For Sale: One Egyptian sarcophagus, occupant unknown…

For Sale: One Egyptian sarcophagus, occupant unknown. Recovered (Looted) from the Valley of the Kings (or a Hollywood prop house).

Slightly used, mildly cursed. Full disclosure;

may cause mummy infestation.

“It’s as though I were two different people. Sometimes it seems as if I belong to a different world. I find myself in strange surroundings with strange people. I cannot ever seem to find rest! And now Kharis!” – Princess Ananka, The Mummy’s Curse

Just to drive home the point that I have thus far had a rather unusual life, this story is entirely based on fact. Confirmed by an unimpeachable eyewitness, a man I would, and have, trusted with my life, an occasional film producer and one of my oldest friends: one J. Wellington Wagar. Not a half-remembered urban legend from my childhood, or second- or third-hand accounts of the bizarre or theories concerning the vanishing of certain celebrities from public life. No, no. This weird tale comes entirely from personal experience.

This tale begins at my last apartment in Pittsburgh, known to our comrades as Das Haxenhaus (The Witch House) – I like to name my homes and this one came from the fact that the house seemed to have a network of weird, unnecessary passageways, doors that led to nowhere, walls that met at strange angles. It was as if the builders had intentionally used the writings of H.P. Lovecraft to design the home (the story in particular that seemed to have been the inspiration was, shockingly, ‘Dreams in The Witch House’) hence how this rather pleasant home ended up with such an imposing and creepy name.

Everyone whom ever took a tour of the house, at least the two floors we rented, agreed that The Witch House was a perfect name for the place. Despite all that, we never once had any issues with ancient witches or their devoted cults attempting arcane rites in the attic (my bedroom), unless you count a few of the ladies I dated while living there, but that’s a story for another time. The only issue the attic, my bedroom had, was rats in the walls (another Lovecraft story oddly enough) but my cat, Tessa, took care of that issue with such ruthless efficiency it was more than a year into living there before we became aware that there was any kind of rodent problem.

Tessa had been systematically killing and eating every rodent who dared exit the walls.

She set traps for them, moving her food dish directly in front of the one hole they had managed to chew out to enter and exit the top floor. With her dish of kibble right there at the entrance they would exit the hole, begin gorging on the catfood, and Tessa would be waiting in the shadows in a small, hidden alcove across the little kitchenette and as soon as a rat had fully emerged from the wall and into her dish she would pounce, break its neck in one quick jerk, and either eat it or bring it downstairs to present as a gift to Jon and I with a look of utter pride in her accomplishment. If any of those rats had been familiars to some ancient witch inhabiting the house I can only imagine the frustration it must have felt as one by one its familiars fell to my cat’s ingenuity, fangs, and claws. Tessa was far smarter than the average cat, and her hunting instincts had not been dulled by thousands of years of feline semi-domestication. She was a loving animal, to those she liked, but to her prey (anything her size or smaller, or occasionally bigger – she once tried to throw down with a very confused pit bull that had the nerve to growl at her. She didn’t run, she simply got low, popped her front claws Wolverine-style and prepared for battle, much to the amazement of the dog’s owner) she might as well have been the goddamn Predator. Striking from the shadows and making short work of any interlopers.

The downstairs neighbor, who had only moved in a few months before, called me one morning at the ungodly hour of 9:30 in the AM (being a writer has its advantages, like keeping whatever schedule you please as long as deadlines are met, this is in particular good for me as I am a chronic insomniac) because he forgot to lock his apartment and he believed we lived in a sketchy area. I grew up in south/central Florida, this neighborhood was a paradise compared to some of the places I spent my formative years. Hell, living in Mexico for a few years now that area looks even more appealing, except of course for the infestation. Not the rodents, they were dealt with by Tessa (I never once had to buy a trap of any sort, she had that covered). No, the infestation she couldn’t handle was much worse and far more eldritch.

The mummy infestation.

He (name omitted to protect the weird) and I had exchanged numbers for security reasons, for events just like this. He had first met me after seeing me on my upstairs porch (I rented the second and third floors, not that I was/am rich, they came as one unit since the third floor had no fire escape and only one entrance/exit, so I got two apartments for the price of one) cleaning my guns and listening to loud punk rock music on more than one occasion (though not always punk, for some reason Godspeed, You Black Emperor is great music for cleaning firearms to, in particular their track “East Hastings”). He found the situation to be highly entertaining and atypical as I don’t to most people look like someone who would own firearms.

Anyway, we had exchanged numbers shortly after he moved in, for security reasons, in case one of us was out of town and needed our place checked out for some reason. I never expected him to call, much less so early in the damn morning, but he did. He called and asked if we would clear his apartment just in case, since he had left it unlocked.

He had a small child, a daughter, he had partial custody of and she was supposed to come home with him that night for the weekend so he didn’t want some criminal or pervert ransacking the place and hiding in his apartment. Fair enough. I loaded my .357 (S&W model 586, I love that gun), grabbed my tac-light, told Jon the situation and without hesitation he grabbed for one of my machetes and we made our way downstairs and into the neighbor’s apartment.

It was very, very cluttered, not hoarder levels of clutter but he was well on his way. The first things that stood out to me in the living room when I opened the door, gun drawn, was my flashlight (he had heavy drapes, always pulled shut so there was next to no light in the apartment) illuminating a full-sized Egyptian sarcophagus. Very ornate, very old looking, but much more well-maintained than anything else in the room.

As someone who has more than a passing fondness for history and antiquities who has also worked in film and television for decades – including in the art department of major motion pictures – I could not tell at first glance if it was authentic or merely an insanely expensive and very, very well-made prop. There were some other Egyptian knick-knacks littering the shelves and tabletops along with piles of papers. The two major things I recognized other than the giant fucking sarcophagus were well crafted, almost authentic looking busts of Nefertiti and the only known full-on female ruler to hold the official title of Pharaoh, Hapshetsut.

I was on the phone via headset with him the entire time I cleared the apartment one room at a time, with Jon at my back armed with a machete, and thankfully, nobody was there. It also did not appear that anyone had been there, though with the state of the apartment it was hard to tell. Still, major targets of theft like his large HDTV, stereo system, and other assorted electronics and antiques (yes, I recognized some of the antiques, I like antiques, something I’m told is rare for a heterosexual male but I’ve never been one to concern myself with the opinions of others in such matters. I like what I like.) all seemed to be where they should have been,  

Once the serious business was concluded I had to ask the lingering question, to address the ‘Sarcophagus in the Room’ as it were, the actual sarcophagus. While I was on the phone Jon looked over the sarcophagus, marveling at the fact that it seemed to be genuine, or least a fake of impeccable quality.

Before I could finish my question about where one acquires such a thing on a public school teachers salary he immediately interrupted me asking if it had been damaged or opened in any way. He went from relieved there were no robbers or lurking perverts to frantically worrying about the condition of the ornate, seemingly ancient coffin that took up most of his living room space (and these were not small apartments), this thing was full sized. One minute he was perfectly reasonable and relieved that nobody had broken in, the next he was in a near panic attack state. I asked if I should open it, to make sure nobody was hiding in there ad he yelled ‘NO! That’s fine, thank you for the help, you can go now, just lock up as you leave.”

Despite our curiosity we didn’t open it. I didn’t see any way to do so that would not have left obvious marks that it had been tampered with. It was sealed rather tightly, as if it had not been opened since it was made. Whenever that might have been. Plus, rats were one thing, but an infestation of mummies was an entirely different matter. Who would you even call about such a thing?

”Hello? Exterminators? Yes we seem to have an infestation that needs dealt with as soon as possible. No, not rats, or bugs, or vermin of any kind. Mummies. Yes, mummies, of the Egyptian variety. Hello? Hello?”

So I holstered my revolver and we left, locking up behind us. Jon never holstered the machete, just in case. Jon is a good man to have your back in a potential crisis, be it burglars, gang bangers, drunken college football players, or ancient cursed corpses angered by the living for disturbing their slumber. Satisfied that we had helped our neighbor with his piece of mind, given it was to be his weekend with his daughter, whom he doted upon from all of their interactions we had observed.

Still, our curiosity remained about the contents of the apartment, one particular thing I’m certain you my dear reader can guess. We spent a long, long time wondering if it was authentic, where he got it, and why he was so concerned with it not being opened by anyone under any circumstances.

When we were checking the house, the one room not cluttered with papers, books, and Egyptian bric-a-brac was his daughter’s bedroom, which seemed like a perfectly normal bedroom for a 6-year-old girl. An island of mundane domestic bliss in a sea of serious weirdness. He always struck me as a nice guy, and appeared to be a loving father who cherished every weekend visit he had with his only child.

He broke his lease after living there only 4 months, not long after our discovery of the sarcophagus. When he left he had a huge yard sale and I offered to buy the burial place of some unknown Egyptian King, or a damn, damn good replica, but it was the ONE THING in his apartment he wasn’t selling for any price. The last we saw of it he had it loaded into his truck, the underside padded with at least 6 layers of moving blankets, and gently but firmly strapped down (where the straps connected to the sarcophagus he had additional padding, so the ratchet straps never actually touched it, then he covered the whole thing in several dark tarps until it was impossible to tell what was in the back of the truck. He waved too my roommate and I as he left in haste, last seen heading for parts unknown. He left no forwarding address.

Other than a duffel bag of clothing, a box or two of what I presume were his daughters things and/or family heirlooms, and another duffel bag of his clothing was all he took with him aside from the sarcophagus, He even sold all of his furniture, his television, excellent 5.1 surround sound system, even his bed was sold at a substantial discount. All the furnishings and electronics were brand new, we were home the day the bulk of them were delivered, all still in their original boxes and wrapped in plastic sheeting as if fresh from the factory. We never saw him move the sarcophagus in, which is why it came as such a shock when we were called upon to secure his apartment.

The furnishings and electronics weren’t from some shady rental company, he purchased them outright from several furniture and electronics stores in the area, presumably at full price. Then sold them for what must have been pennies on the dollar, trying to get out as fast as possible. His papers and things that he couldn’t sell or fit into his truck ended up in the trash bins. I know this because Jon and I let our curiosity get the better of us and we opened a few of the bags after he left and found an Egyptian bust that had a crack in it. We kept it. It lived the remainder of the time we were there in the Witch House on top of my Betamax player. Since we couldn’t figure out whom it was a bust of we named him Pharaoh Beta-Maxius, god-protector of fallen media formats.

Our neighbor lived there all told about 4 months of a 12 month lease. We never saw him again and our efforts to locate him to see how he was doing, since he had been a good, if odd, neighbor were in vain. We never found a forwarding address or his name registered at any of the colleges in the state as new faculty. His cell phone was even disconnected. He just vanished.

Eerie. Damned eerie.