The Witch Who's Eyes Turned Black

I didn’t know much about energy work or esoteric ritual at the time. As a drum painter, I became known for handmade leather drums, and that reputation naturally evolved into events where people gathered to use their drums beyond personal meditation.

One evening, I was invited to a Full Moon gathering hosted by a respected Reiki Master in our community. Initially, I was just there to share a little about the drum. A few moments of drumming turned into something much bigger—groups of over fifty women now drummed together for half the event. That one event turned into monthly invites every Full Moon, to share about the drum. I had naively become a leader. Naively, because I didn’t realize the drums were doing energy work. Naively, because I didn’t realize I was becoming a target for those who wished to be in the “leader” position.

People deferred to me, asking, "What’s next?" and I simply said what came to me. Looking back, I see how perfect that was—how my naivety protected me more than once.

"She doesn’t know how powerful she really is." I overheard someone say at one of these monthly events. It took me a moment to realize they were talking about me. I felt perplexed rather than complimented.

What I didn’t know then was that influence attracts attention—not just from those who seek light, but from those who see an opportunity to use it.

One of these people was a witch.

Coming from a strictly religious background, I had no real knowledge of witchcraft beyond storybooks and cartoons. So when I met Dolores—draped in pentagram jewelry, purple and black clothing, thick eye shadow, and always proclaiming herself as a high priestess—I saw her as nothing more than an eccentric hippie. Middle-aged and pudgy, with a streak of fuchsia-dyed hair, she jingled wherever she walked, thanks to the charms and trinkets that adorned her.

She seemed harmless.

The Night Everything Changed

That night, I arrived at the park flustered, running late due to traffic. I grabbed my spare drums, drumsticks, and camping chairs, scanning the area for the best spot to set up. A large, open space to the left felt right.

"Over there!" I motioned.

Dolores appeared beside me, holding a small glass bottle of oil. "I prepared everything for you," she said, tugging my sleeve and pointing in the opposite direction. "I cast a green salt circle just for the ladies!"

I glanced at the area she indicated—then back to where women were already laying out blankets and setting up chairs. Logistically, moving everyone wasn’t an option.

"Thank you, but I think we’ll stay here," I said, heading toward the group.

"Stop!" she barked. I froze.

"I have a blessing just for you," she smiled, revealing coffee-stained teeth and gold fillings.

She unstopped the oil vial, dipped her finger in, and spoke. "Earlier tonight, I laid in my backyard and showed my vagina to the moon. It’s going to be a good night," she cooed.

I barely registered her words, too focused on setting up. But then she reached forward, her oil-covered finger aiming for my forehead.

"Katie!" a voice cut through the moment.

The Reiki Master, our host, rushed up, grabbing some of the items from my hands. "Come on! Everyone’s waiting!"

Without realizing it, I turned and walked away from Dolores mid-sentence.

The Drum Circle

As the night unfolded, laughter and deep sharing filled the air. When it was time for the drum circle, anticipation buzzed through the group.

Our process was simple: one person would stand in the center, representing a larger world issue—children in need, those battling illness, the struggling and lost. Four drummers, positioned at the north, south, east, and west, surrounded them, drumming from feet to sky, symbolizing prayers rising to the Creator.

When I asked for a volunteer, Dolores stepped forward.

"Great," I said, suddenly remembering how I’d walked away from her earlier.

She smiled innocently. "I stand for change."

The drumming began. The deep ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum pulsed through the earth, up our bodies, resonating in our chests. As we raised the sound to her waist, I realized she was speaking.

At first, her words were indistinct. Then, her voice shifted—guttural, unfamiliar. A language I didn’t recognize.

Then, in English: "I am here to cast a spell upon those in the circle."

A chill shot through me.

I looked over her shoulder. She turned her head sharply, locking eyes with me.

Her eyes were black.

Disbelief flooded me. This was folklore, fairy tales, X-Files episodes—not real. But here it was.

The other drummers looked at me, still playing.

Something surged within me, something primal and fierce. Without thinking, I threw my head back and screamed. A banshee’s call—long, loud, vibrating through the night.

The outer circle, unaware of what was happening, mistook it for a freedom call. They joined in, whooping, cheering. I was keenly aware that our voices had to be louder than hers. We needed to drown out whatever was being said.

I drew a deep breath and screamed again, "I call to the mothers, the grandmothers, and great-grandmothers of all those here and now!" My voice trembled, reverberated. "Protect your babies!"

A gust of wind ripped through the clearing. The sky churned silver and grey.

Dolores kept chanting. Our hair and clothing whipped around us. The four of us drummers locked eyes, then, without a word, we stopped. On the same beat. Perfectly synchronized. We had all seen what had happened in the center. 

The outer circle fell silent.

Dolores turned to me. Her eyes—hazel again.

She smiled warmly, squeezing my arm. "Thank you, dear." Then she stepped back into the crowd, her voice light, sing-song, as if nothing had happened.

The night went on. The event was a success.

Some women later mentioned "that cool rush of wind" that had come out of nowhere.

The Awakening

That night changed me. I finally understood what drum circles were—not just sacred, but powerful. Not just a gathering, but a force.

The next morning, shaken but resolute, I asked my father for a priesthood blessing—the only spiritual tool I knew.

"Dad," I admitted, "I never really believed in black magic before. But now I know it exists."

My father, a Kentucky backwoods man, looked me square in the eye.

"Yes. It’s real," he said simply.

As he laid his hands on my head and prayed over me, he added:

"Remember, no darkness is more powerful than light. Light will always win."

From that day forward, I never began a drum circle without opening sacred space. Without prayer. Without intention.

Because before, I had been oblivious.

Not anymore.

To read more about this story, see my blog: The Witch's Talisman

To learn how to find your inherent spiritual sovereignty, take my online shamanic course: Pathway of the Sage

(The names in this story are changed.)