Chapter Twenty-Nine: Granny’s Grudge and Phantom Tickles

Granny's claw-like grip on my wrist was like a skeleton trying to arm-wrestle me into next week. I yanked back, pain shooting through my arm, but she sat up—stiff, soulless, like a marionette in a horror flick. "Let go, you undead hag!" I shouted, thrashing like I was auditioning for Sharknado. Ryan dove in to help, but her fingers were glued to me, tightening with every tug. "This lady's got a grip like a pissed-off lobster!" I groaned, half-expecting my hand to pop off.

Ryan froze, his phone's flashlight pinning Granny's face. "Jake, chill—look at her eyes. They're closed. Last night, they were open, all foggy and freaky. You catching this?"

I squinted, heart pounding. He was right—her lids were shut tight, no creepy stare. Yet here she was, playing human vice grip. "What's her deal?" I muttered, waving a hand in front of her face. Nada. "She's blind as a Windows update, but still got me in a chokehold. Is she, like, sonar-powered?"

Ryan's jaw clenched. "No idea, but we're not here for her origin story. Keep her distracted—I'll sweep the place." He glanced at my trapped arm, wincing. "You holding up, buddy?"

"Living the dream," I gritted out, pain throbbing. "Just me and Granny bonding. Go find something useful!" Ryan nodded, his flashlight beam darting across the shack. The wall where Jasper's corpse had hung was bare, the room empty as a vegan's fridge. "Yo, where's the zombie art gallery?" I whispered, dread creeping in. "Someone spring-cleaned this place."

Ryan cursed, circling back. "Zilch. Either Granny's got a secret vault, or we're late to the loot party. And her? She's a glitch in the matrix." He grabbed her hand, pulling hard, but it was like wrestling a steel trap. In a fit of frustration, he bopped her on the head—gently, like swatting a fly. To my shock, her grip slackened, and I stumbled free, rubbing my wrist. "Nice one, Muhammad Ali," I said, shaking out the numbness. "But let's not poke the zombie bear."

I wanted to check her eyes, see if they were fake or just horror-movie props, but my bravery was on a coffee break. Ryan crouched, shining his light under the slab she lay on. "Bingo," he muttered, spotting a wooden bucket tucked beneath, like something from a haunted Renaissance fair. He dragged it out, and a stench hit us—blood and rot so vile I nearly lost my lunch. "What is that?" I choked, peering in.

The bucket was a nightmare buffet: heaps of raw, bloody flesh, no bones, no head—just a quivering red mess. My stomach did a backflip, and I dry-heaved, the game's torture scene flashing in my mind—imps slicing ghost meat, piling it into a bucket, rinse, repeat. "Ryan, this is the game's lingchi punishment," I gasped. "Eternal slicing, in 4K reality. No human could pull this off, right? It's too… supernatural."

Ryan's face was stone, his light steady. "It's a perfect match. The game's leaking into our world, and this bucket's exhibit A." He paused, then dropped a bomb. "Bet it's Lila's. Her head showed up at your place—body's gotta be somewhere. This could be her."

Cold sweat drenched me, Lila's bulging eyes haunting my thoughts. "So Granny hacked up Lila and Jasper? Why? And why's she cosplaying the game's kill scenes?" My brain scrambled. "Jasper and Lila built the game, Ethan coded it, but Granny's turning their script into a gore fest. Is she the director or just a psycho fan?"

Ryan stood, eyes narrowing. "Theory: Lila chases Jasper to Hollow Vale, maybe to shut down the game. Granny nabs them, botches Jasper's zombie makeover, then carves up Lila. But what's her motive? And how's she tied to the game? She's not exactly hacking mainframes in that tricycle."

I nodded, the puzzle jagged and maddening. "Every lead we grab gets torched—Jasper's body dumped, Lila's head mailed. Granny's our last shot, but she's a walking riddle." I glanced at her, still as a creepy wax figure, eyes closed like she was napping through our panic.

Ryan pointed to the bucket. "I'm taking this for the lab. If it's Lila, we've got proof. Wait outside—this smell's a biohazard." I didn't argue; the stench was weaponized. "Hurry," I said, stumbling into the night. The air was crisp but heavy, like the darkness was watching. I paced, trying to shake the feeling of a ghost breathing down my neck. I spun, scanning the empty field—nothing but shadows and silence.

"Get a grip, Jake," I muttered, rubbing my arms. But the chill grew, a prickling sensation crawling up my spine. I turned again—zip. Then, a brush tickled my neck, light as a feather but cold as death. My hand slapped the spot, heart racing. "Who's out there?!" I barked, whirling around. The field was empty, but the itch lingered, my skin crawling like I'd been tagged by a phantom prankster.

I backed toward the shack, pulse hammering. Something was here, and it wasn't just the wind playing tricks. As Ryan emerged with the bucket, a low, guttural chuckle echoed from the darkness—not Granny's cackle, but something deeper, hungrier. The game wasn't done with us yet.