Synopsis: “The Eyes of the Mummy,” a short story by Robert Bloch published in Weird Tales in April 1938, tells the story of a man fascinated by ancient Egypt who embarks on a secret expedition with an archaeologist to plunder the tomb of a priest of the god Sobek. After discovering the mummy, they come across mysterious gems that have replaced the corpse’s eyes. These jewels possess hypnotic and supernatural properties related to ancient Egyptian beliefs about resurrection. What begins as a simple treasure hunt turns into a terrifying experience that challenges the protagonist’s understanding and pits him against dark forces beyond his comprehension, threatening his sanity and his very existence.
The Eyes of the Mummy
By Robert Bloch
(Full story)
Egypt has always fascinated me; Egypt, land of antique and mysterious secrets. I had read of pyramids and kings; dreamed of vast, shadowy empires now dead as the empty eyes of the Sphinx. It was of Egypt that I wrote in later years, for to me its weird faiths and cults made the land an avatar of all strangeness.
Not that I believed in the grotesque legends of olden times; I did not credit the faith in anthropomorphic gods with the heads and attributes of beasts. Still, I sensed behind the myths of Bast, Anubis, Set, and Thoth the allegorical implications of forgotten truths. Tales of beast-men are known the world over, in the racial lore of all climes. The werewolf legend is universal and unchanged since the furtive hintings of Pliny’s days. Therefore to me, with my interest in the supernatural, Egypt provided a key to ancient knowledge.
But I did not believe in the actual existence of such beings or creatures in the days of Egypt’s glory. The most I would admit to myself was that perhaps the legends of those days had come down from much remoter times when primal earth could hold such monstrosities due to evolutionary mutations.
Then, one evening in carnival New Orleans, I encountered a fearful substantiation of my theories. At the home of the eccentric Henricus Vanning I participated in a queer ceremony over the body of a priest of Sebek, the crocodile-headed god. Weildan, the archeologist, had smuggled it into this country, and we examined the mummy despite curse and warning. I was not myself at the time, and to this day I am not sure what occurred, exactly. There was a stranger present, wearing a crocodile mask, and events were precipitated in nightmare-fashion. When I rushed from that house into the streets, Vanning was dead by the priest’s hand—or fangs, set in the mask (if mask it was).
I cannot clarify the statement of the above facts; dare not. I told the story once, then determined to abandon writing of Egypt and its ancient ways for ever.
This resolve I have adhered to, until tonight’s dreadful experience has caused me to reveal what I feel must be told.
Hence this narrative. The preliminary facts are simple; yet they all seem to imply that I am linked to some awful chain of interlocking experiences, fashioned by a grim Egyptian god of Fate. It is as though the Old Ones are jealous of my pryings into their ways, and are luring me onward to a final horror.
For after my New Orleans experience, after my return home with the resolution to abandon research into Egyptian mythology for ever, I was again enmeshed.
Professor Weildan came to call on me. It was he who had smuggled in the mummy of Sebek’s priest which I had seen in New Orleans; he had met me on that inexplicable evening when a jealous god or his emissary had seemed to walk the earth for vengeance. He knew of my interest, and had spoken to me quite seriously of the dangers involved when one pried into the past.
The gnome-like, bearded little man now came and greeted me with understanding eyes. I was reluctant to see him, I own, for his presence brought back memories of the very things I was endeavoring to forget for ever. Despite my attempts to lead the conversation into more wholesome channels, he insisted on speaking of our first meeting. He told me how the death of the recluse Vanning had broken up the little group of occultists that had met over the body of the mummy that evening.
But he, Weildan, had not forsaken his pursuit of the Sebek legend. That, he informed me, was the reason he had taken this trip to see me. None of his former associates would aid him now in the project he had in mind. Perhaps I might be interested.
I flatly refused to have anything more to do with Egyptology. This I told him at once.
Weildan laughed. He understood my reasons for demurring, he said, but I must allow him to explain. This present project of his had nothing to do with sorcery, or mantic arts. It was, as he jovially explained, merely a chance to even the score with the Powers of Darkness, if I was so foolish as to term them such.
He explained. Briefly, he wanted me to go to Egypt with him, on a private expedition of our own. There would be no personal expense involved for me; he needed a young man as an assistant and did not care to trust any professional archeologists who might cause trouble.
His studies had always been directed in recent years toward the legends of the Crocodile Cult, and he had labored steadily in an effort to learn of the secret burial-places of Sebek’s priests. Now, from reputable sources—a native guide in his pay abroad—he had stumbled onto a new hiding-place; a subterranean tomb which held a mummy of a Sebekian votary.
He would not waste words in giving me further details; the whole point of his story was that the mummy could be reached easily, with no need of labor or excavation, and there was absolutely no danger, no silly truck about curses or vengeance. We could therefore go there alone; the two of us, in utter secrecy. And our visit would be profitable. Not only could he secure the mummy without official intervention, but his source of information—on the authenticity of which he would stake his personal reputation—revealed that the mummy was interred with a hoard of sacred jewels. It was a safe, sure, secret opportunity for wealth he was offering me.
I must admit that this sounded attractive. Despite my unpleasant experience in the past, I would risk a great deal for the sake of suitable compensation. And then, too, although I was determined to eschew all dabblings in mysticism, there was a hint of the adventurous in this undertaking which allured me.
Weildan cunningly played upon my feelings; I realize that now. He talked with me for several hours, and returned the next day, until at last I agreed.
We sailed in March, landed in Cairo three weeks later after a brief stopover in London. The excitement of going abroad obscures my memory of personal contact with the professor; I know that he was very unctuous and reassuring at all times, and doing his best to convince me that our little expedition was entirely harmless. He wholly overrode my scruples as to the dishonesty of tomb-looting; attended to our visas, and fabricated some trumped-up tale to allow the officials to pass us through to the interior.
From Cairo we went by rail to Khartoum. It was there that Professor Weildan planned to meet his “source of information”—the native guide, who was now admittedly a spy in the archeologist’s employ.
This revelation did not bother me nearly as much as it might have if it occurred midst more prosaic settings. The desert atmosphere seemed a fitting background for intrigue and conspiracy, and for the first time I understood the psychology of the wanderer and the adventurer.
It was thrilling to prowl through twisted streets of the Arab quarter on the evening we visited the spy’s hovel. Weildan and I entered a dark, noisome courtyard and were admitted to a dim apartment by a tall, hawk-nosed Bedouin. The man greeted the professor warmly. Money changed hands. Then the Arab and my companion retired to an inner chamber. I heard the low whisper of their voices—Weildan’s excited, questioning tones mingling with the guttural accented English of the native. I sat in the gloom and waited. The voices rose, as though in altercation. It seemed as though Weildan were attempting to placate or reassure, while the guide’s voice assumed a note of warning and hesitant fear. Anger entered, as Weildan made an effort to shout down his companion.
Then I heard footsteps. The door to the inner chamber opened, and the native appeared on the threshold. His face seemed to hold a look of entreaty as he stared at me, and from his lips poured an incoherent babble, as though in his excited efforts to convey his warning to me he had relapsed into familiar Arabic speech. For warning me he was; that was unmistakable.
A second he stood there, and then Weildan’s hand fell on his shoulder, wheeling him around. The door slammed shut as the Arab’s voice rose high, almost to a scream. Weildan shouted something unintelligible; there was the sound of a scuffle, a muffled report, then silence.
Several minutes elapsed before the door opened and Weildan appeared, mopping his brow. His eyes avoided mine.
“Fellow kicked up a row about payments,” he explained, speaking to the floor. “Got the information, though. Then he came out here to ask you for money. I had to put him out the back entrance, finally. Fired a shot to scare him off; these natives are so excitable.”
I said nothing as we left the place, nor did I comment on the hurried furtiveness with which Weildan hastened our way through the black streets.
Nor did I appear to notice when he wiped his hands on his handkerchief and hastily thrust the cloth back into his pocket.
It might have embarrassed him to explain the presence of those red stains. . . .
I should have suspected then, should have abandoned the project at once. But I could not know, when Weildan proposed a ride into the desert the following morning, that our destination was to be the tomb.
It was so casually arranged. Two horses, bearing a light lunch in the saddle-bags; a small tent “against the midday heat” Weildan said—and we cantered off, alone. No more fuss or preparation about it than if we were planning a picnic. Our hotel rooms were still engaged, and not a word was said to anyone.
We rode out of the gates into the calm, unrippled sands that stretched beneath a sky of bucolic blue. For an hour or so we jogged on through serene, if searing, sunlight. Weildan’s manner was preoccupied, he continually scanned the monotonous horizon as though seeking some expected landmark; but there was nothing in his bearing to indicate his full intention.
We were almost upon the stones before I saw them; a great cluster of white boulders outcropping from the sandy sides of a little hillock. Their form seemed to indicate that the visible rocks formed an infinitesimal fragment of the stones concealed by the shifting sands; though there was nothing in the least unusual about their size, contour, or formation. They rested casually enough in the hillside, no differently than a dozen other small clusters we had previously passed.
Weildan said nothing beyond suggesting that we dismount, pitch the small tent, and lunch. He and I pegged in the stakes, lugged a few small, flat stones inside to serve as table and chairs; placing our pack-blankets as padding for the latter.
Then, as we ate, Weildan exploded his bombshell. The rocks before our tent, he averred, concealed the entrance to the tomb. Sand and wind and desert dust had done their work well, hidden the sanctuary from interlopers. His native accomplice, led by hints and rumors, had uncovered the spot in ways he did not seem anxious to mention.
But the tomb was there. Certain manuscripts and screeds bore testimony to the fact it would be unguarded. All we need do would be to roll away the few boulders blocking the entrance and descend. Once again he earnestly emphasized the fact that there would be no danger to me.
I played the fool no longer. I questioned him closely. Why would a priest of Sebek be buried in such a lonely spot?
Because, Weildan affirmed, he and his retinue were probably fleeing south at the time of his death. Perhaps he had been expelled from his temple by a new Pharaoh; then, too, the priests were magic-workers and sorcerers in latter days, and often persecuted or driven out of the cities by irate citizenry. Fleeing, he had died and been interred here.
That, Weildan further explained, was the reason for the scarcity of such mummies. Ordinarily, the perverted cult of Sebek buried its priests only under the secret vaults of its city temples. These shrines had all been long destroyed. Therefore, it was only in rare circumstances like this that an expelled priest was laid away in some obscure spot where his mummy might still be found.
“But the jewels?” I persisted.
The priests were rich. A fleeing wizard would carry his wealth. And at death it would naturally be buried with him. It was a peculiarity of certain renegade sorcerous priests to be mummified with vital organs intact—they had some superstition about earthly resurrection. That was why the mummy would prove an unusual find. Probably the chamber was just a stone-walled hollow housing the mummy-case; there would be no time to invoke or conjure any curses or other outlandish abracadabra such as I seemed to fear. We could enter freely, and secure the spoils. In the following of such a priest there surely were several expert temple craftsmen who would embalm the body properly; it needed skill to do a good job without removing the vital organs, and religious significance made this final operation imperative. Therefore we need not worry about finding the mummy in good condition.
Weildan was very glib. Too glib. He explained how easily we would smuggle the mummy-case wrapped in our tent-folds; how he would arrange to smuggle both it and the jewels out of the country with the help of a native exporting firm.
He pooh-poohed each objection that I stated; and knowing that whatever his personal character as a man might be he was still a recognized archeologist, I was forced to concede his authority.
There was only one point which vaguely troubled me—his casual reference to some superstition concerning earthly resurrection. The burial of a mummy with organs intact sounded strange. Knowing what I did about the activities of the priests in connection with goety and sorcerous rituals, I was leery of even the faintest possibility of mishap.
Still, he persuaded me at the last, and following lunch we left the tent. We found the boulders no great hindrance. They had been placed artfully, but we discovered their appearance of being firmly imbedded in rock to be deceptive. A few heavings and clearing away of minor debris enabled us to remove four great stones which formed a block before a black opening which slanted down into the earth.
We had found the tomb!
With the realization, with the sight of that gaping, gloomy pit before me, old horrors rose to mock and grin. I remembered all of the dark, perverted faith of Sebek; the minglings of myth, fable, and grimacing reality which should not be.
I thought of underground rites in temples now given to dust; of posturing worship before great idols of gold—manshaped figures bearing the heads of crocodiles. I recalled the tales of darker parallel worships, bearing the same relationship as Satanism now does to Christianity; of priests who invoked animal-headed gods as demons rather than as benignant deities. Sebek was such a dual god, and his priests had given him blood to drink. In some temples there were vaults, and in these vaults were eidolons of the god shaped as a Golden Crocodile. The beast had hinged and barbed jaws, into which maidens were flung. Then the maw was closed, and ivory fangs rended the sacrifice so that blood might trickle down the golden throat and the god be appeased. Strange powers were conferred by these offerings, evil boons granted the priests who thus sated beast-like lusts. It was small wonder that such men were driven from their temples, and that those sanctuaries of sin had been destroyed.
Such a priest had fled here, and died. Now he rested beneath, protected by the wrath of his ancient patron. This was my thought, and it did not comfort me.
Nor was I heartened by the noxious vaporing which now poured out from the opening in the rocks. It was not the reek of decay, but the almost palpable odor of unbelievable antiquity. A musty fetor, choking and biting, welled forth and coiled in strangling gusts about our throats.
Weildan bound a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and I followed suit.
His pocket flashlight flicked on, and he led the way. His reassuring smile was drowned in the gloom as he descended the sloping rock floor which led into the interior passageway.
I followed. Let him be the first; should there be any falling rock traps, any devices of protection to assail interlopers, he would pay the penalty for temerity, not I. Besides, I could glance back at the reassuring spot of blue limned by the rocky opening.
But not for long. The way turned, wound as it descended. Soon we walked in shadows that clustered about the faint torchbeam which alone broke the nighted dimness of the tomb.
Weildan had been correct in his surmise; the place was merely a long rocky cavern leading to a hastily-burrowed inner room. It was there that we found the slabs covering the mummy-case. His face shone with triumph as he turned to me and pointed excitedly.
It was easy—much too easy, I realize now. But we suspected nothing. Even I was beginning to lose my initial qualms. After all, this was proving to be a very prosaic business; the only unnerving element was the gloom—and one would encounter such in any ordinary mining-shaft.
I lost all fear, finally. Weildan and I tilted the rock slabs to the floor, stared at the handsome mummy-case beneath. We eased it out and stood it against the wall. Eagerly the professor bent to examine the opening in the rocks which had held the sarcophagus. It was empty.
“Strange!” he muttered. “No jewels! Must be in the case.”
We laid the heavy wooden covering across the rocks. Then the professor went to work. He proceeded slowly, carefully, breaking the seals, the outer waxing. The design on the mummy-case was very elaborate, inlaid with gold leaf and silver patterns which highlighted the bronze patina of the painted face. There were many minute inscriptions and hieroglyphs which the archeologist did not attempt to begin deciphering.
“That can wait,” he said. “We must see what lies within.”
It was some time before he succeeded in removing the first covering. Several hours must have elapsed, so delicately and carefully did he proceed. The torch was beginning to lose its power; the battery ran low.
The second layer was a smaller replica of the first, save that its pictured face was more exact as to detail. It seemed to be an attempt to duplicate conscientiously the true features of the priest within.
“Made in the temple,” Weildan explained. “It was carried on the flight.”
We stooped over, studying the countenance in the failing light. Abruptly, yet simultaneously, we made a strange discovery. The pictured face was eyeless!
“Blind,” I commented.
Weildan nodded, then stared more closely. “No,” he said. “The priest was not blind, if this portraiture is correct. His eyes were plucked out!”
I stared into torn sockets which confirmed this gruesome truth.
Weildan pointed excitedly to a row of hieroglyphic figures which ornamented the side of the case. They showed the priest in the throes of death upon a couch. Two slaves with pincers hovered over him.
A second scene showed the slaves tearing his eyes from his head. In a third, the slaves were depicted in the act of inserting some shining objects into the now empty sockets. The rest of the series were scenes or funeral ceremonies, with an ominous crocodile-headed figure in the background—the god Sebek.
“Extraordinary,” was Weildan’s comment. “Do you understand the implication of those pictures? They were made before the priest died. They show that he intended to have his eyes removed before death, and those objects inserted in their place. Why would he willingly subject himself to such torture? What are those shining things?”
“The answer must be within,” I answered.
Without a word, Weildan fell to work. The second covering was removed. The torch was flickering as it died. The third covering confronted us. In almost absolute blackness the professor worked, fingers moving deftly with knife and pryer as he broke the final seals. In the yellow half-light the lid swung up, open.
We saw the mummy.
A wave of vapor rose out of the case—a terrific odor of spice and gases which penetrated the handkerchiefs bound round nose and throat. The preservative power of those gaseous emanations was evidently enormous, for the mummy was not wrapped or shrouded. A naked, shriveled brown body lay before us, in a surprising state of preservation. But this we saw for only an instant. After that, we riveted our attention elsewhere—upon the eyes, or the place where they had been.
Two great yellow disks burned up at us through the darkness. Not diamonds or sapphires or opals were they, or any known stone; their enormous size precluded any thought of inclusion in a common category. They were not cut or faceted, yet they blinded with their brightness—a fierce flashing stabbed our retinas like naked fire.
These were the jewels we sought—and they had been worth seeking. I stooped to remove them, but Weildan’s voice restrained me.
“Don’t,” he warned. “We’ll get them later, without harming the mummy.”
I heard his voice as though from afar. I was not conscious of again standing erect. Instead I remained stooped over those flaming stones. I stared at them.
They seemed to be growing into two yellow moons. It fascinated me to watch them—all my senses seemed to focus on their beauty. And they in turn focused their fire on me, bathing my brain in heat that soothed and numbed without scorching pain. My head was on fire.
I could not look away, but I did not wish to. These jewels were fascinating.
Dimly came Weildan’s voice. I half felt him tugging at my shoulder.
“Don’t look.” His voice was absurd in its excited tones. “They aren’t—natural stones. Gifts of the gods—that’s why the priest had them replaced for eyes as he died. They’re hypnotic . . . that theory of resurrection. . . .”
I half realized that I brushed the man off. But those jewels commanded my senses, compelled my surrender. Hypnotic? Of course they were—I could feel that warm yellow fire flooding my blood, pulsing at my temples, stealing toward my brain. The torch was out now, I knew, and yet the whole chamber was bathed in flashing yellow radiance from those dazzling eyes. Yellow radiance? No—a glowing red; a bright scarlet luminance in which I read a message.
The jewels were thinking! They had mind, or rather, a will—a will that sucked my senses away even as it flooded over me—a will that made me forget body and brain alike in an effort to lose myself in the red ecstasy of their burning beauty. I wanted to drown in the fire; it was leading me out of myself, so that I felt as though I were rushing toward the jewels—into them—into something else—
And then I was free. Free, and blind in darkness. With a start I realized that I must have fainted. At least I had fallen down, for I was now lying on my back against the stone floor of the cavern. Against stone? No—against wood.
That was strange. I could feel wood. The mummy lay in wood. I could not see. The mummy was blind.
I felt my dry, scaly, leprously peeling skin.
My mouth opened. A voice—a dust-choked voice that was my own but not my own—a voice that came from death shrieked, “Good God! I’m in the mummy’s body!”
I heard a gasp, the sound of a falling shape striking the rocky floor. Weildan.
But what was that other rustling sound? What wore my shape?
That damned priest, enduring torture so that his dying eyes might hold hypnotic jewels god-given for the hope of eternal resurrection; buried with easy access to the tomb! Jeweled eyes had hypnotized me, we had changed forms, and now he walked.
The supreme ecstasy of horror was all that saved me. I raised myself blindly on shriveled limbs, and rotting arms clawed madly at my forehead, seeking what I knew must rest there. My dead fingers tore the jewels from my eyes.
Then I fainted.
The awakening was dreadful, for I knew not what I might find. I was afraid to be conscious of myself—of my body. But warm flesh housed my soul again, and my eyes peered through yellowed blackness. The mummy lay in its case, and it was hideous to note the empty eye-sockets staring up; the dreadful confirmation afforded by the changed positions of its scabrous limbs.
Weildan rested where he had fallen, face empurpled in death. The shock had done it, no doubt.
Near him were the sources of the yellow luminance—the evil, flaring fire of the twin jewels.
That was what saved me; tearing those monstrous instruments of transference from my temples. Without the thought of the mummy-mind behind them they evidently did not retain their permanent power. I shuddered to think of such a transference in open air, where the mummy body would immediately crumble into decay without being able to remove the jewels. Then would the soul of the priest of Sebek indeed arise to walk the earth, and resurrection be accomplished. It was a terrible thought.
I scooped up the jewels hastily and bound them into my handkerchief. Then I left, leaving Weildan and the mummy as they lay; groping my way to the surface with the aid of illumination afforded me by matches.
It was very good to see the nighted skies of Egypt, for dusk had fallen by this time.
When I saw this clean dark, the full nightmare force of my recent experience in the evil blackness of that tomb struck me anew, and I shrieked wildly as I ran across the sand toward the little tent that stood before the opening.
There was whisky in the saddle-packs; I brought it out, and thanked heaven for the oil lamp I uncovered. I must have been delirious for a while, I fancy. I put a mirror up on the tent wall, and stared into it for a full three minutes to reassure myself as to identity. Then I brought out the portable typewriter and set it up on the table slab.
It was only then that I realized my subconscious intention to set down the truth. For awhile I debated with myself—but sleep was impossible that evening, nor did I intend to return across the desert by night. At last, some elements of composure returned.
I typed this screed.
Now, then, the tale is told. I have returned to my tent to type these lines, and tomorrow I shall leave Egypt for ever behind me—leave that tomb, after sealing it again so that no one shall ever find the accursed entrance to those subterranean halls of horror.
As I write, I am grateful for the light which drives away the memory of noisome darkness and shadowed sound; grateful, too, for the mirror’s reassuring image that erases the thought of that terrifying moment when the jeweled eyes of Sebek’s priest stared out at me and I changed. Thank God I clawed them out in time!
I have a theory about those jewels—they were a definite trap. It is ghastly to think of the hypnosis of a dying brain three thousand years ago; hypnosis willing the urge to live as the suffering priest’s eyes were torn out and the jewels placed in the sockets. Then the mind held but one thought—to live, and usurp flesh again. The dying thought, transmitted and held by the jewels, was retained by them through the centuries until the eyes of a discoverer would meet them. Then the thought would flash out, from the dead, rotted brain to the living jewels—the jewels that hypnotized the gazer and forced him into that terrible exchange of personality. The dead priest would assume man’s form, and the man’s consciousness be forced into the mummy’s body. A demoniacally clever scheme—and to think that I came near to being that man!
I have the jewels; must examine them. Perhaps the museum authorities at Cairo can classify them; at any rate they’re valuable enough. But Weildan’s dead; I must never speak of the tomb—how can I explain the matter? Those two stones are so curious that they are bound to cause comment. There is something extraordinary about them, though poor Weildan’s tale of the god bestowing them is too utterly preposterous. Still, that color change is most unusual; and the life, the hypnotic glow within them!
I have just made a startling discovery. I unwrapped the gems from my handkerchief just now and looked at them. They seem to be still alive!
Their glow is unchanged—they shine as luminously here under the electric torch as they did in the darkness; as they did in the ruined sockets of that shriveled mummy. Yellow they are, and looking at them I receive that same intuitive prescience of inner, alien life. Yellow? No—now they are reddening—coming to a point. I should not look; it’s too reminiscent of that other time. But they are, they must be, hypnotic.
Deep red now, flaming furiously. Watching them I feel warmed, bathed in fire that does not burn so much as it caresses. I don’t mind now; it’s a pleasant sensation. No need to look away.
No need—unless . . . Do those jewels retain their power even when they are not in the sockets of the mummy’s eyes?
I feel it again—they must—I don’t want to go back into the body of the mummy—I cannot remove the stones and return to my own form now—removing them imprisoned the thought in the jewels.
I must look away. I can type, I can think—but those eyes before me, they swell and grow . . . look away.
I cannot! Redder—redder—I must fight them, keep from going under. Red thought now; I feel nothing—must fight. . . .
I can look away now. I’ve beaten the jewels. I’m all right.
I can look away—but I cannot see. I’ve gone blind! Blind—the jewels are gone from the sockets—the mummy is blind.
What has happened to me? I am sitting in the dark, typing blind. Blind, like the mummy! I feel as though something has happened; it’s strange. My body seems lighter.
I know now.
I’m in the body of the mummy. I know it. The jewels—the thought they held—and now, what is rising to walk from that open tomb?
It is walking into the world of men. It will wear my body, and it will seek blood and prey for sacrifice in its rejoicing at resurrection.
And I am blind. Blind—and crumbling!
The air—it’s causing disintegration. Vital organs intact, Weildan said, but I cannot breathe. I can’t see. Must type—warn. Whoever sees this must know the truth. Warn.
Body going fast. Can’t rise now. Cursed Egyptian magic. Those jewels! Someone must kill thing from the tomb.
Fingers—so hard to strike keys. Don’t work properly. Air getting them. Brittle. Blind fumble. Slower. Must warn. Hard to pull carriage back.
Can’t strike higher case letters anymore, can’t capitalize, fingers going fast, crumbling away in air. in mummy now no air. crumbling to bits. dust fingers going must warn against thing magic sebek fingers grope stumps almost gone hard to strike.
damned sebek sebek sebek mind all dust sebek sebe seb seb seb se s sssssss s s s. . . .
THE END
