I asked for a money ritual and I got ghosts living with me

I Asked for a Money Ritual and I Got Ghosts Living With Me Instead

I never thought I would write something like this. I never imagined I would one day sit down and tell strangers a story that still makes my hands shake and my stomach twist. But I have kept this inside for too long. My family doesn’t believe me. My community calls me crazy. And the people who should protect me are the ones who put me in this darkness.

So today I am writing this confession not for sympathy, but because I want to free myself from the weight on my chest. Maybe someone out there will understand. Maybe someone will learn from my mistake.

This is the story of how I went to look for wealth in the wrong place, and how it has destroyed my life.

All my life, I have struggled with money. I am the eldest son in my family, and people expect me to be strong, responsible, and successful. But life had been beating me down for years. No stable job. No savings. Nothing to show for my hard work. I felt like a failure. And then there was my uncle—always the rich one, always the man people respected and feared. He had everything, and I wanted even a small part of that life.

One day he called me and said, “My boy, I can help you. I can show you the way to real money. Fast money.” If anyone else had said that, I would have walked away. But this was the man who had gone from nothing to everything. And he was offering to lift me up.

I was desperate. I said yes.

He didn’t tell me we were going to a sangoma. He didn’t tell me what kind of help he meant. We just drove until we reached a place that felt forgotten by time. The sangoma’s yard was filled with strange objects—bones, bottles, animal skins. Something inside me felt uneasy, but my uncle walked like he had been there many times.

The sangoma looked at me and smiled, a smile that made my skin feel tight. “You want wealth,” he said before I even spoke. My uncle nodded. I didn’t understand what I had agreed to, but I kept quiet.

He told us the ritual had to be done that night. He said wealth requires courage and sacrifice. I should have run, but the thought of finally being someone, finally being successful, kept me there.

We drove to a graveyard just before midnight. The wind was cold, the moon hiding behind clouds like it didn’t want to witness what we were about to do. Then the sangoma told me to undress. I looked at my uncle, hoping he would say something, but he simply nodded at me. So I took off my clothes, standing naked among the graves.

The sangoma had brought a black chicken, a bucket, and herbs. He slaughtered the chicken while chanting words I didn’t recognise. He sprinkled the blood on me and on the graves around us. He told me to rub soil from the graves on my body, and then to bathe with the mixture he prepared. I felt like I was floating outside my body, watching myself making the worst mistake of my life.

He filled a black bucket with grave soil, the chicken’s blood, and black feathers. He handed it to me and said, “This is your key. Put it in the darkest room in your house. After seven days, your money will appear there.”

Seven days. That was all I heard. Seven days to a new life.

I took the bucket home and placed it in a spare room that nobody used. I closed the door and didn’t touch it for seven days. I imagined a future full of success. I imagined myself finally being respected. I imagined everything except the truth of what was coming.

On the seventh day, I opened the door.

There was no money.

Nothing had changed—except me.

The spirits started coming that same night. At first it was small things: shadows moving, whispers when I was alone, footsteps behind me. Then I began seeing the faces of dead people—some I knew, others I didn’t. People from those graves. People whose peace I had disturbed.

They came to me in dreams, then while I was awake. They stood in corners, behind doors, beside my bed. They followed me everywhere—at home, in the streets, at work. Every day they came closer. Every day their eyes looked more accusing.

While this was happening to me, my uncle was becoming richer. New cars. New businesses. New houses. Money flowing to him like water. That was when I understood the truth: the ritual was never meant to make me rich. It was meant to feed him. Whatever I gave that night—whatever part of my spirit or fate that I surrendered—he used it for himself.

I was left with the ghosts.

When I finally spoke up, when I tried to tell my family what was happening, no one believed me. My uncle told them I was mentally unstable. He said I needed help. My own family turned against me. The community laughed at me. Friends avoided me. People whispered when they saw me.

But the ghosts didn’t stop.

Some nights, I feel hands holding my ankles while I sleep. Some nights, I hear crying outside my window. Some nights, I wake up to see figures standing in my room, watching me. I live with spirits that refuse to leave me alone.

I am writing this because I want to warn someone out there. Someone who has been offered fast wealth. Someone thinking of going down the same path. Please listen to me—do not do it. Money that comes from darkness will always cost more than you are willing to pay. I wanted wealth, but instead I found shadows, fear, and death walking beside me.

This is my confession. My warning. My truth.

I asked for a money ritual, and now I am living with ghosts instead.

If you want, I can polish it further, make it more emotional, extend it, or adjust the tone.