In the late ’90s, my after-hours work routine was a quaint reality. The office turned into a realm of solitude where the hum of 9-track tape drives and the glow of CRT monitors were my companions. I reveled in the silence; it was a canvas for my thoughts.

However, the tranquility carried a whisper of eerie unrest. A sensation of being watched would often tiptoe through the silence. Each glance over my shoulder unveiled nothing but the familiar corners of the deserted office.

The eerie sensation wasn’t a daily visitor, but its sporadic presence was unnerving. Behind me was a glass door leading to a small balcony. A peek outside only reveals the calm business park and a secluded wooded area. The distant murmur of a creek was the only sound breaking the stillness of the night. On certain nights, the eerie sensation turned into a silent whisper urging me to venture outside. I’d disarm the alarm, step into the cold night, and stroll around the building, with the hum of the soda machine as my lone companion. Yet, the eerie silence outside mirrored the unrest within.

One such night, as the eerie sensation tiptoed around, a glance at the clock revealed a 16-hour-long dance with code. It wasn’t just the exhaustion; the reality hit me as I gazed at the array of monitors and tech around. The unseen dancers in my nightly soiree were the electromagnetic fields (EMF) emanating from them.

The eerie whispers were nothing but a manifestation of my youthful zeal blending with the silent hum of technology. Now, with better-shielded equipment, the ghostly echos faded. Yet, the memories of those nights echo with a chuckle as I reminisce about my self-spook saga.