The Offspring of Iris

 Locked up in four walls, devoted to the ink that runs from my pen and to the somniferous but apasiguante effect of morphine and liquor, I dedicate myself to perpetuate my warning to anyone who has the audacity to meddle among the anthropology of ancestral cultures.  Returning from my journey along the length and breadth of the Hindo, river of the plumbago blue torrent, I ventured through the mountains that once belonged to the eastern arcadias of cyclopean architecture and lost idols. I was on the trail of a blasphemous sect that had left a series of obscenities and indecipherable writings along the Mediterranean strip. I could glimpse that it was them because of the multiple police reports and notes in the newspaper "The advisor" that warned of an ineffable horror carried by beings that could not be called human... but they were. 

My voyage across the Indian Ocean meant my entrance into one of Dante's circles from which there is no return; I knew I was following in the footsteps of something even darker than the African voodoo circles that lurk in remote places like the Congo, but it is appropriate to note that the studies of Professor Wilcox D. Gearfor had given me a pluvial imagination, studies about a blasphemous cult that was hidden in the chinks of the world... a cult whose idol dated back to countless eons.

But what brought my delirium to its peak, and I must admit that, perhaps because of the madness and fever, it gave me a fit of giggles, was my arrival at the Sabines wasteland, known to the locals as the Iris compound. I had been warned about what this city hid in its heart, but I ignored it, for the hunger for knowledge and truth that besets all who are devoted to the sciences, blinded me to any risk.

I knew that the nomads of the Cyclopean cult would be here; but I did not imagine what I would find.

On a gloomy night, a mechanical sound roused me from my Morpheus-surrendered lethargy; I hurried out of my hut to the heart of the city, where the locals were crowded before a wall of infernal fire with a monolith of slime-drenched rock in the center. I rushed to ask one of them what was going on, only to be met by an amber-painted being mumbling an incomprehensible language. Among the chinks in the copious orgy of dancing and desperate beings, I caught a glimpse of the dismemberment of an animal that had been disfigured until it looked like a beelzebub's offspring.

One of them, naked and stained in blood came out of the maze of people and managed to tell me in Spanish, between superfluous sounds and incomprehensible babbling, "They came from the stars that whisper in the serenity of space, and brought their idols with them" after this I made my escape to fall into a fever that lasted three days and a delirium that is incredible to me.

Every time I remember the horror of that night of insatiable cradle and mysterious cult, it makes me tear my hair out in anger. But the sigh of life that fueled the drug, the aniseed liqueur and the letters is over. Dementia has consumed me to the point of whitewashing my face. It's incredible, but as I finished this testament a taciturn whisper bristled my skin saying in my.... 《No one escapes the power of the primordial, as well as you, all will fall from delirium to feed the goddess》