I cast an appraising eye over my handiwork. Something was still missing. I thought for a moment and then dug through a box until I’d found my grandmother’s ashtray. Granny Wanda had smoked like a chimney—as a girl I’d been convinced she was part dragon—and her beautiful cornflower-blue ashtray with its inside crisscrossed with delicate gold lines was always within arm’s reach. It was the only thing I had wanted after she had passed on, and I had kept it by my bed as a catchall ever since.

I reverently placed the ashtray on the table in front of the flowers and then balanced the smudge stick on the ashtray. I snapped a few pictures with my DSLR, then ignited the stick and took a few more. I reviewed the images on the camera and smiled. I had been right; there was something alluring and beautiful about the smoke curling up from the shot. The brilliant blue of the ashtray provided a necessary pop of color in an otherwise monochrome setting. It was an arresting image.

I put down my camera in favor of my iPhone and shot some video of myself wafting the smudge stick through the air—carefully keeping the angle tight so as not to reveal the mound of boxes. I checked the results. All good. I fluffed my hair and went live.

“Hey, everyone! Guess what I’m doing!” I held up the smoldering sage and wafted it back and forth in front of my face. The smoke made my eyes water, and I blinked as I set it back down in the ashtray. “I’m smudging my new apartment. Have any of you ever smudged your homes? I’d love to hear about it!”

I grinned as comments started rolling across the screen.

Love smudging!

Great lamp!

hi audrey!

“Shoot me a message and let me know if you have any great smudging tips!” I continued. “I’m a newbie.”

I like the table. Much better choice than that marble one.

I caught my breath. In the years I’d been sharing my life on the internet, I had received hundreds, if not thousands, of creepy, weird, and downright disgusting comments. I was largely immune to them, including the truly upsetting ones (even “your eyeballs would look perfect on my nightstand” had only bothered me for thirty minutes), but this one sent a real chill down my spine. I had been admiring a marble end table at CB2. Had someone been watching me?

I suddenly realized I hadn’t said anything for several seconds and forced myself back into action. Smiling hard to conceal my uneasiness, I said, “All right, guys, I’ve got to go and drive the negative energy out of this place! But send me your smudging stories! Talk soon.”

Hands shaking, I disconnected the livestream and watched the Stories I’d made about my shopping trip. There I was, meandering around the store without a care in the world—completely oblivious to someone who might have been following me—and giving a running commentary on pieces I liked. I relaxed when I saw myself trail fingertips along the smooth marble surface of a low-slung coffee table. So that was it. The commenter had seen it in my Stories.