The Curse of Tutankhamun: What Happens When We Count the Survivors?

Steps, a sealed entrance, and a tomb left remarkably intact compared to many other royal burials: the discovery of Tutankhamun in November 1922 has a compelling enough narrative of its own. The expedition diaries track the work from the uncovering of the first step to the opening of the individual chambers.1

Later accounts added another layer—a supposed curse upon those connected to the discovery. We examine this legend of supernatural retribution not as a proven conspiracy, but as an example of how selected events are woven into a confident, yet flawed, explanation.

Discovery is not a single moment

The archival chronology distinguishes the initial discovery of the entrance in November 1922 from the subsequent clearing and opening of the burial chamber the following year. The death of Lord Carnarvon is also part of the events of that first season.1

When these events are compressed into a single dramatic evening, the temporal connections become distorted. People who participated at different stages begin to appear as a single group that crossed a threshold and met a shared fate.

For the purpose of testing the legend, dates are not merely dry data. They define whom we compare, from what point we start the clock, and what exactly we define as "connected to the tomb." Without such boundaries, almost any later tragic event can be retroactively added to the story.

What happened to the man at the center of it all

Howard Carter did not die immediately after the tomb was uncovered. The biographical record from the Griffith Institute notes his death on March 2, 1939. The work of clearing, cataloging, and moving the contents spanned years, and the resulting archive preserves a vast amount of information.2

One survivor alone does not constitute a statistical study. However, Carter's presence in the timeline demonstrates why a narrative that lists only early deaths is incomplete. It misses the most obvious question: what happened to the rest of them?

This is precisely why selection is so important. If we start with tragedies and then look for a connection to the tomb, we get a different picture than if we first define the group and then check the fate of every individual within it.

An attempt to test the legend

In 2002, Mark Nelson published a retrospective study in the BMJ. Using Carter's records, he examined 44 Western participants and visitors, 25 of whom were classified as potentially "exposed" according to the study's definition. The analysis found no statistically significant link between this participation and mortality rates.3

The study has limitations: a small sample size, historical data, and incomplete information regarding the death dates of some in the comparison group. It is not a definitive check on every possible story, nor a diagnosis for any individual. But it is a more meaningful approach than a list of cherry-picked coincidences.3

Its most useful lesson is the method. Before explaining why a group suffered unusually, we must establish whether there is actually an unusual difference. A mysterious explanation cannot replace this first step.

The archive offers more than a curse

The Griffith Institute's digital archive provides diaries, photographs, and documentation of the findings. It allows for a look at the work of the discovery itself, rather than just its later popular fame.4 Behind the sensational headlines, real people, actions, and objects emerge.

This story does not need a fictional threatening inscription or an unverified version of a poison. Its interest lies in the clash between the memory of a great discovery and the way we arrange the coincidences that followed it.

In Conspiracies, we track such narratives to their source. In Secrets from the Past, we return to the findings themselves. In both directions, a carefully read archive can prove more unexpected than the legend we think we already know.