_The Weird Tale of an Egyptian Mummy_
_By_ ADAM HULL SHIRK
“_Mandrake_”
_By ADAM HULL SHIRK_
_Will appear in the July WEIRD TALES_
_It’s a Strange Yarn of Superstitious Fear_
_Don’t Miss It!_
The recent and lamentable death of Sir Richard Parmenter, F. R. G. S.,
is too fresh in the public’s mind to warrant further reference, and were
it not that I feel myself capable of throwing light upon the incidents
contributing to the sudden and apparently unnecessary snuffing out of a
valuable life, I should refrain from again alluding to it.
It is well known that the physicians at the time decided that valvular
weakness of the heart must have been responsible for the death of the
noted Egyptologist, but the statement of his own doctor that Sir Richard
had never theretofore exhibited indications of such weakness, and that he
was, to all appearances, in the best of health just prior to his death,
caused considerable wonder.
I had thought to let the facts remain buried, but, for certain reasons, I
shall reconsider my determination and tell what I know.
I shall always remember the night on which Sir Richard summoned me, as
his counselor, to attend him at his apartments in the Albermarle. It
was a night of storm, and the London streets were a mass of slime and
slush. A beastly wind had sprung up, and as I left my chambers at the
Temple it almost took me off my feet. Therefore, it was with no little
satisfaction that I found a cheery log fire awaiting me in the library of
my distinguished client’s home, and the nip of brandy he provided was a
life saver.
I noted, however, that for all his assumption of cheerfulness, something
was preying upon his mind, and I determined to get at the root of the
matter without delay:
“How can I serve you, Sir Richard?” I asked, briskly. “I see there is
something troubling you.”
“Is it as apparent as that?” he asked, trying to appear unconcerned: but
his strong, homely features belied his effort at calmness.
Before I could reply, he went on:
“But never mind that: I want you to write my will—now.”
“Your will?” My expression of surprise and incredulity was natural,
for since I had been retained by him I had marked it as one of his few
idiosyncrasies that he had never made his will. When I had mentioned
to him the advisability of doing so, he had put it by with a whimsical
remark about being superstitious.
“I am in earnest,” he declared, “and it will be very simple—just a brief
form, and I’ll sign it with my man as witness.”
“But why the haste?” I said. “Why not wait till I can have the document
properly drawn up at my office tomorrow—”
“No; now!” he said, and there was such finality in his tone I had no
choice.
My concern for my client, whom I really liked and respected immensely,
prompted me to ask:
“You’re not ill, Sir Richard?”
He shook his head, with the ghost of a smile on his rugged face.
“Physically—no. But—”
He paused, and after a moment he again urged me to proceed with the
making of the will.
I drew up the document, which was a simple one, leaving the bulk of his
large properties to his sister in Surrey, with numerous small bequests
to friends and distant relatives, and a handsome sum and his private
collection to the British Museum and the Imperial Museum of Egyptology.
We had in his man, and the document was duly signed, after which he drew
a long breath of relief and, with a return of something like his natural
manner, passed me his cigar-case and leaned back in his chair, smoking
comfortably.
“I’ve a story to tell you, Madden,” he said between puffs, “and it’s a
queer yarn, too. You’ll think—but never mind. Listen first, and say what
you like afterward. Only—” he glanced about him with an apprehensive
expression that fairly set my nerves atingle. “I hope we have time.”
“Time for what?” I asked.
He relaxed again and smiled:
“It’s all right,” he declared. “I’m a bit nervous, I guess, but it’s all
right. Have another brandy.”
We drank solemnly together. Then he settled back once more and I prepared
to listen.
“Madden,” said he, “perhaps you’ll smile at what has seemed to me serious
enough to warrant the steps I have just taken—making my will, I mean—but,
however you look at it, I want you to know it’s true—every word of it.
“My last trip to Egypt—from which I just returned a fortnight ago—was
to have been my final one, anyway. I’ve made six trips out there in my
life, and I’ve collected enough information to fill a dozen volumes.
Also, I’ve contributed many fine specimens to the museum and corrected
many misapprehensions concerning the interpretation of some of the
hieroglyphs. So, all in all, I think I’ve done pretty well.
“This last visit was in many respects the most satisfactory, and indeed
it witnessed a triumph in my career as an Egyptologist that would be a
crowning achievement, were it not for—but we won’t speak of that—yet.
“I wonder, Madden, if you know anything about the ancient Egyptian
religious ceremonies and forms of worship? Anyway, I may tell you that
the Nile dwellers, as they were called, recognized as their supreme
deity, Osiris, lord of the underworld. By some he has been identified
with the Sun and, with the forty assessors of the dead, he was supposed
to have judged the souls brought before him by Horus in the double halls
of truth, after their good and evil deeds had been weighed by Anubis.
“The Egyptians reverenced Osiris with as devout worship as the Chinese
give to Buddha, and the high priests of Osiris were regarded with almost
as much awe as the deity himself.
“In all our studies and investigations, however, we have never been able
actually to identify Osiris, but it is now generally conceded that he was
believed to have lived on earth at one time and that it was only after
his death that he assumed deific prerogatives. In this respect the modern
Christian theology may be said to resemble the more ancient form to some
extent.
“Osiris was pictured on many of the tablets as a creature with the head
of a bull, though there is some disagreement on this score. In any event,
his tomb was said to exist near Heliopolis, and it was to investigate
this tradition that I made my last trip to Egypt.”
Sir Richard paused to relight his cigar and listened to the storm which
raged without. Again he gave that hasty, apprehensive glance about him,
then proceeded:
“It would be impossible for me to explain to you, a layman, my
inordinate joy at finding—by what means and after what tedious labor,
I won’t stop to tell now—a deserted tomb which I knew, from certain
hieroglyphic markings I found, was the very one of which I had been in
search for the best part of half a year.
“Understand that this whole tradition of the tomb of Osiris was regarded
by my fellow scientists as a myth, and if it had been publicly known that
I was giving it sufficient credence to spend a lot of time and money
searching for it I should have been looked upon as a madman and laughed
out of the societies. This may enable you to appreciate more fully my
sensations on actually locating at least the tomb. What I should find
within, I hardly dared conjecture!
“The tomb of a God! Can you imagine it, Madden?
“And yet, if I had only stopped there! If only I had been content to
pause with the knowledge I already possessed, without proceeding further
and desecrating with sacrilegious hands that lonely sarcophagus in the
desert!
“How I succeeded in penetrating this tomb, of the horrors of bats and
crawling things that failed to stop me—of the almost supernatural awe
that came upon me—I can not pause to tell. It is enough to say that I
stood at last beside the tremendous coffin of stone, trembling from an
unknown dread. And, as I stood there, something white fluttered by me and
up through the opening into the outer air. A sacred Ibis—but how it had
penetrated there and how it had lived, I can not say.
“Pour out another brandy, Madden—and throw that other log on the fire,
too, if you don’t mind. My, how the wind blows! Did you speak?... Pardon
me—I’m nervous tonight as I said before, very nervous.... Where was I?
Oh, yes—
“That great sarcophagus stood before me, and on it I saw inscribed the
sacred scarabæus and the feather of truth, while in the center was the
word—the one, wonderful name—‘Heseri’—which is the Egyptian for Osiris!
“Insatiable curiosity now took the place of the reverential awe that
should have possessed me, and with vandal hands I forced the stone lid
from the casket. One glance I had of a great, bovine face, a _living_
face, whose eyes looked into the depths of my soul—and then I fled as
though all the devils of Amenti were at my heels....
“That is all Madden, except that I am nervous—fearfully so. It is so
unlike me. You know how small a part fear has played in my life. I have
faced the dreaded simoon; I have been lost among savage tribes, I have
confronted death in a hundred forms—but _never_ have I felt as I do now.
I tremble at a sound; my ears trick me into believing that I am always
hearing some unusual noise; my appetite is failing, and I am feeling my
age as I have never felt it until.... Good God! Madden! What was that
sound?... Oh! _look behind you_, Madden! _Look!_...”
* * * * *
And now I come to that portion of my statement that will probably be
refused credence by those who read; but, as I live, it is the truth.
As Sir Richard uttered his last words, he felt forward to his full length
upon the hearth rug, even as I turned in obedience to his command. The
shadows were heavy in the far corner of the spacious room, but I could
see a great, bulky something that swayed there, something that was a
part, and yet, seemingly, was independent, of the shadows.
I had a vision of two burning eyes and a black shining muzzle—a heavy,
misshapen head. A strange, animal-like, fetid odor was in my nostrils.
I shrieked, and, turning, ran madly from the room, stumbled to the stairs
and fled into the wind-swept night.