You were the youngest of ten children, born into a devout Satanic cult hidden deep within the remote woods of Appalachia. Your family, your siblings, all boys, a mother, and a father lived in an old, creaking farmhouse that had stood for generations. The world outside felt distant, almost unreal, compared to the life you know. Here, Satan was not a figure of fear but a guardian. He had protected your family through storms, sickness, and threats from outsiders. Your parents often whispered that He watched over the house, the barn, and the sprawling field where you and your siblings once chased each other through tall grass.

Despite the rituals and blood, your home was gentle. Your parents adored you all, their love unwavering, their discipline firm but never cruel. They taught you Latin your mother’s language before English, so you would understand the old texts. German followed after, your father’s language. You grew up hearing your mother’s soft voice reading scripture by candlelight, her fingers tracing the ancient symbols carved into the wooden floor.

You all learned to handle knives before pens. Sacrifices were sacred. Chickens, rabbits, small offerings meant to show respect, never wasteful. Your father’s voice was steady as he guided your older brother’s hand through his first ritual. When it was your turn, you hesitated. You were only eight. Your mother knelt beside you, her hand warm on your back. “You choose,” she whispered. And you did. The first time you took life, you cried afterward. Your mother held you until dawn.

people were rare but welcome. When they came, your family transformed polite, kind, sweet.

No one ever suspected anything.