MY BREASTS HAVE BECOME A CURSE OF WEALTH

 MY BREASTS HAVE BECOME A CURSE OF WEALTH

I have lived with this secret for so long that it feels like a second skin. The world sees a wealthy woman. They see my cars, my clothes, my properties. But they don’t see what happens when the sun goes down. They don’t see how my breasts, once normal, now hang to my knees, swollen and heavy, because of the things I must feed in the dark.

I joined a money ritual out of desperation. Poverty had eaten my pride, my dignity, my hope. When the offer came — a ritual for wealth — I thought I was strong enough to handle whatever it demanded. I thought nothing could be worse than hunger. I was wrong.

The ritual was quiet but unnatural. No candles. No chanting I could understand. Just a circle drawn with something black, a bowl that smelled of sour milk and blood, and a coldness in the air that felt like a grave opening. They told me I would have to “feed them” after. I thought it meant giving offerings. I didn’t know it meant giving *myself.*

The first week after the ritual, it started small. Scratches on the walls at night. The sound of wet feet padding across the floor though no one was there. Then a smell—like damp earth and iron—filled my bedroom. My breasts began to ache. It was like milk was being produced in them, but heavier, thicker.

And then they arrived.

I’ve never been able to see them fully in the light. They prefer darkness, and when I try to turn on a lamp, the bulb blows out. But in the glimmer of moonlight, I’ve seen their outlines. They are small at first, no bigger than newborn babies, but their bodies are wrong. Their skin looks like wet clay, grey and glistening. Their limbs are too long for their bodies, their fingers sharp and hooked. They have no eyes that I can see, only deep hollows where eyes should be. When they open their mouths, there are rows of tiny, needle-like teeth.

They crawl onto my bed at night, their bodies cold as ice. Their skin leaves wet trails on my sheets. They climb on top of me, pressing my chest with their small, heavy hands, their claws pricking my skin but never drawing blood. They latch onto my nipples and begin to drink. Their mouths are hot inside, but their bodies are freezing, and the contrast makes me tremble.

The feeding lasts hours. I feel my breasts emptying into them, but at the same time swelling even larger, as though they are drawing something far deeper from me than milk. Sometimes they make noises — not crying like babies, but low, guttural humming, like a chant in a language that hurts my ears.

Sometimes, in the dark, I see others in the corner of the room — taller, heavier shadows with glowing slits where eyes might be — watching. They don’t move, they don’t feed, but I feel their presence like a blade against my back. They’re waiting for something. I don’t know what.

Every morning, I wake up aching, my breasts heavier than before, dragging me down. In the mirror, my skin looks duller. My eyes are sunken. Yet my bank account grows. My wealth multiplies. The more I am drained, the richer I become.

I am a vessel now, nothing more. My body is their feeding ground. I’ve tried to stop them. One night I refused to lie down. The house shook violently. I heard a voice, deep and wet, whisper in my ear, *“We can take more than milk.”* Since that night, I have never fought them again.

People envy me. They say I am blessed. But at night, I am cursed. I lie still while grey, clay-skinned creatures crawl over me, their claws pressing into my shoulders, their cold lips sucking at me until I am empty. I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.

I write this as a warning. Quick wealth is never free. Darkness does not give — it only trades. And the trade it demands will be more than you think you can give.

My breasts are my chains. The creatures are my masters. My wealth is my curse.

This is my confession.

I’ve already told you about the small creatures that feed from me at night — the grey, clay-skinned things that crawl across my bed with their claws and needle teeth. I’ve told you how my breasts now hang to my knees, swollen and heavy, because of what I agreed to when I joined a money ritual for wealth.

But there is something I have not told you yet. Something worse.

When they feed, when the grey creatures climb on me and drink, I am never alone. There are always others in the room. They are taller, much taller — seven or eight feet at least. Their bodies are long and thin like burnt sticks, but their shoulders are wide and sharp, and their heads almost brush the ceiling. They don’t come close. They stand in the corners, behind the curtains, inside the shadows where the light doesn’t reach.

I don’t know if they have faces. I have only ever seen faint glows where eyes should be — two vertical slits of pale green, like rotting light. They don’t blink. They don’t speak. They just watch. And when the smaller ones are finished feeding, I hear a low, rumbling sound from the tall ones, like a growl being held back.

Sometimes, as I lie there, I can feel their attention pressing down on me. It’s not like being watched by a human; it’s heavier, like being weighed. Judged. Measured. As though they are waiting for a moment I can’t see yet.

The last time I tried to resist, I saw one of them step closer. Its arms were so long its fingers brushed the floor. The skin wasn’t like the smaller creatures — it was darker, cracked like burnt wood, but wet, dripping something black. It leaned toward me and I smelled earth and blood and something sweet, like decay. A voice — not from its mouth, but from the air — whispered:

> *“You are not only a vessel. You are a door.”*

I didn’t understand. But since then, every night feels like a countdown. The smaller ones feed on me, but the tall ones are waiting for something else. They’re not just here to take my milk. They’re waiting to take me — or take something through me.

And the wealth keeps growing. More money. More gifts. More people wanting to be near me. But I am hollow. My skin is pale. My hair is falling out. My breasts are not mine anymore — they are sacks of whatever keeps these things alive.

Last week, one of the tall ones raised a hand from the corner. The fingers were like branches tipped with knives. The grey creatures stopped feeding at once. The room went silent except for my breathing. And then I heard it again:

That was all. Just that one word.

I don’t know what “soon” means. I don’t know what I’ve opened or what will happen when they decide to step out of the shadows. All I know is that every night my body becomes less my own. Every night the feeding lasts longer. And every night the tall ones lean closer.

If you are reading this because someone told you about a ritual that will make you rich — run. Don’t walk. Run. You don’t understand what you are saying yes to. You don’t understand what you are inviting in.

I thought I was making a deal for wealth. But I was making myself into an offering. My breasts are only the beginning. The tall ones are waiting for the rest.

This is my confession. If one night you don’t hear from me again, know this: they have finally come to collect what is theirs.