The Last Pharaoh by Thomas P. Kelley

Book Details

In The Last Pharaoh by Thomas P. Kelley, the disembodied heads of the illegitimate son of a concubine of Pharaoh Thothmes II and the favorite daughter of the great Queen Hatshepsut, fifth Pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty, have survived to the present day. They need to take over the bodies of living people so that they can walk among the living again. She lusts for the sins of the flesh. He is driven to world conquest. One American traveler to Europe stands in their way.

A strange weird story of a castle of doom on the West African coast—an unbelievably fascinating tale of an English girl and her American sweetheart, and the amazing fate that befell them.

The Last Pharaoh
l. – The Lady on the Liner

2. – The Devil’s Ambassador
3. – Shanghaied
4. – A Break for Liberty
5. – The Castle of Gloom

Part 2 – The Story Thus Far

6. – Karamour, Last of the Pharaohs
7. – The Flame of Egypt
8. – The Ravages of Thothmes
9. – The Flight from Memphis
10. – Oil of Eternal Life
11. – The Curse of the Ages

Part 3 – The Story Thus Far

12. – Princess, or What?
13. – I Talk with Atma
14. – The Justice of Karamour
15. – The Enchantress of Sin
16. – Sheba’s Treasure

Part 4 – The Story Thus Far

17. – When the Tide Comes In
18. – A World Gone Mad
19. – The Horror of the Tower
20. – While Flames Mount Skyward

Thomas Patrick Kelley (1905-1982), was the self-proclaimed “King of the Canadian Pulps” and the “Fastest Author in the East.” He began writing pulp fiction in the 1930s, publishing mostly with Weird Tales and Uncanny Tales.

Endorsed by the
Darling Terrace Publishing Co.

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1. TPKelley-TheLastPharaoh.epub

Excerpt: The Last Pharaoh

l. The Lady on the Liner

On the West African Coast
Sept. 9th or 10th, 1931.

OH GOD! that it were all but a dream! If only I could arise to find that it had been some horrible nightmare, and that now, safe in my hotel room, I would shortly be dining with my Carol. I would shout with joy. I would fall on my knees with prayers of thanks for my safe deliverance.

All is quiet within this great castle of death. No sound, no faintest whisper echoes through its age-old halls. From the loftiest turret to the deepest dungeon a tomb-like silence prevails. Even the squeals of the rats have ceased. That, of course, is to be expected. They have fed well!

A glorious moon shines through the open window to light the interior of the ancient throneroom. From without comes the cool swish of the Atlantic. High overhead, and mysterious as the dark continent itself, are the burning desert stars. The very night that surrounds me teems with a weird beauty.

Before me, in a flood of lunar rays, lies Atma, the incomparable. The scantily clad body of the love-maddened Princess makes a picture of beauty and passion, while that wondrous face, youthful and unchanged by the centuries, still holds the same sensual charms that once aroused unholy desires in Thothones, Pharaoh of Egypt, thirty-four hundred years ago!

How can I tell my story, how can I ever begin the narration of this tale? What words can describe the indescribable, or relate that, upon which I have looked during the past ten days? Sights unbelievable, unthinkable, scenes that were never meant for the eyes of mortal man.

No, I am not mad. This record is not the ravings of an imbecile. On the contrary, it is the authentic data of one who has passed through the most horrible experience a relentless fate could ordain.

I will write my story—the strangest ever penned by man—as it actually happened to me. Nothing omitted, you shall hear the age-old history of Karamour as he himself told it. When I have finished, I will seal my story in this old wine-bottle, cast it into the Atlantic and take the one course left: I will fire this hellish rendezvous of the ages!

The destruction of these great portals alone can save an unsuspecting world from an unthinkable horror. Carefully must I feed the flames till there can be no chance of failure; then, with the burning well under way, I will grasp the modern pistol of an ancient Pharaoh, breathe a short prayer to my maker, and send a heavy bullet crashing into my tortured brain.

It is not through fear that I take this step. Certainly nothing the future might hold could ever compare with the terrors of the past. It is necessary to blot out, to erase those horrible memories.

And now to my story.

MY name Is Neil Bryant. I was born in Boston, twenty-seven years ago. No need to weary you with the details of my early years; they were those of the average young American whose people were fairly prosperous. Suffice to say that the death of my father, five years back, found me owner and manager of a well-established lumber concern. For five years I toiled in the yards and offices of my late sire, learning the business from experience and the wise counsel of an old employee.

Then came that fatal vacation. Feeling the need of rest and a change, I booked passage for England. It had been my intention to travel extensively, with later visits to Paris, Rome, and possibly Madrid, but these plans, alas! were never realized.

It was the second day out from New York. Leaving the smoking-room en route to my cabin I had stepped into the path of a tall, willowy girl.

“Pardon!” I ejaculated.

For an instant two blue eyes looked at me quizzically; then the pretty face broke into a smile.

“It is nothing,” she laughed. “I am quite all right.”

“Thanks to a merciful providence,” I answered, eager to keep up a conversation with my fair shipmate. “I really should have been more careful.”

Still smiling, the girl continued her interrupted walk toward the dining-saloon. I watched her retreating form approvingly, then beckoned a passing steward.

“Who is that young lady?” I asked.

“She is booked, sir, as Miss Carol Terry, of Southampton, England,” answered the steward.

Excerpt From: Thomas P. Kelley. “The Last Pharaoh.”