So I’m Liv, second-year art student, skint as usual. My new flat’s on the top floor of this crumbling Victorian house in Leeds. Landlord brags the router’s "prehistoric but free," so I’m like, whatever, I’ll stream my shows and survive on noodles. First night, I rename the network "DefinitelyNotTheUpsideDown" because I’m hilarious like that. Password’s just "liv12345"—I’m too lazy for fancy symbols.
Everything’s chill till 2:13 a.m. I’m FaceTiming my mate Lola, painting tiny UFOs on my nails, when the call freezes. Her face melts into gray blocks and the audio glitches into this wet whisper: L-I-V. I figure it’s lag, yeah? I laugh it off, reboot, done. But the same whisper keeps sliding into every app—Snap, Spotify, even my calculator. Same tone, same breathy drag on the V. I’m creeped but also wired on cheap coffee, so I tweet about it. Instant reply from a blank account: @liv unplug it before it types back. The profile pic is just static.
Next day I ask the downstairs neighbor, this old dude named Ed who smells of mints and damp carpet. He squints and goes, "Router’s in the attic, love. No one’s touched it since the last girl left… sudden." He does air-quotes around sudden like it’s cursed. Gives me the master key and shuffles off humming "Karma Police." Great, now even Radiohead feels haunted.
Attic’s basically a dust museum. Under a cracked window sits the router, lights blinking like evil Christmas. Cables snake into the wall where someone’s scratched tiny letters. I lean in—my name, over and over, different handwritings, different years. The wood’s soft like it’s been chewed. My phone buzzes in my pocket: a text from myself. Sender: Liv. Message: come upstairs. I swear I didn’t type that. Thumbs can’t ghost-text, right?
I yank the power cord. Lights die, attic goes dark, but my screen stays lit. New message: too late. The attic door slams. Wind? Nope—windows are shut. I’m shaking so hard my phone slips, clatters onto the router, and boom—facetime call answers itself. On screen it’s my bedroom, but I’m not in it. Someone who looks exactly like me sits on my bed, painting tiny UFOs on her nails. She looks up, smiles way too wide, and whispers, "Switch places?" The call ends. I’m alone again, but my nails are wet with fresh polish I never applied.
I bolt downstairs, shove the key under Ed’s door with a note: router’s yours, bye. I crash at Lola’s for a week, use only 4G, jump every time the screen lights up. One night she hands me her tablet: a new Wi-Fi network’s appeared—"DefinitelyNotTheUpsideDown_2G." Signal’s full bars. Location: right outside her flat. I chuck the tablet like it’s on fire. We hear footsteps stop outside the door, then that wet whisper seeping through the wood: L-I-V.
I move again, new city, new provider, no old routers. Still, every time I open my laptop the available networks list starts with one I didn’t name: Liv12345. Signal strength? Five bars, everywhere I go. I asked the campus IT guy to trace it; he just shrugs, says nothing shows on his scanner. Maybe it’s not broadcasting over air at all—maybe it’s broadcasting inside my head. Sometimes at night I hear the soft click of a connection confirmed, and my own voice replies, "Switch places?" I never answer, but I feel the signal crawling under my skin like static, waiting for me to finally type back.