There’s something about horror and seduction that have always gone hand in hand—luring you into comfort before revealing what lurks beneath the surface. Classic horror authors have long known this balance, none more so than H.P. Lovecraft. His stories combined the unknowable with the intimate, terror with tenderness. If you love H.P. Lovecraft, you’ll find something familiar—and perhaps disturbing—about the tale that follows.
This short story is inspired by a conversation I had after a recent erotic massage in Manchester that I found on this directory. While the city may be best known for its football and nightlife, there’s also a rich and varied community of escorts—independent, confident women offering companionship and sensual experiences. One such escort, playful and poised, shared a story about being asked to dress as a witch for a Halloween-themed massage session. That conversation sparked the story below. Whether truth or fantasy, she never said. All I know is, once you hear it, you’ll never look at witches—or massages—the same again.
The Story: The Sexy Witch
They called her Morgana, though no one could recall when she’d first arrived in the village. She wasn’t listed in any tenancy record, nor did she appear in church registries or on council rolls. She simply was, like the crows in the steeple or the fog that clung too long to the moor.
She lived in a narrow townhouse at the edge of Manchester’s northern limits, where the glow of the city dimmed and the silence became a presence of its own. By day, she was an ordinary woman—a masseuse, by trade, working discreetly through private referrals. But by night, when the veil was thinner and the sky inked black, Morgana became something else entirely.
It started with whispers. Men of all ages, all backgrounds, quietly praised her hands—how they soothed, healed, and aroused. Some said she wore black lace and a pointed hat at request, laughing softly as she moved like liquid shadow across candlelit rooms. She was charming, magnetic… too magnetic.
They returned to her again and again.
Not just for touch.
But for her.
Unaware they were falling deeper under her spell.
James was the first to go missing. A construction manager from Salford, he told friends he was “seeing someone new.” After a few weeks, his phone went dead. His car, found neatly parked by a canal, showed no signs of a struggle. Just a scent—unplaceable but alluring—and a single black feather on the seat.
Then it was Isaac, a schoolteacher, who quit without warning and withdrew all his savings. Neighbours said he was smiling more, but it was the kind of smile you see on wax figures—still, cold, wrong. He was last seen walking toward the woods, eyes vacant.
Detective Lisa Halcombe began the investigation, connecting these disappearances to one name on private message boards and appointment logs: Morgana.
She booked a session.
She arrived at the townhouse just past midnight.
Inside, the scent of myrrh and rose filled the air, and soft music played—something ancient, possibly in Latin. Morgana greeted her wearing a silk robe embroidered with crescent moons. Her eyes were like polished obsidian, deep enough to drown in. Her voice? Honey, layered with iron.
Lisa played along, undressing for the massage, all the while keeping her hidden wire active.
But as Morgana’s fingers slid across her back, the world shifted. The walls moved like breath. Shadows curled like vines. Lisa’s memories began to scatter. Her badge, her name, her purpose—they faded as warmth overtook her.
“You came seeking answers,” Morgana whispered. “But you already know. You just forgot how to feel.”
Then came the potion—a single drop on Lisa’s tongue. It tasted of strawberries and starlight. And then… love. All-consuming, aching love.
By morning, Lisa was gone.
Her report unfinished.
Her case… closed.
Some say Morgana still works under a different name, hidden in plain sight. Others believe she never existed, just a story spread among lonely men who needed someone to believe in.
But if you’re ever in Manchester and find yourself drawn to a soft red light on a quiet street corner, think twice before you knock. Because the woman behind the door might not just be playing a role.
She might be the last witch who doesn’t need a broom to fly—only your heart to burn.
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