Creepy Old Man Casting An Evil Spell Of Disgust

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No one in the district remembered when the old man first appeared on the corner of Bracken Street. He never begged, never spoke, never even blinked long enough for anyone to feel comfortable around him. He simply stood against the wall every dusk, his bony hand raised, casting a thin-angled shadow that moved one heartbeat too late, as if the silhouette had a mind of its own.

People avoided him instinctively. Children said he could sour milk by pointing at it. A grocer swore he watched him gesture toward a crate of apples, and by morning the entire batch had turned to black fuzz. Most thought these were coincidences. Most wanted to believe that.

But the old man had a routine, and routines grow heavy in the air. Every night at the exact moment the street lamps buzzed alive, he performed his strange ritual. His hand would rise, fingers curled like a dying spider. The shadow on the wall behind him would swell—grotesquely larger than his real arm—and then the air around him shifted in a way that made throats tighten and stomachs churn. People passing by felt as though their own thoughts betrayed them, dredging up every petty annoyance, every buried resentment. Couples walking hand-in-hand suddenly snapped at each other. Strangers locked eyes and felt a flash of contempt. Dogs pulled away, whining.

It was disgust—pure, directionless disgust—drifting out from him like a fog.

One evening, a city worker named Helena stayed behind after the others cleared out. She had grown tired of the rumors and more tired of avoiding the corner. She watched him from across the street, notebook in hand. He noticed her and slowly raised his hand, the gesture deliberate, almost ceremonial.

But Helena didn’t feel disgust this time. She felt something else—pity. The spell twisted in the air toward her but seemed to fracture.

“Why do you do it?” she asked.

His mouth moved for the first time anyone had seen. His voice was dry and thin.
“To remind them,” he whispered.

“Of what?”

“That disgust begins inside,” he said. “I only show them the part they try to hide.”

Then he lowered his hand. The shadow snapped back to normal. The air cleared, leaving only ordinary night wind.

The next day, the old man was gone. Some said he finally vanished into his own shadow. Others claimed the city removed him. Helena knew neither version was true. She carried her notebook with her, and on the last page, in handwriting not her own, was a single sentence:

“Where you point your darkness is where it grows.”

And no one on Bracken Street ever forgot that.