I spent the next few days becoming acquainted with the town and its people. Personally, I did not find most of the locals as reticent as my companion had led me to believe. Actually, many of the people I met during my casual rambles about the town and its immediate environs seemed willing, even eager to converse about their community and its history, in spite, or maybe because of, my rather labored Spanish.

Especially interesting to me, as it turned out, was the fact that many of the local people were descended, in part, from Sephardic Jews who had settled in this once remote region to avoid, as far as possible, direct contact with Church authorities. They had maintained a façade of Catholic Christianity while secretly retaining their Jewish identity. Gradually, they had assimilated with both Mexican settlers and the native Indians, remaining, nevertheless, quietly proud of their Sephardic roots.

Rousseau had apparently overlooked this bit of history, or perhaps considered it of trivial importance. Nevertheless, I viewed this as the most obvious explanation for the presence of the Hebrew Necronomicon in San Facundo. Indeed, if some of those eighteenth-century crypto-Jews had been involved in dark magical practices, as the presence of the book might indicate, then rumors of similar activities among the Indian natives of this region could have attracted them to settle here in the first place.

This informal reconnoitering also brought me my first glimpse of the "strange" ones, which I call them for lack of a better name. Truly, Rousseau did not exaggerate concerning their physical oddity; indeed, his descriptions left me unprepared for the actual appearance of those people. They tended to be of medium height, on the average, but this was difficult to ascertain due to their characteristically stooped posture and odd gaits, which seemed to be a sort of shambling shuffle, as if a regular human bipedal locomotion were alien to their normal means of ambulation. Their physiognomies were, however, the items of greatest strangeness. The heads tended to be elongated and the faces very narrow. Eyes were large, roundish, and bulging, giving the impression of being nearly, or totally lidless. Their mouths tended to be extremely wide, reaching well around to the sides of the face, with thin lips drawn back somewhat to reveal gums and teeth. The teeth themselves were of utmost oddity, being uniformly pointed, even back into the molar area. My impression was of the saw-like teeth found in certain species of carnivorous fish or reptiles. The skin of these creatures was of a brownish-grey color, quite unlike that of a typical Mexican or Indian. Its texture, as best I could tell, was rough, almost horny in fact, and there was a disquieting suggestion of squamousness.

My first face-to-face encounter with these beings occurred late in the afternoon of my third day in San Facundo. I was strolling along a side street near the main plaza. The afternoon was hot and I was thirsty. Presently, I came to a small store, little more than a hole in the wall, set in a venerable but dilapidated building of heavy yellowish brick, probably dating from the middle of the nineteenth century. I entered and requested a cold soft drink from the proprietor, a short, pudgy man of late middle age. Scarcely had he handed me the bottled drink when two other men entered. I first noticed the frozen expression on the owner's face, then turned to see two of the "strange" ones, only a few feet away. One of them muttered, or almost hissed, something in unintelligible Spanish which sent the fat little proprietor scurrying behind a curtain in the rear of the store. Both men eyed me in a curiously sinister way but said nothing. A moment later the owner emerged, carrying something in a paper sack folded over at the top, which he handed to the nearer of the two men. One of the creatures extended a gloved hand, placed some bills on the counter, and left with his companion as silently as they had come.

I turned to the proprietor, whom I knew slightly, with whose brother I had already conversed at some length the previous day, and inquired, "Quiénes eran? Who were they?"

"No quieres saber. You don't want to know," was his reply.

"But why do you say that?" I persisted. "I find your town fascinating and would like to know something about its more, shall we say, unusual side. Obviously, certain of your local citizens have characteristics that set them apart from the average person one meets on the street. What can you tell about them?"

"Yo no sé nada," was his curt reply, "and it would be much better if you did not keep asking. There are things better not known."

Puzzled, I left the store and continued along the street to the plaza. I noticed that the sun was sinking low and the first rays of what promised to be a glorious sunset were already painting the western sky in a riot of luminous color. I tarried about the plaza for perhaps another hour, until the last tints of purple, orange, and gold had faded into the gathering dusk. A sudden impulse caused me to turn my gaze toward the south, where the streets gradually sloped downward towards the narrow San Facundo River. There, beyond the low roofs of the town, beyond the tree-lined bluffs above the river, and across the rolling, dusk-shrouded plain rose the dusky shape of a distant outcropping. Starkly outlined against the darkling sky, I beheld El Tinieblo. Far more sinister, in view of the incident with the federales, a dark red glow seemed to emanate from its low, flat summit.

The following days proved extremely interesting. Quickly, I found that gaining the friendship and trust of certain people in San Facundo opened doors to many other acquaintances. My own Portuguese-Jewish heritage and knowledge of the Cabbalah would turn out to be advantageous in this respect. I soon discovered that some Sanfacundinos were quite familiar with Cabalistic teachings and concepts, and were eager to participate in discussions with outsiders who were learned in these matters, apparently hoping to enrich their own store of knowledge. Nevertheless, my attempts to learn more concerning the "strange ones" were invariably met with evasion or rebuff. In a more disquieting vane, I was starting to develop a sense of being watched and followed.

Among my newly found friends was one Don Ramiro De Leon-Espinoza, a local land owner and businessman whose family had been among the original settlers in the region. One morning, well into my second week in San Facundo, Don Ramiro and myself met for coffee and conversation in a cafe near the plaza.

"You, who are erudite in so many things, what really brings you to San Facundo?" he queried.

"Really," I replied, "I came on an invitation from an old acquaintance. He told me that, let's say, interesting things have happened here in the past, and some influence from those occurrences may linger on into the present."

Don Ramiro narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "And, of course, that acquaintance of yours is the gringo living in the house of Licenciado Santos Garza, is that not true?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it is," I replied, sensing a certain suspicion in his tone. "But I am here for purely academic reasons. As I've already told you, I am an anthropologist and the study of folklore is my specialty."

My companion took a deep sip from his cup, eyeing me over the rim as he continued, "I understand that, and it's a good thing. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You know, we don't appreciate that nosy bolillo, or Frenchman or whatever he is, prying into things that are none of his business. It is only because of our courtesy that we have not run him off."

I knew then why Rousseau had found the local people so inaccessible. I also understood Don Ramiro's words as a message intended for Rousseau.

"Now, let us talk of things we both find interesting," Don Ramiro suggested enthusiastically, his mood seeming to shift abruptly.

"I know of a site near here that I am sure you will find fascinating. It dates back to pre-Conquest times; it may even be thousands of years old. Our legends have it that the place was already old before the Aztecs, or even the Toltecs. Anyway, it is located on land that I own."

The prospect of visiting a largely unexplored pre-Columbian ruin truly excited me. "How soon can we go?" I responded with almost child like anticipation.

We drove out of town on a paved road for several miles, then turned onto another one of limestone gravel, known locally as caliche, which wound past alternating areas of cleared land and thick, spiny vegetation. We passed several ejidos, communally owned farms, and continued on into rolling uplands that manifested fewer and fewer signs of human habitation. Presently, the road degenerated into a mere track, little more than two parallel ruts running through thickly overgrown and rocky country. Fortunately, Don Ramiro's truck, a Ford utility-type vehicle with four-wheel drive, was adequate to the task.

"Is this area part of la zona maldita?" I casually inquired.

"You know of la zona maldita?" Don Ramiro answered with some surprise; then, anticipating my answer, continued, "Ah sí, your friend Rousseau must have told you."

"Rousseau," I corrected.

"Sí, whatever," was his curt reply. After a brief silence he volunteered, "We are very much into the zona. The ruins that I am about to show you are one of its focal points."

Abruptly, the trail ascended, topping the crest of a steep rise, then dipped slightly into a broad, almost level expanse. As my companion halted the truck briefly at the top of the rise, I viewed the scene extending out before us. There, jutting up from the thorny chaparral, I saw several low, truncated pyramids, along with what appeared to be a large conical structure and the jagged, broken tops of a number of walls. The structures appeared to be composed of a black basaltic stone, in rather striking contrast to the brownish-grey sandstone or pale limestone shale so abundant in that region.

"This is fascinating, Don Ramiro, but why hasn't this site been opened to archaeological study?" My academic orientation made the question inevitable.

"I have a very valid reason for not wanting that to happen," he replied quickly. "If the government knew of this place," he explained, "they would declare it, and the surrounding area, a national archaeological zone."

"But," I protested, "wouldn't that allow for organized research into the true origins and age of the site, the identification of the ancient culture to which it belonged? You, yourself say that it may be older than the Toltec civilization. Why, this might cause archaeologists to rethink some of their present beliefs concerning ancient civilization in Mexico!"

"It would only give government bureaucrats an opportunity to loot the patrimony of our ancestors!" he snapped. "They would take the best for themselves, or sell it to foreigners, and put whatever was left in museum store rooms to be forgotten and eventually thrown out with the rubbish."

I accepted his reasoning, which sounded sincere enough, though privately I suspected his real motive was fear of government confiscation of his property.

We left the truck and proceeded into the brush on foot.

"Be careful of snakes," warned my host. "We have several very poisonous varieties around here."

We made our way to the largest of the pyramids, scratching ourselves considerably on the thorny vegetation. I also noticed that my clothing suffered tears in several places. The pyramid, actually more of a rectangular structure with steeply sloping sides, rose some fifty feet from its base to a long platform. The platform itself was reached by means of a crumbling masonry stairway on the eastern face of the pyramid. Stunted mesquite and prickly pear grew from cracks in the basaltic blocks, and a tough wiry grass covered most of the platform surfaces, growing from centuries of accumulated soil and disintegrated masonry. Altogether, it was difficult to ascertain if the pyramid had ever served as the base for a masonry temple, as was usually the case with other ancient Mexican and Mesoamerican sites.

The top of the pyramid measured, in approximate terms, thirty feet in width by forty feet in length, and commanded an excellent view of the whole complex of structures. This large pyramid seemed to be situated near the western end of the city, for such the complex appeared to be. The crumbling remains of other buildings, including at least three smaller pyramids, stretched out for nearly three quarters of a mile to the south and east, though the tops of the structures were often barely visible above the thick, stunted vegetation. Obviously, the construction of such a center in this desolate and inaccessible site, with the primitive tools and technology probably available to the builders, had been no mean undertaking.

Of singular peculiarity among the crumbling stone edifices was the truncated conical structure mentioned earlier. As best as I could tell, its diameter was about one hundred feet at the base and it rose to an average height of some seventy feet, though the jagged outline of its rim suggested it had originally been much higher. Exploring entirely around the base, I could find no sign of a stairway or portal, or any other means of ingress or egress. Strangely, I noticed, the tower was devoid of any vegetation, with the exception of a sickly lichenous or fungous growth of a putrid grayish-green hue that spread in irregular patches up the sides of the structure. Also, notably absent were birds and bird droppings, nor were any of the swift striped-back skinks that abound in the area to be seen darting about the sloping sides of that mysterious black tower.

I abruptly noticed that Don Ramiro was nowhere about. Concerned that he had fallen, or otherwise injured himself in the crumbling stonework, I called out to him. After a few moments I heard his voice some distance away.

"Aquí estoy, aquí donde el ídolo."

I was taken by surprise as I had not seen any idol in the place. After a few minutes of searching I found my host, standing with an awed expression before a large carven figure of black stone.

The figure itself was about fifteen feet tall, and at first glance appeared to be a representation of some deity fashioned in the typical, highly stylized Mesoamerican mode. Closer examination, however, sent me reeling with revulsion. The "god," or whatever it was intended to represent, was actually some sort of fantastic sea creature, incorporating in its tentacled visage a grotesque parody of a face. Worst of all, the monstrosity was depicted employing its facial tentacles to force a human figure into its gaping, toothy mouth.

"What is it?" I asked.

"The Great Kutulli," he replied, in a voice that sounded almost reverent.

The day was becoming late. Noticing this, Ramiro motioned in the direction of the truck.

"Time to go," he said without further comment. I felt fully in agreement. The prospect of remaining in this place after dark filled me with an overpowering dread . . . a dread I could scarcely explain at the moment.

The long, bumpy trip back to San Facundo was made in silence. My companion seemed unusually pensive and answered my few inquiries in grunted monosyllables. As for myself, I simply felt too overwhelmed, too overloaded with unanswered questions to give voice to my thoughts.

We reached town just after nightfall. My host dropped me off near Rousseau's place, though I still had to walk a long block up a steep, dark street to reach the house. In the gathering gloom I discerned several shadowy figures approaching me. For some inexplicable reason, call it primal instinct, I realized that these figures meant extreme danger, for me, now! I broke for the house, running as fast as my unaccustomed legs would carry me. Though I did not look back, I fully sensed the close pursuit of my assailants, could almost feel their searing breath on my neck. The dim light from Rousseau's study still seemed infinitely far away, and I caught a brief glimpse of something running, or loping just to my right side, almost close enough to grab me. I cried out, an incoherent scream of desperation and terror.

"Ay basta! Lárguense a la chingada pinches demonios encartados! Vámonos! Asquerosos chingados!"

I didn't see who was yelling, threatening, and cursing in a coarse female voice, and at the top of her lungs. I merely fell, exhausted, on my hands and knees. Presently, I felt a strong, thick arm help me back to my feet.

"Ay, pobre güerito. Por tantito te llevan a la chingada esos pendejos!"

I stared into the face of a copper-skinned woman of uncertain age, not unusually tall, but powerfully built, with a stocky, heavy-boned body. Her rugged Indian features and small bright eyes somehow inspired confidence.

"Who were they?" I panted.

"They were nobody that you ever want to meet," she replied, adding, "They know better than to mess with me; I know ways to make them curse their mothers for bringing them into this world. Ha!"

"But señora, who are you?" I asked, beginning to catch my breath.

"Everyone calls me Doña Tencha. They say that I'm a bruja, a witch."

"Are you?" I asked, wondering.

"What do you think?" she responded, half laughing. "Ha, ha! Take care." With that, she disappeared into a dark cluster of shacks situated just off the street.

I arrived at the house and fumbled for my key. Before I could insert it in the lock, Rousseau unexpectedly opened the door.

"My God, Shapiro! What happened? You look like you've seen the devil himself!"

"Maybe I have, or a close enough facsimile," I answered.

"But . . . but, how . . . what happened?"

Obviously he was taken aback by my state at that moment. I proceeded to give him as complete an account as possible of my recent peril.

Rousseau pondered for a moment, as if trying to make some sense out of what I was saying, then offered, "I don't think it was a matter of common street ruffians. You say that they seemed to be terrified of the woman . . . what's her name? Tencha, did you say?"

"Yes, she said that's what people call her."

"Funny," he replied. "I had heard something about some kind of witch or sorceress living near here. I don't know why I never looked her up. She might be a good source of information."

"She probably saved my life," I responded, rubbing my forehead.

My companion seemed to reflect for a moment. "Do you think it was the freaks?"

"I'm sure it was several of them!" I shot back, somewhat annoyed at his seeming failure to grasp the significance of the matter.

"And you say they were terrified of her?"

"That's what I said; but wait, you know, I heard her call them 'demonios encartados'."

"Hybrid devils? Maybe just an epithet, but . . . "

I cut off Rousseau's reply in mid-sentence. "Did you ever read any of Lovecraft's works Carl?"

He shook his head.

"In several of his stories referring to the 'Cthulhu Mythos'," I continued, "Lovecraft described hybrid beings resulting from unions between certain strange sea creatures, apparently some sort of survival from an earlier, pre-human age, and renegade humans. Those hybrid beings were dedicated to the restoration to power of the extra-dimensional entity Cthulhu and his kind, called the 'Ancient Ones,' on our own earthly plane of existence. At least that's how the stories went."

Rousseau's face manifested a mixture of revulsion and astonishment.

"So . . . you believe these freakish-looking people we see around here are some kind of alien hybrid? Good God, Shapiro . . . do you realize the implications of what you're suggesting?"

"Unfortunately, I do," I replied.

Now I knew, beyond any doubt, that my strange sense of being watched and followed reflected a very real danger. Quite in violation of my normal adherence to Ivy League conventions of "political correctness," I was now applying the label of "fish faces" to the repellent beings that lurked about in the late afternoon shadows and darkness of night. After all, those creatures definitely had it in for us, or at least for me. Strangely, Rousseau had never been accosted, or even approached by any of the oddities, which seemed difficult to explain considering the length of his stay in San Facundo.

The following afternoon I met with Don Ramiro at a quiet local tavern. After providing him with an account of the previous night's events I queried, "What do you think it means Don Ramiro?"

"Pues, I think it means you had better be careful," he replied, lifting his eyebrows in a kind of facial shrug.

"But, why do you think they jumped me while they've left my friend Rousseau alone all this time? Also, Don Ramiro, what can you tell me about those people, and who is Doña Tencha?"

"Please Profe, one question at a time. Now you ask why they attacked you and not Rou . . . whatever his name is; well, maybe it is because you have come too close to certain things that are better left alone. As for Tencha, she is a curandera, a folk healer who, maybe, practices a little black magic now and then."

Unsatisfied, I continued to prod him.

"And the creatures themselves, who, or what are they?"

He paused for a long moment, as if uncertain how to answer my question. "They go back a long time," he half whispered, then continued, "The indios here, they practiced strange rituals, things that so horrified the priests that they killed hundreds, burned them alive, to cleanse the land of the abomination. That is how they saw it."

"But the strange ones . . . ," I interrupted, scarcely able to contain my curiosity.

"Have patience, my friend; I am coming to that."

He glanced quickly over his shoulder and leaned forward, obviously not wishing to be overheard. In a low voice he continued, "This will sound incredible to you, with your scientific training, but the indios were in contact with very ancient beings, monstrous things from the sea." My companion stopped momentarily, seeming to gage my reaction, then resumed his story. "Those things, animals or devils, or whatever they were, demanded constant sacrifices, human sacrifices. They taught the Indians to do horrible things, to devour the sacrificial victims the same way that they liked to do it . . . alive and conscious!"

I recoiled at this. The very idea of a living, conscious human being torn apart and devoured by savages and the abominations they worshipped, while the poor wretch was aware of the hideous thing being done to him, seemed horrible beyond all imagining.

"They showed them how to tear the flesh away without damaging the main blood vessels or nerves. The victim would live on for hours while the flesh was being ripped from his bones. They did it with their teeth you know. That is how the sea demons taught them to do it. The pain suffered by the victim, along with his gradually ebbing life force, served as a kind of food for the others."

Though gagging from my companion's horrible account, I still needed to learn more. I sensed that I was very close to receiving an important revelation. I urged Don Ramiro to continue.

"It only gets worse," he assured me, "but if you wish, I will tell you what I know."

He poured himself a double shot of brandy, took a deep sip, and continued, "After a long time, maybe a century, the sea-things suggested to the Indians that they give their young women up to them, that they have their children. The beings assured them that these children would be as gods."

"But, why didn't they just take the young women?" I interjected. "I mean, with the power those things held over the Indians . . . "

"Perhaps they had to come willingly or it would not work." This was my companion's answer. "The reality is that I do not know. At any rate, the things from the sea served the others."

"Others . . . but, what kind of others?" I prodded.

"Things from . . . from outside."

He took another sip.

"There are beings . . . or entities that we cannot see, cannot be aware of with our normal five senses, at least not unless they want, or allow, us to be. They exist in other dimensions from those we know . . . or between dimensions. Anyway, they are not subject to the laws of space and time as we know them. The greatest among them on this planet is called Kutulli."

"That horrible idol we saw at the ruined city . . . you said it was the Great Kutulli."

"Sí. The city was built by the ancient ancestors of the Indians the Spanish found here. It had fallen into ruins many centuries before those Europeans arrived here with their absurd worship of a crucified and dying god. The people degenerated; they lost their civilization but their beliefs continued. They carried out their sacred rituals of blood sacrifice for many centuries, always certain of the proximate advent of their god . . . Great Kutulli. Are you wondering from where came their cult? They brought it from the place of their origin . . . their legends told of a great continent in the place where the sun rises, the land that now sleeps beneath the sea."

Ramiro's face took on a strange, distant cast.

"Their god, or his servitors, eventually took notice of this devotion. As you know, the coast is only about forty kilometers east of here. The people often went there to fish, even as they do now. At a spot on the coast known as Naniché, 'Place Where We Meet' in the language of the native Indians, the tribal priests summoned the beings from the sea. This contact confirmed their faith. They now could speak directly with the servants of Kutulli, even as their long ago ancestors had done, according to legend."

"So, that was the beginning of the cannibal cult?" I interrupted.

"Sí. Of course, the Indians had performed human sacrifice for countless centuries before, but never in so horrible a way as I described earlier. The sea beings taught the Indians many things, many rituals and magical chants said to be powerful in hastening the return of Great Kutulli and the Ancient Ones." With this, Don Ramiro became unexpectedly silent.

I took advantage of my companion's prolonged pause to reflect on his words. Obviously, there was a philological relationship between "Kutulli" and the "Cthulhu" of Lovecraft's tales. Many other similarities were also apparent, too many for my comfort.

At length I inquired, "Is it not true that the first Spaniards to permanently establish themselves in this region were friars of the Augustinian Order?"

"Yes . . . and no," he answered. "Before the priests came there were others; they came here because they wanted to get away from the Church's lackeys, to a place where they could practice their beliefs without interference. They were all originally judíos, but among them were some who called themselves Cafanes. They were worshipers of a god called El Asuado. Their cult was taken from the writings of the Sepher al Azif. I think your friend has a copy. Several were made locally from the original, which is . . . where no one can lay hands on it. A few specially chosen ones from each new generation of Cafanes were taught to read the ancient writing, a tradition passed along to this day among their descendants, who are known as the Rabana.

"These people, the Cafanes, worshipped the same way the Indians did. They shared in the rituals and sacrifices, and taught the Indians new ones from their book. Everything went well for them until the priests came. They came to convert the Indians, but . . . ," he chuckled, "the first to be sent here were converted themselves . . . when they saw the power of the conjurations from the book . . . and what the sea gods could actually do, something they could behold with their own eyes, not just accept by faith, they believed, and participated in the rituals of sacrifice. For this, they were punished by the Church."

Now I understood the import of Rousseau's statement concerning the twelve priests who were blinded, mutilated, and imprisoned by the ecclesiastical authorities. A clearer, albeit terrible picture of San Facundo's secret past was taking shape in my mind. Here dwelt a tribe of Indians, probably believing themselves descended from ancient Atlanteans or some such. They had achieved a fairly high level of early civilization, then regressed to a primitive state, maintaining, through it all, a cult dedicated to the Ancient Ones, hoary and abominable entities from beyond all time and space as we humans understand those concepts.

At some later time, still long before their initial encounter with European civilization, the Indians had established contact with ancient and dreadful beings from the sea, beings that were dedicated, or bound, to the service of the Ancient Ones, especially to Kutulli. Much later, some of those same Indians had submitted to sexual congress with the sea creatures, and thus created a race of hybrids better able to function freely in the world of men. Eventually, this strange mixture had come to include certain apostate Jews, who, through their possession of the unspeakable Necronomicon, had come to share beliefs and practices almost identical to those of the Indians.

This "Kutulli" must certainly be the same as Cthulhu, who "In his house in R'lyeh lies not dead but dreaming," according to Lovecraft's mythos. Incredible as it all seemed, that mythos seemed to be based, at least partly, on actual belief systems, and far more hideously, on actual occurrences. The implications filled me with a sense of primal horror and dread.

"You look pale, my friend. Perhaps the things I have told you are a little too much for your sensitivities." Thus said Ramiro.

"The things you have told me," I answered, "even if partially true, speak to man's worst and most primal fears. Merciful God, Ramiro! If this is true, then what implications does this have for the rest of us… for the very concept of humanity?"

That night I dreamed . . . dreamed horribly. I found myself standing before the strange black tower in the ruined city, though now it was not in ruins. The tower jutted up before me into the night sky. A great, gibbous moon gleamed overhead, casting its pallid light on the scene, which was also illuminated by the red glow of massive bonfires. I was aware of motion and the incessant throbbing of some huge drum. Presently, I saw that the tower was completely encircled by three concentric rings of celebrants, squat men and women with broad faces and prominent cheek bones, their straight hair matted and their naked bodies painted hideously from head to foot in red and black. Around and around the base of that menacing black truncated cone they leaped and whirled in their frenzied dance, to the obscene rhythm of that great unseen drum and to the high, monotonous whine of flutes. Some distance away, in the shadow of a hideous black idol, squatted others, hungrily gnawing the last shreds of bloody flesh from bones that I knew belonged to no four-footed beast. At that point I noticed the outermost ring of dancers, the one formed by other celebrants, those that hopped, flopped, and floundered about grotesquely, keeping time with the horrible thunderous beating of the drum and the maddening whine of flutes.

Suddenly, all was silent. An interval of time passed, impossible to measure in a dream state, and the drumming and piping began anew, this time accompanied by a strange low chanting that gradually rose to an almost deafening crescendo. The words, scarcely intelligible in themselves, seemed to reverberate in the very core of my brain: "Ph-nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." Something compelled me to look high up, toward the rim of the tower. In the uncertain light and moving shadows I could make out that the rim was fashioned of a stone different from the rest of the edifice, something shiny and black, like onyx. It seemed to be covered with carvings. As the chanting reached an almost unbearable pitch, I saw several huge black snakelike objects rise out of the tower. Presently, these stretched out far in all directions, writhing in the night sky high above our heads. Then, something of singular horror took place: above the waving tentacles a sort of face seemed to be forming, or materializing. The head, in its upper part, suggested some grotesque parody of the human face, but below the eyes all similarity ceased. The lower part of this obscene visage consisted of a writhing mass of tentacle-like appendages surrounding a black gaping maw, I won't call it a mouth, from which drooled a nauseating yellowish ichor. As I stared paralyzed with horror at the blasphemous obscenity forming above the tower, I saw the hideous eyes look downward, focusing on me!

I awoke screaming in the predawn hours, bathed in cold, clammy sweat. My heart was pounding like the terrible drum which I had heard in my dream.

Created: May 3, 2003; Updated: August 9, 2004