I leaned over Ryan's shoulder, squinting at the case file. "Mike and Lila went to colleges on opposite ends of the map. No way they crossed paths naturally. What if Lila's whole 'grieving girlfriend' act was a sham? It explains why she was so chill about Mike crushing on Ethan's wife, Claire."
Ryan rubbed his chin, his cop brain humming. "You're onto something. Lila's rooftop stunt could've been pure theater—crocodile tears to throw us off. Claiming she saw Mike's ghost? Total BS to keep us chasing our tails."
I nodded, the pieces clicking, but then paused, my stomach twisting. "Hold up. Lila's lies make sense, but my ghost sightings? Those were real, man. I'm not out here directing Paranormal Activity for fun. Ethan, Max, Emily—they're haunting me, and I'm no Meryl Streep. How's that fit?"
Ryan sighed, his skepticism a brick wall. "You're stuck in a loop, Jake. I get it—you're freaked. But ghosts? Come on. The game's a murder machine cooked up by Lila and Jasper. That's the real monster."
I slumped in my chair, trapped in the same mental hamster wheel. Why me? Why the ghosts? Were they the game's special effects, or something deeper? Ryan was my rock, but his "no ghosts, only bad guys" mantra wasn't helping. "You're right about Lila and Jasper," I said, "but Jasper's a zombie popsicle now, Lila's vanished, and Granny's out there playing Corpse Craft. We've got leads, but what if we're chasing the wrong dragon?"
Ryan clapped my shoulder, his tone light but firm. "Look, if it'll unclog your brain, we'll hit a church tomorrow, light some candles, maybe bribe a priest to spritz you with holy water. Deal?"
I snorted, despite myself. "Yeah, sure. Exorcism by Father O'Malley. But seriously, we're missing something. Granny, the game, Lila's endgame—it's not adding up."
It was past midnight, and my apartment had become CSI: Spooky Edition. My stomach growled, loud enough to wake a coma patient. "I'm starving," I said, reaching for my phone. "Pizza or tacos?"
Ryan waved me off. "I got it. You've been through enough. Chill for a sec." I nodded, grateful, and shuffled toward the bathroom. As I passed my bedroom, my computer screen flickered. I froze, my heart doing a tap dance. "No way," I whispered. That PC hadn't been touched in days—unplugged, even, after Lila's game stunt.
I stood in the doorway, the old familiar dread creeping up like a bad Tinder date. The screen went dark again, mocking me. "Come on, you haunted piece of junk," I muttered, daring it to blink. The second I turned away, it flashed—bright, bold, and oh-so-evil. I whipped around, and there it was: the death game's interface, that gray-eyed skull face leering like a demonic screensaver. Blood-red text pulsed in the corner: "How long since you've visited Hell, Jake?"
Goosebumps erupted like a popcorn machine. I hadn't touched the game since Lila's substitute soul reveal, and I'd shut down the PC in front of Ryan and Tim. "Who's in my house?!" I roared, half-expecting a ghost to pop out with a "gotcha!" My voice cracked, raw with frustration. Someone—or something—was playing me like a cheap fiddle, and I was done being the village idiot.
Ryan bolted in, eyes wide. "What's wrong? Who're you yelling at?" He saw the screen and froze, his hand twitching toward his holster—a reflex he'd picked up since Max's case. "That's not you, right?" he asked, voice low.
I shook my head, my throat tight. "Swear on my grandma's lasagna recipe. I shut this thing down days ago. We were at the hospital, then Hollow Vale. Nobody's been in here—not me, not you, not Tim. So, what's powering this creepshow?"
The doorbell chimed, sharp and rhythmic, like a metronome from hell. Ding… ding… ding… It was the same eerie cadence as the night Mike's ghost went berserk. Ryan's face paled, his tough-guy act crumbling. "That's not normal," he muttered, and for once, I saw fear in his eyes.
I started for the door, but Ryan grabbed my arm. "I got this." He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and yanked the door open, gun at the ready.
A bored voice floated in. "Delivery. Your order's here."
I peeked past Ryan, expecting a jumpscare. Just a takeout bag, held by… nobody. The hallway was empty. Ryan stood there, clutching the bag, his face white as a sheet. "Jake," he croaked, "I didn't order anything."
My hands froze mid-reach, the bag suddenly a ticking bomb. That voice—I knew it. The same delivery guy from weeks ago, when "Emily" sent me a box of her favorite snacks… after she'd died. "Ryan," I whispered, slamming the door shut, "that's the ghost delivery dude. Same guy, same vibe. What the hell's in that bag?"
We stared at the takeout, abandoned on the floor like a cursed artifact. Ryan's eyes were saucers, his bravado gone. "The guy… he had no face," he stammered, his voice barely audible. "No eyes, no mouth—just… blank."
I swallowed hard, my own fear mirrored in his. "No face?" I echoed, my brain buffering. We both knew what we'd seen—or hadn't seen. The game, the ghosts, the delivery—it was all connected, and Ryan's "no ghosts" rule was crumbling faster than a stale taco shell.
"Alright, buddy," I said, forcing calm I didn't feel. "Deep breaths. We're not losing it. That was… something. But we're not opening that bag. Not until we figure out who's screwing with us."
Ryan nodded, his hands shaking. "Yeah. No bag. But, Jake… I saw it. I saw it." His voice broke, and for the first time, I knew he believed me. The game wasn't just Lila and Jasper's murder app—it was a doorway to something darker, and it had us both in its crosshairs.