I was poor in the quiet way that never earns sympathy. The kind of poor that teaches patience because impatience costs money you don’t have. I worked nights unloading boxes at a warehouse where the lights hummed like tired insects and a battered radio played old pop songs that never quite finished. The floor smelled of oil, rust, and old rain.
I first heard of the borrowed fortune ritual on a night when my pockets held more lint than coins.
A landlord’s note waited under my door every Monday, polite at first, then sharp. Every morning, I checked my pockets out of habit, not hope. Coins never multiplied. Bills always did. I used to help the new guy with the heavy boxes. It felt good to be useful.
I didn’t just want money. I wanted to stop feeling invisible.
Rules Carved in Silence
I heard about the borrowed fortune ritual from a man named Carter, who never lost at cards and never smiled when he won. The card room smelled of stale beer and cheap cologne, fluorescent lights bleaching everyone pale.
“The dead keep what they don’t need anymore,” Carter said, shuffling like the deck owed him something. “With the borrowed fortune ritual, you don’t steal. You lease.”
“What’s the price?”
Carter wiped his palms on his jeans. “You say repayment out loud. Exact words. And you never pretend the debt isn’t real.”
He gave me the rules in pieces. Not every grave would answer. The dead had to leave suddenly, with fortune still clinging to them. The stone had to be neglected—no fresh flowers, no footprints.
After midnight. Before the first bird. No moonlight. No rain. Wind could twist meaning backward. Miss a step and the account stayed open.
Repayment came last. Not money. Not blood.
Carter wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Luck always charges,” he said. Then, softer, “I don’t say the word promise anymore.”
That night, the pipes knocked behind my walls. By morning, the idea had weight.
The Borrowed Fortune Ritual at the Grave
The cemetery felt narrower at night. Traffic hummed far off. A stray cat watched from a low wall without blinking.
I found the grave by a broken fence where weeds climbed like fingers. The name belonged to a man who died young and rich.
I burned hell notes in three bundles: what he earned, what he lost, what he never spent. Paper curled black. Smoke clung to my coat and drifted toward the stone.
I lit incense one stick at a time. The smell thickened, sweet and faintly sour. The air cooled against my wrists. I planted bamboo at the corners and brushed chicken blood along the grain.
Then I spoke. Plain words. Steady voice. I named my repayment and asked to borrow what he no longer used.
The air tightened.
Silence didn’t answer.
It accepted.
Luck That Felt Like Mine
Luck slid into place quietly. Cards fell right. Dice settled without wobble. The first night I won enough for rent. The second, enough to clear a loan.
On the third, I drew a card I had folded earlier in my pocket. The crease stared back at me from the table. The dealer blinked and reshuffled. I said nothing.
The next hand, the same card appeared twice.
The dealer checked the deck twice. The room went quiet, then noise rushed back.
People listened when I spoke. Coworkers stared at my new coat. I bought a wallet that smelled faintly of incense.
Carter called. I let it ring.
My sister called too. “Come Sunday,” she said. “I made soup. The cheap kind you like.”
For a second, I pictured us at the old kitchen table, steam fogging the window while rain hit the tin roof.
“I’m busy,” I said, sharper than I meant to. I told myself I would make it up to her when things were steady.
She went quiet. “Okay,” she said.
At 12:16 one night, the radio dipped in volume. My hands started shaking before I knew why. I unfolded the paper where I had written my repayment.
At 12:17, the radio cut out completely.
I told myself I deserved this. Just a little longer. I tore the paper in half.
Nothing happened.
When the date I had named passed, and I was still breathing, I laughed too loudly. Gray dust turned up in my pockets the next morning. I brushed it away.
When the Borrowed Fortune Ritual Collects
Wins narrowed first. Then they vanished.
At 12:16, the air pressed against my ears. At 12:17, nothing happened. The quiet was worse than noise.
One night, 12:17 passed cleanly. I waited, breath held. Relief loosened my shoulders.
A draft slid down the back of my neck.
At 12:19, the lights went out.
I set flour on the floor to catch footprints. In the morning, the flour lay smooth. Fine gray residue gathered in the sink.
I went back to the grave once more.
I brought incense. I tried to speak the repayment again. The words thinned in my throat. The smoke drifted away from the stone and did not return.
At 12:17, a branch cracked behind me.
The air cooled sharply, as if someone had stepped close enough to borrow my warmth.
I didn’t look back.
The shove came days later on the warehouse stairs. A breath touched the back of my ear first—cold, patient. Then something struck between my shoulders. I pitched forward, hand slamming the rail. Boxes burst below me, missing my head by inches. I lay there tasting dust.
I quit gambling. My paycheck went missing. I planned to leave town. The bus broke down before the bridge—at 12:17.
My sister called again. I watched it ring. I told myself she was safer not knowing.
At 12:17, the screen went black.
Account Closed
On the last night, the room filled with cemetery stillness.
The air near the bed dipped inward, as if the dark had weight.
Joss smoke thickened until breathing felt heavy.
I tried to speak. My tongue stuck. My mouth tasted dry and bitter.
Something leaned closer.
A thin line of gray dust fell across my chest.
The smell of incense stopped all at once.
Outside, a bird sang—late and wrong.
Somewhere, soup cooled on a stove.
Weeks later, Carter shuffled a deck at the card room and paused. He rubbed his hands together.
“Smells like smoke,” he muttered.
No one else noticed.