The mortality statistics of the 1922 Tutankhamun tomb opening

We love the idea of an ancient Egyptian hex picking off archaeologists like a slasher flick. When King Tut’s tomb was opened in 1922, the press went wild claiming a "curse" was hunting the team.

In reality, the statistics are hilariously boring. A study of the 26 people present showed they lived an average of 24 years after the opening, mostly reaching their 70s.

Lord Carnarvon died of a mosquito bite, but Howard Carter lived another 17 years. The only thing truly cursed was the media’s ability to do basic math.

Wait, how does a mosquito bite turn into a legendary mummy's curse?

Lord Carnarvon didn't die from a pharaoh's wrath; he died because he was clumsy with a razor. He nicked a mosquito bite while shaving, which led to blood poisoning. In a world without antibiotics, a tiny cut was a death sentence.

The press pounced on the "curse" because the lights in Cairo flickered at the moment of his death. In reality, Cairo’s power grid in the 1920s was notoriously unreliable and prone to blackouts.

They turned a mundane medical tragedy into a global ghost story. It’s much more comforting to believe in magic than to admit a billionaire can be killed by a bug and a dull razor.

What did the "curse" actually say then?

The "curse" text was actually a complete invention by the newspapers. There was no "Death shall come on swift wings" carved anywhere near the entrance.

The actual inscriptions were standard religious blessings. They were meant to protect the King's soul, not to act as a magical landmine for visitors.

Most of the writing was just ancient safety instructions, like "I am the one who prevents the sand from choking the chamber." It’s a lot less scary when you realize the "curse" was just a 3,000-year-old maintenance manual.

So who was the creative genius behind this fake death threat?

You can thank Arthur Weigall, a journalist who was incredibly salty about being scooped. The Times had exclusive rights to the tomb, so Weigall, stuck on the sidelines, decided to get creative to sell papers.

He didn't just invent a hex; he tapped into the 'mummy's revenge' trope already popular in Victorian trashy novels. He basically took a boring archaeological site and gave it a Hollywood rewrite for the clicks.

It’s the ultimate historical petty move: starting a century-long superstition just because you were mad about your press credentials.

Hold on, how did one grumpy reporter actually trick the entire world?

It started with a snarky comment. When Lord Carnarvon was laughing and joking before entering the tomb, Weigall—who was already fuming—told a fellow reporter, "If he goes in in that spirit, I give him six weeks to live."

When Carnarvon actually died exactly six weeks later, Weigall didn't admit it was a lucky guess. He doubled down, claiming he’d seen "signs." He basically became a 1920s clickbait influencer, turning a coincidence into a "prophecy."

It’s the ultimate reality check: the "Curse of the Pharaohs" wasn't born from ancient magic, but from a bitter journalist who happened to be right about a guy's life expectancy by total accident.