A Witch in Greville Street

My lease was coming up at my apartment in Greville Street, Prahran. I loved living there. I even tried to buy the place off the landlord but we couldn’t agree on a price. He wanted more than I was willing to pay. So I let it go and decided to move on.

Around that time, I found a volunteer opportunity that came with housing. The role was called “Live-In Mentor.” You lived with young people from disadvantaged backgrounds and helped them with life skills, anything they might need a hand with. I liked the idea. I gave it a go.

At first, it was alright. But it didn’t take long before cracks started to show. There was hardly any real support from the program managers. The kids could basically do whatever they wanted with no consequences. I felt for them, one was turning 18, the other was 16 but it wasn’t a stable setup.

One day, I came home to find the 18-year-old’s mother sitting in the lounge room, drinking Jim Beam. Alcohol wasn’t allowed in the house but there she was, openly drinking. She looked unwell. Addiction was clearly a long-time struggle. There was nothing I could do. It wasn’t my place to police her. I quietly reported it to the program staff and left it to them.

Later, we had a scheduled monthly meeting at the house. A few staff members came over, including one woman I’d always found okay, we got along alright. My friend and one of the boys were there too.

I brought up a few serious issues: the other boy had left the stove on more than once. My housemate and I had woken up to the smell of gas. He was also taking drugs, having mates over, it wasn’t a safe or stable environment. I thought the meeting was the right place to bring this up. I spoke honestly.

A few days later, I got a phone call from a different program manager. It started out normal but quickly escalated. She was yelling at me, saying it was totally inappropriate to raise my concerns at the meeting. I calmly explained that I’d been encouraged to speak up so I did. Her response made things very clear.

She was manic. She had no impulse control. I didn’t care for her tone, it just helped me make my decision faster.

I called her back and said, “Thanks for the opportunity, but I’m finishing up.” She was shocked. “You’re leaving now?” she asked. “Yep,” I said.

I started packing the car. She turned up at the house, surprised I was already on my way out. But I was done.

I moved back in with my parents for a while, then booked a trip to Greece to decompress.

But before I left, something strange happened.

One night, I had a horrible experience. I was in bed, completely paralysed. I had sleep paralysis, muscle cramps, nightmares. I was drenched in sweat, stuck between dream and waking. Something was seriously wrong.

When I finally snapped out of it, the first thought that hit me was: the social worker who chaired that meeting, she was doing black magic on me.

I had a vivid image of her dressed as a witch, all in black, in my old Greville Street apartment, doing some sort of black magic ritual. She was obviously into witchcraft. She was trying to put something on me. It was like she’d left behind an energetic fingerprint. But her spell didn’t land.

I called my friend C, who’d lived with me back then.

“Bro,” I said, “I just had the weirdest dream.”

“Bro, I know,” he said. “I was there.”

“What?”

“She was doing black magic on you,” he said. “Dressed like a witch. I saw her in your old apartment in Greville Street. I came in astrally and stopped it.”

We’d both had the same dream.

She did mean me serious harm but it got stopped.

My friend confirmed what I already sensed. It was her. And somehow, we both saw it.

But she didn’t realise something important.

She didn’t know the kind of love I carry in my heart.

She didn’t know I’m protected by the Most High.

And in the end, it never touched me.