My Satanic Ritual Abuse Testimony

It’s been very challenging for me to publish this, and I know it will be triggering to read, so thank you for being here. When I began exposing the evil of this world, I decided I wanted my work to talk for me, not my abusive past or my Satanic Ritual Abuse testimony. I could have gained traction early on by presenting this when I started doing this six years ago, but I decided to wait until I felt ready. That day is finally here. My full name is Alessandro Valerin Castellón, and I was born in San José, Costa Rica, on July 10, 1986. First off, I want to make it clear my family had nothing to do with the abuse I suffered as a child. My mother was born in New Jersey, and her family descends from French/Catalan migrants. My father was born in Costa Rica, and his family descends from French/Italian migrants.

I was raised Roman Catholic and baptized in this church. But the abuse started in 1990 during Pre-K when I was barely four years old. I was a sweet, bright, and relatively happy child. My parents worked then, so I was sent to Pre-K in the mornings. Then, I spent the afternoons with my grandparents until my parents picked me up at night. My mother was a publicist and former stewardess, and my father owned a car repair shop and dealership. We lived comfortably as part of the middle class, and my childhood at home was pleasant. I ignored how I became a target, but later on, I learned that Satanic covens look for young boys with high IQs for their rituals as they are the best vessels with the most substantial potential for black magic.

I remember the abuse started by being scolded and humiliated in front of the whole class, as I was a bit of a loner and liked doing things my way. I hated going there. I remember begging my parents to take me out of Pre-K, but to no avail. The order of the events is still confusing to me, but this is what took place in that horrendous place: Five other kids and I were selected for the rituals that took place in the basement of the institution. The same kids were almost always present, but when, for some reason, one missed school, they had other kids who served as ”replacements.” Or at least thats how it looks to me now. I do not remember the other kids’ names; I recall three girls and two boys. I cannot remember their faces at all, though.

During the longest recess, we were drugged with a green syrup that our teachers called ”green juice.” It was very spicy and bitter and was given to us as a punishment for cursing or disobedience during class. The message was always that we were bad kids and deserved to be in that position. I remember waking up naked, tied to a chair, as the other kids were instructed to cover my body with pins. My whole naked body was full of them, all over, including my intimate parts. This happened as I sat in the middle of a pentagram drawn on the floor with what seemed to be red paint but could have been blood. Each of the five kids stood at one of the sides of the pentagram as the adults watched and recited invocations. There was a strong odor of burning incense and other herbs during this thing.

Sometimes, I was made to witness how the masked adults took turns abusing and passing around the other children. Five adults, two women and three men, wore animal masks as they hummed and recited spells and invocations from a black book. They wore masks of a wolf, a pig, and a dog for the men, a cat, and a rabbit for the women. Black cats were sacrificed during these rituals; bags with their beheaded bodies often hung in the trees around the Pre-K’s green areas, and I remember finding these with my friends. I don’t remember being sexually abused myself during the rituals, but I was physically and psychologically tortured. On one occasion, I wouldn’t stop screaming, and one of the men punched me so hard in my ear that I ended up with an ear infection.

Of course, they told my parents I got into a scuffle with another kid and that I started it. These rituals took place once a week at the very least, but the abuse was constant outside of them. The drugging happened by itself sometimes, just out of spite, I guess. This is when my personality started to shift, and I became a different kid. Sadly, I don’t remember the teachers’ or classmates’ names. I have tried for hours and hours at a time without any luck. I only remember the trauma and suffering they put me through. I recall we were to perform some choreography for the farewell party, dressed as adults. I was the leading performer among the boys, the prom king if you will. I remember being kissed on the lips by my two female teachers during the rehearsals for this and groped in my intimate parts. This was their way of letting me know I was doing a good job.

This is what I consider my first traumatic experience in life. Why didn’t I ask for help and say what was happening to me? I honestly have no idea. Fear? Programming? Mind control? Sadly, there are no records of this Pre-K institution anywhere on the internet; it’s like it never existed. The only evidence I have of ever being there is my mother’s photos from my childhood, some of which were taken there. At this precise time, my mother is traveling, and I am waiting for her arrival so she can send me some of them and perhaps be able to identify someone. Sadly, that was just the start. For Kinder and up to 6th grade, I was enrolled in Sion Elementary, a Zionist Catholic school where horrible stuff also happened. There were strange events that I would not understand until decades later.

I have firm memories of having a girlfriend in Kindergarten and making out with her. For years, I had no idea how that came to be psychologically, as I always questioned how or why a kid my age would have the initiative to get a girlfriend right away at age five. I recall the girl’s name, but I’d rather keep it private at this time. I remember her dad finding out about our relationship and wanting to kick my ass. My parents got involved, and I still wonder why they didn’t think me being oversexualized at that age wasn’t normal. I feel a piercing memory is of utmost importance: After lunch recess, we had a ”nap session” where our teachers made us sleep on top of towels on the floor, side by side. They insisted on silence and stillness. I always found myself restless during these sessions.

In having spoken with other abuse survivors (including my wife), I have discovered I wasn’t the only one deeply disturbed by this memory. The worst part was the recurring experience of going to the restroom during these nap sessions; my teachers never wanted to let me go, and I had to beg for minutes on end. When I was finally allowed to go, I frequently found the same two children naked, playing with themselves in the restroom: a blonde girl and a dark boy. This happened on several occasions, and I recall being very puzzled by it. I remember the girl insisting I see her private parts and me almost running away from there. My wife has the same memory from Kindergarten. The odds of this being a coincidence are pretty farfetched, and I feel this is a standard grooming method used by these deviants.

Unlocking these memories is what actually made me decide in favor of coming out in public with my story, as I feel alarmed by the notion that these kids were made to have sex or even recorded and photographed while at it. I was able to unlock and segregate these memories during the last holidays while conversing with my wife about our experiences. It was very powerful for both of us and yet disturbing. How could this happen without anybody noticing when two teachers oversaw forty children? There is no chance these kids did this multiple times without anyone noticing. Where did they get these filthy ideas from? Looking back, it seems my teachers knew what was happening in that restroom and stalled me the most they could so I wouldn’t see a thing.

During the summer vacations between Kindergarten and first grade, I learned to read and write by myself. Once in first grade, I recall getting A’s all across the board with no effort whatsoever, always bored waiting for the rest of my classmates to finish the tasks at hand. This was when my school insisted my parents get me an IQ test to assess how feasible it would be to transfer me to second grade. I was considered a genius as I scored 145 IQ on the test, and arrangements for my transfer were started. However, I didn’t want to and was afraid of the move. I did everything I could to stop the transfer, including becoming a disruptor in class and even acting aggressively towards teachers and classmates. In the end, I succeeded, and my transfer was canceled.

Past this point, things got more severe as I was the object of attention of one of my teachers, and severe violations of my innocence took place. My parents were often late to pick me up at the end of school (sometimes even more than one hour), and this is where the most harsh sexual abuse took place. The memories were always toned down as some fantasy I had when I was a child and to me being a little evil perverted kid. In recalling what happened and the taste in my mouth after the fact, I have no doubts these events were factual. One of my female teachers used me for her twisted desires; French kissing and oral sex (both ways) happened often. The abuse lasted two years, and during this period, I even recall selling erotic drawings to my male classmates until we were caught.

My mother was summoned to the principal’s office and questioned. Where was this kid learning these things from? Little did my mother know, the poor thing. By the time I was in 5th grade, I was a mess, smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol at just 11 years old. From there on, I was always a target for older women, the pattern repeating itself during high school with two teachers, a 30-year-old woman from Mexico, the mothers of some of my best friends, and girlfriends I had when I was just sixteen, they were twenty-one. I guess it’s true that predators smell a victim from a mile away. That said, I was no saint, but I certainly never did anything to initiate this chain of abusive behavior, which, I must say, made me sentimentally unavailable and on the run for most of my early adult life.

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