#STORYTIME: YOU PLANTED THIS ✓ ONLY ONE AFI BLOG✨

#STORYTIME: YOU PLANTED THIS ✓ ONLY ONE AFI BLOG✨

This story is a dark, lyrical tale with a quiet crash at the end—audacious charm curdling into deep consequence 🌑...

She arrived in Europe like a Rumor wrapped in silk...

A Jamaican-Japanese woman named May Jo-Lynn with an exquisite face of pure beauty that forced people to look twice, sometimes, even stare. She had a very soft, subtle voice that made them to listen, as if she carried the sun of the Caribbean in her laugh and the precision of Tokyo in her habits. People said she was gorgeous, but beauty was never her power. Control was. And May LOVED it. She was consumed and infused by it. It was her SUPERPOWER. 

By day, she worked discreetly—consulting, advising, professionally curating lives the way others curated art. By night, she returned to her luxury apartment, where candles burned low and the air smelled of various oils, ash, incantations, implantations, and old intentions. She had patiently mastered the work of the craft at a young age: she whispered rituals from one lineage, she disciplined spellcraft from another. She told herself it was heritage. She told herself it was harmless.

Then there was Renee’.

A client, technically. Confident. Grounded. Immune to intimidation. Everything that the witch was not—and everything she could not bend. From the very first meeting, something twisted inside her. Renee’ questioned her advice. Declined her “guidance.” Walked away whole.

With May-Jo, dislike hardened into fixation like sugar into a sweet, tasty candy.

The witch began working spells meant not to heal or protect, but to disturb and disrupt—to tangle paths, to sour luck, to dim a light 🕯️ that she resented. Each ritual made her feel stronger, yet somehow smaller. She told herself it was justice. She told herself Renee’ deserved it.

Obsession does that: it convinces you that harm is holy.

The mistake was arrogance.

One afternoon, the witch was confronted—quietly, publicly, irrevocably. In her possession were materials that did not belong to her: personal effects, ritual items unmistakably traced back to Renee’. Hair wrapped too carefully. Symbols copied too precisely. Proof, laid out without theatrics.

There was no screaming. No dramatic curse.

Just silence.

Her reputation collapsed first—clients gone, doors closed, whispers replacing admiration. Then came the unraveling she had once wished on another. The rituals stopped working. The mirrors felt wrong. The candles wouldn’t stay lit.

Power, it turns out, does not survive exposure.

In the end, she sat alone in that same apartment, surrounded by tools that no longer answered her. The woman who had tried to control fate was left with only herself—and the knowledge that her downfall was not caused by magic, but by malice.

Some witches are undone by stronger spells.

Others are undone when the truth finally steps into the light.

#WITCHSCOVERBLOWN

#ITALLFALLSDOWN

Galatians 6:7 (KJV)  Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.

#STORYTIME: A SPELL FOR LOVE 💕, A CURSE ☠️ FOR TWO ✓ ONLY ONE AFI BLOG✨

 

This is a powerful, compelling story about a beautiful, Puerto Rican-Native witch named Derica Murphy, who came from a long line of witches in her bloodline, who worked tirelessly to manifest powerful changes in to the lives of her clients. She was well experienced regarding Darkness kingdom. One day, she decided to fast for two weeks to help a client achieve true love in her life, as this particular client was an older woman, and she had lost faith in ever being able to love again after the death of her military husband, Chef Romon. When it comes to witchcraft, the occult, and sorcery, two things come to mind for Derica: what's in this for me? And how much praise and power can I get from this situation?

This compelling, story has a powerful ending when Derica performs the fast for her client and the ritual backfires on her and her client...

A SPELL FOR LOVE 💕, 

A CURSE ☠️ FOR TWO

Derica Murphy was no ordinary woman. She was beautiful — yes — but her beauty was layered: magnetic, mysterious, and edged with something ancient. She came from a bloodline steeped in sorcery, a lineage of witches whose names were whispered in both reverence and fear. Her grandmother, Elira, had once summoned storms with her voice. Her mother, Saphira, could bend dreams into reality. And Derica? She was the one who walked freely between realms — especially the one known as the Kingdom of Darkness...

She didn’t just cast spells. She shifted destinies.

Clients came to her broken, desperate, and hungry for change. She gave them results. She manifested wealth, restored lost confidence, and even reversed curses. But her power came at a cost — not to her, but to those who asked for help. Derica never fasted for others. She never sacrificed her own comfort. She believed in transactional magic: “What’s in this for me?” and “How much praise and power can I get from this situation?”

Until one day, a woman named Marietta walked into her studio.

💔 The Widow’s Request

Marietta was older, soft-spoken, and visibly worn by grief. Her late husband, Chef Romon, had died in a military accident overseas. He was her soulmate, her protector, her joy. Since his death, she had lived in boredom, in pain, and in silence — cooking for no one, laughing at nothing, and believing love had abandoned her.

“I don’t want youth,” she said. “I want to feel again. I want to love again. I want to believe again.”

Derica studied her. There was no glamour in this request. No fame. No viral praise. Just a broken woman asking for a miracle.

Still, something spiritual stirred in Derica. A challenge. A chance to prove her power could reach even the deepest grave of despair.

“I’ll fast for you,” she said. “Two weeks. No food. No distractions. Just ritual, invocation, and sacrifice.”

Marietta’s eyes welled with tears. “Thank you.”

Derica didn’t smile. She didn’t hug her. She simply lit a black candle and began the countdown.

🌑 The Fast Begins

Day 1: Derica locked herself in her ritual chamber. She burned herbs, chanted incantations, and called on spirits from the Kingdom of Darkness.  

Day 4: She began to see visions — Romon’s face, Marietta’s tears, a dark shadow hovering behind them.  

Day 7: Her body weakened, but her pride grew. She believed she was unlocking something divine.  

Day 10: She heard whispers in her sleep. “This love is not yours to give.”  

Day 13: Her skin turned pale. Her eyes darkened. She pressed on through it all.  

Day 14: The final ritual began.

She drew a circle of salt, placed Marietta’s photo in the center, and poured her own blood onto the altar. She called on the spirits of love, resurrection, and desire.

But something was wrong.

The air grew cold. The candle flames turned blue. The photo began to burn — not from fire, but from within.

Derica screamed. The spirits did not answer. Instead, a voice thundered:

“You fasted for power. Not for love.”

⚡ The Backlash

That night, Marietta collapsed in her home. Her heart stopped for three minutes before paramedics revived her. She awoke screaming Romon’s name — not in joy, but in terror. She said she saw him in a dark place, reaching for her, begging her not to follow.

Derica, meanwhile, was found unconscious in her chamber, surrounded by shattered glass and scorched symbols. Her body recovered, but her power did not.

She could no longer cast. No longer see. No longer feel the spirits.

Her bloodline had been cut off.

🕊️ The Final Revelation

Weeks later, Derica sat alone in her studio, staring at the ashes of Marietta’s photo. She opened a Bible — something she had never touched before — and read the Bible verse that now haunted her:

> “For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”  

> — Matthew 16:26 (KJV)

She whispered it aloud. Then she wept.

Because in her quest for praise and power, 

she had lost the one thing her ancestors never taught her to protect:

Her own soul.