The Five Masks of Dr. Screem (6 page)

“
Ooof
.” I landed flat on my stomach on top of the mummy. I bounced once — and my face sank into the hard, smelly wrappings of the mummy’s chest.

I raised my head and let out a groan.

The mummy wrappings were dry and scratchy. My cheeks itched.

I gagged as the putrid stench from the ancient corpse rose to my nostrils. I struggled to keep my dinner down. Wave after wave of the sour odor swept over me.

I was sprawled flat on top of the mummy. It felt hard as bones beneath me. It was tiny, like a child. Its wrapped head was no bigger than a lightbulb.

The ancient gauze over the mummy’s head dipped where the eyes had been. Dried tar stained the wrappings around the neck.

The odor sickened me. I tried to close my nose and breathe out of my mouth.

Carefully, I struggled onto my side. The mummy moved beneath me.

Gross
.

I gazed up. The lid had slid only halfway off the top of the case. Dim light poured over me from the ceiling.

I worked myself to a sitting position. Then I grabbed the edge of the lid. My idea was to hold on to the lid and pull myself out.

But as I tugged, I heard a grinding sound. Stone against stone.

It took me only a second to realize the heavy lid was falling … falling into the mummy case.

I’m going to be CRUSHED
.

I swung away from the falling lid. Grabbed the side of the case with both hands. And flipped myself out.

I fell free of the case — just as the lid crashed down inside it.

The roar rocked the room.

I rolled away from the case. Stopped in front of the pyramid model.

Then I lay there on the floor for a long moment, catching my breath.

The sour, putrid odor of the mummy lingered on my clothes. It clung to the inside of the insect mask.

I grabbed at the mask. I wanted to pull it off. I wanted Halloween to be over. To be out of this
museum where we didn’t belong. To be home safe in my house with my parents.

My parents.

That thought made me remember why I couldn’t remove the mask.

I stood up and brushed the thick dust off the front of my clothing. Then I gazed around the room.

“Peter?” I called.

My eyes swept the room, from mummy case to mummy case.

“Peter? Where are you?”

No answer.

I had a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Peter? Come on. You’re not funny. We have to get out of here. Peter? Where are you?”

My voice grew higher and more shrill with every word.

“Peter? Please?” I cried. “Peter?”

He had disappeared.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

I heard voices outside the gallery.

I ducked behind the pyramid and listened. I peered around the side and saw the same two dark-uniformed guards walk past the doorway. They were shaking their heads and laughing about something.

“Peter?” I called out in a tiny voice.

A second later, I heard his cry. “Got it!”

I let out a shout when his head popped up from one of the mummy cases. He raised a hand high. He waved the mummy mask in the air.

“Help me.” He stuck his hand out the side. I grabbed it and helped tug him to the floor.

He raised the mask in one hand. I squeezed it. It felt like rubber. The eyes were sunken. The wrappings around it appeared torn and stained.

“I knew it would be in here,” Peter said. He pumped his other fist in the air.

“You scared me to death,” I said.

“At least I found the —”

He stopped. We both heard voices. And footsteps outside the door.

The two security guards had just passed. Who was coming?

Was it Screem?

“Quick, Peter —” I shoved the mask toward his face. “Your turn. Put it on.”

He held the mask in two hands and raised it to his head. Then he hesitated.

The footsteps grew louder. Closer.

“Peter — quick!” I whispered.

“I … can’t,” he said. He twisted his face in disgust. “The mask … it’s filled with dust. Mummy dust. It — it smells like something dead.”

“I don’t care,” I said. I pushed it toward his face again. “Put it on. Hurry, Peter!”

“Ohhh.” He let out a groan. He stared into the mask. “It’s …
sick
,” he murmured.

Then he raised the mask above his head.

Just as the two security guards burst into the room.

Their eyes bulged and their mouths opened in alarm when they saw us.

“Hold it! Stop right there! Don’t move!” one of them shouted angrily.

“How did you kids get back here?” his partner cried.

They moved toward us quickly, hands out at their sides as if they expected a fight.

“Uh … we were at the mummy party,” I stammered. “We … couldn’t find the exit, and —”

Their boots thudded on the marble floor as they strode toward us.

“You’d better tell the truth,” one of them said. “You two are in a world of trouble.”

“Trespassing on city property is a serious crime,” his partner said.

I turned to my brother. His face was tight with fear. And then he let out a cry — and jammed the mummy mask down over his head.

A blinding flash of white light made me scream.

I shut my eyes tight, but the light didn’t fade. It grew brighter … brighter … until I felt my head was about to explode.

Then … solid darkness. Blacker than black.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. The museum room had vanished. I stared up at a cloudy sky.

It took me a long moment to realize I was stretched out on my back. I was lying on something flat and hard. Above me, the sky darkened. The clouds seemed to be coming closer and closer as if they were going to smother me.

“Peter?” My voice came out in a choked whisper.

I turned to see him close beside me. The mummy mask covered his face.

He was also on his back. I could see he was lying on some kind of wooden stretcher. “Where are we?” he murmured. “The mask …”

“The mask must have taken us here,” I said. “Every time we put on a mask, it — it —”

My words caught in my throat. I realized my hands were strapped down. I couldn’t get up from the wooden stretcher.

I couldn’t jump down.

I gazed straight ahead. Peter and I were lying between two rows of white-robed men. The two long lines of men seemed to stretch for miles.

The men were all shaved bald. Their dark heads glowed in the eerie light seeping through the clouds.

They were humming. Humming the same low note endlessly. It sounded more like a roar than music. They kept raising and bowing their heads as they hummed.

I squinted into the distance, where an orange stone building rose toward the sky. A giant sculpture of a cat stood beside the building. I could see a blue-green platform with tall flames rising behind it.

It’s an altar
, I thought.
They had one in a mummy movie Peter and I watched once
.

I gazed down from the stretcher. We were on sand. I turned — and saw a familiar shape on the horizon. A pyramid?

“Peter, I think the mummy mask took us to Egypt,” I said. “Ancient Egypt.”

He tried to sit up. But his hands were strapped down, too. “I don’t like this, Monica. Why are these bald dudes humming like that?”

“I think they’re praying,” I said.

“We have to get out of here,” Peter said.

Well, duh
.

Several white-robed bald men surrounded us. They all had deep, dark eyes. Their eyebrows had been shaved off.

Six men grabbed the sides of my stretcher and lifted it off the sand. Their arm muscles rippled.
They didn’t look at us. They stared straight ahead at the huge cat sculpture.

The drone of voices grew louder. It sounded like a million buzzing bees.

The men hoisted our stretchers onto their shoulders and began carrying us between the endless lines of white-robed Egyptians.

“Let us down!” I cried. “Can you understand me? Let us down!” I tugged at the straps over my wrists.

They moved slowly, steadily, eyes straight ahead.

“Let us down!” I screamed again.

The sky grew even darker. I squinted through the dim light to the fiery altar in front of the wall. Two men in tall white hats stood together, waiting for us. Their robes were bright blue. They had huge red jewels hanging around their necks.

“Priests,” I muttered.

The hum of the deep note rang in my ears. I wanted to cover my ears. To shut out the frightening sound.

Face after face swept by.

Their eyes followed Peter and me as we bounced past them, strapped to the wooden stretchers.

I smelled something strong. I took a deep breath. Another. A sharp odor filled my nose.

It took me a few seconds to recognize it.

Tar.

The drone of the deep voices made me want to scream. The faces rolled past, so solemn, the eyes so blank.

The two blue-robed priests stepped forward as Peter and I came near. Their cone-shaped hats pointed straight up to the sky.

The tar smell brought tears to my eyes.

I turned and spotted something at the side of the altar.

It was an enormous round cauldron. Like one of those big cooking pots that witches always have, only five times as big.

Inside it, I could see the tar bubbling. Yes. Steaming hot tar.

Peter and I were being carried to a cauldron of boiling tar.

“Oh, nooooo.” A moan escaped my throat. My whole body shuddered in terror.

Because suddenly, every horror movie … every mummy movie I’d ever seen … came back to me. And I knew why we were being carried through this ancient Egyptian temple.

We were about to be mummified … mummified
alive
.

As we came closer, I could hear the fire crackling behind the altar. I saw piles of cloth at one corner of the platform. Cloth to cover the tar? Cloth to cover our tarred bodies?

My panic made everything a blur. The altar … the two waiting priests … the jewels around their necks … the rows of humming men …

The cauldron made a popping sound. I saw a wave of steaming tar roll across its surface.

I turned to Peter. Did he realize what was about to happen?

I couldn’t see his face. It was hidden beneath the mummy mask. The evil mummy mask had brought us here. Brought us to this horror.

The humming faded behind us. The crackle of the fire grew louder.

We moved into the shadow of the tall cat sculpture. Up close, the cat looked like a wild creature. More like a tiger than a cat.

The priests stepped forward. Their robes rustled as they walked.

Our stretchers came to a sharp stop. The men released the wrist straps. They began to lower Peter and me to the sand.

I struggled to stop my brain from whirring. I needed to think straight. How could we escape this?

I couldn’t think of a thing.

I watched as two men lifted Peter off his stretcher. They set him on his feet. They held his arms and forced him toward the priests.

Peter squirmed and struggled. He tried to twist out of their grasp. But the men were too strong for him.

“Monica! Help me!” Peter wailed. His eyes were on the cauldron of tar. He knew what was about to happen to us.

“Monica! Don’t let them!” he screamed. “Don’t let them!”

The priests led the way to the cauldron.

A hush fell over the temple. The long lines of worshippers grew silent. So silent I could hear the rush of wind over the desert sands.

The two men held Peter in place.

He kicked one of them hard in the ankle. But the man didn’t cry out or move or react in any way.

Peter squirmed and twisted. The men held on tightly.

The priests stepped up to the boiling tar cauldron. Wisps of steam rose up all around. The sharp odor made tears pour down my face.

The priests held the red jewels in front of them and began swinging them from side to side. They began to chant strange words in deep, low tones.

“Let me go!” Peter screamed. “You can’t do this! We don’t belong here! We’re from America!”

The priests swung the red jewels and chanted as if Peter wasn’t standing there screaming at them.

Then one of them motioned with both hands toward the cauldron.

The two men lifted Peter off his feet.

He kicked furiously and screamed his head off. But he was helpless against them.

They raised him higher.

I knew I had to do something. I had only seconds.

The men raised Peter high over the cauldron.

Too late
, I realized. I let out a long moan of horror.

Too late
.

The men held Peter over the bubbling cauldron. His kicking feet were just inches above the tar.

He twisted and squirmed. He screamed and begged.

I took a deep shuddering breath.

Maybe … Maybe I could do something….

I didn’t even plan it. I suddenly sprang forward. I guess after so much gymnastics practice, the moves just came naturally to me.

I flipped onto my hands. Did a handstand on the edge of my stretcher.

Then I did a forward pike roll — up and over the heads of the men holding me captive.

I dropped hard onto the sand. Leaned far over and did another forward pike.

I sailed high — and landed both feet on the nearest priest’s chest.

Startled, he made a choking sound. His mouth dropped open as my kick sent him stumbling back.

I landed on my feet and watched as he went toppling into the boiling cauldron.

He splashed onto his back in the hot muck. Tar rolled over the sides of the cauldron.

Shrieking at the top of his lungs, he smacked his arms against the surface of the tar.

Cries of panic and shock rang out over the temple. Everyone moved at once.

The two men holding Peter set him down on the ground. They leaned over the steaming cauldron and grabbed wildly at the robe of the screaming priest.

The other priest dropped to his knees in shock. He shut his eyes and raised his hands to the giant cat sculpture.

White-robed men rushed to help pull the screaming priest from the cauldron.

I grabbed Peter. “Let’s go.”