The temple's incense-soaked air was thick, but it didn't mask the chill creeping up my spine. A guy stepped out from behind the altar—not the ancient monk I'd expected, but a dude in his thirties, rocking a scruffy beard and a faded hoodie that screamed "I missed the memo on Taoist robes." He looked more like a barista than a mystical guru.
"You folks here to light some incense or what?" he asked, scratching his neck.
I laid out our situation—killer game, dead friends, Granny's notebook—keeping it short and sweet. His chill vibe vanished, replaced by a frown deeper than a Reddit conspiracy thread. "Granny sent you? Damn, I haven't seen her in ages. She okay?"
Ryan and I exchanged a grim look. "She, uh… passed away last night," I said, my voice heavy. "Right after pointing us here."
The guy—let's call him Taoist Tim, since he didn't offer a name—sighed, his eyes softening. "That's a shame. Granny had a knack for sniffing out trouble. Alright, spill it. What's got you so spooked?"
I recapped the nightmare: Emily, Mike, Max, Ethan, and Claire, all dead, tied to a demonic game. Untraceable murders, eerie coincidences, and Granny's cryptic clues. "She said this place holds the answers," I finished, holding up the notebook. "We're drowning here."
Tim nodded, stroking his beard like he was auditioning for Kung Fu Panda. "Granny didn't send just anyone up here. This game's bad news—cursed, maybe worse. I'd help, but I'm stuck. Made a vow to my master: three years, no leaving this temple. Got a few weeks left."
Ryan, pacing like a caged rottweiler, cut in. "No offense, dude, but we can't wait. Five people are dead in two weeks. If this keeps up, we're gonna need a bigger morgue."
"I hear ya," Tim said, raising his hands. "Here's the deal: leave your contact info. I'll reach out after midnight, when my shift's done. We'll figure this out. For now, head home—rushing won't help."
We had no choice. Ryan scribbled his number, and we trudged back to the car, the mountain air feeling heavier than my student loan debt. Back at my apartment, we slumped in front of my laptop, the cursed USB drive taunting us like a digital middle finger. "You thinking about firing up the game?" Ryan asked, eyeing it like it was a live grenade.
"Not without backup," I said, my stomach churning. "Last time I played, Max ended up on a slab. Let's wait for Tim's call."
Before we could debate further, Ryan's phone blared. He answered, his face going from tired to oh-crap in ten seconds flat. "We're on our way," he said, hanging up and grabbing my arm. "New lead at Ethan's place. Big one. Let's roll."
My skin prickled like I'd walked through a spiderweb. "What kind of lead?"
"You'll see," he said, already halfway to the door. I followed, my gut screaming that this was about to get weirder than a three-headed cat convention.
Ethan's condo was a crime scene on steroids—cops everywhere, yellow tape fluttering like a grim party banner. The air was frigid, despite every window being sealed tighter than a Tupperware lid. Ethan and Claire's bodies were gone, but the bloodstains lingered, painting the floor like a Jackson Pollock horror show. Every time I glanced at the ceiling beam, I swore I saw Ethan's silhouette swaying.
Ryan waved me over to a corner where a detective handed him a folded paper. "Jake, check this out," he said, passing it to me. His face was grimmer than a tax auditor's.
I unfolded it—a handwritten letter, addressed to Claire. It was a love note, all flowery prose and secret longing, signed by… Mike Thompson. My brain short-circuited. "Mike was crushing on Claire? What about Lila? This is like a soap opera from Hell!"
Ryan rubbed his neck. "Yeah, it's a mess. If Mike's feelings got back to Ethan, maybe he snapped—killed Mike, then Claire, then himself. Revenge, jealousy, whatever. But Emily? She's the odd one out. First to die, no connection to this love triangle."
I clutched the letter, my mind racing. "If Lila knew about this, she's been holding out. We gotta talk to her, Ryan. She's our only living link."
He nodded, but his eyes were wary. "She's a wreck, Jake. This could break her. Let's tread light, okay?"
The hospital at midnight was creepier than a haunted corn maze. The halls were empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. A lone nurse dozed at her station, oblivious to the world. I kept glancing over my shoulder, convinced I heard footsteps shadowing us, but the corridor was a ghost town.
Lila was awake in her room, propped up in bed, looking like she'd aged ten years since the condo. Her eyes flicked to us, wary but curious. "You guys got something?" she asked, her voice brittle.
Ryan hesitated, then handed her the letter. "Lila, read this. Tell us if it jogs anything."
Her face went from confused to furious to shattered in seconds. Her hands shook, tears welling up, but she kept it together, barely. "Mike… he never told me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I thought we were solid. How could he…?"
I felt like garbage, but we needed answers. "Lila, I'm sorry. Did Mike ever mention Claire? Anything at all?"
She shook her head, wiping her eyes. "Nothing. I'm as clueless as you. I'm tired, guys. Can you… go? I need to process this."
We backed off, leaving her to her grief. Outside the room, I nudged Ryan. "Give her space, man. Betrayal's a gut-punch. She'll talk when she's ready."
He nodded, heading for the bathroom. "Wait here. I'll be quick."
Alone in the hallway, the air grew heavier, the lights flickering like they were auditioning for a horror flick. A faint tap-tap-tap echoed—footsteps, maybe, but too erratic to pin down. My heart climbed into my throat. "Stupid, Jake," I muttered. "Why didn't you go with him? Now you're the guy who dies first in every slasher movie."
The flickering intensified, the buzz of electricity humming like a bad soundtrack. I took a step toward the bathroom, but the lights cut out, plunging the corridor into pitch-black. My breath hitched. Somewhere in the dark, a low whisper hissed my name: "Jaaake…"
I froze, my blood colder than a slushie in a snowstorm. The game wasn't done with me yet.