“Hi, lol, xd. Hello ppl, xd.”
My sister forwarded me this cryptic Skype message, received from our father on his ninety-sixth birthday. He’d apparently sent it to her daughter in New Zealand. Jokey acronyms were hardly his style, so in other circumstances we might have worried about his state of mind.
We were indeed rattled, but for a different reason. He’d been dead for the last eighteen months.
Our first thought was that our dad’s account’s been hacked, though it seemed a strange way to launch something sinister. And rather late in the game, since my three siblings and I had done all the usual things needed to wrap up the threads of his long life. Going through paperwork, closing accounts, making final bill payments. He had used his aged computer only occasionally—the odd email and Skype—but we deleted or moved the few folders he had. One of us closed his email account and cleared out the machine with what was left of his furniture. And that was that.
That is, until the enigmatic greeting on his birthday. Being marginally computer literate, I was assigned to investigate. It seemed pretty straightforward—contact Skype and ask them to close his account. Not so fast, as it turned out.
***
Toward the end of his life, my father had grown to love Skype. His computer was set up so he never had to log in—he’d just turn it on and see who was online. Usually that was me, from my desk at my Florida university, a continent away from his English home. Almost every day, that familiar, imperious tone would ring out, and more often than not, I’d click, bracing myself for the usual preliminaries:
“I can see you, honey, but I can’t hear you. Bloody thing must be broken!”
I would scribble quickly and hold my note to the camera:
“Turn the knob on your speaker!”
And off we’d go. Similar conversations most days, and I’d have to break it off long before he wanted to. But he loved seeing my face and would always leave smiling.
“Hope you don’t mind me calling so often. . . .”
***
Confidently, I called a Skype helpline, and was answered by a cheery, foreign-accented voice, calling himself Jeffrey. He was sure it would be no problem closing the account. He spoke too soon.
First, they needed his password, which no-one had. We siblings pooled resources. Surely it was our mother’s name and birthday—he was never known to use anything else. Not this time, apparently. Other ideas were tried, to no avail, all while on the phone to Jeffrey and his multiple successors over several days. The last one announced that no more tries were allowed; was I satisfied the problem was solved?
Perhaps picking up on my anguished response, Jeffrey #7 suggested another approach. If I sent a copy of Dad’s death certificate, he would “do something” and get back to me. A sibling sent one, and I waited. And waited.
Meanwhile, things had taken a strange turn. I logged into Skype and clicked on my dad’s account. The Skype name was still his—tombird1919, with his phone number, and address. He had never used a profile photo, but the intruder, who had added the name “Richard,” did. It was blurry, and only half in the frame, but familiar. It was me. It had clearly been taken through the computer camera—I imagine my dad might have inadvertently clicked it when talking to me. But how could it now be Richard’s profile?
Nervously, I started a video call, and to my amazement, he answered. The light was terrible, and his face was unclear in the darkness.
“Hello—are you Richard?”
“Um—yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Russia.”
What?? His voice was halting and heavily accented.
“Why are you using my father’s account, and why are you using my photo?”
“Is in my computer.”
I was nonplussed.
“You must stop using this account. Or I will call the police.” (How exactly would that work, if he really was in Russia?)
“No, please, no, I am young boy.”
He could have been; it was hard to tell from the shadowy face on the screen.
He ended the call, and I never saw him again. But he was still there, sending occasional and typically nonsensical messages.
***
I began to think this phantom was either harmless or, if he was trying to do mischief, remarkably inept. But I still wanted to close him down.
Eventually, I heard back from another Jeffrey, saying there was nothing more they could do. Skype now belonged to Microsoft, and I would need to deal with them. He connected me to “Matt” from Microsoft, who emailed me:
“We do apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you but don’t worry as I am here to assist you. I’m at your service.”
“Great—hello Matt!”
“I suggest you contact Skype support about this issue; they can give you better solutions to rectify your concern especially when it comes to closing Skype account.”
Matt gave me a link to loop back with Skype and no doubt another string of Jeffreys.
Taking a deep breath, I replied, perhaps a bit snippily:
“Please go back and read the message I sent. I have already spent many hours with Skype support—they told me there was nothing they can do, and that I must go through Microsoft. Now you are telling me I must go through Skype. Jeffrey, with Skype, said that with the Skype name, and the evidence this account has been compromised, you should be able to solve it. Everyone keeps telling me they are here to help me, but so far, no one has helped at all—everyone has sent me back to different people in a never-ending circle of hell. Can anyone solve this issue?”
Back and forth we went, as the days rolled by.
From Matt: “We understand the frustration you have right now. As much as we want to help you but, the owner has the right to close the account. We know that is not possible because he is already dead but we are following guidelines and we cannot make it on our end or override it manually.”
He continued: “Once an account has been inactive (not accessed for 5 years) it will all be deleted. It can never be restored, and there’s no other way to recover it. So maybe you just need to wait.”
Carefully, while struggling to avoid unleashing a string of expletives, I explained again: “I am sorry—this does not really help. Someone is using my father’s account—and so it does NOT appear to be inactive and thus will not be deleted. My identity is threatened because this person is using a photo of me as his profile, apparently taken through the computer camera. Surely you can see this is a problem?”
Matt then lost interest and passed me on to someone named Ton. Ton seemed eager to please, and kept sending me to other links, all of which led nowhere. He—or was it she?—suggested I file a police report and kept checking back with me every few days to see if any of the leads had helped. I wasn’t sure if Ton was really trying to help or was perhaps a sadist enjoying my frustration.
After several months, I admitted defeat. “Richard” was still there but had at least removed my photo.
***
I filed away the emails and mostly forgot about it. I rarely used Skype but checked in now and again. For almost ten years, actually—my father died in 2015. All these years, Richard must have been using the account for something, since it was never deactivated.
I’ve since read that the year after a death is when active hacking is common, as thieves mine dormant accounts for useful data, of which there was no evidence here. I’m no longer worried, but I still wonder how it all happened. I suspect it wasn’t exactly a “hack.” It seems when my dad’s computer was sold off, his Skype account was still on it. One click allowed Richard to take over his space and somehow purloin a photo of me. Other than irritating my family, it’s hard to know what else he did. And IT experts allowed him to stay indefinitely. It’s a lesson in the reality of the digital after-life we may all one day enter, unless we or our loved ones clean up carefully. I’m reminded of that when I get a cheerful Facebook nudge about a friend’s birthday, years after they have left this world. And I’ve learned that naming a “digital heir” is the solution.
When I checked in early 2025, Richard was still there, apparently approaching his 106th birthday. But the end was in sight. Shortly after that, Microsoft announced that Skype was going away, and all accounts would be deleted—they can do it if they want to. And just like that, the digital afterlife of my father finally vanished.
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