The Church That Wasn’t a Church, Our pastor was a sangoma and we did horrible things.
When I first joined the church, I thought I had found a sanctuary. From the outside, it looked like any other place of worship—white walls, a modest wooden cross above the entrance, and the sound of hymns filling the air every Sunday. The pastor, a kind-looking woman in her late forties, always greeted us with a warm smile. I felt at home, or so I thought. What I didn’t know was that I wasn’t walking into a house of God. I was stepping into a realm of darkness.
It started innocently enough. They welcomed me warmly, almost too warmly. I was new to the village, eager to belong, and they seemed eager to have me. The first few services were like any other church gathering: prayers, singing, and sermons. But there was an intensity about their worship that unsettled me, though I brushed it off. They prayed with so much energy, shouting and crying as if their lives depended on it. At the time, I thought it was just passion. I didn’t realize it was something much darker.
One evening, the pastor approached me after service. She told me I had a special "spiritual gift" and that God had called me for a higher purpose. I was flattered, of course. Who wouldn’t be? She invited me to a private gathering later that night, something she called a "prayer vigil for the chosen." I was hesitant, but she assured me it was just an opportunity to grow closer to God.
The vigil was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was held in a hidden area of the church, a basement I didn’t even know existed. The room was dimly lit with candles arranged in a strange pattern on the floor. The air was thick with the smell of burning herbs. People were dressed in black robes, chanting words I couldn’t understand. It was eerie, but I told myself it was just a different way of worship.
Then came the rituals.
At first, they seemed harmless—prayers and anointing oil. But soon, they introduced me to things I couldn’t explain. They gave me a strange liquid to drink, saying it would "open my spiritual eyes." After drinking it, I felt lightheaded, almost like I was floating. That night, I had vivid, terrifying dreams. I saw myself flying through the night sky, traveling with the pastor and other church members. When I told them about it the next day, they laughed and said it wasn’t a dream. It was real.
They told me about the "night train."
In our village, there was no railway line. But every night, at midnight, we would gather in a field behind the church. There, we would board what they called the "night train," an invisible vehicle that transported us to different places. At first, I thought it was all in my head, a hallucination from whatever they were giving me to drink. But the sensations were too real—the cold wind against my skin, the feeling of acceleration as we "traveled." They explained that the train wasn’t a physical object but a spiritual one, powered by rituals and chants.
The things we did during those night journeys still haunt me.
We didn’t just travel for fun. We had missions. The pastor, who I now realized wasn’t a pastor at all but a sangoma—a traditional healer or witch doctor—would assign tasks to each of us. Sometimes, we were sent to spy on people, to gather information about their lives and weaknesses. Other times, we were instructed to harm them.
I remember one night vividly. We were told to target a family that had been "troublesome" to the church. Using the night train, we arrived at their home in what felt like seconds. While their physical bodies lay asleep, we attacked their spirits. The pastor led us in chants and rituals, binding their souls with invisible chains. When we returned to the church, she assured us that the family would wake up sick and disoriented. The next day, news spread that the family had been struck by a mysterious illness.
The rituals grew darker and more bizarre.
We were made to sacrifice animals, their blood smeared on our foreheads as a "blessing." They taught us how to summon spirits, how to control people’s dreams, and how to manipulate events to the church’s advantage. There was a strict rule: never question anything. Anyone who did was punished. I saw it happen to one of the members, a young man who dared to ask why we were doing these things. That night, he disappeared. When I asked about him, the pastor said he had "fallen away from grace."
But the worst part was the spirits.
They were everywhere—dark, shadowy figures that moved in the corners of my vision. At first, they terrified me, but over time, I grew used to them. The pastor said they were our "guides," helping us fulfill our missions. But I knew better. These weren’t guides. They were entities that thrived on fear and suffering. They whispered things to me at night, their voices like nails scraping against glass.
I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t.
By the time I realized what I had gotten myself into, it was too late. I had been initiated into something far beyond my understanding. The rituals, the chants, the night train—it had all bound me to the church in ways I couldn’t break. The pastor warned us that anyone who tried to leave would face dire consequences. She told stories of former members who had died mysteriously or gone insane after attempting to escape.
The turning point came when I witnessed a human sacrifice.
It was a young girl, barely twelve years old. They said she was "offered" by her family as a gift to the spirits. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. They tied her to an altar, chanting and dancing around her as the pastor performed the ritual. The girl screamed, begging for her life, but no one listened. By the time it was over, I knew I had to get out, no matter the cost.
Escaping wasn’t easy.
I pretended to be loyal, participating in the rituals and following orders, all while planning my escape. I prayed—truly prayed—for the first time in months, asking God to protect me. One night, during a vigil, I slipped away and ran. I didn’t stop until I was miles away from the church.
Even now, I’m not free.
The spirits still haunt me. I see them in my dreams, hear their whispers in the dead of night. The church members have tried to contact me, sending messages and even visiting my home. I’ve moved several times, but they always seem to find me. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly escape, but I had to share my story.
To anyone reading this, be careful. Not everything that looks holy is from God. Some churches hide darkness behind their walls. Trust your instincts, and if something feels wrong, run before it’s too late. I didn’t, and now I live with the consequences.
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