That old lady's cryptic flower pitch hit me like a plot twist in a M. Night Shyamalan flick. She knew about the game? My legs froze, and I crouched by her stall, squinting at her weathered face. Yup, same granny I'd nearly bowled over downtown last week. Her eyes twinkled like she was in on a cosmic joke, and I was the punchline.
"Hey, uh, ma'am, remember me?" I said, my voice wobblier than a Jell-O tower. "I kinda bumped into you crossing the street. Sorry about that."
She tilted her head, her wrinkles folding like an accordion. A sly grin spread across her face. "Oh, I remember you, kid. You're the one walking around with a cloud of bad juju thicker than fog at a haunted swamp."
I choked on my own spit. "Bad juju? Lady, you're freaking me out. Look, I'm in deep trouble. If you know something—anything—about this… situation, please, spill the beans. I'm begging here."
I was desperate, feeling like danger was lurking closer than a pop-up ad on a sketchy website. Emily, Mike, Max—all dead. And that game was gunning for me next. I needed answers, not riddles.
Granny cackled, a sound like a rusty gate swinging shut. "Me? I'm just a flower peddler. Don't know much, but I know this: life's a big ol' karma boomerang. You're not dead yet, kid, but you're tap-dancing on the edge of a grave."
My jaw dropped as she shook her head, looking at me like I was a puppy about to chase a porcupine. She started packing up her stall, bundling flowers into a rickety cart. I wasn't letting her slip away—she knew too much, and I was clinging to her like a lifeline in a shark tank.
"Wait, please!" I pleaded, trailing her as she shuffled off. "You've gotta tell me what you know. I've run into you twice now, both times after murders. That's no coincidence, right? Help me out here!"
She slung her bag over her shoulder, waving off my offer to carry it. "I live nearby, kid. Don't need an escort. Now shoo." But I wasn't giving up. This was about my survival, not her grocery run. I followed her like a lost puppy, begging the whole way.
We ended up in a narrow alley, so tight it looked like the city planners had a grudge against sunlight. The buildings were crumbling, three or four stories of peeling paint and broken dreams. One shop stood out, its lights blazing like a beacon in a horror movie. Two white paper lanterns hung out front—one labeled "Life," the other "Death." Subtle.
Granny marched straight inside. I froze, my spine tingling like I'd just stepped into a Stranger Things episode. The alley was dead quiet—no cars, no people, just this creepy shop glowing like it was waiting for me. I swallowed hard, peering inside. The place was packed with paper money, funeral wreaths, and life-sized paper mannequins that looked ready to audition for The Conjuring.
Granny popped up from behind a stack of paper coffins, her grin unchanged. "What're we shopping for, kid? Need a candle to ward off the spooks?"
I jumped, my heart doing a backflip. "Ma'am, level with me. Are ghosts real? I've got people dropping dead around me—Emily, Mike, Max. I'm losing it. Please, help me."
Her eyes softened, but that grin stayed put. She shuffled to an ancient glass cabinet, pulling out a small, yellow paper triangle with red symbols scrawled on it. "This here's a charm," she said, pressing it into my hand. "Keep it close. It'll keep you safe—for now. But you're still in deep, kid. Gotta dig yourself out."
I clutched the charm, feeling a weird warmth in my palm, but my gut was still doing cartwheels. "Safe from what? You know something about this game, don't you? Tell me!"
She shook her head, her grin fading to a thin line. "The charm's all you get from me. The root of this mess? That's on you to uncover. Now git—don't be out after dark, unless you want to join your friends in the great beyond."
I opened my mouth to argue, but she turned away, picking up a half-finished paper mannequin and stitching it like I wasn't even there. I was out of moves. Thanking her, I stumbled out of the shop, the alley feeling colder than a polar bear's toenails. When I glanced back, the shop's lights seemed dimmer, like it was fading into the shadows. I shook my head, chalking it up to stress. This whole week was weirder than a three-headed cat.
Back home, I was a wreck. The studio had been shut down since Emily and Mike's murders, and I was wallowing harder than a pig in a mud spa. I grabbed some takeout, determined to hole up and face that demonic game once Ryan showed up. No way was I playing solo again—not after Max's virtual death became a real-life horror show.
I tucked Granny's charm under my pillow, half-expecting it to glow like a sci-fi gadget. Weirdly, the apartment felt… calmer. No creepy knocks, no ghostly whispers. For the first time in days, I could breathe without feeling like a horror movie jump-scare was around the corner.
My phone buzzed with a text from Ryan: "Yo, Jake, Lila and I are headed your way. Got a lead on the game's developer. It's juicy. We'll talk when we get there."
My pulse spiked. Juicy? That sounded like trouble with a capital T. I paced, clutching the charm like it was a winning lottery ticket. When Ryan and Lila arrived, they looked like they'd just run a marathon through a haunted house. Ryan dumped a stack of case files on my table, his face grimmer than a tax auditor's.
"Jake, you were right," he said, his voice low. "These deaths—Emily, Mike, Max—they're linked. All three played that game. And the developer? It's your boss, Ethan Caldwell."
My jaw hit the floor. Ethan Caldwell, our studio's head honcho, was a coding genius with a knack for flashy apps. He was the kind of guy who'd high-five you at a meeting and then forget your name. Why the hell would he build a murder machine? Lila frowned, looking as baffled as I felt. "Ethan was gonna give Mike a raise," she said. "He seemed chill. This doesn't add up."
"No kidding," I said, my mind racing. "Ethan's a tech bro, not a serial killer. Why target Emily and Mike? They didn't have beef with him. And Max? Total rando. What's the motive?"
Ryan shrugged, flipping through a file. "We're digging into Ethan's financials and emails. If he's behind this, we'll find proof. But, Jake, you gotta show us this game. I need to see what we're dealing with."
Before I could answer, a loud thump-thump-thump echoed from the window behind my desk. We froze, our eyes darting to the source. My computer, in sleep mode, flickered to life, the screen glowing with the game's blood-red interface. The cursor moved on its own, like an invisible hand was trolling me.
"Uh, guys?" I said, my voice squeaking like a bad horror movie extra. "Either my PC's possessed, or we've got a serious ghost-in-the-machine situation."
Ryan drew his gun, looking ready to shoot my monitor. Lila gripped my arm, her eyes wide. The window rattled again, and the game's text flashed: "Play, Jake. Or They All Die."
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