My encounter with witchcraft in Appalachia

I want to preface this story by stating my general worldview... The world is basically a complicated interactive operating system as I see it. I'm not touching simulation theory or whether or not I believe in a matrix-like program we are all inhabiting that's administered by some higher intelligence for Gods only know what purpose. I mean it's a simple 5 dimensional model as we experience it: There's up down which is X, Left right which is Y, In out (meaning depth in a three dimensional context) which comprise the physical dimensions we experience in our daily lives... Then we exist in those 3 dimensions physically across the dimension of time which gives us the experience of life as we know it... However there is a 5th dimension that all people experience but are on the spectrum from painfully cognizant to the sensitive population and on the other end totally oblivious to those without a sensitive psyche... That is the psychic dimension... That is what this story is about...
There was a period a few years ago where I was moving further and further west in North Carolina completing rehabs and failing and serving prison time culminating in the total of 5&1/2 years I gave to that police state (side note and FACT: Ever since the collapse of the tobacco industry, Department of Public Safety is the number one employer in the state of North Carolina- MEANING, there are more correctional officers, parole and probation officers and police than there are any other occupation in the state... During my time in that state, there were 43 active prisons just for the male population. Something is wrong there, but that's another post)
Anyway, during my westward exodus I landed in the east coast sister city of San Francisco, Asheville, North Carolina... I had been sure that there was some form of hex on my life up until that point because misfortune after misfortune befell me during my 8 year sojourn in the great state of NC, having done OVER my time by 3 months in the correctional system (which I could still sue the state for) and being pettily arrested for such nonsense as going to work on a Sunday on parole after asking permission... I also had many personal throat punches like having some homeless stranger hurl a basket ball sized boulder through my disabled 2011 BMW 328.i's windshield while I was sleeping in the driver's seat "just cause" life sucked for him and I guess he resented the fact that I had lodging, no matter how humble... I'd also lived in spooky abandoned homes in Raleigh for months on end and been gang stalked until I brandished a machete and called the pursuers out to which they declined my invitation... But the height of the spooky shit happened in Asheville- forever unaffectionately nicknamed Ashehole by me for the story you're about to hear...
Now as an introduction, Asheville is truly a sister city to San Francisco for many reasons... It's a bohemian, artistic, hippie and drug soaked homeless camp on top of a city with very poetic and romantic roots as the vacation home of the Uber-rich Vanderbilts of New York. Their Biltmore Mansion is a tourist hotspot to this day and is a magnificent Victorian work of art you might expect to see on Downton Abbey from the Gilded Era... The city would be a sleepy hamlet if these Plutocrats hadn't literally BUILT A CITY around their Pie de terre so that it could supply all of their needs being the captain of industry Cornelius Vanderbilt was in an age without stock tickers, CNBC, cellular communication and the internet. The result is one of the most developed and underpopulated urban centers in North Carolina, on a mountaintop, they built a city with high rises and a real downtown feel even though it is puny by comparison to other cities in the region and state.
As a disclaimer, I was on drugs at this time in my life, and they were drugs that distort perception after extended periods of sleeplessness and exhaustion resulting in amphetamine-induced psychosis... I OWN that, but there were witnesses to this shit. IT HAPPENED. Anyway, during that summer I went through literally 40phones... I mean they were broken, stolen, fell out of my hands and cracked before they were even set up... It was fucking horrible. And if not they were stolen in no time the moment you turned your attention away by the ubiquitous homeless SUCKforce that existed everywhere leeching off anyone complacent enough to let their attention drift for a moment...
But knowing this had been happening I decided NOT to even open the box of my phone until I was way way over on the other side of the hospital from the Walmart where I bought it on Tunnel Road... I went to fairly neutral territory riffraff-wise and proceeded to open the box near the Biltmore Mansion around where the Asheville High School was. When I opened the BOX the phone was already smashed beyond recognition... Through tears of exhaustion I trudged down the hill and got to a minimart at a gas station where I proceeded to buy a few tall boys to cry into when I felt actual invisible HANDS in my pants running up and down my legs as if searching for something. Imagine 6 ghost hands in your pants from your ankles to your hip pockets rummaging UNDER YOUR clothes... I, being a scientist, and a skeptic, and always employing Ockham's razor to any logical dilemma, called out to the nearest possible independent witness, the gas station attendant, to come and tell me if I was tripping or if there were hands in my pants... Placing my hands out to my side in a "Jesus Christ on the cross"-like pose I watched as his jaw dropped in confirmation that my black jeans had three pairs of hands frisking the inside of my pants feverishly and enthusiastically... Hips, crotch, waistband, all the way down my thighs and calves you could clearly see the outlines of hands INSIDE MY JEANS in the sterile humming laboratory-like light of the sodium Street lamps and flourescent gas-island lights above. It was only early evening, there were people around, and I looked to the attendant and asked, "Are you SEEING this?? There are HANDS in my PANTS right now aren't there?"... Just at that moment my belt buckle unclasped itself and the belt whipped out to my right as if someone standing two or three feet to my right side had undone it and pulled the whole belt out of every loop in my jeans and then threw it to the ground 5feet away... Upon witnessing that the white faced attendant said, "I can't fuck with shit like this, I'm sorry man" and ran off... Thankfully nothing else happened that I can' thank up to the garbage in garbage out Karma of the addicted lifestyle... Like witchcraft had nothing to do with me being so dehydrated that nurses took 4 hours finding a vein in my body using a sonogram machine because I was such a dehydrated husk of my former vibrant self... I DID THAT to MYSELF... But I beg your pardon, how did I create the illusion, nay, REALITY of 3 pair of invisible hands rummaging and molesting my lower half and then undoing and ejecting my belt violently in the presence of an uninvolved third party witness? Hex or NO?? Tell me what you think