My Aunt Used a Ghost Worker to Attract Customers
Every family has that one aunt who seems to have everything figured out. Mine was the rich one—the glamorous one—the one whose supermarket was always buzzing with customers from everywhere. People came from nearby towns, from far-off villages, from anywhere within driving distance. The place was always packed. Her business looked unstoppable, and we never suspected anything strange about it. Nobody imagined black magic could be involved. We all just assumed she was a brilliant businesswoman with an exceptional marketing team.
Part of her success story was tied to a man she introduced as her “international marketing director.” According to her, he was from abroad, but she never actually said which country. He was physically present in the store, walking around or sitting in his little office at the back. But here was the thing: no one ever heard him speak. Not once.
He didn’t greet people, he didn’t respond when spoken to, and he didn’t interact with staff or customers in any way. His face always looked terrified—like he was constantly running from something only he could see. And every time someone tried to communicate with him, my aunt would immediately get angry. She would defend him aggressively, saying he wasn’t comfortable with unnecessary conversation. Over time, people stopped trying. The man became part of the scenery—strange, quiet, always present but never really there.
Then came the day everything fell apart.
One afternoon, when the shop was at its usual peak of chaos, a furious group of people stormed inside. They weren’t customers—they were the man’s family. According to them, he had disappeared months earlier. Gone without a trace. They said a sangoma told them his spirit had been stolen from the graveyard and bound to someone’s business to attract customers and strengthen wealth. And the sangoma claimed that the spirit was being held at my aunt’s supermarket.
The moment they said this, the whole shop fell silent.
When they learned that my aunt wasn’t around, they didn’t wait. They marched straight to the back, carrying a bucket of water mixed with herbs and a tree branch. Right there, in front of shocked customers, they dipped the branch into the water and began sprinkling it all over the shop. They sprinkled the aisles, the storage rooms, the walls, the cashier counters—everything. Then they moved to the marketing director’s office and sprinkled even more intensely, chanting words we didn’t understand.
They said the ritual was done to “call him back” and “release his spirit.” They also claimed he never spoke because he had no tongue, and that the only reason people could still see him was because he wasn’t really alive—just bound.
Customers watched in horror, some hiding behind shelves, others running out of the store altogether. The whole atmosphere shifted as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
My aunt must have been alerted because she suddenly disappeared too. She fled and didn’t return for days. People whispered she was hiding out of guilt or fear. Nobody knew. All we knew was that once the ritual was performed, the marketing director simply vanished. One moment he was always around, drifting through the shop like a shadow—and then he was gone. No one ever saw him again.
When my aunt eventually returned, she acted like nothing had happened. She insisted the family was confused and dramatic. But everyone had already noticed the change. The shop that once overflowed with customers became almost empty. Shelves sat untouched, dust began to gather, and her business started sinking fast. The success she’d flaunted for years was fading right before our eyes.
Some people still swear they’ve seen the man wandering around at night—silent, mouth open, and with no tongue. Whether this is imagination, fear, or truth, nobody can say. But what we can see is the downfall of my aunt’s once-thriving business.
And through all of this, one question keeps haunting me:
If my aunt really stole his spirit to boost her business, then how did she manage to get his body too?
Because whatever he was—alive, dead, or something in between—he was definitely there. Walking. Moving. Existing.
Or at least… appearing to.
The mysteries around that man and my aunt’s supernatural success linger in the air, becoming part of the story people whisper about whenever they walk past her fading supermarket. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I still picture his frightened expression and wonder what he had been trying to tell us all along.
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