MY GRANDMOTHER INTRODUCED ME TO

MY GRANDMOTHER INTRODUCED ME TO WITCHCRAFT,I DON'T BELIEVE IN DIMENTIA BECAUSE OF HER. 

I’m writing this anonymously, not to seek pity or attention, but because I need to release the burden that has been haunting me for years. My story is one of darkness, manipulation, and fear, woven into the fabric of my childhood. There are things I’ve carried for far too long that I’ve never had the courage to say out loud—things that were too disturbing to even consider, but now, as I write, I hope that by sharing my truth, I can free myself from this long-held weight.

My grandmother was a woman like no other. To anyone who didn’t know her secrets, she appeared ordinary. She was a quiet, mysterious figure in the small village where I grew up, but what most didn’t see was the twisted, unearthly power she wielded over me and, perhaps, over many others. As a child, I was naive, too innocent to grasp the full extent of her manipulations. Over time, however, I began to understand just how much she controlled my life—and how she shaped the darkest corners of my existence.

Every night, without fail, at exactly 2 a.m., my grandmother would rise from her bed and walk outside. It became a pattern I couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard I tried to. She would leave the house, shivering slightly as if drawn by an unseen force, and wander around our yard—naked, without shame, without explanation. As a child, I couldn’t fathom why she would do such a thing. Why at night? Why in the cold? And why, in the secrecy of those moments, did she appear to be searching for something?

I later learned that she wasn’t just walking around. My grandmother was engaging in something far more sinister. She had made contact with entities that, according to her, could help her get what she wanted—power, control, and the ability to manipulate the people around her. She spoke of spirits and beings she called "tikoloshis," dark forces that she would send out to do her bidding. The creatures were her servants, and she had complete dominion over them. I don’t know what she offered in exchange for their loyalty, but I learned soon enough that her relationship with them was one I couldn’t escape.

When I was young, my family fed me a strange and unsettling story: I had a twin brother who had died before I was born. But the details were always murky. As I grew older, I learned the true, horrific reason for his death. According to my grandmother, my twin had been thrown against a wall in some kind of ritualistic ceremony—a test of strength, she called it. He was supposed to "stick to the wall" as a symbol of strength, but he failed. His inability to do so marked him as weak, and in our family, weakness was unforgivable. My twin’s death was swift, a quiet elimination, and I was never to speak of it again.

This revelation, like so many others, was a puzzle piece in the grotesque picture of my family’s twisted legacy. My grandmother believed that weakness was a traitor’s mark, something that could not be tolerated. It was something that would destroy our family’s honor.

My grandmother didn’t just keep me around for company—she had far more sinister plans for me. The older I got, the more she isolated me from the outside world. At first, I didn’t understand. She didn’t let me play with other kids, she didn’t want me socializing, and she certainly didn’t allow me to befriend anyone at school. She seemed to keep me tethered to her, closer and closer, until I realized the truth. 

She didn’t just want me close for protection or affection. She needed me—needed me to be her tool, her instrument for carrying out her dark work. The tasks she gave me weren’t always clear at first, and I didn’t understand their significance. But soon enough, it became impossible to ignore. 

I began to steal for her. Not just small things, but things of value—books, clothes, even school jerseys and hats. I didn’t know why at the time, but I did it, driven by something she had instilled in me, something that made me believe I had no choice. She made me believe that I was doing something important, that it was for the family. 

At the time, I didn’t realize the full gravity of what I was doing. The stealing wasn’t just for material gain—it was part of the deeper rituals she conducted in the dead of night. She was building an arsenal of power, using these items to communicate with forces beyond our understanding. I didn’t know how, but she was casting spells, performing dark rituals with those objects, offering them as sacrifices or tokens in exchange for power.

And then there were the tikoloshis. My grandmother kept them in the yard, hidden from sight but never far away. These were the dark spirits she had control over, creatures from another realm that she could summon whenever she needed them. They were small, ugly things, not quite human but not entirely animal. I was terrified of them, but I couldn’t escape them. They were always there, lurking in the corners of my mind, in the shadows of the yard.

My grandmother would often disappear into the night, and it was then that I knew she was meeting with the tikoloshis. She’d return with a sense of triumph, as if she’d been to another world and returned with a gift or a message. She would often feed them—offerings that she claimed were necessary for maintaining her control over them. I didn’t understand all the details, but the sense of unease never left me. These creatures weren’t just there for show; they were part of a ritual, part of my grandmother’s dark web of control.

The turning point came when my grandmother tried to force me into the same role she had played. She wanted me to carry out the same rituals, to embrace the darkness she had spent her life cultivating. She wanted me to work with the tikoloshis, to perform the same terrible acts she had. But something in me snapped. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t follow her into the abyss.

So, I ran. I left that house and fled to my maternal mother’s home. I didn’t feel safe there either, but I knew I had to get away. I never saw my grandmother again after that day, but the scars of those years will never fade. To this day, I believe my grandmother was responsible for my mother’s death. She always hated her, and I suspect that my mother’s death was not as accidental as I once thought. The pieces fit too perfectly. The hatred, the manipulation, the dark energy that surrounded our family—it all pointed to her.

I don’t know how to explain the weight of what I’ve lived through. The things I saw, the things I was made to do—they have shaped who I am, for better or for worse. I’ve tried to move on, tried to bury those memories, but they resurface in dreams, in moments of silence when I can’t escape them. 

Writing this, even anonymously, feels like a release. It’s my confession, my way of reclaiming some semblance of peace, though I know it’s a long road ahead. The scars run deep, but I’m working on healing. I just hope that by sharing this, I can finally let go of the past and move forward. 

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for listening. If my story resonates with you, know that you’re not alone. Healing is possible, even from the darkest places.