My mom called me last week and told me that my dad and her were ready to scrap our old family computer. We’d had it since the late 90s and stopped using it by the early 2000s, in favor of a newer model. My parents save everything and didn’t have the heart to get rid of our first computer until now, I guess. It was just taking up space anyway, sitting neglected and covered in a film of dust in a corner of the den. She asked if I’d like to try and salvage any of my old files before they took it to a community electronics recycling event. I agreed to come take a look at it, doubtful any of the old files would be compatible with my modern laptop. I arrived the next afternoon with my jump drive in tow.
“See if you want any of your old files,” my mom said, ushering me over to the ancient, bulky desktop unit. I sat down in the well worn office chair and powered on the tower. My mom brought over a dust cloth and cleaned off the keyboard and mouse. The home screen appeared, my dad’s Star Wars wallpaper still set as the background.
“An elegant weapon, from a more civilized age,” Obi Wan Keonbi’s voice piped through the speakers. My sister and I always thought it was so cool how my dad had programmed the boot up noise with a Star Wars audio clip. I spent the afternoon taking a trip down memory lane; browsing through my now-unplayable LimeWire music playlist, reading old half-finished stories I wrote in Microsoft Word when I was 12, and viewing screenshots I’d taken of my Neopets. Nothing was really salvageable, not that it was of any importance to me these days.
A familiar noise startled me from my nostalgic reverie as a window opened. ‘No way,’ I thought excitedly, ‘it’s AIM!’ I opened the chat.
Shelbygrrrl98: a/s/l
My blood ran cold. That was my childhood best friend’s username. ‘This thing couldn’t possibly be connected to the internet, could it? Does AIM even work nowadays?’ I got up and checked the Ethernet cable. It was unplugged. ‘Somebody’s gotta be fucking with me,’ I thought. I sat for a minute, pursing my lips and staring at the chat window. I finally decided to respond. My old username was still logged in.
Wisecat86: Shelby, is that u? It’s me, Cat.
Shelbygrrrl98: Yes! Cat I’ve missed u so much! Sry I’ve been away so long. Can u give me the notes for English class?
I felt a lump growing in my throat. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. Could it really be her? Was this some kind of sick joke? I had no idea how to respond. The notes for English class were probably from the class we had together in 7th grade. The same grade we were in when she went missing 20 years ago. With shaking hands, I slowly typed a response.
Wisecat86: Shelby, u realize u have been gone for 20 years. Where are u?
Shelbygrrrl98: I don’t know
Wisecat86: What happened to you?
Shelbygrrrl98: Pls tell my mom I love her. How is Pierre?
I was feeling nauseated at this point. How was she using AIM?! Not to mention, how was she messaging me when my dinosaur of a computer wasn’t even connected to the internet?! Was it a scammer, a hacker, or somebody pranking me? Why would they go to all this trouble, and how? I tried desperately to collect my thoughts. ‘Who was Pierre, again? That’s right, it was her family dog, the standard poodle.’ He’d been dead for nearly 10 years now.
Wisecat86: K, I’ll tell her. I’m sry Shel, but Pierre died about 10 years ago. He lived to be 15 tho.
Shelbygrrrl98: :’-(
Wisecat86: Shel, u gotta tell me where ur at. I can help u.
Shelbygrrrl98: pir
I slumped back, the old office chair uttering a tired creak. “pir” was our code for “parent in room.” I quickly responded.
Wisecat86: Shelby, pls tell me! R u in danger? Is someone keeping u locked up?
Shelbygrrrl98: Away message: I am away from my computer right now.
By now I was so freaked out I went and got my mom. I showed her the AIM exchange and we both checked the computer from top to bottom, making sure there was no possible way it was connected to the internet.
“Print out that conversation, I’m calling the police!” Mom exclaimed in her usual over-dramatic fashion. I was able to get the old printer working and printed several copies of the conversation. About 20 minutes later, a detective showed up. He took my statement and a copy of the AIM conversation, examining the computer himself. The chat was still open, but now any time I messaged Shelby’s username, only her away message would respond. The detective seemed mildly perplexed, although I got the vibe that he thought I was making the whole thing up. After he left, my mom called up Shelby’s mom, Mrs. Devereaux. I felt terrible dredging up the past, especially with a story so bizarre.
Mrs. Devereaux was very interested in reading the conversation, however. She even invited me over to help her inspect Shelby’s old computer to see if the messages actually came from there. I took the printout and walked the few blocks to Shelby’s childhood home. By now it was evening. The sun was almost below the horizon as Mrs. Devereaux welcomed me inside. She led me up to the second floor and opened the door to Shelby’s old room.
“It’s pretty much exactly as it was the day she disappeared,” Mrs. Devereaux said, he voice wavering, “I never had the heart to change anything. You know, in case she came back.”
I nodded, struggling to hold back tears of my own. She powered on Shelby’s equally dusty and unused computer tower. We scoured the entire thing but could find no trace that anyone had recently turned the computer on, much less accessed AIM. After a brief, tear filled conversation, I gave Mrs. Devereaux a long hug goodbye and headed back to my parents’ house. Despite the mild summer night, a chilly breeze took my my breath away, sending goosebumps up and down my arms. I was so shaken by the day’s events, I decided to spend the night at my parents’. As I lay on the couch in the midnight stillness, that last message “pir” kept repeating in my head. Who was in the room with her? I didn’t sleep a wink that night.
I found out this week that the detective had a forensics computer specialist examine our old family computer. Eeerily enough, he couldn’t trace an IP address linked to the mysterious AIM messages, nor could he figure out how AIM was even working without an internet connection. It’s as if the conversation never existed. There’s now a hole in the dust where the computer was at the old beat up desk, reminding me that something is still missing.