THE INDIAN SHOP OWNER AND HIS SNAKE
They call him the friendly Indian shop owner, but behind his shelves of sweets and spices lies a secret too dark to imagine. For seven years, seven children vanished without a trace—and the whispers say his snake demanded every single one of them. The community suspects, but no one dares confront him, because whoever stands against his power never lives to tell the tale.
On Fridays their shops closes briefly,is it really for prayer? Does any of you stop to wonder? It's darker than you'll ever imagine,I've seen it all. Their Friday brief closure is to be able to control your minds and money.
I have carried this secret like a stone in my chest for too long. If I don’t speak now, it will crush me. Everyone in our township whispers about the Indian shop owner, but what they don’t know is that I saw enough to believe every word of those whispers. And the truth is darker than gossip can ever capture.
It started when I was still a child. My mother used to send me to his shop in Mamelodi for bread and milk. He was always friendly, always smiling, but his eyes lingered too long, as if he saw something beyond me. That night, after the first time I went there, I had a dream of a huge snake coiling around my body, its tongue flicking against my ear as it whispered my name. I woke up screaming, but my mother just told me it was a nightmare.
A year later, a boy from the next street vanished. The last place he was seen was near that same shop. People searched, posters were made, police came and went, but nothing was found. That was the first one. The second child disappeared exactly a year later. Then the third. The fourth. And by the seventh year, seven children had gone missing — always around the same time, always close to his shop.
We all knew, but fear kept us quiet. There was something strange about that place. The smell, for one. No matter how many times he mopped the floor with bleach, a sour, rotten smell lingered in the air. Some customers whispered they heard scratching sounds under the tiles, like something moving beneath the ground. I myself heard faint crying one evening when I passed by after closing time. It was a sound that wasn’t from this world — the kind that makes your blood freeze.
Parents in Mamelodi stopped sending their children to buy bread alone. Mothers would walk long distances to other shops rather than risk that one. But still, the man’s business kept booming. People said it was because of his “good prices.” I know better. It was because of the snake.
When I was about seventeen, the shop owner finally spoke to me in a way that made my skin crawl. It was late; I was the last customer. Instead of handing me change, he leaned over the counter and said softly, “You are not like the others. You are special. My snake sees you.”
I laughed nervously, thinking it was a joke, but he didn’t smile. He told me to come back alone that night, promising he would show me something that would change my life forever. He said if I agreed to stay loyal, I would never suffer, never be poor, never go hungry. He spoke of money, protection, power — all flowing through me if I accepted his snake.
That’s when I understood. The children weren’t missing. They were sacrifices. His snake demanded one life each year, and in return, his shop stayed busy, his money never stopped flowing, and no one could touch him. Not the police. Not the angry parents. Not even the pastors who prayed outside his shop.
I ran that night, shaking so badly I thought my knees would give in. But even as I fled, I felt the weight of his eyes on me. And in my dreams, the snake returned, whispering: “You will come back. You belong to me.”
Seven children. Seven shallow graves hidden beneath his shop floor. And me — almost the eighth. Sometimes I wonder if the only reason I escaped was because my ancestors stood up for me that night.
But here is the part that keeps me awake: what if the snake is no longer satisfied with children? What if its hunger has grown? In Mamelodi, people have started whispering again — this time about adults disappearing on their way home at night. No one dares link it to him, but I know the signs.
So this is my warning: when you walk past a shop that feels too quiet, too cold, too wrong — trust your instincts. Evil doesn’t hide in shadows anymore. It wears a smile, sells you bread, and waits for the day its hunger finds you.
Because the snake is still here. And this time, it might not be your child.
It might be you.
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