Ryan held up the business card, his flashlight beam pinning the old woman's weathered face. "Ma'am, you know where this place is?" he asked, all cop-calm despite her Night of the Living Dead vibe.
The granny's neck creaked as she glanced at the card, her smile stretched tight, like someone had stapled her cheeks to her ears. "Don't know it," she rasped, her voice scratching like a warped vinyl record. My scalp prickled—either she was the world's worst liar, or she was phoning it in from the afterlife.
Ryan, undeterred, leaned in. "It's late, ma'am. Where you headed at this hour?"
She didn't flinch, pointing a bony finger at the sky. "Work to do. Sun's coming up soon." Her cloudy eyes didn't blink, locked on some invisible horizon. My ghost-meter was screaming. Didn't folklore say spirits vanished at dawn? This lady was either breaking the rules or auditioning for Cocoon: The Spooky Sequel.
Tim lurked behind us, silent but glaring at her like she'd stolen his favorite incense. I nudged him, whispering, "You still think she's a ghost? She's chatting, not floating."
He didn't answer, his stare intense enough to burn holes. Ryan, sensing no threat, stepped back. "Alright, ma'am, you're free to go." He shot Tim a smug look, like he'd just debunked Ghostbusters. But as the granny pedaled off, her skeletal hand pointed to a narrow side path off the main road. "You ain't from here," she cackled, her laugh like nails on a chalkboard. "Stay off that path. Living go in, dead come out."
She rolled away, her tricycle squeaking into the dark. We all turned to the path—a black void swallowing the moonlight. Ryan scoffed, sweeping his flashlight over her retreating figure. "Just a quirky local, not a ghost. Told ya."
His beam froze on the tricycle's rear basket. A lumpy, black tarp bulged, tied down with frayed rope. "What's that?" he muttered, squinting. Tim's nose wrinkled. "You smell that? Like something died and forgot to RSVP."
I sniffed—yep, a faint, fishy stench, like a seafood market on a bad day. Ryan's cop senses kicked in. "That's no laundry load," he said, his voice low. "And she didn't even glance at our lights. Nobody's that chill at 3 a.m."
My eyes caught something on the ground—wet, glistening drops trailing from the tricycle. "Guys, look!" I pointed, my flashlight highlighting the path. The droplets shimmered, reeking of that same rotten tang. "She's leaking something, and it's not Gatorade."
Ryan crouched, inspecting the trail. "Let's follow it. Might lead to her hideout—or Lila." We moved, tracking the drips deeper into the village, the houses thinning, the air growing heavier. No streetlights, just our flashlights cutting through the gloom. "This place gives me the heebie-jeebies," I said, my voice shaky. "You sure Lila's here? Feels like we're in a Stranger Things spin-off."
Tim's beam swept the shadows. "She's close. The game's energy is thick here, like spiritual smog." Ryan rolled his eyes but stayed quiet, his hand near his holster.
The trail led to a squat wooden shack, maybe thirty feet square, plopped in a clearing like it'd been dropped by a lazy tornado. No windows, just weathered planks and a vibe that screamed abandon hope, ye who enter. "Well, that's not creepy at all," I muttered. "Who builds a horror-movie cabin in the middle of nowhere?"
Ryan swung his flashlight at Tim, his tone sharp. "You called that granny a ghost. What's this place? Vampire Airbnb?"
Tim's face tightened, his eyes locked on the shack. "I said she wasn't human, not necessarily a ghost. There's another kind of nasty out there—living dead. Not zombies, but… shells. People hollowed out, driven by something else."
I gulped, my morgue panic resurfacing. "Living dead? Like, what, the game's turning people into creepy puppets? Is Lila here looking for a cure for that?"
Ryan snorted, unconvinced. "Living dead, my ass. Prove it, Tim. Go check the shack. Let's see what's inside—maybe your 'zombie' granny's knitting club."
Tim didn't take the bait, his voice steady. "Ryan, I get it—you think I'm peddling fairy tales. But I'm not here to scam anyone. I've seen things you can't explain with a badge and a lab report. This shack? It's dripping with bad energy. I'm not saying don't go in, but don't be reckless."
He circled the shack, his flashlight probing the walls. Ryan leaned close to me, his voice a whisper. "Jake, think about it. Tim's the one who sent us here, claiming Lila's in this village. Now we're chasing ghost grannies and mystery shacks. He knew you were in trouble at the hospital but missed your morgue meltdown. And Lila? He's got no clue where she is, yet he's leading us on this wild goose chase. What if he's the one pulling strings?"
My jaw dropped, Ryan's words hitting like a plot twist in a M. Night Shyamalan flick. "You think Tim's behind this? Like, what, he kidnapped Lila to mess with us? Why?"
Ryan shrugged, his eyes on Tim's silhouette. "Motive's unclear, but his story's got more holes than a golf course. He's got a shady past—black-market tech, remember? Maybe he's tied to the game's code. I'm just saying, don't trust him blindly. We're in this together, Jake, but you're so spooked you're grasping at straws."
My head spun. Tim had saved me from Ethan's ghost, but Ryan's logic was solid. Why did Tim miss my morgue freakout? Why was he so sure Lila was here, yet clueless about her exact spot? Was he helping us or herding us into a trap? My trust in him wobbled like a Jenga tower in an earthquake.
Tim finished his lap, pausing at the shack's door. "It's sealed tight, but the energy's strongest here. If Lila's anywhere, it's inside—or nearby." His voice was calm, but his hand rested on his sword's hilt.
Ryan crossed his arms. "Then let's knock. If your 'living dead' theory holds, we'll find answers. If not, you're buying breakfast." He stepped toward the door, flashlight raised like a knight's sword, ready to face whatever nightmare waited inside.
I followed, my heart pounding. The game was playing us, and this shack felt like the final boss's lair. Ghost, zombie, or Tim's scheme—one way or another, we were about to roll the dice.