I, as a human being, must find myself guilty of what I consider my greatest sin – a hunger for knowledge that I cannot control. Even as a child, this trait brought me into one difficulty or another. For instance, when I was five years old, I ran into the forest to collect ribbons that served as trail markers for joggers. I was lucky that my mother found me shortly after I had set off on my little adventure. As my reason for running away, I told her – according to her own words – that I wanted to know where those ribbons led.
But what I need to get off my chest today is not as naive as a child's desire for colorful ribbons. I have done something that can best be described as reckless.
I have always been fascinated by mysteries. The occult captivates me in a way I cannot describe. There is something about it that is simply untouchable... unfathomable. Of course, one can find countless videos online about hundreds of different mysteries, but it never feels the same as when you can take part yourself. When you can search for an answer yourself. I wanted more. Something real.
I wanted to fill the grey world of working life with something personal. A hobby, if you will. I wandered the internet in search of a mystery or something of the sort that I could call my own. I visited sites selling occult objects and read through various pages about supposedly ancient artifacts. But in the end, I found nothing. Nothing that pulled me into its spell. Until I stumbled upon rituals.
You can simply recreate them at home. It is much like baking a cake – you just have to follow the recipe. To be honest, I already knew beforehand that most rituals would not work. But I wanted to try them anyway, even if only the smallest chance existed that one might.
My very first ritual was like that of most people: Bloody Mary. Originally it was used as a divination, allowing young women to see the face of their future husband for a brief moment in the mirror's reflection. But should the face of their husband not appear, and instead a skull or the Grim Reaper, this foretold that they would die before they were ever married.
And so I began the well-known ritual. I stood before my mirror and called out to Bloody Mary. After the third call, I opened my eyes and saw in the reflection a disheveled man. He looked tired and slouched. That man should better get himself ready for bed, I thought. All in all, one could call this ritual a flop, and I prepared myself for the journey into the realm of dreams. I wondered whether it perhaps only worked for women.
Before long, I had settled into a rhythm. Some rituals were more elaborate, others shorter, but they all had one thing in common: they did not work. Each time, my expectations were disappointed, until my expectations ceased to exist altogether. I kept going anyway – why? Because researching and performing rituals had become a part of my daily life. It was also fun. It was a distraction from the dullness of everyday life. It made life... more interesting.
I noticed how I was venturing deeper and deeper into the subject. The rituals became more elaborate, consequences for failure were introduced, the locations became more specific. All of that, only for nothing to ever happen.
One day, after a failed ritual, I decided on a whim to try the Bloody Mary ritual one more time. Again, after the third call, I opened my eyes and looked into the mirror. Before me stood a man I did not recognize – a beard that had not seen a razor in quite some time. His eyes were empty, framed by the most beautiful dark circles. Hair? None. He forced a smile and disappeared shortly after. The next morning greeted me like a worried mother.
I got up and decided to take some time off. I chose to go on a road trip towards my hometown, to visit a few spiritual shops in the hope of finding books with new rituals I could try. Oh, how excited I was – and on top of that, how naive.
I set off, luggage packed, hotel booked, and route planned. On my journey I had planned to stop at seven shops. The first shop I entered had none of the ritual books I was looking for. All I could find were talismans, small gongs, healing crystals, tarot cards, and other small trinkets. After a brief visit, I decided to move on and try my luck at the remaining six shops.
I stepped into the next shop and looked around. The same esoteric nonsense. But this time something was different – there were also books for sale. They stood directly behind the woman at the counter. All thirteen of them. They were arranged by brightness; none bore any inscription on their spine except their respective number. Number 1 was bathed in a bright white, and number 13 was wrapped in an almost perfectly black cover. The books were locked inside a glass display case, so I asked what book number 13 would cost.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I cannot sell you this book." "Why not?" I asked. "These books are merely display pieces. They are not for sale."
I nodded and left the shop, defeated. For the rest of the drive to the next shop, I could not stop thinking about those thirteen books. They seemed unnatural – I had never seen such a color before. Or rather: the absence of one.
At the next shop: nothing. And at the fourth shop, nothing either. The fifth shop had books, but none that drew me in the way those did – the ones I could not stop thinking about. But then, at the sixth shop, I found them – the very same books. This time I had to have one. They were not in a display case this time, but stood like ordinary books behind the counter in a neat row. I could not hold back for long, and asked the old woman:
"What would you like for the book?" "Nothing at all," she answered. She told me to take the book I seemed to desire. "Are you sure? Aren't these valuable?" "In a few days you'll simply bring it back, just like everyone does."
I thanked her with more energy than I had ever felt before in my life and said my goodbyes. The old woman said nothing – she only looked at me with sad eyes as I left the shop with the book tucked under my arm.
Now that I had this book, all I wanted was to drive to my hotel and explore every corner of it. I was so nervous that it was difficult to concentrate on driving. I could not stop thinking about what was inside – and then it struck me. I knew absolutely nothing, truly nothing about this book. No author, unknown contents, unknown origin, nothing at all. So I wondered whether this book even contained rituals, or other incantations, or anything of the sort.
Upon arriving at the hotel, I took the book and placed it on my nightstand. I thought about opening it, flipping through it, reading it. But I was afraid – afraid of being disappointed, afraid that inside this book there would be nothing to justify my excitement, my longing. I decided instead to take a short walk through the forest where I had so often played as a child.
I got ready and headed out. It was a beautiful day; the sun was shining and the birds sang in harmony, forming a heavenly choir. Just as the time passed while I walked through the forest, so too did my nervousness fade, and I resolved to open the book and hope it contained what I was searching for. Halfway along the route I had set for myself, I noticed that not a single soul had crossed my path, even though this was a very popular trail for dog walkers. The birds had also fallen completely silent – the only sound my ears could still hear was the crunch of my footsteps pressing down on the beech leaves. With silence as my companion, I found my way back to the hotel and decided to open the book.
I opened the book, and instead of being greeted by a foreword or a table of contents, I found myself staring down at an illustration of a bound man whose liver was being devoured by an eagle. I turned the page and was met with ancient papyrus – but nothing was written on it. I continued turning pages and noticed that each one was made from a different material. Yet on none of these pages was anything at all.
I began to think about what I should do with the book. Should I perhaps simply return it to the old woman? But the structure of this book makes no sense. The first illustration and the subsequent changes in paper type must mean something. No author. No origin. No information.
"Should I use the book itself as a ritual object, or what?" I thought. Should I create my own ritual? I continued the thought.
A wave of thought, accompanied by a surge of ecstasy, suddenly washed over me. I knew it – the ritual, I knew it. The structure, the formula, the preparations, everything. I will not be able to elaborate on that here, so that naive souls do not attempt such a ritual themselves. Furthermore, I will only describe the preparations vaguely.
And so I began the preparations for the ritual. I used chalk to draw a circular symbol on the floor. A candle was placed in the center, and behind it, offerings were presented in a bowl. I then laid the book before me and opened it to the illustration. To initiate the ritual, one must use the lit candle to set the offering alight.
What did I expect? I do not know. I only knew that this was what was required of me, and so I began the ritual. I ignited the offerings as the sun reached its highest point.
At first, nothing happened. But after some time, the page of the book began to move. It turned to the next page on its own. It was difficult to keep my composure. This was the first time a ritual had ever worked. On the paper, letters appeared first, then words, then sentences. I read:
"You have 130 minutes to study the knowledge of the world. Every worldly question shall receive its answer."
And so I asked, and asked, and received answers about the past, about the future. Time passed until the candle in the center was barely flickering above the floor. I did not have much time left. I was about to end the ritual, but I had to ask one last question.
"Who authored the thirteen books, and where do they come from?"
No answer... silence... nothing. Was the ritual over? No. The candle was still burning. So I asked again:
"Who authored the thirteen books, and where do they come from?"
The book turned to a page I had not noticed existed. The page was pitch black, as though it were the shadow itself. Yet in this room, it should not have been possible to cast a shadow. I asked:
"What kind of page is this?"
No answer. My adrenaline surged, and I saw it – the time had run out.
Slowly, something began to rise from the black echo of nothingness. With the first breakthrough of the pitch-black barrier, everything around me fell silent – or rather: I was no longer able to hear it. I could no longer even perceive my own breathing, and I saw the first finger of the prisoner's hand emerge. With the appearance of the second finger, I was no longer able to smell the scent of the burned offerings, nor of the recently extinguished candle. The third finger took from me the feeling of my own body, the fourth took my sense of taste, and the last took my sight. Now I sat there, nothing more than a hollow shell, waiting for something to happen. I did not move – or rather: I could not. I wanted to run, but my legs would not obey me. I sat there like a boy forced to sit through his parents' lecture because he had chased after colorful ribbons. Until my mind caught fire through the feeling of a burning hand closing around mine. I felt everything. Everything I was meant to feel. Everything I had never been capable of feeling, I felt.
I felt the joy of those who found eternal love. I felt the betrayal between two childhood friends who had only moments before laughed together happily. All of this I felt, and so much more. I felt the grief of a father who had lost his family in a car accident, and in that same moment I felt the pain of the wife, of the child – what they had been forced to endure. It was all too much. Too much, far too much. How much longer, how much longer – I could think of nothing else. Everything went dark before my eyes.
When the light returned to my eyes, I did not see my hotel room before me, but instead the image of a family. A mother and daughter, it seemed – and behind them, a cemetery. It smelled of lilies, my favorite flowers; they always reminded me of the time I spent with my grandmother. This vision felt so... real. I felt the light caressing my skin and the taste of summer in my mouth. The two women stood before a small gravestone. No name had been inscribed upon it. The epitaph read:
"Knowledge does not protect you from death either. By the time death knocks at your door, you have already moved out."
When I woke, it was considerably later. Moonlight streamed through the window onto my face. I could not move without trembling. I looked down at my hand and saw a scar in the shape of a chain around my wrist. I looked around – everything was quiet, as though nothing had ever happened. The book was gone, as were the offerings from the bowl. I stood up, shaking, and went to the bathroom to look in the mirror and check whether I had any other injuries. I looked exhausted, as though I had not slept in the last two days. I wanted to sleep, but I could not – every time I closed my eyes, I saw what had been shown to me through that touch.
Since I could not sleep anyway and assumed that the roads would be relatively empty at such a late hour, all I wanted was to drive home. That was when I noticed that my car keys were not in my pocket. I searched the hotel and found them, fortunately fairly quickly, near the entrance door. But I had certainly not left them there or dropped them. My car was also parked in a completely different spot than where I had left it. What had happened while I was unconscious? What had I done?
On my way to my car, I decided to stop by both of those shops on the way home. Yes, I know it was late and they were probably closed. But I could still check whether all the other books were still there by shining a flashlight through the window. When I arrived at the first shop and found it completely empty, I stood there with nothing but confusion on my face. The same was true for the second shop. Everything empty and clean – not a single speck of dust had been left behind. What had happened here, I asked myself.