I was trapped in a bathroom straight out of a slasher flick, pinned by an invisible force, with a ghostly woman in the mirror grinning like she'd just won a lifetime supply of nightmares. The air was colder than a penguin's sauna, and her cackle was sharper than a tack in a balloon factory. My chest pounded, my voice gone, drowned out by her laugh and the flickering lights. I was about to become a permanent resident of Freakout City.
Then, a shove. "Jake! Yo, Jake!"
I snapped awake, sprawled on the toilet seat, Ryan looming over me with a look that said, "Dude, you're embarrassing yourself." "What the hell, man? You fall asleep on the john? I thought you were dead or possessed or something."
I blinked, my brain doing a double-take. The bathroom was normal—no ghost, no flickering lights, just Ryan's grumpy mug. Was that a dream? Or was this the dream? My head was spinning faster than a fidget spinner at a tech expo. "Uh… what's going on outside?" I mumbled, still half-expecting a jump-scare.
Ryan leaned against the sink, lighting a cigarette, looking like he'd aged a decade since we walked into Ethan's blood-soaked condo. "Cops are securing the scene. Ethan killed Claire, then strung himself up. Freaky, right?"
My jaw dropped. "Wait, Ethan killed Claire? Those two were like a Hallmark movie couple. Why would he…?" My voice trailed off as the game's logic hit me. Max died after I used the Cheat Pass, but Ethan was dead before we played his level. And Claire's throat-slash didn't match the game's finger-snipping Scissor Hell. None of this added up.
I rubbed my temples, the mirror-woman's face flashing in my mind. It was Claire—same gentle features, twisted into a ghostly smirk. But she was dead, sprawled in the living room. Unless she'd mastered teleporting or mirror-hopping, that vision wasn't real. Right? My brain was a tangled mess, like a USB cable left in a drawer too long.
"Ryan, this is nuts," I said, pacing the tiny bathroom. "Emily and Mike played the game and died. Max was a substitute soul, and he bit it after I 'executed' him. But Ethan? He's dead before we even touched his level. And Claire? Wrong death style. It's like the game's rules keep changing."
Ryan exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes heavy. "I've been a cop ten years, Jake. Seen some weird crap, but this? It's like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube in a funhouse. Nothing fits."
I stopped, Granny's charm popping into my head. She'd known too much, and I'd left her talisman at home like a rookie. "Ryan, hear me out. What if… ghosts are real? I know it sounds like I've been bingeing Ghostbusters, but nothing else explains this."
He snorted, waving his cigarette like a tiny lightsaber. "Ghosts? In 2025? Come on, man, next you'll tell me Bigfoot's coding apps. Science, Jake. Stick to it."
"Science?" I shot back, my voice rising. "Science says dead people don't order birthday cakes or show up in mirrors! You saw Ethan's body, Claire's throat—none of this is normal!"
Ryan went quiet, his cigarette burning down. He didn't argue, probably because the evidence was piling up like unpaid parking tickets. Lila was already in the hospital, her psyche shattered from Mike's death and the condo carnage. We were out of options, so I threw out my Hail Mary. "We need to hit up that creepy flower granny again. She's gotta know more."
Ryan groaned but nodded. "Fine. But if she starts chanting or sacrificing chickens, I'm out."
We drove to the alley where Granny's shop glowed like a haunted convenience store. But when we arrived, the vibe was off. The place was packed with mourners, candles flickering, and a photo of Granny herself on an altar. My stomach dropped faster than a bad stock.
"She's… dead?" I stammered, exchanging a look with Ryan. "She was fine yesterday, dishing out cryptic advice like a fortune cookie! How's she gone?"
A young guy, maybe Granny's grandson, approached, his eyes red but polite. "Sorry, we're not open. Grandma passed last night. Try the shop on 5th Street."
Ryan flashed his badge, all business. "We're not here to buy. We needed to ask your grandma about… something. Sorry for your loss."
The guy held up a hand, stopping us as we turned to leave. "Wait. You're the guys she mentioned, aren't you? Grandma said a kid who bumped into her would show up. She left this for you." He handed me a thin, worn notebook, its cover faded like it'd been through a few wars.
I took it, my hands shaking. "She knew I'd come back? This is for me?"
The guy nodded. "She said there's an address inside. Go there, and you'll get your answers. That's all she told me."
I flipped open the notebook, finding a single page with an address scrawled in shaky handwriting: a temple on a mountain in the boonies. I thanked the guy, dragging Ryan back to the car, my mind racing. "She predicted this, Ryan. Two meetings, both after murders. That's no coincidence. She wanted me to find this place."
Ryan eyed the address like it was a ransom note. "A temple in the middle of nowhere? What is this, Indiana Jones? I don't do spooky hikes, Jake."
"We don't have a choice," I said, stuffing the notebook in my pocket. "Granny's been right about everything. If there's a lead, it's there. For Emily, for Mike, for all of them—we're going."
He grumbled but fired up the engine. "Fine, but if we meet a guru who smells like patchouli and bad decisions, you're on your own."
The drive took three hours, the city fading into rolling hills and a sunset that painted the sky like a horror movie backdrop. The temple was halfway up a low mountain, reachable by a rickety staircase that looked like it'd collapse under a stiff breeze. By the time we parked, dusk was creeping in, and the air smelled like pine and secrets.
The temple was small, weathered but clean, with incense smoke curling from a golden Buddha statue that glowed like it was judging us. No monks, no tourists—just eerie silence. Ryan cleared his throat, his voice echoing. "Hello? Anyone home? We're here for… uh, answers?"
A voice called from behind the altar, calm but creaky, like old floorboards. "Coming, coming! Who's seeking wisdom today?" An elderly monk shuffled out, his robes swishing, his bald head reflecting the candlelight. He sized us up, his eyes sharp despite his age.
I stepped forward, clutching Granny's notebook. "We're here about a game. People are dying—my girlfriend, my friend, my boss. An old lady gave me this address, said we'd find the truth. Please, we're desperate."
The monk's smile faded, his gaze locking onto mine. "The game of Hell," he said, his voice low. "You've brought its shadow here. Sit, and I'll tell you what I know—but beware, young man. Some truths are heavier than death itself."
Ryan and I exchanged a glance, my heart pounding like a bassline at a rave. This was it—the moment we'd been chasing. But as the monk lit a candle, I felt a chill, like the game itself was watching, waiting to make its next move.