The Bag I Found in the Mosque Had Millions in It — And a Note That Said: “Don’t Touch, Or You’ll Pay With Blood”

The Bag I Found in the Mosque Had Millions in It — And a Note That Said: “Don’t Touch, Or You’ll Pay With Blood”

I was a cleaner in a small mosque on the edge of town.

Nothing glamorous.

Just sweeping the floors, dusting the fans, and making sure the place was ready for each prayer.

But that Thursday afternoon, everything changed.

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I was alone in the main prayer hall, vacuuming under the wooden minbar, when my hand hit something soft beneath the base.

A bag.

Dark green, tied tightly with a red thread.

It looked out of place — and heavy.

I pulled it out.

It clinked.

I opened the top — and froze.

Bundles of currency.

Neatly stacked.

Tightly packed.

Dozens of bundles — possibly millions.

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My first thought?

This is charity. Someone donated it anonymously.

But then I saw it.

A folded note tied to the bag with black thread.

The handwriting was rough, shaky, and almost torn into the page.

> “Don’t touch. This money is cursed. It was taken by blood — and will take blood.”

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I laughed nervously.

Maybe some kid’s prank.

Or a crazy old man being dramatic.

But the money… it was real.

And I was poor.

I had three daughters.

My rent was overdue.

We hadn’t had meat in weeks.

---

I told myself:

> “If I just use a little… Allah won’t mind. I’ll repay. It’s just sitting here.”

So I took three bundles.

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That Night

Everything was normal… until 2:17 AM.

A loud crash from the kitchen.

I rushed in.

Plates on the floor.

Fridge open.

The gas burner was on full flame.

No one else was awake.

And then my 6-year-old daughter started crying from her room.

> “Abu… why was that man in the kitchen?”

---

I searched the entire house.

Nothing.

But she kept pointing at the corner of the room.

> “He had red eyes. He was dripping water. He said ‘Put it back.’”

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I didn’t sleep that night.

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The Bleeding Begins

The next day, my eldest daughter fell down the stairs.

Her ankle snapped.

As I picked her up, I noticed — blood dripping from her nose.

No injury on her face.

Doctors couldn’t explain it.

That night, my wife fainted in the bathroom — slipped on water that came from nowhere.

And the house smelled of wet earth, even though it hadn’t rained.

---

By the third night, I was terrified.

I went back to the mosque.

Planned to put the money back quietly.

But the bag was gone.

Gone.

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The Old Man

I told the imam — nervously, carefully.

He didn’t speak.

He just walked into his office, came back with a file, and handed me an old newspaper clipping.

> “Man found dead in home after attempting black ritual with stolen mosque funds.”

Same mosque.

Same warning.

The money was stolen three years ago during renovations.

A man claimed it was his donation — and disappeared.

He was later found dead — drowned in his bathroom with no water present.

---

The imam said:

> “Since then, we don’t touch what isn’t ours. Not until someone claims it.”

I felt sick.

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The Return

That night, I gathered the money — every rupee I hadn’t used — and went to the mosque.

I placed it near the minbar.

Wrapped in white cloth.

With my own note:

> “I touched it. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

I prayed two rakahs.

Tears dripping onto the carpet.

And for the first night in a week…

No voices.

No bleeding.

Just sleep.

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The Last Dream

I saw a man standing in the mosque.

Soaking wet.

Holding the green bag.

He looked at me.

Smiled.

And said:

> “You did what others wouldn’t. You put it back. So now I can go.”

He turned…

And faded into the wall.

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Since then, peace has returned.

But I still walk into the mosque with my eyes low.

Because I know…

Not all charity is clean.

And not all money is meant to be held.

Some things… are meant to be feared.