.
I took a moment to compose myself and averted my gaze from the book. I sheepishly replied.
“I do apologise Mr Glynt. I was just drawn to that odd looking book of yours on the mantelpiece” (I gestured to it as i couldn’t bear to look at it again) – “was it a find of yours”?
Mr Glynt seemed to wince in pain at my question.
“Ah, erm, yes, you have a keen eye Mr May. That is a finding from the tomb of Saqqara itself. Now please, if you will, do try to ignore the book.” He clicked his fingers twice before raising his voice. “All of you, stay focussed on your drinks and do not listen to Mr May, for I haven’t told you about the Boukoloi uprising of 171.” He again, clicked his fingers twice and began to mumble, seeming to completely avert his eyes from me as if I were some lost cause.
A very odd response, I thought, and it caught me so off guard that I felt like I had just been awoken from a long slumber.
As Mr Alfred Glynt spoke of the Boukoloi uprising of 171, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had come over me at the sight of the strange book on the mantelpiece. Its skin-like color and bone binding had seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, and the eye of Horus on its cover seemed to stare at me with a malevolent gaze.
Despite Mr Glynt’s insistence that we ignore the book, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. It seemed to call to me, filling my head with dark thoughts and an overwhelming sense of dread. I tried to push these feelings aside and focus on the conversation, but I found myself struggling to concentrate.
I looked around the room and, to my suprise, everyone was still feasting, and not in fact drinking the gorgeous sherry and port that I could have sworn had just been in their hands.
Upon closer inspection, they were doing more than ‘feasting’.
I froze in horror as I witnessed my colleagues ripping the charred flesh off of one of our fellow colleagues; a woman that I knew well: our site director Estelle Maguire. For she lay, dead and cooked in the middle of the table. I could tell it was her though. Her head was perfectly preserved – or, at least preserved enough that I was able to recognise her. The blue tatters of her dress were burned onto her skin.
In a manic moment, my eyes did not know where to look. I looked down at my plate, but saw hair, blood, bone and skin. Estelle’s blood, hair and skin. I’m not ashamed to say that I vomited, right onto my plate - and no one seemed to fucking notice.
I jumped up once again, startled, not seeming to attract the attention of anyone around the table, for they were otherwise occupied in their devouring of an ex-colleague.
Mr Glynt continued, “The people, called the Boukoloi, began a disturbance in Egypt. Under the leadership of a certain priest, they caused the rest of the Egyptians to revolt. At first, arrayed in women’s garments, they had deceived a Roman centurion, causing him to believe that they were women of the Boukoloi and were going to give him gold as ransom for their husbands.”
In a spate of anger, I swept my hands across my immediate area of the table, sending even more glasses flying and shattering against the walls. I was in hell.
“Mr Glynt, what the fuck is going on!?”
But my question was ignored, and his story continued.
“And this, my friends, is where the tale turns. For the Boukoloi struck the centurion down when he approached them. They sacrificed his companion, and after swearing an oath over his entrails, they devoured them both.”
I lost my shit. “What the fuck is this. What the fuck is this. What the fuck is going on?”
Mr Glynt finally acknowledged me, and so did the other guests who had stopped gnawing on medium rare skin.
“I do apologise Mr May, the book has brought you out of my trance, otherwise you’d be in bliss.”
Mr May clicked his fingers once more and pointed to me. Like a well rehearsed play, the faces of my colleagues turned towards me in unison, each of them standing from their chairs.
I looked at the far wall, I saw the fireplace.
I looked left, and right, and I saw the ornaments covering the walls.
In a state of panic, I turned to see the 4 sarcophagi looking back at me. And that’s when it struck me.
Where the fuck was the door.