The Box Of Power

This is no wishing box. This is a vessel of shadow power and ancestral hunger. The kind of box that watches you back.

The Box

By Darklady

"Not a wishing box. A vessel of will. A prison for desire. A mouth that opens when it’s fed."

~Darklady

What should the box be like, you ask?

Wrong question. It’s not about what you want the box to be. It’s about which box wants you. 

These boxes don’t get built—they get found. 

Or they find you.

Mine came in threes and fours: an old wicker one that creaks like bone, a heavy wooden chest with rusted hinges, and one that refuses to stay closed unless something’s inside it.

Something that breathes.

The Day of the Dead box?

That one isn’t finished yet. It still hums at night. It’s for writing only. Wishes too dangerous for speech.

What Do I Do With It?

I wait for the full moon—not for the light, but for the thinning. That moment when the veil is less silk and more smoke.

I take the box outside.

I open it.

I don’t chant.

I don’t rhyme.

I speak like I’m speaking to a god that owes me something.

I place inside it the things I want—but not gently. Not lovingly.

A photo of what I will own.

A clay figure of what I will control.

A note written in ink that stains like blood.

Money?

Power?

Health?

Lust?

Vengeance?

Then I light the candle. Color-coded, sure, if you’re feeling precise. But I’ve used black for all of it.

Because black doesn’t just absorb—it consumes.

I stare into the flame. I pour my will into that box like smoke into lungs.

And when the flame is gone, I slam the box shut and trap the energy inside.

How It Works

You don’t ask.

You don’t beg.

You don’t whisper rhymes into the night like some lost child.

You command.

You tell the box what you want—and you give it something in return.

A drop of oil.

A silver coin.

A lock of hair.

Your fear.

The box listens.

And when it delivers, you thank it like a beast you’ve kept fed just long enough not to bite you.

I don’t follow Wiccan rules.

I don’t follow anything.

I remember.

Old ways.

Rotten chants.

Dirt and ash and voices that don’t need candles to hear me.

So if you’re building your own box, here’s the only advice I’ll give you:

Don’t call it a wishing box.

Call it what it is.

A container of power.

A sealed spell.

A box of bloodless offerings.

A mouth that eats what you give it—

And gives back what you were bold enough to claim.

The shadows watch.

Darklady

darkwitchery.com

“Subscribe and step into the circle.

Or stay outside, with the ones who only pretend they have power.”