nightmarishly grinning clown, and into an alleyway between two tents.
âNow shut your yap if you want to be a part of this mission!â
âBut Iââ
âBetter do what they say, Art-Bart,â Pilot said, following them into hiding, âunless you really feel like entering into an argument youâve got no way of winning.â
âYou got that right.â Tweed nodded. âIf you knew half of the whole of what we know, youâd be running out of here screaming for yourââ
âMUMMY!â Artie blurted.
Cheryl blinked. âThat didnât take long.â
âNo .â Artie was positively bug-eyed. âLook!â
He pointed toward a gap in the back wall of a canvas exhibit tent, half hidden by a bunch of painted railcars from a ride all parked in a row. The twins and their companions crept toward the tent and peered inside. In the gloomy shadows of the tentâs dim interior, they could see wooden packing crates strewn about, half of them with their tops off and spilling out entrails of shredded newspaper and wood chips.
A large, painted plywood sign resting on one end informed the gang that, once it was set up and ready for carnival-goers, the tent would host a âWeird, Strange, Wondrous and Phantasmagorical Collection of Curiosities and Rare Artifactual Flotsam.â
Pilot was skeptical. âSounds like a cross between a flea market and a wax museum to me .â
âSee?â Artie hissed in an exaggerated stage whisperthat carried just as well as if heâd yodelled. âMummy! There. Right there!â
âGadzooks!â Cheryl murmured, grabbing Tweed by the sleeve. âLook â¦â
The girls stuck their heads farther through the opening. In the far corner of the tent, lit by a shaft of sunlight that poured through a gap in the canvas roof like the beam of a spotlight, a raised platform stood, decorated with a backdrop of purple-and-gold curtains hung on a wooden frame. In the middle of the little stage stood a bulky, vaguely person-shaped object covered in a drop cloth. Above it, a sign illuminated by a border of light bulbs, three of which were burnt out, read:
ZAHARA-SAFIYA
ANCIENT PRINCESS OF EGYPT
And then, in bright, drippy crimson paint underneath those wordsâand made to look like someone had scrawled a hasty last warningâit read:
BEWARE THE MUMMYâS CURSE!!..-
Cheryl crossed her arms and glared through the tent flap. âSo, Sa-ra-fa ⦠er ⦠Za-ha-ha ⦠um ⦠Mummy-Girl! Our paths have crossed once again.â She turned to Tweed. âCoincidence, partner?â
Tweed thoughtfully tapped her chin. âI think not.â
âWell, of course it isnât!â Pilot rolled his eyes. âWe came here lookinâ for this kinda stuff, didnât we?â
Cheryl ignored his attempts to deflate the exquisite drama of the moment and nodded decisively. âThis calls for further investigation,â she said to her cousin, giving her the C+T sign.
âYou are so right,â agreed Tweed, returning the gesture. Then she thrust one booted foot through the gap in the tentâs canvas wall. âOur regularly scheduled Mummy Week appears to have arrived early this month. Cameras rolling, aaaandââ
â Whoa! Whoa there â¦â Pilot wasnât so sure that what they were about to do was a very good idea at all. âThis isnât one of your standard everyday monster-mashing make-believes. It looks like there might be real liveâuh, deadâarchaeological whatchamacallits in there. I donât think those carnies are gonna be too happy to find us nosing aroundââ
He stopped in mid-sentence as both girls disappeared through the flap in the tent, hand signals aflutter.
âCâmon, Bartleby,â sighed Pilot, holding back the tent flap. âWeâve come this far, might as well make sure the girls donât get themselves
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