I Stole a Spirit From the Graveyard for Money –Now It Sleeps in My House

💀 I Stole a Spirit From the Graveyard for Money –Now It Sleeps in My House

I want to confess before I lose my mind. I joined money rituals, not with snakes or sex, but with the dead. I pulled a spirit out of the graveyard, and now it lives with me.

People think the grave is silent. It is not. The dead don’t sleep, they just wait for someone desperate enough to call them. I was that someone. I was broke, hopeless, and hungry for wealth.

The night I went to the cemetery, I carried a black candle, gin, razor blade, and a white chicken. The man guiding me said: “Don’t fear the dark, fear what will answer you.” We stopped at the grave of a man who had been a big businessman. They said his wealth was still fresh in his bones.

I spoke his name three times. On the last time, I swear the earth moved under my feet. The candle bent without wind. The smell of soil turned sour, like something rotten opening up. I cut my finger and let the blood drip on his grave. That was the lock. That was the mistake.

That night when I got home, I found coffin soil on my bed. No one had entered my room, but the sheets smelled like fresh mud. When I closed my eyes, I saw him—face pale, lips dark, suit dirty with dust. He didn’t talk. He just looked at me, and I understood: he belonged to me, but I also belonged to him.

The money came fast, too fast. Strangers called me for deals, cash poured in, I could buy anything. But the spirit was not silent. At night I hear footsteps in the corridor, slow and heavy like someone walking with wet shoes. Sometimes my doors open on their own. Sometimes my lights flicker. And always, always that smell of a coffin, damp wood and decay.

At first, I only had to light candles and pour gin on the floor for him. Then he demanded chickens. Then goats. Then blood. I thought it was still normal. But when I refused one night, I woke up with my pillow soaked in grave soil, and on the wall above my head was a handprint made of blood.

The spirit is greedy. It killed my brother when I delayed the ritual. Then it came for my cousin. Each funeral feels like the spirit is sitting there in the crowd, laughing at me. It wants more, always more.

Now, when I sleep, I feel the mattress sink like someone is lying next to me. I don’t dare turn my head because I know it’s him, the dead man I stole. Sometimes I wake up with scratches on my chest, like fingers dragged across me. Sometimes I wake up choking, with a cold hand around my throat, invisible but real.

But here is the part that people don’t know: the spirit doesn’t only take when I fail him. Every year, he chooses someone from my family. A living sacrifice. That is the real payment. One life for twelve months of wealth.

I try to act surprised at funerals, but deep inside, I know it’s the spirit collecting his debt. And each time, I feel his shadow standing close to me, whispering: “Your turn is coming.”

This money is not mine. It belongs to the grave. And when I finally die, I know my spirit will not rest either. Someone else will come to my grave, call my name three times, and I will rise to serve them. Just like the man I stole.

Because in this ritual, nobody ever escapes.

⚠️ My warning to you who are reading this: never let desperation lead you to the graveyard. Money from the dead is sweet at first, but it costs you your family, your peace, your life, and even your soul. I thought I was the master, but now I know… I am only a prisoner.