Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - A Life Born from Blood How a Human Sacrifice Gave Me the Mind I Was Never Meant to Have #61

Episode Date: August 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #humansacrifice #darkrituals #forbiddenknowledge #paranormalorigins #mindbendinghorror  Born in the aftermath of a blood-soaked ritual, the narrator realizes his mind is not his own. Haunted by visions, inexplicable knowledge, and whispers of the sacrifice that created him, he spirals into madness while uncovering the terrifying truth of his origins. Some gifts are not meant for humans—and some lives should never have been born.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, humansacrifice, occultorigins, darkrituals, cursedbirth, forbiddenknowledge, psychologicalhorror, bloodmagic, disturbingtruth, originstoryhorror, paranormalterror, hauntingvisions, eldritchhorror, mindcontrolterror, gothicnightmare

My mother gave me something sharp and hard. I didn't know that many words back then, so in my mind, I thought of it as hard-hurty. Due to it being both capable of hurting, and also being solid. As opposed to hot water and scary dogs, which were thought of as soft hurdy. I know now that it was a sacrificial knife. I was a 19-year-old slightly overweight red-headed girl standing in a plain waiting hall. Since the day I was born, I had been, retarded. Seeing as I was once mentally impaired, am I allowed to use the demeaning term, retarded?

Am I perhaps as a normally developed individual risking reproducing harmful stereotypes by referring to my past self in this manner? Am I destigmatizing the word, thereby robbing it of its power? Make of that what you will. I don't shy away from critique, but I won't change my natural way of communicating due to the whims of others, so we will likely have to agree to disagree when it comes to nomencloth. Back then I didn't know what the term meant, my parents referred to me as having my own challenges. I didn't even realize I was special.

My family knew of the word though, my oldest brother almost challenged a stranger to a duel for using it to snicker at me. My mother hindered it from coming to blows. Care, care. Mother was trying to make me concentrate on her instead of the ceiling fan. I loved sealing fans. I couldn't have expressed it in these terms, but I found them aesthetic and well balanced, as well as wondrous in their constant and circular movement. The cool air that emitted from them made me also think of them as, nice, a term I had learned

from my parents who used it to describe things that worked as they were intended and behavior that was approved. I guess my thinking pattern back then can be described as moralistic and teleological, in other words, I believed inanimate objects and living things all had a purpose, and I would at times get upset when they didn't fulfill that purpose. Broken ceiling fans' S&D ugly flowers were horrible for the same reason mean strangers were, they didn't fulfill their natural purpose, to spin, be pretty or in the latter case to be kind. If you listen, that would make me very happy, Mother knew what worked.

I lowered my sight from the lovely purpose-fulfilling machine. You're going to have to do something that feels bad, but it will be okay. I was filled with hesitation, Mother spoke to me the same way she did before a dentist visit. Don't shake, it's okay. I hadn't realized my body had started to move, but she was right and the shaking was subdued due to her warm smile. Mother was the center of my universe, I didn't realize she would die one day. She seemed eternal and endlessly kind, a saint of family love. Most days at least. Occasionally, I would grow angry. with her. I didn't have the term, tyrant, in my vocabulary, but that's essentially how I viewed her

on days when she insisted I go to bed early or denied me the right to indulge an expensive candy I saw in the store. During a few of those episodes, my temper got the better of me, and I ended up hitting or biting her. She fell to the ground once after a punch, I cried more than she did after that. My guilt was enough to make her spend more time comforting me than expressing anger. Memories like those are why I won't name my diagnosis. I wasn't a bad person, I just couldn't control myself and didn't know better. I obviously don't judge people suffering from the same disability I had, and neither should you. I know that a lot of those who have made the same journey as I have don't share similar experiences, having been less harsh and violent. So as to not tempt readers to generalize

from what might have been a particularly severe, or in other ways misrepresentative case, I'll allow my precise diagnosis to remain redacted. I won't shake. Good, good. You're so nice. I'm nice, I'm nice, I'm nice, I said happily. I was fulfilling my purpose. She waited for me to finish. Now, care, you have to do what I tell you to do.

No matter how scary it feels. Do you understand? I nodded. No matter how not nice it feels, this confused me. I was implicitly asked to do something which wasn't nice, in order to make my mother happy, doing something not nice to do something nice. I felt like a devoted mortal who was told by his prophet to love his neighbor by stoning blasphemers to death. No matter how not nice it feels. We have to do it. Do you understand? Though we in that sentence made me put the pieces together.

Mother must be referring to something which appeared to be not nice, but was in actuality nice. Encouraging me to trust in her ability to see past a type of moral mirage. I nodded, happy that I managed to figure it out. We left the waiting area, going through a long glass hall and then exiting into wild woods. I usually loved venturing into nature, but this wasn't right. I tried to turn back, but Mother caressed me and reminded me that we had to do this. The screams and crying were what scared me. When we arrived at the bleeding men tied to trees, things didn't get better.

Other children like me crying nearby them. I ran, but two guard-bots caught me. Mother caught up and pushed them aside. They had built in pillows on their arms to ensure soft grips and were designed to look friendly, but still frightened me. It's okay. I'm here. It felt good being held by her.

Home. I want to go home. Home. It's okay, we can't go home right now. We have to do this first. I cried and screamed. But she insisted that this had to be done first. I realized that this was one of those immutable imperatives, like going to the dentist or going to bed. It wasn't one of the obligations that could be negotiated away, at most this could be delayed. With heavy steps, I walked towards the trees with the the bleeding men. She had the knife I dropped. As I came closer, their screams became louder. They were partly muffled by the gags placed in their mouths, but still too loud. The knife was placed in my hand. They had wounds in strange shapes, I didn't recognize the patterns then, but the cuts formed religious ruins. She guided my hand, and I cut into one of the men, drawing a piece of one of the signs, him screaming and me crying while doing it. That was the part of the price I had to pay, having to play a small part in it. Shortly after having done that I lost consciousness, not because of the stress but due

to the ritual-taking effect. I remember mother catching me as I lost my balance, her telling me everything would be all right as the world became dark. I didn't wake up for over a week. When I opened my eyes mother was beside me. It's hard to describe what it was like, seeing her through my new perspective. The same person with the same features, but my sensations now conveyed more information and nuances. They had always carried those elements, I just hadn't picked up on them.

The real change was inside my head, not in my nerve endings. Thoughts were processed quicker and could provide more answers to the same question than before. For example, based on the wetness on my mother's face I deduced that she was, she had most likely recently been crying. Upon the subtle details on her face, I realized without processing it consciously that they must have been tears of joy. Care. She bent over the bed and hugged me. I held her tight while processing information about my own name. Who was care, really? Information I already knew was processed, memories of old being worked through. It felt like a new world but was actually the same old one with better

lighting. Like when you stare at a cloud that appears to suddenly change from an amorphic mass into something specific and meaningful, you're the one actually changing. The memories in my past were re-contextualized and reinterpreted. I'm no longer retarded, I said in awe. She laughed at me and reprimanded me for using that awful word. It is challenging to write this. Because I don't want to convey the idea that people with cognitive disabilities live unworthy or unfulfilling lives. I was happy as my former self. Imagine that you had been given wings one day, that would have opened up a new world to you. It wouldn't make you look down upon people without wings, it would just make things faster

for you and provide more options. My journey was the mental equivalent of that. The same experiences and information became easier to understand immediately on a surface level, while I could also generate more elaborate interpretations, being able to see through previously murky water at a glance and dive deeper than I had thought possible. My short-term memory was much sharper, I could keep more things stored there longer. My attention span was night and day. In the previous part of my life, an angry face meant that somebody was angry.

Now I knew they might be making a silly face as a joke, faking an emotion for some instrumental purpose, or simply have a resting bitch face. These explanations aren't mutually exclusive either, questions can now have to. have several answers which are pieces in a puzzle. Mental models are available to me that didn't exist back then. Things can be layered, causes can have several previous causes, even going back on themselves forming loops. I was and am immensely thankful to my mother and family. They were amazed to get to know the new me. My two older brothers helped me with homework as I started to study to take in all the information I'd missed while placed in a special school. When they heard me discussing

boys candidly for the first time, that celebrity so-and-so could do what he wants with me, my youngest brother looked like he was about to die out of embarrassment. His image of me as naive and completely innocent dying in a violent and painful crash with reality. The studying wasn't that hard. I don't know if most of the information needed had been implanted as a part of the theological process, Theurgy, is magic by channeling powers from gods. If my new mind had just absorbed details from old memories, such as hearing my mother discuss Parliament with a friend once, and from that conversation now having deduced that we lived in a society with some type of citizen participation in regards to government. Perhaps both in some way, or neither and instead a third alternative, I haven't figured out.

My mother insists that I'm just very bright and a natural learner, but being unbiased in regard to her daughter's capabilities isn't her strongest feature, a flaw I love. as I came to understand what had happened in greater detail and why I, of course, suffered the classic beneficiaries' guilt. Asking myself if I was really worthy of all this. Beneficiary interest groups, organizations for people healed by human sacrifice, had long before my time done a heavy lifting for me, petitioned the king, and lobbied political parties. I was entitled to all the stored information on my case, including data about the man I had cut that day. I won't reveal his name publicly, we can refer to him as X. Once I had the information, that's when the tough decisions came knocking. At first it felt idiotic to send the message I wanted to write, other days it felt

like a moral necessity. In case the recipient turned out to be a crazy stalker, I arranged to get a temporary number and then reached out through it. Worse case scenario, I'd throw away the prepaid SIM card after the first death threat. The text message included the following, Hey, we don't know each other. What I'm about to say might bring up painful memories, I apologize if it is hurtful to read. I'm sending this because me saying nothing feels like it might be even worse for you. I was the one your son was sacrificed to heal. I just wanted to let you know that the lottery didn't him out to die to help some vain idiot get a better figure, it helped me live a normal and independent life, which would have otherwise been completely impossible. I don't know if you

want a thank you, or if that feels unimportant and even insulting. But if it would help, then yes, I am extremely thankful. Sincerely, care, I didn't include my last name. Didn't want them to be able to look me up, beneficiary rights ensured that I could remain completely anonymous if I chose to. The phone rang, damn it. Why couldn't they text back first, to let me evaluate their craziness level by proxy? I answered. The person on the other end was crying. Oh, I'm sorry, I blurted out, guilty over having brought this storm of emotions on her. Don't be. She almost screamed in my ear, the voice belonged to a middle-aged woman, you did the right thing. It's just that thinking of it makes me emotional. Okay, I didn't know what to say. Don't feel bad. We should meet up,

to talk about this. I hesitated in a neutral public place. So you can feel safe, trust me, I'm harmless. She said in the way I imagined serial killers say it. I agreed and brought my two brothers with me, both gingers who stood far above the average height, and both of them secretly armed. The cafeteria she selected was picturesque, so I attempted to joke with my brotherly bodyguards that if I were to be murdered, at least it would occur in a pleasant setting. The older of the two advised me to stay serious and keep an eye out for any signs that might indicate them being murdery. Let's refer to X's parents as Mr. and Mrs. X. They didn't seem particularly murdery upon their arrival. The slim, dark-haired father had acne scars across his face and a stern expression, while the mother

was blonde and overweight. If they were intimidated by my brothers, they certainly didn't show it. After exchanges of standard phrases of politeness, and me explaining my former condition, Mr. X got to the chase, you don't have to feel guilty. If anyone should feel guilt, it should be us. No, don't say that. It doesn't matter if I say it or not, it's true. We failed as parents. Mrs. X nodded along. We tried to convince him to get a decent. living. Told him not to accept sacrificial lottery tickets. He responded in some glib way like, if you believe in unlikely events happening, then why don't you buy tickets for the normal lottery? And we'll see what happens first, you get your name called and become a multimillionaire,

or my name gets pulled and I die. Or, you know, the more people take these tickets, the less likely it is that your name will get pulled. So isn't me accepting a ticket really the heroic thing to do. We tried to be serious, but he just goofed around about it. Wouldn't listen, she took a handkerchief, and cleaned herself up from all the crying, stabilizing her mood. He didn't get along at any of his jobs, Mrs. X continued. Management and him ended up arguing, and either he left or they fired him. It wasn't his fault, I heard stories of how they treated him. But he probably could have done more to become agreeable. So he participated in the lottery to avoid homelessness. I said, afraid I might have

benefited from a man selling his life in a desperate situation. No, nothing like that. We were always there for him. And the basic income is more generous than a lot of activists claim. If you just live prudently, no drinking or shopping expensive things, then you can make it buy with a home, food, and all that even without a job. Problem is, that's one of the the points where we failed as parents, Mr. X filled in, he didn't settle for living a simple life of unemployment, or just biting his tongue and taking a few hits to the ego to continue earning a paycheck. No, not only didn't we teach him how to listen properly, we didn't manage to teach him how to live modestly. He bought game consoles, computers, rented sex bots, a clean

bot, drank, and gambled. He was the life of all parties. The only way you can afford all of that off is if you're a doctor or something, sell drugs, or take part in the lottery. So he accepted the temple's money, and boy do they pay you well to take part. Give you little brochures as well, and show you information videos. Telling you how unlikely it is, it's likelier to get cancer without smoking than to get your name called, it's less probable than being killed by a stranger in a robbery gone wrong, and all of that gibberish. Well, the brochures weren't all wrong in his case. Blabbered on about all the lives you could change for the better, and he seems to have genuinely done so for you.

Yes, I don't know how to say this, but if not for your son I would still be retarded, they winced at the word, then we laughed all of us at the absurdity of the situation. Have you seen the recording? No, and you shouldn't either. Said Mrs. X, we remember him for the good things in his life. His kindness, his generosity, and his charm. You shouldn't focus on him. how he ended his journey. Seeing as I was the reason his journey ended, I felt that I had to.

We separated on good terms that day, I still met them for coffee occasionally. I lied to them as we departed, said I wouldn't look up the video. A few emails to the right government agencies, and they acquired the file from the temple, then responded to me after three days, and after a short download I would just have to hit play. Never had any object in my life been harder to move than the computer mouse was at that moment, having heard lectures from benefactors who were both for and against looking up this type of information, I was pulled in two opposite directions. After thinking about how I would have felt in his place, I would have wanted people to know what I went through, I pressed play. The forest I remembered all too well was there on my screen,

an information bar indicated that I could toggle between different camera angles. I lowered the volume so as to not be deafened by the men screaming and the mentally handicapped teenagers and children crying. I now knew the societal background of what was happening. Deities did provide miracles, but only the simple ones were free or purchasable through sacrificing an animal or two. The life-changing ones came at the cost of human blood. People were paid to put their names into lotteries, where the name called would die and the others walk of richer. While billionaires could pay out of pocket for people to risk becoming a human sacrifice in exchange for a small fortune, ordinary people had to finance these grisly rituals through insurance cooperatives

and the like. When I was born, my dad's labor union membership had turned out to include access to being the beneficiary of such a lottery, the union paid people like X an enormous amount of money each to put their name in a machine. Seeing as the arrangement was expensive, my parents had to take me through a lot of evaluations to prove my condition and a lot of natural treatment to see if other options could help before I was put on the waiting list. Once all of that was done, I had to wait for the terminally ill kids to go first. Then people who suffered immense pain due to their conditions, folks who were regularly dangerous, my occasional punches at mom weren't enough to qualify to but in line.

The union couldn't spend that much money on this either, so there weren't a lot of lotteries held through their funding every year. My mother bought into a separate waiting list through her home insurance, my name was now on two lists. Still, it took until I was 19. That's when I walked up to X in that forest. As I saw myself carving into him, I felt sorry for my old self. But not in the classical self-pitting way, but rather like I saw a stranger going through it. So much had changed that I felt like a different person. After the old me fainted and was carried away, it took a while for the other benefactors to be coached into carving into their sacrifice victims. Benefactors who physically couldn't participate, such as those in a coma, or who wouldn't

do to psychological reasons, had to have a series of runes carved into themselves instead. Without anesthetics. I wondered if that might have been better. Once we left, there were only the bleeding men tied to the trees and chanting priest who just entered the scene. And then it came, what the chanting had called forth. Most gods have a sacred beast, an animal that they regard as having a higher value than humans. Dead people are fed to them in burial rituals, priestesses, and priests spend time grooming and caring for them. Propheps are chosen among feral children raised by the creatures. Due to these animals' subconscious connection to the divine, their god acting like an invisible pack leader or pet owner in their minds, the beasts are studied for signs from their god.

movements are carefully observed and documented. From the woods came a hybrid thing. Part snake, part horse, part wolf, with human female ghostly body parts thrown in for good measure. Sacrifice victims to Herah could be fed to her spiders, monsters that buried through their skin, laid eggs inside them, for the poor souls to be eaten from the inside by their young. Freya's cats toyed with some of their victims,

and being fed to the worms of the earth goddess ale didn't. seem like fun either. But I wondered if this wasn't worse than all of those. The creature belonged to Loke, who had fathered the snake Jormengand, the horse Slepner, the wolf Fenrr and the semi-corps goddess Helena. The animal carried features of all of his children, as some type of cruel divine joke, I presume. It hobbled forth more than ran or walked, levitating bit by bit, to then fall to the ground. Out of a semi-transparent human female face, a set of wolf jaws emerged and started tearing one of the men to pieces. A second head, snake-like, opened and two humanoid arms came out, sharp fingers cutting through another man and pulling his

remains into the snake's mouth. I vomited, paused, and went back to see what I missed. If they had to go through this, then I could at least force myself to watch it. It was just as slow and painful as you would expect from being eaten alive, with the added horror of it being carried out by a monster. A debate I won't put an end to end is if this was right. Should people be paid to do this to themselves, even if it gives the less fortunate like me a new life? Are the Muslims, Christians, and Buddhists right, that we should only bow down to gods who refrain from these harsh demands? If not, what is our answer to those who follow the thorny path? Worshippers who don't compromise with the bloodier demands of our gods, instead raid to collect involuntarily sacrifice victims, and partake in ritual.

dedicated to our gods but that we deem to be forbidden magic due to their high costs and risks. The fact that X had to volunteer and be paid is a human invention, the ban against child sacrifice is a human convention as well. Concessions we impose on the divine rights to make our symbiosis with our metaphysical masters more tolerant to our sensibilities. I don't have all the answers. It seems like there is a middle way between paternalistically denying adults the option of making any bad decisions and removing all traffic rules for the sake of freedom. As well as a compromise between saying tough luck to people with disabilities untreatable by mundane methods and allowing someone to die screaming so that a rich guy can get a bigger penis. I'm obviously biased, but to me,

it seems unconscionable that we continue to allow human sacrifices to increase the IQ of normally gifted individuals, the beauty of the non-disfigured, and similar. People who have been given reasonable cards in life shouldn't be able to buy themselves a winning hand, while people who have been denied as set at the table should be allowed a place to sit, as long as someone of sound mind consents to take the risk of paying the blood price. If it wasn't for X, I wouldn't have found a husband and be expecting a child. I wouldn't have graduated from med school, how many patients won't I be able to help through his sacrifice? So I would like to briefly address X directly. If you can look back on this world from the next, then I thank you with every atom of my being. I can't repay you in any way,

but I try every day to live a life worth dying for, to come close to earning your gift by giving love to my family and showing kindness to strangers. The end.