A TARVEN OWNER WHO HAS A SNAKE IN ONE OF HIS TOILETS WHERE PEOPLE GO MISSING

I am writing this without my name, without my village, and without faces, because some stories are not safe when they carry too much truth. I come from a small place, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, where rumors travel faster than cars, and where wealth does not arrive quietly. When someone becomes rich overnight, people do not ask how out loud, but they whisper it in kitchens, at funerals, and in taverns.

This story is about one of those whispers, the kind people laugh at during the day and fear at night. It is about what many of us call the money snake wealth ritual, a thing people say is not real until it is too close to ignore.

Last December, death started moving strangely around one particular tavern owned by a very wealthy man. I will not say where it is, and I will not say his name. What I will say is that the place was always full, always loud, and always surrounded by money. Beer flowed like water, meat never finished, and music played even when grief was heavy in the village. People liked that place because it made them forget their problems, but slowly the place began to take more than it gave. People started going missing, not in the open streets, not on dark roads, but inside the toilets of that tavern. They would go in alive, laughing or drunk, and by morning their bodies would be found drowned in the nearby river, with no clear story of how they got there.

At first, people said it was alcohol. Then they said it was fights. Then they said it was bad luck. But when the deaths kept happening, always connected to the same place, fear started growing teeth. The strange thing was that there were no signs of struggle in the toilets. No blood, no broken doors, nothing. It was like the people simply disappeared into the air. The owner always denied everything. He said his business was clean, his hands were clean, and anyone saying otherwise was jealous or drunk or trying to destroy his success. And people believed him, because money has a way of sounding like truth when it speaks loudly enough.

One night, I went to that tavern with a guy I knew from around. Not a close friend, just someone you greet, someone you drink with sometimes. We were not looking for trouble, just noise and escape like everyone else. At some point, he said he needed to use the toilet and went ahead. I followed a few seconds later. The smell of beer and damp walls was heavy, and the light was weak. As I stepped inside, my eyes adjusted, and that is when I saw something that still lives inside my chest like a trapped scream.

There was a very big snake, thick and dark, curling itself around the man’s body. Not attacking, not biting, just wrapped around him tightly, like it owned him. The man was standing there completely still, like a statue made of fear. His eyes were open, but there was nothing in them. No shouting, no movement, no sound. Just silence and that snake, slow and calm, like it had done this many times before. My body reacted before my mind could understand. I ran out of that toilet like a mad person, shouting, shaking, calling for help, telling people there was a snake inside.

People rushed in with me, but when we reached the toilet, there was nothing. No snake. No man. No broken window. No blood. No sign of anything strange. The owner came quickly, angry, shouting that I was drunk and causing problems. He said I was trying to scare customers and destroy his business. He told me to leave immediately. People looked at me with judgment and laughter. Some said I imagined it. Others said I was jealous because my grandfather also owns a tavern. That detail was enough to kill my words. From that moment, I became a liar in their eyes.

The next day, the body of the man was found in the river.

No one came to ask me questions. No one apologized. No one wanted to hear what I saw. The story was closed quickly, like all uncomfortable stories are. People said he fell, or he was drunk, or he had personal problems. Life continued. Music continued. Beer continued. But something else continued too. The owner started appearing in my dreams. Not as a normal man, but as something heavy and dark. In my dreams, he strangles me, telling me he hates people who gossip like they wear panties. I wake up unable to breathe, my heart beating like it wants to escape my chest.

In my village, old people talk about the money snake in low voices. They say it is not just an animal but a spiritual thing fed by secrecy and blood. They say those who want fast and endless wealth invite it, and in return, it must be fed. Sometimes with animals. Sometimes with people. They say the snake lives hidden, often in places where waste and secrecy meet, like toilets, pits, or underground rooms. They say once you see it, you are marked, and silence is expected of you. If you talk too much, the snake’s owner will know, even without being told.

I do not know if what I saw was real in the way science understands real. I only know what my eyes saw and what my body felt. Fear like that does not come from alcohol. Silence like that does not come from imagination. And death that repeats itself in the same pattern is not coincidence forever. I am not writing this to convince anyone. I am writing because keeping it inside feels like slowly drowning while everyone else is breathing just fine.

We like to laugh at stories of rituals and wealth medicine, calling them backward and foolish, but we forget that belief is powerful, and power always demands a price. Maybe the snake is real. Maybe it is symbolic. Maybe it is guilt, greed, or something darker wearing the shape of a snake because that is how fear chooses to speak. All I know is that some money comes with shadows so long they block the sun, and some places are built on silence thicker than concrete.

If you ever find yourself in a place where wealth feels heavy, where laughter sounds forced, where toilets swallow people and rivers return them lifeless, trust the discomfort in your chest. Not everything dangerous looks violent. Some things wrap around you slowly, quietly, until you cannot move or scream. And when someone tells you to leave because you are “too drunk,” ask yourself why the truth is always accused of causing trouble.

I will remain anonymous. I will not name the village or the tavern. But the story is out now, and sometimes that is the only protection people like me have. Whether you believe in the money snake or not, remember this: when silence becomes expensive, someone is paying with more than money.