Throughout history, the sinister allure of ghost stories has woven itself into the very fabric of our culture. The crackling flames of a campfire cast dancing shadows on the eager faces huddled around. Blankets were draped over tense shoulders like shields from nightmares. Excitement evokes. It’s not just tales of apparitions that ignite delight, it’s the icy fingers of fear creeping their way down our spine, a thrill seeker’s heroin.
But what if the ghosts that haunt our existence emerge not from the afterlife, but from the very air we breathe? What if the true hauntings that leave us gasping for air and hiding from sight don’t come from the ghouls that we see in films but rather the perpetual effect of deceit and betrayal. What if our own ghost stories come from the very people that we allow into our lives?
Much like the campfires that illuminated those thrilling stories from our childhood, doubt can burn brighter with every log of deceit. The haunting reality of trust is that if you’re not careful, the flames of deception will burn a wound into you so deep that you’ll carry it with you for the rest of your life. Unlike scary stories that were told around the campfire, the ghost in my story is very much alive, and casts a haunting shadow over me to this day.
Middle school was an eerie tale all about transformation. Growth and self-discovery were brewing underneath layers of pimpled skin that roamed the hallways. Shy giggles behind trapper keepers and the echoing chime of locker doors ring throughout the confines of youth. Uniformity was the preteen core value and if you found yourself dabbling in the likes of individuality you were most certainly faced with the threat of social exile.
At the harrowing age of 12 years old, I was in the most fragile, insecure state of my life. This was a time when transformation was happening both internally and externally. While other girls my age were blossoming and catching boys’ attention, I was hiding in our downstairs bathroom armed with an arsenal of lemon juice and bleach, trying to erase the freckles on my arms. The result was less transformative and more of a citrusy disappointment.
I would look at myself in the mirror, a daily ritual of impatience and hope. I desperately waited for my boobs to make their appearance but that ship never quite sailed into harbor (spoiler: I’m still waiting). I was in a constant battle with my own reflection, sending missiles made of scowls and disgust into the battlefield of my conscience.
I was a scrawny, freckled-faced, redheaded girl that became an expert in the art of blending in. Although I longed for the attention from the middle school boys, they all seemed to live in a parallel universe, oblivious to my existence. Had I known at the time that I was wearing a proverbial cloak of invisibility, I may have pursued more creative hobbies rather than bike riding or drawing.
“Les! What are you doing?”
I sat the lemon juice on the counter and rubbed my forearm. Nothing seemed to change. My freckles were still very much prominent and I sulked as a sigh of frustration escaped. I looked up at the mirror and rubbed my face with the palm of my hand.
“This is bullshit.” I muttered to myself. I turned to the door. “I’m almost done!”
I took the lemon juice and bleach and hid it underneath the sink. Giving myself one last disgusted look in the mirror, I headed, defeatedly, into the kitchen where my mom was cooking dinner.
“What are you making?” I asked as I came up right behind her. I could already see the bubbling red lava in the sauce pan with peaks of chicken being stirred about.
“Chicken cacciatore.” My mom simply replied, ignoring the reaction that she knew was already on my face.
My nose was scrunched and I stuck out my tongue. Avoiding the looming thought of having to eat my least favorite meal, I headed to the parlor and sat down at the computer.
It was the dawn of the internet era and chat rooms were spreading across web pages like digital weeds. I reveled at the thought of being able to form connections without having to be shackled down by my physical appearance. I could shed my role as the knock-off Anne of Green Gables and wear confidence in the name of anonymity.
I spent countless hours consumed in conversations with strangers - my face illuminated by the cool glow of the screen. I was somewhere between the faultline of fantasy and reality. Chat after chat popped up onto my screen and filled my egotistical tank. People wanted to know who I was. I felt important in this digital landscape.
Ping!
Wrought1998: a/s/l?
I stared at my computer screen as the three letters stared back at me. What on earth did this mean? I leaned over to make sure that my mom was still preoccupied with cooking the poultry poison that I knew would eventually kill me.
I leaned back over and typed.
Tootsie8504: What does a/s/l mean?
I waited impatiently for the response. Nervous that I was getting into something that I shouldn’t, I chewed on my thumb nail and waited with my eyes locked on the chat bubble.
Wrought1998: it means age/sex/location
“Sex?” I whispered to myself. I bit my lower lip, a nervous habit I most definitely developed from watching the movie Clueless too many times. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to think swiftly.
Tootsie8504: 12/no/Indiana
Immediately the user responded.
Wrought1998: Woah! You’re way too young. And by the way, sex means if you’re male or female, kid.
Chat Ended.
I sat there, embarrassed by my naivety. I hesitated a little. I was probably one of the youngest people in the chatroom. There was no way that I’d be able to form great connections if everyone knew I was only 12.
“Les!” my mother shouted from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!”
“Ugh,” I grunted to myself. “I’m not hungry!”
“Turn the computer off and get your butt in here!” my mother shouted in her ‘I mean it’ voice.
I sighed and closed out the chat with Wrought1998.
Ping!
Bizzerkk86: a/s/l?
Frustrated that I needed to go eat dinner. I quickly responded to this stranger.
Tootsie8504: 12/female/Indiana. I know, I’m young.
Bizzerkk86: Hey, I’m 11/m/CA
My heart leapt. Holy crap, someone finally my age.
“Leslie, RIGHT NOW!” my mother was getting heated.
Tootsie8504: I have to go but will you be on in about an hour?
Bizzerkk86: Yeah, c-ya then!