It was the 22nd of January, in the year 1901: incidentally, the exact day of Queen Victoria's death.

The first official sighting of a giant, unknown structure situated on the remote Caribbean Isle of Perdition—said to resemble a stone pillar—was recorded in the logbook of a crew of Spanish rum-shippers.

Standing at a full height of over fifty stories tall, it dominated the skyline for miles in each direction as well as the imaginations of those who beheld it; as soon after, a number of strange reports from the local islanders came flooding in: Corpses of "monstrous," previously unidentified species of animal being found tangled in their fishing nets and washed ashore onto beaches in the surrounding area. A type of creature described as "miniscule goblin-men, flitting about on bone-drawn wings" would swarm the skies in a droning cacophony of high-pitched shrieks and squeals, from the early evening until nightfall, in such incredible numbers as to eclipse the setting sun in a solid wall of black. Hulking grim-faced goliaths would sometimes be glimpsed stalking the shores and outer jungles, seeming to patrol the place.

Such bizarre accounts left even the most prominent naturalists of the era stumped for answers: gradually making their way to the front page of the major old world newspapers; albeit moreso as a thing of curiosity, with a large amount of blame for these happenings being pointed to so-called "African voodoo.

The situation would not remain so easily dismissed for long, however, as the true violent natures of these new inhabitants of the sky and of the deep became known in their increasing attacks against people. Why, it was even said that a swarm of the aforementioned winged folk—which began to be referred to as 'devil imps'—could pick a horse or a man clean to the bone, within mere seconds! Yet most would not dare to venture to the island to investigate: believing the strange gate to be the source of this activity, and those who did would never be heard from again. Eventually, a major expedition backed by the French monarchy was sent to the island, but it too vanished without a trace: an incident that finally caused a great stir across the globe once it became known to the public, with many toting it as a surefire sign of the approaching end times.

It was during this period, marked by growing fear and uncertainty of how to approach the issue...that we find a British Royal Navy Admiral loathe to meet with a certain prominent Italian occultist in his ship's cabin.

"You are here because the situation has grown dire. There is no end to the presence of the fiends in sight, and it is beginning to have an adverse effect on our nation's trade routes," the admiral explained: "Science has failed to provide us with solutions, so now we must resort to calling upon the services of"—he clicked his teeth, enunciating the following with clear disdain: "your wretched ilk, of gypsies and soothsayers."

Such was the briefing, if you could call it that, which was provided to Gabriella Rizzo following the long and uneventful voyage from London to Perdition, located in the Lesser Antilles chain; just before being promptly ejected onto a rowboat, to travel the remainder of the way to the shore.

She was greatly relieved to be away from the stuffy-aired crew, inside nature:

The seas were calm that day, and the breeze was amicable. The sky was tinted orange with the setting sun, though there was no sight of the dreaded sun-blotting flocks of 'devil imps' Rizzo had heard the most fussing about.

Seated across from her was the lone redshirted naval officer tasked with the arduous work of rowing the boat to shore, casting the occasional darting, bashful glance in Rizzo's direction: to which she would respond with some small gesture like a teasing flutter of her perfectly curled eyelashes, or deceitful drop of her parasol.

However, to fully describe the appearance of Gabriella Rizzo…

Attempting so is to embrace one's limitations: as they try, hopelessly, to paint a picture of a being of such divinely magnificent beauty the likes of which is seldom seen within the world of mortals.

The Italian bore an uncommonly graceful, androgynous appearance: being slender and petite with long flowing curls of dark hair, flawless alabaster pale skin and a smooth, angelic face. Wherever she walked, he was trailed by a wafting aura of sweet-smelling perfumes, wearing a matching frilled pink bonnet and dress with white stockings.

Everywhere she went, Rizzo knew she attracted the eyes and hearts of men and women alike.

Secretly, it was something like a game to her:

She liked to hold a person's still-beating heart in her hand, pause and savor it a while, then crush it before their very eyes.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Joining Gabriella Rizzo, was the dutiful redheaded and bespectacled, strongly Irish and bookish Ms. Luella Lafferty: an intellectually nubile, if not naively adventurous acolyte of Rizzo's school of occultism in Venice. Who bore the austere, distinctly temperamentally stern aura of an old regretful hag, in spite of her youth.

Being the more logical of the two, she hadn't placed much stock in the fantastical accounts of demons in the New World. That is, until first laying her eyes upon it:

Like the legendary Tower of Babel, the great pillar craned high over the dense jungle canopy of Perdition, reaching endlessly far above the clouds. A tremendous pillar of stone, carved in intricate mezoamerican patterns, it dared all attempts at reason with its thus far impermeable aura of unnatural mystery.

Its mere existence raised countless questions:

What was it?

Where did it come from?

How could something such a massive structure suddenly appear out of nowhere? And who—or what—could have designed and built it? Using what materials and equipment?

Furthermore, what could be its intended purpose—if indeed any?

"I hear some are calling it the Tree of Life," the navy officer remarked to Rizzo with a laugh, noticing her and Luella's lingering awe-filled stares. "Doesn't look anything like a tree, though—does it?"

Rizzo, seeing that they were near to their destination, met him with a flirtatious giggle.

Then, she played her final hand:

"It doesn't! Though neither do I appear like a man, I suppose."

The officer's face was flushed bright pink.

"Milady, I wasn't speaking in jest—"

Rizzo interjected sharply: "Neither was I."

"Uh..." The naval officer fell silent, slowly averting his gaze; as to all this Luella only narrowed her brow at Rizzo's subtly darkening expression.

It was silent for all the rest of the way until the rowboat had made land: mooring at the small dock of what appeared to be an abandoned fishing village, made up of crudely constructed thatch-roofed wooden huts traversed by narrow plank walkways.

Smelling strongly of rotting chum and brine, it was clear that the former inhabitants had left in a hurry with doors and windows having been left wide open, fish still hung out on racks to dry, even pots and pats still left on stoves and plates set out on tables—some even with food still remaining in them.

Luella said, "everyone must have fled after the"—she briefly hesitated—"demons appeared."

Rizzo stopped to inspect a set of deep claw marks dug into one of the hut walls.

"Interesting. Could it be the work of a wild cat?"

Luella cleared her throat and provided an answer: "The local wildlife reports we were given made mention of an endemic species of jaguar, and gorillas."

Rizzo cast her an incredulous look.

"You actually read through those?" he asked.

She adjusted her glasses. "I only wanted to be thorough, sir."

"You don't have to call me sir; it feels weird."

"Very well. What do you prefer?"

"You're so formal! We've been together for a whole month by this point."

"My habit. Accept my apologies, sir."

Rizzo loudly sighed. "It's fine. Still, just call me Rizzo."

"Where will we sleep tonight, Rizzo?"

"Right here in this village, of course! Or is something wrong?"

Luella looked to be queasy at the mere proposition. "I was afraid you would say that." Altogether, the place had an eerie vibe to it: like Pompei, in how it remained largely intact after the eruption.

"Unfortunately, that is not all you will likely be dismayed to hear," Rizzo said ominously as he placed his hands onto Luella's shoulders, prompting their gazes to connect: Luella's full of a thinly-veiled fear whereas his was firm, unblinking: entirely focused on the task ahead. "Tonight, we shall also attempt a demonic lure—using the Crowley method."

"Oh God," Luella gasped and abruptly pulled from Rizzo's grasp. "A Crowley ritual already?"

"Yes...and I would like for you to perform it."

"Really? Why does it have to be me?!"

"So I'll be ready" —he grinned—"in case a 'jaguar' or a 'gorilla' shows up."

At this explanation she hummed and hawwed and bit her lip, in a show of reluctance. She gave a flustered growl, crossing her arms indignantly. Hesitant as she was, however, after some consideration she ultimately relented—

"I suppose…" She gave a relenting sigh. "It is true that I volunteered for this."

Rizzo nodded, and slowly he turned his contemplative gaze to peer out across the sparkling Caribbean sea. Out there, he saw that the rowboat which had brought them ashore, manned by the naval officer, was already halfway returned to the warship where it sat nestled on the horizon. And the ship would remain there, he knew, for as long as a period of approximately thirty days while he and Luella conducted their investigation; after which, it would raise anchors to sail back to England.

Therefore, time was of the essence. But also, it was also to the pair's benefit that they'd been completely left to their own devices, without any supervision; without any moral or ethical restraints being forcibly applied to their work.

It meant there was no cause to hold back: from conducting even their most extreme methodologies.