When the unexpected light appears in my bedroom, I open my eyes expecting to have to scold my kitty Japurri Purrker for turning on the lightswitch, as he is prone to doing in the middle of the night. But the light filling the room does not have its source in the lightbulb above my head. Instead, there is a ghostly figure, emanating pure white light, standing in front of my still-closed door.
Since my life has been a series of strange, sometimes supernatural, occurrences, I am not filled with terror at this spectral apparition as the average person would be. Japurri, too, is not perturbed; he merely curls his body away from the brightness and puts a paw over his eyes. “Who are you?” I ask the indistinct entity.
“Think about it, DownToBuck. Think about your transgressions. Then you will tell me who I am.”
“Transgressions? I have no transgressions in my life,” I reply automatically, and for that brief second, I believe it. I live my life with honor, never doing wrong when doing right is an option. However, the ghost assails me with a pointed stare which seems to draw out repressed memories from my mind. I wince in shame as the shadowy remembrances graze the edge of my consciousness. “This is about my channel, isn’t it?”
The ghost rolls its eyes. “I addressed you by your online pseudonym DownToBuck, not your birth name, so that would seem to be obvious.”
I am cowed by the ghost’s ruthless reply. “You’re the Ghost of Vengeful Scrubs. You probably want me to put Josh Richardson back on my channel. And Kyle Kuzma too. He sucks now.”
“Not quite,” says the ghost. “Let me show you what I mean, and then my identity will be clear.” Before I have a chance to protest, the ghost lunges for me and takes my hand in its own. As I am pulled upward from my bed, floating, I see Japurri get up and move into the recently-vacated warm spot. Then we fly through the ceiling as if it isn’t even there.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I say as we float through the apartment of the cute Latina who lives above me. I feel like a creeper when we pass through her bedroom on our way to the inky expanse of the night sky. In that starless night, I can see the scattered lights of the city below us, but the cars are going backwards on the streets. Even though I don’t feel anything, I know that we are traveling backwards through time.
The ghost’s cold grip pulls on me, and we are transported at a dizzying speed to a new location I do not recognize. Far above this new place, the ghost turns to address me. “Let me show you the transgressions which you have, to now, failed to acknowledge.” Before I can protest this unfair characterization, we float down to look into the room of a residence.
“Here is Brad Wanamaker,” said the ghost. “Watch as he spends the entire night refreshing your channel, waiting for a video which was never uploaded.”
“He scored fourteen with five assists,” I whisper to myself. Then, defiantly, assertively: “I was really busy that day!” I avoid any direct glances towards Brad’s sadness-lined face.
Thankfully, the ghost takes me by the hand, and we again travel through both time and space to a new location. Here, there are mountains, and, as we get closer to another house, a forgotten sin of my past comes rushing back into my memory. “No…no…” I murmur, shaking my head with eyes closed.
“You know who this is, don’t you, DownToBuck?”
“Malik Beasley,” I say, not daring to open my eyes to see what is in front of them. However, I feel chilly fingers groping at my eyelids, and they are forced open to see Malik lying on his bed morosely with phone in hand, scrolling down the list of DownToBuck videos on the eve of his scoring sixteen points. “Do not show me this!” I exclaim. “I do not wish to see it!”
“These are scenes of your own creation,” the ghost replies. “The hurt you have caused should not be so easily forgotten!”
“No more!” I cry out, trembling in fear of what I will be shown next.
“Very well,” answers the ghost, and we undertake one final disorienting journey that leave us back in my apartment, standing next to the highlights den where my desk and computer are. When I turn to go back to bed, a ghostly hand on my shoulder stops me and steers me back to my desk. So I sit down at the chair, wondering what will happen next.
“I will trust that you will make the right decision, now that you know who I am,” says the ghost.
The ghost’s identity is painfully clear now. “The Ghost of Ignored Role-Player Performances Past,” I whisper. Then, as I ready myself to make my next video, a depiction of Furkan Korkmaz scoring sixteen points which I had not planned to make, the bright light behind me disappears, leaving only darkness behind. I am alone again.
But I will never be truly alone, for the Ghost of Ignored Role-Player Performances Past will always haunt me.