The Devil in My Bones: On Murkrim, the Witch’s Shadow and the Horned Hush
This is the story of Murkrim—what I call the Devil. Not the devil they scared us with in church, but the one I’ve 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 witch’s bones. I’m writing it because it’s real, and it’s mine.
My Devil Ain’t the Church’s Devil
They say every witch meets the Devil sooner or later. So let’s be clear right out the gate—Murkrim ain’t the Church’s devil.
It ain’t some red-skinned boogeyman made to scare you into behaving. It ain’t sittin’ in a pit of flames waitin’ to torture sinners. I don’t walk with a pitchforked parody of evil—and I sure as hell don’t worship fear.
What I do walk with is Murkrim—my name for the Devil as known by witches like me. It’s 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.
“Are you ready to know what you really are?”
And let me tell you, that answer’s never comfortable. But it’s always necessary.
Murkrim Is the Witch’s Devil
Murkrim isn’t a god. Isn’t a ghost. Isn’t even a “he,” really. It’s 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 didn’t show up to me in books.
Like fog settlin’ into the pine. Like everything goin’ too quiet in the woods—the birds hush, the breeze dies, and your skin starts itchin’ like the air itself is watchin’.
That ain’t peace. That’s presence. That’s Murkrim.
It’s what I call the First Want. The hunger the world had to become. It’s the Void—not 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 Witch’s Devil Doesn’t Speak in Thunder—It Moves Through Ruin
I didn’t 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, whisperin’ 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 don’t feel holy—it feels hollow. And I was askin’ for answers. For truth. For what was mine.
Be careful with that shit, by the way.
Because Murkrim don’t give you answers like a fortune cookie. It doesn’t pat you on the head and hand you what you want wrapped up in silk and good luck. It rips the roof off.
Murkrim don’t speak in thunder—it answers with collapse.
That ritual cracked open my whole life.
The days after were like watchin’ the Tower card play out in real time.
Things I thought were sacred—my practice, my path, my relationships, my identity—gone.
Burned down with a brutal kind of grace.
It wasn’t punishment. It was precision.
Murkrim didn’t say, “Let me destroy you.”
It said, “Let me destroy what you thought was you, so you can meet the one who’s always been underneath.”
What Murkrim gives isn’t comfort. It’s clarity.
It hands you the blade, and then watches what you do with it.
I came out of that ritual singed.
But I built again—from ash, from bone, from truth.
And what rose wasn’t perfect.
So no, Murkrim ain’t evil.
But it is a motherfucker when it’s ready to cut through what’s false.
And thank the dark for that.
This Devil Lives in the Center
Murkrim lives at the center of the crossroads—where all roads meet and all spirits stir. It’s 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 don’t walk beside you like a spirit guide.
Because Murkrim ain’t just a force out there in the dark. It’s in here, too. It’s the part of you that don’t flinch when you’re tired of playin’ 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.
It’s your reflection, if you’re brave enough to look.
Murkrim Comes in Many Faces
Sometimes Murkrim shows up as a horned figure in dream. Sometimes it’s a crow on the fence line watchin’ too long. Sometimes it’s the feeling you get right before you do something bold and terrifying and exactly what your soul’s been beggin’ for.
And yeah—I’ve heard it speak in that same voice as Black Phillip in The VVitch:
“Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?”
And that’s what Murkrim offers—not indulgence, but full-bodied, fire-in-your-gut, fuck-what-they-think living.
I live in response to it.
Murkrim don’t want offerings of incense and sweet wine (though I’ve left both). What it wants is you—whole, aware, honest. It wants your pleasure. Your sovereignty. Your rage, your lust, your clarity. It wants you unmasked.
We are Murkrim’s living temples and altars.
Our truth is the offering.
When I stand at the crossroads—whether in the woods or in my spirit—I don’t always have the answers.
But I’ve learned to stand still, breathe deep, and say:
“Alright, Devil. I’m listening.”
And every damn time, the hush answers back.
If this stirred something in your bones…
Don’t just keep it to yourself.
Share how your Devil speaks to you—or the first time you met your own hush.
And if you walk the crooked road with the Old Mothers, keep watch—I’ve got more to say, and Murkrim’s not done speaking.
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
