I Paid a Witch to Erase My Memories But They’re Coming Back

I Paid a Witch to Erase My Memories But They’re Coming Back

You don’t find witches in neon-lit cities or suburban cul-de-sacs. You find them in the cracks of reality between the forgotten and the forbidden. I didn’t seek her out because I believed in magic. I sought her because I was desperate to forget.

It was the third sleepless week since the event. I won't go into details not yet. But let's just say, heartbreak was the kindest part of it. There are some memories that burn every time you close your eyes. I needed peace. Silence. Escape.

So, I found her.

The Witch of Black Hill Lane

Her shop didn’t have a name. Just a green curtain over a rusted iron door on Black Hill Lane a street no GPS would recognize.

Inside, it smelled of cinnamon, soil, and secrets. She was old, but not fragile. Her eyes held centuries. She didn’t ask questions, just watched me with the same detached empathy as a surgeon before a dangerous procedure.

You want the forgetting, she said, not asked.

I nodded.

What memory?

All of it,” I said. “Everything after her.

The witch smiled, sad and almost… afraid.

Magic isn’t neat. When you erase something, something else takes its place. A crack doesn’t disappear it just shifts.

I didn’t care. I gave her the money. A small fortune, but peace has no price tag when you're drowning in your own mind.

The Ritual

It wasn’t dramatic. No fire or incantations. Just a cup of dark tea brewed with crushed herbs, ashes, and something unspoken. I drank. She whispered a single word into my ear too soft to catch. And then... blackness.

When I woke up, the ache was gone. No tears. No face haunting me in photographs. My phone had been wiped of names I didn’t recognize. My journals were blank past a certain date. It worked.

It really worked.

The Ritual

It wasn’t dramatic. No fire or incantations. Just a cup of dark tea brewed with crushed herbs, ashes, and something unspoken. I drank. She whispered a single word into my ear too soft to catch. And then... blackness.

When I woke up, the ache was gone. No tears. No face haunting me in photographs. My phone had been wiped of names I didn’t recognize. My journals were blank past a certain date. It worked.

It really worked.

For a While

For a few weeks, life felt light. I laughed again. Slept through the night. The world wasn’t full of landmines anymore. It was quiet. Bearable.

But then… the dreams began.

First, they were abstract shadows in fog, music I couldn’t name, the shape of a hand brushing against mine. Then faces. Her face. Half-formed, like a memory clawing its way out of a shallow grave.

I started hearing a name I didn’t recognize in strangers' conversations. Smelling her perfume in elevators. I would walk into a room and know I had once stood there with someone but couldn’t recall who.

The Cracks

Soon, I found an old notebook in the back of my closet. Scribbled pages I don’t remember writing. Drawings of a woman with laughing eyes and a broken smile. One page simply read:

She told me the forgetting isn’t forever.

I began to unravel.

Sometimes I’d wake up crying with no idea why. My fingers would type out a name into search bars before I could stop myself. One night, I found a voicemail buried deep in a hidden folder on my phone.

It was her.

If you’re listening to this… the spell didn’t hold.

I dropped the phone.

The Witch’s Warning

I returned to Black Hill Lane.

But the door was gone.

Just a crumbling wall and a boarded window. As if the shop had never existed. Or had moved on, like the witch knew it would be hunted.

I tried to find another way ritual forums, black-market spellcasters, even therapy. But nothing stopped the memories from leaking back in.

They returned like ink in water, slowly, and then all at once.

The laughter. The betrayal. The blood.

Yes, I remember it now.

What I Tried to Forget

She wasn’t just someone I loved.

She was someone I hurt. Maybe not with hands but with truth, with lies, with silence. Maybe she was the one who broke first. Or maybe I pushed her to the edge. I don’t know anymore who was right or wrong. Maybe we both were.

But I asked for those memories to be stolen. I chose ignorance over growth. And now that they’re coming back, they’re bringing something else with them:

Guilt. Clarity. And a deep, aching need to fix what I can if anything’s left.

The Final Memory

Last night, I remembered the last thing she ever said to me.

Don’t forget me. Not even the pain. That’s the only way you’ll understand who you are.

Now I finally do.

I’m not the person who needed to forget. I’m the one who needs to remember so I never become that lost again.

Some Memories Refuse to Die

Magic is never clean. And forgetting doesn’t mean healing it just delays the reckoning.

If you’re reading this and thinking of doing what I did, don’t.

Some memories are poison. But even poison has purpose. Even pain, when faced, can become a compass.

And when the memories come back as they always do you’ll need to be ready.

Kindly Subscribe My Page:

Thanks Everyone