The Devil in My Bones: On Murkrim, the Witchâs Shadow and the Horned Hush
This is the story of Murkrimâwhat I call the Devil. Not the devil they scared us with in church, but the one Iâve met in dreams, in dirt, in trance, in fire. This is the Devil I know. The one that stirs truth. That tests, teaches, and lives deep inside the witchâs bones. Iâm writing it because itâs real, and itâs mine.
My Devil Ainât the Churchâs Devil
They say every witch meets the Devil sooner or later. So letâs be clear right out the gateâMurkrim ainât the Churchâs devil.
It ainât some red-skinned boogeyman made to scare you into behaving. It ainât sittinâ in a pit of flames waitinâ to torture sinners. I donât walk with a pitchforked parody of evilâand I sure as hell donât worship fear.
What I do walk with is Murkrimâmy name for the Devil as known by witches like me. Itâs the one who stands quiet in the center of all crossroads. Who waits, not with damnation, but with a choice. A fucking mirror. A question.
âAre you ready to know what you really are?â
And let me tell you, that answerâs never comfortable. But itâs always necessary.
Murkrim Is the Witchâs Devil
Murkrim isnât a god. Isnât a ghost. Isnât even a âhe,â really. Itâs older than language and gender and all those tidy boxes we try to cram power into. Murkrim is the dark before the spark. The breath before the spell. The shadow behind the want. The Void in purest form.
It didnât show up to me in books.
Like fog settlinâ into the pine. Like everything goinâ too quiet in the woodsâthe birds hush, the breeze dies, and your skin starts itchinâ like the air itself is watchinâ.
That ainât peace. Thatâs presence. Thatâs Murkrim.
Itâs what I call the First Want. The hunger the world had to become. Itâs the Voidânot emptiness, but the everything-and-nothing that births all things. Murkrim is the Still Root. The Horned Hush. It is choice, raw and unflinching.
The Witchâs Devil Doesnât Speak in ThunderâIt Moves Through Ruin
I didnât meet Murkrim in a field under moonlight.
I met Murkrim in the void of an eclipse, lying in my tub shivering in water black as ink, whisperinâ into the darkness with a voice I barely recognized as my own.
It was 3 AM at the peak of an eclipse, and the sky had gone still.
The kind of still that donât feel holyâit feels hollow. And I was askinâ for answers. For truth. For what was mine.
Be careful with that shit, by the way.
Because Murkrim donât give you answers like a fortune cookie. It doesnât pat you on the head and hand you what you want wrapped up in silk and good luck. It rips the roof off.
Murkrim donât speak in thunderâit answers with collapse.
That ritual cracked open my whole life.
The days after were like watchinâ the Tower card play out in real time.
Things I thought were sacredâmy practice, my path, my relationships, my identityâgone.
Burned down with a brutal kind of grace.
It wasnât punishment. It was precision.
Murkrim didnât say, âLet me destroy you.â
It said, âLet me destroy what you thought was you, so you can meet the one whoâs always been underneath.â
What Murkrim gives isnât comfort. Itâs clarity.
It hands you the blade, and then watches what you do with it.
I came out of that ritual singed.
But I built againâfrom ash, from bone, from truth.
And what rose wasnât perfect.
So no, Murkrim ainât evil.
But it is a motherfucker when itâs ready to cut through whatâs false.
And thank the dark for that.
This Devil Lives in the Center
Murkrim lives at the center of the crossroadsâwhere all roads meet and all spirits stir. Itâs where the witch plants her feet when every path is possible, and none of them come with guarantees. It is stillness in a place of motion. The moment before the choice that changes everything.
It donât walk beside you like a spirit guide.
Because Murkrim ainât just a force out there in the dark. Itâs in here, too. Itâs the part of you that donât flinch when youâre tired of playinâ nice. The part that knows when to cut ties, raise hell, speak truth, and light a fire under your own damn feet.
Murkrim is your shadow. Your want. Your instinct. Your pain-honed power.
Itâs your reflection, if youâre brave enough to look.
Murkrim Comes in Many Faces
Sometimes Murkrim shows up as a horned figure in dream. Sometimes itâs a crow on the fence line watchinâ too long. Sometimes itâs the feeling you get right before you do something bold and terrifying and exactly what your soulâs been begginâ for.
And yeahâIâve heard it speak in that same voice as Black Phillip in The VVitch:
âWouldst thou like to live deliciously?â
And thatâs what Murkrim offersânot indulgence, but full-bodied, fire-in-your-gut, fuck-what-they-think living.
We Are Murkrimâs Altars
I donât pray to Murkrim.
I live in response to it.
Murkrim donât want offerings of incense and sweet wine (though Iâve left both). What it wants is youâwhole, aware, honest. It wants your pleasure. Your sovereignty. Your rage, your lust, your clarity. It wants you unmasked.
We are Murkrimâs living temples and altars.
Our truth is the offering.
When I stand at the crossroadsâwhether in the woods or in my spiritâI donât always have the answers.
But Iâve learned to stand still, breathe deep, and say:
âAlright, Devil. Iâm listening.â
And every damn time, the hush answers back.
If this stirred something in your bonesâŚ
Donât just keep it to yourself.
Share how your Devil speaks to youâor the first time you met your own hush.
And if you walk the crooked road with the Old Mothers, keep watchâIâve got more to say, and Murkrimâs not done speaking.
