Just above the cultists’ heads, a whirlpool of what looked like water turned slowly, every now and then brushing against the tips of their headdresses. One spiraling tendril extended down to the bowl on the statue’s belly like an umbilical cord. A low moaning sound issued from the swirling whirlpool—a sound like the combination of a man groaning in pain and water gurgling in a deep well. The sound was eerie and chilling—it sent shivers coursing through my body, giving me goose bumps and making the hair on the back of my arms rise. I guessed that this was some form of ritual magic—but I couldn’t imagine what its purpose might be.