Witchcraft on the West Side

Dear Diary:

I had just learned the reason for the strange feelings and sounds in my prewar apartment on the Upper West Side: The previous resident, a young, handsome doctor, had committed suicide there. Lost in thought in the West 80s, I passed a small witchcraft shop in a brownstone near Broadway. Intrigued, I walked in and was immediately entranced by the smells and the colors, the candles, the jars full of mysterious-looking powders and the sign that read: “Spells and potions available on request.” The shop was run by two sisters, a redhead and a brunette, who were “witches.”

I blurted out: “I think my apartment might be haunted.” I explained about the former tenant’s suicide. “Is there a spell for this?” She smiled and said, “That’s easy.” She began mixing colored powders together, gave me a candle and instructed me to pour the mixture into a dish, light the candle, walk into all corners of my apartment with the burning incense and recite the words she wrote down for me.

I felt that perhaps she was getting ready to rip me off, but she rang up $2.87 â€" a bargain indeed!

I went home and did exactly as she said. In the days that followed, I felt as if the apartment had changed; it somehow felt happier.

One day I thought I should go back into the shop and thank the witch. I went back to where I thought the shop was, but nothing was there. So I strolled block by block through the entire neighborhood and nothing. I can only suppose it was like Harry Potter’s Room of Requirement, perhaps? It was there when I needed it and then vanished into the subway steam.

Read all recent entries and our updated submissions guidelines. Reach us via email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter using the hashtag #MetDiary.