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: âSpells and potions available on request.â The shop was run by two sisters, a redhead and a brunette, who were âwitches.â
I blurted out: âI think my apartment might be haunted.â I explained about the former tenantâs suicide. âIs there a spell for this?â She smiled and said, âThatâs easy.â 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 Potterâs Room of Requirement, perhaps? It was there when I needed it and then vanished into the subway steam.
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