Blimey! The Bathroom is Haunted

On the return journey to my room for an early night, I continue to marvel at the rich and sumptuous décor of the hotel. First built as a royal hunting lodge in the 1800’s, it was sold to Frederick and Jessie Head in 1883 to be used as their private residence. Five years later, the estate was bought by a wealthy English couple, Hugh and Ethel Locke-King. They expanded the residence and turned it into a luxury hotel. Its name, Mena House, was derived from Menes, the name of the first pharaoh.  

Back in my room, I retrieve the few items from my suitcase that I’ll need for the night, short as it will be. Suitcases need to be in the hall by 2:30 A.M. and we’ll leave the hotel at three o’clock to make our 5:30 A.M. flight. This doesn’t leave much time for sleep. Normally a night owl, I plan on getting to bed by an early ten o’clock. 

At the prearranged bedtime, I’m so wide awake that sleeping is out of the question. I decide to wash up and do my hair now to save time later. Afterwards, I repack my suitcases and get dressed in my travel clothes. 

Still wide awake. I turn on the television, play with the remote, and come across The Mummy, starring Boris Karloff. I settle myself comfortably in bed, propped up with pillows, and proceed to watch the movie, thinking how fitting this all is. I’m in Egypt, near the greatest pyramid every built, and am watching the classic mummy movie. 

Boris’s mummy is as hideous as 1932 special makeup could render it. Folklore has it that the mummy of Ramses III (not related to number II) was so ugly, they patterned Boris’s costume after it. If you’ve ever seen Ramses III, you’ll know he was indeed not very fetching but as far as being an ugly mummy, there are others much worse. Then, there are those that are rather nice looking as far as dead corpses go. Seti I, for instance, looks very peaceful and serene. He looks like he’s sleeping, that’s if you disregard the fact that his head is not attached to his body—an injury suffered at the hands of ancient tomb robbers.

With Boris lurching about onscreen, it’s now well past midnight and my eyes start to feel heavy. Closing them, I settle down for a nap. After a few minutes, I realize that I can’t fall asleep because there’s a dull clanging sound coming from the bathroom. It’s fairly regular, almost as if someone’s tapping on a metal pipe. It’s rather annoying, getting increasingly so the more I try to ignore it. I get up and crutch to the bathroom trying to locate the source of the bothersome noise. Strangely enough, when I arrive in the bathroom, the sound has stopped. Good! Back to bed.

I’m not in bed for five minutes, the clanging starts again. Ignore, ignore, ignore, I tell myself. After awhile, not being able to tolerate it any longer, I grab the crutches and again head for the bathroom. The minute Beatrice and George hit tile, the noise stops. Not wanting to keep shuttling back and forth, I decide to remain in place to see if it starts again. I sit on the lid of the toilet and wait. Not the most comfortable arrangement, but it beats the back-and-forth between rooms.

Everything is quiet. Could it have been another guest in an adjoining room doing callisthenics? I get up and play with the taps. Perhaps it’s the metal pipes expanding and retracting that are making the noise, as the ones in my house do on and off. The pipes remain silent. 

After ten minutes of waiting, I notice that it has gotten remarkably cold in the bathroom; I’ve got goose bumps all over. It must be the air conditioning blowing in the bedroom, I tell myself. I exit the washroom into the warmer bedroom, and stop. Why is it warmer? My subconscious is poking my brain with this seemingly irrelevant question. I then realize that the bedroom, if anything, should be cooler since that’s where the cold air is blasting in. 

The clanging noise breaks my train of thought. Crap! I spin around, very annoyed. The irritating sound keeps going and I re-enter the bathroom, listening intently. It’s not the pipes. It’s not coming from the ceiling, floor, or any wall. It’s coming from the middle of the room, from the air itself. It dawns on me: the cold + the noise = the bathroom is haunted. 

Totally creeped out, but wanting to appear calm and composed in front of this unknown phantom presence, I decide to address the noise. You never know, the manifestation could be someone really important, like Hatshepsut. Speaking in a loud and commanding voice I manage to utter “Stop this racket; you’re interfering with my beauty sleep! If you have to haunt something, go do it in the pyramid next door.” That said, I immediately turn around on trembling crutches and depart the ghostly washroom expecting objects to start flying about the room and apparitions to block my escape and suck me into the toilet.

The clanging becomes louder, and suddenly, I’m not wearing any clothes. Jiminy Cricket! The flippin’ ghost is a flippin’ pervert. Crutches flying madly, I make a beeline for my suitcases, aiming for a new set of clothes. By some unknown force and for reasons the Toilet Spook is not sharing with me, the luggage is instantly relocated to the bed, piled up on top of the pillows. In the next second, the bed is launched in the air where it remains floating three feet above the floor, the suitcases perched upon it. 

My brain is whirling at light speed. This won’t do, this just won’t do. I can’t go out in the hall naked. Suddenly, exiting the room is no longer an option; the door has disappeared. In desperation, I turn back to the bed and grab hold of the sheet. With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I rip it off the hovering bed and place it over my head, tent-like, creating my own version of a ghost costume. I then move Beatrice and George, concealed under the vast sheet, up and down as extensions of my arms, making what I hope are respectable ghostly movements, and aspiring to look like a short, but very wide, animated phantom.  

My intention is to imitate the enemy. Maybe it’ll think I’m The Spirit of the Bedroom and retreat back to the shower drain, or from wherever it came, I tell myself. Boris Karloff—or perhaps Ramses III himself—steps out of the bathroom in full mummy regalia and advances toward me. At the same time, the clanging noise mutates into a buzzing sound, loud and pernicious, uncomfortably close, as if it originates from inside my head.

I’m about to issue to the order for George—still serene and obedient—to attack when I’m jolted awake by the alarm clock, buzzing incessantly against my eardrums, a piercing shrill, even through the sheet in which my head is wrapped like hard candy in cellophane. It takes me a few seconds to comprehend that yes, I did fall asleep; no, I did not talk to a degenerate spectre in a loud and commanding voice; yes, Boris is back inside the TV where he belongs. It’s just as well. I don’t know how I would have explained the “not wearing any clothes” bit to the rest of my group. 

Still rattled by my ridiculously absurd, yet very vivid dream, I get the suitcases ready, put them in the hall, and head for the lobby to check out. Soon, the whole group is gathered together and the dynamic duo of Daniel and Kareem arrives to take us to the airport. I admire their dedication. It’s three o’clock in the morning and here they are, smiling and gracious as ever. 

We’re given a boxed breakfast to enjoy on the way. It’s a sad day, and no amount of scrumptious food will make it any better. Looking back on all the incredible experiences of the last three weeks, the friends that I’ve made, and the amazing places I’ve seen, I don’t want to go home. I still eat the breakfast though; I’m sad but I have two stomachs to fill.

The smooth and traffic-free ride to the airport, a normally joyous event, doesn’t lift the heavy hearts which we all have. At the terminal, we say goodbye to Daniel and Kareem once again, with a feeling of déjà vu. This time, the atmosphere is very glum because we know for sure that we’re not going to see them again. 

The airport check-in is fast and efficient as there aren’t many other passengers up and about this early in the morning. With our seats assigned, the flight is called and we board the plane, leaving The Mighty Egypt behind.