Incense always clings to my clothes long after a ritual ends. Even now, years later, the smell can tighten my chest without warning. My grandmother says spirits recognize effort, not belief. Science replaced most old practices, but our family remained careful and quiet. We practiced white rites not for faith, but for control. From the beginning, she warned me that a black shaman spirit does not forget the rules it was denied—it waits for the moment those rules weaken.
I am the youngest heir still learning the rites. I listen more than I speak. Only a few people know we exist, and fewer still know what to ask of us. They come to speak to the dead. What they fear most—and what my grandmother fears more—is a black shaman spirit that answers when it was never invited.
White Paths and Black Shaman Spirit Shadows
White shamanism follows restraint. We call briefly, speak with respect, and close every door we open. Each step matters. If one voice wavers, the circle thins.
Black shamanism rejects balance. It binds spirits with threats and trades suffering for gain. My grandmother never lectured me about this difference. She corrected my posture instead. Slowed my breathing. Made me repeat chants until my throat ached.
Only later did I understand why.
Black shamans do not ask. They command. And when they die, the command does not end.
The Black Shaman Spirit That Started It All
Long before I was born, one of our blood broke every law we lived by. He practiced forbidden rites and grew wealthy while others lost everything. After he began, crops failed. Illness spread. Livestock were found with their mouths packed with ash.
When the truth surfaced, there were no courts. The villagers judged together. They burned him in the square and never spoke his name again.
They believed fire would end it.
No sealing ritual followed.
The ash cooled. The rage did not.
My grandmother says the underworld did not reject him. It kept him—reshaped him into something patient.
The Ritual That Opened the Black Shaman Spirit Door
Years later, during what should have been a simple white ritual, something answered too quickly.
A client came seeking peace. My father led the chant. I assisted, careful not to rush a breath. My grandmother watched from the edge of the circle.
At first, the incense burned straight.
Then the smoke folded sharply inward, collapsing as if the room had drawn a sudden breath.
My father paused only half a beat before continuing. That hesitation was enough. I felt it—the smallest fracture.
The response came too fast.
The voice that answered did not belong to the summoned dead.
The air tightened. The flame bent sideways though no wind moved.
My father’s spine straightened. His hands adjusted with practiced precision, correcting our formation. When he spoke, his voice layered over itself, calm and exact.
“You’ve learned the steps,” it said.
It turned toward me.
“And you will finish what they were too afraid to teach.”
It did not need to name itself.
I knew.
The Battle Against the Black Shaman Spirit
My grandmother began calling true names older than the village itself. Her voice shook on the second invocation.
The spirit smiled through my father’s mouth.
It corrected our chant again—softly, almost helpful. The rhythm was smoother than ours. Cleaner.
For a breath, I nearly followed it.
My throat tightened. I missed a syllable.
The circle thinned.
“If one voice wavers,” my grandmother gasped.
I forced the word out.
The smile shifted—not anger, but calculation. It did not shout. It reminded us of the fire. Of the square. Of how quickly fear turns into law.
It offered me survival. Knowledge without restraint. Power without apology.
For a moment, I wanted it.
That frightened me more than its voice.
We changed the chant. Not louder—slower. Together. Uneven but human. Each word dragged against something resisting.
My father convulsed. The layered voice splintered.
With a sound like breath ripped from lungs, the presence withdrew.
My father collapsed.
He lived.
But something in him loosened that night and never tightened again.
The Black Shaman Spirit Seal
My grandmother performed a sealing ritual I had never been allowed to see. She redrew the boundary by hand. Her blood darkened the chalk when the blade slipped across her palm.
The incense would not rise. It pressed low along the floor before lifting inch by inch.
She did not explain every word.
When she finished, she leaned against the wall as if something had leaned back.
“No seal lasts forever,” she said. “It holds only while memory holds.”
She made me repeat the final step until I could speak it without lowering my eyes.
The Heir Who Must Remember
Now, I continue the rites. I study science by day and old law by night. My father no longer leads chants. Sometimes he pauses mid-sentence, lips moving as if correcting someone I cannot hear. He avoids mirrors. Once, I heard him whisper the second verse perfectly—before claiming he did not remember it.
When I light incense now, the smoke sometimes curls the wrong way before settling.
I do not wait to see if it corrects itself.
I check the seal each night.
I redraw one line even when it looks intact.
Because doors remember being opened.
Some things remember being forced to leave.
The seal still holds.
For now.