When a text spammer offered me a job, I said yes. Here’s what happened next

“Big data found you. I don’t know how they found you,” she responds tersely. 

The conversation takes a turn, and she declares me “not suitable for this job,” referring to the high-salary, low-commitment opportunity she’d dangled in front of me just minutes earlier. Her next message is downright curt: “Bye-Bye.”

Our conversation has stalled out — at least for now.

Few smartphone owners need to be told what a spam text is. Messages in a bottle of the digital age, they wash up on your screen from someone claiming to know you, to have a job you’d be perfect for, to be your child in urgent need of money. I’m usually the delete-and-forget type, but when I got four messages in a week, I started to wonder.

Anecdotally, friends and acquaintances have also seen a major uptick in pestering messages. Less anecdotally, cybersecurity experts also say they’ve seen a “surge” in recent months, likely due to a combination of spammers feeling the affordability pinch — they’re just like us! — and increasingly harnessing the spam powers of artificial intelligence.

“They’re not behaving like they used to, in terms of they’re not being as lazy as they used to be. They’re working harder,” said David Shipley, CEO of cybersecurity firm Beauceron Security. “It makes me nervous.”

Alarmingly, in case you might think that these scams are easily dismissed, data from the Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre suggests these ploys often work — and the amount of money they swindle out of Canadians is growing.

According to its data, the amount of money swindled out of Canadians via text fraud almost doubled in 2023 — to almost $24 million — over the year before. 

But how does a slightly wooden text message translate into money lost? What’s the point of these scams? While it may be comforting to assume that anyone who falls prey to such scams is foolish or naive, experts stress that victims come from all walks of life. So what is it about these messages that proves so irresistible?

In an attempt to figure this out, I started responding to the scammers. (Experts would much prefer you report a message as spam and then delete it.)

Out of the blue on a Friday morning, my phone pings: “Hello, I am Layla an HR representative at Snagajob. Are you interested in discussing part-time job opportunities?”

The response is immediate. After a rapid-fire series of messages about how great it is to hear from me, Layla outlines her offer, including descriptions of the job (“online data optimization specialist”) the ideal candidate (over 25) and the pay (between $100 and $500 a day).

The purpose of that first text is to tell the scammer if your number is active, experts say — and if it’s owned by the sort of person who responds to random messages. In my case, the answer is clearly yes. 

The exchange that follows is meant to determine if the target seems receptive to the offer. This is where I trip up. When Layla asks if I have any questions, I decide to shoot my shot: “Yes — is this a scam?”

Turns out, scammers don’t like being called scammers. The conversation ends abruptly.

A couple of days later, another text pings from an unknown Ontario phone number: “Hey, I am Carmen, There’s a work-from-home chance available. Would you like to consider it?”

By this point, I’ve switched to a prepaid phone under the name “Shawn,” a 35-year-old Torontonian with an AI-generated headshot. As “Shawn,” I am swiftly connected to a “coach” on WhatsApp, the scammers’ messaging app of choice because it doesn’t require phone data and is encrypted, making nefarious activity hard to track. The coach, Eleanora, is immediately upbeat: “Our remote work only takes 30 minutes a day to complete and will not delay your other work and life!”

The actual job is simple, she continues. I will be helping something called “RCA Conservatory of Music” promote its music albums. As far as I can tell, this will simply involve clicking selections on a website to juice the online ratings of albums. This is job scamming 101, says Jeff Horncastle, a spokesperson for the Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre: give the mark some kind of job — rating services or hotels is common — on a website that looks legitimate because it borrows the logos and content of a real brand.

I’m given a link to the RCA Conservatory of Music website — it’s been designed to mimic the website of RCA Records, the label of everyone from Elvis Presley to Childish Gambino, but a quick Google search shows the web address is slightly off — where I’ll complete a certain number of tasks each day. For each task, I’ll be paid a commission in a cryptocurrency known as tether, or USDT. Working in crypto makes it easier to work with people around the world without fussing with local currency, my coach explains. I’m told I can begin my training.

Above all, Eleanora stresses that this work will be lucrative, and she drops a word that will come up a lot in these conversations: it will give me “freedom.” 

Just a couple of years ago, text scams were much less polished. Messages were misspelled or clumsy, says Ritesh Kotak, a Toronto-based digital and cybersecurity analyst.

“With generative AI, it’s very simple for scammers to leverage technology to quickly draft up relevant text messages to scam individuals based on the time of year,” Kotak said. Tax season means claims the Canada Revenue Agency is trying to reach you, while Christmas brings fraudulent messages about package deliveries.

Fraudsters also zero in on vulnerabilities, like preying on the lonely with romance scams. The cost-of-living crisis has spawned a “huge increase” in scammers taking advantage of people’s financial woes by offering fake jobs, says Horncastle, of the Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre.

When you add email-based scams to the text ones, Canadian victims lost a collective $7 million to these nagging messages in 2022, and last year that amount quadrupled to more than $30 million.

Those numbers are almost certainly an undercount, according to Horncastle, who estimates that only five to 10 per cent of text scams are reported. Why? In part, he says, because people feel ashamed of being robbed in a way they don’t when, say, their house gets broken into or they get mugged on the street.

“People kind of downplay scams,” he said, but falling prey to one can hurt psychologically as much as it does financially, with victims often struggling with anxiety, depression and even suicide. “It’s horrible.”

I can feel a bit of the stigma of falling prey to the scammers, my ego working to convince me that if I just ask the right questions, I can prove I’m smarter and catch them out.

Making conversation with one who claims to be located in Toronto, I ask about the weather. “Very bad,” she responds. I text a couple of friends in the city for their assessment; they answer, “it’s very grey and gloomy” and “it’s not bad,” proving nothing but the high personal experience of precipitation. 

Another of my new text acquaintances claims to live on High Point Road, a decidedly ritzy area of town. “Isn’t that where Drake lives?” I ask. “Any questions?” she responds, ignoring me. 

I follow her instructions to go to a website where I’ll do my training, and set up an account. I have 1,000 USDT to start with, or so the site says, and am assigned 20 tasks. At first it’s straightforward. I tap a button and an album that has been given a five-star rating pops up. I click “submit,” cartoon musical notes splash across the screen and I’m onto the next task.

It doesn’t really feel like work, even for someone who mostly sits and types for a living. But in the age of drop shipping and digital workplaces, I can see why it might feel like the future. Each album I rate earns me a small commission. I can detect no pattern to the types of albums selected or the money earned. I click on an Olivia Rodrigo album and net six USDT. A generic-looking collection of Christmas songs gets me almost four USDT. A tally of my commissions “earned” ticks slowly upward. 

Suddenly, a white whale: a Leslie Odom Jr. album promises to pay me a whopping 84.04 USDT in commission. My coach, still chatting with me on WhatsApp, buzzes with excitement. These big-ticket tasks come up every so often, she gushes, but not in training! Now here’s the catch: doing each task also costs me money, which is why I needed a starter fund of 1,000 USDT. 

The amount required to complete this latest, lucrative task will plunge my training wallet into the negative. But not to fear, the coach assures me that because I’m still in training, she’ll top it up this time. But in future, she warns, that responsibility is on me.

But mindless tapping on buttons aside, I’m lost. How much am I actually paying to complete each task? Why are the commission amounts so random? What is the point of all this? By now, “Shawn” the jobseeker isn’t clear on how any of this works; journalist Alex is confused, too.

I tell my coach I am struggling with the logic here. So far, she has explained that we are “improving click data,” helping albums gain “good data,” and improving ratings to “achieve profitable results.” Completing a group triggers a bonus. A group is the 10 or 20 cards that make up an order. 

“So a group is an order?” I ask, my head spinning.

“I do not understand,” she responds.

“Me neither,” I say. 

I turn to my commissions. Why are they so different? “Are train tickets and bus tickets different?” she responds, inanely. It’s the same principle here, she adds. Unhelpful. 

As my questions continue, her tone sours. “This is very simple,” she says. A few messages later, “Did you not understand?” Finally, when I try to confirm a basic element of the payment system, the response is scathing: “If you don’t even know this, then I suggest you don’t continue this job.”

A light bulb turns on. In addition to being confused, I also feel a bit dumb — and maybe that’s the point?

Shame is a reason why people don’t report scams — is it part of why they fall for them, too? I run the question by Andréanne Bergeron, director of the research lab at cybersecurity company GoSecure.

The scammers’ “condescending, cranky demeanour” is a tactic to pressure people into acting without thinking, Bergeron says in an email. Rushing a would-be victim ups the odds that they’ll take the next step in the scam. Once a potential victim has taken the first step, they’re more likely to keep going — it’s the “foot in the door” approach, she adds.

“The deliberate lack of clarity in their explanations is a crucial part of their strategy,” she said. “Fraudsters often create confusion to divert attention away from the fraud itself.”

I complete my training and am informed I’m able to download my first payment — just as soon as I download a crypto wallet.

First, though, I have to run some real-world errands. My phone continues to buzz in my pocket while I’m at the grocery store. Have I downloaded the wallet, the scammer wants to know. Working from home is very freeing, she adds. Finally, “You are very busy today.” 

The next morning, I download the wallet, to the apparent relief of my coach. But a new hurdle has emerged. I need to complete more tasks before I’m eligible to withdraw my commission. I tap on a button to begin, and up pops a screen I haven’t seen before. So far I have earned slightly more than 71 USDT for my efforts — roughly $97. But in order to do more tasks, I need to have at least 100 USDT in my account — and now that I’m out of training, I’ll have to add that myself. 

It’s the predicted end to a textbook scam, as described by Horncastle of the Anti-Fraud Centre. Victims are promised money, but they just need to put a little of their own in first. 

My coach is quick to explain that there’s an important reason why the money must come from me. I need to add the money, she says, to “prove that you are a real user.” Companies need to know their data is real, she explains.

Has the scammer just accused me of scamming? 

“You want to make sure I’m not trying to trick you?” I type, slightly incredulously.

“Don’t worry,” she responds. “After you complete the task, you can withdraw the money,” she says, in addition to my earned commissions. 

I tell her I’m not sure, and her tone softens noticeably. “How could I deceive you?” she says. “I am now your coach. I will only make money if you make money.”

Over the next few days, the messages continue. My coach went to a “suburban BBQ” and wants to know how my weekend was. She wishes me (Shawn?) a happy Mother’s Day. I start ignoring the pings. 

In the first three months of this year, fake job texts have already led to losses of more than $11 million, according to the Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre.

If that pace keeps up, text-based scammers are on track for yet another record-breaking year of swindling Canadians who are at best gullible, and at worst vulnerable or desperate.

Even after learning about their tricks and watching them in action, after several days of responding to scammers there’s a real sense that I’m now dropping my end of the rope — even knowing the other end is held by someone who’s been trying to fleece me.