A few weeks ago, I received a package in the mail: a single video tape.
The footage was grainy and the tape skipped about once every seven seconds. But, I could still see the old man on the screen, the timestamp that read August 5, 1998, and I could hear it very clearly when he spoke:
“Congratulations. You’ve been cordially invited to the Last Unwrapping Party on Earth.”
The old man, wide lensed glasses and large gray mustache obscuring a large portion of his withered face, pitched his story quite plainly:
“In the 1800’s Egyptomania gripped this great country. Egyptian culture was celebrated, appropriated, exploited, until there was nothing left. Treasures that were excavated were sold for profit, tombs were pillaged into oblivion, and bodies were ground up into all sort of things: paint, face cream, even edible powder.” At this, he paused, and shook his head sadly. “It’s such a shame.”
Then, he cleared his throat, and straightened up. “I, Regis Hannigan, consider myself to be somewhat of a philanthropist, as anyone with more wealth than they need should be. A preserver of culture, if you will.” He chuckled, and static filtered in from the speakers, as he enjoyed some private joke. “So, this is my gift—a final gift, for the beloved land of the living, after my departure from your company.” He smiled.
“As you all know, as members of my family, that upon my death, my estate is to remain in the custody of my trust holder. Then, once twenty-five years have passed, my will be read, and inheritances will be distributed.”
He smiled even wider. “And all at an unwrapping party, just like in the old days. A chance for you people of the future to witness an actual opening of the crypt, and the unveiling of the treasures within. The original time capsule. How I envy you.”
He chuckled again, before looking at the camera in such a knowing way that it made me uncomfortable—as if as I gazed at him upon the screen, he too, looked back.
“And, best of all, I’ve secured a real, authentically embalmed mummy to be unwrapped for your enjoyment—“
He paused.
“Me.”
My name is Samuel Singer, and I wish things like this didn’t always seem to happen to me. Better yet, I wish I could learn to look into the mysterious and the strange, and find it within myself to say ‘no.’
But there I was, standing amongst strangers in the parlor of an old Victorian home, watching the way the candlelight flickered off of the polished surface of the solid gold sarcophagus in the center of the room.
There were drinks in one corner, old brandy wines in crystal goblets and crumbly biscuits. The parlor was small and intimate, and the few guests that had received an invitation like I had were milling around, chatting idly and waiting for the main event to begin.
I was standing, alone, in front of an unlit fireplace, cupping a drink I didn’t trust enough to sip, wondering why on Earth I had come to an occasion like this.
“This is so strange, right?”
I jumped slightly as a voice spoke next to me. I turned to see a young man, tall, and gaunt. Though most everyone else had dressed up for the occasion, he wore black jeans, and black tee shirt. His eyes had dark circles around the bottom and red around the rims, and I immediately had the impression that he was under the influence of more than just the wine in his cup. He was scanning the room, settling on no one in particular.
“It is, yeah,” I answered politely.
“My mummy’s the Great Uncle,” he said, and then immediately let out a cackling laugh. “I mean, my Great Uncle’s the mummy,” he corrected, gesturing with his drink to the sarcophagus. “He absolutely hated me, and my deadbeat father. I have not the faintest idea why I’m here.”
I gave a small, nervous laugh. “I don’t either. I didn’t even know the man.”
He grinned widely at me. “I envy you,” he took a sip of his drink. “From what I remember, throwing a party for greedy strangers to see his embalmed corpse in exchange for an inheritance is very on brand for dear old Uncle Regus.” He gazed at me a moment more, before sticking out his hand. “My name’s Ander. Ander Hannigan.”
I took his hand. “Sam Singer. I’m a reporter for the Habitsville Gazette. I’m not sure why, but I got an invite.”
Ander snorted. “Make sense. Uncle Reggie probably wants to make as big a spectacle as he can out of this.”
We looked around in silence for a while. I took note of who else was here: a stern older woman, her hair tied back tight, in an ironed gingham dress; a well-to-do looking pair, a man and a woman, looking to be in their early thirties, wearing matching khakis and sweater, despite the July heat; speaking to the matching couple was an older man, short and round, with a twisted mustache and pocket watch hanging from his vest. And, all the way across the room examining the many paintings that hung from the walls, was a girl, no older than seventeen, holding a glass of brandy and not speaking to anyone. I could see that her eyes were aimed at the art in front of her, but I could tell her mind was somewhere else.
“So why’d you come?” I suddenly asked Ander, trying not to make it too obvious that my motivation for asking questions was an urge to investigate, not just friendly curiosity. “I mean, since you agree that this is bizarre, and you weren’t close with the man.”
“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” He said with a wink. “I’m here for the same thing as everyone else. I want a piece of the pie. Uncle Reggie didn’t like me, but he hated my dead beat father. I’m hoping he’s just skipped over that loser and given the estate to me.”
I looked around, my eyes lingering on the man with the pocket watch. “And your dad isn’t... here, is he?”
“No, of course not,” Ander said with a hint of bitterness. “I haven’t seen him in about ten years, abandoning piece of trash that he is. He probably wasn’t even invited. Which is great for me.” He snickered at the thought. Then, he idly waved his hand to the young girl gazing at the paintings. “That’s my main competition. The others, they’re fooling themselves if they think Uncle Regis left them anything of actual value.”
I furrowed my brow at the girl. “Who is that?”
“That’s Wendy. She’s my Great Uncle’s grand-niece. I’ve never actually met her in person, but I’m already pretty pissed with her.” He shook his head. “Takes a lot of nerve to compete for the estate of a man who died before you were born. But I heard that Uncle Regis really loved her mother. So as her next of kin, she’s invited.” He looked at a large hanging antique clock on the wall. “I wonder when Willy’s getting here.”
I watched the girl for a bit longer. While everyone else were chatting, like they knew one another, she continued to stand, sullen and alone. “And who’s Willy?” I asked casually.
“Oh, there he is,” Ander said. He motioned to a clean-cut man in his sixties who had just entered from the far side of the parlor, holding a briefcase. “Uncle Regis’ apprentice,” Ander answered with a scoff. “He looks normal, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the one who’s held onto Uncle Reggie’s stuff until it was ready to be passed out.” He looked around, at all the ornaments that lined the walls, and the antique furniture that lay about the room. “And he never touched a single thing in this house,” he said with a shake of his head. “You can bet if I get ahold of this stuff, it’ll be gone like that,” he snapped his fingers, chuckled, and took another long sip of brandy. I did the same.
“He’s also the guy who embalmed my Uncle.”
I coughed out the drink I had just put to my lips. “What?”
“They were both obsessed with all of that Egyptomania crap,” Ander said dismissively. “Willy’s been hanging around him since he was a kid. Then he became like a scientist, or a doctor, or something. So Uncle Regis had him do it.”
“But—” I started.
“Shhh,” Ander waved me quiet. “Looks like Willy’s about to start.”
The man with the briefcase had set it on a table next to the sarcophagus, and unpacked some unfamiliar instruments. Huge hooks and straps, brushes, a pair of heavy leather gloves.
“Welcome,” he said, and the chatter in the room died down as their attention turned to him. “Thank you all for coming. My name is William Pettigrew.” His voice was low and calm, and he didn’t seem the least bit nervous when he spoke. “Regis Hannigan was many thing—eccentric, curious, a lover of the mysterious—and my mentor. It is a great honor to be able to fulfill his greatest wish, twenty-two years after his death.” He cleared his throat. “Which brings me to the main event for this evening—the unwrapping.”
He picked up the leather gloves and pulled them onto his hands. Then, he placed them on the edges of the sarcophagus, and with a heavy swing, lifted the lid.
The room was dim, but I could still see what lie inside. Arms crossed, skin covered in gauze, still as death—it was a mummified corpse.
William Pettigrew looked at it for a moment, and I could only imagine what that would have been like. To see someone you were so close to in that state. Especially if you were the one who put him there.
Then, he picked up a tool from the table beside him, and clamped it onto one edge of the gauze.
He started to pull.
The sound was unlike anything I had heard before. A ripping and tearing, the gauze shredded from decades of being pressed against a formaldehyde-soaked corpse. The smell wafted all the way to me, the strange mixed scent of heavy chemicals and fragrant herbs.
Pettigrew kept pulling for a while, piling used, yellowed gauze on the table with his tools, occasionally having to pick up scissors and snip here and there, whether bits of fabric or stubborn skin, I didn’t know.
“Ugh, this is disgusting,” Ander whispered beside me.
“How could it only take a few decades to turn into a full-blown mummy?” I murmured back. “Doesn’t it usually take, like, thousands of years?”
Ander shrugged dismissively. “Uncle Regis was an impatient man. He probably got Willy to give him the express embalming. So we could all be here for this before we’re dead too,” he answered with a snicker.
Eventually legs began to appear, and the sight of them sent my heart straight into the deepest pit of my stomach. They were withered and dark, and terrifying to see. Pettigrew kept unwrapping until he got to the torso. I could see that the chest was sunken, concave, like the corpse was holding its breath, waiting to exhale. We were almost to the head now—
William had stopped. He had been going at a slow, steady pace, working his way up the body, but when he got past the chest and up to the neck, he came to a halt. Everyone in the room was silent, watching him. He leaned in closer, staring into the sarcophagus, his hands hovering over the body.
“This... this isn’t...” he muttered.
Then, he started to pull again, much faster than he had before, until the entire head was uncovered. I could catch glimpses of patches of dark hair, and what was left of a nose, but that was about it. William, however, was staring at the body, completely aghast, his jaw hanging open loosely.
“Is there a problem?” The man with the pocket watch asked gruffly.
William turned around to face the gathering, his eyes wide, looking from each of us until they settled. “Ander...” he said quietly.
The young man next to me gave an unconvincingly casual laugh. “What’s the matter Willy? Mummy got your tongue?” He took a few steps towards the body, and I could see his eyes drift into the sarcophagus.
His smile dropped, and so did his crystal glass. It shattered on the floor, and I flinched.
Ander walked slowly, his shoes crunching on the broken shards, until he was standing over the opening of the sarcophagus. He reached one trembling hand over the head of the mummy, before it drifted down until it was over the chest. I stood on my toes to see what he was looking at—
It looked to be a tattoo, warped by the embalming process and decay. It appeared to be the shape of some sort of bird, it’s wings spread. Ander’s finger traced it like recalling something from a distant memory, or a dream.
The young man let out a small, choking sound, before one word made its way out of his throat:
“Dad?”
---
Credits
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