Ryan's denial of my ghost sightings had been his personal gospel, chalking it all up to my stress-fried brain. But tonight, he'd seen the faceless delivery guy with his own eyes, and the poor guy was still reeling, his face paler than a vegan at a butcher shop. "Jake, I didn't order that takeout!" he blurted, his voice cracking. "What if it's just a mix-up? Wrong apartment?"
I pointed at the bag, my gut churning. The label had my name, my address, clear as day. "No mistake, man. And here's the kicker—this is the same creepy delivery dude from the night Emily died. Same voice, same vibe. He dropped off her favorite snacks… after she was gone."
Ryan clutched his head, pacing like a caged tiger. "No way. I'm not buying it. Ghosts don't deliver Uber Eats! Someone's screwing with us—some sicko pulling strings!"
I nodded, desperate to believe him. "Could be. A mastermind faking the spooky stuff to mess with our heads. But until we catch them, we're stuck in The Twilight Zone." I nudged the takeout bag with my foot, its contents rattling ominously. "Let's crack it open. Might be a clue to whoever's playing Hannibal Lecter."
Ryan swallowed hard, his bravado flickering. "Fine. Open it. But if it's another ghost prank, I'm done." I untied the knot, my fingers tingling with dread. Please don't be a cursed fortune cookie, I thought. But when I flipped the lid, we both recoiled like we'd been tased. The box hit the floor, and Ryan's scream could've shattered glass.
Inside was a human head—Lila's. Her eyes bulged, frozen in terror, lips painted a garish red. "What the actual hell?!" Ryan roared, kicking the wall. "Who's doing this? I'm done with this Saw bullshit!"
I grabbed my hair, my heart jackhammering. Ryan was a seasoned cop, used to grisly crime scenes, but this was next-level. Me? I was just a coder, not cut out for Silence of the Lambs cosplay. "Ryan, Lila's dead," I choked out. "We thought we had her trail, but now? It's over. The game's laughing at us."
Ryan spun, yanking his gun from its holster, eyes wild. "I'm finding this freak tonight!" He stormed for the door, and I lunged, grabbing his arm. "Whoa, Rambo! You can't just charge out there! Whoever sent this wants us to lose it. They're watching, probably eating popcorn."
He shoved me off, his voice raw. "I'm sick of being their mouse, Jake! This ends now!"
"Ends where?" I snapped, my own panic bubbling. "You gonna hunt a ghost in the dark? They're ten steps ahead, man. We need to think, not go full Die Hard."
Ryan's shoulders slumped, his rage fizzling into exhaustion. He sank onto the couch, staring at the box like it might bite. "Fine," he muttered. "What's the play?"
I took a shaky breath, forcing calm. "We check the head. Maybe it's got answers." Steeling myself, I crouched beside the box, fighting the urge to puke. The head was clean—no blood, the cut surgical, like a mannequin's. But the pores, the texture—it was real. Lila's eyes screamed of a final, horrific moment, her lips unnaturally red.
Ryan pulled on gloves, his cop mode kicking in. He pressed her forehead—hard as concrete. "No give," he said, frowning. He swiped her lips, smearing red onto his glove. "Lipstick. Fresh, post-mortem. Could be the killer's signature—or Lila's own makeup, used to mock us."
I squinted, my brain grasping for logic. "Lipstick? So, what, a female killer? Or some psycho with a Sephora obsession?" I hesitated, then added, "Should we call Tim? This feels like his wheelhouse—ghosts, curses, creepy cosmetics."
Ryan's eyes flashed. "Hell no. Tim bolts, and bam, we get a head in a box? Suspicious much? Lila and Jasper were the game's architects, and now she's dead, Jasper's a zombie reject, and Tim's playing Ghostbuster. I say we keep this between us. Fewer leaks, better odds."
I bit my lip, torn. Ryan's paranoia made sense, but Tim's zombie expertise had saved my ass before. "Fair, but what if Tim's at Granny's shack, digging up real dirt? He could be our only shot at cracking this."
Ryan scoffed, snapping photos of the head with his phone. "Tim's probably in cahoots with Granny, cooking up more voodoo nonsense. Hollow Vale's a circus, and I'm not buying his 'mystic warrior' act."
I sighed, crouching beside the box. "Maybe. But Jasper and Lila dying right as we close in? That's no coincidence. It's like the game's tying up loose ends. I say we hit Hollow Vale again. That village is hiding something—Granny, the shack, the whole cursed vibe."
Ryan paused, his skepticism wavering. "Another road trip? Fine. But we go armed, and we don't tell Tim. If he's legit, he'll survive without us. If he's dirty, we'll catch him red-handed."
I nodded, my mind racing. Hollow Vale held the key—Granny's corpse-crafting, Jasper's tech past, Lila's double life. But as we planned, a sharp, cackling laugh sliced through the room—giggle giggle giggle—like a horror movie soundboard on max. It wasn't from the box, wasn't from us. It was everywhere, echoing off the walls, chilling my blood.
Ryan's gun was out in a flash, sweeping the room. "Who's there?!" he barked, his voice shaking. I spun, expecting Granny or a ghost, but the apartment was empty—just us, the head, and that damn laugh, mocking us from the shadows.