Khonsuemheb & the Ghost
In the village of Deir el‑Medina, on the West Bank of ancient Thebes, archaeologists in the early 20th century uncovered something curious: broken pieces of pottery, known as ostraca, inscribed with a tale of a ghost and a high priest.
One shard, now held in Turin’s Museo Egizio (S.6619), was discovered in 1905 by Ernesto Schiaparelli. Other fragments lay in Vienna (inv. 3722a), Paris (Louvre 667+700) and Florence (N.A.M. 2616-17). Scholars pieced together the tale from these shards, though the beginning and ending remain lost to time.
The text is dated to the Ramesside Period (19th-20th Dynasty, New Kingdom) though it may reflect an older tradition.
The Tale of the Ghost and the High Priest (A re-write based upon the fragments)
Once, in the necropolis of Thebes, a man (his name unrecorded) was obliged to spend the night beside a tomb. No sooner had darkness wrapped the shafts than he was awakened by the presence of a spirit dwelling there. Troubled and fearful, the man hastened to the great priest Khonsuemheb (also rendered Khonsemhab, meaning; “Khonsu is in jubilation”), High Priest of Amun, and recounted his experience.
Khonsuemheb ascended to the roof of his house, invoking the gods of sky, earth, south, north, west, east and the underworld. “Send me that august spirit,” he cried. And the spirit came. “Tell me your name, your father’s name and your mother’s name,” asked the priest. “I am Nebusemekh, son of Ankhmen and of the lady Tamshas,” replied the ghost.
Moved by pity, Khonsuemheb offered, “I shall have a new tomb built for you, a coffin of zizyphus-wood gilded in gold, that you may rest in peace. Name your wish and it shall be done.”
Sitting beside the ghost, the priest wept: “How badly you fare! Without food or drink, without growing old or young, without seeing the sunlight or inhaling the northerly breeze, darkness is in your sight every day.”
Nebusemekh then recalled his past: “When I was alive I was Overseer of the Treasuries and military official under King Rahotep, I died in the summer of Year 14 of King Mentuhotep, who gave me canopic jars, an alabaster sarcophagus and a shaft-tomb ten cubits deep.
But now the ground beneath has collapsed, the wind reaches my chamber, no one brings offerings, and I am forgotten. Others promised to rebuild my grave (four times already the promise came) yet nothing was done.”
Khonsuemheb, undeterred, offered again: “Name your fine commission. I will send ten of my servants daily to pour libation and bring emmer for you.” But Nebusemekh lamented: “Of what use are such things? Unless a tree is exposed to sunlight, it does not sprout foliage; stone does not age, it only crumbles.”
In the next fragment, we learn that Khonsuemheb dispatched three men “each one…” to seek a fitting location for a new tomb. They found it at Deir el‑Bahari, near the causeway of the mortuary temple of King Mentuhotep II.
They returned to Karnak and reported their success to the deputy of the Estate of Amun, Menkau. The priest’s heart rejoiced.
And then… the story stops. The final lines are lost; we do not know for certain whether Nebusemekh’s tomb was rebuilt or whether the ghost rest was ever restored.
~
This haunting story is remarkable not only for its subject (a ghost conversing with a living priest) but for its empathy. The ghost is weary, eloquent, and deeply human. His anguish stems not from vengeance but from neglect, the disrepair of his tomb and the fading of his name.
For the Ancient Egyptians, remembrance was a moral duty; to be forgotten was a second death. In rebuilding Nebusemekh’s tomb, Khonsuemheb sought to heal the bond between the living and the dead, just as the festival rites of Osiris renewed the bond between life and the eternal cycle of rebirth.
The Possible Moral of Khonsuemheb and the Ghost
Beneath its ghostly surface, the tale of Khonsuemheb and the Ghost is not truly about fear; it is seemingly about remembrance. It teaches, with gentle melancholy, that the dead live on only so long as they are loved, honoured, and remembered.
The restless spirit of Nebusemekh is not a vengeful shade; he is a soul abandoned. His tomb has crumbled, the wind has reached his bones, and his name (the essence of identity in the Ancient Egyptian afterlife) risks being lost to silence. In his sorrow we hear not menace, but longing.
For the ancient Egyptians, to be forgotten was to die twice. The ka, the vital force, required nourishment; the ba, the wandering personality, sought communion with the living. Offerings of bread, beer, and incense were more than ritual acts, they were gestures of love. A well-tended tomb was a bridge between worlds, and a promise that one’s memory would not fade like plaster under sand.
Yet, this story transcends its time. It speaks to us, still. It reminds us that love demands effort, even beyond parting. That to neglect the resting place of those who came before us (whether a literal grave or the memory of their deeds) is to deny the roots from which we ourselves grow.
An abandoned tomb, an unvisited grave, or an unspoken name becomes a quiet warning: do not let neglect erode the bonds of care. The ghost’s lament is the echo of every forgotten promise, every fading photograph, every soul waiting to be remembered.
When Khonsuemheb wept beside the ghost, vowing to rebuild his tomb, he was not merely restoring a monument; he was restoring dignity. His compassion re-established the moral balance between life and death, between memory and oblivion.
So, too, can we. Whether through tending a grave, recalling an ancestor, or simply keeping the memory of love alive, we participate in that same eternal rhythm the Egyptians knew so well: that remembrance is resurrection.
In the story’s abrupt silence, we may imagine Nebusemekh finally at rest; his name spoken once more, his memory restored. And through this, we are reminded that to honour the dead is also to honour life itself.
