2016

Once I settled in Vegas, I wasted no time finding an office and signed a lease within two weeks. Making money had always come naturally to me; until now. This time, no matter what I did or how much I spent on marketing, nothing stuck. Calls went unanswered, emails were ignored, and I couldn’t even give my services away for free. It felt like I was invisible.

I didn’t give up. I developed a new product that got enthusiastic feedback from several people in the auto industry. I even closed a deal worth $1.5 million a year, only to have the client suddenly cancel a few days later, with zero explanation. Over and over, the same pattern: every effort hit a wall. It made no sense, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, was working behind the scenes to keep me from moving forward.

Toward the end of 2016, I got a call from an old friend I hadn’t spoken to in eight years. Out of nowhere, I found myself telling him something I’d never said to anyone: I thought my ex had put a curse on me. For someone who never believed in that stuff, it was a strange thing to say, especially to him, not my closer friends.

He immediately launched into a story about a friend of his: a woman who’d suffered for years, unable to get pregnant, plagued by health problems, and whose husband, once successful, had been broke for a decade. Things only turned around after she worked with a famous French psychic medium and a Muslim “good witch” in LA. The psychic revealed that her husband’s ex-wife had cursed them, and the witch “cleaned” her.

The two spiritual healers didn’t know each other, but this woman found both through her network. Once the French psychic said she needed to be “cleaned,” she found the Muslim witch to finish the job.

Curious and desperate, I asked my friend to connect me with this woman. She agreed to talk, and after our conversation, I was convinced enough to risk $300 to see if this could help me. She gave me the numbers for both the psychic and the witch. I decided to start with the psychic, Jasmine.

Jasmine asked to meet via Skype audio and requested photos of deceased loved ones I was close to. She didn’t know my full name, and I paid with a PayPal account that didn’t reveal my identity; she only had the pictures and first names. She warned me that sometimes she couldn’t reach loved ones on the first try, but could still provide value if that happened. I was skeptical, but open, especially after the uncanny predictions I’d heard from the Vietnamese psychic in 2011.

On the day of our session, Jasmine immediately said my grandmother was with her and mentioned being sad when I was in Vietnam; comparing it to her own experience living in another state when she was young. I corrected her, saying my grandmother lived her whole life in Pennsylvania. Jasmine insisted otherwise. After a few back-and-forths, I suddenly remembered: my grandmother ran away to Detroit for a year with my grandfather before my dad was born. In that moment, I broke down in tears, realizing I really was communicating with my grandmother. Jasmine, channeling her, instantly apologized for upsetting me, even though she couldn’t see or hear me react. That hit me hard.

Jasmine explained that psychic mediums are like radio antennas; strong spirits can tune in and communicate directly. After a few minutes, my great-grandmother took over and became the main presence, with occasional connections from my father, grandmother, grandfather, and my friend Jett.

To prove it was real, my great-grandmother told Jasmine to share something about my ex that no one else knew: my ex had been raped by her father, grandfather, and three uncles starting at age five. That’s exactly what Hong had tearfully confessed to me one night in Vietnam in 2011. I hadn’t told a soul. I was floored.

I didn’t record that first session, but I recorded 80% of the later ones and plan to share highlights and context. Jasmine filled in so many gaps from 2009–2015 that I never could have figured out on my own.

At the end of the session, I booked a four-hour follow-up and called the Muslim witch, Zulfiya, to see what she could offer. Jasmine, channeling my great-grandmother, told me I needed to be “cleaned”, that I had many evil curses and demons attached to me because my ex and her family practiced voodoo regularly. According to Jasmine, they were a “devil family” who did this all the time.

For the first time, I felt like I was finally getting answers; and a path to fight back.

Zulfiya, the “good” Muslim Witch

The day after my session with Jasmine, I called Zulfiya, the Muslim witch. Unlike Jasmine, Zulfiya needed to see me in person, she was based in Los Angeles, so I set up an appointment three days later and made the five-hour drive from Vegas.

Zulfiya’s main talent is reversing spells and sending the energy back to whoever cast the curse. She can also communicate with spirits, but only those she works with regularly, not the “chosen ones” like Jasmine can reach. When I arrived, she made coffee and asked me to cut a deck of old tarot cards, which she then meditated on. Immediately, she told me about my ex’s childhood abuse; her father and three uncles raped her as a child. (She missed the grandfather, but this wasn’t even supposed to be her specialty, so I was still impressed.)

She explained that Vietnamese women are among the world’s most powerful when it comes to voodoo, and their magic is some of the most potent and dangerous. According to Zulfiya, my ex had done a massive job on me: I had 88 evil spirits attached. Hong had supposedly performed multiple love spells and death curses, using voodoo dolls mixed with rotten meat, my hair, my sperm (which she’d saved), spat on, stabbed, and then buried in a cemetery. Zulfiya said it was a potent blood curse, and the only way to remove it was to sacrifice a black chicken.

She didn’t quote a price, just said to pay what I thought was fair, and that she’d contact me after finding a black chicken from her farmer. I agreed and drove back to Vegas to wait.

A week went by with no word, so I called Zulfiya. She told me her farmer didn’t have a black chicken yet. I asked if I could look for one myself, and she said yes, just make sure it had black feathers, gender didn’t matter. Five minutes later, driving home from the gym, I saw a guy on horseback (rare for Vegas). I pulled over, asked if he knew where I could buy a black chicken, and he said, “I have one.” He offered to sell it for whatever I wanted; I said $40, he agreed, and I could pick it up whenever.

I called Zulfiya right away. At first, she thought I was joking, but quickly realized I was serious. We scheduled the ceremony for two days later. I could tell she wasn’t excited about doing the sacrifice; she admitted she hadn’t done one in four years because she only did them when absolutely necessary.

Then she told me the price: $1,500 for the ceremony. I wasn’t thrilled, but reluctantly agreed. I called Jasmine to ask my great-grandmother (through her) if it was worth it. Jasmine said yes; do it. Jasmine and Zulfiya didn’t know each other, so Jasmine’s encouragement carried weight. She even told me that Zulfiya was nervous, because she’d absorb the bad energy released from me during the sacrifice. That’s why Zulfiya had been hesitant to move forward.

If you want to hear the audio snippet of Jasmine relaying my grandmother’s and friend’s approval of Zulfiya and the ceremony, just click the button below.

The day before Thanksgiving 2016, I met up with Vic, the guy with the black chicken, and hit the road to L.A. with the chicken taped inside an empty beer case. I arrived around 5 PM, but Zulfiya said we’d need to wait until after sunset to begin. When the time came, she started reading verses, possibly from the Quran, but I couldn’t understand the language. The room was lit with several candles, and as the ritual reached its climax, Zulfiya gently slit the chicken’s throat. The bird didn’t fight or make a sound; it was almost as if it knew it was taking one for the team.

She mixed the chicken’s blood with some kind of plant and spices, soaking candles wrapped in string in the mixture, then wiped the blood on different parts of my body, including my face. She poured candle wax over the chicken’s body, wrapped it in a brown paper bag, and handed it to me. I was instructed to drive at least two miles away, drop the bag on a side street, and leave without looking back.

Zulfiya told me not to wash the blood off until after I’d burned one of seven candles, starting at midnight that night; one candle each night for seven nights. She also warned me that my son was a special, old soul, and might see spirits in the house over the next several days.

I set off for Vegas, stopping two miles out to drop the chicken as directed. At a McDonald’s drive-thru, the girl at the window gave me a look like I was out of my mind; can’t blame her, with blood still on my face. But I stuck to Zulfiya’s instructions: no washing up until the first candle was completely burned. Sometimes, you just have to trust the process; even when it feels surreal.

The Night that Changed Everything

I got back to Vegas at 11:15 PM, paid the babysitter (still with blood on my face), and just told her, “Don’t ask.” My son was out cold within ten minutes of me getting home. I waited until midnight, as Zulfiya instructed, and lit the first candle.

What happened next was beyond anything I could have imagined. Within ten seconds of lighting the candle, I saw three transparent, black-smoked, Asian-looking spirits, about five feet tall, glide through my living room and right out the back door. I just stood there, stunned. It was my first ever ghost sighting, and I was stone-cold sober, no alcohol, no drugs, not even tired enough to be dreaming.

A minute later, a black cloud, like a swarm of gnats, began forming in the living room, growing and creeping toward me. It was surreal. I wasn’t scared, just in awe. Then I noticed a white spirit, about six feet tall, standing by the front door, arms moving rapidly as if blocking something from coming in. The black cloud was now inches from my face.

Unsure what to do, I remembered what my dad told me in a dream a week after he died. I forcefully declared, “My relationship with Jesus Christ,” and made a cross with my fingers like in a B-grade horror flick. Instantly, the black cloud recoiled, slamming back onto the ceiling and wall, where it pulsed as if regrouping. It started swirling again, coming at me, but the cross trick didn’t work this time. After a couple more minutes, the cloud exploded and vanished, leaving behind a white spirit that smiled at me for a second before disappearing too.

I took a shower and went to bed, still trying to process what I’d just experienced. That night changed the way I saw everything.

The next night, I lit the second candle at midnight, just as instructed. This time, my son, who was only five and had no idea about the psychics or the rituals, was awake. We were lying in bed while the candle burned down in the kitchen for about 40 minutes.

Out of nowhere, he said, “Hey Dada, I see people.” I asked him where, and he pointed to the corner and up at the ceiling. I asked how many, and he replied, “Ten.” I asked if they looked happy or angry, and he said, “Happy.”

Just as Zulfiya had predicted, my son seemed to be seeing things; she’d said he was an old soul, sensitive to spirits. For the next several days, I could see grey clouds of smoke moving around the room, but nothing as clear or intense as that first night: the three Asian-looking spirits, the tall white spirit, the swirling black gnat-cloud, and the white spirit that emerged afterward. Still, the presence lingered, and my son’s innocent observations only confirmed what I already felt; there was a lot more going on than just candle wax and shadows.