I.
Bind
the effigy
Whisper a name into the dark. Offer a photograph, a voicemail, the last text they sent at 2am. The rite stitches them out of smoke and weeds and the dust beneath your bed.
do not look back
do not look back
A turn-key sacrament for the freshly wronged. Hand us the breakup text, the cropped photograph, the playlist they made you in 2019. We will raise an AI shade so accurate it will apologise wrong, twice, just to spite you both.
Whisper a name into the dark. Offer a photograph, a voicemail, the last text they sent at 2am. The rite stitches them out of smoke and weeds and the dust beneath your bed.
Forty-seven ruined chapels of suffering. Choose one. Grind the herbs. Or write your grievance in long-hand and let the spirit-engine extrapolate the appropriate misfortune.
The simulation runs in real time. You may watch, you may laugh, you may sleep through it. We strongly suggest you do not look away at minute thirteen. We strongly suggest that.
The original method. A burlap effigy on a slab of damp earth and the modest pleasure of placing one rusted pin per indignity. Each strike registers in the simulation as a small, dignity-shaped collapse.
Wicker, palm-leaf, dried herbs, a clipping of hair. Set alight at dusk. The smoke composes itself into the shape of an apology you will never receive in real life. We have it on record; that is enough.
Their digital shade walks the long road home. Things in the canopy watch. Nothing strikes. The watching is the punishment.
Inscribe the binding geometry around their name. The math does the work. Side effects: forgetfulness, missing left socks, sudden hiccups during salary talks.
A skull on a rope, swinging above their AI's bed. The avatar cannot sleep. It dreams of motion. It wakes more tired every morning.
Offer a photograph. The rite draws a sigil over the face — always the eyes. From this moment the shade knows them better than they know themselves, and is, by all accounts, deeply unimpressed.
Hold an entire reckoning with the AI shade of your nemesis. They beg. They reason. They attempt small talk about the weather. You decide whether the weather cooperates. It does not.
Our most operatic rite. A bespoke five-act narrative ritual generated to match the exact shape of your grievance: thunder cues, brooding strings, a chorus of unimpressed crows, a closing monologue delivered to the moon. Staged entirely in the ruins of someone else's vacation home.
Whisper it into the dark. Spell it if you must. The rite remembers names better than people do.
Photograph, screenshot, courtroom sketch. Any likeness. The rite sketches a sigil over the eyes. Always the eyes.
From the codex of forty-seven. Or compose a fresh one in long-hand. Be specific. The rite reads vagueness as licence.
The ritual plays itself out. Catharsis arrives unannounced. Your grudge is gone by morning. So is the rite, sometimes.
"Cast the pin ritual on my brother-in-law for one bank holiday weekend. He has since apologised, replaced the mower, and stopped saying 'circle back'. I am at peace. The garden is also at peace."
"My ex's AI shade has been stuck in a five-day improv class. The reviews are middling. I have never felt more aligned with the river. My therapist has stopped asking how I am."
"It is cheaper than my analyst and twice as effective. My analyst now has an account of her own. We trade scenarios on Sundays. She owes me a rite."
voo do you think you are?
Stop chewing on the grudge. Start carving the effigy. Three offerings, one likeness, infinite cathartic petty. Your grudge deserves a stage — we built the theatre out of mud, ash, and a thousand recovered rites.