A witch’s thoughts on the energy that hums through our screens — how we feed it, how it feeds us.

The veil still stirs. Samhain may be over, but the dead are not done with us yet.

A black cat crosses into my garden on Samhain Eve — not by chance, but by calling. A sign, a messenger, or something darker.

Feast of Shadows—a dark ritual of smoke, silence, and remembrance. One of many forbidden workings revealed within Dark Witchery’s grimoire.

Whispers from the Dead By Dark Witchery They spoke again tonight. Not loud — never loud — just a faint murmur through the smoke that slid across my altar like a secret trying to hide. The dead don’t waste words. They drop fragments — a name, a warning, a memory someone else forgot. You have to listen between the pauses, not the phrases. That’s where the truth festers. They told me this: “Power isn’t in the calling. It’s in the silence that follows.” I wrote it down before the