“Do you know the story of the Princess of Amun-Ra?”
Ollie shook his head. My father grinned and lifted Ollie onto his knee.
“Isn’t he a little young?” I said.
“You were his age when you first heard it.”
“And it made such an impact it is one of my first memories.”
Ollie tugged at my father’s shirt. “Tell it Pop. I’m big enough.”
I held up my palms and shrugged.
“You’ll like the story and it isn’t too scary.” My father smoothed Ollie’s hair and cleared his throat.
I stood and stacked the plates from the table and took them to the kitchen. It was true, I had heard the story at Ollie’s age. Aside from being my first memory, it is one of the few I have of my grandfather. Had he lived longer there would have been many more. My grandfather led the sort of life worth hearing about. He had been an archaeologist, an Egyptologist, a translator and a professor. He fought in a war. And he was with Howard Carter when he excavated the tomb of Tutankhamun.
“Amun-Ra is not a where, it is a who.” My father had moved to his worn recliner and Ollie sat before him on the living room rug. “The ancient Egyptians believed Amun-Ra was the creator of all things. And the princess devoted her life to him. And 3,500 years ago the princess died. After she died the embalmers mummified her and put her in a coffin. Do you know what a mummy is?”
Ollie nodded.
“Do you know how they make a mummy?”
Ollie shook his head.
“First they take the organs and put them in jars. The brain they scoop out bit by bit with a sharp metal-“
“Skip this part,” I said.
“Sorry. They put the princess, now a mummy, in a coffin and buried her in the desert. And there she stayed for thousands of years. Until someone found her and dug her up.
When your great-grandfather was a boy, artifacts from Egypt sold for sky high prices. Even more than they do now. Only rich people could get them. Four men from England heard about the Princess and they decided to buy her. But they didn’t know about the curse. Do you know what a curse is?”
Ollie shook his head.
“It’s magic. It’s like…”
“It’s like the genie in Aladdin,” I said.
“Exactly. But where the genie grants wishes, a curse does bad things. The curse of the Princess of Amun-Ra said that bad things would happen to anyone who touched her.”
Ollie breathed in. “What happened?”
“Remember there were four men. The first left his hotel in Egypt in the middle of the night. He walked out into the desert and was never seen again. Someone shot the second and he lost an arm. When the third man returned to England his bank had lost all his money. And the fourth got sick and lost his job and ended his life as a beggar. But the curse wasn’t done yet.
“Another man in London bought the coffin and then his house burned down. He then donated the coffin to a museum where it could be safe and not hurt anyone. But the staff would hear crying and banging coming from inside the coffin. The Princess was trying to get out. Objects would fly around the room. It got so bad no one wanted to go anywhere near the Princess.
“The museum moved the coffin to the basement but the workers in the basement all got sick and one died. Someone took a photo of the coffin and when they developed the photograph they got a shock. They didn’t see the painting on the lid, but a horrible human face. The face of the Princess.”
My father twisted his face and Ollie smiled. He continued.
“Finally, the museum wanted to get rid of it. But who would buy such a thing? By now everyone knows it’s cursed. Then a brave American decided it was all superstitious nonsense and bought the coffin. He put it on a ship sailing from England to America. Can you guess the name of the ship?”
Ollie shook his head.
“The Titanic.”
Ollie’s eyes widened.
My father smiled. “Do you know what happened to the Titanic?”
“It hit an iceberg and sank,” Ollie said.
“It was the curse that did it. The Princess of Amun-Ra guided the ship.” My father held up a palm and swept it left.
“Most of that isn’t true,” I said.
Ollie’s head snapped around. “It isn’t?”
“It’s a legend,” I said.
“What does that mean?” Ollie said.
“It means it isn’t real.”
My father’s eyes moved back to meet Ollie. “It’s true there was a Princess. It’s true they found her mummy in a coffin in the desert. And it’s true the Titanic sank.”
“Can the Princess still hurt anyone?” Ollie said.
“No.” I patted his shoulder. “She can’t. She’s back in a tomb, only now at the bottom of the ocean.”
No wonder I never forgot that story. My fear Ollie wouldn’t sleep that night proved unfounded as he fell asleep in the car on the drive home.
On Wednesday afternoons Ollie goes to his grandparent’s house after school. Last week when I arrived to collect him, my mother answered the door. She was out of breath.
“I can’t find him,” she said. “He was drawing at the table and then he was gone.”
I half-smiled. “He won’t have gone far. He does this.”
“What if he went outside and on the road?”
“He knows not to go near the road.”
Loose paper and crayons littered the kitchen table. One chair stood apart at a skewed angle.
“I’ve looked everywhere.”
A muffled thud came from below us.
“Have you looked in the basement?” I said.
“It’s locked. He can’t get down there.”
I tried the handle. It gave and the door opened.
“Mystery solved.”
“It’s always locked. I don’t understand.”
“I’ll go and get him.”
I climbed down the stairs. The light was on in a little room to the right. Ollie was in there on his knees bent over a large cardboard box. He held a sheet of paper.
“What are you doing?” I said.
Ollie looked up with the speed of someone caught red-handed.
“I wanted to see what was down here.”
“You’re not allowed. You know that. How did you get the door open?”
“It wasn’t locked.”
“Put everything back now and come back up.”
Ollie dropped his head and put the papers back in the box. He slid the box back against the wall. It took all his strength to shift it.
“Apologise to your grandmother when you get back up.”
Back in the kitchen my mother stood by the counter, one hand over her mouth and the other on her phone.
“Don’t worry, I found him.”
“I’m sorry grandma.”
My mother looked right through us.
“It’s Des,” she said. I never heard her call my father by his first name. “They’re taking him to the hospital. He’s been shot.”
I drove us. My mother fidgeted in the passenger’s seat.
“I told him if he kept on with the hunting something would happen.”
“Was he with anyone?” I asked.
“He said he was going alone.”
When we arrived at the hospital my father was in the operating theatre. The nurse couldn’t tell us much except to wait. Half an hour later Janine arrived to take Ollie home, but he wanted to stay. They called us to the counter and said we could see my father and he would be ok.
My father wore a hospital gown and had a drip attached to his forearm. He smiled when we entered and then his eyelids drooped. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed.
“He’ll be fine.”
“What happened?” I said.
“Bullet in the back. But luckily it missed everything important. A little rest and he’ll be back causing trouble.” He addressed my father. “Press the button if the pain gets too bad.”
The doctor left the room and we crowded around the bed.
“I’m so glad you’re ok,” my mother said, grabbing my father’s hand.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Who shot you?” I said.
My father furrowed his brow. “I didn’t see anyone else out there. I only saw a…” He trailed off.
“Get some rest,” my mother said.
Janine put her palm on Ollie’s head. “We’ll take Ollie home. Give Pop a hug, but be gentle.”
Ollie approached the bed. In his right hand was a small black statue. My father held out his hand for Ollie and saw the statue and his eyes opened wide. His body began to shake. He gripped the rails on the side of the bed. Ollie took a step back and clasped the statue to his chest.
I ran out to the corridor and called after the doctor. He rushed back. He placed his hands on my father and instructed us to leave.
“What’s wrong?” my mother said.
“Please wait outside.”
Janine took Ollie by the arm and dragged him out. Before I could follow my father gripped my sleeve. He pulled me close. He gasped and choked.
“The jackal,” he said. “The jackal.”
His grip loosened and an incoming nurse escorted me from the room.
An hour later the doctor reappeared in the waiting room. This time his eyes were on the floor and he shook his head. Heart attack. He was dead.
No one knows what to do when they lose a loved one. We huddled together in the waiting room and my mother wept. I drove her home and stayed until the adrenaline dissipated. An hour later she climbed the stairs and went to bed.
When I came home Janine stood waiting behind the door. We embraced and swept up in warmth and comfort, I too wept. It had come without warning. My father was fit and healthy for his age. An unexpected death hits harder.
It was almost midnight before I was ready for sleep. I looked in on Ollie and found him awake and staring at the ceiling. I sat on his bed. The black statue he had been holding in the hospital was on his bedside drawer. I picked it up and turned it in my hand. It was a man with the head of a dog.
“Are you sad?” Ollie said.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“It won’t be the same without Pop.”
“I liked his stories.”
“I’ll have to tell them now.”
“You’re not as good at it.”
I smiled. “I know. But I’ll try. You should get some sleep.”
I put the statue back.
“Where did you get that?”
“In the basement.”
“I told you to put everything back.”
“It was in my pocket. I forgot, honest. Are you mad?”
“No, I’m not mad. Get some sleep.”
I turned out the light.
During the night I woke and inhaled a deep breath. I turned on the light. I was in my room and in my bed. Moments earlier I had been in the forest, hunting with my father. He crept forwards and halted and raised his hand. He waited. He turned to face me and stood still and silent. To the right was a black dog, but not quite a dog. The head and the ears were wrong. It was no dog.
“The jackal,” I yelled.
I pointed, but my father did not look. The jackal pounced and sank its teeth into his neck. My father fell and the black animal snarled and ripped open the flesh. It shook me from my dream.
“Are you ok?”
I had woken Janine.
“A bad dream. Don’t worry.”
I turned out the light.
When Ollie burst into our room the sun was up.
“It hurts, it hurts.”
Janine swept back the covers. “Let me see. Dean you should see this.”
I sighed and propped up on my elbows. Ollie had a welt on his right cheek and it had swollen so much it had closed his eye.
“Is that a bite?”
“It’s too big for a mosquito.”
“A spider then?”
Janine took Ollie’s head in her hands and applied a light pressure to the welt. Ollie winced.
“Get him to the doctor,” I said.
I rubbed my eyes. Ollie held the statue of the man with the head of a dog. The head of a jackal. I held out my hand. “Give that to me.”
Ollie handed it over. I turned the statue in my hands. The shape of the head matched what I saw in my dream. The jackal. My father’s last words were of the jackal. At the base of the statue was a rectangular platform. On the side were inscriptions in Egyptian hieroglyphics. An unease rose in my stomach.
“I’m taking this back to grandma,” I said. “It’s going back where you found it.”
Janine drove Ollie to the hospital and I took my car to my parent’s house. I put the statue in the drink holder beside the gearstick. On a normal day I had to tackle peak hour, but it was now mid-morning and the streets were quiet. With my father’s death I had organised the rest of the week off. So had Janine. And we had pulled Ollie from school.
I stopped at a red light and an elderly woman crossed on foot. She had a dog on a leash. A black dog. The body of the woman blocked the head of the dog. I leaned forward to get a look at the animal. I had a sense it was the animal from my dream.
“Move.”
From behind came two urgent bursts of a car horn. The light was green. The woman and the dog disappeared from view. I drove on.
At the house I knocked and waited. No answer. I peered through the window. Nothing moved. I tried the doorbell and still nothing.
I pulled the keys from my pocket and fumbled for the spare I carried. I put the key in the lock and entered.
“Are you awake?” I said in a raised voice.
No response.
I checked the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Empty and with a neatly made bed. I looked out the window to the backyard. Strange, my mother was not one for a morning walk. But it had been a terrible night.
I took the statue from my pocket. I descended the stairs and tried the door for the basement. Unlocked. I switched on the light dangling from a wire above the stair. At the bottom was my mother. She lay face down.
I ran down the stairs and put my hand on her shoulder. She stirred. I wedged my knee against the wall and turned her.
“Are you ok?”
Her eyes opened. “What happened?”
“You fell. Can you get up?”
“I don’t think so.”
I called an ambulance.
I followed the flashing lights to the hospital. My mother had a broken leg and collarbone and several cracked ribs. But it could have been worse. She was lucky it had not been her head that broke the fall. I told Janine to stay at home with Ollie, who had been sent home by the doctor.
When I saw my mother in a hospital gown it brought back everything from the night before. I sat beside her and took her hand.
“I’m so silly,” she said.
“It happens.”
“No it doesn’t and it shouldn’t. I didn’t sleep. I must be more careful.”
“You have to get some rest now. Doctor’s orders.”
“What about the funeral? All the arrangements.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
I searched for my phone and pulled out the statue, which had gone back in my pocket. I placed the statue beside the bed. My mother looked at it and immediately looked away.
“That hideous thing,” she said.
“The statue?”
“I woke up last night and went to the window. Sitting on the grass was a black dog. A dog that looked like that. It sat there, staring at me. Put it away.”
I put the statue back into my pocket.
“You dreamed of this?”
“It wasn’t a dream. I got up and I saw it. It was there in the garden.”
“Will you be alright for a while?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’ll come back tonight.”
This was beyond coincidence. Ollie takes the statue from the basement and then my father sees a jackal and gets shot. My mother sees a black dog that could be a jackal and falls down the stairs. And there was Ollie and the spider bite. And I had seen it. I could be next.
I drove back to my parent’s house. I had to see inside that box in the basement, the box Ollie had been playing with. Ever since he took that statue out it was as if there had been a curse on our family. Like the curse of the Princess of Amun-Ra. I thought back to the story my father had told, the story I first heard from my grandfather. The man who had been present when they disturbed Tutankhamun. Could something like that be real and not a fable made up to scare impressionable children?
My mind raced. I paid little attention to the road. A black shape flashed in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and the tyres squealed. I braced for an impact but none came. I searched the side of the road. A black animal trotted down a side street.
“It couldn’t be.”
This was getting crazy. I hustled the rest of the way (mostly over the speed limit) and ran inside the house. I went straight to the basement and dragged the box from under the shelf.
In one corner of the box was a grey stone container about the size of a Christmas ham. No wonder Ollie had trouble shifting the box. In the other corner was a folded letter. I unfolded the yellowed paper. The text was hand written in black ink. I didn’t recognise the handwriting. It was addressed to Des Simpson – my father. I skipped to the end and it was signed by Nathan Simpson – my grandfather. The letter read:
I entrust the stone sarcophagus of Anubis to my son Des for safekeeping. I have determined the object to be of particular curiosity. And – if my suspicions are correct – the primary cause of the curse which claimed our benefactor Lord Carnarvon in Egypt, in addition to those at home in England.
In the year 1922 we found the stairs leading to the sealed tomb of Tutankhamun. We waited weeks at our site in the Valley of the Kings for the arrival of Carnarvon. The excavation leader, Mr. Howard Carter was impatient and wished to proceed. But Carnarvon was insistent we wait for his presence. Had it not been for his financing there would have been no dig at all and so Carter acquiesced.
I passed the nights chiselling away certain inscriptions above the tomb. Carter read them first and asked my opinion on the meaning. I confirmed his translation. Death comes on swift wings to whoever toucheth the tomb of the Pharaoh. Carter dismissed the threat as idle superstition. However, with concern that the local help may be spooked by such portents of doom, Carter instructed me to remove the inscription. Being his dutiful servant I did as asked.
After much delay, Carnarvon arrived and we could proceed. I am not by habit a superstitious man, but what followed defies explanation by any rational means. It defies what one would expect through mere coincidence.
The first event was the death of the canary kept by Carter as a pet. On the very morning we breached the tomb a cobra consumed the canary. Carter, being fond of the animal, was forlorn. I didn’t need to tell him the significance. A cobra poised to strike sits atop the headdress of the Pharaoh. The old dead Pharaoh may well have been warning us of his presence. Nevertheless we proceeded.
After the first sealed door, we entered a narrow corridor backfilled with shards of limestone. This took a day to clear. At the far end of the corridor was a second sealed door. Carter dug away at the corner of the wall and made a small incision. Behind the wall was empty space and he held up a candle. It flickered as the tepid air from the tomb escaped after 3,000 years of imprisonment. Carter widened the hole.
“Can you see anything?” asked Carnarvon.
“Yes, wonderful things,” Carter said.
We retired for the night knowing the next day would be the culmination of our quest – one Carter had pursued for more than 30 years. That night, by the light of the lantern, Carter looked out over the desert. Out in the pale light of the moonlight was an animal. A black jackal.
“Strange,” Carter said, “in all my years in Egypt this is the first black jackal I have seen.”
The mood in the camp was one of anticipation. None of the men found the act of repose a simple task. And then a cable arrived from England signed by a mystic of some renown – Count Harmon. It read: ‘Lord Carnarvon not to enter tomb. Disobey at peril. If ignored will suffer sickness. Not recover. Death will claim him in Egypt.’
Carnarvon laughed off the message, calling it superstitious dross. The local men were the most affected. Two men refused to continue to work and abandoned the expedition altogether. Carter and Carnarvon resolved to continue.
If we had known what was to come, we would have sealed that door and buried it in sand.
The following day we breached the final wall and entered the tomb. Stacked in the tomb were all manner of items – chairs and couches and chariots, much of it coated in gold. Everywhere the glint of gold.
To the right stood two life size statues of the dead King. A further door sealed the entrance to the burial chamber. Within the chamber, wood and porcelain lined the walls. Painted on the walls were burial scenes according to their religion.
Broken items littered the floor – necklaces and statuettes. Howard mused that thieves must have pillaged the tomb and were likely caught in the act. On one side of the room was a toppled stone container lying open, its contents lay adjacent on the floor. It held a black statue of Anubis – the God of Death. It is that stone receptacle and statue of Anubis I have entrusted herein.
In the centre lay the sarcophagus of the King. The coffin, a spectacular piece in gold. The death mask an even more spectacular sight. We crowded around the sarcophagus. It was upon the disturbance of the mummy of the dead King that an insect of some kind attacked Carnarvon and left him with a mark on his cheek.
With the words of the mystic Harmon fresh in our minds, one man remarked that Carnarvon would be dead within 6 weeks.
In the days that followed, the contents of the room were meticulously catalogued and photographed. At a satisfactory stage of progress and with the news having spread over the world of the magnificent find, Carnarvon returned to Cairo to prepare for the journey home. I was to travel with Carnarvon to England and had the room next to his at the hotel.
It was in the hotel in Cairo that the health of Carnarvon took a turn for the worst. In truth he had been flagging for some weeks already. Now some potent malady had overwhelmed his defences. Carnarvon instructed me to cable the mystic Harmon for advice. The response came too late.
6 weeks to the day after the first bite from the insect in the tomb of the King, Carnarvon exhaled his last breath in his bed at the hotel in Cairo. An infection from the insect wound suffered in the tomb being the primary cause. At that exact moment all lights went out in the city. We were later informed that at the very same moment Lord Carnarvon’s beloved dog – home in England waiting for his master’s return – also succumbed.
A cable arrived in the midst of our distress – it was the response from Harmon. He indicated he could not be specific with regard to the particulars of the luck, or curse, which had befallen Carnarvon. He did say that he had seen in a fever dream a black jackal – and to take any sighting of the creature as a portent of doom.
Carter had seen a jackal that first night. Then the statue of Anubis in the tomb. The God with the head of a black jackal. And since then glimpses of black animals filled my dreams and even my waking hours.
I searched through Carnarvon’s belongings and located the statue in a personal box set for England. With the statue was the stone receptacle. At the base of the statue was an inscription. It read: ‘For whomsoever gaze upon me will find death.’
I placed the statue in the stone receptacle created for it and ever since it has remained therein sealed. And I have not seen a jackal since, awake or in dream.
I know not the source of the magic. What I do know is that after Anubis was again encased in stone, no further death was associated with his presence. This includes my own.
I tell you this so that you understand the seriousness of the object. Do not disturb the stone sarcophagus. Do not bury it. Some poor soul may dig it up and meet their doom. Do not sell it for the recipient will take it out and death will follow. Keep it safe and pass it down. I have resolved that our family be the safe keepers of the object – a terrible responsibility, but one I accept.
It is of vital importance you do not allow curiosity to overcome your caution. Do not gaze upon the statue inside. It brings with it death.
It was there the letter ended. I turned the statue one more time and with trembling hands I put the object in the stone receptacle and closed the lid. Could it be true this was the cause of the events of the last days?
My phone buzzed. It was Janine. She told me Ollie had taken a turn for the worst and had a heavy fever.
“Take him to the hospital,” I said.
I slid back the box and locked the basement behind me. Outside white and grey clouds rose up from the horizon.
Ollie is in hospital still. The medicine they give him fights the infection. I hope I did not entomb the black statue of Anubis too late.