Madame Babineaux had been on the museum board for seven years. Along with her deceased husband’s wealth, she offered advice on the museum’s curation, hosting galas that would be remembered for many seasons. The board viewed her as a rational woman, generous in her grief, a devoted patron of the esoteric.
In the eyes of society, the Mme.’s widowhood might have been cause for suspicion. Even so, she kept her reputation pristine. She did not seek companionship, nor indulge in wanton behaviors. Abstinence was no bother to her. She could wait for what she wanted.
In the spring of the Mme.’s seventh year, the museum acquired its first mummy. The English had ravaged Egypt’s pyramids long ago; instead the museum sent its archeologist to the Andes, a relatively unexplored region, where he had discovered the remains of an Incan sacrifice. The poor creature had been young, the archeologist claimed – and despite its condition, quite lovely.
Mme. Babineaux knew that an Incan mummy was rare, especially a female. She had waited seven years for this, even longer, long before her husband’s death. After the loyalty she had shown the board, she felt entitled to a favor.
In the week before delivery, the Mme. asked the museum director to walk with her. The director was hopelessly enamored with the Mme., as good as lobotomized in her presence.
At the end of their walk she announced, “I’d like to be the first to see the mummy.”
“Really,” the director said.
“Yes. I’d like to touch it.”
The man went pale, then pink. “The mummy is very delicate. The oil from your skin would cause it to decay.”
“I’ve done my research,” said the Mme.
“I’m afraid it is impossible. We cannot –”
“You can. It is in your best interests, really. I would hate to take my husband’s money elsewhere.”
The director appeared to bloat. “Then I will see that it happens,” he replied, and walked quickly ahead, not once glancing back.
On the day of arrival, the Mme. haunted the museum’s corridors and listened to the commotion of transport outside. Two burly men carried in the crate, square and small, not the sarcophagus she had expected. She followed them into the exhibition room, chill and pristine with a stone table at its center.
The men placed the crate on the table and took it apart. The Mme. winced at each splinter of wood, but the goods inside were undamaged. Her mummy sat in the fetal position, bundled with layers of fabric and rope. Its wrinkled face had been left exposed, eyes shut in resentful sleep. Black braids flowed intact from its scalp. Its bone structure was flawless, cheeks and brow smooth angled hills, lips parted over millennia-grayed teeth.
One of the movers coughed. The Mme. turned and flicked a wrist in their direction. “Leave me now, you’ve served your purpose.”
The movers grunted and shuffled out of the room. The door shut behind them, and the Mme. was alone with her prize.
With her the Mme. had brought a bowl of water and cleansing oil. She set these on the floor and unlaced her garments. Once fully stripped, she used a soft cloth to purify her skin. For all his peevishness, the museum director had been right – living fluid would spoil the preservation.
The Mme. approached the mummy, unwound the fabric and revealed its curled, knotted body. When she unbent its limbs, long-still joints snapped and petrified skin cracked, but she managed to lay it flat on the table. It looked grateful to be out of its cramped position.
“What a peach you are,” the Mme. sighed.
She climbed onto the table and straddled the mummy’s hips. Careful of its fragile bones, she lowered herself until they were mouth to mouth. Its skin felt like dry earth, soft and crumbling; she would have to be gentle in her affections.
The Mme. laid soft kisses along its cheekbones, its eyelids sealed over empty sockets, and each of its wide lips. The effort to keep upright made her tremble. “Patience, dear, we’ll both get what we want,” cooed the Mme., imagining her lover could respond in kind.
She kissed the mummy again and thought, for an instant, that its lips pressed back.
The Mme. snapped up. She was not a superstitious woman, but the movement had been undeniable. She looked at the mummy and her lust curdled into revulsion. Oil and saliva had soaked its flesh, causing it to loosen and flake. Pieces of it stuck to Mme.’s forearms and chin. She rubbed at the spots, but they did not come clean.
Thinking of the water and cloth, the Mme. detached from the mummy’s abdomen. Something tore – a patch of ancient skin. In its absence was a healthy, pulsing dermis.
Between her legs the mummy shifted, as if trying to push closer.
The Mme. reared back, and would have fallen off the table had the mummy not grabbed her waist. Its lips pursed and opened, gasping for fresh air.
“Oh my god,” the Mme. said.
What’s the matter? said the mummy. Come down here and kiss me. You have my permission now.
The mummy spoke directly into her head, a connection beyond flesh. The sensation made her dizzy. When she regained composure, the mummy was sitting on top of her. Its withered frame had filled out, much heavier than it should have been. Its leathery skin peeled off like bandages, revealing glossy brown flesh beneath.
“You’re so beautiful,” choked the Mme., her voice like wind in stale passageways.
I know, said the mummy. I always was.
A newly-wet tongue flicked the Mme.’s neck, and she was distantly aware of suction at her groin. It felt divine, though her skin had gone taut, crackling like parchment. She had aged years in a moment.
“I don’t understand,” the Mme. said. “Why am I so dry? Why do I feel so tired?”
I am absorbing you, sweet. But don’t worry. It will be painless.
“I do not wish to be absorbed,” argued the Mme.
Don’t resist, the mummy said. You paid well for my time, so enjoy it. That is what we both want.
Mme. Babineaux had very little choice, pinned on the table as she was. “Surely you are angry, having been dead so long. Were you very young when you died? Just a slave girl?”
The mummy bowed its head and kissed the Mme. all over. Even with her body numb, she relished the sensation.
As its tongue probed the mummy said, I was not a slave girl. I was a princess. My family had me sacrificed because they found my lifestyle shameful. You can imagine my outrage. Now I have so much to experience – and I’d imagine your era is less restrictive than mine.
Not by much, the Mme. thought. She tried to inhale and felt her ribs cave inward. “This isn’t fair,” she wheezed.
But it is. You paid to come here, didn’t you? You paid to steal my corpse from its tomb and ravage it.
“Yes,” the Mme. croaked.
The mummy’s eyes swelled into place, the brown of deep rivers. Its bone fingers slid between the Mme.’s labia, dry as twigs, patient in a way that only came from experience. The fingers pushed between and upwards, grazing the Mme.’s clitoris. She ran wet and watched the fluid seep into the mummy’s muscular, supple thighs.
The Mme., on the other hand, had begun to prune further. Her ample chest deflated, her once-broad shoulders compressed. Her interior was a tomb filled with sand. She tried to scream and managed only a whistle.
The mummy continued its work, and despite her withered state, the Mme.’s pleasure mounted. Hot tingles ran from her groin to spine, predicting an orgasm. It would be her final release, the Mme. realized; but with such an expert partner, she felt little regret. She had wanted this for a long time.
The Mme. gazed up at the mummy, who was no longer a relic but a full-blooded woman. The Mme. tried to enjoy the luxury. Her body thrummed with one final cry, and her remaining fluid gushed between the mummy’s legs, voiding to the final drop. With that, Madame Babineaux withered to a husk.
***
The Princess beheld the Madame’s body, curled around itself like an ancient fetus. Climbing off the table, she gathered her former burial garments and wrapped them around the new corpse. It would be a suitable replacement.
As she dressed in the Mme.’s clothes, the Princess considered her next action. She had no intention of staying in a museum. Along with the necessary organs and blood, she had absorbed the Mme.’s knowledge of French, local customs and politics, ways to discreetly look for pleasure. The rest she would learn by trial and error. She would make a life for herself here, wherever and whenever it was. If anyone tried to stand in her way, she would do to them what she’d done to the Madame. After all the years she’d waited, it seemed a fair exchange.
With a last surveille of the room and its new mummy, the Princess found her way out of the museum, into the sun.
-- Ben Larned (he/they) is a queer horror writer, filmmaker and educator. His work is featured or forthcoming in Vastarien, Creepy Podcast, and Seize the Press, among others. "What Scares a Ghost?", his story in Coffin Bell, was nominated for the Best Small Fictions 2023. His short film "Payment" is streaming on ALTER. He holds an MFA from The New School.