Cryptomycota Aegyptiaca

In the quiet recesses of an ancient tomb, an embalmed body lies in perpetual repose. Suddenly, the eons of silence are disturbed… quietly at first, then growing louder. The mummy stirs, its limbs twitching, ancient tissues crackling in an uncanny semblance of life. It emerges from its ornate vessel, staggering, arms outstretched, seeking swift revenge on any who might have awakened it from its eternal slumber.
The popular image of this shambling corpse is disturbing, with its features, though taut and sunken, still recognizable after so many centuries.
In some ways, the visage of the mummy seems to mock the natural order, a stark defiance of entropy. Perhaps that is why we fear it—in the mummy, we see a horrifying reflection of our own mortality, frozen on a face of desiccated flesh.
But contrary to the undead creature you might have seen in the motion pictures, my valued listener, there is life here—though it is certainly not as you might expect. I present to you today a mystery that has intrigued scholars and stirred imaginations for centuries, and one that I have found to be entirely grounded in scientific reality—the legend of the reanimated mummy.

---

My own interest in ancient Egypt and its practices of mummification began when I was young. News articles of findings in that distant land were endlessly fascinating, and though the initial wave of so-called “Egyptmania,” triggered by the momentous uncovering of Tutankhamun’s tomb in ’22, had ebbed by the time I entered University, I have always held the subject close.
So when I was approached by a large pharmaceutical company just weeks prior to my graduation, I was both confused and intrigued.
My initial concerns as to what possible interest a pharmaceutical company like vita nova could have in ancient Egyptian burial practices were set aside the moment they presented me with a position and a salary I had previously thought unattainable—especially directly out of school.
And so, a few months thereafter, I traveled to Egypt. As part of my directive, I met with several local academics, as well as two teams of individuals who had recently uncovered something they could not explain.
As we approached the secure location that held the remains I would examine for the next few weeks, I sensed deep reservations on the part of my hosts. And, I must admit, my own pulse began to quicken as I began my work in earnest.
What I discovered there was an ancient form of life that is as wondrous as it is disturbing, and as usual, my valued listener, I implore you to set aside your preconceived notions of biological possibility, as I present to you Cryptomycota aegyptiaca—or, as some of called it, the Egyptian necrospore.

The Mummy

  The practice of mummification, particularly as it occurred in ancient Egypt, is a process that sailed along the line between life and death. It began with a delicate and macabre procedure: the extraction of the organs. The brain, deemed unnecessary for the afterlife, was pulverized via a long rod inserted through the nasal cavity, and subsequently drained out. The heart, considered the seat of the soul, was left untouched, a lone sentinel in a hollowed-out body.
The body was then bathed in natron, a type of salt, which leached the moisture from the flesh, transforming pliable skin into a hardened, leathery shell. This stage frequently lasted for forty days, a transformative period where the body was purged of its mortal frailties and prepared for an eternal journey.
Once the body was sufficiently desiccated, it was anointed with aromatic oils and resins, substances chosen not only for their preservative qualities but also for their symbolic significance. The body was then meticulously wrapped in linen, each layer serving as a protective barrier. Protective charms were often tucked within the linen wrappings, their mystical properties intended to safeguard the deceased in the afterlife.
The final act of this solemn process was the placement of the mummy in its sarcophagus—the closing of which signaled a final farewell from the realm of the living.
Years pass, sometimes thousands—yet these bodies often remain remarkably well-preserved.
In my time with several previously-exhumed specimens, I must admit that I was surprised at the level of preservation found therein, and I can’t deny an admiration for those who laid the body to rest.
In these specimens, though sunken and shriveled, the epidermis remained intact, even at the microscopic level—with cell layers, nuclei, and desmosomes still easily recognizable. Collagen fibrils and elastic dermal fibers were often also well-preserved.

  The internal organs, however, are reduced to shriveled remnants, if they remain at all. Yet, they too have been preserved, their structure still discernible after millennia. The heart, especially, left untouched during the mummification process, is consistently found in its place.
But in these embalmed bodies, perhaps the greatest point of note is the level of preservation observable in the muscle tissue.
I have directly observed intact boundaries in striated muscle cells, indicating preserved cell membranes, as well as the presence of collagen type I, indicating a robust maintaining of connective tissues.
In certain specimens, I was unable to detect many more sub-cellular organelles. But in others, where perseveration was particularly impressive, I was, astoundingly, able to discern intact sarcomeric units, namely actin and myosin. We’ll return to this point in due time, but in summary, it appears that in these specific specimens, the muscle structure was remarkably intact, despite its vast age.
But in truth, as I’m sure you have come to gather, and as intriguing as it is, the subject of my study was not ancient human preservation techniques.
What had led me to this distant land was the same thing that had so frightened those who first discovered it—in the modern era, at least. I beg your indulgence for a moment, as I provide some context.
Among the linens binding the bodies of two specimens I observed were a series of hieroglyphs. These cryptic images relayed a story that has been entirely lost to time, until now.

  Thousands of years before my arrival in Egypt, a group of priests gathered around an embalming table, their subject laid in front of them. Vessels of fluid, instruments, and scrolls lay nearby, placed carefully for the sacred work ahead.
One of these vessels, however, contained something… unique, neither plant nor animal. It was not dead, but neither was it living.
It appears that a splinter sect of priests, calling themselves something like “The Order of the Resurrected Sun,” chose for their deity Khepri, the scarab-face god of the morning sun.
This cult was granted a sacred gift, a physical manifestation of Khepri’s power over life and death. They referred to this gift as the Seeds of the Eternal Dawn, and in stark contrast to traditional Egyptian beliefs, this cult saw it as a way to manipulate the natural order of death and the journey to they afterlife.
Instead, these Seeds were thought to bring Khepri’s power of resurrection directly to the physical body, granting an obscene form of life that was undoubtedly regarded as blasphemous to anyone outside the order.
This cult added these Seeds to the resins and oils normally used for the process of embalming, effectively spreading them throughout the mummifying tissues. The body was then laid inside of a sarcophagus, with extra care given to sealing the heavy covering.
There, the bodies remained for millennia, the Seeds of the Eternal Dawn lying dormant within, waiting for the opportune time… to reawaken.

Cryptomycota aegyptiaca

It will likely come as no surprise, my valued listener, that though their precise origin is yet unknown, the Seeds of the Eternal Dawn were no mystical nor metaphysical substance.
Indeed, these “seeds” are the spores of a fungus I have tentatively named Cryptomycota aegyptiaca.
It is my hypothesis that this fungus is a member of Hypocreales, an order that includes many families–including ophiocordyceps, the infamous zombie-ant parasite. Though more research is necessary to determine aegyptiaca’s precise taxonomy, I can safely say that, at the very least, it is a sac fungi of phylum Ascomycota.
Like ophiocordyceps, aegyptiaca is a parasitic fungus with a specific definitive host–but of course, rather than insects, this particular fungus is anthropopathogenic—specialized to infect humans.
This alone is a momentous discovery, as until now, no fungus capable of influencing human movement patterns has been identified.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I can elaborate on how a fungus can manipulate a human host, I had to know how any form of life could survive for millennia within a dark, sealed tomb.
For fungi, however, the answer is well-documented.
Upon sealing of the sarcophagus, conditions that would otherwise promote germination are reduced, such as temperatures and nutrients. This causes the fungus to activate a series of genetic and biochemical responses. First, through the deposition of additional layers of chitin and melanin, the cell wall is thickened, providing protection against physical and chemical stressors, including desiccation and nutrient deprivation. Second is the downregulation of metabolic activity, such as the expression of genes that minimize energy expenditure and resource preservation.
In short, the fungus enters a state of prolonged exogenous dormancy. These processes are not unheard of in documented fungi, but I have observed that the cells of aegyptiaca are particularly well-suited for extraordinarily long-term resource deprivation.
 It appears that the cytoplasm of its spores are both exceptionally viscous and acidic, altering the solubility of its proteins—including metabolic enzymes.
Interestingly, the mummification techniques employed specifically by the Order of the Resurrected Sun appear to have resulted in much greater moisture retention than traditional mummies.
I believe that this was accomplished through two primary means:
First, the sarcophagi were sealed by what appears to be a unique mixture of resin, beeswax, and clay—all of which formed a nearly impenetrable barrier and maintained a kind of homeostasis within the coffin.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, the mummies themselves were wrapped in linen bandages soaked in a solution of similar resins that, when dried, likely retain a certain amount of moisture.
Interestingly, the fungal spores present in the body at the time of burial do not absorb moisture until germination, a process prompted by a change in certain environmental conditions, such as when the tomb is… disturbed.

Awakening

Throughout the time since these tombs were sealed, the treasures housed within have called to many. While some, especially in recent times, were more noble in their quest to uncover these tombs, others were decidedly… less so.
In either case, once the eons of arrested time harbored within these sarcophagi have been disturbed, a cascade of changes take place within the mummies’ fungal infection.
First, upon exposure to oxygen, the biophysical properties of the cells are awakened from their viscous dormancy. My observations indicate that metabolic activity significantly escalates, leading to a swift increase in the production of proteins, DNA, and RNA. Interestingly, this is the point, after so many centuries, that the spores begin to uptake any surrounding water, and may triple or even quadruple in diameter.
These changes are catalyzed by a group of specialized proteins that appear to act as molecular chaperones, which, under periods of extreme environmental stress, help prevent other proteins from becoming misfolded or aggregated.
Specifically, in response to an influx of oxygen, a heat shock protein I have named FspX appears to catalyze the transformation of both the cytoplasm’s level of viscosity and the reactivation of metabolic processes. FspX also appears to resolubilize certain proteins, which itself facilities a more fluid environment within the cells, further increasing their metabolism.
Crucially, the sequence of “reawakening” the fungal cells triggers another process: rapid and widespread growth throughout the mummified body.
From each of the spores, one or more germ tubes begin to protrude, growing in a characteristic pattern directed away from the spore's apex.
These tubes are actually the early stages of hyphal growth, the filamentous structures that form the primary architecture of the fungal network, itself known as the mycelium. As these germ tubes extend, they branch and interconnect, creating a complex web of hyphae.

In the specimens I examined, it was clear that these filaments extend across and, to a staggering extent, infiltrate nearly all of the mummified tissues.
But as with other fungal growths, this hyphal network is not a passive structure; as previously mentioned, it is actively involved in the extraction and absorption of nutrients from these tissues, enabling the fungus to grow and proliferate.
Simultaneously, the hyphae also serve as conduits for the transport of nutrients and signaling molecules. This allows the fungus to coordinate its activities across the entire mummified body, effectively turning the mummy into a single, interconnected fungal organism—a kind of extended phenotype exhibiting a level of sophistication that has, in the modern era, never been observed in detail.
In other parasitic fungal infections, the entire interior of host body, seen in certain ants, for example, may be essentially replaced with the fungus itself.
Not only this, but individual fungus cells will act cooperatively to form an interconnected community around mandibular muscle cells in the infected ant, separating muscle fibers and degrading motor neurons, which in turn, causes the ant to bite down on a leaf.. and never let go.
The fungus—ophiocordyceps, in this example—then produces hyphal outgrowths from the body’s orifices, anchoring the body to its substrate, while the saprophytic mycelium, consisting of lipid-rich storage bodies, colonizes and mummifies the insect cadaver. Interestingly, contrary to popular belief, at the time of death, this fungus is found everywhere in the ants’ body—except the brain.
In human mummies, however, most of this hard work of bodily transformation was accomplished by the embalmers.

And so, as the hyphal network penetrates the mummified tissues, it finds an environment perfectly suited for its habitation—in all ways, that is, except nutrients.
As a result, the fungus is forced to seek out a more hospitable location. And, upon germination, it will do so--through precise manipulation of the flesh that contains it.

Movement

On average, it appears to take roughly 48 hours for the fungal mycelium to infiltrate the atrophied muscle tissue to a level necessary for the next stage of its life cycle.
By this time, the mummy itself, having been exhumed by robbers or academics, may yet remain in its tomb. It may also be mid-transport, or even, in rare cases, at its destination—perhaps in the backroom of a museum or other facility.
Suddenly, its coverings begin to undulate, moved by the contractions of muscles that haven’t flexed for thousands of years.
In jerking, halting, shambling movements, it exits its confinement, ancient bones creaking and snapping as its upright body struggles to support its own weight.
The terror that would undoubtedly consume any observer to this macabre puppetry is… primal.
Fortunately, as we have already seen, even this disturbing sight can be fully explained by scientific means.
As the exploratory hyphae extend into key motor muscles—especially those in the legs—as well as stabilizers in the hips and lower trunk, it will inevitably encounter residual neural structures … and what happens next is a hallmark wholly unique to this species.

Interaction with CPGs

Nestled within the depths of the spinal cord lies a kind neural network, a true wonder of biological engineering referred to as a Central Pattern Generator, or CPG.
These neural networks are capable of producing rhythmic patterned outputs even in the absence of sensory feedback, and elsewhere in the body, they are responsible for controlling a variety of automatic, rhythmic behaviors, such as breathing and swallowing.
In fact, the rhythm of these outputs require no input nor oversight from the brain itself, unless a conscience effort is made to override them.
One of the most notable patterns controlled by a CPG is also one of the most complex: locomotion.
It has been well established that while the brain can and does control locomotion, CPGs within the lumbar spinal chord, along with their associated webs of neurons, can function completely independently from the brain, and can even adapt different gaits based on terrain—all without relaying signals to the brain. Indeed, the directing of these activities are inherent to the structure and connections of the neurons in the CPG circuit.
In its imperative to find a more suitable environment, it is this very particular biological feature that aegyptiaca exploits.
I must admit that more study is necessary to determine the full extent of the biological mechanisms that are employed by the fungus, but at this time, it appears that as the fungal outgrowths come into contact with the astonishingly-preserved neurons associated with locomotion, a class of fungal proteins I have named “Neural Residue Interpreters,” or NRIs, are expressed. These NRIs appear to bind to the remnants of voltage-gated sodium channels, which are essential for the propagation of action potentials in neurons. At a high level, this is allows these proteins to identify residual neural patterns.
Then, though the activation of a series of enzymes, such as protein kinase (kai-naise) C, the NRIs trigger a signaling pathway within the fungal cells, which in turn, leads to the production of specific fungal signaling molecules, which I call "Fungal Neuromuscular Modulators.”
In short, it appears that these modulators are designed to mimic the neurotransmitters that would have been released by the neurons in the CPGs in a living host. If, for example, the residual neural pattern indicates that acetylcholine would have been released at a certain time, the fungus produces an FNM that specifically mimics acetylcholine.
As you might have guessed, the fungal cell will then release its acetylcholine mimic into the intermuscular spaces which it has infiltrated. There, it binds with nicotinic acetylcholine receptors found on the host’s muscle cell membranes. This, of course, triggers the influx of sodium ions, leading to a depolarization of the membrane, which triggers the release of calcium ions from the sarcoplasmic reticulum within the muscle cell. The calcium ions then bind to troponin, a protein that regulates muscle contraction, ultimately leading to the contraction of the muscle fiber.

Amazingly, the fungal mycelium essentially appears to act simultaneously as a “middle-man” of sorts, reading residual neural signals, while also functioning as a rudimentary nervous system itself, expressing neurotransmitter mimics to preserved muscle tissues. Indeed, the extensive network of fungal hyphae lends itself to this very function.
Interestingly, the fungus appears to interface specifically with the CPG responsible for forward locomotion, and no others. In short, infected mummies can move only a single direction: forward.
But while this process is endlessly fascinating, the fungus now faces another problem.
The body it inhabits may now be mobile, but the intervening millennia have made it weak and fragile.
Fortunately, the mycelium serves yet another purpose here. As the pattern obtained from the locomotor CPG coordinates forward, bipedal movement, the mycelium is able to sense mechanical changes, such as those in pressure and distortion to its hyphal bodies. Indeed, mechanosensation is a well-documented phenomenon in fungi, facilitated by ion channels in the fungal cell membrane. In aegyptiaca, this allows the fungal outgrowths to respond to muscular imbalances in legs and hips by triggering additional hyphal growth. This, in turn, provides a kind of structural scaffolding that lends support to the lower half of the cadaver.
Additionally, in those regions where muscle strength is lacking, the hyphae can even mimic the arrangement of muscle fibers. As has been observed in other fungal infections, these filaments are capable of exerting mechanical force, effectively replacing the function of the degraded muscle tissue in the case of severe decomposition.
And so the fungus, now in control of the mummy's movements, begins its search for a more hospitable environment. Possibly aided by photoreceptors, a concept not unheard of in this kingdom, the fungus guides the mummy towards areas of higher humidity and temperature, conditions that are more conducive to fungal growth.
And still, there is one last hurdle the fungus must overcome—despite the efforts of the embalmers to preserve as much fuel for the fungus as possible, the centuries have taken their toll, and the host body’s store of nutrients are quickly depleted.
As a result, mummies are only capable of movement for very brief periods of time—in my observations, upright locomotion ends within approximately four to six minutes.
However, even after the cadaver has ceased to walk, it will exhibit irregularly-timed convulsions for an additional ten to twenty minutes, gradually reducing in frequency and severity.
If left undisturbed, the fungus will then enter the next phase of its lifecycle: dispersal.

Fruiting Body

After the mummy has collapsed, the body-wide mycelium that provided structural support proliferates further in the nearly-empty chest and abdominal cavities.
From either the anterior or posterior region of the torso, depending on how the body fell, a new structure erupts: the fruiting body.
This process, known as sporulation, is the culmination of the fungus's parasitic journey and marks its transition from parasitic to reproductive phase.
The first sign of this transition is the differentiation of certain hyphal cells into sporogenous cells. These cells, which are genetically programmed to become the architects of the fruiting body, begin to proliferate and differentiate into a complex, three-dimensional structure called the stroma, which serves as the foundation for the fruiting body and provides the structural support necessary for its growth.
As the stroma develops, the sporogenous cells continue to differentiate into various specialized cell types. Some of these cells become the asci, the sac-like structures that will eventually house the spores. Others become the paraphyses, sterile cells that provide structural support and help to create the microenvironment necessary for spore development.
Once the spores are fully formed, the fruiting body matures and prepares for the final stage of sporulation: spore dispersal.
When the conditions are right, the ascus undergoes a process known as ascal dehiscence, in which it builds up turgor pressure and then ruptures, forcibly ejecting the spores into the environment. This process can launch the spores several meters away from the mummy, ensuring their wide dispersal.
The ejected spores then begin their own journey, carried by the wind, water, or other vectors, ultimately in search of a new host to infect.
At this point, you may be wondering, just as I did, what might occur if these spores were inhaled or otherwise ingested by a living human host.
Fortunately, from the perspective of scientific study, at least, thanks to the group that initially discovered the two specimens I examined, I was able to observe this directly.

The Mummy’s Curse

As we’ve seen, Cryptomycota aegyptiaca is able to inhabit, infect, reanimate, and reproduce from a single dead body. However, its effects on living bodies are much different.
First, the fungus is ill-equipped to deal with the human immune system, as well as its high average body temperature.
 Second, the conditions necessary for its proliferation are not ideal in a living host. In other hosts, such as insects, parasitic fungi are known to degrade neuronal function as well as muscle tissue, leading to a desired outcome in mandibular movement, as well as eventual death—and only then can the fungus reproduce.
In humans, the processes necessary to infiltrate and degrade living tissue are likely too complex to affect in any sufficiently widespread manner—especially in the presence of the immune system. In theory, this could be overcome by infecting the brain directly, but even if the fungus could penetrate the Blood Brain Barrier, it would need to have adapted specifically in a way that would allow it to manipulate the brain at all. This is simply not the case for Cryptomycota aegyptiaca—at least, not yet.
Similarly, the body of a deceased human, undergoing normal decaying processes, is also not ideal. In short, it appears that mummified and desiccated muscle tissue provides the ideal substrate for the proliferation of hyphal bodies in the ample spaces between muscle fibers.
Even still, living organisms are not entirely immune from the effects of this fungus.
As previously mentioned, the opening of the tomb of Tutankhamun some years ago sparked a widespread interest in all things having to do with ancient Egypt. But as several members of the team that discovered this famous tomb began to die under mysterious circumstances, many speculated that their hubris in disturbing the Pharaoh’s place of rest had placed them under a curse.
Whether or not these particular individuals experienced any negative effects as result of their discovery is unsubstantiated. However, the concept of the mummy’s curse may have some grounds in reality.
As one might expect, I have found residual spores of Cryptomycota aegyptiaca, as well as dormant hyphal bodies, lining the sarcophagus, certain parts of the enclosing tomb, as well as upon the surface of the burial linens.
Undoubtedly, as the tombs of these particular mummies are disturbed, trespassers inadvertently release these dormant spores into the air. The sudden exposure to light, oxygen, or changes in temperature likely trigger the germination of these spores, leading to the initial stages of fungal growth. This could occur on the surfaces of the tomb, on the artifacts within, or even within the bodies of the tomb raiders themselves if they inhale or come into contact with the spores directly.
Initial symptoms are subtle, usually causing only mild symptoms or going unnoticed entirely. But as the spores begin to germinate and grow, they can cause a range of symptoms that may initially be mistaken for an allergic reaction or a benign respiratory infection.
However, as the fungal cells continue to grow and multiply, they can cause more serious symptoms, which can include shortness of breath, chest pain, and a persistent productive cough. Some individuals may even experience fatigue, weight loss, and a general feeling of malaise.
In severe cases, the fungus can cause a condition known as hypersensitivity pneumonitis, a type of lung inflammation that occurs when the immune system overreacts to the presence of the fungal cells in the lungs. Symptoms of hypersensitivity pneumonitis can include fever, chills, and difficulty breathing, and can lead to permanent lung damage.
In most cases, these symptoms will resolve on their own once the individual is no longer exposed to the fungal spores, and as previously mentioned, a healthy immune system and adverse internal conditions will prevent additional growth within the body.
As such, the curse of the mummy, while grounded in reality, is unlikely to cause long-term damage to anyone exposed to it. Still, when encountering any embalmed body from this time period, the use of a face covering is highly recommended.

Conclusion

Cryptomycota aegyptiaca is a remarkable organism, a testament to the ingenuity of nature and the mysteries of our own ancient past. Its origins are deeply intertwined with the rituals and beliefs of a long-lost civilization, a sect of ancient Egyptian embalmers who saw in this fungus a sacred gift, a means to bestow upon their deceased a semblance of life beyond death—however misguided this may have been.
Still, there is a question that pulls at me still. Why has this species not been found elsewhere—neither before, nor since?
At the time of my report, I cited the the unique circumstances surrounding its discovery and the specific conditions required for its growth as an explanation for why this fungus is not found elsewhere.
It makes some sense: The meticulous embalming process, the arid climate of Egypt, and the undisturbed sanctity of the tombs created an environment perfectly suited for the preservation and eventual reawakening of this fungus.
But in truth, I still do not know where these ancient priests found this species, growing wild as it undoubtedly did. Nor do I know how they ascertained the extent of its life cycle, or the exact techniques they used to ensure its survival. Sadly, this knowledge has likely been lost to time.
Worse, there are times when my confidence in aegyptiaca’s inability to infect living humans… wanes. Is it After all, the potential for adaptation and evolution is a hallmark of fungal organisms. Given the right circumstances, it is not inconceivable that this fungus could adapt to overcome the barriers that currently prevent it from infecting living tissue.
It is my sincere hope that knowledge isn’t only thing that remains lost to time.

Type

Fungal