When I landed in the USA at 22, I was just a curious, lost soul trying to survive. I didn’t have a job, barely found a place to stay, and life was hitting me hard. Out of desperation and madness, I found comfort in darkness reading ghost novels, watching real life paranormal encounters, and walking alone at midnight through parks, railway tracks, and dead silent intersections. I started whispering satanic chants I found online, begging for something to help me. And something did. I got a room in an eerie, rotting house owned by an old white lady.
The place smelled of death and forgotten time. Her basement was filled with dusty books on demonology, witchcraft, and soul binding spells. It felt like the house had chosen me. One night, I picked up a strange book. She snapped and told me not to touch her “sacred belongings.” But later she knocked on my door, eyes blank, like she was in a trance. She handed me the same book and pointed to a dusty wooden box filled with bones, ashes, feathers, dried herbs, and handwritten spells.
I felt like something had crawled under my skin, whispering directly into my head. Day after day, I couldn’t stop reading. I got obsessed. It led me to get my first tattoo a forbidden sigil. The local tattoo shop refused me at first. But days later, a woman called me from a blocked number and said, “Come to me. It’s time.” I went. She inked the sigil onto me while whispering in a language I couldn’t understand. That same night, she invited me to a gathering in the woods, 200 miles out from Chicago. It was on Friday the 13th.
I drove there, surrounded by thick forest and fog so dense it felt alive. What I saw that night still haunts me people in black robes, with eyes that didn’t blink and smiles that stretched too wide. There were symbols drawn in blood on trees, dolls hanging from branches, and a fire that didn’t flicker. We stood in a circle, chanting. A woman began levitating. A man screamed and vanished into thin air. I felt a cold hand grip my shoulder, but no one was behind me. I was home. After that, we traveled to haunted places real ones.
The Winchester Mystery House where doors lead to nowhere, the 13th Floor in Denver where people have gone missing, the screaming tunnels in Niagara, the Bell Witch cave where whispers come from stone walls. We stayed overnight in Lizzie Borden’s house. I woke up at 3:33 AM with handprints on my neck. I collected cursed bones, wore talismans, and kept vials of blood. But I stayed in touch with my family. I never posted online. I played normal. Until one day, my landlady walked in during a “cleansing ritual.”
She saw the rabbit skulls, dried blood, goat bones, candles, and the pentagram on the floor. She screamed. She called the cops. I was evicted and nearly arrested. I moved to a new state, cut my hair, got a normal job. Now my parents want me to marry. But no one stays. They see my tattoos, feel the strange air around me, and disappear. I started wondering am I cursed? Just when I thought it was over. I got a message. My cult is gathering again. On June 13th. A Friday. They say that’s the night the veil breaks. The night where spirits can cross over freely, when people vanish, and time freezes. One of them texted me.
He still remembers me. And he’s waiting. I’m caught between two paths. Should I pretend everything’s fine, get married, and hide the darkness inside me? Or should I return to the woods where the shadows still know my name and the barrier between our world and theirs is nearly gone? Something is pulling me back, stronger than ever, and this time it refuses to let go. On Friday the 13th, when positive forces weaken and divine energy fades, our power rises. If you’ve ever felt a strange pull, noticed the signs, or sensed something watching, you already know.
The gate is opening. Most people think this is a joke or a story. Let them believe that. Our cult is real. We have archives buried deep in the dark web. You might find a public face like satanictemple.com, but the real work happens in hidden networks, encrypted forums, and private channels. Rituals. Sacrifices. Transformation. This is more than belief. This is awakening.