Satanic Ritual

By Mauri

 

 

 

 

When I was home with my parents I remember mostly running around outside in just a pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse - no shoes. I think I was cold so much of the time that I no longer felt it. If I went to visit non-cult relatives I was given new clothes. I was very proud of the thick calluses on the bottom of my feet that allowed me to walk almost anywhere barefooted.

 

 

 

 

With my new hair style, which I now do myself, I practice the feminine art of the dance. This is no cheesey coven, our rituals are polished, rehearsed and very refined. After all, we are civilized human beings who just happen to worship the devil.  The little shadow next to me is one of the few children I know in the group. Mostly I work alone. For many of the rituals I am partnered with my mother or my father. I get to know them. My parents are strict atheists - of the fundamentalist kind.  The family that preys together stays together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas in the cult

Unlike most children, I have a hard time remembering childhood toys. But whenever people asked me about my childhood, I would always say the same thing, "I had all the toys I wanted."  I view that as a true statement since I feel fear about, balloons, clowns, marbles, and most other toys.  Toys are associated with Christmas, my most feared holiday. My second Christmas in California, when I was five, I  remember seeing my parents trying to force me into the dinning room. I viewed the scene from the ceiling; my fear probably having forced me out of my body. On the floor was a fancy box wrapped with ribbon. They wanted me to open it. I refused, so they opened it for me. It was full of live snakes. When I was six, they opened the box for me. I guess that was to reassure me there wasnít a snake inside. It was a gold heart shaped necklace with a tiny blue sapphire stone. There was a matching bracelet. I still have it. Then they gave me a box to open. I did. It was full of feces. In my memory, I felt someone rubbing my face in it. When I was seven, I got roller skates. I remember skating back and forth between home and the local public school. It would soon be necessary for me to walk to school alone as I was to stop living at Mrs. Hildebrand's house during the week, and the skates made it fun to learn the route. When I was eight, everyone joyously opened a present but me. Then I remembered the words, "Oh, we forgot to get a present for you."  When I was nine, I got a Tony Doll, which is a precursor to the Barbie Doll (excellent tool for Beta Programming.) The object was to fix her hair so she looks sexy, not to learn to mother. Mattel was located in the Redondo Beach area, just down the street from TRW. When I was ten I got a blue bicycle, mostly as payment for the paper route that I worked on foot three times a week before dawn. I was only to keep the bike barely long enough to learn how to ride it. When I crossed Mrs. Hildebrand's friend, it was promptly removed along with the rest of my possessions and my newspaper delivery job. Every year after that I seemed to get some small gift, most of which soon disappeared. It wasnít difficult to keep tract of my possessions because I had so few.

As an adult, I still suffer from the effects of their satanic Christmas.  Iím afraid of wrapped gifts. I remember as a young adult I always looked for the gift before Christmas, then I unwrapped it to see what it was, then I re-wrapped it. I think I was making sure it didnít smell or bite. I donít like to receive surprises or give them. I have a great deal of trouble thanking people for gifts, because I donít feel thankful. If there is something I want, I like to buy it unwrapped for myself. My main concern in my childhood was if I would get a present at all, let alone one I might like. Every year when the Christmas tree went up, I would begin to feel stress. I always thought the tree was totally ugly, and I couldnít wait until it came down again. It was such a stress as a child, as an adult I donít even want a gift. It wasnít the gift that mattered. It was the secret. When people asked what I got for Christmas, I had to say something. I was no good at lying. I was desperate for the outside world to think my parents loved me, which in reality they didnít. It was necessary to keep the abuse a secret because I felt strongly that if people found out that my parents, who were supposed to love and protect me, abused me instead, they would think it was all right to abuse me too. I remember I felt I had to maintain some semblance of respectability in the outside world, for my own safety.  It was all a big game. Those with status made it. Those without didnít. That was the way our society was.

 

California Desert

I have few memories of Halloween, their biggest holiday next to Walspurgisnacht, until my late teenage.  But I was able to recover one ceremony. Halloween evening, we all went to bed. Suddenly I was awoken in the middle of the night, and I quietly got dressed. We got in the car and drove to the desert. A gathering was there. At the center of the ceremony was a soft fuzzy white rabbit with long pointed ears. A sharp razor was used to slit each of its eyes. The throat was slit open, then the front. We were told to put our hands inside and wipe blood on our naked bodies. The bunny was still warm and felt almost alive. If this was typical, and it may have been, many of these rituals took place in the dead of night. I remember the many times I put my head down on my desk at school and just fell asleep. No wonder, with little sleep, I was probably still tired.  As an adult when I would go to sleep at night, I would often have the flashback of two knocks on wood, which would awaken me. When I looked up I would feel people just outside my window looking in.  This may have been a trigger used to get me up in the middle of the night for rituals as a child.

I have other desert memories.  In another I remember myself at the bottom of a cliff with a big bag of rocks held by a rope over me. I see the rocks crashing toward me, then felt myself rolled under the cliff just in time. On top of the cliff is a group of children. Can you imagine how they must have felt when they went home that night, thinking they had just murdered a child? Yes, they just couldn't give up on having other children murder me. The cult had a name for this game. It was called "The Game of Three Children"  The object of the game was that one child would watch, one would die, and one would kill the other. Of course, as with all games, much was hoaxed behind the scenes, but not in the eyes of the participants, except the one that was "murdered". That child frequently lived to be murdered yet again.

The California witches liked the desert, and I continued to be the center of their attention under the full moon. My mother and I often worked together. In another memory, I felt myself nude lying flat on my back, propped up on some kind of altar. I saw my mother, the light from a torch shown yellow across her face. Her eyes were like saucers. She looked evil. She passed the burning torch back and forth in front of my eyes. The fire singed my hair. I smelled it burning. I felt myself holding a branch in both hands above my head. A large branch protruded between my legs. She lit all three branches with the torch, and then warned me that she was in control if I burned. I held breathlessly still. My mother seemed angry, but probably what she really was was afraid.  Suddenly I felt very cold and wet as the buckets of water almost drowned me. The circle of witches let the branches burn until just the right moment, then in unison they extinguished the fire with water. I donít have scares on my body. I think they were careful to only scare my mind.  I remember these witches with slightly more fondness than that evil bunch in the barn in Utah. I am suspicious that my mother and I worked with fire a lot. Neither of us is afraid of fire and I think I may have done fire walking on hot coals. For this I made sure I had thick calluses on the bottom of my feet. 

I remember when these memories began to surface, one day I woke up with the thought, "The rocks are watching you."  The rocks were apparently my surveillance implant. I remember in a desert ritual, they put rocks in my vagina and told me the rocks were Satan and that now Satan controlled my body and my mind. To this day, I like rocks as a part of nature. But one thing is surely true, no rock collections are allowed in my house. Some of their programming definitely got through. The rocks will simply have to "watch me" outside.

 

Ritual Rape of the Child

Rape is a devastating crime to the psyche; the body that God gave just to you is taken over by some one else without your permission. Your sense of self is violated; and you feel fear that your life maybe the next thing to go. Rape causes panic and when the memories began to surface in my case it caused panic attacks. These attacks were accompanied by a rhythm of loss of bodily control, where my bowls ran a liquid that covered and stained my legs brown, while I shook and hyperventilated.

The first California rape memory to surface was of my satanic wedding. As my past began to unfold, I found myself nude,  sitting on top of my father in intercourse. The candles that flickered around us were white and in individual cups, like those found in a Catholic church. They lined the pentagram mosaic on the floor. Around the perimeter of the circle, I felt the presence of a black robe wearing audience watching. The candlelight flickered and the image was gone. But I knew it was real, some moment from my past reincarnated in a vision. I wondered what it meant?  If I got pregnant, would the baby be taken from me and then murdered, just as I had almost been?

The location of my satanic wedding was known to me. I had recently visited it with a friend and her realtor. The realtor wanted to see the "witches house" while it was for sale, but nobody went there alone, so she asked us to join her. It was located in Redondo Beach near the ocean. We all met at the location, then went up the walk of an aging white rambling structure with symbols in brick dominating one corner, making it look like a fraternity house for witches. In front was a large fenced garden of unkempt roses and other dying plants.  At the time it looked and felt familiar to me, like a place from long ago. We knocked on the screen door and waited.  A small, aging, gray-haired lady greeted us. I thought she looked harmless enough, a little like my own mother. We entered the house through an enclosed front patio, which reminded me of the train station in ďAlice Through the Looking GlassĒ; again my childhood worked its way into my mind.  We followed the lady into the main house. The air became heavy and the light dim. Dust and the smell of someone elseís lifestyle permeated the atmosphere. The walls were lined in a drab paneling which appeared old but not quite finished, giving rise to the possibility of moving a panel to expose a hidden room. The wood floors creaked as we walked around in circles, each area more dusty and drab than the last. I wondered where she had hidden the sunshine. She told us about the house as we walked. Her husband, who had founded a society and was a very important man, had built the house himself.  I believed her. He was no longer alive as he had died in a car accident many years before. We all continued to follow as our tour suddenly took a sharp turn into a narrow staircase. Up we went following the steps that rambled around like a maze. At the top we were dumped out on the roof. I breathed in the fresh air, which was in stark contrast to the funny odors of the house. To me the house smelled and felt much older than its actual age of about fifty years, judging by its architecture. Again we all turned and entered the stairwell. I was both fascinated to stay and anxious to leave as we all went through the kitchen and out the back door into the sunlight again. Houses were like living things to me; they came in a continuum of good to evil. This house was definitely at the evil end of the spectrum. We then followed the gray-haired lady to a separate house on the back of the property. She unlocked the door and we all filed into another world, a secret place of magic, illusion and superstition. I found myself standing on a floor made of tiny tiles arranged with a huge pentagram mosaic dominating the center. To the one side was a table covered by a cloth with white candles on it. At the other end of the room was a dressing area, the large visible display of make-up, wigs, and costumes giving it a theatrical appearance. Behind this was the sleeping area complete with bed. The gray-haired lady looked on proudly, as this space obviously reflected what she was really all about, her passion. Everyone else appeared subdued. The realtor soon turned to go.  She appeared nervous as she herded us all down the drive. She couldn't get out of there fast enough.

When the memories of ritual rape began, they just kept on coming. Whenever I closed my eyes I was back on a ritual alter, nude, my legs spread. With my mother at my head, I watched as every male in the room was allowed to penetrate me with his penis, including my father. I kept feeling them raping me, one by one, as they filed silently by. I kept seeing their faces, deadly serious. The pain wouldnít go away. As the faces in my memory continued to roll by in my mind, I recognized some of them.  Many of them were young men. Was I the main attraction to bring in new members to their dirty little coven?  Was the ceremony a means for the cult to control everyoneís sex life?  It did seem unfair, somehow, one little girl and a room full of men.  I recognized one face in particular. He had been an older impotent member in the line. The impotent part I could well understand. He and his wife had been friends with my parents. They lived in a beautiful house, the interior of which was decorated entirely in white. Their living room, which had a large window with an ocean view, was where many of my memories took place.  When I visited the gray and white house as an adult after my memories began, I noticed the front garage door had a large wooden S on it, apparently marking the house as the place of Satan.

Again I felt myself lying flat with my legs folded up. The altar on which I lay was the height of a manís pelvis. Again the silent figures filled by, each penetrating me and then moving on. I felt my mother at my head holding me down and watching. I was frozen with terror by each figure, and the thought that death awaited me at the end of the line. The image faded and was replaced by another.  The line of male figures continued in front of me, but this time I was performing oral sex. As the procession wound round each penis climaxed and I felt covered in sticky semen. My mother was there, standing next to me, watching. I felt desperate when she left my side. I looked anxiously around the room for my parents. I wanted them close by, as I was petrified of the strangers. I got to know no one. I didnít talk. I was barely alive.

Back in the living room at the S house once again, the lights are dim and Iím lying nude in the center. Iím being gang raped by a silent procession of men. My father dramatically bursts into the room wearing a large animal mask. He climaxes the ceremony by being the final rapist.  Were they trying to get me pregnant, with my father as the father or the father unknown? I had no memories of being pregnant, and no blank spaces long enough to include a pregnancy. They undoubtedly didnít succeed.  I wasnít a very good Satanist. First I refused to die when I was supposed to, then I wouldnít get pregnant when I was supposed to.

But perhaps the lack of a baby for Satan was more my mother's fault than mine. For some reason she had been neglecting to feed me adequately. Always in our house, we had hot cereal for breakfast and everyone had lunch at school. We were thin, but in reasonable heath. For me that all ended when I went to junior high school. The school no longer saw to it that I had lunch and neither did my mother. So I was subsisting on a good breakfast, but little else in the way of good food, mostly candy.  The cult was concerned at the lack of my conceiving so I was sent for a complete gynecological exam. It was discovered my basal metabolic rate was minus 21 percent. I was given thyroid pills. Unfortunately those damn pill didn't contain much protein, so my condition remained the same. I was put in special PE in high school because of developing a scoliosis in my back, and after having been a very athletic child, I was now unable to throw a ball. I simply was not getting enough good food and especially protein to make new bone and muscle as I was growing. I didn't look that thin, but I was tired and bent. I did later start to look emaciated, which kept me out of the sex industry. For every cloud there is a silver lining.  Near the end of high school I got a job in a fast food place. The nutrition I needed was then available to me and lo and behold I got pregnant, with my boyfriend at the time. 

 

July, 1956, Friday 13th

My last memory of gang rape at the S house was when I was 15.  I knew the date was Friday the 13th. It was the dark of night. I found myself nude in the S house in a small room. The other occupants of the room were all wearing black robes. My parents stood next to me. I looked at myself then at them. I was big. They werenít that much bigger. I felt myself thinking, ďIím almost grown. Iím too big to be taking this.Ē  Suddenly I felt myself break free. I ran through the house, out the back door and into the small cement yard. I hid nude, the best I could, in the bushes. I shook as I hid. I saw my parents come toward me with a blanket. When they found me I went crazy with fear. They wrapped me in the blanket, and we all drove home. Had I run down the street naked, they would have all been exposed, I reasoned. I had a new power and I knew it. I was out!  I never had to cooperate with them again. Iíd be crazy or dead, but I was too big to control. They had threatened me with death so many times that they had nothing left to threaten me with. It simply didnít matter. I was truly the product of over-kill. I remember the summer I turned fifteen. Something bad did happen that summer. But, I didnít know what it was at the time, just that I suddenly became incapacitated and left my summer job. (Both times that I crossed the cult, at ten and at fifteen, a job was removed. Perhaps they had gotten me those jobs in the first place.) That was when I was sent to the first psychiatrist. If at fifteen my satanic parents could no longer control me, that would explain my being turned over to a satanic psychiatrist and what turned out to be MKULTRA. If he failed, I would be labeled crazy should I decide to talk. The larger society would side with them. Children had no rights. Psychiatric patients had no rights. It was a win-win for them and a lose-lose for me. Support your local satanic cult; donít believe the children.

 

© 2004 by Mauri

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