As the moans rise into echoing shrieks, pounding in my head like the marching of a thousand soildiers, I shriek with them— for I finally knew what it is I’ve done.

I’ve spent the last years of my life invested heavily in my reaserch— that of a strange book that has come up time and time again in different cultures I’ve studied as an anthropologist. It has different names across all cultures, but I and others in my team of scientists and historians have referred to it simply as “Disha Di Kitaba,” which is punjabi for “The Wishing Book.” It’s said to contain rituals that allow one to do simply that— wish. Of course, it comes with some sort of sacrafice— but the idea of a lost book of wishes was one too difficult to pass up. Especially when we got a lead to its location.

We found the book in the Nanda Devi in India, hence the punjabi name for the book. This was a joyous day for our years of studying and resesrch, as the book has not been seen for centuries— only appearing in ancient manuscripts from around the time of Christ. References has to this book has even been found in texts as old as the Great Pyramids of Egypt thenselves. Imagine our surprise when we found the tome in an abandoned monastery, not only intact, but in decent condition at that. The book’s cover was that of some kind of dark leather— someone in the team mentioned its similarity to crocidile skin, but the scales were much smaller than that of a crocodile and much more rigid to the touch. The pages were a rough and yellow-green parchment, likely damaged through years of sitting in the monastery temple. The pages are filled with an ancient script— similar enough to some sort of Sumerian dialect to where we could get a sense of its contents. Every other page has illustrations of men who have wielded the book. Kings and generals, Egyptian pharohs, Mongolian rulers, even medieval kings have held the book. Despite this, the reoccuring mention of the “sacrafice” these men had to make were vague. There are also empty pages in the back, which we eventually found to be how we made the wishes.

We had been warned by the nearby villiagers that the monastery was dangerous, full of curses and other paranormal happenings. As a person of science, I heeded their warnings as we flipped through the book— carefully looking over my shoulder at my companions standing watch in the dilapedated temple. I worry that they’ll be of more harm to me than any sort of spirit could be. Power drives all who wield it mad, and the ability to have your wishes granted is a great power to have.

After an hour of studying the book and no strange happenings occuring, we decide to conduct one of the rituals in the book. Having researched the supposed items needed for the rituals, and confirming it by roughly translating the ancient texts, we begin the ritual. A fight ensued between us between who should “get the wish,” as though it would actually grant us its power. I thought of them as fools. Did they really think they deserved it, when it was I who brought them here? When it was I who even whispered the ideas of the Disha Di Kitaba in their ears? I reminded them of such, and I was given the opportunity to lead the ritual. I saw their sullen looks of disappointment, and I knew that if given the chance these men would betray me. They’re jealous, I know they are.

We conduct the ritual. I read the script, we place the ingredients and mix it with the blood oozing out of my freshly cut hand. Bloodied knife in one hand, bandage in the other, I chant with the men in my team with the book open in front of us. Finally, I drop the knife, turn the book to an empty page and smear the blood mixture on the page. I wish by thinking with all my might on the thought of having the book with me for all eternity, to only be used by me and me only, so I could have its awesome power.

A light appears from the page, and the wind blows in from all openings of the temple. The chanting of the men around me turned to moans— that of pain as the skin shrinks tight to their bones. It was as though the book was draining them of all their life. Their moans turned to shrieks as they learned of their fate. They turn to ash as they wither away and flow into the book. A dull yellow-green light emits from the pages, and I shriek with them as I see the granter of wishes, the true owner of the Disha Di Kitaba, and the fate that awaits me. I shriek even as the others disappear entirely, their sunken and skeletal faces burned in my memories forever.

Finally, I shriek in joy— knowing that the power if the Disha Di Kitaba is finally mine to wield.