So like, I’d just landed in Prague for the cheap uni semester, right? The landlord, this chain-smoking dude named Radko, shoved a key in my hand and mumbled, “Flat 5B, fiber already on, no extra cost.” I mean, jackpot. Mom was already panicking about me surviving on instant noodles, so free Wi-Fi felt like the universe tossing me a bone.
First night, I’m unpacking, phone dead, laptop hungry. I hunt for the network, and there’s only one bar showing: “_5B_previous”. No password. I click, it connects instantly, full signal. Weird name, but whatever, Eastern Europe does its own thing. I tweet a dumb selfie: “New digs, who dis?” and crawl into bed.
2:13 a.m. My screen lights up. DM from @_5B_previous: “don’t hog the bandwidth.” I blink, laugh, figure it’s the neighbor trolling. I reply “lol share nicely” and roll over. The message ticks to “seen” immediately, but the account has zero followers, zero posts, and the profile pic is just a black square. Creepy, but also like, Twitter’s full of ghosts.
Next day, I’m in class streaming a lecture recording when the cursor starts moving on its own. It highlights my essay file name, renames it “GETOUTGETOUT.” I freak, slam the lid, call IT. They remote in, find nothing, blame sticky keys. Sure, Jan.
That night I Skype my bestie Mia, bragging about the weirdness. Mid-sentence the video freezes on my face, pixelates, then stitches together a new frame: me sleeping. Timestamp: tonight, 03:00. I’m literally on the call so how’d it capture future me? Mia screams, hangs up. I yank the router plug, but the signal stays strong, like the walls themselves are hotspots.
I can’t sleep, so I dig into the flat’s history. City archives online show a scan of a 1998 newspaper: “Computer tech Jana K. found deceased in 5B, face lit by monitor glow.” The pixelated photo shows her smiling in front of a chunky CRT. I glance at my sleek router blinking the same cold blue.
My gut says nope, pack bags, but broke student life means I’ve paid three months up front. I decide to play ghostbuster. I change the Wi-Fi name to “WhoIsJana,” leave it open, and wait. Within minutes a device named “Jana_486” connects. Chat window pops on my desktop without any app open: “u saw me.” I type: “What do you want?” The reply crawls letter by letter: “company.”
I’m shaking too hard to think, but I remember those stories where spirits latch onto energy sources. Maybe the new router piggybacked onto her old signal, like a digital séance. I offer a deal: “I’ll memorialise you online, proper tribute page, if you let me live.” Silence. Then the lights flick, router spits out a tiny puff of burnt plastic, and the network vanishes.
Relief lasts about ten seconds. My phone buzzes—an Instagram story upload, not by me. It’s a boomerang of my bedroom door creaking open, close, open, close, captioned “still here.” My follower count explodes with random Czech accounts, all with Jana’s pixelated face. They spam heart emojis, but the hearts bleed down the screen like cracked LCD fluid.
I run into the hallway, bang on Radko’s door. He opens, sees my tear-streaked cheeks, sighs. “You met her, huh?” He invites me in, pours slivovitz. Turns out Jana was his daughter, obsessed with early internet chatrooms, died during an ice storm power outage while live-tweeting. He kept her computer locked in 5B’s closet, never guessed the new tenant’s router would sync frequencies with her ancient modem still plugged in. “She just wants to be remembered,” he whispers.
We unplug the relic, dusty beige box humming like a dying bee. Radko kisses it, tears up. For a moment the apartment lights dim, then brighten, and every device simultaneously plays the Windows 95 startup sound, warped and angelic. After that, silence. The network list shows only boring neighbor bars, password protected.
I finish the semester, mostly sane, write Jana’s story on a blog that actually goes viral. People leave virtual candles; someone even codes a web shrine with falling pixel snow. Sometimes, at 2:13 a.m., my phone buzzes with a single notification: “thx.” No sender, no app icon. I don’t delete it. I just smile, whisper “you’re welcome,” and flip on airplane mode. We all need a little off-grid time, even ghosts.