The air in the narrow corridor didn't just feel heavy anymore; it felt occupied. Allen stared at the stone statue, his wand hand steady only through sheer force of will. The thing had definitely moved. Its eyes, which had been nothing more than carved stone moments ago, were now wide, glassy, and fixed directly on them.
The detail was what made it truly stomach-churning. The ancient sculptor hadn't just carved a face; they had painted it with a garish, vibrant precision that had somehow survived the millennia. Thick, oily slabs of turquoise and obsidian eyeliner framed the pupils, making the gaze feel less like a statue and more like a man buried alive in a shell of rock. Its face was the classic profile of a high-born Egyptian—sharp, aristocratic nose, hollowed-out cheeks that suggested a lifetime of fasting, and a jaw that hung just slightly too low, as if the muscles had withered away before it could finish its last word.
"Let me—rest in peace!"
The voice didn't come from a throat. It vibrated out of the stone torso, a hollow, grinding sound that carried the chill of the grave.
"Okay, Allen, technical question," Ron whispered, his voice sounding thin and dry, like old parchment. "What's the plan? Do we fight the furniture or run back to the maze?"
"You're asking me like I have a manual for this," Allen replied, his own pulse thudding so loudly in his ears he was surprised the statue couldn't hear it.
Nancy, meanwhile, looked like she was about to have a complete breakdown. Her eyes were darting between the glowing wands and the towering stone figure. "Are you kidding me right now? First, the ground swallows us, then you start waving glowing sticks like space-knights, and now the decor is talking back? Why is it always me? I just wanted a vacation, not a front-row seat to the apocalypse!"
Despite the life-threatening situation, Allen felt a weird, inappropriate urge to laugh. He looked at Nancy's frantic expression and then at Ron. They both knew exactly why she was having the worst day of her life. George's 'Bad Luck Charm' wasn't just working; it was overachieving. Being around her was like standing under a lightning rod in a thunderstorm.
But there was a bigger problem. This pyramid was built with the same logic as the high-security vaults at Gringotts. The stone was saturated with ancient anti-Apparition wards. There was no magical 'get out of jail free' card here.
"Finite Incantatem," Allen murmured, pointing his wand at Nancy.
She gasped as the spell hit her. It wouldn't stop the statue, but it snapped the invisible threads of the bad luck hex. The constant, nagging sense of doom that had been clouding her mind lifted slightly, replaced by a sharp, cold clarity.
"If you cannot wake me, then for the love of the gods, let me sleep!" the statue roared again, the volume shaking dust from the ceiling.
Nancy swallowed hard, the doubt in her eyes finally being replaced by a terrifying acceptance. These kids weren't playing dress-up. They were the only thing standing between her and whatever was inside that stone.
The three of them stood frozen, a tense standoff against a giant that hadn't made another move. Minutes felt like hours. The statue just watched them, its eyelids occasionally twitching but its feet remained rooted in the sand.
"Maybe it's just a recording?" Ron suggested, his grip on his wand loosening just a fraction. "Like a magical doorbell that won't shut up?"
"Don't bet on it," Allen warned. "Ancient traps don't usually bark without biting. It's waiting for something. It's waiting for us to trigger the next stage."
Ron and Nancy both turned their heads in perfect synchronization to look at him.
Allen felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. "What? Why are you both looking at me like I'm the designated sacrifice?"
"You're the one who can read the walls, Allen," Nancy said, her voice surprisingly blunt now that her panic had stabilized. "The statue isn't moving. The door is right there. Open it."
"Yeah, mate," Ron added, stepping behind Allen. "Since the big guy over there seems content with just being loud, let's see what's behind door number one. Maybe there's a back exit."
Allen sighed. He didn't like it, but they couldn't stay in this hallway forever. He turned back to the mahogany door, focusing on the swirling patterns of the Ancient Runes. They were a map—not just of the tomb, but of the soul's journey. The resurrection spell wasn't just a password; it was a ritual.
He drew a breath to speak, but a hand clamped onto his shoulder. Nancy pulled him back with surprising strength.
"The spell," she demanded. "What does it actually do?"
"Does it matter?" Ron groaned. "It opens the door. That's the part we care about."
"It matters to me!" Nancy snapped. "You two have your shields and your sparks. I'm a 'Muggle,' remember? If this spell carries a curse, it's going to hit the weakest link first. I want to know if saying these words is going to turn me into a pile of salt."
"Nancy, listen to me," Allen said, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. But we don't have a choice. We open this door, or we wait for the air to run out."
"And if you cast that spell," Ron muttered darkly, "we might be inviting something much worse than a curse to dinner."
As they bickered, the atmosphere in the room shifted. None of them noticed that the statue's stone lips had curled into a faint, mocking smile. One of its painted eyes slowly, deliberately closed in a wink.
Allen grew tired of the debate. He turned to the door and began to chant. The language was harsh, full of glottal stops and sounds that felt like they were scraping the back of his throat. With every syllable, the golden lion on the door began to glow. The mahogany patterns shifted and rotated like the gears of a complex lock.
Creeeeeak.
The door groaned open just an inch. A gust of stale, ice-cold air rushed out from the darkness within. But before any of them could take a step forward, the temperature in the hallway plummeted.
"Uh... guys?" Ron's voice was a terrified squeak.
The walls were bleeding. Not blood, but light. Faint, translucent shapes began to ooze through the solid granite. At first, it was just one or two, but within seconds, the corridor was teeming with them.
"What are they?" Nancy screamed, backing up until her heels hit the door.
"Ghosts," Ron choked out, his face white. "A lot of them. But it's okay... ghosts are just imprints. They can't actually hurt you... right, Allen?"
Allen didn't answer. He was watching the sheer volume of them. These weren't the talkative, eccentric ghosts of Hogwarts. These were silent, expressionless specters, their faces frozen in masks of eternal indifference. They were pouring out of the stone in a silent, silver tide, filling every inch of the space around them.
"OOOOH—"
The statue suddenly threw its head back and let out a wail that sounded like a thousand souls screaming at once. It was a high-pitched, vibrating screech that bypassed the ears and went straight for the nervous system.
Nancy grabbed her head, her face contorting in agony. The ghosts, previously silent, took up the cry. Their distorted faces began to twist and liquefy, reflecting the most horrific torments imaginable. It was a symphony of the damned—low, guttural moans mixed with sharp, piercing shrieks of agony.
"Save me! Make it stop!" Nancy shrieked, clutching Allen's arm. Her skin felt like she had been dipped in liquid nitrogen.
Allen reflexively cast a Silencing Charm on her, but it did nothing. Her eyes remained squeezed shut, her body shaking with tremors.
"It's no use!" Allen yelled over the din. "It's not sound! It's a psychic attack—they're screaming directly into our souls!"
Ron was struggling to stand, his wand shaking. As a wizard, he had more natural resistance, but even he looked like he was on the verge of fainting.
"Run!" Allen roared. "Into the chamber! Maybe the seal will block them out!"
But when they tried to move, they found their limbs heavy, as if the air had turned into thick molasses. The ghosts weren't physically touching them, but their presence was creating a field of spiritual lethality that paralyzed the living.
Allen knew he had to act. He needed a beacon.
"Lumos Maxima!"
He poured every ounce of his will into the spell. A blinding, sun-bright sphere of white light erupted from the tip of his wand. The ghosts nearest to them hissed and evaporated like mist under a blowtorch. For a moment, the screaming dimmed.
But the statue wasn't finished. It opened its mouth wider, its stone jaw unhinging to a grotesque degree, and a fresh wave of ghosts surged from the walls, faster and more numerous than the last.
"There's too many!" Ron cried out, shielding his eyes.
Allen looked at the statue. It was the source. The conductor of this horrific orchestra.
"Diffindo!"
The severing charm sliced through the spectral crowd, striking the statue's chest with a shower of sparks. But the stone remained unmarked. The ghosts acted like a literal shield, absorbing the magical impact and dissipating into shreds of silver smoke, only to be replaced by ten more.
"Magic won't touch him through the ghosts," Allen realized, his mind racing. "But maybe physics will."
He reached into his robes and gripped Merlin's Gem, feeling a surge of protective energy wash over him. He didn't have time to explain. He lowered his shoulder and charged.
He plunged into the thickest part of the ghostly army. The sensation was like being dunked into a vat of dry ice. As he passed through their transparent bodies, his mind was flooded with flashes of their final moments.
He saw a man bound in linen, screaming as a bronze hook was inserted into his nostril to extract his brain. He felt the cold touch of an obsidian knife as a priest carved open a torso to remove the lungs. He felt the suffocating darkness of being wrapped in miles of salt-caked bandages while still drawing breath.
The pain wasn't his, but for a split second, it was all he knew. He gritted his teeth, his vision blurring, and kept his feet moving toward the grinning stone giant.