In the dim glow of a flickering candle, surrounded by tarot cards, smoldering sage bundles, and jars of what she called “essence of retribution,” authorities say they finally cornered the woman at the heart of one of America’s most chilling modern mysteries. On September 28, 2025, FBI agents raided a modest apartment in New Orleans’ French Quarter, arresting 34-year-old Selena Voss – better known in online circles as “Priestess Lilin” – on charges of conspiracy to commit murder, interstate threats, and solicitation of violent acts. The shocking twist? Voss allegedly confessed during interrogation to casting a powerful voodoo-inspired hex on conservative firebrand Charlie Kirk just days before his brutal assassination on September 10, claiming it was all in response to a provocative article from the feminist outlet Jezebel. “I did it,” she reportedly whispered to agents, her voice trembling amid the haze of incense. “The spirits answered louder than I expected.”

The story reads like a fever dream scripted by H.P. Lovecraft meets cable news pundits: a rising star of the MAGA movement, felled by a sniper’s bullet during a campus Q&A; a satirical hit piece that spiraled into supernatural vendetta; and now, the capture of a self-proclaimed witch whose Etsy shop once peddled spells for everything from “breaking bad habits” to “unleashing infernal justice.” As Voss sits in federal custody awaiting arraignment, the nation – already reeling from Kirk’s death – is forced to confront uncomfortable questions: Does modern witchcraft harbor real malice? And in an era of polarized politics, where online rage can summon ancient rituals, how thin is the line between words, wills, and wickedness?

Charlie Kirk’s life was a whirlwind of unapologetic conservatism, a 31-year-old phenom who dropped out of community college to co-found Turning Point USA in 2012, transforming it into a juggernaut that mobilized millions of young voters for causes like border security, Second Amendment rights, and school choice. With his sharp suits, sharper tongue, and a podcast that drew 5 million downloads monthly, Kirk became the darling of the right-wing ecosystem – a frequent Fox News guest, a Trump rally staple, and a thorn in the side of progressive activists. His debates on college campuses were legendary: packing auditoriums with cheering students while provoking walkouts from faculty decrying his “hate speech.” “Charlie didn’t just fight battles; he ignited revolutions,” eulogized his widow, Erika Kirk, at a star-studded memorial in Phoenix on September 15, where speakers from Donald Trump to Ben Shapiro vowed to carry his torch.

But on the evening of September 10, at Utah Valley University in Orem, that fire was extinguished in an instant. Kirk, mid-sentence during a lively session on “woke indoctrination,” clutched his neck as a single .308 round from a rooftop perch across the quad tore through his carotid artery. Chaos erupted: screams echoed through the 2,000-strong crowd, security tackled suspects in the audience, and paramedics fought a losing battle against the blood loss. He was pronounced dead at 8:47 p.m. local time, just 22 minutes after the shot rang out. The FBI swiftly identified 22-year-old Tyler Robinson, a disaffected UVU dropout with a manifesto railing against “fascist influencers,” as the lone gunman. Robinson, who barricaded himself in a nearby dorm before surrendering, faces federal murder charges. Yet, whispers of conspiracy – from Antifa cells to deep-state plots – have swirled, amplified by Kirk’s allies who point to a darker precursor: the curse.

It all traces back to September 8, a Monday that dawned like any other in the Jezebel newsroom. The Brooklyn-based feminist site, long a bastion of snarky takedowns on patriarchy and privilege, published a piece titled “We Paid Some Etsy Witches to Curse Charlie Kirk.” Penned by staff writer Claire Guinan, the 1,500-word essay was framed as biting satire – a “feminist coven” striking back at Kirk’s “regressive rhetoric” on abortion, transgender issues, and campus feminism. “He’s the far-right misogynist with a bad haircut who’s made my blood boil for years,” Guinan wrote, detailing how she scoured Etsy for “professional hexers.” She settled on three: Voss (Priestess Lilin), her sister under the handle High Priestess Leamashtu, and a third anonymous caster offering “generational black magic curses.”

The transactions were gleefully documented: $47 for a “Make Everyone Hate Him” spell, complete with a photo of Kirk’s “scrunched-up little face” burned at the altar; $89 for a “powerful hex” promising to “shatter his influence like glass under a boot”; and $120 for Voss’s signature “Infernal Justice Black Magick,” which she advertised as capable of “destroying friendships, instilling hatred, or causing job loss – or worse, if the energies align.” Voss even provided “proof of cast”: a singed image of Kirk engulfed in flames, captioned “Trust the unseen.” Guinan concluded with a wink: “So, did my Etsy curses work? Time will tell.” Jezebel’s editors slapped on a disclaimer: “This is humor, not harm. No dark forces invoked – just collective feminist spite.”

The article went viral, racking up 2.3 million views in 48 hours, with shares from progressive influencers hailing it as “peak pettiness.” But for the Kirks, it landed like a thunderbolt. Erika, a 29-year-old former Turning Point staffer and devout evangelical, stumbled upon it during a late-night scroll. “She was genuinely rattled,” revealed Megyn Kelly on her SiriusXM show on September 23, drawing from private conversations with the couple. “Erika’s a woman of deep faith – she knows the Bible’s warnings on sorcery. Why torture a Christian family like this? It felt like a direct assault on their souls.” Charlie, ever the pragmatist, tried to laugh it off publicly, tweeting, “Leftists resorting to voodoo now? Prayers up – Ephesians 6:12.” Privately, though, the unease festered.

That night, September 9 – the eve of his death – the Kirks summoned a close friend, a Catholic priest named Father Elias Thorne from a Phoenix parish, for an impromptu exorcism ritual. In a tearful account shared by Erika at the memorial, she described the scene: dim lights, a circle of salt on the living room floor, holy water sprinkled over Charlie’s shoulders as Thorne recited Psalms 91 and 109 – the latter an “imprecatory” prayer cursing enemies. “We bound any evil spirits in Jesus’ name,” Thorne later told reporters. “Charlie gripped my hand tight, saying, ‘Father, if this is real, let God break it.’ Erika wept through the whole thing.” It was a poignant fusion of their faiths – Charlie’s nondenominational Protestantism laced with Erika’s openness to Catholic mysticism – a desperate bid to shield him from what they saw as occult warfare.

The next day, as Kirk boarded a flight to Utah, Voss was allegedly weaving her web tighter. According to unsealed affidavits from the FBI raid, phone records show her exchanging frantic texts with Leamashtu post-publication: “The energy’s surging – Kirk’s aura is fracturing. Push the veil tonight.” Voss, a former New Orleans tour guide turned full-time “spiritual practitioner,” had built a $200,000-a-year Etsy empire selling custom spells since 2018. Her shop, “Lunar Veil Enchantments,” boasted 4.7-star reviews: “Destroyed my ex’s career – 10/10!” gushed one buyer. But investigators say the Kirk hex crossed a line. Voss incorporated voodoo elements – New Orleans’ syncretic blend of African, Catholic, and hoodoo traditions – invoking loa spirits like Baron Samedi, the skeletal lord of the dead, with offerings of rum, cigars, and chicken bones. “I felt the pull,” she confessed in a recorded interview played in court. “Jezebel’s payment was seed money; the hate was the fertilizer. I didn’t pull the trigger, but the spirits cleared the path.”

The assassination unfolded with mechanical precision. Robinson, perched on a maintenance shed 300 yards from the stage, fired once before fleeing. Campus cameras captured his calm demeanor – no manifesto in hand, just a burner phone pinging towers near Voss’s last known location in Baton Rouge. Digital forensics tied him to anonymous Jezebel comments praising the article: “Finally, some real magic against these clowns.” Was it coincidence, or cosmic convergence? Voss’s arrest on the 28th came after a tip from an Etsy whistleblower, leading agents to her lair: walls scrawled with sigils, a Kirk bobblehead pierced with pins, and a laptop open to ritual footage timestamped September 9. “She didn’t run,” said Special Agent Carla Ruiz. “She lit another candle and said, ‘The reckoning’s here.’”

Backlash has been swift and savage. Jezebel, facing lawsuits from the Kirk family alleging “incitement through occult provocation,” scrubbed the article on September 12 on lawyers’ advice, replacing it with a terse note: “We condemn violence in all forms. This was satire gone awry.” Editor-in-chief Emma Goldberg resigned amid donor pullouts, tweeting, “Humor shouldn’t summon demons – lesson learned.” Progressive voices splintered: some defended it as “performative resistance,” while others, like Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, distanced themselves: “Witch hunts – literal or not – have no place in the left.” On the right, it’s rocket fuel for spiritual warfare rhetoric. Trump, at a rally in Ohio, thundered, “They cursed Charlie, then killed him! This is Satan’s playbook – witches, snipers, fake news!” Turning Point USA launched #BreakTheCurse, a prayer chain amassing 1.2 million participants, blending evangelical fervor with meme warfare.

Voss’s capture has ignited a firestorm in the witchcraft community. Banned from Etsy pre-arrest, she and Leamashtu (now a fugitive in Canada) face doxxing and death threats from MAGA hordes. Pagan scholars decry the sensationalism: “Voodoo isn’t Hollywood hexes; it’s cultural resilience,” argues Dr. Marlene Duval, a Tulane ethnographer. Yet, Voss’s own words fuel the flames. In a pre-arrest video manifesto uploaded to TikTok (now deleted), she intoned, “Magic is real – psychological, metaphysical, or both. Kirk’s fall? The unseen trusted.” Her spells, per court docs, promised “profound change,” echoing Kirk’s own past dismissals of Haitian voodoo as “demonic infestation” during a 2023 podcast rant.

For Erika Kirk, the nightmare layers on. At 29, she’s shouldered Turning Point’s interim leadership, channeling grief into a foundation funding “faith-based security” for conservative speakers. “Charlie believed in spiritual battles,” she told CNN on September 20, eyes steely. “We prayed against the darkness; now we fight it in court. Lilin’s arrest? It’s justice, but the wound festers.” Friends describe her haunted by what-ifs: What if they’d skipped Utah? What if the priest’s prayers had held? Vigils blend rosaries with red hats, a surreal tapestry of crosses and campaign signs.

As October unfolds, the case hurtles toward trial in federal court, with Voss’s defense eyeing an insanity plea laced with “ritual compulsion.” Prosecutors, armed with her confession and ritual artifacts, push for life. Broader ripples: Etsy tightened occult listings, the FTC probes “harmful service” regulations, and Congress eyes a “Spiritual Threats Act” to criminalize curse-for-hire schemes. In occult forums, whispers of counter-hexes against “persecutors” proliferate, hinting at cycles unbroken.

Charlie Kirk’s death was a gunshot; his legacy, a mirror to America’s soul fractures. Voss’s arrest peels back the veil on how satire sours to sorcery, politics to peril. In the end, whether spirits conspired or minds unraveled, one truth endures: In the age of algorithms and altars, hate casts long shadows. And sometimes, they strike.