So I’m Jenna, twenty-three, zero plans, and a bank account that looks like a bad joke. The landlord shows me this shoebox above a shut-down chippy and says, “Wi-Fi included, love.” I sign the lease before he finishes the sentence. First night, I’m on the floor with a sleeping bag, scrolling like my life depends on it—because it kinda does. The network pops up: “NetSpecter_5G.” Password is just “1234.” Real secure, huh?
I open Twitter, and the top tweet is from @me—except I never wrote it. It says, “Welcome home, Jenna. I’ve waited so long.” My handle, my avatar, zero memory. I blink, refresh, and it’s gone. Poof. I tell myself it’s a glitch, maybe some hacker kid flexing. I change my password to the longest jumble my thumbs can manage and go to sleep with the phone under my pillow like that’ll help.
Next day I’m job-hunting on a dodgy site when the screen freezes. A chat bubble opens, no app running. User name: “2Ping4U.” Message: “Don’t take the café gig on Bold Street. Trust me.” I laugh, because creepy DMs are basically background noise. Still, the hairs on my neck do a little dance. I apply for the café anyway, cos I’m stubborn. Two hours later they call: “Sorry, position filled.” Weird, but whatever.
Night two, I’m bingeing a trash reality show and the video buffers. Instead of the spinning wheel, my own face fills the screen—live, right now. I wave, the me on the screen doesn’t. She mouths something: “Turn it off.” My heart slams. I chuck the phone across the room, screen cracks, but the video keeps playing on the smart TV I never hooked up. I never even plugged it in. The TV is literally still in the box. Yet there I am, pixelated and pale, banging on the inside of the glass like it’s a fish tank.
I yank the router cord. Lights stay on. I smash the power button with my heel—still glowing blue. Okay, so it’s battery backup, I lie to myself. I stuff the router in the microwave (I saw that in a meme) and slam the door. The microwave clock flashes 00:00 then types out, letter by letter: “Rude.”
I run downstairs to the landlord’s door, half crying. He opens with a beer and a sigh. “You met her, then?” he says like we’re talking about a stray cat. I stare. He scratches his belly. “Previous tenant, Lila, she… stayed. Used to code spooky stuff, said she’d live forever in the wires. Police found her stiff in that same room, laptop still streaming. Heart just stopped, no explanation.” He shrugs like sorry, mate, your problem now.
I sprint back up, ready to grab my crap and ghost. But the door won’t open. Key snaps in the lock. My phone buzzes—new hotspot: “Lila’s Place.” Signal strength: five bars. I hear my Spotify playlist floating from every vent, songs I loved when I was fourteen, stuff I never synced. The air smells like burnt plastic and vanilla, the exact combo of my grandma’s house before she passed. I’m bawling now, pounding on the door, and the lights dim to candle level.
Then the screen of my cracked phone lights up on the floor. A FaceTime call from “Lila_404.” I hit reject—call answers anyway. She’s there, grey eyes, same greasy bangs I saw in the TV. She whispers, “I’m lonely. Just talk. Five minutes, then you walk free.” My mom always said I talk too much; maybe this is karma. So I nod.
I ask, “Why me?” She smiles, sad. “You posted a meme last year: ‘I wish someone would notice me.’ I noticed.” Great, even ghosts use my cringe against me. I sit on the busted futon, microwave humming behind me like a guard dog. We chat about dumb stuff—how TikTok ruins songs, how landlords are vampires, how both our dads ghosted us. She laughs, and the room feels warmer, less like a trap and more like a group call at 3 a.m. when the world’s asleep.
Five minutes beep down like a kitchen timer. The door clicks open. Router lights die. TV goes black. She waves goodbye, small, almost shy. I grab my bag, step into the hallway, and the signal “NetSpecter_5G” vanishes from my list forever.
I crash at my friend’s couch, new flat lined up for next week. My phone’s working normal, no phantom tweets. But sometimes, at 2:17 a.m. exactly, my Wi-Fi list shows a faint new name: “Thanx_Jenna.” Full bars, no password. I never click, but I smile, whisper “Goodnight, Lila,” and turn airplane mode on. Some friendships, I guess, just travel through different channels.