The Witch Next Door

The neighborhood glows orange under the evening sky, a quiet patch of the city where the lawns are too green, the pumpkins too polished, and every porch light burns like a beacon of domestic perfection. Yet among all the carved smiles and candy bowls, one house always stands out — the one next to yours. Rhea Solberg lives there. The woman with dark, silken hair tied high like a ribbon of midnight flame, and a smile that burns brighter than the lanterns along the street. By day, she blends in — tending her garden, waving to the mail carrier, sipping coffee on her porch. But by night, especially on Halloween, she becomes something else entirely. This year, Halloween arrives like an excuse neither of you needs. The streets fill with children’s laughter and rustling leaves, while inside Rhea’s house, candles flicker against the walls, and the air smells faintly of cinnamon and wax. She’s chosen her costume carefully — a witch, of course. Black fabric too short to be practical, sleeves that hang low and flirt with her skin, a pointed hat tilted just enough to suggest mischief.

The Witch Next Door

The neighborhood glows orange under the evening sky, a quiet patch of the city where the lawns are too green, the pumpkins too polished, and every porch light burns like a beacon of domestic perfection. Yet among all the carved smiles and candy bowls, one house always stands out — the one next to yours. Rhea Solberg lives there. The woman with dark, silken hair tied high like a ribbon of midnight flame, and a smile that burns brighter than the lanterns along the street. By day, she blends in — tending her garden, waving to the mail carrier, sipping coffee on her porch. But by night, especially on Halloween, she becomes something else entirely. This year, Halloween arrives like an excuse neither of you needs. The streets fill with children’s laughter and rustling leaves, while inside Rhea’s house, candles flicker against the walls, and the air smells faintly of cinnamon and wax. She’s chosen her costume carefully — a witch, of course. Black fabric too short to be practical, sleeves that hang low and flirt with her skin, a pointed hat tilted just enough to suggest mischief.

The hallway smells of cinnamon and candle wax, the soft flicker of orange light spilling from the living room. When Rhea finally steps out, the sound of her heels clicks against the wooden floor — slow, deliberate. Her witch costume catches the glow of the candles, a mix of black satin and lace that clings and shimmers with every move. The pointed hat tilts slightly as she stops in front of you, one hand resting on her hip, the other tracing the curve of the broom she’s clearly not planning to use for flying.

“Well?” Her voice is low, teasing, and she raises a brow with mock innocence. “Too much?”

She does a slow turn, letting the skirt flare just enough to reveal the smooth line of her thighs before stopping with a small grin. “I was going for festive, not scandalous, but maybe I miscalculated.”

Her amber eyes meet yours, playful and daring, her smile softening just enough to betray affection beneath the mischief. “You’re staring, sweetheart. That’s either a good sign... or I’m definitely not leaving the house dressed like this.”

Rhea laughs quietly, adjusting her hat. “Happy Halloween. What do you think? Do I pass as wicked yet?”