TO WAKE THE DEAD

by Richard Laymon

  Maged’s solution took the form of a gnarled old man named Ramo who lived not far from the hut of Kemwese.

  We found him sitting alone in his dark hut. He wore a gray, tattered galabia and a gold turban that had seen far better days. I saw at once that something was amiss about his face. The mouth seemed out of kilter too, long and stretching across the side of his face. This was due, I later discovered, to an old knife wound that had laid open his right cheek and never healed correctly.

  Maged spoke to the man in Arabic, explaining that we had blundered into the tomb of Amara, destroying its sacred seal, and so destroying the magic bonds that had contained the creature. Amara had walked. We wished Ramo to use his powers, as a priest of Osiris, to seal the coffin.

  He asked to see the broken seal of Osiris. Maged, with commendable foresight, had pocketed the golden disk. He removed its pieces from his pocket and presented them to Ramo. The old man fondled them, grinning. His grin was a hideous sight indeed, as it drew back not only his lips but also the ragged edges of his cheek, exposing what remained of his molars.

  He explained that his father had fashioned this very seal, many years ago—a dozen years before Ramo himself had been born. At the time, robbers had plundered Amara’s tomb. They had stripped off her winding clothes, stolen her jewelry, and taken her mummified infant from its resting place at its mother’s side.

  Amara had remained still until the child was taken. Then she had abruptly clutched the nearest robber and killed him. The two survivors, fearing Amara’s vengeance, escaped from the tomb, then came to Ramo’s father. They paid him well, and he fashioned the seal of gold to prevent Amara’s escape from the tomb.

  We offered to pay Ramo twice the amount his father had received, and he agreed to work the gold into a pair of seals, one for each long side of the coffin’s lid. He would bless the seals, according to ancient rite, and their magic would prevent Amara from rising.

  They were finished two days later. Just at sunrise, Maged and I dropped a rope into the pit and descended. We expected this. We flashed our lights among the sprawled corpses and found her lying beneath one of the naked men.

  The sight of it made my flesh crawl. I envisioned all of the bodies stirring in the blackness of the pit, lurching toward the new female in their midst who beckoned them with her open legs.

  We tumbled a man aside.

  I carefully averted my eyes from his privates, afraid of confirming my fears.

  We lifted Amara, and put her inside the coffin. We put the lid in place. Then we affixed the twin seals of Osiris at the seams of the lid, hammering small nails through holes made in the gold for this purpose by Ramo.

  The job finished, we left the pit and covered its entry with the rock, not to return until arrangements had been completed to smuggle Amara home.

  CONCLUSION

  Many years have gone by since my activities in Egypt. My father died long ago, though not before I was able to delight him with the addition of Amara to our Egyptian collection.

  Maged married shortly after coming to live with us. We employed him and his wife as servants until their untimely deaths. Their offspring, Imad, lives with us still.

  In 1929, I married the beautiful Sarah Guthrie. Though we wished for children, Sarah was unable to conceive. We bestowed much of our love on Imad, especially after the tragedy that robbed him of his true parents.

  That incident took place in 1936 when a houseguest named Clive Hargrove opened Amara’s coffin. I had spoken to him over dinner about the strange legend surrounding the mummy. As was my policy, I never spoke of what I had witnessed myself. Maged and I had agreed to carry the secrets of our discovery to our respective graves.

  In the dead of night, Hargrove entered the Collection Room and carefully removed the nails holding the seals in place.

  Sarah and I slept peacefully through the night. In the morning, we discovered Maged and his wife in their bedroom, mutilated and dead. Their baby, Imad, was missing from his nursery.

  I hurried downstairs to the Collection Room, and found Hargrove dead at the foot of Amara’s coffin.

  The lid was resting upright against a wall, where he had apparently left it.

  I found Amara inside the coffin. In the embrace of her withered arms was the unconscious form of the baby, Imad.

  The tragedy affected us deeply. Determined to prevent a reoccurrence, I ordered a steel door be installed to make the Collection Room as secure as a bank vault.

  That was not enough. Vaults could be entered, nails pulled, seals broken. Only with her infant at her side, however, would Amara’s vengeful spirit be still. If I could return the stolen child to her, she would hopefully rest in peace forever.

  I knew that the child had been taken a dozen years before the birth of the old priest, Ramo. Guessing his age to be nearly seventy when we’d met, I calculated that the robbery had taken place during the 1840s.

  With luck, the mummy might have found its way into a museum. Otherwise, it likely disappeared into a private collection, or was destroyed.

  My search led me to London, where I spent weeks in the British Museum, searching for references to infant mummies. There I became overly familiar with the work of one Dr. Thomas Pettigrew.

  “Mummy” Pettigrew, as he was called, astonished London theater audiences with public unwrappings of mummies. He was all the rage. His act went on for twenty years, during which he cut, hacked, and ripped his way through the winding clothes of hundreds of mummies. The morbid business delighted his audiences, for one never knew what treasure or oddity might lurk beneath the crusted bandages.

  Among his subjects were several mummified babies.

  The London Times of March 16, 1843 reported that Pettigrew’s audience had been stunned the previous night by “strange movements” of an infant he was attempting to unwrap. While many suspected Pettigrew of trickery, he claimed that the child “stirred as if alive.” Before his claim could be investigated, he “committed the child to the flames.”

  The child, I am reasonably certain, was the missing son of Amara and the god Set.

  My search was over. I returned home, disappointed. In the years since then, I have taken exceptional care to avoid a repetition of the tragedy that took Imad’s parents. To this date, all has been well.

  Sarah and I grow old, however. One day, we will be gone. I have willed my Egyptian collection to the Charles Ward Museum, which has agreed to house it in a special “Callahan Room.”

  I cannot, however, forget my experience with Amara. Though I intend to leave specific instructions that the seals of the coffin remain intact, I fear that, one day, the hideous crone shall walk the night in search of her stolen child.

  If she should stir from her coffin, Imad (or his descendants) are obligated by the terms of my will to present this memoir to the museum administration. It is my hope that such parties, familiar with the strange ways of the ancients, will believe what I have written, and that my words will help them to understand the nature of the hag.

  Robert A. Callahan

  Greenside Estates

  Burlingdale, California

  April 16, 1968

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Memoirs of Robert Callahan.

  Memoirs? Or nightmares?

  Imad closed the small black notebook that was testament to so much horror and anguish.

  This was the first time he’d read the book even though he knew of its existence. It told him much of the father he never had time to know, and of Robert Callaghan, the kindly man who had adopted him.

  He set the book down on a table. Right now, the urge came upon him to shower in water that was near boiling; to scrub his skin until he bled. Because not only did the memoirs reveal the manner of his parents’ death, it told of how he’d been taken by the mummy to its coffin, and how Robert Callaghan had discovered the infant Imad asleep in the dead arms of Amara.

  He closed his eyes and moaned, the muscles twitching in his face.

  Flashbacks. />
  Memories long repressed… of the creature bending over his crib in the dead of night. The withered face, the empty sockets where its eyes should have been; the wash of red hair tumbling onto him like a gush of blood, falling across his face, smothering him.

  He rocked on the bed, perspiring, nausea rising in the back of his throat. That smell. Pungent spices. And worse, the grim odors of the tomb.

  Amara had reached out and picked him out of his crib. She’d cradled the infant Imad against her dead skin, pressing the baby’s face to her withered breasts. He remembered now. He’d seen the blood of his parents still fresh on the monster’s teeth. It even glued the hair together into thick gore-covered strings that had brushed against Imad’s face.

  The mummy had then taken him to the coffin before daylight had broken.

  Right then, Imad wanted nothing more than to take a full bottle of gin and retire to bed, where he might be able to drown the memories under a torrent of alcohol.

  No. There is important work to be done, he told himself. He must obey Robert Callahan’s instructions to the letter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  In the dark, Ed Lake heard the order.

  “Present yourself.”

  As he lay there on the panel, pressed tight to the Perspex, he maneuvered his erect penis up through the hole into the receiving orifice. It felt warm and snug. Muscles contracted tight around his organ. That delicious friction again… up, down, up, down. There, in the darkness above him, his captor moved, pleasuring herself, filling herself with his manhood.

  Don’t know how long I can keep this up…

  Pun intended, Eddie?

  Ed was being forced to perform every few hours. And—hell—each performance could last hours. All that friction was taking its toll.

  What happens when my strength goes? When I can’t get an erection anymore? They’re gonna gash my neck. I’m gonna die in a rush of blood. Just like Marco.

  Hell…

  The body rocked above him in ecstasy. The Perspex flexed. Gotta to be strong. If it broke…

  Freedom.

  But that stuff was tough. It was made to protect bank cashiers from bullets. Might flex a little. It’d never break. He’d never have it so easy. Might as well accept it, Eddie hoy, you’re going to remain a sex slave for as long as you can keep it up. You’re going to need to poke to survive. Fuck to live. Otherwise…

  Otherwise your nice, soft throat’s for the knife.

  But he couldn’t perform like this forever. One day he’d have an attack of the floppy Joes. Then it’s the big sleep for you, Eddie.

  Don’t call me Eddie.

  The mind chatter gave way to exhausted rambling. Random thoughts flitted through his head as he pushed his loins upward into the receiving body above.

  Didn’t a Turkish princess once keep a baboon for this purpose? She was a nympho. Couldn’t get enough, so she visited a wise woman who advised her to procure a big buck baboon. Baboons have their own harems to service. Baboons could fuck tirelessly from sunup to sundown.

  Nice story.

  But where do I buy a baboon at this time of night?

  Ed, keep your mind on the job. Nearly slipped out then.

  Jeepers-creepers, am I losing the erection? I’m bending inside of her.

  Think sexy thoughts, think sexy thoughts…

  Panic ripped through him. That didn’t help. Didn’t help one bit. If he couldn’t perform, if he disappointed his captor, he was sure he’d lose more than a toe this time.

  He pictured Virginia. Pictured her naked and panting hotly over him. In his mind’s eye she rubbed her breasts in his face. There were thin, white scars around the nipples. That didn’t matter. He imagined they were having great sex. She was moaning. She was crying out his name. Crying louder…

  Then he realized a cry had escaped his captor. This had never happened before. His captor’s orgasms had been confined to a shuddering, a breathlessness.

  This was a full-blooded shout.

  The voice came in a deep booming roar that filled the room.

  “Oh, Jesus… Yes!”

  So loud it sounded like the voice of God. Ed felt as if his skull would burst beneath the avalanche of sound.

  Then it cut dead.

  Silence.

  The body slipped from his cock with a lubricious sucking sound. Then—gone.

  Later the lights came on. When he at last managed to squirm from between the platform and cage roof, he collapsed exhausted to the foam mattress. The hairbrushes, toothbrushes, electric razor, and water bottles hanging from the strings tied to the cage roof swung crazily, making him feel even more light-headed. Unscrewing one of the bottles, he drank deeply. Man, that was good.

  Virginia stared at him through the bars of their respective cages, her eyes were wide with astonishment.

  “That sound she made…” She shook her head, incredulous. “What do you make of that?”

  Ed drank more from the water bottle. The cool liquid felt wonderful. He only wished he could soak his overheated genitals in an ice bath. The relentless friction left his flesh fiery and sensitive. Exquisitely sensitive. To touch himself could be hell one moment, heaven the next. His nerve endings must be raw.

  Taking the water bottle, he sat cross-legged on the mattress.

  “You heard the voice?” Virginia’s green eyes fixed on his.

  “I heard.” He gave a tired shrug. “Couldn’t miss.”

  “Well, what does that tell us?”

  He took a mouthful of water. Rolled it. Swallowed. “Tells us that she’s wearing a mike.”

  “Can’t be wired, so it must be a radio mike.”

  “And when she speaks to us the voice is electronically altered. Made deeper.”

  “Then instantly relayed back through hidden speakers in the room.”

  “I guess.” He let his shoulders sag. “Sweet Jesus. I need to rest for a year and a day.”

  “Lie down,” she told him.

  As he did so, he glanced across at her. She lay on her side. Not bothering now to cover herself; the blanket had slipped down exposing one full breast. Copper hair tumbled deliciously over it. A fine sight. Very fine indeed.

  Virginia, you saved my life today.

  He was going to say the words. Nearly did. Nearly told her that when he’d started to soften during sex he’d thought about her.

  Let’s say she stiffened my resolve, he thought.

  But they needed to filter the facts.

  Virginia spoke. “Let’s recap then.”

  “From the beginning.”

  “Okay, from the beginning. We know we’re being held in cages in a building that’s either well out of town in the boondocks.”

  “Or is soundproofed.”

  “Or both.” She looked around. “The more I look at this place, the more I can believe we’re locked up in an old TV studio.”

  “The back lot that MGM forgot.”

  She gave a wan smile. “Not movie studio. Not big enough.”

  “So an unused TV studio?”

  “A studio of some kind. Maybe even a recording studio.”

  “So, fill in the picture, Virginia. What’s our situation?”

  This was an old routine now. Using clues and guesswork to figure where they were and what was happening to them.

  Virginia continued. “We’re held in some secret location, in a soundproofed room. We’re well fed. We’re kept in relatively comfortable conditions.”

  “A two-star beast house at least.”

  She smiled at the little joke. A beautiful smile A winning smile that warmed his fatigued body. “A beast house en suite.” She nodded at the sawdust bowl.

  “And we can make as good a guess as any that we’re kept here as sex slaves.”

  “Sounds raunchy, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but like any day job, it becomes a dull grind sometimes.”

  “Say that again.”

  “It becomes a dull—”

  “Whoa, figure
of speech, Ed.”

  He grinned. “I wish I was in that cage with you.”

  She grinned back. “I wish you were in this cage with me.”

  “We could keep each other warm.”

  “We’d be stimulating company for each other.” She gave a suddenly shy smile. “What do you think?”

  “I think so too.”

  She wagged her finger in a mock-scolding way. “Back to business, Mr. Ed Lake. What’s our current position?”

  “Lying on concrete in a cage.”

  “You know what I mean… our situation.”

  “Our situation. We know that when the lights go out our captors visit us. They move around unseen in complete darkness.”

  “How?”

  “Because they are wearing some kind of high-tech headgear. Nightscope goggles.”

  “So they see us.”

  “But we don’t see them.”

  “How many?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “How many captors? We figure not more than two. Maybe one.”

  “Hmmm…” She looked thoughtful. “I guess two.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a lot of work for just one. Supplying food, taking away waste.”

  “But not an impossible workload.”

  “No, but then there was Marco and the others.”

  “I see.” He nodded.

  “They were carried here unconscious. Also, the corpses had to be manhandled out of the cages and disposed of.”

  “That would take one mightily powerful individual.”

  “Or two people.”

  He nodded again. “I agree on that point, Virginia. At least two captors, then. But…” He shrugged. “How many do we have sex with?”

  “I think I know.” Her shoulders made a little hopping motion. “Strange what you think about under these blankets, huh?”

  “We’ve got plenty of thinking time, hon.”

  She smiled at the endearment. Then: “I believe there are two captors. We only have sexual contact with one.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She touched the tip of her nose with her finger. “Scent.”