The amulet now glowed solid, its crimson light hurtful to the eyes. It grew useless as a compass, but its control was no longer needed, for some other force pulled at us now, guiding us as the rifle guides the bullet. The force repelled even as it drew, its malevolent nature screaming that we leave even as its promise of satisfaction drew us forward.

We entered into an anteroom engulfed in a miasma, a sickly fog as green as bile, redolent with the odor of decay. The amulet now proved of some further use, for we held it aloft to see our way through the murk.

Ochre shadows wavered against the walls, moving out of time with our bodies. They disoriented us, and made deciphering friend from foe nigh impossible. We carried on, our destination, for better or worse, in our grasp.