The Bufferwraith exists in the tiny gap between pressing play and seeing something happen. Most of those gaps close harmlessly. A few grow long enough to develop an opinion. Leave enough imaginary loading screens unfinished, and something eventually starts watching from the other side.
Its head is a broken circle of glowing segments, forever chasing a final piece that never arrives. Thin sheets of screen glass form its shoulders, while ribbons of violet pixels trail through its body. It moves in little jumps, as though the room cannot quite agree on where it should be.
The haunting begins with a familiar irritation. A film pauses at the most interesting moment. A voice says half a word. A loading symbol turns with ridiculous confidence. Then the scene resumes, but a background chair has moved closer to the camera.
The Bufferwraith loves anticipation. It cannot resist a mystery, a cliffhanger or somebody saying, just wait until you see this. Its favourite homes belong to people who keep several shows unfinished. In its private collection, every detective is about to reveal a name and every spaceship is about to open a door.
It is not especially brave. Sudden endings confuse it, and a story that resolves neatly can make its outline collapse into a shower of dim squares. It prefers endless previews because a promise is much more nourishing than a conclusion.
According to the fictional field guide, the gentlest way to dismiss it is to tell a very short story with a definite ending. Begin, explain what happened and finish without teasing a sequel. The creature will wait for one last twist. When none comes, its circle finally closes, and the room becomes wonderfully still.
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