You Have to Stop This by Pseudonymous Bosch
survivor3000: yeah, that fits. Kind of like putting pillows in your bed so your parents will think you’re sleeping. m-e?
juniorjester: *thinking*
survivor3000: take your time, we’ve got all night… not.
juniorjester: ok, done. sorry, not realistic. that would mean (a) even with all those people coming to see the show, nobody noticed mummy being stolen, and then (b) afterward nobody noticed that there was a living guy instead of a mummy in the sarcophagus.
guitarsamurai: why u have to be such a doubter, man? maybe he had really good Halloween makeup?
survivor3000: m-e is right. remember what the mummy looked like? that would be hard to fake.
survivor3000: but it’s a theory, anyway—maybe enough to get us out of trouble?
Max-Ernest was torn. In some ways, Yo-Yoji’s theory was a good one; it reminded him of one of those locked-room mysteries that seem impossible to solve but then turn out to have a nifty resolution that’s been staring you in the face the whole time. Still, he didn’t like the theory—and not just because it was Yo-Yoji’s and not his. Something was nagging at him. He decided to apply the deductive reasoning of the master of the locked-room mystery, Sherlock Holmes.
juniorjester: maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.
guitarsamurai: ok…?
juniorjester: well, Sherlock Holmes always said, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
survivor3000: yeah, so?
juniorjester: what do we actually know? that somebody walked out of the mummy chamber. and that later the mummy was missing, right?
juniorjester: and nobody walked IN except us.
survivor3000: get to the point.
juniorjester: you know how it seems like the problem is that the thief walks out but he doesn’t have the mummy with him? what if it’s actually the reverse?
survivor3000: what do you mean?
juniorjester: what if there wasn’t a break-IN at all? what if there was… a breakOUT?
guitarsamurai: just say it, dude.
juniorjester: ok, ok, what if what we’re looking at is not a thief walking out without a mummy but the mummy walking out without a thief?
Max-Ernest stared at his computer screen, unable to believe what he’d just written. He, Max-Ernest, with the logical mind. But that was the conclusion that logic had drawn him to.
Cass and Yo-Yoji seemed unable to believe it as well.
survivor3000: u saying what I think ur saying?
guitarsamurai: ok, when are u going to say april fools?
juniorjester: that was a few weeks ago.
survivor3000: u serious?
juniorjester: I’m serious. I think. No, wait, that would mean I was completely crazy…. I don’t know.
guitarsamurai: just a sec, I’m going to get a screen capture, then enlarge it.
Yo-Yoji enlarged the image of the man almost to the point where he was more pixel than person. His face was still too dark to see, but something near the bottom of the image caught Yo-Yoji’s eye and made him hold his breath. Without alerting his friends, he e-mailed each of them a copy of the enlarged image with this subject line: LOOK BEHIND HIS RIGHT FOOT.
That was where the strip of linen could be seen trailing from the man’s pant leg.
The man leaving the exhibit was the mummy. The mummy was walking.
Elsewhere that evening, in a luxurious hotel suite, a beautiful woman in a shimmering white gown looked out a tall window at the city lights below. Her face, reflected in the glass, was as pale as snow, her eyes as cold as ice. Her blonde hair, shiny and unmoving, curled outward at the ends like the petals of a flower frozen in mid-bloom. And yet at the waist, her body curved inward to an almost impossible degree, as if all the air had been squeezed out of her, along with all the warmth. Only her hands, hidden by long white gloves, moved even a tiny bit. They were splayed on the window, trembling slightly, as if she wanted nothing more than to grasp the city below and make it her own.
Yes, it was Ms. Mauvais.*
“Tell me why you are here,” she said, her voice as soft and comforting as shattered glass. “Surely you have not risen from the dead just to say hello?”
The only response was labored breathing—like the sound of a lung patient on a respirator—and a faint gasp of helplessness.
Then, as if from far away, came a voice. It was dry and raspy and muffled. Each word was a cry of despair. “I… need… your… help.”
Ms. Mauvais regarded the reflection behind her own. Over her shoulder, a head was just visible, wrapped in long white bandages. Haunted eyes stared out between the strips of linen.
“Yes, my darling creature?”
“It’s… my… skin.”
“That’s why you came all the way to see me? A few blemishes?”
“Not just a few!” the creature protested. “It’s really bad. I can’t live with myself.”
Ms. Mauvais turned to face her visitor.
Below the mummy-like head were the clothes of a fashionable young girl: a T-shirt, skinny jeans, and ballet flats.
“Now, now—of course you can’t, darling. Your skin is your skin. It’s irreplaceable… almost.” Ms. Mauvais laughed mirthlessly. “Nothing is of more intimate concern than one’s outward appearance. I myself once crossed two continents to have a single wrinkle removed.” She pointed to her plaster-smooth forehead. “You can’t see it now, can you?”
The girl standing in front of Ms. Mauvais shook her head—as best she could, given the bandages crisscrossing her face.
Ms. Mauvais regarded her skeptically. “Amanda, isn’t it?”
“Amber,” said the girl. The bandages puffed in and out with each syllable.
“Of course, how silly of me. Amanda. It’s so nice… not to see you again.”
“Please help me. Please. My doctor gave me something, but it almost made me blind.” Amber started to sob.
“You realize crying is only going to make it worse—it reddens the cheeks,” said Ms. Mauvais without a trace of sympathy. “Well, let’s have a look—”
Amber slowly unpeeled the bandages and revealed her face, leaving the strips in a sticky heap on the carpet.
It was a face that would have struck terror into the hearts of boys and girls of a certain age everywhere.
The acne started at Amber’s hairline and didn’t stop until it reached her collarbone; it covered so much of her face that only her eyeballs were unblemished. It was as if her acne had acne. There were whiteheads and blackheads and big, bloody redheads. There were pimples on top of pimples on top of pimples. Some were deeply buried like dormant volcanoes. Others had just risen to the surface, fiery mountains aching to burst. Still others had already erupted, leaving trails of zit-lava smeared across Amber’s epidermal layer—gooey evidence of the tumultuous geothermal activity underneath. The few bits of clear skin that remained were red and raw from all the scratching and scraping and squeezing and tweezing. It was painful to look at her.
Expressionless, Ms. Mauvais studied Amber for a moment.
“Thank you. That’s enough.” She motioned for Amber to put the bandages back on. “It’s worse than I imagined. I hope those bandages hold up. You may want to put a paper bag over your head just in case.”
“Can you… fix me?” asked Amber. She did her best to rewrap herself, using the window as a mirror.
“Can I… or will I?”
There was a knock on the door. An exceptionally tall and broad woman—she could have been a basketball player or a linebacker, her choice—shuffled in.
“Yes, Daisy?”
“I have… a message,” said Daisy hesitantly. “Should I wait?” She nodded meaningfully in Amber’s direction.
“No need to worry about her.” Ms. Mauvais waved her hand dismissively, as if Amber were of no more consequence than a potted plant.
“It’s about those kids—”
“Which kids? There are so many these da
“You know which,” said Daisy, her brow furrowed in irritation. “Cassandra and her gang.”
“Oh, them,” said Ms. Mauvais without betraying the slightest bit of emotion. “Are they still kids? One feels they should be old by now—they’ve already caused so much vexation in their short, meaningless little lives.”
“Lord Pharaoh says they have something he wants. He says you’ll know what it is.”
“I see.”
“Don’t you want me to… get it for you?” Daisy’s gloved hands clutched at each other as if she were already anticipating wringing the necks of her young victims.
“No, I do not!” snapped Ms. Mauvais. “I told you to stay out of the way, all of you.”
“As you wish, Madame,” said Daisy, disappointed.
“Now get out, you pathetic oaf.”
As Daisy shuffled out, Ms. Mauvais turned back to Amber. “Amanda, dear, perhaps I will help you after all.”
Amber whimpered hopefully.
WHO PULLED OFF MY FINGER? I WANT MY FINGER!”
The woods were cold and gray, the trees bare and ashen.
Yo-Yoji ran faster and faster. But the voice behind him kept getting louder and louder.
“WHO PULLED OFF MY FINGER? I WANT MY FINGER!”
“I didn’t mean to take it!” Yo-Yoji shouted over his shoulder. “Cass just threw it to me!”
He could hear twigs breaking, leaves crunching. His own footsteps or his pursuer’s? He couldn’t tell.
“FIN-GER! I. WANT. MY. FINGER!”
“The museum has it! I’ll get it back for you, I promise.”
“FIN-GER… FINGER FINGER FINGER!”
“Just let me live! Please!”
He tripped on a rock and fell to the ground. Winded and terrified, he looked up into the dark yawning mouth of—
“PULL MY FINGER! I WANT YOU TO PULL MY FINGER!”
—his little brother, Gajin, in his Spider-Man Underoos. Not as scary a sight as the mouth of a mummy, perhaps, but equally unwelcome.
“Pull my finger!” repeated Gajin, pointing his finger at his sleepy older brother.
“Go away,” said Yo-Yoji, closing his eyes.
“Pull my finger!”
“Go away.”
“Not until you pull my finger.”
“What? Why?”
“Just pull my finger, please.”
“Fine, but then you’re leaving my room.”
Yo-Yoji lifted his head off his pillow and gave his brother’s index finger a quick tug.
Gajin grinned and let out a loud fart.
“Thanks, I needed that!” he said with exaggerated relief, and then started laughing hysterically.
“Dude, you’re worse than Max-Ernest,” Yo-Yoji groaned.
Gajin shrugged. “Mom says you’re going to be late for school!” he shouted, running out of his older brother’s room.
Max-Ernest was the last to arrive. The other students were bent over their desks, taking a test.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said to his math teacher, who was writing something on the chalkboard. “I—”
Max-Ernest had a momentary memory lapse. Why was he late? But his teacher appeared not to notice. At least, he didn’t turn around.
Slightly unnerved, Max-Ernest sat down. His test was on his desk, along with a pencil. How could he have forgotten there was a test today? It was so unlike him.
When he saw what was written on the test, he frowned. There weren’t any words or numbers, only symbols. Hieroglyphs. Strange that they would be on a math test, although, of course, the ancient Egyptians were very good at math.
He glanced around the classroom. He could read hieroglyphs, yes, but surely the other students would not be expected to translate from ancient Egyptian. Could this be a message written only for him?
Max-Ernest scrutinized the hieroglyphs, trying to make sense of them.
“S-EE-K-R-E-T,” he sounded out. Secret.
For a second, he was thrilled with his discovery. Then he realized that this couldn’t be the Secret they were looking for; it was just the modern word, rendered phonetically in hieroglyphs. Was somebody playing a joke on him? Taunting him?
He looked up. The teacher was walking toward him. Wearing the clothes of a math teacher, he had the face of—
—the mummy!
The mummy grinned at Max-Ernest, revealing the dark hole inside his head. “Congratulations, Max-Ernest—you figured it out!”
The mummy extended his four-fingered hand. Terrified, Max-Ernest shook the mummy’s hand, only to experience the electrifying jolt of—
—his alarm clock. It was time to get up.
“Cassandra, my dear, come, get off your ear—”
The Jester looked down at Cass with concerned eyes. The bells on his hat gently jingled. Around them, the red-and-white-striped sides of his tent billowed in the wind.
“Time is running out. Stop lying about.”
Cass raised her head. “How long do I have?” she asked, fighting the sense of panic that was overtaking her.
In answer, the Jester picked up an hourglass off a card table and turned it over.
As the sand began to pour, the sides of the tent gave way and flew up in the wind as if they were as light as paper….
Cass blinked. When she opened her eyes, the Jester was gone and she was standing in a vast and silent desert.
Ahead of her, a black-and-white bird—an ibis—flew in slow circles above an enormous sand dune. Cass could feel the bird’s dark eyes on her. Waiting for her.
She started walking toward the dune, her bare feet sliding backward in the sand with every step. On her finger, the gold ibis ring pulsed. It felt warm.
Soon, Cass thought, soon I will know the Secret. The points of her ears prickled in anticipation.
Suddenly, a hot wind stirred the sand and forced the bird to flap his wings harder. The bird’s movements became erratic, his circles larger.
The wind got stronger and stronger until sand was blowing in big gusts off the top of the dune. The sand stung Cass’s eyes. It blew into her mouth, her ears, her hair.
The ibis could no longer hold his position. With a single, plaintive cry in Cass’s direction, he flew off into the horizon.
Protecting her face as well as she could, Cass trudged forward, determined to reach the dune. But the closer she got, the smaller the dune became; it was as if she were falling farther away rather than coming closer.
By the time she reached the spot where the dune had been, there was only flat desert.
And, lying exposed on the ground, the mummy.
He sat up and looked at her; his eyes were the eyes of the ibis.
“What is the Secret?” she shouted, but her voice was lost in the wind.
She tried to repeat her question, but this time the words would not leave her lips.
She stumbled, then tried to regain her footing, then stumbled again. The wind knocked her flat. She could feel sand blowing onto her, burying her. Soon only her face and right hand were uncovered. Sand swirled around the ibis ring as if simultaneously attracted and repelled by opposing magnetic forces.
The mummy stood over her. Behind him, loose linen bandages blew in the wind.
“The Secret? You want me to tell you the Secret?” He started to laugh. “You have the ring. Give me the ring!”
He laughed harder and harder until she was entirely covered in sand and about to choke.
She woke up with her face buried in her pillow and the mummy’s ring pulling at the chain around her neck.
GRADUATION SPEECH—SECOND DRAFT
by M-E
TITLE:
THE MUMMY MYSTERY
M IS FOR MUMMY
MUMMY DEAREST
ARE YOU MY MUMMY?
THE MUMMY’S SECRET
SECRETS OF THE MYSTERY MUMMY
THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY’S FINGER
THE MISSING MUMMY MYSTERY
THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING MUMMY
THE MYSTERY MUMMY RISES AGAIN
NIGHT OF THE LIVING MUMMY
THE GREAT MUMMY ESCAPE
THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE WALKING MUMMY
(Yes! sounds most Sherlock Holmes–ish)
OPENING JOKE:
Find later. Not in mood. (You? Not in mood for joke?? What happened—feeling mum? Missing your mummy? Ha-ha!)
THESIS:
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth.
SPEECH:
Unlike Cass, who likes novels, especially adventure stories like Robinson Crusoe and The Count of Monte Cristo, I usually like nonfiction. (Wait, why am I talking about Cass in my graduation speech? Bad beginning. Erase. Emergency. Errr…*Sound of brakes squealing*) Starting over…
In my opinion, nonfiction makes more sense and is more informative than fiction.*
The only genre of fiction I like is the mystery. (Genre means kind of fiction, if you don’t know.) Mystery novels, such as the ones by Sherlock Holmes, are like long puzzles that you can work out in your head. (You mean ones about Sherlock Holmes, duh. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is the writer!)
But every once in a while, you find a mystery that you can’t work out because there’s some kind of supernatural element involved. I’m not necessarily a big fan of those mysteries, but I guess a lot of people are.
In most mummy stories, for example, a mummy rises from the dead for one of the following reasons:
—curse or magical spell
—revenge
—reunion with a wife or lover
—a combination of the above
But none of these are very realistic, are they?
If a mummy truly has been reanimated—so that he’s actually walking!!—there must be a more rational explanation. Right? I mean, right?? An explanation that fits the laws of nature, not the laws of literature.