The Lemon Oil Incident

I hadn’t written in four years. Not because nothing happened, but because the things that did happen were so mundane I couldn’t muster the energy to type them out. A floorboard creaking in the hallway at 3 AM, a whisper of air when the window was shut, the occasional feeling of being watched from the corner of my eye—nothing that would make a reader’s pulse quicken. But last Tuesday, something happened that made me want to scream into the void, and of course, the site was down when I tried.

I was in bed, my head at the foot of the mattress, a habit I’ve had since I was a kid. My husband, Marcus, had fallen asleep hours ago, his snoring a steady rhythm I’d grown used to. I don’t know why I woke up, but I was suddenly alert, staring at the wall two feet from my face. The room was dark, but a sliver of moonlight from the curtains cast a pale stripe across the plaster. I felt a warm presence behind me, the familiar dip of the mattress, and then—lips pressed against my lower back, right above my hipbone. It was a deliberate, affectionate kiss, the kind Marcus gives when he’s trying to be cute. I even heard the soft smack of it.

I smiled, my heart swelling with a sense of intimacy that I hadn’t felt in months. I rolled over, ready to return the gesture, to wrap my arm around his waist and murmur something silly. But when I turned, the bed beside me was empty—no, not empty. At the foot of the bed, where my head had been, there was a lump under the covers. Marcus’s feet. His toes poked out, the nail of his big toe slightly chipped, a detail I knew too well.

My blood ran cold. I froze, my hand hovering over the spot where he should have been. I whispered his name, and he stirred, mumbling something about how I was hogging the blankets. I sat up, my heart hammering. ‘Marcus, did you just kiss me?’ I asked, my voice trembling. He rolled over, groggy, and looked at me with confusion. ‘What? I’m over here, babe. You’re at the foot.’ His feet were still at the head of the bed, but he was turned toward me now, his face illuminated by the dim light. I saw his mouth, slack with sleep.

I stared at him, the memory of that kiss burning on my skin. ‘I felt a kiss,’ I insisted. ‘Right there.’ I touched the spot on my back. Marcus furrowed his brow, pulled the covers up, and said, ‘You’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.’ But I wasn’t dreaming. I was wide awake, and the sensation was so real, so distinct—the pressure of lips, the sound, the warmth of breath that preceded it. I lay back down, my body rigid, and I couldn’t sleep.

The next morning, I noticed the small bottle of lemon oil on the nightstand. I used it for my diffuser, a scent that reminded me of my grandmother. But there was a smudge on the glass, like a thumbprint, in the exact spot where the kiss had landed. I don’t know why that struck me as odd, but it did. I wiped it off, but the feeling lingered.

Two nights later, I woke again, this time at the foot of the bed, facing the wall. Marcus was snoring beside me, his arm flung over my legs. I was about to drift off when I felt it again—a kiss, this time on my shoulder blade. The unmistakable warmth, the soft pressure, the faint smack. I whipped around, but Marcus’s arm was still across my thighs, his head buried in the pillow, his breathing even. There was no one else in the room. The door was closed. The window was locked. And yet, I had felt a kiss.

I turned on the lamp, and the room flooded with light. Marcus grumbled, shielding his eyes. ‘What the hell?’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘There’s something here.’ He groaned, sat up, and looked around. ‘It’s just the house, babe. Old houses make sounds.’ But this wasn’t a sound. It was a touch. I got out of bed and inspected the room. Under the bed, in the closet, even in the hallway—nothing. I felt a draft from the vent, but it was too warm, too perfumed, like lemon oil.

I started sleeping with the lights on after that. Marcus, annoyed but supportive, indulged me. But the kisses continued. Every few nights, I’d wake to that phantom touch—on my neck, my hand, my hip. Each time, I’d jerk awake, and Marcus would be fast asleep, or sometimes awake, looking at me with a puzzled expression. ‘You’re twitching again,’ he’d mumble. The lemon oil bottle was always on the nightstand, even when I moved it to the bathroom. It would reappear in its spot, the smudge back, as if it had never been cleaned.

Last night, I decided to confront it. I stayed awake, my eyes fixed on the empty space beside me, where Marcus had rolled over to his side. I watched the clock tick from 2:13 to 2:14. I was about to close my eyes when I saw it—a shadow, darker than the room, coalescing at the foot of the bed. It moved, not like a person, but like a liquid, sliding up the mattress. It stopped right beside my hip, and I felt the slight depression of the mattress, as if something had placed a hand there. And then, a pair of lips formed out of the shadow, puckered, and pressed gently against my thigh. I felt every detail—the curve, the softness, the warmth. I screamed.

Marcus shot up, flicking the light on. The shadow was gone, but the spot on my thigh was tinged pink, like the beginning of a hickey. I looked at the nightstand. The lemon oil bottle was there, its glass reflecting the light. And on the glass, where a label would be, there was a faint outline of a mouth, smiling.

I haven’t told Marcus about the bottle. I don’t think he’d believe me anyway. I just know I can’t sleep without leaving the diffuser on, filling the room with that cloying lemon scent, hoping it masks something else. But even with the scent, I can feel it. It’s patient. And it’s waiting for me to fall asleep.

The site’s up now, so I’m posting this. I don’t know what I’m looking for—validation, advice, or maybe just to make it real. But if you experience a kiss that isn’t from anyone, check the lemon oil. And if it’s there, don’t wipe it off. It will only come back, stronger.

My name is Lena, and I’m sleeping with the lights on. But I don’t think that’s enough.