Free Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 by Elizabeth Peters

ear. It was a squeaking sound from one of the boards of the floor. I knew it well; the faulty plank was between my bed and the window, and my foot had pressed it several times that day.
    I turned onto my back. I was not alarmed; I assumed that either I had been mistaken about the origin of the sound or that Evelyn had woken up and crept to the window for a view of the moonlit garden.
    Standing over the bed, so close that its body brushed the folds of white netting, was an incredible apparition.
    It appeared to be swathed in a white mist, like an emanation of fog. This blurred the features, but the general outline of the figure was plain enough. It might have walked out of the main hall of the Boulaq museum, where Maspero kept his prized, life-sized statues of ancient Egyptian ladies and gentlemen. Like the painted statues, this apparition had the hues of life, though they were faded by the cold moonlight. The bronzed body, bare to the waist; the broad collar of orange and blue beads; the folded linen headdress, striped in red and white.
    I was thunderstruck. But not by fear – no, never suppose for a moment that I was afraid! I was simply paralysed by surprise. The figure stood utterly motionless. I could not even detect the rise and fall of its breast. It lifted an arm, then, in a gesture of unmistakable menace.
    I sat up and, with a shout, reached out for the thing. I do not believe in apparitions. I wanted to get my hands on it, to feel the warmth and solidity of human flesh. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the confounded mosquito netting.
    (My Critic reminds me that ‘confounded’ is not a word a lady should use. I reply that some strong expression is called for, and that I have avoided others far stronger.)
    It was the netting, of course, that had given the apparition its ghostly aura, and it fitted so well with the presumed supernatural appearance of the thing that I had forgotten its existence. I plunged head foremost into a muffling cloud of fabric; the bed sheet and the skirts of my nightgown wound about my limbs. By the time I had fought my way out of these encumbrances I was gasping for breath – and the room was empty. I had succeeded only in waking Evelyn, who was calling out agitatedly and trying to escape her own netting.
    We met at the window; Evelyn caught me by the shoulders and tried to shake me. I must have looked like a wild woman with my hair breaking loose from its night braids and streaming over my shoulders. My determined rush toward the window had persuaded Evelyn, as she later confessed, that I was bent upon self-destruction.
    After I had assured myself that there was no trace of the visitant on the balcony or in the garden below, I explained to Evelyn what had happened. She had lighted a candle. By its flame I saw her expression, and knew what she was about to say.
    ‘It was no dream,’ I insisted. ‘It would not be surprising that I should dream of ancient Egyptian ghosts; but I believe I know the difference between reality and sleep.’
    ‘Did you pinch yourself?’ Evelyn inquired seriously.
    ‘I had not time to pinch myself,’ I said, pacing angrily up and down. ‘You see the torn netting – ’
    ‘I believe you fought a gallant fight with the bed sheets and the netting,’ Evelyn said. ‘Real objects and those seen in dreams blend into one another – ’
    I let out a loud exclamation. Evelyn looked alarmed, fearing she had offended me; but it was not her disbelief that had prompted my cry. Bending over, I picked up from the floor the hard object that my bare instep had painfully pressed upon. In silence I held it out for Evelyn’s inspection.
    It was a small ornament, about an inch long, made of bluegreen faience, in the shape of the hawk god, Horus – the kind of ornament that often hangs on necklaces worn by the ancient Egyptian dead.
II
    I was more determined than ever to leave Cairo. Of course I did not believe in ghosts. No; some malignant human agent had been at work in