Member-only story
The Curse of King Tut’s Tomb
Unraveling the mystery and humility found within the Boy-King’s eternal eesting place
I recall entering through the tight limestone entrance in the Valley of the Kings, torch in hand. My heart pounded. It wasn’t from the heat of the desert but from something older, muttering in stone. The atmosphere was heavy with incense and ancient linen, and for a moment, I could have sworn the walls themselves were exhaling.
Only days before, I would have negotiated for a cracked scarab ring in the souk in Luxor, chuckling at the old man's claim that it had Tutankhamun's "restless spirit." That evening, I discovered the ring on my bedside table, chilled against the wood, and in a dream of the golden mask of the boy-king half buried in the sand.
Going down into the tomb was like time travel in reverse by a thousand years. I laid my hand on a picture of Anubis, and in the dancing light of my torch, I could have sworn I saw Tutankhamun's peaceful face ripple across the darkness. Outside history relates, however, that Lord Carnarvon—the owner of this discovery paid for by Howard Carter in 1922—perished weeks later from infection, and then lights went out across Cairo as ancient curses whispered in the papers. Coincidence? Maybe. But in the silence, I sensed something—a presence.
