Chapter Thirty-One: Diaries of Doom and Tunnel Terrors

Dawn hit me like a freight train, the weight of Ryan's words sinking in: I might be the game's final target. I'd built some mental armor, but it was flimsy, like a paper towel in a hurricane. Worse, a new doubt gnawed at me—Emily. Was she true to me, or was I just another sucker in her game? My heart was already a punching bag, and this was a low blow.

Ryan, rummaging through Lila's apartment, pulled out a leather-bound diary, identical to the one I'd found in Emily's drawer. "Jake, look at this," he said, his voice grim. "Lila's got the same creepy journal as Emily. Check it out—same vibe, same obsession." He flipped through pages, and there it was, the word Hell scrawled over and over, like a goth teen's poetry phase gone rogue.

I grabbed it, my hands shaky. "What's with these girls and their underworld fanfic? Why's Hell their happy place? And what's the endgame—scaring us to death or something worse?" The diaries were a neon sign pointing to a conspiracy, but the motive was fuzzier than a bad Wi-Fi signal.

As we headed out, my phone buzzed—Tim, panting like he'd just run a marathon. "Jake, you won't believe this. That kid, Max—the one who died—you know who he's tied to?"

My pulse spiked. "Max? Spill it, Tim. Who's he connected to?"

Tim gulped air. "He's linked to Granny. Not sure how yet, but I spent all day digging. Got something solid."

I yelled for Ryan to hit the brakes. "Change of plans—Hollow Vale, now!" This was our third trek to Creepsville, each trip a mix of clues and cardiac arrests. I prayed this one would crack the case wide open.

We screeched into the village, and Tim hopped into the backseat, looking like he'd wrestled a ghost and lost. "Hollow Vale's a paranormal petri dish," he said, catching his breath. "Remember Jasper's neighbor, the old guy? Kicked the bucket last night. Outta nowhere."

I spun around. "Dead? He was spry as a spring chicken two days ago! What got him—heart attack, or something… spookier?" In this village, natural causes felt like a fairy tale.

Tim shrugged. "Heard it at the funeral this morning. But that's not the big news. Granny? She died twenty years ago. Had a kid—young boy, back then."

Ryan shot me a look, his cop skepticism on high. "So, Granny's a ghost? That tracks with her zombie-chic aesthetic." He snorted, but his grip on the wheel tightened.

Tim shook his head. "Not quite. She doesn't vibe like a spirit—too solid, too… weird. But she's not human either. Something's off, like she's stuck between worlds."

I leaned back, my brain doing cartwheels. "Wait. You're saying Max might be her kid? That'd explain why he played the game—and why he died. But it's shaky. Max was, what, early twenties? The math's fuzzy, and it feels like a stretch."

Ryan stayed quiet, letting us ramble, then dropped a bomb. "That night in the shack, I spotted a trapdoor—underground tunnel. Bet all Granny's secrets are down there." He shot Tim a pointed glance, like he was sizing up a suspect.

Tim met his stare, unflinching. "I saw it too, when I went solo. Didn't go in—had other leads to chase. But yeah, that tunnel's our next move."

I swallowed hard. Everyone tied to the game was dead—Jasper, Lila, Mike, Ethan, Claire. Granny was the last piece, a walking enigma we couldn't crack. Was she behind my neck attack, the ghostly tickle? Or was she just a pawn in the game's twisted chessboard? Too many questions, not enough sanity.

We agreed to hit the tunnel, hoping daylight would make Granny's shack less Exorcist-y. Spoiler: it didn't. The door creaked open, revealing a pitch-black void, the air thick with a strange, sour smell—not the usual blood-and-guts funk, but something alien, like a chemistry lab gone wrong. "Granny's out redecorating her crypt," I muttered, scanning the empty room. "No sign of her or her tricycle."

Tim led us to the trapdoor, hidden under a corner floorboard, crudely dug like a last-minute escape route. "What's she running from?" I wondered aloud, stepping into the tunnel. A bone-chilling cold hit me, like I'd walked into a meat freezer. The walls were raw dirt, the passage narrow, barely wide enough for two. Tim took point, I was sandwiched in the middle, and Ryan brought up the rear, our phone lights casting weak glows.

"This better not end in a minotaur fight," I whispered, the claustrophobia squeezing my chest. The tunnel smelled of damp earth, but that icy chill clung to us, unnatural and relentless. "Where's this even go?" I asked, my voice echoing.

Tim checked the walls, his flashlight flickering. "No idea, but it's not a subway. Granny dug this for a reason—hiding something, or from something." His calm was infuriating, like he was strolling through a mall, not a horror movie set.

We trudged on, the tunnel stretching endlessly, nothing but dirt and darkness. Then, halfway in, a faint whooo-whooo drifted through the air, like wind howling through a haunted house. Except it was June, and we were underground. No wind, no way. We froze, ears straining. The sound wasn't close, but it wasn't far—hovering, teasing, like a ghost blowing raspberries.

Ryan's voice was a low growl. "Granny's not in the shack. She could be down here. Eyes sharp, guys. If it goes sideways, we bolt." His hand hovered near his gun, but bullets felt useless against whatever was moaning in the dark.

I nodded, my heart hammering. The tunnel's wails grew sharper, and I couldn't shake the feeling we'd just walked into the game's final level—with no extra lives.