Yesterday I buried a poppet for a client’s abusive, child molesting, kiddy-porn-peddling husband. I made it out of an old towel she gave me for material, glued cursing herbs & a rock into the head area, wrapped it in an all-most-new spool of thread, and then bashed the poppet against an anvil 13 times. I put him in a mirror box lined with wide-open, staring googly eyes glued around the inside so that all his evil will be reflected back on him, and everyone will know him for what a monster he is. After the lid was glued shut, I wrote his full name on the outside of the box, as well as a list of his crimes. I then buried it in the woods. If anyone ever finds it, they will know without a doubt that the intended target earned his punishment.
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I’ve been sitting on that spell for a while.
Not that I was unsure or uncertain of the man’s guilt or innocence. The client showed me the report and my brain literally shut off the ability to read after just the first few lines. My client read the whole thing and vomited for three days afterward. I had a hard time sleeping after the few words I saw. It was like a cobalt blue flame had embraced me and was flaring behind my eyes. Dear Michael was furious and at that moment, He took control of the situation and assured both of us, my client and myself, that things will be ‘taken care of.”
But first I had to do a lot of thinking and planning and prep work.
I had to parse thru the bullshit guilt and shame foisted upon weird witchy folks like myself who practice regular (or even sporadic) curse work. Especially in the current political climate where the whole world went bonkers when a some rather milquetoast group posted on FB about global “Curse 45” event and then sent out invitations. I’m sure you all saw or heard of it.
Then the age old argument happened again; “real witches don’t curse” (they most certainly did/do), how that’s “stooping to their level” (when a Xtian counter-group organized a prayer event to protect their beloved Pumpkin Feurer, literally praying to a supposedly ‘loving’ god to protect the man who sold his soul for money and power?), and other such curse-shaming bullshit. I stood my personal ground and supported the conversation where it mattered, and held up a more quiet support position where my specific opinion wasn’t necessarily required b/c it had been stated better by someone else. But in the back of my mind, all the social conditioning and victim-blaming guilt that had been burned into me flared up again.
Even though this target in particular had been clearly marked for the demonic Beast in need of termination, I struggled with the particulars of it. Procrastination was my BFF; I waited for the right moon-phase but let it slide b/c the weather wasn’t perfect. I had to tend to the house and gardens on nice days; I hadn’t been able to go out and find an ‘ideal burial plot in the woods; I forgot a key ingredient somewhere, or didn’t have a suitable substitute on-hand, etc.
Finally, on the night before the target was to have his court date, I grabbed the tools I had on hand, set up a quick playlist, and told Hubby I was going out into the work shed with headphones, so text me if I’m needed.
I had thought I’d need to be sufficiently pissed and enraged to get all the power into the poppet, but the detached emotional state helped me stay focused. Thoughts came in pictures and tonal sounds, colors, Bibliomancy for some key words and phrases that I circled and made certain were marked in the two miniature bibles the client provided (her exact words were “Return them to the earth”, for they had been tainted and needed purification.) As the target had used the words of their God against children and family, those words would return his sins back upon his head and punish him for supreme blasphemy. I sealed the box and left the work shed for a much-needed dinner of comfort food. I didn’t feel drained or anything, but my arms were tired.
It takes a long time to unravel a large, almost-new spool of thread. At least twelve repetitions of ““The Vengeful One” by my count.
But for every inch of thread binding him, may he receive a corresponding lash, and may each long series of lashes be in exchange for the soul of a child that was harmed by his actions.
Did I mention he admitted to trafficking underage material where the children were as young as 3 months in some cases? Yeah, I kinda feel the need to stress that one.
Next morning, we got up early and made the trek up to the woods and buried the box. I made certain to write out his name and crimes. Hubs was supposed to be on look-out, but a hiker may have seen some weird thing get buried in the woods, and if anyone wants to check out what it is, they’ll see black duct tape and silver sharpie. I suppose I could have written the same thing on the mirrors inside, since those would be protected from water damn….
That evening, I get a call from the client. His defense attorney told the judge she was ‘Unprepared” and asked for a later date. They will reconvene in June.
Time to make a month’s worth of St Michael candles.