Lights flicker, crowds chant, and the devil’s in the details. Over the last decade, WWE hasn’t just scripted some spooky storylines—it’s unleashed a full-blown occult invasion, from blood-soaked rituals on television to superstars hawking Satanic swag off-screen.

Forget the body slams; this is soul-slamming territory, where witchcraft, blasphemy, and anti-faith fury have turned the ring into a portal for darkness. And with TKO Group Holdings cashing in billions, insiders whisper: Is the real cash cow a Faustian bargain with the Prince of Darkness?

Flash back to 2015: Bray Wyatt, the Eater of Worlds, slithers onto the scene as a swamp-dwelling cult leader, lantern in hand, preaching doomsday sermons to his “family” of brainwashed goons. By 2019, he’s the Fiend—a demonic clown straight out of a hellish funhouse, torching rivals with supernatural fireflies. Bray Wyatt’s real life death at 36 back in 2023 left the whole with some unconformable questions Eerily mid-gimmick, leaving fans haunted by his “let me in” taunts echoing like a curse.

Fast-forward to 2025: The Judgment Day stable—Finn Bálor’s gothic demon, Rhea Ripley’s “Mami” as a dominatrix demon queen—rules Raw like a satanic syndicate, complete with inverted crosses and blood oaths. Bálor’s theme? A Def Rebel dirge that screams hellfire, while the group’s purple haze entrances feel ripped from a Black Mass.

Then there’s Gunther’s 666-day Intercontinental reign (May 2022–April 2024), the biblical Beast’s number splashed across headlines like a devilish Easter egg. Coincidence? Or WWE winking at Revelation 13:18?

The women’s division? A coven convention. Isla Dawn, the self-proclaimed “White Witch,” slings spells and tarot curses on NXT, tagging with Alba Fyre in the Unholy Union. But here’s the gut-punch: This isn’t just kayfabe. Behind the velvet ropes, WWE’s elite are living the lore. Blackcraft Cult—the occult apparel empire peddling Baphomet tees and pentagram hoodies—has inked deals with a rogue’s gallery of grapplers, turning merch drops into midnight masses.

Seth Rollins, the self-styled “Visionary,” struts in custom Black & Brave collabs, his atheism on full blast: “I’m a punk rocker. I don’t do Christian.” Rollins’ Monday Night Messiah gimmick (2020), A Jesus-mocking cult with Buddy Murphy as disciple, deprogramming Rey Mysterio’s “faith” in a twisted baptism.

CM Punk, WWE Superstar who is a strong atheist that leaves no doubt about his thoughts on Jesus Christ “On Sunday, when you all go to church and pray to that God that I know doesn’t exist… thank your coaches more than Jesus.”

His 2025 “Free Palestine” graffiti post were pure provocation, drawing heat from Israeli fans who see it as cursing the Holy Land. Sami Zayn flips off Israeli flags, likes “Israel’s Final Solution” posts, and rocks PLO gear with CM Punk showing the company endorsing an anti-Israel stance. Liv Morgan, another WWE superstar with known real life ties to witchcraft and the occult, piles on with Gaza donations and murals opposing Israel.

The Blackcraft cult of wrestlers in opposition to Jesus Christ is a who’s-who of the damned: Seth Rollins, Ruby Riott (gothic squad vibes), Paige (Saraya’s Dark Gypsy coffee collab), Sonya Deville (clothing line pitch), Aleister Black (Malakai’s Blxckmass shirts and kayfabe occult vids), Shotzi Blackheart (iPPV bouts), and whispers of Rhea Ripley, Zelina Vega, Liv Morgan, Alexa Bliss, Ava Raine, and even Swerve Strickland dipping into the darkness.

Blackcraft’s motto? “You don’t need God… to be a good person.” Edgy? Or endorsement of Ephesians 6:12’s “spiritual wickedness”? Tattoos tell tales too: Ripley’s Wendigo demon leg ink (banned in Saudi for “Satanic themes”), Black’s demonic eye (same fate), Bayley’s gothic wrist scrawls, Stephanie Vaquer’s Ram of Aries zodiac skull—straight graven images, Leviticus 19:28 style.

The Eye of Horus? Plastered on the gear of Bayley and Carmelo Hayes’ Egyptian idolatry nodding to Exodus 20:3’s no-other-gods rule.

WWE.com selling GOAT merch from Roman Reigns, Drew McIntyre, and Becky Lynch in a reference to Baphomet. Self-deification idolatry, Colossians 3:5. And don’t get us started on the LGBTQ “rebellion” push—Chelsea Green and Deville’s rainbow tag run, framed as “vile affections” by critics, Romans 1:26-27.

Celebrity crossovers amp the Antichrist alarm: Travis Scott’s Astroworld “hell stage” (where fans trampled to death) and Bad Bunny’s pyramid rituals and LGBTQ ties bleed into WWE cameos, with Scott punching Cody Rhodes and Bunny feuding Damian Priest.

So, what’s the endgame? As WWE rakes in Netflix billions, this occult octagon feels like Matthew 4:8-9 incarnate—the devil flashing “all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them,” demanding worship for the win. Jesus rebuked: “Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only.” But in Stamford? They’re bowing to the Beast for the belt.

Fans are definitely beginning to take notice. “WWE’s gone full coven,” one X warrior tweeted, echoing the backlash to Zayn’s flag flip and Punk’s posts. Jewish viewers feel betrayed: “A disgrace—WWE has decided it doesn’t care about Jews.” Christian faithful? They’re tuning out the blasphemy. WWE Smackdown recent set it’s lowest viewership in the 26 year history of the show.

Vince McMahon? Silent as a tombstone. Triple H? Booking more Ministry remakes. But as Wyatt’s lantern dims and the Fiend’s laugh lingers, one truth suplexes through: In the squared circle of souls, someone’s getting pinned for eternity. And it ain’t the Good Guy.

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