In the grand, rotting tapestry of human history, we have finally reached the threadbare patch where the supernatural meets the spreadsheet. It was only a matter of time. Humanity has spent the last century pretending to be rational, only to realize that rationality is exhausting and offers very few opportunities for a lucrative subscription model. Enter the 'exorcism economy' currently flourishing in Russia, a development that is as predictable as it is pathetic. While the rest of the world is busy arguing over which flavor of digital dystopia they prefer, thousands of Russians have decided to revert to the classics, using social media to crowdsource their spiritual hygiene and pay for the privilege of being screamed at by a stranger in a robe.

The facts, as grim as they are, suggest a burgeoning market for the casting out of spirits, with initial consultations starting at a crisp £100. It is the ultimate synthesis of the digital age’s vapidity and the Middle Ages’ paranoia, packaged neatly for a population that has clearly had enough of the 21st century. For the price of a decent dinner in a city that hasn't been sanctioned into the stone age, you can now have a professional charlatan look at your Zoom feed and tell you that the reason you can’t get a promotion isn’t because you’re incompetent or living in a crumbling kleptocracy, but because a minor duke of the underworld is squatting in your spleen. It is the perfect gig economy for the soul: Uber, but for Beelzebub.

The beauty of this grift—and make no mistake, it is a magnificent, gold-plated grift—is its scalability. The Right will undoubtedly view this as a heartwarming return to traditional values, a rejection of Western secularism in favor of the old ways. They will ignore the fact that these 'traditional values' are being sold via the same algorithms that push skincare routines and crypto scams. Meanwhile, the Left will likely wring their hands and produce endless sociological essays on 'trauma-informed spiritualism' or blame the phenomenon on the 'alienation of the proletariat,' because they are fundamentally incapable of admitting that some people are just naturally prone to believing absolute nonsense. Both sides are equally deluded, staring at a con artist and seeing a sign of the times instead of just a man with a PayPal link and a creative imagination.

But let’s look at the economics, shall we? A £100 'consultation' is the perfect entry point. It’s the 'freemium' model of salvation. You don’t get the full 'Get out, Satan' package for a hundred quid; you get the diagnostic. You get a man in a robe, or perhaps just a very intense guy in a tracksuit, telling you that your spiritual aura is looking a bit 'infested.' From there, the upsell opportunities are endless. Special incense? That’ll be extra. A personalized prayer recorded as an MP3? Check your balance. It’s McKinsey for the soul, but with more incense and slightly more honesty about the fact that they’re taking your money for nothing. The market doesn't care if the demon is real; the market only cares if the transaction clears.

The role of social media in this farce cannot be overstated. We were promised that the internet would be a library of Alexandria in our pockets; instead, we’ve turned it into a digital Colosseum where we watch people have seizures for clout and pay strangers to yell at our internal demons. The platforms that have already destroyed our attention spans, our posture, and our collective ability to distinguish fact from fan-fiction are now being used to facilitate the oldest scam in the book. It is the democratization of the dark arts—now everyone can be possessed, and everyone can be a priest, provided they have a stable Wi-Fi connection and a complete lack of moral fiber. The algorithm doesn't discriminate between a makeup tutorial and a ritualistic cleansing; it only knows that both generate engagement.

In Russia, a country that has transitioned from the forced atheism of the Soviet era to a kind of frenzied, state-sanctioned mysticism, this makes perfect sense. When the material world offers you nothing but high inflation and the constant threat of being sent to a 'special operation,' the supernatural starts to look like a viable alternative. If you can’t fix the plumbing or the government, you might as well fix the poltergeist. It provides a sense of agency to the powerless. You aren't a victim of history; you're a protagonist in a cosmic battle. It’s much more flattering to believe you’re being targeted by a demon than to realize you’re being ignored by a bureaucrat. It is the ultimate cope for a reality that is far scarier than any red-skinned creature with a pitchfork.

The tragedy, of course, is that we are all participating in this decline. Whether it’s Russian exorcisms, American wellness cults, or the European obsession with crystals, the species is collectively checking out of reality. We have built a world so complex and so profoundly disappointing that we are retreating into the comforting shadows of the 12th century. We aren't moving forward; we're just circling the drain, and we’re happy to pay a £100 consultation fee to the person who promises to tell us the drain is actually a portal to another dimension. So, let us celebrate the Russian exorcists. They have realized that the most renewable resource on the planet isn't solar energy or wind power—it’s human stupidity. And as long as there is a smartphone and a scared, bored person on the other end of it, the 'exorcism economy' will continue to provide the only thing capitalism truly cares about: a return on investment, even if the investment is in a literal hellscape.