Every clue in this nightmare pointed to that cursed game. "How Deep Can You Plunge Into Hell?" The words echoed in my head like a bad jingle from a used car commercial. Ryan's face was grim as he leaned against my kitchen counter, looking like he'd just lost a staring contest with a gargoyle. "Jake, we've gotta track down whoever coded this death trap," he said, rubbing his temples. Lila, still shaken from her near-death game session, nodded, her eyes redder than a stop sign.
I wasn't so sure. The pieces were starting to fit, but the puzzle looked like it was drawn by a toddler with a vendetta. Lila had mentioned Mike was the kind of guy who'd apologize to a door if he bumped into it, and Emily? She was sweeter than a rom-com montage, only ever sassing me about my terrible taste in pizza toppings. Why would the game target them? I'd played it too, and I was still breathing—mostly. Science wasn't explaining this. Unless… nope, not going there. Ghosts were for campfire stories, not real life.
Still, Lila's statement about Mike's gentle nature and Emily's kindness only made things weirder. It was like the game was picking victims at random, or worse, following some twisted logic I couldn't crack.
Back at my apartment, I slumped in front of my laptop, the USB drive staring at me like it was whispering, "Play me, you coward." Part of me wanted to yeet it into the nearest dumpster, but the other part—the stubborn, caffeine-fueled coder part—knew I had to dive back in. If I was going to find Emily's killer and save my own neck, I had to face the game head-on.
The graphics were still creepier than a clown convention. Blood-soaked landscapes, snarling demons, and a stench I swore I could smell through the screen. I hesitated, my mouse hovering over the start button. "What if I'm next?" I muttered, half-expecting the game to answer, "Spoiler: you are."
But I wasn't here to chicken out. As the great philosopher, Shrek, once said, "Better out than in." Or was that about burping? Whatever. I clicked play, muttering, "If I don't go to Hell, who will?"
The game threw me into the first level: Tongue-Pulling Hell. I'd seen some gnarly stuff in my time—mostly in horror movie marathons—but this was next-level. Demons yanked tongues out of screaming souls with red-hot pliers, and the sound effects were so real I checked my own mouth to make sure I was intact. After a few failed attempts (and a lot of wincing), I got the hang of it, dodging traps and solving puzzles to move forward.
Then, the loading screen for the next level glitched. Instead of the usual fiery backdrop, a ghastly figure popped up—an imp with a lolling, blood-red tongue and eyes like twin black holes. I yelped, nearly toppling my chair. "Dude, personal space!" I snapped at the screen, my heart doing a tap dance.
A pop-up appeared on the imp's face: "Welcome Back! Two Consecutive Logins Earns a Treasure Chest!" A shiny box icon blinked. In most games, chests mean loot—power-ups, weapons, maybe a snazzy new skin. I clicked it, expecting a virtual sword or something. Instead, I got a "Cheat Pass". The description read: "Use this to skip a level by sacrificing a substitute soul."
"Sweet!" I said, pumping my fist. "First level's toast." I hit start, feeling like I'd just hacked the Matrix.
Big mistake.
The screen shifted to a cutscene. Two pint-sized demons dragged in a chained-up guy, his face pale as a ghost, eyes vacant like he'd checked out of reality. Blood streaked his torn clothes, and his hands were bound with iron cuffs. The game labeled him my "substitute"—if I sentenced him, I'd breeze through to the next level.
But something was off. The guy looked too real, like he'd been ripped from a true-crime doc. The demons? Same deal—scaly skin, glowing eyes, the works. This wasn't some low-budget pixel art. It was Hollywood-level CGI, or… worse. My stomach churned. "What, did the developer blow their budget on Industrial Light & Magic?" I muttered, half-joking to keep the panic at bay.
A text box popped up: "Condemned: Max Wheeler. Crime: Deceit. Used lies to manipulate others for personal gain. Sentence: Tongue Extraction."
I froze. The name Max Wheeler rang a bell. Wasn't he that shady dude from the office IT department, always "fixing" computers but probably snooping emails? I shook my head. "Nah, just a coincidence. It's a game, Jake. Chill."
But the realism was freaking me out. If I didn't sentence Max, I'd die in-game and lose my shot at answers. The Cheat Pass was one-use only. Gritting my teeth, I clicked "Execute," telling myself it was just code.
The screen erupted in horror. A demon yanked a glowing plier from a fire pit while another pinned Max's jaw open. His scream was so raw, so human, I slammed my laptop's volume down, my hands shaking like I'd chugged a triple espresso. The plier clamped his tongue, pulling… and pulling… until—ugh. I gagged, my skin crawling like it was trying to escape my body.
When it was over, Max's lifeless body slumped, and the screen burst into virtual confetti. "Congratulations! Level One Cleared!" I stared, my heart still racing. That was not fun.
I clicked to the second level: Scissor Hell. The intro text was grim: "For those who meddle in widows' love lives, encouraging remarriage, your fingers will be snipped off—one by one." The visuals were even worse—severed digits, blood-soaked shears, and screams that made my ears beg for mercy. I played a few minutes, but the puzzles were brutal, and my nerves were shot.
"Maybe tomorrow's login will toss me another Cheat Pass," I said, shutting the game down. I leaned back, rubbing my eyes. Something about Max's execution bugged me. It felt… personal. Like the game knew him. If that was real footage, the developer was in serious legal trouble. But if it was just a game… why did it feel like I'd just signed someone's death warrant?
I glanced at the clock—2 a.m. I shot Ryan a text about the game's creepy realism and the name "Max Wheeler," hoping he could dig into it. No reply. Guy was probably out chasing leads or snoring through his shift. Exhausted, I crashed, the image of Max's mangled face haunting my dreams.
Morning hit like a truck. I woke to two texts from Ryan, sent at 3 a.m. My gut twisted as I read them. First: "Just saw your message. Was out on a call." Second: "Rough night. Some lowlife got smoked in Westside Park. I'll send you the case file tomorrow."
A dead guy in the park? Sounded unrelated, but my spidey-sense was tingling louder than a fire alarm. Ryan would've called if it was connected to Emily or Mike, but I wasn't taking chances. I dialed him, my hands sweaty.
"Yo, Ryan, where you at?" I blurted the second he picked up.
"Still at the crime scene," he grumbled, sounding like he'd been gargling gravel. "This case is a freaking mess. What's up?"
I paced my apartment, the game's bloody visuals flashing in my mind. "That park murder—any chance it's tied to our case? The game just made me 'execute' a guy named Max Wheeler, and now you're telling me someone's dead? Call it a hunch, but I'm freaking out here."
Ryan sighed, the kind of sigh you give a kid who won't stop asking for candy. "Jake, it's just a mugging gone wrong. Victim's a nobody, some street hustler. But… hold up, did you say Max Wheeler?"
My heart skipped. "Yeah. Why?"
There was a pause, then Ryan's voice dropped. "That's the vic's name. Max Wheeler. Found him with his throat slashed, tongue half-cut out. Coroner's still working, but it's fresh—happened around midnight."
The room spun. I gripped my phone, my voice barely a whisper. "Ryan, I 'killed' Max in the game at midnight. This isn't a coincidence. The game's not just predicting deaths—it's causing them."
Ryan cursed under his breath. "Stay put, Jake. I'm coming to you. We need to figure out who's behind this game before it picks its next player."
As I hung up, the USB drive on my desk seemed to pulse, like it was alive. Max's screams echoed in my head, and one thought burned through the fog: the game wasn't just a trap—it was a live feed to Hell, and I was its star player.
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