Read Aloud the Text Content

This audio was created by Woord's Text to Speech service by content creators from all around the world.

Text Content or SSML code:

I had always prided myself on my faith. My husband, David, and I had built our lives around the church, finding solace and strength in our shared belief. We attended services every Sunday, volunteered in community events, and hosted Bible studies at our home. Our lives were entwined with the fabric of our faith, and nothing seemed capable of tearing it apart. But slowly, things began to change. It started with David coming home late from work, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a sullen, distracted air. I’d ask him what was wrong, but he’d just shake his head, offering weak excuses about work stress or feeling under the weather. I tried to be understanding, but a knot of worry settled in my chest. One evening, as we were sitting down for dinner, I noticed a strange symbol etched into the inside of David’s wrist. It was an intricate, dark mark, unlike anything I’d ever seen. When I asked him about it, he pulled his sleeve down and muttered something about it being a joke from work. My unease grew, but I didn’t press further. The changes became more pronounced over the next few weeks. David stopped attending church with me, claiming he was too tired or had too much work to catch up on. He grew distant, spending long hours locked in his study or disappearing for entire evenings. I’d hear him whispering on the phone late at night, his voice low and urgent. It was unlike him, and my anxiety festered. One night, unable to bear it any longer, I followed him. He left the house just past midnight, slipping out quietly while he thought I was asleep. I trailed him through the streets, keeping to the shadows, my heart pounding with fear and anticipation. He led me to an old, dilapidated building on the outskirts of town, a place I’d never seen before. I watched from a hidden vantage point as David knocked on the door, which creaked open to reveal a hooded figure. They exchanged words, too soft for me to hear, and then David was ushered inside. My heart raced as I crept closer, peeking through a cracked window. What I saw chilled me to the bone. Inside, a group of people in dark robes stood in a circle, chanting in a language I didn’t understand. At the center was an altar adorned with grotesque symbols and candles casting eerie shadows on the walls. David was among them, his eyes glazed, lips moving in sync with the others. I stumbled back, my mind reeling. My husband, the man I had loved and trusted, was involved in something dark and sinister. I couldn’t confront him right away. I needed to gather my thoughts, to pray for guidance. The following days were a blur of confusion and dread. David’s behavior grew more erratic, and I found strange items hidden around the house—black candles, odd trinkets, and more symbols. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. I confronted him one evening, my voice shaking with fear and anger. “David, what is going on? What have you gotten yourself into?” He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher, a mix of sorrow and something else I couldn’t name. “It’s not what you think,” he said softly. “I’ve found a different path, one that offers answers our faith never could.” I felt my world crumble. How could he say that? How could he abandon everything we had built together? I wept and prayed, begging God for strength, for understanding. But then, something strange happened. I began to see the symbols everywhere—in my dreams, in the corners of my vision. I heard the chants, felt their rhythm pulse through me. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks, the stress of the situation taking its toll. But the pull was undeniable, a dark curiosity gnawing at the edges of my sanity. One night, I found myself standing before the same dilapidated building, my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t remember how I got there, but I was drawn inside by an unseen force. The hooded figures welcomed me, their voices a soothing hum that drowned out my fear. And there, at the center of it all, was David, his eyes filled with a knowing sadness. As I stepped into the circle, the truth hit me like a thunderbolt. This was my doing. The symbols, the chanting, the dark allure—it had all been in my mind. David had tried to save me, to pull me back from the brink, but I had mistaken his efforts for betrayal. It was I who had been drawn to the darkness, my mind fractured by some unseen malady. In that moment, I understood. The cult was a manifestation of my own broken psyche, a twisted mirror reflecting my inner turmoil. David had been trying to help me, to bring me back to the light. But now, standing here among the robed figures, I knew it was too late. The darkness had claimed me, and I was its willing servant.