The Mummy Who Ran Out of Bandages

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Pharaoh Amenhotep the Unreasonably Important had survived three thousand years, eleven tomb robbers, two archaeological expeditions, and a documentary crew that insisted on calling him “the original influencer.” None of these indignities had prepared him for running out of bandages on Halloween. He discovered the crisis at precisely six minutes past midnight, when his left elbow fell off during a dramatic resurrection. “Not again,” he groaned, retrieving it from beneath a ceremonial footstool. The final roll lay at his feet, suspiciously short. “Who has been wasting my sacred wrappings?” he demanded. A small skeleton in a blue-and-gold crown raised one hand. “Technically, Your Majesty, you used fourteen rolls last Tuesday because you wanted your ankles to look slimmer.” “They did look slimmer.” “Your ankles are bones, sir.” “And magnificent bones they are.” Behind him, a second skeleton stood on a ladder, attempting to drape a ribbon around a column. “We are decorating for the Halloween open tomb,” Nefru explained. “Visitors expect atmosphere.” “Visitors expect curses!” Amenhotep snapped. “Not bunting!” From the far corner came an offended chitter. Khepri, the enormous scarab beetle responsible for tomb security, was dragging a strip of linen toward his nest. “You!” Amenhotep pointed. “Return that immediately!” Khepri looked at him, swallowed the linen, and burped a bubble of green fire. “Our security staff are eating the inventory,” the pharaoh said. “This kingdom has collapsed.” “It collapsed in 1070 BC,” Nefru reminded him. “You filed a complaint.” Amenhotep ignored him and inspected his remaining wrappings. The left arm was loose, his ribs showed through, and a particularly humiliating strip hung from his knee like a badly tied birthday ribbon. At the stroke of one, the tomb would open to the living. If the public saw him like this, he would become a laughingstock on the supernatural circuit. “Fetch the Royal Linen Keeper,” Amenhotep commanded. Five minutes later he returned carrying a dusty basket. “Good news! I found spare rolls.” Amenhotep reached eagerly inside and pulled out a coil of toilet paper. His jaw dropped. “What blasphemy is this?” “Modern linen. Very popular with tourists.” “It dissolves in water!” The pharaoh tested a length around his wrist. It tore instantly. He tried again. It tore in two places. “This material is cursed.” “It says ‘extra soft’ on the package.” “That is clearly the curse.” At last he considered the only remaining option: the tomb's emergency supply cabinet. Amenhotep broke the seal. Inside lay a single note: YOUR MAJESTY, WE WARNED YOU TO ORDER MORE LINEN. — THE EMBALMERS. Beneath it was a small packet of adhesive bandages decorated with smiling ducks. “I shall curse the embalmers,” he declared. A metallic clang sounded from the entrance. The guardian statues of Anubis had begun their hourly inspection. One turned its jackal head toward the pharaoh's exposed ribs. “Dress code violation,” it announced. “I am your king!” “Dress code applies to all visitors and staff.” The statue produced a stone clipboard and issued a warning. Amenhotep snatched it and read: INAPPROPRIATE DISPLAY OF SKELETAL MATERIAL. “This is an outrage!” he shouted. “I am surrounded by skeletons!” “They have permits,” the guardian replied. Nefru proudly displayed his laminated badge. The pharaoh was about to unleash the Curse of the Seven Burning Plagues when a delicate knock interrupted him. A black cat sat upon the sarcophagus, watching with green eyes. Nobody had seen her enter. “Bastet's whiskers,” Amenhotep muttered. “What do you want?” The cat pushed a little sewing kit toward him. Attached was a note: FROM THE GODDESS. STOP BEING DRAMATIC. Amenhotep stared at the needles, thread, and tiny golden scissors. “The divine solution is sewing?” Nefru nodded. “Apparently heaven has discovered budgeting.” The cat licked one paw, visibly unimpressed. He had never sewn a button. After three attempts he managed to stitch his own fingers together. At half past midnight the tomb's doorbell rang. A spectral receptionist announced that the first visitors had arrived early: twelve vampires, a witch, and a group of zombies on a discount tour. Amenhotep panicked. “Hide me!” Nefru pulled a curtain around him. Unfortunately, it was the curtain embroidered by his favorite wife. Her ghost materialized instantly, arms folded. “You never appreciated my needlework when I was alive.” “Beloved, this is an emergency.” She glanced at his shredded wrappings and smiled with dangerous sweetness. “I could fix that.” Amenhotep brightened. “You would?” “Of course. For three thousand years of unpaid emotional labor, plus interest.” The ghost laughed and vanished, taking the curtain with her. The visitors grew restless. A vampire complained that the crypt smelled of old socks. Amenhotep straightened as best he could. “I will not be humiliated in my own tomb. Bring me the toilet paper.”