“Widdle baby needs his nappie.” Declan gave a contemptuous wave and headed off to retrieve the second crate.
Marge placed a hand on Pasquale’s knee. “You gonna be okay, Pask?”
“This here’s more than I bargained for,” he finally responded. “Why’d you talk me into this?”
“Because. You needed the cash. You been dealt a bad hand lately.”
He peered into her mismatched peepers. “Could be worse.” And he smiled. “Forget the paycheck. Let’s get outta here while’s we still can.” He added in a whisper, “I’m worried about you, Marjorie.”
Marge turned red (a slight improvement) before looking away. Strange how things turned out. No one had ever worried about her in the past. But on that night of all nights, in that place of all places, someone finally said the thing Marge had always wanted to hear: I’m worried about you. “I’m worried about you, Marjorie,” to be precise. If you’re bothering to quote someone, please get it right.
Marge backed away, fumbling past the antique furnishings. “I, uh, better go with him. If we ever wanna see the other half of that moola, ya know?” She scooted into the passageway, melting into the shadows.
Pasquale remained in the music room alone. Alone and upset. He should not have said what he’d said. He was there on business, and Marge was his partner. He just needed some time alone to think. Oh, but he was not alone.
A chilled air seemed to penetrate the enclosed chamber, moving with purpose throughout the music room. Pasquale lifted his head and watched as an indentation sunk into the cushion of the piano bench, as if an invisible someone had just sat down. And then, before his startled eyes, the piano keys began to move, accompanied by the foot pedals.
Pasquale had been joined by Gennie’s friend.
Declan and Marge rolled the second crate into the Nile Room, where the librarian was waiting.
As the sobriquet suggested, the room contained priceless treasures from an ancient world—pottery, gems, and scrolls written on papyrus—handsomely displayed in a museum-quality setting. But curiously enough, there was no mummy. Not yet, foolish reader, but if the dead can wait, then so can you…. A large rectangular display case stood empty. Perhaps the occupant was…occupied.
“Where is Master Pasquale?” inquired the librarian. “Has he departed…prematurely?”
Before Marge could answer, the rumble of stampeding footsteps shook the room. Something was fast approaching from the passageway. Declan raised his fists, ready to deal with it.
A figure flew in through the passage, ending up in Declan’s arms. It was Pasquale, huffing and puffing, having left the music room in a hurry. “What’s with you?” Declan demanded.
“I, um, just wanted to make sure you guys was okay,” Pasquale said, looking at Marge.
“Yeah, sure we’re okay. Look around!” Declan gestured about the treasure-filled chamber. “I’d say very okay!”
The librarian gave Pasquale a respectful nod. “I’m delighted you’ve chosen to rejoin us. Our tales demand to be heard.”
“No more of your tales!” Declan snapped. “Unless they got gold in ’em.”
“They do,” replied the librarian, handing Declan the crowbar.
Pasquale joined Declan and Marge, and together they pried a wood-slatted cover from the crate and carelessly tossed it to the side. In the same moment, a dozen or more large lavender insects burst forth, crawling across their hands, nibbling at their fingers. A high-pitched squeal sent them scattering into hiding places throughout the room. It wasn’t Declan and it wasn’t Marge. And it certainly wasn’t me! It was Pasquale, screaming out of control. Declan offered to smack him out of it, but Marge soothed him with a hug. “It’s okay, kid. They’re gone.”
“Sorry about that,” he managed to say with a sniffle. “I ain’t big on roaches.”
“Scarab beetles,” said the librarian, politely correcting him. “Revered by the ancient Egyptians in days gone by.” And we’re not talking your parents’ old days. We’re talking thousands-of-years-ago old days.
The librarian glided backward before addressing the trio. “If you will excuse me,” he began, “I shall return momentarily.” And with that, Amicus Arcane disappeared into the shadows.
Declan’s mind was still on the scarabs. “Did you see those suckers?” Declan said, still in awe. “They was as big as my fist!”
“But not as big as that!” added Marge. She was staring wide-eyed into the crate, a bright orange hue reflected on her face. The others leaned in to see. A golden sarcophagus, the ancient burial coffin of a prince, was resting peacefully within, molded in the likeness of a pharaoh.
The threesome slowly lifted the sarcophagus out of the crate and placed it in its display case. It was heavier than it looked, and it looked pretty heavy. Pasquale and Marge stood, huffing and puffing, staring in awe at the ancient sarcophagus. Declan, on the other hand, looked the coffin up and down as a sinister smile moved across his lips
“It’s a mummy case!” shouted Pasquale.
Declan rubbed his hands together. “With rubies for eyes! Don’t mind if I help me-self to some overtime.” Declan looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then lifted the crowbar and quickly scooped out the eyes. Marge and Pasquale were mortified. As much as they needed the money, the sarcophagus was a historical work of art.
“That is most unwise, Master Declan.” The librarian had returned and was standing by a small tray, brewing up a concoction in a petite gold kettle.
“How did you—” Declan began before changing his query. “What’s unwise, skinny?”
“The eyes, Master Declan. It would behoove you to return them to the sarcophagus. Immediately.”
“Why? They ain’t doin’ nobody any good in here.”
“Those who steal from the ancients do so at their own peril,” the librarian stated.
“Wh-what is that?” asked Pasquale nervously. “Some kind of curse?”
“I ain’t big on curses, ’cept for the ones I say out loud,” replied Declan, and he laughed—so hard, in fact, that he ended up coughing, thinking he was funnier than he actually was.
“The colonel did not believe in curses, either.”
“Who’s the colonel?” asked Pasquale.
“That would be Colonel Tusk.” As soon as the librarian said the name, a scream-like whistle bellowed throughout the room. The threesome turned and saw steam rising from the kettle. The librarian lifted the handle and poured hot water into a cup through an ornate tea ball. At once, Declan recognized the lofty aroma.
“Is that…?”
The librarian nodded. “Tusk’s Tasty Tanis Tea.”
Declan was instantly agitated. “Some moron told me they don’t make it no more! When I get me hands on that guy…”
“That’s right,” said the librarian, “kill the messenger. Or don’t kill the messenger. I never can get that right. The point is he was telling the truth. Tusk’s Tanis is no longer available to those in the pink.”
“Then how’d you get it?”
“We here at the mansion have…connections.”
Declan no longer cared about the how. He reached for the cup, for a sip of the tea he’d been dreaming about for five long years. But the librarian moved past him. “This brew is not for you.” He moved past Marge, too. “Or you.” He moved past Pasquale, as well. “Or you.” Amicus stopped by the head of the sarcophagus, where he knocked three times with his free hand. “It’s teatime!”
The threesome watched, gobsmacked, as…
The lid creeeeeeeeeaked open and a hand wrapped in moldy linen reached out for the cup, looping a bony finger around the handle.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” (Declan, of course.)
The lid slammed down, and from within the sarcophagus, there emerged an inhuman sluuuuurp. The librarian closed his eyes in wistful remembrance. “Ah, yes. The prince always did enjoy a cup of the old chai.” He reached for volume three. And with the threesome staring in suspended silence, Amic
us Arcane began a tale of ancient curses in faraway lands…and a long-dead prince with a hankering for tea.
This is your second warning.
They are closer still.
You cannot see them.
You cannot hear them.
But they can see and hear you.
And not even the great sands of time can stop them.
You’ve been warned….
Do you ever wonder why they took Tusk’s Tasty Tanis Tea off the market? For a time, it was the best-selling tea in the country, if not the world—a national obsession, like Hula-Hoops and Pet Rocks and zombies.
You remember drinking it, don’t you? Sure you do. You tried it. You liked it. It came in three fabulous flavors: Original Blend, Earl Grey, and Bountiful Boysenberry. Then there were the TV commercials. The unforgettable jingle you couldn’t get out of your head. The constant pop-up ads. The billboards plastered all over town, at train stations and on buses, featuring the product’s unwitting mascot: an Egyptian mummy—dead for 3,500 years!—sitting upright in its sarcophagus and sipping a cup of tea.
And you might have inquired, What in the world do Egyptian mummies have to do with tea? A solid question. And one you might have asked before you sent away for that Tanis Tea Mummy plush toy you kept on your shelf…next to the Pet Rock. Still have it?
Pity. It’s worth a fortune.
According to the packaging, Tusk’s Tasty Tanis Tea was derived from the ancient tanis plant, thought to be extinct until an expedition uncovered a remarkably virile specimen under the sands of Egypt. The ancient Egyptians revered their beloved tanis plant for one simple reason: they believed that the tanis plant had the power to awaken the dead. Some of us are already up….
The Egyptians also believed that death was only the beginning, that our world was merely a stopover and that our spirits live on. And how right they were. The great pyramids were erected as tributes to the deceased. Their tombs were burial sites, intended to remain concealed for all eternity—very much like the burial sites of today. You wouldn’t want some stranger digging up your favorite uncle, now, would you? It would be downright rude.
Not to mention exhausting.
As a deterrent, curses were often inscribed on the burial chamber walls, warning of a gruesome, horrible, unimaginable fate that would befall any intruder. What’s the modern equivalent?
KEEP OUT!
But this being the twenty-first century, the belief in ancient curses—gruesome, horrible, unimaginable, or otherwise—has long since perished under the unmerciful sands of time. And this brings us back to Tusk’s Tasty Tanis Tea….
It was seven seasons ago when Colonel Bartholomew Tusk, the renowned exporter of world goods, led an expedition to the Valley of the Kings, Egypt, in hopes of uncovering some rare finds. He would not be the first to pillage an ancient land for profit, nor would he be the last. Had Tusk brushed up on his history, he would have known about the real-life fate visited upon the King Tut expedition of 1922, and the mysterious deaths that followed. But his interests were in the present, in the treasures he hoped awaited his party on the other side of that burial chamber wall.
The colonel centered his lantern, shining light on a series of hieroglyphs—the alphabet of the ancients, of which he had no knowledge—chiseled into the limestone. He motioned for his native foreman to interpret. “Any idea what this says?”
The foreman placed his finger under the symbols, moving left to right, then right to left. Hieroglyphs can be read in both directions. “From the seal, it would appear we have uncovered a royal tomb.”
This pleased the colonel. “Excellent. Royalty usually means money. Go on.”
The foreman continued. “The occupant died under mysterious circumstances. Possibly by assassination. He was…Prince Amenmose the Magnificent, betrothed to Princess Hatshepsut the Alluring; half brother of the boy prince Seth the Simple.”
The foreman took a step back, and the colonel saw him shudder. An odd reaction. The tomb was anything but chilly. “There is a curse,” explained the foreman. “A most terrible curse.”
Colonel Tusk tsk-tsked the idea. “Curses generally are. Terrible, that is. That’s what makes them curses.” He pointed to one of the dig workers holding a pickax. “You, there! The chap in the back. Break it down!” The worker shook his head, muttering a response in Arabic. The colonel looked to his foreman. “What’s he going on about?”
“He says hieroglyphs are a work of art. That the wall is irreplaceable.”
“Really?” The colonel adjusted his glasses, taking a closer look. “Looks like a child’s finger painting to me. I’ve seen better art in toilet stalls.” The worker made another remark. “What’s he on about now?”
The foreman shook his head. “I would rather not say.”
“If you value your paycheck, you’ll say.”
That made things easier. “He said you are a fool, Colonel Tusk. An ignorant fool.”
“Am I, now? We’ll see about that. Read on!”
With the native workers bunched together like scared children, the foreman proceeded to interpret a warning from the ancient past. “‘Beware! Go back! Madness and death await those who disturb the tomb of Prince Amenmose.’” He turned for the colonel’s reaction.
“Oh, hogwash! There are no curses. And if there were, I’d wager three thousand–plus years has taken the hooey out of this one.” The colonel grabbed a pickax from one of the frightened workers and raised it, ready to strike. But a stranger’s voice stopped him mid-swing.
“Curses exist for all eternity.”
The colonel turned from the wall, readjusting his glasses. “Who said that? Come forward!”
A tall, dark stranger with a slender physique, wearing a black suit and a red fez, approached from the far end of the passage, affording Colonel Tusk a respectful bow. “My name is Bahgal, high priest of the city of Karnack. I beseech you, Colonel Tusk, stop what you are doing at once!”
“Are you with the government?”
“No. I work for”—the high priest hesitated—“a private concern.”
“Well, then we’ve nothing more to discuss.”
The colonel lifted the pickax again with one last comment: “We have a saying in the expedition business. The bigger the curse, the bigger the treasure.” Thwug! He buried the pickax in the limestone—in the timeless work of art. Thwug! Thwug! Thwug! The workers, the foreman, the high priest all watched with their hearts in their mouths as the colonel pounded away—Thwug! Thwug! Thwug!—again and again, with flagrant disregard for their history. And their curses.
Within minutes, the wall was no longer a wall. In its place stood the circular entrance to a mummy’s tomb.
Colonel Tusk was the first to enter the ancient burial chamber of Prince Amenmose. It was a short walk through a secret passage. Ancient tombs had a lot of secret passages. Just like a certain mansion I know. Heh. Flashlights and lanterns panned to and fro, barely penetrating the ancient soot that had remained undisturbed for eons. The colonel caught glimpses of the mummy’s personal effects in the light of his lantern: beads, amulets, knives, arrows. And he wanted to see more. “Lights, please.”
The foreman had just set up a spotlight on a tripod. He threw a switch, illuminating the chamber. The workers gasped.
The mummy’s tomb was an architectural masterpiece of the ancient world, perfectly preserved, with great stone columns towering above their heads like California redwoods. On a stone platform in the center, a golden sarcophagus (yes, our golden sarcophagus) had been resting untouched for over three thousand years.
The colonel approached, barely able to contain his excitement. He had to put his hands on it, to know the sarcophagus was real.
“Do not touch it!” shouted Bahgal. “It is the mummy’s coffin. The prince is to be revered, not ridiculed.”
“You’re becoming a royal pain. Who’s ridiculing? I’m merely admiring the old boy’s bedroom set.” Colonel Tusk slid his palm across the golden surface and a shock pu
lsed through his body. He yanked his hand away, blowing on his fingertips. “Strange. I felt something. Like a surge of electricity.”
“Colonel, come quickly!” The foreman was calling out from the opposite side of the chamber.
The colonel made his way across, with Bahgal in tow. “What did you find?”
The foreman pointed to a sealed entrance that led to an antechamber. It, too, was covered with hieroglyphs. The colonel promptly asked, “Well, what’s the story on that?”
This time, Bahgal did the interpreting, reading the ancient warnings aloud. “‘Within this room rests the forbidden tanis leaf, whose power can awaken the dead. Those who enter do so at their own peril.’”
The colonel rolled his eyes. “Another curse, eh? This tomb’s getting old hat.” He ordered the seal removed at once.
Seconds later, Tusk and his team were aiming their flashlights into an antechamber. It was one of several silos, stuffed to the brim with dried leaves. The colonel reached inside and collected a handful. “They don’t appear to be very menacing. They look like tea leaves.” He took a whiff. “Mmmmm. Delightful. Tanis, anyone?”
Bahgal clutched the colonel’s arm. “Colonel Tusk, hear my words. Their purpose was to resurrect the dead. You must leave this place. Leave it exactly as you found it or suffer the consequences!”
“Thanks for the advice, old bean.”
You can guess the next bit. This isn’t volume one, after all. Colonel Tusk did not leave that place. He couldn’t leave. He’d invested too much time, too much money. He instructed his crew: “I want everything packed and ready to fly in seventy-two hours. Including the old boy in the golden bed. While I’m waiting, I could do with a cup of tea.”
“No, you mustn’t!” the high priest shouted.
“Oh, I must.”
The colonel wasn’t worried about resurrecting the dead. His only concern was resurrecting his bank account. He could not leave Egypt empty-handed.
So as his team went to work boxing up the contents of the mummy’s tomb, Colonel Tusk retreated to a luxury tent overlooking a palm tree oasis. And by the light of a desert moon, he brewed his very first cup of tanis tea. It took only one sip for him to utter the famous quote you’ve seen printed on the package: “This is the best tea ever brewed, and I’ve brewed tea all over the world!”
Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 3 Page 5
