Iblis

"Behold! We said to the angels, "Bow down to Adam": They bowed down except Iblis. He was one of the Jinns, and he broke the Command of his Lord."—The Quran

There is an eldritch legend amongst the devout Muslims, about the evil nature of the fallen angel that was cast from the Earth. He is mentioned in the Quran and in the Christian scriptures, as the genuine embodiment of the Shaitan or the Devil.

According to this unique legend, he once lived before the creation of humans was established. A human-like body with blazing eyes, a long tail, sharp claws, four wings, and large horns that protrude over his towering head. His terror is indescribable and sinister in nature, as is his lethiferous guise. No man has ever lived to tell the horrendous origin of his sudden exile, for they fear his indomitable wrath and inauspicious fate. Those who dare to awaken his terror shall do so at their imminent peril and risk. He is the worst of all demons conjured, and he is called Iblis.

It was near the evening in the year 1920, when I arrived at the village of Shinjar, in the region of Nineveh. It was the home of the Yazidis, an ancestral race of Kurdish people in northern Iraq. The amber rays of the twilight reflected upon my face as I arrived on camelback. I had been on a wearisome journey that had lasted almost a day, from the country of Syria that bordered Iraq. The distance was not the issue; instead, it was the unbearable heat of that season. It was summer when I reached the village.

The Yazidis were monotheistic in their religious beliefs, but some were close to the Zoroastrian faith of Iran. They were considered heretics by Muslims and persecuted by Arabs and Turks. Their rural settlements of villages were located along a vast mountain range called the Singhal Mountains.

The mountain range ran east to west, rising above the encompassing alluvial steppe plains in northwestern Iraq. The mountain of Shingal was regarded as sacred. It was once the site of a pyramidal ziggurat and had seen the former occupiers of Assyrian, Hittite, Roman, and Arab empires rule over this terrain. It was a patch of mountains in the middle of nowhere.

It was there, in a lone cavern situated between the mountains, that the discovery of a stone-figured statue would be found, along with ancient artefacts that had belonged to the Mesopotamian period of Iraq and other periods. I could never have imagined in my immarcescible dreams that what we would uncover would be a demonic force, buried for centuries, and once worshipped through pagan rituals.

My name is Graham Hargrove, and I am an archaeologist from the University of London in England. I had come to the area to excavate the site, where the supposed ancient artefacts would be found and taken back to the university. I had been occupied with the tedious bureaucracy of the Turks, who would not permit me to travel to the region due to the conflict of the war.

With the fall of the Ottoman Empire and the end of the war, I had been granted permission to travel from the border of Syria into Iraq and access Shinjal. I had been to Kurdistan once and had ventured there before the war had commenced and restricted the entrance of foreigners, mostly Europeans whose countries were allied against the Ottomans.

I was met there at the village by a certain archaeologist, who was from Mosul and Kurdish himself. His name was Haval Barzani. He had been working in the area with another English archaeologist on a prior expedition before the war. My expectations were high, and I was certain that we would ultimately discover some significant artefacts that were valuable.

During the Great War, I had spent my time in Africa, delving into ancient fossils of mammoths. The war had denied me access to certain areas of the world and had limited my propensity for discoveries. There was so much about the ancient world that remained undiscovered. I had brought a journal with me to record the events of the excavation. Due to the fact that I had arrived before nightfall, it did not give us sufficient time to begin our task. Thus, we would have to wait until the morning.

In the morning, with the sun at our backs, we headed towards the Singhal Mountains. The temperature was 32°C (90°F). There was low humidity and little rainfall. Iraq in the summer in other regions was generally dry and hot. We had paid the Yazidi men that accompanied us a considerable amount. They would assist in excavating the area, using the equipment we had provided for them. There were enough shovels and pickaxes necessary for them to achieve the task at hand.

There was enough daylight to allow us to excavate as much as we could, under the bitter rays of the sun. For hours we searched for traces of remnants of artefacts, near a solitary cavern. I had not suspected that inside the cavern would be the one true thing of antiquity that would haunt us with an evil of ancestral ire.

We were fortunate to uncover a few relics from the Mesopotamian and Persian epochs. This was encouraging. It inspired us to excavate further and ponder what else might be discovered. I was determined to leave Iraq with precious artefacts. At the time, I was eager to explore more into the depth of the mountain valley. Professor Barzani had advised me that during the reign of the Ottomans, many artefacts were illegally uncovered and taken back to Turkey, artefacts that were originally from Iraq.

That evening and night were spent examining with studious eyes the artefacts that we had uncovered. It was difficult to be specific in predating the artefacts; nevertheless, we persisted in our endeavour to catalogue them. I had established, through Professor Barzani, a good rapport with the Yazidis. I knew they were people very loyal to their culture and traditions. I also knew that I could not offend them if I wanted their cooperation and assistance.

I depended on them. After all, they were indigenous to the area and knew where to search. This was extremely vital to my aspirations. I had dealt with the recalcitrance of the Turks along the way, and I did not want to repeat this with the Yazidis. My conversations with Professor Barzani were very informative and fascinating. His knowledge of the ancient cultures and civilisations of Iraq was admirable and important. His knowledge extended beyond my own recollection of the history of the country.

The Middle East was a vast region of historical relevance and adventure. Under Ottoman rule, it was stable, but with the cessation of the war, there were signs of instability to some degree. The Arabs and the Kurds, in particular, would be seeking their independence. They had been under the control of endless empires throughout the centuries. I could not blame them for their need and desire to be independent. As an Englishman, I was caught in the middle of their patriotic fervour.

There was a moonlight glow of effervescence that night. It was a beautiful sight to behold, and there was a cool wind that had blown from the east of our vicinity. I had been somewhat ruminative during the night as I stared at the towering mountains of Sinjal. It was difficult to see what lay behind those mountains at night.

The women and children were asleep, whilst the men of the village gathered around the fire to speak to each other. It was not uncommon to see such occurrences amongst men from these parts of the world. I did not speak the Kurdish language, but I knew some Arabic, and Professor Barzani’s English was truly impeccable. He had taken time away from his studies back in Baghdad to assist me with this vital expedition.

In the morning, we returned to the site, where the excavation had previously led us to the ancient artefacts we had located. I mentioned to Professor Barzani that I wanted to excavate beyond the mountain range. As we were discussing this, a shepherd passed us and warned us not to enter the cavern that was nigh.

When asked the reason for avoiding it, he merely offered a firm warning. It was neither an admonition nor a threat; instead, it seemed to me that he was earnestly attempting to caution us. I had the notion that the Yazidis were a superstitious people. What I did not yet understand was the full extent of their beliefs. The shepherd came from a nearby village. Was it mere coincidence that he happened to be passing by our location, or did he not want us excavating in places sacred to the Yazidis?

What was it about that singular cavern that made it so significant in the eyes of the shepherd? I was certainly curious, but at the time, I was still occupied with the site we had begun excavating the day before. There were countless caverns scattered around the towering mountain range. They were largely uninhabited and had historically been used for refuge. It was not difficult to imagine how these mountains and caverns had once sheltered the Yazidis from their enemies.

The mountains also served as a groundwater recharge area, and the quality of the water was excellent. For a people who had long been persecuted and conquered, the Yazidis were resilient and valiant. I had seen mountains before in various parts of the world, yet these mountains possessed a haunting, mysterious air. We continued with the excavation and, on that day, uncovered broken fragments of ancient ceramic bowls and cups.

These were artefacts that could be catalogued, but they did not represent an extraordinary discovery beyond precedent. Still, I had the keen impression that the more time we devoted to excavation, the more intriguing objects we would uncover.

That consideration led me to plan a future excavation. I calculated that there was sufficient academic interest to garner attention from the university. It was not monetary profit I sought, but rather the fulfilment of succeeding in my endeavour. Like any archaeologist, I was passionate about my work and diligent in its pursuit.

Days passed, and it was a week before we discovered something of considerable value. Near the cavern, we found an idol of Saggar—a primitive god once worshipped by the Sumerians, an ancient people who had lived in these mountains centuries ago.

That discovery compelled me to explore the cavern itself and uncover what might lie within. Once inside, beneath the layers of rock and soil, we found other bizarre idols carved by ancient hands. Amongst these statues was one that evoked sudden fear and reverence. It was an image the Yazidis recognised and named—the Iblis.

I had heard the name Iblis before in the narratives of the Qur’an and among the Arabs. In one account, he is portrayed as a fallen angel who became a demon, or the Devil himself. These idols were indeed valuable, suggesting we had found something of real cultural and religious significance. I had the statues carefully wrapped to be transported, but the Yazidis assisting us were reluctant to allow the statue of Iblis to be taken back to the village.

Professor Barzani understood their superstitious fears. I pleaded with him to reassure the Yazidis that no harm would come to them. He managed to convince them, but only on the condition that the statue be returned to the cavern the following day after it had been examined. I was permitted to take the other statues to the village, but not the one of Iblis.

Initially, I did not agree with that condition. But after further deliberation, I acquiesced. I had wanted to take the statue with me back to London, but I could not afford to provoke conflict with the Yazidis. I did not wish to offend them, especially knowing how dependent I was on their cooperation for the excavation. Though I did not share their beliefs, I could not dismiss their deeply held superstitions.

I had to apply reason and common sense. I could not jeopardise the excavation or lose their support. In the end, I did what I thought was wise. I had no inkling that what would soon follow would be a horror I had never experienced before.

When we returned to the village, the madness of the imprecation of Iblis was unleashed upon us with sheer terror. That evening, just as the sun set, the first of the terrifying events occurred—a sudden dust storm approached, blinding us from the horizon.

It brought howling, violent winds to the village. It was a raging storm that sounded like a blustering cyclone. No one in the village was prepared for such a tempest. The people immediately sought shelter in their homes and shuttered their windows. The dust changed in colour, from brown to a madder red hue that pierced the roofs of the homes. We managed to endure the storm, which lasted through the night.

When I awoke the next morning, the evidence of the storm’s passage was visible everywhere. The red dust clung to the battered roofs and exterior walls of the homes. Fortunately, there were no deaths reported, only damaged houses. It was the first time I had ever seen—or endured—such a ferocious dust storm in my life. Several inches of dust lay scattered across the village.

It was a harrowing episode. It took the entire day for the men of the village to remove the dust from the main areas of the homes. Thus, we did not resume excavation that day. Still, I was confident we would be able to continue the next morning without further delay.

Professor Barzani relayed to me the thoughts and beliefs of the Yazidis. They were not fully convinced that the storm had been a mere coincidence. They believed it to be the curse of the Iblis. That belief would only be reinforced when we returned to the excavation site and the cavern the next day.

We discovered that dust had covered the entire area we had previously excavated. This was not what I had expected. It meant we would have to dig the dust out afterwards, which would take considerable time and effort. Yet something else proved both disturbing and revealing: the old statue of the Iblis was gone. Someone had taken it—or it had vanished.

Although I was concerned about the dust at the excavation site, I was more preoccupied with the statue’s whereabouts. Had one of the villagers destroyed it? Had the dust storm buried it beneath the red particles? It was an enigma that would haunt me for the rest of that day. I discussed the matter with Professor Barzani, who was as puzzled as I was in his conclusion.

Neither of us had seen anyone remove the statue from the village. Despite the dust obscuring our view, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that one of the Yazidis had taken the statue, perhaps out of fear or defiance. Whatever the reason, I was eager to understand it. We checked the cavern, but it was not there. We returned to the village, where I pondered the mysterious disappearance of the statue.

Even once the dust had cleared, there was no sign of it anywhere in the village. This meant someone had removed it without the professor or me knowing. The question was—where had it been taken? Professor Barzani did not believe it had been deliberately destroyed. The Yazidis were too superstitious for that. Who among them would dare? Though I could not accuse the villagers outright, I still hoped the statue would eventually be found. What struck me as especially odd was that none of the other statues had been taken—this remained baffling.

A calamity even worse than the dust storm soon befell the village. They came like a vast mass pouring over the Singhal Mountains—destructive locusts on a rampage. A child fetching water outside first spotted them in the distance and warned the villagers. There was only enough time to flee and take cover. I had been with Professor Barzani when the locusts appeared, their fury unmatched.

We rushed outside to witness their approach, then sought shelter in the house we were staying in. The horrendous buzzing of the locusts filled the air as they swarmed the village. The villagers were overcome with terror. For an hour, they endured this living nightmare. The sound of the flapping wings was like a roaring turbulence that triggered panic. It was unbelievable—almost indescribable.

When the swarm had finally passed, it left behind total devastation. The crops the Yazidis had planted in their patchy fields were completely destroyed. The image of the ravaged wheat fields was seared into memory, and the villagers’ faces were frozen in disbelief.

Two disasters had now struck the village in quick succession—each a source of horror. The villagers claimed it was once again the ominous omen of the demonic Iblis. While it was rare to witness such calamities in a short span of time, it was not unnatural, they believed, to suspect a connection.

I could not shake the foreboding thought that all this had occurred after the statue of the Iblis had been removed from its cavern. Perhaps it was mere coincidence—but what if it wasn’t? Could there be some truth behind the Yazidis’ deep-seated fears and superstitions?

That day, I reflected at length on that unsettling possibility. It seemed absurd to believe that some preternatural demon was behind the strange events unfolding in the village. I didn’t want to entirely dismiss it as outside the bounds of reality, but I remained sceptical. Still, I knew that the more these incidents occurred, the more distressed and alarmed the villagers would become. I feared it would ultimately halt our excavation.

When we returned to the excavation site, we resumed work, but fewer Yazidi men assisted this time. Most were reluctant to continue, haunted by the recent disasters. I had come so far and achieved so much already, yet their hesitation had disrupted the progress I had hoped to maintain. It was not the outcome I had anticipated at the beginning of the excavation. My expectations had been high—especially after our initial finds.

I had to depend on Professor Barzani’s advice and help in persuading the Yazidis of the excavation’s value. Recruiting outsiders, such as Arabs or other foreigners, would be seen as an intrusion upon their village and would not be tolerated. I wanted to excavate further within the cavern where the statues had been found, but no Yazidi dared enter. Their fear and beliefs would not allow it. It would have been inconsiderate of me to ignore these concerns.

I faced a dilemma. On one hand, I was eager to enter the cavern. On the other, I could not risk offending or alienating the Yazidis. I needed their support at all costs. To say I had foreseen what happened next would be disingenuous. I would have to proceed according to their terms.

Eventually, I decided to enter the cavern with Professor Barzani. Although he fully understood their ancestral beliefs, he was, above all, an archaeologist. Thus, we entered. Once inside, we discovered the statue of the Iblis had been returned to its original place. Someone had brought it back. But who?

We were stunned. When I asked the professor, he looked puzzled and had no answer. He suggested it was likely placed there by someone from the village. Yet when the villagers were questioned, none dared reveal who it was. The statue had not been damaged—it remained intact. There was little point in pressing the matter further. What mattered now was deciding what to do next.

A discovery of such historical significance would be tremendously valuable to the university. But how could I take it back with me for exhibition? For the time being, I held fast to the belief that there was more to be discovered within the cavern and across the Singhal Mountains.

The mystery was unfolding before me, waiting to reveal its ancient secrets. I had already gathered many intricate details. But how could I attempt to rationalise everything surrounding the statue of the Iblis? In the shadows of time, I believed I would one day find the answer.

I would need more time to reach a final decision. However, I agreed with Professor Barzani that it would be unwise to provoke the Yazidis. Therefore, we left the idol where it was and continued excavating only outside the cavern, where we had originally begun.

We managed to unearth more artefacts, primarily of Assyrian origin—fragments of ancient weapons such as daggers and stone axes. Sadly, none were found intact, worn down as they were by centuries. I collected the artefacts and brought them back to the village for careful examination. Before leaving the excavation site, however, I made yet another discovery.

The fragments appeared to be horns of some nature. I was not certain whether they had belonged to an animal. I did not wish to alarm the Yazidis with this discovery. I had only shown them privately to Professor Barzani. He could not determine whether or not they were from a native animal of the area. His opinion was inconclusive, as was mine.

That evening, I spent more time examining the horns in detail. There was something within me drawn to their strange shape. There were two horns: one was intact, but the other was not. The more I examined them, the more I began to realise they were ivory and solid, but something about them was peculiar. I could not quite discern what it was.

As I began to brush the specks of dirt from them, I accidentally broke a small piece from the fragmented half-horn. What occurred next was utterly implausible, yet entirely real. The horn that had broken regrew to its full size, somehow, on its own. How could this even be possible? Had I truly seen what I believed I had seen, or were my eyes deceiving me?

I informed the professor and showed him the horn that had broken then regrown. I dared not display this to the Yazidis, fearing it would confirm their inner suspicions regarding the curse of the Iblis. Professor Barzani was astonished to see the horn restored. This was proof beyond doubt that something unnatural was transpiring, which we could not explain with mere words. Despite this bizarre and inexplicable occurrence, I still intended to take the horns back to the university.

That night, I did not sleep well. I was haunted by hellish thoughts of the horns and the statue of the notorious Iblis. It marked the beginning of my restless episodes of nocturnal dreams. In the morning, I awoke to the shocking sight of infernal fires ravaging the burnt fields of the Yazidis. Another calamity. First the dust storm, then the locusts, and now the fires. The Yazidis did their utmost to extinguish the flames. They succeeded, but at the cost of the fields, whose crops had already been destroyed by the locusts. The grass was completely scorched.

This was devastation for the Yazidis. They had endured the dust storm and the locusts. The fires only reinforced their belief that they were being punished for awakening the Iblis. The sight of the burnt grass fields was startling and difficult to comprehend—such destruction. The Yazidis’ fear had turned to sudden anger.

Some members of the village wanted to rebury the statue, believing that doing so would end the curse. Others, a minority, urged me to take the idol and leave the village immediately. Professor Barzani thought it prudent that we leave, with or without the statue. There was no way I could assuage the Yazidis’ fears and concerns, nor convince them otherwise of their age-old superstitions.

What had we truly uncovered in the cavern that could be perceived and interpreted as demonic in nature and essence? If it truly was evil that we had awakened, how could it be destroyed? Could it even be destroyed or reburied? These contemplations offered no solutions. There was a reason, a cause, that had brought me to this village in the first place. I could not ignore what had transpired—but I was an archaeologist.

I could not forget why I had come to this region. I realised the difficulty this implied. To compound matters, Professor Barzani told me the Yazidis would no longer assist us with the excavation. I managed to convince the Yazidis that I would leave the following day. I was determined to return to the lone cavern and retrieve the statue of the Iblis.

I informed the professor of this, and he warned me of the possible consequences. I had never seen such superstitious apprehension in him before. Though I sensed it was not fear of the statue itself, but rather of the Yazidis’ reaction. It was decided that I would leave the village—but not the area. Instead, I would camp at the excavation site with Professor Barzani, who agreed to stay with me.

The next morning, we set up camp with our tents. We would remain until we could further excavate the cavern. None of the Yazidis would assist us. We hired a few Arabs from across the Syrian border. It was agreed we would stay only one week more. This was the primary condition set by the professor.

The Arabs were not informed of the dreadful calamities that had struck the village, nor of the statue of the Iblis. Such information would have only sparked fear and panic, causing them to abandon the excavation. I took this into careful consideration when hiring them.

That night around the campfire, the men began to behave restlessly, as if sensing something unseen yet near. I was certain it was due to the influence of the Iblis. I noticed clear anxiety in their eyes as they conversed among themselves.

Meanwhile, I discussed with the professor the means by which we might disguise the statue and smuggle it from Iraq to the Syrian coast, where it would then be transported to England by ship. I could not risk the statue being stolen or seized by either country’s authorities. Though the border with Syria was not far from the Sinjar Mountains, we would still need to traverse land to reach the sea. I kept the fragmented horns with me at the campsite.

After we concluded our discussion regarding the statue, we turned our attention to the horns, which intrigued me greatly at that moment. I wanted to see whether breaking off another piece would again cause the horn to regrow. Ensuring the Arabs did not see us, I broke a small fragment from the right horn—and lo and behold, it regrew as it had done previously. We were both amazed and perplexed by the phenomenon.

Once again, there was no rational explanation for what we had witnessed with our own eyes. Did the supernatural truly exist? Had we summoned from the ashes of hell the Devil himself? While seated there, we noticed a glow emanating from within the cavern. We rose to our feet to investigate. The Arabs saw it too but were unaware of what lay inside.

As we approached, a stranger appeared behind us, clad in a long white robe, his face hidden beneath a distinctive hood. He lowered it, revealing a man with grisly red skin, white eyes, and a flickering tongue. The professor told me not to look at the demon, but I could not help myself.

Within a minute, the stranger vanished into the shadows of the night. When we returned to camp, it was overrun with large, venomous scorpions. We could hear the Arabs screaming. We killed as many of the arachnids as we could. Eight men were stung and died instantly. The others were shaken, but they remained. It was too dark and dangerous to depart the mountains, as thieves were known to prowl the nights. Another calamity—another incident far beyond coincidence. When would it end?

I could wait no longer for death—mine or the professor’s. I could not definitively say the stranger was a demon, but I felt he had come to warn us. Warn us of what? Professor Barzani knew who he was. He invoked the name of the Iblis, the ineffable one.

It was a full moon, and I could still see the glow from the cavern. For one fleeting moment, I thought I saw a strange figure reflected in the moonlight at the cavern’s entrance. I could not say with certainty, but I had the eerie sensation that something supernatural was within. It was chilling to contemplate such a notion, yet I could not ignore it. The more I wondered, the more fascinated I became with the Iblis.

I asked the professor to tell me more of what he knew. The Iblis was no ordinary demon or adversary. He was an immemorial legend, said by many to be vile and greatly feared. Though I was not a religious man, I had begun to grasp the nature of the Iblis—the fallen angel. How could I possibly explain everything that had occurred since we uncovered the statue? One thing was certain: it had followed a distinct sequence.

There was so much I could never answer or know about the Iblis. If, for centuries, no one had accurately defined who or what he was beyond the holy books, how could I begin to grasp his identity or fathom his immeasurable terror? I wondered—among the pagan gods who predated the God of Muslims and Christians, could such a being as the Iblis have been worshipped as a god? If so, who were these people who had worshipped him in secret?

On that final morning, I came face to face with the demonic Iblis. I had had enough. I ordered the remaining men to gather the equipment and dismantle the tents. Before our departure, I was determined to enter the cavern one last time. I intended to take the Iblis with me, along with the other artefacts, back to the university in London.

Professor Barzani accompanied me. We had discussed this the night before, following the horrific incident with the old man and the poisonous scorpions. There was no point in remaining in the area any longer. I had considered returning for a future excavation, but I was utterly exhausted by the harrowing experiences. Thus, I hastened the excavation.

With the sun’s rays behind us, we entered the cavern with great apprehension. The Arabs waited outside, unaware of what awaited us within. Once inside, we proceeded towards the area where the statue of the Iblis was located. There, we discovered an ancient grimoire—an old book of spells.

Standing erect before us was a daunting, humanoid figure with blazing eyes, a long tail, sharp claws, four wings, and large horns that jutted out above its towering head. It was the Iblis. He spread his wings and began to flap them. We were horrified and thrown into disarray. His gaze pierced into our eyes as we stood, transfixed. Then he flew past us and disappeared into the clouds above the Singhal Mountains, never to be seen by us again. The Arabs saw the Iblis fly past and were left in awe.

Within a fortnight, I was back at the university in London with the artefacts I had brought along. I was never able to recover the statue of the Iblis. All I had were the horns, likely his or those of his kind. Nevertheless, I managed to transport the items from Iraq to England with the cooperation of the Arabs. I remained in correspondence with Professor Barzani, who had returned to Baghdad.

I entrusted him with some of the artefacts for display. We were unable to decipher the ancient language contained in the grimoire. The Yazidis continued their struggle for independence with a steadfast resilience, while I pursued my archaeological endeavours. I often believe that, beneath the moonlight’s glow, the sable shadow of the Iblis still lurks nearby. If that is so, has he come to take me to the chasm of hell?

Several months passed, yet the memory of that encounter in the Singhal Mountains remained vivid and unshakable. Though the duties of academia reclaimed my time, I often drifted into reveries, haunted by the memory of the Iblis—its infernal eyes, the tremor of its wings, and the chilling moment when it vanished into the mists. My colleagues assumed I had grown weary from travel, but in truth, I had been marked by something unnameable, something not of this world.

Restlessness took root. At night, the wind that brushed past my window seemed to whisper in the same tones that filled the ancient grimoire. Though we had failed to decipher its language, I sensed meaning buried in its illustrations—in the arrangement of signs, the composition of circles and intersections, the symmetry of chaos. There was more to be discovered. Something had been left unfinished.

Driven by instinct more than reason, I returned to the archives. Weeks of research led me to an obscure reference in the notes of a long-forgotten explorer, who had written of another site buried beneath the ruins of Al-Qadisiyyah. The writing spoke not of statues, but of guardians, obsidian artefacts, and subterranean altars older than the Assyrians. The parallels were uncanny. With the blessing of the university, and a small grant, I returned to Iraq under the pretext of investigating Babylonian relics.

The ruins stood desolate, scorched by sun and silence. Sand had swallowed much of what once was a city of scholars and soldiers. Under the guidance of a local team, we set up camp and began our descent into layers of time. Over the course of days, we uncovered remnants of columns, shards of ceramics, and fragments of inscriptions that matched those etched into the grimoire. The heat was merciless, but it was the strange stillness that wore on the mind—the sense that we were trespassers not upon history, but into something undying.

On the sixth day, the ground beneath a sandstone platform gave way, revealing an entrance carved with symbols unlike anything we had encountered before. The air that escaped from below was thick with decay and something metallic, as though rusted blood had been disturbed. We lit our torches and descended.

The passage was narrow and steep, leading to a vaulted chamber of blackened stone. The walls bore a chaotic artistry—depictions of winged entities locked in struggle, swirling constellations, and what seemed to be a chasm pouring upwards into the sky. At the heart of the chamber stood another statue, not of the Iblis as we had seen him, but of a more serene, almost celestial form. Yet, even in stillness, it exuded menace. Its wings folded inwards, and its arms were raised over an orb embedded in the altar, smooth and obsidian, absorbing all light that fell upon it.

The temperature dropped. The team began to whisper amongst themselves, uneasy, though no words could explain what they felt. I stepped closer, drawn by a compulsion I could not explain. Every instinct within me cried out in conflict—curiosity urged me forward, but something more primal told me to flee. The orb pulsed faintly, and for a brief moment, all sound fell away.

Then the silence was broken—not by noise, but by sensation. A pressure spread through the chamber like a wave, passing through our bodies and into the walls. The torches flickered violently, and the orb grew colder, drawing the warmth from our skin. One of the workers turned and ran. The rest stood frozen.

I approached the altar, my hands unsteady. Though I dared not touch the orb, I observed it closely. Within its dark core, I could see faint patterns emerging—slowly rotating, not reflections, but movements from within. Not merely a relic, it seemed to be a vessel. What it contained, I could not begin to understand.

We sealed the chamber the following morning. The others spoke little of what they felt, but we all bore the same hollowness in our expressions. No one asked questions on the return journey. The air itself seemed to press down on us as we left the site behind, as though a slumbering presence resented our departure and mourned our silence.

Back in London, I catalogued the findings in private, keeping certain sketches and notes locked away. I knew there were things not meant for public study—things that would only unsettle, not enlighten. The Iblis had not revealed itself again, yet its shadow had grown longer, more indistinct. At times, I would feel its presence as I walked the halls of the university or gazed into the rain-drenched Thames. A sense of being watched persisted—not malevolently, but patiently, as though my part in its story was not yet complete.

Even now, I write these recollections not to share them, but to release them from my mind. And yet, I cannot help but feel that something has followed. Something old and wise, watching through the veil of night, waiting for the appointed hour to rise once more.

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