Ryan and I snapped our heads toward the cackling sound, our nerves frayed like cheap Halloween decorations. The computer screen flared to life, and I swear my heart tried to yeet itself out of my chest. Two gnarly imps, straight out of a Guillermo del Toro fever dream, were carving up a white-robed ghost with curved knives. Each slice peeled off chunks of spectral flesh, dropping them into a blood-soaked bucket that looked like it belonged in a butcher shop from hell. The ghost's screams—shrill, bone-chilling—blasted through the speakers, so real I half-expected to smell the carnage.
We stood frozen at the doorway, legs like cement. The scene was too vivid, like we could reach out and get slimed. "This ain't CGI," I whispered, my voice shaking. "It's like Hell's Kitchen for souls." Ryan's face was a mask of horror, his gun-hand twitching but useless against a digital nightmare.
The imps kept at it, hacking until the ghost was a wisp. Then, with a sickening twist, one ripped off its head, tossed it into the bucket, and—poof—the ghost reformed, only to endure the torture again. The screams looped, a soundtrack designed to shred sanity. "Who makes this?!" I hissed. "Jasper and Lila are dead, so who's the sicko coding eternal torture porn?"
Ryan lunged forward, slamming the power button. The screen went black, but the silence was worse, heavy with dread. He turned to me, eyes blazing. "We're done playing, Jake. Hollow Vale, now. Granny's shack—why'd she dump Jasper's body after we snooped? What's she hiding? And Tim—I don't trust that wannabe Jedi. Only trust yourself, got it?"
His intensity was contagious, but Tim's absence nagged at me. Was he a traitor or our only hope? "You're right," I said, dodging the Tim debate. "Granny's the key. Let's roll."
We piled into Ryan's car, the midnight drive to Hollow Vale faster this time, muscle memory guiding us. Halfway down the village's main road, we parked, creeping forward to avoid spooking Granny. I whispered what the old neighbor had said about Jasper's tech past and shady deals. Ryan snorted, keeping his voice low. "Village gossip's like a bad Reddit thread—half lies, half exaggeration. Jasper's dead, Lila's a head in a box. We need facts, not folklore."
I nodded, my anxiety mirroring his. This case had us by the throats, and we were both one jump scare from losing it. The road stretched dark and endless, no sign of Granny's tricycle. "Maybe she's out hunting souls," I muttered, half-joking. "Or at the 24-hour ghost diner."
We reached the shack, its squat silhouette looming like a budget haunted house. The air was colder, the vibe straight out of a Stephen King novel. I shivered, pulling my jacket tight. "This place screams 'abandon hope,'" I said. "You sure we're not walking into a trap?"
Ryan pointed to the tricycle parked by the door. "Granny's home. No lights, but that rust bucket's proof she's in there." He smirked, but his eyes were steel. "What, you think she's baking cookies or lying in wait with a zombie army?"
I gulped. "With our luck? She's got a zombie T-Rex. Let's just get answers." Fear gnawed at me, but after Lila's head and the game's torture show, I was past caring. If we died, at least we'd know why.
We crept to the shack's side, ears pressed to the wall. Dead silence. "Where's Tim?" I whispered. "If he's here, it's too quiet. No chanting, no sword-stabbing—nada."
Ryan's patience snapped. "Enough waiting." He motioned me to follow. "I'll go first. If it goes south, run and scream like you're in a slasher flick." I nodded, my heart pounding. If this was a bust, we'd be yelling for ghosts in an empty field.
Ryan eased the door open, the creak echoing like a banshee's wail. I braced for a jump scare, but nothing moved. The shack reeked worse than before, blood and decay thick in the air. Ryan flicked on his phone's flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark.
In the center, on a wooden slab, lay Granny, stiff as a board. Her eyes were closed, her face a waxy white, clothes unchanged from our last encounter. "Is she… dead?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Everyone's dropping like flies. What's next, the whole village?"
Ryan crept closer, his gun ready. "Doesn't look dead. Just… off." He reached to check her pulse, but I grabbed his sleeve, panic flaring. "Dude, what if she's faking? Like a creepy possum?"
He shook me off, leaning in. His fingers hovered over her nose—then he yanked back like he'd touched a live wire. "She's not breathing," he hissed, shining the light on her face. Her skin was too smooth, too still, like a mannequin left in a freezer.
I frowned, Tim's words echoing. "He said she's a 'living dead'—not human, not ghost. No breathing's par for the course, right?" I stepped forward, curiosity overriding fear. "Let me check." I reached for her wrist, needing to know if she was truly gone.
A cold, bony hand clamped onto my arm, tight as a vice. I yelped, yanking back, but Granny's grip was iron. Her eyes snapped open, cloudy and unseeing, her lips curling into a smile that screamed you're screwed. Ryan aimed his gun, shouting, "Let him go!" But the shack's walls seemed to pulse, the air growing heavier, and that damn cackle from my apartment echoed again—sharp, mocking, and everywhere.