Nezepheroth

"Truly, there are terrible primal arcana of earth which had better be left unknown and unevoked; dread secrets which have nothing to do with man, and which man may learn only in exchange for peace and sanity; cryptic truths which make the knower evermore an alien among his kind, and cause him to walk alone on earth."—H. P. Lovecraft

There are ancient ones that were revered sacredly, as perennial gods to the old Egyptians and Akkadians, and are the avatars of the realm of the unknowable. They have existed through the illimitable aeons, beyond the worlds that we have not yet transcended or explored.

Our minds are incapable of understanding their presence, and our consciousness can only attempt to decipher the verisimilitude of their mythos. They dwell deep within the centre of the universe and reflect the cosmicity of their essence. They are the imposition of an unimaginative horror that we dread, in the immutable sequence of our phantasmagorias.

From outer space they had arrived upon the Earth billions of years ago, lost in the indeterminate passage of time, until one day from among them, an entity of great dimensions of terror was discovered and had risen from its latent state. It was called Nezepheroth.

My name is George La Fleur, a Canadian by nationality. There are certain individuals who will dare to dismiss my account as pure imagination or speculation on my part, but know that the experience I relate is not based on an inconceivable supposition.

It is based on several encounters I had with an otherworldly being that I could not fathom with the mere expression of the incontrovertibility of words. There are existential things in this world that manifest that are too inscrutable to attach a tangible description. The being that I met was no ordinary one, for it would intrigue me until the day of my death. Its powerful influence would control my thoughts, and its intellect would be unmatched.

Thus, I would search for it, amidst the darkled shadow of its cosmic mind. It was in the year 1928, when I was searching for ancient artefacts in the western part of the country of Canada, that I uncovered a remarkable discovery that had predated the nomadic Palaeo-Indians' artefacts I had unearthed a year prior.

It was a towering, single block of alabaster-coloured stone — a monolith — that appeared to be millions of years old, the remnant of an ancient temple. It was located in the mountainous region of British Columbia, during the last days of April. The area was known for its rugged landscapes and difficult terrain, but the small expedition of which I was a part was prepared for such harsh conditions. In the end, our stay was not prolonged, and I was able to retrieve the monolith from the area with the assistance of the expedition crew. It was transported to my laboratory, many miles away from where it had been found.

At the laboratory, I could examine it studiously and conscientiously. I had heard of the ruins of ancient monoliths discovered in the Middle East, India, and Egypt. All these artefacts, once located, were quarried and taken away to be examined in laboratories. The fact that it had been erected as a temple made me ponder at length the signification of the structure, and the strange hieroglyphs engraved into the monolith.

I had previously been in Germany and Indonesia, studying ancient megaliths that bore particular stone circles upon them. I was no renowned expert on the subject of monoliths, but I had spent considerable time in recent years conversing with fellow colleagues of mine about the discoveries of ancient civilizations and cultures and their palaeology.

The possibility of comprehending the monolith would depend upon the decipherment of the symbols utilised. I had sent a photograph of them to a professor at a university in Vancouver, who specialised in antiquitous hieroglyphs. It was my expectation that he would be able to assist me in the efficacious task of deciphering the symbols. While I waited at home in the laboratory with patience, I began to do some research of my own. From my general observation of the monolith, I surmised in my initial hypothesis that the symbols were perhaps related to a race of inhabitants that had venerated beings of some supernatural origin.

This notion was not irrational to believe. History has demonstrated ancient civilisations worshipping pagan gods. There had always been great men of exploration who had come to the region, such as Cook, Vancouver, and Mackenzie among others, and made marvellous discoveries. But none would have discovered an alien life form that would manifest into a living entity.

For countless centuries, the thought that there existed in our universe other beings was something science had contemplated. No one had yet proven that there was indeed life on other planets in the galaxy. The prevailing thought among scientists was that there had once been, in the distant past, life forms on those established planets. Technology was modernising not only the views of scientists but also the mechanisms and instrumentality of science itself.

Within a week, I received a letter from the professor attempting to decipher the hieroglyphs, informing me that he could not make sense of the inextricable symbols. He did suggest, however, that he might offer a viable clue—namely, that the hieroglyphs were probably depicting a story that described some significant event.

The question remained—what were those particular events? I was disappointed by the news, though I had realised from the beginning that the symbols would be difficult to distinguish. In the hope of deciphering them, I made my discovery public in the newspapers distributed nationally. It was my plan, after examining and deciphering the symbols, to exhibit the monolith at the local museum.

The conventional thought was to take the monolith back to the university in Vancouver, where I was a professor, and keep it there until further deliberation. I knew how important an artefact with the representation of alien symbols would be in stirring the curiosity of the public—in particular, those individuals in the scientific community who were eager to have the monolith on display.

It was a period when weird and alien stories were often concocted or intimated, especially those associated with the irrefutable mysteries of the vast universe. The enigma of the monolith was enough to occupy my mind and effort entirely.

Time was of the essence, and I spent endless nights staring at the figure of the monolith, obfuscated. One morning, I was awakened by a strange noise or activity. When I rose to investigate, I discovered that the sound was coming directly from the laboratory where the monolith was being kept within my house.

Upon entering, there was no sign of any commotion or of an intruder. In fact, no one had entered the laboratory besides myself. As puzzling as this was, what occurred next would baffle me even more. There was a faint glow emanating from the monolith. As I drew closer, I could clearly see that the symbols on the monolith had been, at one point, illuminated. Due to the sunlight entering the room, I was compelled to draw the curtains closed.

It was then that I could see more clearly the transparency of the symbols, and I was utterly surprised. What I had not previously seen in their delitescence was that there was something peculiar behind the symbols—figures of godlike creatures or entities. I could not fully distinguish their guises, for the images had faded in their lucidity.

What I witnessed was that those images were not human in composition or reflection. This astonished me to such a degree that I began to conceive in my mind that the monolith was more than mere symbols engraved. Who were these gods that the symbols were depicting, and what was the story that had been engraved with such careful precision? What were they trying to convey? Were these primitive people depicting an advanced race of aliens from another planet or galaxy?

If so, then why did they come to Earth? Whoever they were, they were sufficient to be worshipped as immortal deities. I was so fascinated by the strange occurrence that I began to chronicle my thoughts and analysis in a private journal. This allowed me to conduct my experiments with a measure of reason and observation. My research was becoming more empiric, although I still maintained some theories.

My hours were being consumed by the monolith, and my research into recorded cases across the globe about alien contact with primitive cultures. One case in particular stood out—found somewhere in the country of Iraq—where a similar monolith had been discovered. Fortunately for me, photographs had been taken of that exact monolith.

Once I saw the images, my fascination was stirred even more. Was it a mere coincidence? I then read an article about another monolith in Egypt that was the same as the one I had discovered. I wrote letters to the archaeologists who had located these monoliths and disclosed to them my own discovery. I attached a photo to the letters and inquired whether they had experienced the images of aliens that I too had witnessed. It was too premature for me to declare the monolith direct evidence of communication between the primitive people who engraved the symbols and the aliens they personified.

My perception was that the alien beings had intended there to be proof of their existence. This unusual form was perhaps the only manner in which the primitive people could understand them—and for the aliens to divulge their messages. The key was in solving those hidden messages.

It did not take long before I was in correspondence with other archaeologists. The photographs they sent inspired me to pursue the mystery behind the engraved symbols with greater resolve and interest.

What I determined from my research led me to the deepest realm of my consciousness. How could it be that in three different continents there were similar monoliths with the same pattern of symbols? I still did not know what the symbols embodied in their representation. Nor did I know when precisely they had been made.

Over and over, I cogitated these questions, but I had not yet found a rational answer. Could there actually have been a race of alien beings that were venerated unconditionally and considered authentic gods? The Aztecs, the Egyptians, and the Akkadians entered my contemplative mind.

All of these so-called primitive cultures had worshipped quasi-divine gods in some form. What if these people were actually far more advanced than we assume in comparison to our modern world? I began to believe that might be the case. It was then that I realised I needed to focus my time and effort on examining that feasibility. If aliens from another galaxy or planet had arrived on Earth and encountered primitive humans, would it not be logical that they were interpreted as gods of a cosmic nature? The symbols appeared to be traditional messages passed down.

One night, I was sleeping when I was awakened by strange lights coming from outside my window. When I examined the area, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. But upon returning to my house, I noticed the light was flashing again—this time from inside the house, in the laboratory.

I was startled and proceeded cautiously. As I opened the door slowly, I was confronted by the imposing image of a cosmic being that was not human in appearance. It was a leviathan—of sable, solid mass, towering over me with impressive stature.

It stood over ten feet tall and had six beady white eyes that pierced directly into mine. It had an antenna and a proboscis, resembling a teratoid creature. Instinctively, I grabbed my camera to photograph the being, but as I attempted to take the photo, it disappeared through the window from which it had entered. I thought of chasing it into the grass fields ahead, but with the limited light available, I dismissed the bold urge.

I would have to wait for it to return—or for me to locate it again. Had it come for the monolith? Had it come to contact me, and had I inadvertently frightened it away? Whatever its reason for appearing in the laboratory, I had the sense it would return. When, I did not know.

After this unforgettable encounter with the ineffable alien, I prepared for its inevitable return. Was it protean in form?

The next morning, while looking out from my kitchen window, I saw something moving in the tall grassland. Was it the same cosmic being I had seen in the laboratory the night before? I went outside to follow its path through the grassland. After a while, I lost track of it—but what I stumbled upon left me stunned.

I came across, unbeknownst to me, giant concentric circles that had been shaped and were tangible. They were the size of a Roman coliseum in width and spread in every direction. Who had built such an impressive thing? Was it the design of the aliens? Was the being from the laboratory involved in their creation?

I wasn’t certain whether to report the discovery of the concentric circles to the local authorities or the newspapers. I didn’t want unwanted publicity or strangers coming onto my property uninvited. From that moment on, any future discovery I made would remain secret.

Once again, I thought about the monoliths found in other parts of the world and how exact they were compared to each other. I read about similar concentric circles discovered in the United Kingdom, where monoliths had also been found. What if this superior race of beings had landed on Earth eons ago and attempted to make contact? What if they had succeeded?

To me, the circles were inexplicable riddles—enigmas. That was how they appeared at first. It wasn’t until I had the intuitive realisation that, like the symbols on the monolith, the circles were an intrinsic part of the mythos of the ancient ones. There could be no doubt in my mind then: they had returned to Earth. If so—why?

That anxiety caused me to ponder many things I once doubted. The fact that I had encountered one of their kind reinforced the idea that they wanted something. I concluded that something was contact with humanity. That was a frightening reality to accept rationally.

The circles would be kept a secret for now, as would my encounter with the eldritch one. The tall grass concealed them well; they could only be seen up close or from above.

I spent the day reflecting on the connection between the concentric circles and the monolith. I had no guarantee that another encounter would give me answers—or spare my life. Yet I was willing to take that necessary risk.

I meditated on how I might devise a way to communicate with the cosmic one in person. It seemed like an implausible goal. But if I could succeed, it would open a dialogue. It would also allow science to understand its motives—and its world.

I had reached the point of no return. I couldn’t permit myself to fail. Too much was at stake.

That evening, I sat once more staring at the photographs sent by my colleagues. Was there something I was missing? How could I decipher the symbols? What language were they written in?

While seated, the intruder returned—and this time, he left a message to be heeded. I heard my dog barking and went outside to check on him. He had seen someone—or something—behind the tall grass.

There was no one I could see, but I could perceive in his eyes that something had definitely been lurking. When I returned to the kitchen, I saw an indelible image scribbled on my wall in plain English:

“I was here!”

The revelation startled and confused me. Had the eldritch one entered my home while I was gone? It was incredible to admit—let alone believe—but the words were real. I had not seen anything enter or leave the house.

I knew that I would eventually discover the truth—a truth far greater than I could ever have imagined it to signify. I had no control over the situation. I was but a fragment of its insidious and intriguing circumstance. That was a haunting thing to accept—unwillingly, and without recourse. In the end, it only served to deepen my anxiety, to intensify my need to know what would follow. From that moment on, my nights were restless, haunted by preoccupations with events still unfolding. The possibility of the eldritch one reappearing at any time left me in a state of constant vigilance, hyper-aware of my surroundings.

Even the howling wind stirred my suspicion. I would often find myself alone, confronting the eerie silence that dwelled just beyond the threshold of the house. My only comfort in those disquieting hours was the company of my dog. His barking would, on occasion, alert me to the immediate presence of the ancient one. He was my reassurance against the unknown. Though I was alone in that desolate dwelling, I remained ever mindful of what might be lurking out there in the tall grasslands.

I knew that it knew where to find me, while I was left merely to guess where to seek it. I did not feel that the thing was truly malevolent in nature—not in the way one might assume. On the contrary, I sensed that it sought to communicate with me, in whatever way it could fathom. The monolith had become the primary instrument of communion between our two worlds, just as it once had been for those primitive peoples who had engraved upon it those arcane and challenging symbols. It became obvious to me—particularly after the incident of the message etched upon the walls—that it desired dialogue with me, a mere earthling. It was exhilarating, yet profoundly unsettling.

Why I was chosen as the one to witness and commune with the ancient ones, I could only conjecture. Perhaps it was a mere accident, a consequence of my discovery of the hidden monolith. Or perhaps it was due to something intrinsic within me—my ability to decipher the messages delivered, my sensitivity to meanings others might overlook.

That, in itself, was far more than I had ever anticipated. Still, the persistent thought of their ultimate intention weighed heavily on my mind. One morning, as I sipped coffee in the kitchen, I glimpsed, through the window, the silhouette of a figure traversing the tall grassland. I knew—without doubt—that it was the eldritch one.

The dog barked furiously. He knew too. I stepped outside, cautiously, to investigate. I entered the tall grasses, hoping to find the cosmic one, to confirm its presence. I searched and searched, driven by a force I could scarcely articulate, until I reached the concentric circles.

There, I perceived the unmistakable presence of the being that had been attempting to communicate with me. The wind grew fierce, sweeping the grass with a wild and unnatural rhythm. It came from all directions at once, and wherever I moved, it followed. I stopped and studied the circles. This time, something struck me that I had not considered before. It was not their labyrinthine construction that caught my attention, but rather the purpose behind their creation.

I surmised that they were markers—celestial identifiers of the being’s presence. Over vast eons, the eldritch one and its kin had travelled from galaxy to galaxy, from world to world, integrating themselves into the consciousness of the primitive cultures they encountered. It was astonishing to witness how advanced intelligences could bridge the infinite void, interact with archaic civilizations, and reshape their very understanding of the cosmos.

I returned home and pondered further upon the events at the concentric circles. I could not escape a recurring question: why was the ancient one so vague and elusive in its dealings with me? Why did it not reveal itself in full, rather than rely on riddles and enigmatic symbols?

What hindered it from establishing clear communication? Was it bound by some cosmic restriction? Was its time in our world limited, fleeting? It could not have been something so simple as the air, or our atmosphere, for I had seen it manifest and transform with my own eyes.

There had to be something deeper—something rooted within the nucleus of the ancient one’s being. How could I hope to solve such a mystery without first understanding why it had come to our world at all?

That exact day, I received a remarkable correspondence from an American archaeologist. He had seen photographs of the symbols upon the monolith and informed me that they depicted a journey—a voyage that began billions of years ago. He claimed that, millions of years prior, the race of the eldritch one had again landed upon Earth.

From what he could decipher, this ancient race had made numerous attempts to visit and contact the denizens of our world. This explained the tendency of early civilizations to misinterpret these beings as gods—to deify them, to embed their memory into myth.

I was well-acquainted with the mythos of the ancients, having studied Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and Aztec traditions during my university years. All those ancient religions shared a common thread: reverence for gods that bore a distinctly cosmic character. Could these cultures have functioned without their pantheons of supernatural beings? Or were their minds, limited in scope, incapable of distinguishing between the divine and the alien?

I imagined myself transported to those long-lost epochs, confronted by beings whose shapes shifted with disconcerting ease—beings theriomorphic in nature, both grotesque and majestic. And in so imagining, I realised that what I now experienced in full consciousness had become indistinguishable from those ancient tales.

No longer was the notion of beings from beyond the stars a metaphysical abstraction. The universe teemed with incomprehensible phenomena, and the origin of these beings appeared—now more than ever—to be entirely plausible. What once seemed imperceptible had begun to take on form and definition.

The ideograms carved into the monolith had begun to divulge their significance. They compelled me to consider how vastly inferior our technology was to that of the eldritch ones. Countless centuries had passed since the monolith’s creation, and their presence had remained hidden, travelling amidst the stars, beyond the reach of our instruments. Yet so many questions remained. And still, I knew more now than I had before. I had only scratched the surface of the symbols’ meaning.

I remembered photographs I had once seen of an ancient Assyrian bas-relief, which bore similar symbols. The thought of these ancient myths springing to life entered my mind just as I began to grasp their origin. I was only in the nascent stages of understanding, yet already, I felt a terrible awe at the implications of the ancient one’s existence.

From the facts gleaned since, the symbols appeared phonetic. What language could they be aligned with, to be fully comprehended? Like the hieroglyphs of Egypt, these symbols—enlarged and consistent—did not appear incongruent.

Indeed, it is for this reason that monoliths bearing these strange, exallotriote markings have been found across the globe, lingering in the detritus of excavations. All these events that had unfolded before me were part of an ongoing attempt—over aeons—to initiate meaningful contact with humankind.

In this modern era, the veneration of pagan or otherworldly gods is often dismissed as the delusion of cults. And yet, the reality of preternatural worship remains—cloaked in secrecy, but practised still by disparate peoples and cultures. How susceptible the human mind must be, I mused.

In the end, I came to believe that all gods are perceived as reverential and subliminal—entities existing beyond the reach of conscious perception. For me, it was an experience that defied all previous understanding. My journal is the sole testimony to these occurrences. Without it, all I had witnessed would be dismissed as fantasy, and not—as I insist—incompossible. The symbols on the monolith were a synthesis of compoundable elements—keys, perhaps, to a greater reality yet unrevealed.

It was during that night that I would have my final encounter with the eldritch one in person. I had been anxiously awaiting, with sudden anticipation, its reappearance, and I could not sleep. I thought I had been prepared, but nothing would have prepared me for what happened on that memorable day.

My mind tried to understand it. I had been writing a letter to a fellow professor when the lightbulbs in my home began to dim gradually. They did not extinguish in light; the lightbulbs only began to flash back and forth. I knew at that moment that it was an evident sign that the eldritch one was nearby. I had heard my dog barking outside. That too was a revealing sign. Was it meant to be portentous?

I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen to be able to see clearly outside. I was hesitant to go into the tall grassland alone, where the concentric circles were located. It was simply too opaque also. Therefore, I made the conscious decision to return to the house and wait for the eldritch one to come to me. I paced nervously in the kitchen, looking through my window. I looked at the clock in the kitchen and saw that it was close to midnight.

It was an augurous sign of the coming of the ancient one. The suspense was increasing, and I had to calm my uneasiness. After a while, the barking ceased, and there was complete silence. Either the dog had grown fatigued of barking, or something had happened to him.

My curiosity impelled me to investigate. Once I did, I found that my dog had vanished. I called for him to come, and there was no response. There was a cold silence afterward that prevailed over the tall grasslands as I stood there observing.

I thought of grabbing a rifle for protection, but I was uncertain if the thing could be killed with mere bullets. It did not threaten me nor harm me in the occasions I had seen it with my eyes. I waited for a couple of minutes, anticipating something to happen. My deep intuition was telling me that I would never see my dog again.

Then I saw the light in the laboratory, where I had the monolith kept. There was no doubt in me that it was the eldritch one that had entered the house. My instinct compelled me to go inside the house and ultimately to the laboratory where the light was coming from. Slowly, I went inside and reached the room, with a pedantic step.

This time, I grabbed the rifle I had in my bedroom before entering the laboratory. I heard the radio that was transmitting from inside. When I turned the doorknob and opened the door, I stood face to face with the eldritch one once again. I was shocked to see the horrible image that I had seen of it previously.

The familiar eight beady, white eyes and the undertone of its terrifyng features were enough to horrify me into a momentary horripilation. It smelled like soot. It remained much longer than in the prior encounter. An antenna detached from its head, and an elongated proboscis emerged from its mouth.

I did not know whether it had intended to kill me, or if it was merely examining me. I remained still, unable to react for a brief moment, until I could. I stepped back and prepared the rifle to shoot, but the trigger jammed. It was not my intention to harm it. I was trying to be cautious about protecting myself. I suspected that the monstrous being had done something to the dog, and I expected to be the next one to disappear.

I was not willing to vanish like the dog. It came closer to me in its approach. As I stood there watching, the eldritch one did not harm me. It was merely probing me, especially my mind. For what reason, I could only helplessly observe. It was no ordinary experience I would endure.

For a minute or two, I was still and helpless to do anything. My mind connected somehow to its mind through a form of instant telepathy. What I witnessed in this connection of minds provided me with incredible images. I could clearly see the images of its civilisation, its travels, and more importantly, the history of planet Earth billions of years ago.

At last, I understood what it was trying to convey with its visit to me. It could have killed me if it had wanted, but it spared my life. It is impossible to describe with words in accuracy the whole experience of that night. All I could offer was a token sign of its manifestation through my journal. After we finished communicating, its antenna and proboscis returned to their place.

The next thing I observed was an important artifact it left behind for me: a large slab of rock from its original planet, with the symbols of its language. It gave me the power through telepathy to understand everything about the monolith and its world. It requested only one thing from me: that I not reveal the fact that we had encountered each other to others.

It was to remain a secret, if I ever wanted to share communication again in the future. I consented to that simple request. Although the monolith would be displayed, I knew that what was more significant in the end were the encounters I had with the eldritch one. This I could not afford to jeopardize. I was not guaranteed anything except his return one day.

Its daunting appearance was only the product of my fears and trepidation. I am certain that my human physique was repulsive to the ancient one. It never made one comment on my constitution. I wanted to ask it a plethora of questions, but its time was running out, and it had to leave. The old one's name was Nezepheroth.

I asked when it would be returning. It could give me no definite answer. It uttered nothing more. Then it vanished into a hoary vapour of air. I would later learn that my dog was not taken by the alien. It had torn his chain and gone running toward the tall grass, where eventually I found him safe and intact. I noticed then that the concentric circles had been reduced to a small circle no bigger than a garden.

Perhaps, I was chosen or destined to meet and communicate with the alien life form. No one will ever know the truth, except the faithful pages of my journal. There are things that should remain a secret, and other things that are not worth the time and effort to reveal in that process.

Often, I would wait at the concentric circles that were left, or watch from my kitchen window outside to catch a momentary glimpse of the ancient one. I knew that it would return.

It had been three weeks since Nezepheroth’s second arrival. Since that night, there had been no word from the eldritch being, but the sensation that I was no longer alone in the world lingered. The connection, however intangible, could not be severed. Even in the simplest moments, in between the mundane events of my life—lecturing at the university, grading papers, interacting with students who still believed in straightforward answers to the universe’s complexities—the weight of this new reality was ever present. I had become part of something larger, something I was still trying to understand, still trying to integrate into my worldview. The knowledge that Nezepheroth had granted me hummed quietly beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.

One evening, as I stood in the kitchen, the air outside heavy with the scent of rain, the room began to change. The usual warmth of the room felt distant, replaced by a sudden chill. The lights flickered once—then twice. It wasn’t a power surge. This was something far more deliberate, as if the room itself had taken notice, responding to something beyond my comprehension.

A strange heaviness settled in the air, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch unnaturally. There was no source for it, no logical explanation, yet it was undeniable. It was as though the walls themselves were shifting, bending in response to an unseen presence. The feeling of being watched, of being observed by something vast, overtook me. And then, the temperature dropped. It wasn’t gradual. It was immediate and unyielding—an unnatural cold, as though the warmth of the room had been sucked into another dimension, leaving behind only the remnants of what once was. The air itself felt dense, oppressive.

I took a step back, my senses on high alert. The room seemed to shrink around me. The light from the flickering bulbs overhead cast sharp, long shadows, distorting the corners of the room into dark, unfamiliar shapes. And then, I saw it. In the corner, the first traces of movement. A dark figure began to materialize from the darkness, its form growing clearer, its edges more defined as it took shape. The figure was tall, impossibly so. It was Nezepheroth, or at least, a version of it. It loomed before me, its presence drawing in the air, pushing the boundaries of what I could perceive. But something about it was different. It wasn’t alone. Surrounding it were other forms, less defined but equally unsettling. They flickered in and out of existence, as though they were caught between worlds, neither here nor there. These were not beings that I had met before, nor were they familiar entities from my experiences. These were darker, more chaotic things—an existence entirely separate from anything I had known.

The pressure in the room increased, weighing down on me. The darkness deepened. And then, the realization hit. These beings were not here by chance. They had come for a reason, and I was the one they were seeking. The room felt smaller, and I felt the intrinsic fabric of reality stretching under their presence. The walls seemed to bend, and the air itself seemed to twist, a palpable tension that gripped the space. The figure of Nezepheroth shimmered before me, its many eyes gleaming, its antennae shifting slightly. The figures around it continued to drift, their movements fluid and impossible to track.

The air itself vibrated with an energy I had never encountered. It was not alien in the sense of unfamiliar species or otherworldly technology. No, this was far more primitive, primal. It was the kind of energy that had existed long before any of this. Long before even the stars. A power that was older than time itself.

I took a cautious step forward, my body reacting before my mind could process. There was no fear, no dread at this moment—only a strange sort of acceptance, as if something deep within me knew this moment would come. I did not understand the full scope of what was happening, but I was aware of its significance. This was the next step in a path that had already been set into motion, a path that I could not turn away from.

As the figures around Nezepheroth continued their shifting, the edges of the room seemed to dissolve. The space no longer felt anchored in any concrete reality. I could sense myself slipping away from the physical world, moving towards something far more ethereal. The ground beneath my feet seemed to lose its solidity, as if the earth itself was unmooring, like floating in space, but with a sensation of pressure. A force was building, a wave of energy that felt both familiar and terrifying, something I could not quite grasp, but knew was coming for me.

The darkness thickened. The cold deepened. The figures—Nezepheroth and its entourage—began to pulse, their forms becoming less defined, swirling in and out of existence like a cloud of smoke caught in an eternal wind. The air shimmered, bending like a heat haze, and I felt myself drawn deeper into their orbit. There was no escape from this moment, no way to resist the eldritch ones.

The room dissolved entirely.

I was no longer standing in my kitchen. Instead, I found myself in a vast, barren desert, a landscape that stretched on endlessly. The ground beneath me was cracked and dry, lifeless. Above me, the sky swirled in a vortex of stars, each one pulsing, breathing with a life of its own. There was no sun, no clouds—only a perpetual twilight, a space between worlds.

In the distance, I saw a figure—tall, distant, moving slowly toward me. It was indistinct at first, its form hazy like a mirage, but as it came closer, it became clearer. The figure resembled me, though something was unmistakably wrong with it. The eyes were darker, hollow, staring with a deep, knowing gaze. The posture was wrong—slumped, defeated, as though it bore the weight of some great sorrow. A great emptiness surrounded it. The air around it seemed to warp, bending, vibrating.

I stood frozen, transfixed, as the figure came closer. It was as if it were a reflection, but one that did not belong in my world. This was not a mirage, nor was it some trick of the mind. This was something real, something I could not escape. A version of myself, not in body, but in soul. A reflection of every fear, every hesitation, every doubt that I had ever buried deep within. It was the version of myself I had denied, the parts of me I had failed to face. And now, it stood before me, forcing me to confront everything I had tried to escape.

The temperature dropped even further, and the air around me became thin, almost suffocating. The desert stretched on in all directions, and the horizon seemed endless. I was trapped in this place, with no way to escape, no way to turn back. The shadow of my reflection was now only a few paces away. Its presence loomed larger, more overwhelming with each step.

The moment was closing in, inevitable and inescapable.

Whether you believe my account or not, all I could assert then is for you, the reader, to determine its validity. To the sceptic of ancient races of cosmic beings, I will not indulge myself in attempting to convince you of their existence. All you must know is that the eldritch one Nezepheroth exists. It came from the outer limits of outer space.

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