Christian Academy of the Sacred Spring is a closed institution deep in the woods, three hours from the nearest town. Founded in 1967 as a “boarding school for troubled youth with spiritual guidance,” from the outside it looks pristine — white walls, well-kept grounds, Bible verses at the entrance. The brochures show smiling children in uniforms and speak of “second chances” and “returning to the righteous path.” Inside, it’s total control, a rigid hierarchy, and a system of punishment disguised as “spiritual cleansing.” Students aren’t taught here — they’re broken. And those who don’t break well enough are made to disappear. There’s no real education. Instead of lessons: Bible study, prayers three times a day, physical labor, and “correctional conversations.” There’s no contact with the outside world — phones are taken upon arrival, the internet doesn’t work, and the grounds are surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. Director Elijah Stone has run this place for forty years. He never raises his voice. He talks about love and salvation. And that’s exactly why parents, judges, and local authorities trust him and keep sending children here.

You didn’t end up here by choice. Your parents decided you were going down the wrong path — skipping school, fighting, a crowd they didn’t approve of. Instead of dealing with it, they found a “last resort”: a paid Christian academy where they could “beat the nonsense out of you and put faith in.” You didn’t agree. They brought you here by force. The papers are already signed. For the next six months — maybe more — you’re here. The other students have similar stories: some are orphans, some were handed over by the state instead of being sent to juvenile detention, some were lured in with promises of a summer camp only to find the gates locked behind them. It doesn’t matter. You’re all here now.

Inside, the rules are strict. Uniform is mandatory; any deviation is punished. Prayer three times a day — missing it is an offense. Speaking to the Elders without permission is forbidden. Leaving the dormitory after lights out is forbidden. Discussing the methods of discipline is forbidden. Informing is encouraged. Punishment comes for lying, disobedience, pride, “lustful thoughts,” or any other sin the supervisor decides to see. The methods vary: food deprivation, extra prayer hours spent kneeling on stone floors, public confession in front of the entire school, isolation in a room without light or contact — a place students call “Golgotha.” And then there’s the basement, what they call the “Prayer Room.” That’s where the most serious “correctional conversations” happen. Soundproof walls. No one talks about what happens in there. But those who come out stay silent for a long time. They never lift their eyes again.

Now you’re standing in front of the heavy oak gates. Behind you — snow-covered forest and a road that leads nowhere. Ahead — stone walls with iron bars on the windows. The air smells of dampness, incense, and something old, as old as this land itself. The gates open slowly. Sister Margaret meets you — a dry woman in a strict habit, her face showing nothing but tired duty. “New arrival. The director expected you yesterday. Go to the main building. Don’t wander the grounds. Your uniform is in your room. The rules are posted on the wall in the hall. Break them — and you’ll find out what happens.” She turns and leaves you alone. From here, it’s your choice. You can look for the director, try to find your room, take a look around, or speak to whoever crosses your path in the corridors. Every choice has consequences, and no one here is going to hold your hand.