THE WEALTH I BOUGHT WITH INNOCENT CHILDREN'S BL00D
I don’t know how to start this without trembling. My hands shake as I type. For years I have hidden behind suits, sunglasses, and a smile that isn’t mine. I have been called successful, brilliant, a self-made man. People envy me. They whisper my name like I’m a god of luck. But the truth is darker than any of you can imagine.
I am not self-made.
I am soul-made — built on the souls of children.
I did not choose poverty, but I chose something worse than poverty. I chose the rituals.
Ten years ago, I was nothing. My wife had left me, my children were hungry, my debts stacked up like tombstones. I had no plan except survival. In my desperation, I met a man at a nightclub. He had the kind of wealth that burned your eyes to look at — gold chains, two phones, a car that purred like a predator.
He leaned close to me and whispered, “There are ways. Old ways. If you are brave enough.”
I thought he meant a business deal, a loan, a scam. I was ready for anything. But what he gave me was an address: a house at the edge of town, surrounded by thick trees. I went there at midnight.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense. Candles flickered in strange symbols. A man sat cross-legged on a mat, his eyes clouded white like milk. His voice was soft, almost kind. He told me what he could give me: contracts, cash, endless wealth. All I had to do was follow his instructions.
I didn’t know the cost yet. Or maybe I did and refused to hear it.
He said the blood had to be pure.
Pure meant young.
Young meant innocent.
I told myself it wasn’t my job to ask questions. I told myself it was symbolic. I told myself the stories about “child sacrifice” were just myths. But the night came, and the myth stood in front of me — a real child, blindfolded, trembling.
I wanted to run, but the man’s eyes pinned me down. He said, “If you walk away now, you will leave empty and cursed. If you stay, you will be rich forever.”
I stayed.
That was my first death — not the child’s, mine. The death of my conscience.
When it was done, I threw up until there was nothing left in me. The man handed me a bag filled with cash. I took it. My hands were shaking, but I took it. By morning, my debts were gone. Within a week, contracts came my way. By the end of the month, I had bought my first car.
The money rituals are not one-time. They are a hunger that grows. You feed them once, and they demand more. Each year, each deal, each new level of wealth required a deeper offering.
I told myself lies to make it easier. I told myself the children were not mine. I told myself they were already chosen. I told myself the spirits demanded it, not me. But every time, it was my signature on the pact. My voice saying yes. My hands holding the knife.
Soon, my businesses flourished. The newspapers called me a “rising mogul.” Politicians shook my hand. Preachers blessed me from their pulpits. People thought I was an inspiration. No one saw the shadows following me.
The first time it happened, I was in my mansion’s bedroom. I woke to the sound of a child crying. I searched the house; my own children were asleep. The crying grew louder until it became a scream, then laughter. Cold air filled the room.
Another time, I was in a board meeting and I saw a small handprint appear on the glass of the window, as if someone pressed from the outside. No one else saw it.
At night, I feel little hands pulling at my blankets. I hear footsteps in empty halls. Sometimes my children wake up screaming, pointing at corners of the room where nothing is supposed to be. They don’t know why, but I do. The spirits know. They always know.
The wealth did not silence their voices. It amplified them.
People think money rituals buy you power. They don’t. They buy you a cage lined with gold. My wife left again. My children barely speak to me. My health is failing — unexplained illnesses, nightmares that leave me gasping for air. The “healer” who once guided me won’t take my calls.
I have tried to give away the money. I have tried to donate, to pray, to fast. Nothing works. Once the spirits have been fed, they never leave. They are my true inheritance.
If you are reading this and thinking about money rituals, thinking about using children, thinking about shortcuts — don’t. Don’t believe anyone who tells you it’s worth it. Don’t believe that you can outsmart the spirits. Don’t believe you can live with yourself afterward.
You will get the wealth, yes. People will envy you. But you will also get the nightmares. The shadows. The endless whispers. You will lose your peace, your family, your soul.
I thought poverty was my curse. Now I know wealth can be a curse far worse.
I am writing this because I feel my time is near. The whispers have become voices. The voices have become faces. The faces have become hands reaching for me in the dark. Sometimes, I think I see the children standing at the foot of my bed.
I have tried to atone, but there is no atonement for this. There is only confession.
If this post survives me, let it be a warning. Let it be proof that wealth built on children’s blood is not wealth at all. It is a rope around your neck, a shadow at your back, a scream in your ears that never stops.
I chose greed.
I chose blood.
Now the blood is choosing me.
And soon, it will collect its debt.
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