Official Satanists—LaVey’s Church, Aquino’s Temple of Set—publicly disown blood sacrifice.
Unofficial ones don’t issue press releases. They just keep the cameras rolling.
Real horror isn’t a pentagram scrawled on a floor. It’s a Gulfstream with tinted windows and a flight plan that’s never filed.
Did Nietzsche’s abyss come with any product warnings?
So, is there an occult or esoteric conspiracy? Not in a literal sense. But yes, in a deeper, more disturbing way: the ritualization of abuse, the sacralization of power, and the symbolic theatre of impunity.
The real horror isn’t in the occult. It’s in how unearned wealth and privilege aim to turn crime into ceremony, and predators into gods.
***
I opened the file None_0 left me. No official header. Just the notes of a burned-out spook who’d stopped believing in coincidences.
NOTES FROM THE VOID
John Rivas
Ex-somebody—doesn’t matter anymore.
Motel room, II-20, Arizona
04:47 a.m.
I’ve got eleven bodies in the rear-view. Western badlands, 2022 to ’25. Deserts that swallow secrets whole.
Twenty-seven young drifters and runaways gone missing. Eleven turned up eventually. Sixteen still out there. Autopsies? When anybody bothered: adrenal glands gone, liver chunks sliced neat as a surgeon’s wet dream. No blood around the edges. Zero peri-mortem bleed. Every damn report said the same thing, like a bad joke: ‘Skill level inconsistent with average street thug.’ Yeah. No kidding.
And the whispers started creeping in—same old poison from the eighties. Tips in the files: “They weren’t just cutting for organs. They were eating. Blood mixed with the adrenochrome high.” Bullshit. I read those lines in redacted memos, laughed it off as recycled Satanic Panic nonsense. Then I remembered the old cases. Same taste in the mouth.
Rewind.
Late eighties. A credit union blows up—Enron on steroids. Charismatic frontman. Parties for Beltway suits. Orphanage boys on private jets. Witnesses mumbled: cages, cameras, masks. Altars in basements. Parts consumed to “bind the circle.” One survivor swore he saw a senator lick blood off a knife.
Tapes captured it all. Before the void took them.
One straight-arrow investigator recorded the truth. Summer of ’90: his Piper goes boom over cornfields.
Tapes? Vanished.
Seventeen connected souls dead in three years. Accidents. Overdoses. One guy “fell” out a window. No big fish ever hooked.
The Gulfstream. Shell companies stacked like pancakes. Routes looped: heartland to D.C., private islands, Juárez border runs that never made the logs. Registration scrubbed in ’19. Popped up south of the equator. Last ping: night landing in the Sonora dust, October ’25. Then silence.
Monte Rio? Don’t ask. Some places you shouldn’t fly over twice.
Crossbones boys.
Yale. Freshmen in coffins since the Civil War. Presidents, Langley brass, bankers. Leaked tape in ’01: six hours of ritual, then poof. Gone. Initiates confessing. Wondering if the coffins were props—or rehearsal space.
Compounds in the desert.
German lullabies on the night wind. Echoes of old colonies: forced hymns, then silence. The singing stopped when the sacrifices started?
Belgium, nineties. Girls in cellars.
The perp swore he was just the delivery boy.
Twenty witnesses dropped like flies.
Judge yanked.
X-witnesses talked: black masses, snuff films, twisted elites watching from the shadows.
Cannibalism as communion. I filed it under “delusional.” The bodies kept piling up.
Juárez. A thousand women gone.
Surgical scars. Missing parts. 98% impunity. High-level fingerprints everywhere. None of them stick. Rumors in the border files: hearts cut out still beating.
Peru, ’09. A gang melting human fat.
Yellow goo in police bottles. European creams and ritual candles. The story faded. The image stuck: bodies on hooks, dripping oil into filthy vessels.
The financier. Islands. Black books. Flights. Jail “suicide”.
By ’26 the floodgates opened. Countless pages of VIPs dumped under transparency acts.
There are whispers of wild parties and “likes” left under torture videos. CEOs applauding the rack from their Gulfstreams.
Tail numbers across decades. Shells and blind spots. Occult on the island.
One lawyer screamed “sinister cult” in a filing. No proof. Just noise. But the noise matches the old noise.
I used to run the shadows. Told myself it was just business. Compartmentalize. Move on. Now?
The compartments are leaking.
The burnout’s terminal.
Liver’s shot—too much bourbon, not enough sleep. Hands shake when I light a cigarette.
No confession for redemption. No absolution in this game.
I’m writing this lines because the threads are pulling tight around my neck.
Because the same planes are still flying.
Because too many are still gone.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see altars and empty sockets.
Pull the thread. See what unravels.
Or don’t.
Most people wouldn’t be crazy enough to do that.
End of notes.
BLACK ROSES – Luca Della Casa (70k words | Transgressive Noir Thriller/Literary Horror) Actually in submission to be published.
Already available 👇
Arcane-tech: Shadows in the machine
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