THE CLASSROOM IS MY ALTAR

Confession of a Teacher Witch: The Classroom Was My Altar

I am a teacher by day, but a witch by night. The classroom that everyone sees as a place of learning is my altar. My learners are not only students — they are the tools of my witchcraft.

I use their innocence, their energy, their trust. Every time I hand out sweets, books, or pens, there are hidden rituals tied to them. Without knowing, they carry my spells into their homes and feed me their family’s luck.

When a child answers me loudly in class, it is not just confidence — it is because I have tied their voice to my spirits. When they obey me blindly, it is because their dreams already belong to me.

Parents think their children are hardworking and disciplined, but I know the truth. They are under my command. Their laughter, their tears, even their blood when they get small injuries at school — all of it strengthens me.

Other teachers wonder why I am untouchable. Why I never get sick, why no scandal touches me, why I rise while others fall. It is because I do not only teach… I harvest.

I confess now because I feel the weight of silence. I am not just a teacher. I am a witch, and my learners have always been my sacrifices.

I want to confess today. By profession, I am a teacher. But behind the books and chalk, I am also a witch.

For years people wondered why my students performed so well, why they respected me too much, why they never dropped out. The truth is, they were not just my learners… they were part of my rituals.

At night I called their names in front of my mirror. I sent them dreams that controlled their actions. Sometimes I gave them “special sweets” in class, but those sweets were part of my spells. Without knowing, they carried my charms into their homes and spread my power.

I need to confess what nobody ever imagined about me. To the world, I am only a teacher. I stand in front of blackboards, I mark books, I prepare lessons, and I smile at children like I care for them. But behind that mask, I am something darker. I am a witch. My classroom is not only for teaching, it is my altar, and my learners are not just students… they are my sacrifices.

From the very first day I started teaching, I knew what I wanted. I never became a teacher for love or passion. I became one because I needed access to the most innocent energy on earth — children. Every time I hand out sweets, pens, or books, there are hidden rituals tied to them. The moment those children accept my gifts, they accept my mark. They carry my charms into their homes without knowing, spreading my power into their families, feeding me their luck and blessings. Parents think I am generous and kind, but I know that every sweet I hand out is not just sugar — it is a key to my control.

At night I call their names in front of the mirror. I summon them in their dreams. That is why they obey me blindly in class, why they fear disappointing me, why they cling to me more than any other teacher. Their minds do not belong to them anymore — they belong to me. Their laughter, their tears, even their blood when they get small injuries at school — all of it strengthens me. The parents never ask why I sometimes take books home or keep their assignments close. They don’t know that the ink of their handwriting carries pieces of their souls, and I use those pieces in my rituals.

My colleagues see my success and they wonder. Why do my students always top the class? Why do they respect me too much? Why does nothing bad ever touch me? They gossip, they suspect, but they never dare to confront me. Some who tried to expose me fell sick overnight. Others lost their voices and never recovered. I don’t fight with my hands — I fight with spirits, and I always win.

But my greatest secret is not even my learners — it is my lizard. It lives in my classroom, and nobody notices it because it hides in the cracks of the wall and the roof. That lizard is not ordinary. It is my guard, my spy, my messenger. It listens to conversations I cannot hear. When people whisper about me, it knows. When a spiritual person steps into the school yard, the lizard feels their energy before I even see them. It warns me so I can leave before they expose me. That is why no pastor, no prophet, no sangoma has ever caught me inside the school. By the time they arrive, I am already gone, safe in my shadows.

The lizard does more than spy. It protects me. At night it crawls into my dreams and shows me the faces of those plotting against me. When I am weak, it restores my strength. If anyone tries to send bad spirits to attack me, the lizard eats them before they reach me. Sometimes when I am writing on the board, I feel its eyes watching from the corner, reminding me that I am never alone.

That is why I move without fear. The lizard makes me untouchable. To the learners, it is nothing but a small creature on the wall. To me, it is my shield, my shadow, my silent weapon. My colleagues wonder why I never panic, why nothing shakes me — it is because I know my lizard is always awake, always watching, always ready.

For years I carried this secret proudly, but lately my spirit feels heavy. I am not confessing because I regret — no, I confess because silence is a prison. I want people to know that behind the smile of a teacher can hide the heart of a witch. Behind the books and lessons, there can be an altar. And behind every perfect class, there can be a sacrifice. Yuuuu

I am not just a teacher. I am a witch. My learners have always been my sacrifices. And my lizard has always been my protector.

When parents complained of strange noises in their yards, they never suspected it was their own children under my command. I used their innocent energy to strengthen my wealth and protection. The more learners I had, the stronger I became.

Even my colleagues could not touch me. Some who tried to expose me got sick suddenly, others lost their voices. Nobody dares to question me anymore.

At night, when I finally fall asleep, the lizard creeps closer. It curls right by my ear and starts whispering. But it’s not its own words — it’s the voices of the learners. Their secrets spill out like confessions: who cries alone at home, who is cursed by their grandmother, who hides a charm in their shoe. I hear it all without them ever opening their mouths. By morning I already know who will fail, who will get sick, and who will not make it back to school again.

Sometimes it doesn’t just whisper. It scratches at my dreams. I’ve woken up to find my hands stained with soil from graves I never visited, yet I know which child has ancestors restless in their sleep. That is how I stay two steps ahead of everyone.

And when a learner is too strong — when their prayers are too loud — the lizard drains them while they sleep. I’ve seen them walk into class with eyes hollow, energy gone, like they left a piece of their soul behind in the night. That piece comes to me. It feeds me, keeps me untouchable.

Sometimes the lizard doesn’t just serve me — it tests me. When it wants proof of my loyalty, it picks a learner and marks them. I can always tell: their laughter is louder than the rest, their joy burns too bright. That’s when the lizard comes to me in its other form — stretched, skin hanging loose like wet paper, eyes glowing faint red — and it whispers: *“Take it.”*

At first I didn’t understand. Then I learned. The lizard doesn’t only live on fear and tears — it feasts on joy. Pure happiness is like honey to it. So it forces me to help drain that light. A simple word from me, a sharp punishment, or even just ignoring that child when they need comfort is enough to crack their spirit. Once the joy spills, the lizard laps it up greedily, and later I feel the sweetness in my own chest. Their joy becomes my strength.

The hardest part? The learner never knows. They think it’s just a bad week, a small heartbreak, but really their joy was *harvested*. I’ve seen bright children grow dull, their laughter vanish, and all the while I grow sharper, stronger, more hidden.

But now I am tired of hiding. I confess because my conscience is heavy. The truth is, my classroom is not only for education. It is my altar. My learners are not only pupils… they are my sacrifices.