Baboons on Golden Background

The sun’s intensity was now shifting, almost horizontal, and the noon shadows—scarce as they were among stone ledgers and sand—were getting smaller.

We had spent the first hours of the morning in the tombs of Seti I, Ramses V and VI, and Tutmosis III, in awe at the strangeness of it all—the ascending and descending ramps and corridors carved into the bedrock of the Valley of the Kings, a maze of colored murals filled with stylized silhouettes of pharaohs, drawings, and royal cartouches.

Now, approaching the entrance to Tutankhamun’s tomb, I could sense it was a toned-down version of a burial place, with a modest entrance, sunk in anonymity.

Almost—except for the curse.

I had been fascinated by the legend of King Tut’s curse in my teen years, when I was convinced that I would become an Egyptologist.

It was common knowledge that those who set foot inside Tutankhamun’s tomb would suffer the malefic influence of the curse—in most cases, death.

While my passion for Egyptology had dissipated like a soap bubble, it ultimately brought me to Luxor.

We were here on a honeymoon, nonetheless. Truth be told, our rushed courtship had left us with little time to plan our voyage. We had known each other for four years in college and had become friends. A couple of months before graduation, we decided to marry.

Now in front of King Tut’s tomb, I balked at the idea of entering. The guide was beckoning us toward the entrance steps, but I did not budge.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to go inside,” I told my husband.

“What do you mean, hon? You saw how magnificent the artifacts from this tomb are at the museum—the tables, the chairs, the beds…”

“Well, seeing them there was probably not a good idea either,” I mumbled, fidgeting with my purse.

“Oh, come on, let’s go in. They will close for lunch in a quarter of an hour.” He was frowning; I noticed some sort of irritation building up.

“You think it’s okay to go in?” I asked hopefully, searching for his gaze.

“Of course. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you,” I said, beaming at him.

The interior of the tomb was a small, seemingly square room, its walls painted in a golden, bright hue—subtly striking.

On one wall, several rows of baboons were aligned, their pose both rigid and lifelike.

Once back outside, a breath of relief escaped me.

“So, you think we will be okay,” I said, almost faltering, “and the curse is just a superstition?”

“What curse?”

My husband seemed dumbfounded.

“Tutankhamun’s tomb curse.”

“There’s a curse? Why didn’t you say so? We shouldn’t have gone in, then,” he said, in an angry voice.

“I thought you were aware of it. Everyone has heard of this curse.”

“I didn’t,” he shrugged.

Nausea swept over me.

Everybody knew about the curse—except for...

Oh, my God!

I could feel the curse floating above our heads.

I knew then it had already materialized.

It was looking at me—bored—wearing shorts and a navy T-shirt, with a brand-new wedding ring on one of his fingers.