Tim's comment about my "black aura" hit like a fortune cookie from hell. I glanced at Ryan, shaking my head. "Nah, it's just the streetlights, man. My face always looks like a grumpy cat at night."
Tim wasn't buying it, his eyes narrowing like he was reading my soul's Yelp reviews. "This ain't about lighting, Jake. Your aura's screaming 'ghost magnet.' Something's latched onto you, and it's not here for coffee."
I shivered, his words digging into my morgue-fresh fears. Could he really tell I'd been ghost-zapped just by my face? This guy was either a psychic rockstar or a world-class bullshitter. Before I could grill him, Ryan cut in, his patience thinner than a dollar-store paper plate. "Can we focus? Lila's AWOL, and we're not playing Ghost Hunters here. Where is she?"
Tim pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket, his face grim. "Found this under Lila's pillow. She's not in the hospital, so she might've bolted here." He handed it to Ryan, who squinted at the text: Jasper Reed, General Store, Hollow Vale Village. The name alone sounded like a horror movie set, all spooky and secluded, a suburban legend where thrill-seeking teens went to chase ghosts. No deaths reported, but plenty of "I saw a shadow" stories.
"Hollow Vale?" I said, my eyebrows shooting up. "That's the creepiest field trip ever. Why would Lila go there? And who's this Jasper guy?"
Ryan pocketed the card, his cop senses tingling. "Lila's tied to Mike, a victim, and now the game's got her in its crosshairs. If she's running to this village, it's not for a weekend getaway. Let's move."
We piled into Ryan's car, the three-hour drive to Hollow Vale stretching into eternity. Lila's game appearance nagged at me. "If substitute souls always die, we saved Lila once," I said, staring out the window. "So why's she running now? Another trap?"
Tim leaned forward from the backseat, his voice low. "Maybe she's not running from something. Maybe she's chasing a way out—some fix to cheat the game's curse."
Ryan's grip tightened on the wheel, his ears perked. "You think she knows she's marked? Like, she's hunting a loophole?"
Silence fell, heavy as a fog. Lila, desperate and haunted, tracking a cure in a ghost-ridden village? It fit the game's twisted logic, but it left us with more questions than a pop quiz. My nerves were frayed, my mind a jumble of Emily's diary, Max's café, and that morgue nightmare. I just wanted one solid clue.
Hollow Vale's entrance was marked by a single, flickering lantern, swaying like it was auditioning for a gothic novel. The sign read Welcome to Hollow Vale, but it might as well have said Turn Back, Dummies. Ryan parked at the village edge, grabbing a flashlight. "We walk from here," he said. "Cars make too much noise, and I'm not in the mood for surprises."
It was 3 a.m., the village dead quiet, most houses dark. I glanced at Tim, who was sweeping his flashlight like a paranormal detective. "Why not come during the day? You know, when it's less Children of the Corn?"
Tim smirked, his beam catching a rusted mailbox. "Daylight's for tourists. The real stuff—ghosts, curses—comes out at night. Trust me."
I shuddered, my morgue adventure still fresh. "Yeah, 'trust me' says the guy who sees my aura like it's a neon sign. Find anything yet, Ghostbuster?"
Tim ignored me, his focus on the path. Ryan led the way down the village's main road, flanked by muddy fields and scattered houses. The air was thick, the silence oppressive. Then, a metallic clank echoed ahead, like someone was banging pots in a junkyard.
Ryan froze, signaling us to hold. "What's that?" he whispered. The sound sharpened—a creaky, grinding noise, like a bike chain begging for oil. My flashlight joined Ryan's, cutting through the dark. A hunched figure appeared, pedaling a rickety tricycle, its wheels squealing like a banshee with a sore throat.
The rider—an old woman with wild white hair—rolled toward us, her eyes fixed straight ahead. No glance, no twitch, just a zombie-like focus. "That's not normal," I muttered, my skin prickling. Normal people notice three guys with flashlights at 3 a.m., right?
As she neared, Tim stepped in front of us, his hand raised. "Back up," he hissed. The woman passed, and I got a good look—her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, her eyes clouded white, unblinking, like she was staring into another dimension. Her tricycle stayed laser-straight, no wobble, no effort.
"She's blind," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Gotta be. No way she's riding like that otherwise."
Tim's voice was barely audible. "She ain't blind, Jake. She ain't human."
Ryan snorted, his skepticism a force of nature. "Oh, come on! She's just an old lady out for a midnight joyride. You gonna curse every granny we meet?"
I tugged Ryan's sleeve, my gut screaming. "He's not dissing her, man. He means she's a ghost." Tim's glare confirmed it, his tone sharp. "That's no granny. It's a spirit, and it's not here for tea and cookies."
The woman was still in sight, pedaling slowly, maybe ten feet away. Ryan, fed up with Tim's ghost talk, saw his chance to prove a point. "Hey, ma'am!" he called, his voice booming in the quiet village. "Hold up a sec!"
I grabbed his arm. "Are you nuts?! Don't poke the ghost bear!"
Ryan shook me off, striding toward her. Tim sighed, muttering, "Here we go," and followed. The tricycle stopped with a screech that could wake the dead—literally. The woman turned her head, slow and mechanical, her lips curling into a smile that was one part creepy, two parts hell no.
Ryan, unfazed, flashed his badge like it worked on spirits. "We're looking for Jasper Reed's store. Got an address?" His voice was steady, but I saw his hand twitch toward his holster.
The woman's cloudy eyes locked on him, her smile widening. "Jasper's… down the road," she rasped, her voice like gravel in a blender. "But you… you're not welcome here." Her head tilted, and the air grew colder, the lantern above flickering wildly.
I swallowed hard, my morgue panic roaring back. This wasn't just a creepy granny—this was the game's next move, and we'd just rung the doorbell.
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