31 Frights of October

The Unsealed

There's something unsettling about museums at night. The silence settles in too deeply, the shadows stretch just a little too far, and the weight of forgotten relics seems heavier in the dark. Clara never believed in the paranormal—ghost stories, curses, or ancient evils were things of fiction, not reality. She trusted in science, in history laid out in neat timelines. Artifacts were merely that: fragments of the past.

But tonight, as she fumbled with the museum keys in her trembling hand, Clara wasn't so sure.

The lights flickered dimly overhead as she stepped into the museum's hallway. She was only supposed to be here for an hour, two at most, to set up a new exhibit that had arrived earlier that afternoon. It was an emergency request from the museum director, something about securing the display before tomorrow's grand reveal. Normally, Clara would have laughed at the urgency—there was nothing glamorous about setting up a new exhibit, not for an Egyptologist like her.

But the item in question was different. It wasn't the usual assortment of pottery shards, gold relics, or preserved scrolls. It was a sarcophagus, sealed tightly and covered in faded glyphs too old to decipher at a glance.

Something about it was off. The moment the delivery truck had arrived, she had felt it—a deep, gnawing discomfort. The air had grown heavy, the temperature seemed to drop by several degrees, and an unsettling energy pulsed around the coffin.

But Clara had brushed it off as superstition, just like everyone else had for centuries. She was here to do a job, and that's all it was. A task to be completed. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could return to her cozy apartment and cup of chamomile tea.

The sarcophagus waited for her in the exhibit hall, looming in the center of the room. It was larger than she'd anticipated, a polished black stone coffin with strange carvings winding across its surface. Ancient and unreadable. Clara frowned, running her fingers lightly over the glyphs. They were familiar in shape but...wrong somehow.

A strange chill crept up her spine, settling uneasily at the base of her neck. She swallowed the unease and crouched down to inspect the lower inscriptions. The hall was empty, the only sound the soft hum of the building's heating system and the rhythmic ticking of the security cameras.

Clara began her work, arranging the lights, the information plaques, and the ropes to cordon off the area. But the entire time, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her eyes darting to the shadows cast by the towering statues that flanked the room.

Then came the rustling.

At first, it was soft, like the sound of dry leaves being blown by the wind. But there was no wind here. No movement at all.

Clara froze, her heart skipping a beat as she strained to listen. Her eyes scanned the room, but nothing was out of place.

"Hello?" she called, her voice sounding far too small in the cavernous hall.

Nothing.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. It was just her imagination. She had been working too hard lately, spending too many late nights in the archive. Fatigue was playing tricks on her.

But the rustling returned—louder this time. Then, she heard it: a low, dragging sound. It was as if something—no, someone—was moving across the floor in slow, deliberate steps.

Clara turned toward the sarcophagus.

Her blood ran cold. The lid had shifted.

No. It couldn't have. She had just checked it, confirmed it was securely sealed.

But there it was, a visible gap, the lid pushed ajar.

Her breath caught in her throat. She backed away slowly, her mind screaming at her to leave, but her feet wouldn't obey.

Then, the lid slid further, grinding against the stone with a deafening groan. Clara's heart hammered in her chest as the room plunged into an eerie stillness. For a long moment, nothing happened. And then she saw it—an arm, wrapped in brittle linen bandages, clawing its way out of the coffin.

A figure began to rise from within, wrapped in decaying linen, its face partially obscured by the tattered remains of burial cloth. Clara's legs finally obeyed her panic. She stumbled backward, her eyes wide with terror.

The mummy turned its head toward her, and though its eyes were hollow, she felt its gaze settle on her, cold and unblinking.

Clara ran.

Her footsteps echoed through the darkened halls, the museum's ancient statues seeming to watch her as she fled. Behind her, the dragging sound of the mummy's pursuit followed, slow but relentless, like a nightmare given form.

She raced toward the exit, her breath ragged, her heart pounding in her ears. She could hear the rustling of the mummy's bandages, the faint scrape of its feet against the stone floor. It was getting closer.

Clara burst through the double doors into the exhibit's loading area, her only thought to get outside, to get away. But the exit was locked—she had dropped the keys somewhere in her panic.

Her hands shook as she searched for something—anything—to defend herself. And then, her eyes fell on a display case in the corner, containing an ancient ceremonial dagger, its blade dulled with age but still sharp enough.

Without hesitation, she smashed the glass and grabbed the dagger, turning just in time as the mummy entered the room, its arms outstretched, its face twisted in a grotesque grimace of death.

Clara's hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger as the creature lunged. She dodged, her heart racing, but she wasn't fast enough. Its decaying fingers scraped against her arm, leaving a trail of burning pain in their wake.

She gasped, stumbling back. Her vision blurred, but she didn't have time to think. The mummy was coming again, its movements more fluid now, as if it was remembering what it had once been. A predator.

With a burst of adrenaline, Clara raised the dagger and struck. The blade plunged into the creature's chest, sinking deep into the brittle wrappings.

For a moment, there was silence. The mummy froze, its head tilted back in a soundless scream. Then, with a great, shuddering breath, it collapsed.

Clara dropped the dagger and fell to her knees, gasping for air. The room was still once again, the only sound her own ragged breathing.

She stared at the motionless body for what felt like an eternity, waiting for it to move, to rise again. But it didn't. The air felt lighter now, as if some unseen weight had been lifted.

Clara forced herself to stand, her legs shaking beneath her. She took one last look at the mummy's crumpled form before turning and walking out of the museum, the cold night air hitting her like a welcome reprieve.

She had survived, but for how long?


written by frailsituation