The Scent of Wood and Smoke

It has been six weeks since I published my last notes on the presence. The dreams have stopped, and the whispers have faded into silence. I no longer wake with the taste of copper in my mouth or the feeling of being watched from the darkest corner of my apartment. But the movement persists. A coffee mug slides from the counter to the floor, shattering with a sound that seems too loud in the empty kitchen. The pages of the book I left on the nightstand are flipped to a different chapter when I return from work. The salt shaker moves from the table to the windowsill. I have learned to live with it, to accept that some things are simply beyond explanation.

Last week, I decided to try something different. I bought a box of sandalwood incense from a dusty shop on the edge of town. The owner, an old woman with milky eyes, had smiled at me as I paid. ‘For the one who lingers,’ she said. ‘It will help you find each other.’ I didn’t ask what she meant. I simply took the box and left, the scent of the incense clinging to my fingers for the rest of the day.

That night, I lit a single stick in my bedroom. The smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, and for a moment, I felt a presence—something warm and familiar, like a hand resting gently on my shoulder. It was not the cold, oppressive weight I had felt before, but something softer, almost comforting. I closed my eyes and let the smell wash over me.

Since then, the experiences have intensified. I feel the touch more often now—a brush against my arm in the kitchen, a pressure on my back as I sit reading, a phantom hand resting on my shoulder just before I fall asleep. Each time, I look down, expecting to see my shirt rumpled or my skin prickled with goosebumps. But there is nothing there. The touch is real, but it leaves no mark.

Last night, I woke at 3:33 AM to the scent of sandalwood. The room was dark, but I could see a faint outline at the foot of my bed—a shape that seemed to shimmer like heat rising off asphalt. It stood there for a long moment, and I felt the pressure on my shoulder again, firmer this time. I turned my head slowly, but there was nothing behind me. When I faced the foot of the bed again, the shape was gone.

I lay awake until dawn, trying to make sense of what I had seen. The presence had never manifested visually before. Something had changed. I looked at the box of incense on my nightstand, the sticks now half-gone. I wondered if I had inadvertently bound myself to this entity, or if I had simply opened a door that should have remained shut.

The following day, I bought another box of incense—a different scent, patchouli. When I lit it that evening, the atmosphere in my apartment shifted. The air grew heavy, and the temperature dropped. I felt a chill run down my spine, and for the first time, the touch on my shoulder was not comforting. It was possessive, almost hungry.

I stood in the middle of my living room, the smoke curling around me, and I whispered, ‘What do you want?’ There was no answer, but the pressure on my shoulder increased, and I felt something cold against my ear, like a breath. A voice, barely a whisper, seemed to form in my mind: ‘You called.’

I have not burned any incense since. But the presence has become more insistent. The touches are no longer gentle; they are firm, almost bruising. I have started to see shadows in the corners of my vision, always darting away when I turn to look. And last night, I found the incense box open on the floor, a single stick lying beside it, as if waiting to be lit.

I do not know what I have summoned. I do not know if the bargain I made with the old woman has cost me more than I intended. All I know is that the scent of sandalwood now clings to my clothes, my hair, my skin. And the presence is no longer content to merely touch my shoulder. It wants more.

Tonight, I will light the final stick. I will sit in the dark and wait. If I am lucky, the presence will be satisfied with what it has already taken. If I am not, well—I have always been curious about what lies on the other side. Perhaps this is my chance to find out.