Ryan's warning about self-preservation rang in my ears like a foghorn. With ghosts, zombies, and a killer game on our tail, staying alive was priority one. We crept through the tunnel, the darkness stretching like a bad Netflix cliffhanger. Tim, a few steps ahead, froze. "Guys, check this out!" he hissed, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
We hustled over, hearts pounding. On the right wall hung a watercolor painting, old as dirt but vivid under our phone lights. The scene was a gut-punch: a fiery, tortured landscape straight out of the death game's hellscape—demons, flames, the works. "Holy pixelated nightmares!" I gasped. "This is the game's inferno, like, 90% identical. Granny's got some serious fan art game."
My brain spun. Granny and the game were linked, no question. But how? "This ain't right," I muttered. "Granny's a walking corpse, not a coder. Lila and her crew dreaming up Hell makes sense—college girls with a dark side, sure. But Granny? She's not exactly hacking in her tricycle."
We stood there, staring at the painting, each lost in our own theories. Tim broke the silence, his voice low. "I've said it before—Granny's not human. Her corpse-crafting's got a purpose. But why ditch Jasper's body after we snooped? That's the real head-scratcher."
I rubbed my chin, piecing it together. "Maybe she knew we were onto her and wanted to wipe the slate clean. But if she's a ghost, why bother hiding evidence? She could just, y'know, boo us to death and call it a day." My own words tripped me up. I'd been so spooked by the game's tricks—ghosts, heads in boxes—that I'd assumed supernatural. But what if it was human? "If she's a ghost, why am I still breathing? I'm a sitting duck. Shouldn't I be toast by now?"
Tim shook his head, his mystic calm fraying. "Ghosts aren't all-powerful, Jake. They've got rules—cosmic red tape. Some folks they can't touch, some they have to. You're not up to speed on the spirit handbook."
Ryan, studying the painting like it was a crime scene, grunted. "This looks old—my grandma's era, when watercolors were the iPhone of art. No high-tech pigments. But why's a hellscape chilling in a tunnel? What's Granny curating down here?"
Tim's gaze drifted to the tunnel's far end, his voice dropping to a creepy whisper. "Because this is Hell." A chill ran through me, my skin prickling like I'd been dunked in ice. Tim's vibe had shifted—stiff, distant, like he'd seen something we hadn't.
"Dude, what's with the horror movie one-liner?" I said, forcing a laugh. "Let's bounce—this place is giving me the heebie-jeebies." Tim didn't budge, his back rigid, eyes locked on the darkness ahead. He was freaking me out, and that painting wasn't helping.
"Tim, you good?" I pressed, my voice shaky. "What do you see? Don't go all Exorcist on us." Ryan leaned in, whispering, "What if he's possessed? Like, demon Wi-Fi hijacked his brain?" He caught himself, stunned he'd even said it.
The tunnel's chill deepened, like we'd wandered into Narnia's deep freeze. That whooo-whooo wail kept drifting, always just out of reach, moving as we did. "Is that Granny screwing with us?" I muttered. "Or some prankster with a kazoo?"
Tim stayed silent, trudging forward, his steps mechanical. I called out, "Yo, Tim, slow down! You're acting like a zombie GPS." No response. My gut twisted—he was off, like someone had flipped his personality switch.
Up ahead, a faint light flickered, hope in the gloom. Ryan had said the tunnel led to the village's edge last time. "Almost there," I said, eager to ditch this dirt tube. But as we neared, the light vanished, plunging us into endless black. "What the hell?" I snapped, spinning to Ryan. "You said you hit the exit last time. Why's this taking forever?"
Ryan frowned, his flashlight wavering. "It's longer than before. Someone's been digging since my last trip. They know we're here—not hiding, but toying with us, like a cat with a laser pointer."
I nodded, my nerves fraying. "Whoever's behind this isn't rushing to kill us. They're playing Jigsaw, dragging it out for kicks." We pressed on, theories swirling, but the mastermind's motive stayed elusive, a shadow just out of reach.
A sudden rumble shook the tunnel, dirt raining from above. I nearly bolted, heart in my throat, but Tim didn't flinch, marching forward like a robot. Ryan and I locked eyes, alarm bells ringing. "Something's wrong with him," I hissed, lunging to grab Tim's sleeve. "We gotta snap him out of it."
Before I could pull, Tim spun, shoving me back with linebacker force. I stumbled, crashing into Ryan, who caught me before I ate dirt. "What the hell, Tim?!" Ryan barked, his temper flaring. "You gone full Sith Lord or what?"
I steadied myself, panting. "Ryan, he's not himself. Something's got him—possession, a curse, I don't know. He's not our Tim." Ryan's eyes narrowed, his distrust of Tim bubbling up. "Told you he was shady. Always acting like he's got a Ouija board in his pocket."
I grabbed Ryan's arm, urgency spiking. "We can't fight now. Tim's our only shot at understanding Granny and the game. Let's stick close and figure out what's hijacking him—before this tunnel becomes our crypt."
The wails grew sharper, the darkness thicker, and Tim's silhouette marched on, a stranger leading us deeper into Hell's backyard.