#cemeterywitch

[mythicthiccith]

Black Moon in Le Flore County, August 2025

[poisonerspath]

Witch Bottles are restocked! Vintage style glass filled with cemetery herbs, grave wood, rosary pea, bleeding heart and more. More info linked in bio. - - #witchbottle #witchbottles #witchcraft #folkmagic #protectionmagic #necromancy #cemeterywitch #graveyardmagic https://www.instagram.com/p/ClG1QgGr5cg/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[graveology]

One lives in the hope of becoming a memory...

~ Antonio Porchia

[mythicthiccith]

Oaklawn Files: Cemetery Series Part I of _?

There is an irrevocable sadness to estate sales and cemeteries.

Difficult to describe, impossible to ignore.

One of my favorite people, @alli-hallows-eve, says "In the end your life will be summed up as a dash between two dates", and in a place like Oaklawn Cemetery in Tulsa, OK that is heavy.

Oaklawn Cemetery holds shadows beyond what’s visible. All the marked graves are white, from Tulsa’s segregated past. But in 2020–2021, mass grave excavations here began connecting Oaklawn to the city’s most violent wound — the 1921 Race Massacre. I can’t speak for that history, but I can name that this ground is layered with truths not written on the stones. For more information please read Scott Ellsworth's excellent book, "Death in a Promised Land".

What I will do is share my observations, experiences, and research from my personal exploration of this cemetery and the Tulsa Library archives. This will be a slice of life journey, not rigorous academia.

Hold my hand, let's go look at gravestones!

[mythicthiccith]

Final Epilogue Post

We went back the next night, but the welcome was gone. My sister stumbled into a hidden hole right over a grave while trying to read an old monolith-style stone, the kind that leans like it remembers. The ground gave way beneath her like it had been waiting.

And then — growling from the woods. Low, guttural, too close. That was our sign. We didn’t linger, didn’t reason. We ran, tails on fire, and didn’t look back.

Some thresholds invite you once. The second time, they tell you to leave.

UPDATE: The growling we heard at the cemetery is 95% likely to have been a mountain lion, one was reported officially one mile away from that cemetery that night. It wasn’t just spirits warning us off, it was the land itself, teeth and muscle and hunger.

[mythicthiccith]

Tucked inside that small, cast-iron enclosure—the grave set apart from the rest—stood a single statue. Why a fence within the cemetery? Why this statue, and not another?

The stone figure was weathered, its surface mottled with age, but still it stood guard. A spider had claimed the front, spinning threads across the chest like a new set of regalia. And then I noticed the hand—broken off, but still cradled within the curve of the statue itself, as though the grave refused to part with it.

Melancholy wrapped around it all. Whatever story once explained this marker is long gone. What remains is only the guardian, the fence, and the mystery.

[mythicthiccith]

The Gate at Night

There was a wholly separate cast-iron fence nestled inside the larger cemetery boundaries, like a secret within a secret. I never would have entered if the gate hadn’t been standing ajar — it felt like an invitation.

[mythicthiccith]

After exploring extensively we found a safe spot to settle down and do some work.

The bay leaves were grown by myself, the dirt was collected....ethically.

With each leaf fed to the flames we took turns telling the wind, the trees, the deities, ancestors, whoever would listen about injustices done by men. Their names and their crimes, and we burned each leaf. One. By. One.