The gigantic gate was built of flesh; here and there you could make out a face, an eye, a few teeth. I turned around because for a second I thought I might have a choice, but I quickly realized I didn’t. My journey, even if I couldn’t see it earlier, had led me here, to be with Nora at the gate that was our final destination. I should have been excited, or terrified, but I was neither. I was beyond all that. I was empty. A piece of nothingness, like I had always been.

I entered, together with Nora, the halls of Askatoth, where one of the Nameless Lords lived. As we stepped in, the Lord looked upon us from his throne.

It’s important to know that the gaze of the Nameless Lords cannot be tolerated either by the human mind or the human body. This should be taken into account by those whose sole purpose on this trip is to get a glimpse of the Lord. It won’t work. Although we established direct eye contact with this Nameless Lord (inasmuch as you can call that nightmare an eye), I couldn’t give a physical description of it.

A red fog darkened my mind. I think I must have had a brain hemorrhage, and I died. I fell to the floor, lifeless; the last thing I saw was Nora dancing ecstatically. Maybe she was having a seizure, I thought, then I faded away.

The line between life and death is less strict here than in other places; the presence of the Lords blurs the border. One can cross easily, if the Lords allow.

Or want.

I was lured back to conscious existence by Nora’s voice. I opened my eyes as my mind dutifully reoccupied the flesh, the flesh where I no longer felt at home. Nora smiled, not in a dry, sad way like before, but full of joy. She was naked, her stomach disfigured by a fresh wound, a red line, as if she had been cut in half.

‘I’m home,’ she said. ‘I’m finally home and I understand everything! I understand myself!’

I was lying on the ground, and at first I couldn’t take in the perspective. Houses and palaces of indiscernible shape hung from the gigantic ceiling; tortured, distorted bodies writhed on the ceiling, and on the walls, tourists and devo­tees captured and pinned onto meathooks screamed their prayers for the Lords.

‘You look happier,’ I wanted to tell Nora, but no sound came from my wounded throat.

‘Don’t try to speak!’ Nora caressed my head. ‘You have been screaming for days in your death. The Frenchman gouged out his own eyes. He was lucky, they took his offering and let him go.’

She kissed me, the scent of spice filled my nose. From a distance I heard a scream that made my bones quake.

‘Listen to me!’ Nora went on, grabbing my chin with her fingers. Her grip was strong.