In November 1922, deep in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings, something extraordinary happened. British archaeologist Howard Carter and his team broke through a sealed doorway and stepped into a chamber untouched for over 3,000 years. Inside? The glittering treasures of Tutankhamun, the boy king whose name would soon echo around the world.
But it wasn’t just gold and statues that captured the world’s imagination. It was death.
Just a few months after the tomb was opened, Lord Carnarvon, the wealthy aristocrat who had funded the excavation, died suddenly in Cairo. Mosquito bite. Blood poisoning. Kidney failure. Pick your explanation. But the newspapers had already found theirs: “Death Comes on Wings to He Who Enters the Tomb of a Pharaoh.”
The Pharaoh’s Curse was born.
And it didn’t stop with Carnarvon. Over the next decade, several people connected to the discovery also died under what seemed like strange or sudden circumstances. A canary eaten by a cobra. A radiologist exposed to fatal doses of radiation. A visitor who collapsed after viewing the tomb. The pattern, though thin, was enough to ignite a frenzy in the press and among the public.
But was there ever really a curse?
In truth, Carter himself lived another 17 years after opening the tomb, dying peacefully at 64. Many others on the excavation team also lived long, ordinary lives. Statisticians have since pointed out that the death rate of those involved was no higher than that of any other group of their time.
So, where did the idea of a deadly curse really come from?
Part of the blame lies with the Western obsession with mysticism and the occult in the early 20th century. Egypt was the perfect backdrop for the exotic, the mysterious, the dangerous unknown. Combine that with newspaper editors hungry for headlines, and you had the perfect storm: curses, cobras, and crumbling empires.
But there’s also a deeper, more human story.
A growing number of Egyptians resented how their ancient treasures were being removed and sent abroad, often with little care for cultural ownership. There were whispers that the tombs were protected by more than stone—by ancient spirits or divine justice. Whether or not the curse was real, it became a symbol of respect for the past, and a warning to those who treated Egypt’s heritage as a trophy cabinet. And – in a land where Djinns, angels and the powers of unseen forces are held as real and normal, who is to say what is fact and what is fiction?
So, what really happened?
Most likely—nothing more than coincidence, poor health, and a flair for the dramatic. But even today, when you stand before Tutankhamun’s golden mask in the Grand Egyptian Museum, explore the depths of any tomb in the Valley of the Kings, or experience the eerie vibes in the tomb of Thuthmose III, a chill might run up your spine. Not from fear, perhaps—but from awe.
Because if there is a curse, it might just be this:
Once you’ve really glimpsed Egypt’s ancient world, you’ll never quite see your own the same way again.