You never truly know fear until you get a massage in October. It sounds peaceful—candles, soft music, maybe lavender in the air—but then the lights dim, the walls creak, and suddenly your “relaxation session” feels like a ghost audition.
The room always smells amazing. A mix of oils and mystery. You lie down, convincing yourself this is self-care, not a séance. The massage therapist whispers, “Take a deep breath.” You do—and hear something shuffle behind you.
You tell yourself it’s the towel. It’s always the towel. Definitely not an ancient spirit who just wants a shoulder rub too.
The first touch is magic—or at least that’s what it feels like. Your stress begins to leave your body in waves, escaping like ghosts released from an attic. You exhale. The creaking stops. You think maybe, just maybe, you’ve entered peace.
But peace never lasts. Somewhere in the room, something drops—a faint tap. The therapist doesn’t react. You, however, are wide awake now, debating whether to ask if that was the oil bottle or your sanity falling over.
Then comes the background music. Normally, it’s flutes and waterfalls. But tonight? It sounds suspiciously like whispers. You try to focus on your breathing, but the rhythm feels off—like someone else is breathing with you.
You’d look around, but you’re face-down in a hole and half-covered in a towel. Vulnerability level: 100. You decide that if you get haunted, at least you’ll have relaxed shoulders.
The therapist glides over your back, finding every knot like they have a sixth sense. Maybe they do. It’s spooky season, after all. Every press feels like they’re kneading the stress out of your mortal soul.
You start drifting—half asleep, half suspicious. Your brain flickers between “this feels amazing” and “who’s touching my aura?”
Then, as if summoned by your thoughts, a faint draft brushes your toes. You freeze. The therapist says nothing. You try to act cool, even though your fight-or-flight response is politely asking for a refund.
Minutes pass. You finally relax again. Your arms go limp. Your mind drifts into what can only be described as “haunted nap mode.”
Suddenly, you hear a voice. “How’s the pressure?” You jump, because for a split second, you forgot anyone else was in the room. “Perfect,” you squeak, lying through your teeth because you’re 60% spooked, 40% goo.
The massage continues, and you melt back into the table. It’s bliss. You no longer care if there are ghosts. In fact, if one wants to work on your upper back tension, you’d welcome the help.
Your thoughts slow down. Your heartbeat syncs with the sound of gentle rubbing oil. You’ve left the physical world. You’re floating between comfort and confusion.
Then—creak. The door moves slightly. Neither of you mentions it. You both agree silently that it didn’t happen. That’s the massage pact.
Finally, the session ends. The therapist whispers, “Take your time.” You lie there like a possessed marshmallow, too relaxed to move. You’re 90% muscle jelly and 10% confusion.
When you finally sit up, your hair’s a mess, your skin’s glowing, and your sense of reality has left the building. You don’t even care if the mirror fogs up mysteriously as you leave.
Outside, the world feels sharper, louder, alive. You walk out floating, half-human, half-lotion. A black cat crosses your path, and you just smile like, “Yeah, me too.”
That night, you sleep like a ghost—silent, still, and deeply at peace. You dream of soft hands, warm towels, and zero rent payments.
Because at the end of the day, Halloween massages aren’t scary. They’re just a reminder that sometimes, to face life’s monsters, you need to let someone else untangle the knots you’ve been haunting yourself with.
So next time you feel the world creeping in, remember: the only thing scarier than stress… is skipping your massage.