Our gory path led us to an abrupt end at an entrance to a room. In the center a book lay amidst assorted articles scattered all over the floor. It was instantly apparent that this tome was a journal, and by lucky chance written in my language. The author’s carefully penned memoirs descended into frenzied madness as the dates wore on.

The work proved beyond doubt that the writer was a member of the House of Bliss. I could feel my spine tingling with disquietude, as I comprehended that the cult could be here, now, at this very moment lurking in the shadows, weaving their deceitful webs, like patient spiders awaiting their prey.

The last entries in the diary were cryptic and delusional, and clearly the result of an unhinged mind. There was a particularly dreadful chapter - missing a few pages - which described a ritual of reanimation in loving detail...