One might reasonably inquire what becomes of a junior fellow upon the successful conclusion of their probationary period within the hallowed, if increasingly blood-spattered, halls of the Royal Anthropological Society. Typically, such an occasion calls for a modest celebratory gathering, perhaps a formal induction, replete with the presentation of some suitably ornate, yet ultimately meaningless, token. A silver-plated pen, a leather-bound journal, a framed certificate – objects designed to convey permanence in an inherently impermanent world. Of course, I harbored no illusions that a corporate entity operating, quite literally, within the pages of a forgotten horror would adhere to such quaint traditions. The Royal Anthropological Society, as the cult novel from my previous life had so vividly described, was less a scholarly institution and more a meticulously crafted facade for something far older and hungrier. “Ah, an exceptional turnout, truly!” The Proctor, a man whose smile seemed permanently affixed by some ghastly taxidermic process, beamed from the raised dais. “Twenty-two successful candidates this cycle! A truly astonishing figure. One wonders what the Curatorial Division makes of such unprecedented efficiency.” No one, I noted, felt compelled to wonder about that. Certainly, the other probationary scholars clustered around me, their faces a mélange of wary relief and barely contained terror, shared my disinterest. The Society, like the abyssal entities it served, cared little for the mundane concerns of departmental quotas or annual reports. “Indeed, a most remarkable record,” the Proctor continued, undeterred by the room’s palpable silence. “Unless this signifies a gross miscalculation of difficulty on our part, you, ladies and gentlemen, represent a truly elite cohort. Elites, every one of you.” The silence, if anything, deepened, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the ancient floorboards beneath our collective weight. The Proctor, a man immune to the nuances of human discomfort, pressed on, his voice a bright, cloying veneer over the unspoken dread that permeated the Great Assembly Hall. “And from this exceptional cohort, leading the charge from the Curatorial Division of Esoteric Artifacts! One of the swiftest to navigate the evaluations, one of the most… *resourceful* in their escape, and the pre-eminent scorer in the overall assessment.” The Proctor extended a hand, a gesture of almost theatrical gravitas. “My congratulations to Mr. Elias Thorne!” “Mr. Thorne, are you present?” “Our little ceremony cannot progress until the first felicitations are duly acknowledged! Do come forward and accept your… commendation!” I rose. To remain seated, after all, would have been an act of profound idiocy. We had just endured an ordeal where explicit instructions, however veiled, were often the razor's edge between survival and utter obliteration. My feet, as if guided by an invisible force, began their journey towards the dais. It was a purely pragmatic decision, devoid of pride or anticipation. “Ah, such alacrity! A commendable trait, Mr. Thorne. Such swift comprehension will doubtless serve you well within our hallowed halls. A shame, really. A terrible shame.” His words dripped with an unctuous pity I found profoundly irritating. Was this individual merely a high-ranking functionary, a Master of Ceremonies in this macabre pageant? Or something more? The Society’s hierarchy, I knew, was less about academic merit and more about proximity to the unnamable powers it worshipped. Either way, his pronouncements chafed. I stepped onto the polished stage, stopping before him. The air here felt thicker, charged with a latent energy that prickled the skin. “Come now, take your… due.” What the Proctor pressed into my hand was not, as one might expect, a weighty tome or a gleaming medallion, but a surprisingly sharp-edged, heavy parchment envelope. Its texture was unsettlingly coarse, almost like dried hide. Within its rough confines, subtly shimmering beneath the Society’s sigil – a stylized ouroboros devouring itself, an ouroboros whose scales seemed to writhe – I could glimpse a rolled vellum scroll, undoubtedly the official instrument of my full membership, alongside several other, less discernible, items. “Do not feel unduly slighted, Mr. Thorne, that there is nothing… *additionally* special reserved for the pre-eminent scholar.” His smile stretched, revealing too many teeth. Slighted? I felt nothing of the sort. Happiness was a luxury I could ill afford in a place where existence itself was conditional. I accepted the envelope, offering a shallow nod rather than the withering stare I truly desired, and began to pivot, intending to make my swift exit from the stage. “Take a good, long look inside.” His voice, suddenly devoid of its theatrical cheer, was a low, guttural murmur meant only for my ears. A moment later, before I could even process the unsettling command, his voice boomed back into the Hall, amplified by the esoteric mechanisms of the lectern. “And now, for our next distinguished probationary scholar!” He had already called out Agnes Finch’s name, dismissing our brief, unsettling exchange as if it had never occurred. I wasted no further time, descending from the dais and making my way back to my seat, my grip tightening on the strange envelope. Eleanor Vance, her gaze sharp and assessing even as she attempted to project a calm demeanor, was called next. Followed by Silas Blackwood. Our small cohort from the train car, the survivors of a particularly unpleasant journey, were slowly being processed. As I watched, Eleanor walked with a practiced grace, though a tremor was barely visible in her left hand. Silas, however, was a different story. He was called immediately after me, a proximity I found less than comforting. He remained seated beside me after receiving his own parchment, utterly silent, his knuckles white as he pressed them hard against his left eye. The eye itself was unnaturally still, a ghastly, unblinking imitation. It was clear he had ‘returned’ what Marcus Alastair had ‘lost’ in the carriage, or rather, had it returned *to* him. The mechanisms of this place were often quite literal in their horror. ‘He’ll find a sanatorium,’ I thought, the detachment a familiar, comforting shield. A sanatorium, or perhaps a quietly administered dose of laudanum. Or, more likely, he would be subsumed, body and soul, by the Society’s machinations, just like so many before him. As more names were intoned, a disturbing pattern emerged. Several of the scholars making their way to the dais were visibly disoriented, their gaits uneven, eyes unfocused and vacant, as if their minds had become untethered from their bodies. Some even bore subtle, inexplicable scars, or moved with an unnatural stiffness. ‘…Perhaps the ghost story held them for too long,’ I mused, a chill that had nothing to do with the Hall’s drafts tracing a path down my spine. We had all, presumably, regained consciousness here in the Great Assembly Hall at roughly the same moment. But the brutal truth was that the ‘escape’ from our spectral carriage had been a process, not an instantaneous event. There was no telling how many hours, days, or even weeks some of these poor souls might have languished in the ethereal dimensions of their particular nightmare. The thought of those other seventy-eight scholars, the ones who had never even made it onto the train, was a stark reminder of the Society’s indifferent cruelty. “Has everyone now received their due?” The Proctor’s voice cut through the morbid tableau, signaling the end of the ceremony. There was no audible response, but a strange, heavy tension, thick with dread and a desperate kind of expectation, settled over the room. Perhaps, just perhaps, we might finally be permitted to leave. Even I, pragmatic and resigned as I was, felt a flicker of that insidious hope. It felt like an ending. Things should be wrapping up. The curtain, one might presume, was about to fall. “However,” the Proctor declared, his voice taking on a subtly harder edge, “it must be understood that the Royal Anthropological Society, despite its generous spirit, does not extend full membership to *all* candidates who merely complete their probationary period.” His gaze swept across the room, lingering just a moment too long on various individuals. “Sometimes, there are those who achieve their passage through sheer, unadulterated happenstance. By providence, by blind fortune, by *luck*.” He spat the last word as if it were anathema. “But the Royal Anthropological Society, as you all know, is an institution that adheres steadfastly to the invaluable social contract of fairness. And such… undeserving probationary scholars are, naturally, assessed with extreme prejudice in their final evaluation.” The Proctor did nothing overtly dramatic. No theatrical flourish, no ominous snap of his fingers, no sudden dimming of the gaslights that flickered above. The silence was absolute, the tension unbearable. “As I have just stated,” he murmured, his voice now almost conversational, “freeloaders are always, *always*, identified.” And then, around us, the dissolving began. It was not a sudden explosion, nor a violent tearing. It was a gradual, sickening liquefaction. Several scholars, their faces still frozen in expressions of relief or fear, began to melt. Their bodies sagged, collapsing inwards as if smeared away by an invisible, colossal hand. Flesh lost its cohesion, dissolving into a viscid, shimmering ooze that flowed silently onto the polished floorboards. There were no screams, no desperate struggles, no final movements. Just the horrifying, silent recession of form into formless. The woman directly in front of me, a slender academic who had been nervously clutching a worn leather satchel, clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with unshed terror, stifling a scream before it could break free. I wrenched my head away, a fresh wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm my practiced detachment. But it was too late. I had already seen it. My ocular nerves had, with perverse efficiency, relayed the full, nauseating horror to my brain. Of the ten individuals who had begun their journey in our particular spectral carriage, only five remained. Myself, Eleanor Vance, Silas Blackwood, and two others I could not immediately recall. The rest were gone, reduced to nothing more than puddles of iridescent, sickly-sweet-smelling residue. “To the thirteen remaining probationary scholars,” the Proctor announced, his voice once again brimming with false cheer, “my most sincere congratulations! You have successfully ascended to the esteemed rank of full members, having demonstrated truly excellent results!” Not a single person clapped. The chilling silence was broken only by the ragged, wheezing gasps of one scholar, overwhelmed with an almost primal panic. “I… I resign,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I… I want to quit.” The Proctor’s smile remained serene, unperturbed by the raw terror. “Oh? Such a precipitous departure from a truly unparalleled opportunity? Come now, at least permit us to apprise you of the benefits before making such a rash decision.” Behind me, Eleanor Vance, her voice strained but clear, called out, “So, we *can* quit after hearing about these… benefits? Without any penalties?” Her gaze, as always, was piercing, searching for the tell-tale sign of a trap. “But of course, madam!” The Proctor’s words flowed, smooth as polished obsidian. “Absolutely. You may depart without a single scratch, without a single impediment to your future endeavors.” It was then that I fully understood. The 'stick,' the brutal, annihilating force, had passed. The stage, I knew from the chilling narrative of my forgotten novel, was now set for the 'carrot.' …The ‘benefit’ I had been expecting, the one that kept so many ensnared within the Society’s gilded cage. “Permit me, then,” the Proctor declared, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, “to introduce the Royal Anthropological Society’s paramount member benefit!” This was it. The reason why, after enduring such mind-rending horrors and witnessing unspeakable dissolvements, any scholar, however brilliant, however pragmatic, would choose to remain with the Curatorial Division of Esoteric Artifacts. The reason they would sign away their future, and perhaps their very souls, to this insidious institution. The large viewing screen, a marvel of brass and enchanted glass set into the far wall of the Assembly Hall, flickered to life. A dazzling image resolved into view: a beautifully sleek, impossibly delicate crystal bottle. Inside, a strange, viscous liquid shimmered with multi-colored ripples, a chaotic ballet of light and shadow. The hues, the textures, the mesmerizing, self-propagating patterns – they were so achingly beautiful, yet so profoundly alien, that they evoked an uncanny, almost sacrilegious dread. Silence, once again, descended upon the Hall. But this was a different silence, one charged with a potent mix of awe and burgeoning horror. “Shall we examine it more closely?” The Proctor pressed a hidden button on his lectern. With a soft hydraulic sigh, the screen glided upwards, revealing a heavy black table that had been concealed behind it. Upon the velvet-draped surface of the table sat the identical, dazzling bottle from the screen. The liquid within shimmered, seemingly on its own accord, reflecting the gaslight in the room with such preternatural brilliance that it seemed to glow from an inner source. It defied the very physics of our reality, making one question whether such an object could, or *should*, even exist. “You all understand that the Royal Anthropological Society is renowned for its pioneering advancements, do you not?” The Proctor’s voice was once again smooth, persuasive. “Indeed, our commitment to cutting-edge discovery has yielded countless wonders. I mean, how truly advanced must our ethnological preservation techniques be, if we can reliably prevent the desiccation of even the most ephemeral of spiritual artifacts?” He paused, allowing this rhetorical question to hang in the air, a testament to their supposed mundane genius. “But in truth, our *primary* offering, our ultimate product… it is *this*.” With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, a fleeting moment of very human frailty, the Proctor donned a pair of immaculate white gloves. Then, with painstaking care, he lifted the crystal bottle from the table, holding it aloft for all the remaining scholars to behold. “The name of this… elixir,” he announced, his voice dropping to a reverent, almost seductive whisper, “is the ‘Wish Ticket’.” “And its effect,” he concluded, his gaze sweeping over our faces, hungry and expectant, “is precisely as its moniker suggests. Consume it, and *any* wish, no matter how audacious, no matter how impossible, will be granted. Absolutely. Indubitably. Without fail.”

The Cost of Membership