Before anything is bought or burned, I read what’s actually happening.
Half the people who write to me convinced they’ve been cursed have not been. A reading says so plainly, and it costs fifty dollars.
Money that arrives and money that stays are two different workings.
Job hunts, promotions, a debt someone is sitting on, a shop that’s gone quiet. Burned across days, with a written report when it closes.
Someone to draw closer, someone to soften, or someone to get out of your life.
Love and reconciliation, a difficult manager, a family under strain — and the removals, which I talk people out of more often than into.
Most of what people are told is a curse, isn’t.
Warding, uncrossing, reversal. Nothing here is booked without a reading first, and nothing here is priced at four figures to frighten you.
A bell instead of a candle, because the ward has to pass the nurses’ station.
Comfort and cover in a hospital room, alongside the doctors and never instead of them. If you’re frightened tonight, you can write to me without buying anything.
Roots sold as roots. Nothing here pretends to be more than it is.
Raw curios by weight and forty-nine fixed oils. Every listing says whether it has been on my altar or not, and the price follows the label.