Chapter 1: The occultist's life
Did you know there are things even he cannot touch? Today, I'm going to tell you about the day Satan materialized before me and confessed his defeat to a woman on her knees. If you want to hear real, life-changing testimonies, subscribe to the channel and like this video. Let's begin. My name is Esquil. I am 59 years old and the story I'm about to tell took place in February 1999 in Rosario, Argentina.
I lived in the Exat neighborhood, an area where esoteric shops abounded along San Louis Street. Back then, the internet didn't exist as it does now. Everything was handled via payoneses and face-to-face meetings. Payments were always in cash, and appointments were scheduled days in advance. I ran a tattoo parlor in the heart of the neighborhood that served as a front for my true business. People would come in asking for dragon or skull designs.
But some would ask in hush tones if I could help them with other matters. Those were my true clients, the ones who needed love spells, revenge, or rituals to gain money or love. In the basement of my house, I had a secret room that no one knew about but me. There I kept seven altars dedicated to various entities I had served for 15 years. Each altar had its own specific candles, particular offerings, and precise rituals.
I knew exactly which entity to invoke for every job I was commissioned to do. February 1999 was a special month for those of us who worked with the occult. On the 11th, a total solar eclipse was visible from Argentina. Many of us occultists viewed it as an omen, a sign that our power would multiply. I was excited because I had several pending jobs and I believed the eclipse would give me the extra strength I needed.
My life was comfortable financially speaking. I charged well for my services and never lacked work. People always have problems they believe only the supernatural can solve. Impossible loves enemies bent on destruction. Money slipping through their fingers. They sought me out for all of that. And I never failed. or so I thought until that February. That was when a job came along that would change my life forever.
A job that would force me to confront a truth I had rejected since I was 19. But I knew nothing of that yet when the woman knocked on the door of my studio one Tuesday afternoon. It was a hot afternoon, typical of an Argentine summer. I was finishing a rose tattoo on a client's arm when I heard the door chime. I looked up and saw a young woman about 28, her face etched with exhaustion. She was carrying a large bag and glancing nervously around as if she didn't want anyone to see her enter.
I told my client to wait a moment and walked over to her. She asked in a very low voice if I was as quil. I nodded. Then she whispered that she needed help with a special job and that someone had given her my name. I recognized that look. It was the look of someone in despair. I asked her to come to the back of the studio where I had a small office. I closed the door and offered her a seat. She sat on the edge of the chair.
Twisting her hands in her lap. I noticed that her fingernails were bitten down to the raw flesh. Whatever had brought her here was consuming her from the inside. I took out the notebook where I recorded client details and asked for her name. Yasmin told me in a near whisper. I asked what she needed and she took several seconds to answer. Finally, she took a deep breath and told me she needed a man to fall in love with her, that she was willing to pay whatever it took.
I had done that kind of work hundreds of times. It was the most common type of job in my line of work. I explained that I would need some of the man's personal items, a photo if possible, and that was when she interrupted me. She told me there was a problem. The man was married and his wife was very religious. Those last words should have been a warning, but at the time I just thought it would be a job like any other.
I had no idea I was about to face something that even the entities I served could not defeat.
Chapter 2: A path to darkness
Before continuing with what happened with Yasmin, I need you to understand who I was back then. How I became a man who served the darkness for 15 years. Because I wasn't born a Satanist. I was born into an evangelical home where we prayed before every meal and read the Bible every night. My parents were faithful members of a congregation in Rosario. My mother would get up at 5:00 a.m. every day to pray on her knees in the living room before we woke up.
I remember that as a child. I would sometimes get up early and see her there, eyes closed, hands clasped, whispering prayers. Back then, I believed God heard everything she asked for. I had a younger sister named Sophia. She was 12 years old when she was diagnosed with leukemia. I was 19 and in my final year of high school. I remember the day my mother gathered us in the living room and told us with tears in her eyes that Sophia was very sick.
But she also told us that God would heal her because he was powerful. The entire church mobilized to pray for my sister. They held prayer vigils that lasted all night. Church members fasted for weeks. The pastor came to our house three times a week to pray for Sophia and anoint her with oil. My mother didn't stop praying for a single minute. I saw her knees swollen from kneeling so much and her eyes red from weeping as she cried out to God.
6 months of treatments, prayers, and hope went by. But Sophia didn't get any better. Every day she grew weaker, paler, and thinner. I watched my mother cling to her faith with desperate intensity. She kept saying that God would perform a miracle at the last moment that we just had to 6 minutesbelieve. The pastor said the same thing that if we had faith the size of a mustard seed, we could move mountains.
Sophia died on a Tuesday morning in October. She was only 12 years old. I was in the hospital room when she took her last breath. My mother fell to her knees beside the bed, screaming Jesus's name and begging him to bring her back. But nothing happened, only silence and the sound of the monitor flatlining. Something inside me broke that day at the funeral. As the pastor spoke of God's perfect plan, and how Sophia was now in a better place, my blood boiled.
A perfect plan. What kind of perfect plan included the death of an innocent child? What was the point of so many prayers? So many tears, so much faith. I stopped going to church that very month. My mother wept and begged me to return. But I wanted nothing to do with a God who took innocent girls away while their mothers begged him on their knees. I said horrible things to her. I told her 7 minutesthat prayers were useless, that God didn't exist, or if he did, he was cruel.
Those words devastated her. But I was consumed by rage. Two months after Sophia's death, a client at the tattoo shop noticed my bitterness. He asked what was wrong and I told him everything. He listened in silence and then said something that struck a cord. Maybe you're praying to the wrong God. He invited me to a gathering at a private home that night, telling me I'd find answers there. That evening, I went to the house in the Albi neighborhood.
It was an umbing trances, entities manifesting, rituals involving candles and offerings. But what struck me most was that no one spoke of blind faith or accepting suffering. They spoke of power, of controlling one's destiny, of making things happen. I began attending those meetings regularly. Within months, I moved from Umbanda to darker black magic practices. At 21, I made my first blood packed with an entity that appeared to me during a ritual.
I slashed my left arm with a ceremonial knife and let the blood drip onto a parchment while chanting words in a language I didn't understand. I still bear the scar from that burn. Over the next 15 years, I delved deeper and deeper into the occult. I built my reputation and my business, becoming someone people sought out to solve the impossible. The entities gave me power and I gave them my service.
It was an exchange that worked perfectly for me. Or so I thought
Chapter 3: The request for a spell
until February 1999 when a woman named Yasmin sat across from me asking for a job that would change everything. Yasmin opened her purse and took out an envelope stuffed with cash. She placed it on my desk with trembling hands. She told me there were 15,000 Argentine pesos in it, the equivalent of 6 months wages. She also took out an old gold ring and explained that it had belonged to her grandmother.
It's the only thing of value I own, she said, looking me in the eye, but I'll give it all up if you help me. I asked her why she was so desperate over this man. She lowered her gaze and began to tell me her story. She said her name was Yasmin. She was 28 years old and she worked as a dancer at a downtown nightclub. She was a single mother to a 4-year-old girl named Kumla. Her daughter's father had abandoned them when she was 3 months pregnant.
She told me she had met the man at the club 2 months earlier. It was during a bachelor party organized by a group of male friends that night. They treated her like an object. They shouted obscenities at her and threw bills at her as if she were trash, but not him. He sat in the corner looking uncomfortable and glancing away. Yasmin approached him because she found it odd that he was there without participating in the festivities.
They spoke for a few minutes. He asked her name and whether she liked her job. He spoke to her with respect as if she were a normal person when she offered him a private dance. He smiled sadly and declined, explaining that he was married and loved his wife. He was only there because he was the best man and couldn't miss the event. It was the first time in years a man had treated me with dignity. Yasmin told me, tears in her eyes.
He spoke to me as if I were worth something. She looked me straight in the eye, and I felt something I had never felt before. I told her that wasn't love, that it was just gratitude for being treated decently. But she shook her head. She insisted it was different, that she couldn't get him out of her mind. She told me that after that night, she started looking for him. She asked the boyfriend's friends until someone gave her his name, Rodrigo.
She found out he worked as a manager at a car dealership in the northern part of the city. She went there several times just to see him from afar. One day, she worked up the courage and walked in, pretending she wanted to buy a used car. Rodrigo assisted her professionally, but he got nervous when he recognized her. He explained that he was working and that it wasn't appropriate for her to be there.
Yasmin gave him her phone number written on a piece of paper. She told him she just wanted to be friends to grab a coffee sometime. Rodrigo took the paper out of politeness, but told her clearly that he wouldn't call, that he was a married, faithful man, but he accepted my number. Yasmin said as if that meant something significant. He didn't throw it away in front of me. He put it in his pocket. I sighed.
Having seen this kind of obsession many times before. She was confusing basic courtesy with romantic interest. She was building a castle of fantasies based on a 10-minute conversation and a polite gesture. I asked her what else she had done. She confessed that she had followed Rodrigo several times, that she knew where he lived and knew his routine, and that she had even stolen a few strands of hair from his car once when he left the windows open in a supermarket parking lot.
She pulled a small plastic bag containing those hairs out of her purse. "I saved them for you," she said. "I know you need them for your work." Then she told me what she considered to be the real problem. She told me she had looked into Rodrigo and discovered he had been married for 11 years to a woman named Dborah. They had two children and Dborah was a Sunday school teacher at an evangelical church.
She's very religious, Yasmin said. A hint of fear in her voice. They say she prays a lot. Will that be a problem? I laughed. I told her it didn't matter how much his wife prayed. I had broken up marriages of 30 years and successfully cast binding spells even when the other person was a Christian. I assured her that in 15 years of experience, I had never had a job's fail, that an evangelical woman's prayers were nothing compared to the power of the entities I invoked.
Yasmin smiled in relief. She grabbed my hand desperately and asked how long it would take. I told her that these jobs usually showed results in two or 3 weeks. Rodrigo would soon start thinking of her constantly, lose interest in his wife, and look for any excuse to see her until the marriage grumbled on its own. I took the money, the ring, and the small bag of hair. I gave her a date to return in 3 weeks.
I told her not to try to contact Rodrigo during that time, to let the spell take effect. She nodded excitedly, stood up, and hugged me. Thank you. she whispered, "Thank you for helping me get the only man who has ever treated me like a human being." When Yasmin left, I looked at the envelope of money and smiled. "Just another job, easy, routine, or so I thought. Because what I didn't know was that Dborah wasn't just an ordinary
Chapter 4: A warrior's defense
woman, religious woman. Dborah was a prayer warrior, and her knees were on the verge of defeating my entire arsenal of black magic." That very night, I began investigating Rodrigo. I needed to know who I was dealing with before starting any ritual. I obtained his full surname through a contact at the civil registry office. Rodrigo was 36 years old. He had been working as a manager at the car dealership for 8 years and lived in a middleclass neighborhood in the western part of Rosario.
I drove past his house several times over the next few days. It was a simple singlestory home with a small front garden. One Saturday afternoon, I saw the children playing outside, a boy of about eight and a younger girl. I saw Rodrigo washing the car and a woman whom I assumed was Dbora watering the plants. They looked like a normal ordinary family, nothing special. What I couldn't see from the outside was what truly held that family together.
I couldn't see that every morning at 4:00 a m dora would rise silently so as not to wake Rodrigo or the children. I couldn't see her walking barefoot to the living room and kneeling on the cold wooden floor. I couldn't see the tears streaming down her face as she prayed. Dbor Bora was 33 and had fought her own personal battle. After the birth of her daughter Sophia, she had fallen into a deep depression that lasted nearly a year.
There were nights when she couldn't sleep, tormented by dark thoughts. It was during those sleepless early hours that she began to pray in earnest, not with memorized prayers, but with desperate cries from the depths of her heart, and something happened. Little by little, she found peace. Gradually, the darkness lifted, and from then on, those early morning prayer sessions became her refuge, her fortress. She prayed for Rodrigo, for her children Matteo and Sophia, for her marriage, and for protection over her family.
Her knees had left marks on the wooden floor from kneeling in the same spot every day. But two months ago, something had changed. Dior Bora began having strange dreams. She would dream of seeing black chains trying to wrap themselves around Rodrigo. In the dream, she would run toward him to remove them, but the chains would shatter on their own before she could reach him. She would wake up sweating, her heart racing.
She didn't understand what the dreams meant, but she felt she needed to pray more. Then something happened that confirmed her fears. One night, 3 weeks before Yasmin came to see me. Rodrigo arrived home from work looking distressed. He sat on the sofa with his head in his hands. Dborah sat beside him and asked what was wrong. It took him several minutes to speak. Finally, Rodrigo confessed everything.
He told her about the bachelor party two months earlier and the club dancer who had tried to win him over. He told her how the woman had come to his workplace and given him her phone number. Dborah felt the ground shift beneath her feet with a trembling voice. She asked if he had called the woman. Rodrigo looked her in the eye, tears welling up. I almost did. He confessed. One night after an argument we had.
I took out the paper with her number on it. I stared at it for 10 minutes. My finger was hovering over the digits. Deborah covered her mouth with her hand, but I couldn't do it. Rodrigo continued. I thought of you. The children and everything we've built together. I tore up the paper and threw it away. My love, please forgive me for even considering it. Dior Borro wept that night, not out of anger, but out of fear.
She feared losing her husband and seeing her family destroyed. The next day, she went to speak with Pastor Bernardo. She told him everything, including the dreams about the chains. The pastor was a 58-year-old man who had been an alcoholic before coming to the faith. He knew the enemy's schemes all too well. Pastor Bernardo listened intently and then said something that gave her goosebumps. Sister Dborah, someone is practicing witchcraft against your husband.
Those dreams are warnings from God. But do not be afraid. The power of prayer is greater than any sorcery. We must redouble our intercession. She gathered a group of intercessors from the Menangel Davidida Church to pray specifically for Rodrigo's protection. They organized a 24-hour prayer chain. They divided the day into shifts so there was always someone praying for Rodrigo. They also began a collective 21-day fast.
Dboru intensified her early morning prayer sessions. Now she prayed not only at 4:00 a.m. but also at noon and before going to sleep. Her knees swelled from spending so much time kneeling. Yet she never stopped crying out in prayer. And while all this was happening, I was on my porch preparing the first ritual to separate them. I had laid out Rodrigo's hair. The photograph of him I had obtained from the dealership's website, and a wax doll representing his figure.
My seven altars were ready. My black and red candles were lit, and graveyard soil was scattered across the floor. Everything was perfect. What I didn't know was that at that very moment while I was beginning to summon the entities, Dbora was on her knees in her living room crying out, "Lord Jesus, protect my husband from every evil work. Break every chain. Destroy every spell. Cover his mind and heart with your precious blood."
And that prayer was about to collide headon with my ritual. I performed the first ritual on February
Chapter 5: Rituals under resistance
13th, 1999, 2 days after the solar eclipse. I went down to the basement at 11 p.m. when the whole neighborhood was silent. I locked the door and lit the black and red candles around the main altar. The air immediately grew heavy, as always happened when the entities began to manifest. I placed the wax doll in the center of the altar. I wrapped Rodrigo's hair around the doll's neck while reciting the words of the ritual.
I scattered graveyard dirt in a circle around the doll. Then I took the black rooster I had kept in a cage in the corner of the basement. I slit its throat in one swift motion and let the blood drip onto the doll while invoking the entity in charge of binding and separation spells. I should have felt a strong presence, a flow of power. But something was off. The heavier suddenly turned cold. The seven black candles surrounding the altar went out all at once.
Even though there was no draft that had never happened before, I tried to relight them. But when I succeeded, I felt something strange, as if there were an invisible wall between the doll and me. I continued with the ritual. Anyway, I pierced the doll with pins in the heart area while visualizing Rodrigo losing interest in Diora and thinking obsessively about Yasmin. I spoke the final words of the incantation and waited for the sign that it had worked.
Usually, I would feel a sort of click, a confirmation, but I felt nothing, only empty. I told myself it was perhaps because I was tired. I left the doll on the altar and went upstairs to sleep. Over the next few days, I kept a close watch for any sign. I called Yasmin to ask if Rodrigo had tried to contact her. "Nothing," she said, her voice full of disappointment. "Not a call, not a message, nothing.
I asked her to give me one more week. On February 27th, I decided to perform a more potent ritual. This was a direct blood pact. I prepared a black parchment on which I wrote Rodrigo's full name using special red ink. I placed ancient coins on the altar, coins I had buried in the cemetery for 7 days. This time, I lit red candles and began the most powerful invocation I knew. I took a ritual knife and cut the palm of my left hand.
I let my blood drip onto Rodrigo's name on the parchment as I recited the pact, offering my blood to seal a commitment to drive them apart. I asked the entity to cloud Rodrigo's mind, to make him see flaws in Dior Bora, and to plant a desire for Yasmin in his heart. But then something happened that made my blood run cold. The largest red candle standing in front of the parchment split vertically down the middle. According to the Grimmoire I studied, this was a clear sign of strong spiritual resistance.
It meant an opposing power was blocking the work. I felt that invisible wall again, but now it was more solid, more real. I tried to continue, but I couldn't concentrate. Every time I visualized Rodrigo, the image would vanish from my mind, as if something were deliberately erasing it. It was as though someone stronger was protecting that man. I grew angry. In 15 years, I had never encountered this kind of resistance.
Never had a working failed like this. During over the next few days, I tried two more times. I switched entities, used different rituals, and used up more animal blood and expensive ingredients. Nothing worked. Every ritual ended with the candles going out or cracking. With that sensation of hitting an invisible wall, with that lack of confirmation, it was as if my invocations were bouncing off something I couldn't see.
Yasmin called me 14 times during those two weeks. Her voice went from hopeful to desperate to angry. She demanded results. I had taken all her money. Her grandmother's heirloom jewel. What is happening? As quil. She shouted over the phone. You said you never failed. You said his wife's prayers didn't matter. I didn't know what to tell her. Finally, I did something I had never done in my 15-year career.
I gave the money back. I went to Yasmin's house in person and handed her the 15,000 pesos and her grandmother's ring. She looked at me in confusion. I don't understand. Why are you returning the payment? She asked. I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't admit I had failed. I simply told her I couldn't help her and left. I couldn't sleep that night. I lay awake staring at the ceiling. Turning the matter over in my mind.
What kind of protection did that man have? I had broken up marriages where both partners were practicing Christians. I had destroyed the relationships of evangelical pastors. I had overcome prayers before. Why was this time different? What did Diora have that the other religious people didn't? Three days of insomnia and confusion went by. I wandered around my house like a zombie, obsessed with understanding what had gone wrong.
My entities wouldn't answer when I summoned them to ask. It was as if they were avoiding me.
Chapter 6: Satan's confession
And then came the early morning of March 3rd, the morning that changed my life forever. It was 3:33 in the morning when I woke up, chilled to the bone. It was the height of the Argentine summer. Yet my room was freezing. I could see my breath condensing in the air as if it were the dead of winter. I sat up in bed, and that was when I saw it standing in the corner of my room, a tall, dark figure with eyes glowing like burning embers.
It was neither a shadow nor a hallucination. It was a real physical presence standing in the corner. The figure stood over 2 m tall, and its dark silhouette seemed to absorb the faint light filtering in through the window. But it was the eyes that terrified me most. They were like two burning coals staring unblinkingly at me. I tried to move, but my body wouldn't respond. I felt a crushing weight on my chest, as if tons of concrete were pressing down on me.
I wanted to scream, but my throat was locked tight. The cold was so intense that my teeth began to chatter and then the figure spoke. Its voice didn't come from a single point. Instead, it rumbled throughout the room like multiple voices speaking in unison as quil. It spoke my name and I felt the walls vibrate. I had been summoning entities for 15 years. Yet never, never had I felt a power like this.
Why do you bother me with your persistent summons? it asked its tone a mix of mockery and annoyance. Why do you call out to me again and again asking about that man? I managed to move my lips and in a broken voice asked who it was. The figure took two steps toward my bed. The cold intensified so sharply that the temperature made my skin feel like it was burning. Do you know who I am? It said, "You have served me for 15 years.
27 minutesI am the one who gave you power when you cursed the god who took your sister away. I am the one who promised you would have everything you desired. Then I understood this was not one of the lesser entities I regularly summoned. It was the one who stood above them all. The prince of darkness, Satan himself had materialized in my room. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst from my chest.
I had served the darkness for years, but I never expected a direct encounter like this. Master, I managed to say, trembling the task I was assigned, the married man. I haven't been able to complete it. I've used every ritual, all my experience, but there is a resistance I cannot overcome. I need your help to break that protection. I hoped he would give me a more powerful technique, some secret ritual I could use.
But instead, I heard something I never imagined. Satan laughed. It wasn't a normal laugh, but something guttural and manifold that echoed through the room, as if a thousand voices were laughing at once. The sound was so disturbing it made my ears bleed. "Help you?" he said amidst the laughter. "Ezekiel, you understand nothing. That task is impossible, he declared firmly. The weight on my chest increased.
That man is shielded. He is protected by something that even I cannot touch when it is active. I felt my mind shattering. Impossible. He, the one who had promised me absolute power, was admitting there was something he could not do. His wife continued, her voice filled with what struck me as rage or perhaps frustration. That woman prays on her knees. She prays with her feet turned backward. I had heard that expression before.
Back in my childhood, my mother used it to describe people who prayed so much on their knees that it was as if they were walking backward, always kneeling. Her knees have left marks on the living room floorboards, she said. She intercedes every early morning, every midday, every night. Then the figure extended its hand toward me, and suddenly I saw something. It was like a vision forced into my mind.
I saw Deborah kneeling in a dark living room. It was 4:00 a.m. m according to the clock on the wall. Her eyes were closed and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her lips were moving in silent prayer. Yet I could hear her words as if I were right beside her. Lord Jesus, I cover my husband with your precious blood. No spell, no witchcraft, no work of evil can touch him, for he is under your protection.
I break every chain in the name of Jesus. I destroy every altar raised against my family. Her voice wasn't loud, but there was something about it, an authority, a conviction that made me shudder. The vision vanished, and I was back in my freezing room, facing that dark figure. You see, Satan said, "As long as she prays like that, as long as she remains in that position of humility and faith, I cannot break through that covering.
The Most High answers her cries. She has a direct line to the throne and that throne is above mine. I felt something snap inside me. For 15 years, I had been told that Satan was the most powerful, that with him on my side, I would have control over any situation, and that Christian prayers were weak compared to black magic rituals. But now, here he was admitting his own limitation in the face of a woman on her knees.
You lied to me. I shouted at him with a courage I didn't know I possessed. The weight on my chest eased slightly as if my question had caught him off guard. You told me I would have everything. You told me you were the most powerful. I left my family. I left my I gave you 15 years of my life because you promised absolute power. The figure remained silent for several seconds that felt like an eternity.
Then it spoke with a coldness that chilled me more than the air in the room. I never promised to defeat the one who sits on the throne. It said slowly. I only promised to give you scraps of power for as long as he allows it. You are my servant, Ezekiel, not my equal, and you never will be. That woman's prayers move the hand of the most high, it continued. And when he extends his hand to protect, neither I nor my armies can touch that person.
Do you understand now? Your black magic, your rituals, your blood pacts, they all work only because he permits it. When he says no, all your power turns to nothing. Something changed within me at that moment for the first time in 15 years. I remembered my mother's prayers. I remembered how she would kneel every morning exactly like Deborah. I remembered my mother telling me a thousand times, "Son, prayer moves the hand of God."
I had mocked those words. I had dismissed them as the superstitions of the weak, but now the figure began to fade. Do not bother me with this matter again, it said, as its form grew less solid, that man is untouchable as long as his wife intercedes. Learn to recognize when you have lost, Ezekiel, and with that it vanished completely. The cold lifted, the weight on my chest was gone, and I was left alone in my room, trembling and sweating at the same time.
I sat on my bed until dawn, unable to process what had just happened, Satan himself had admitted he was inferior to God, that the power of prayer was real, and that a woman on her knees held more authority than all my altars combined. And if that was true, then everything I had believed for 15 years was a lie. I didn't sleep for the next 3 days, not out of fear, but because my mind kept obsessing over
Chapter 7: Renouncing the darkness
what had occurred. I lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word of that conversation. I never promised to defeat the one who sits on the throne. That phrase kept repeating in my head like a broken record. I stopped running the tattoo shop. I put a closed due to illness sign on the door. I didn't want to see anyone. I went down to the basement and stood before the seven altars I had so carefully built over the years.
The candles were out. The old offerings were beginning to rot. I stood there for hours trying to understand how I had been so blind. I began to look into Dborah's life differently, no longer to cast spells against her, but to understand what made her so powerful. I discreetly asked around the neighborhood where they lived. A neighbor told me, "Oh, Mrs. Dborah, yes, she's a wonderful person. She always says hello and helps anyone in need.
She's one of those Christians who truly lives what she preaches." Another neighbor told me something that struck me deeply. Sometimes I see her coming home from church on Sundays with her children. And you know what stands out to me? The knee pads she wears, not for exercise, but because she says she prays on her knees so much that they get swollen. Just imagine here in the 21st century, there are people who still do that.
The man said it mockingly, but his words pierced me like a knife. I remembered that my mother had also had swollen knees. As a child, I used to ask her why, and she would tell me, "It's because I talked to God a lot, son." And when you speak to the king of the universe, you kneel out of respect. And when you speak to the king of the universe, you kneel out of respect. I had forgotten that, or rather, I had buried it under 15 years of resentment and rebellion.
One night, I dared to do something I hadn't done since I was 19. I rummaged through the back of an old drawer and found the Bible my mother had given me for my 15th birthday. It was dusty, its pages yellowed with age. I opened it at random, and my eyes fell upon a verse from the book of James. The effective prayer of righteous person accomplishes much. I slammed the book shut as if it were burning me, but I couldn't get the words out of my head.
The effective prayer of righteous person accomplishes much. Dior Bora was righteous, that it was clear. She lived by her beliefs and her prayers. Well, I had just seen with my own eyes how powerful they were. They had put to stop to all my rituals. They had forced Satan himself to admit defeat. If that wasn't power, then I didn't know what was. Yasmin called me during those days, but I didn't answer.
What was I supposed to tell her? That I had been told her case was impossible. that a praying woman held more power than my entire arsenal of black magic. She wouldn't understand. I was barely grasping it myself. On the fourth day, I gathered my courage and went to the Manel Davidida church. It was a Sunday morning. I stood outside watching the people go in. I saw Dboru arrive with her husband Rodrigo and their two children.
They looked happy, normal. Dibora greeted everyone with a genuine smile. She had no idea that the man who had tried to destroy her marriage was standing 20 m away watching her. Then I saw something that broke my heart. The little girl Sophia stumbled and fell, scraping her knee. Deborah immediately knelt beside her, carefully examined the wound, wiped away her daughter's tears, and gave a kiss on the forehead.
It was such a simple everyday scene, yet it reminded me of my own mother doing exactly the same thing to me when I was a child. My sister's name was Sophia. Dbor Bora's daughter's name was Sophia. It couldn't just be a coincidence. I felt something inside me break. I began to weep right there on the street in front of the church. Passers by gave me strange looks, but I didn't care. I wept for my dead sister, for my mother who had prayed for me until her very last breath, and for the 15 years I had wasted serving a liar, because that was what Satan was, a liar.
He had promised me power, but gave me crumbs. He had promised me control, but I was his slave. He had promised to fill the void left by my sister's death, but he only made it deeper. And worst of all, he had driven me away from the only one who truly had the power to change my life. That night, I returned home and went down to the basement with a baseball bat. Standing before the seven altars, I felt a mix of fear and determination.
I knew that what I was about to do would have consequences. The entities I had served wouldn't let me go easily, but I didn't care anymore. I had seen the truth and couldn't go on living a lie. I raised the bat and struck the first altar with all my might. The statues shattered. The candles rolled across the floor. I heard a guttural scream, not from my mouth, but from the air itself. But I kept going.
I destroyed the second altar, then the third. With every blow, I felt something falling away from me, like invisible chains breaking. When I finished with the seventh altar, the basement was littered with debris. My hands were bleeding from the impact. I was gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. And then I screamed with all my strength, "It's over. I don't serve you anymore. You were defeated by a woman on her knees, and I defeat you, too.
The silence that followed was deafening, but I knew this was just the beginning. I knew vengeance would come. I knew Satan doesn't let his servants go without a fight, and I was right. What I didn't know was just how far he would go to destroy me for my betrayal. Nothing happened the first night after I destroyed the altars. My
Chapter 8: Retribution and rescue
sleep was restless, but I slept. I thought perhaps it had been easier than I'd imagined. How naive I was. The second night, hell began. I woke up at 3:33 in the morning, unable to move. My body was completely paralyzed, yet my mind was awake and alert. I felt a crushing weight on my chest, as if someone were sitting on top of me. I tried to scream, but no sound escaped my throat. Then I saw shadows moving around my bed.
They weren't ordinary shadows cast by objects, but figures with a nearly human shape. They leaned over me, bringing their faces close to mine. I could feel a cold, putrid breath. One of the figures placed its hands around my neck. They weren't physical hands, yet I felt the pressure. I was suffocating. My lungs screamed for air, but I couldn't breathe. I saw black dots dancing before my eyes. I thought I was going to die right there in my bed.
And just as I was about to lose consciousness, it all stopped. I could move again. I could breathe again. I sat up in bed, coughing and gasping. I looked at the clock. It was 4:00 a m. The very time Dbora would kneel to pray. I don't know why, but in that moment, I did something instinctive. I fell to my knees beside my bed. And for the first time in 15 years, I spoke the name I had cursed. Jesus, help me.
I didn't know how to pray properly. I couldn't remember the right words. But I spoke that name and I felt the shadows recede. The third night was worse. The paralysis returned, but this time it lasted longer. The shadows no longer merely surrounded me. I felt them trying to drag me out of bed. Where to? I don't know, but I felt a constant downward pull, as if the ground had turned into an abyss. Throughout the experience, I heard voices whispering my name, calling me a traitor, promising me eternal suffering.
By the fourth day, I was shattered. I had lost 8 kg in a week. I had deep dark circles under my eyes reaching halfway down my cheeks. My hands trembled constantly. I couldn't eat because everything made me nauseious. I knew I was being attacked. I knew they wanted to destroy me for having abandoned the darkness, but I didn't know how to defend myself. That same day, I decided to go buy food at the supermarket.
I needed to get out of the house, even if just for a moment. I got into my car and drove off. I was heading down the main avenue when I needed to stop at a traffic light. I pressed the brake pedal, but nothing happened. The car wouldn't stop. I pressed harder, nothing. The car kept moving straight toward the intersection where other vehicles were passing. I jerked the steering wheel to the right to avoid a collision.
I drove onto the sidewalk and crashed into a utility pole. The impact was violent. The airbag deployed, striking me in the face. I was dazed for several seconds. When my vision cleared, I saw that the front of my car was completely wrecked, but I was alive. The police arrived and later a tow truck took my car to a repair shop. The next day I went to speak with a mechanic. He was a man in his 50s who had known cars since childhood.
He showed me the brakes and his face went pale as quil. This is very strange. He told me the brake cables are cut, but look at this. A clean cut, almost surgical. There are no tool marks. No signs of a saw or knife. It's as if something burned or melted them with exact precision, the mechanic continued, looking at me suspiciously. Do you have enemies? Because this wasn't an accident. Someone sabotaged your car, but I couldn't explain how they did it without leaving a mark.
I didn't say anything. What was I supposed to say? The demonic entities were trying to kill me. I walked back home. It was 8:00 p.m. M. I went inside and locked all the doors. I checked every window. I felt like I was being followed, watched, and 43 minutesI wasn't being paranoid. I really was being pursued. That night, objects started falling off the shelves on their own. First, a book, then a glass, then a picture frame came off the wall and crashed to the floor.
I saw shadows in the corners of every room. Whenever I looked directly at them, they vanished. But in my peripheral vision, they were always there, lurking, waiting. At 2 a.m., my neighbors knocked on the door. As quil, "Are you okay?" asked Don Mario, the neighbor next door. "We heard screaming coming from your house. Really loud screaming. Is there anyone else with you?" I told her no, that I was alone.
That maybe it had been the television, but I knew the truth. The screams were real. Even though they didn't come from my mouth, they were screams heard only in the spiritual realm. Yet somehow they manifested physically enough for the neighbors to hear them. My house was turning into a battlefield between dimensions. By the seventh day, I couldn't take it anymore. I hadn't slept well in a week. Every night brought a new attack, and every day a new danger.
I knew that if things went on like this, I'd end up dead or insane. I needed help, but I didn't know where to turn. All my connections were within the world of the occult, and obviously I couldn't go to them. Then, walking down the street that afternoon, dazed by exhaustion, I looked up and saw a building I hadn't noticed before, even though I passed by that street a thousand times. It was a church.
The sign read Spring of Life Congregation. My heart skipped a beat. It was Deborah's church. The very same church where I had wept just days before. I didn't think twice. I ran inside as if something were was chasing me because something literally was chasing me. The church was almost empty. There was only an older man cleaning the pews. He saw me enter in desperation and stopped what he was doing.
He approached me with a worried look. "Son, music, are you okay? You look terrible," he said. And there, standing in the middle of the church, facing a man I didn't know. I completely broke down, I fell to my knees and cried out with all my soul, "Jesus, if you exist, save me. I don't want to die like this. Forgive me for everything I've done." I wept as I hadn't since my sister's funeral. I wept for the 15 lost years, for the pain I had caused, for the darkness I had lived in.
The man knelt beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder. Calm down, son. You're in the right place. Jesus hears you and he is going to help you. I didn't know that man was Pastor Bernardo. I didn't know he was the very person God had prepared for that moment. And I didn't know my life was about to change forever. Pastor Bernardo helped me up from the floor and took me to a small office at the back of
Chapter 9: True liberation
46 minutesthe church. He sat me in a chair and brought me a glass of water. My hands were shaking so much I could barely hold it. He sat across from me and looked at me with eyes full. Music of compassion but also understanding as if he knew exactly what I was going through. Son, my name is Bernardo and I am the pastor of this congregation. Music, he said in a calm voice. I know you're going through something terrible.
I see it in your eyes, in your body. But before I can help you, I need you to tell me the truth. What is happening? Something about the way he spoke made me trust him. There was no judgment in his voice, only genuine concern. I told him everything. I told him I had been a Satanist for 15 years. Music. I told him about the altars, about the rituals, the blood pacts. I confessed to him about Yasmin and the work she had asked me to do against Rodrigo.
I told him about the manifestation of Satan and how music he admitted he couldn't touch a man protected by his wife's prayers. I described the attacks of the past week, the car accident, the episodes of sleep paralysis. Pastor Bernardo listened without interrupting me even once. When I finished speaking, he remained silent for a moment. Then he said something that surprised me. As quil, I know exactly what you are going through because I too come from the darkness 20 years ago.
I was an alcoholic involved in very dark things. I tried to commit suicide three times, but Jesus rescued me. Rodrigo and Dbora are members of this congregation. He continued, "Dora came to see me a month ago. She told me she felt someone was practicing witchcraft against her husband. I discerned that it was true and we organized chains of prayer and fasting but until now we didn't know who was behind it all.
He looked at me intently. God brought you here as quil. It is no coincidence. He explained that what I was experiencing were attacks of vengeance because I had abandoned the kingdom of darkness. When someone stops serving Satan, he doesn't let them go easily. He will attack you, torment you. He will try to kill you or drive you mad. But there is a solution. You need to formally renounce every pact you have made and surrender your life completely to Jesus.
It isn't enough to destroy the altars. He told me you need to break the spiritual pacts you signed with your blood and only the blood of Jesus can cancel those contracts. Pastor Bernardo took a Bible from his desk and read me several verses. One of them said, "Music, if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness." He asked me if I was willing to renounce everything and truly follow Jesus, not as a religion, but as a real relationship.
I told him yes, that I would do whatever it took to escape this nightmare. But I also told him something else. Pastor, I don't know if I deserve forgiveness. I spent 15 years serving the enemy. I hurt many people with my rituals. How can God forgive something like that? The pastor smiled sadly as quil. There were two thieves on the crosses beside Jesus. One of them had lived his whole life in crime.
But in his final moment, he repented and asked Jesus to remember him. Do you know what Jesus answered him? He said to me, "Today you will be with me in paradise. If God forgave a criminal on his deathbed, he can forgive you, too." That night, kneeling in that small office, I prayed a prayer of renunciation and surrender. Pastor Bernardo guided me word for word. I renounced every pact I had made. I renounced every entity I had served.
I renounced Satan and all his works. And then I invited Jesus into my heart to be the Lord of my life. When I spoke those words of surrender, something incredible happened. I felt an intense heat in my chest, as if someone had lit a fire inside me. It wasn't a burning heat, but a healing one. I began to weep uncontrollably, but these were different tears, not of pain, but of liberation. It was as if invisible chains were breaking one by one.
The pastor prayed over me for nearly 2 hours. I wept and trembled. At times, I felt nauseous and wretched. He explained that my body was expelling all the demonic oppression that had accumulated over the years. At one point, I felt as though something were violently leaving my stomach. Even though I didn't physically vomit anything, it was a spiritual experience of deep cleansing that I cannot explain in ordinary words.
When we finished, it was nearly 11 p.m. I felt physically exhausted. Yet, my spirit felt light for the first time in 15 years. The pastor told me I would sleep peacefully that night, but that the coming days would be crucial. He warned me that the enemy would attempt one last powerful attack. He gave me his phone number and told me to call him at any hour if I needed help. That night, I arrived home afraid, yet also filled with a strange peace.
I knelt by my bed before lying down and prayed as best I could. I didn't have the right words, but I spoke to Jesus as one speaks to a friend. I asked for his protection. I thanked him for rescuing me. And for the first time in a week, I slept through the night without attacks, paralysis, or nightmares. The next day, Pastor Bernardo called me early. He asked how I had slept. When I told him I had slept well, I could hear the relief in his voice.
He invited me to his home for lunch. He told me there was someone who wanted to to meet me. My stomach tightened. Somehow I knew who it was. It was Dior Bora, the woman whose prayers had destroyed my rituals and exposed the lie I was living. I arrived at the pastor's house at noon. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to expect. Would she hate me? Fear me, reject me. When I rang the doorbell, the pastor opened the door and showed me into the living room where Dbor Bora and Rodrigo were sitting on the sofa.
When Dbora saw me, she stood up. I opened my mouth to ask for forgiveness. But before I could say a word, Dborro walked over and hugged me. She hugged me t
