Chapter Thirty-Four: Tim’s Freaky Eyes and a Knockout Nap

Tim loomed like a haunted statue, his rolled-back eyes glaring with the same creepy intensity as the death game's ghost when it first popped onto my screen—wild hair, sinister vibe, the whole nine yards. My heart was doing a drum solo, ready to bust out of my chest. Whatever Tim had become, it was not the quirky Taoist I knew. "This is some next-level Poltergeist crap," I muttered, my voice shaking.

I was inches from the tunnel's exit, but Tim blocked the way like a bouncer at a haunted club. The passage was too narrow to slip past, and pushing him was like shoving a brick wall. Retreat? Hell no. I'd nearly died getting this far—turning back felt like admitting defeat to a cosmic prankster. "Come on, Tim, you're supposed to be Mr. Ghostbuster!" I groaned, raking my hands through my hair. How do you un-zombify a guy when you're not packing a spellbook?

Then it hit me—the watercolor painting of Hell we'd seen earlier. That's when Tim went from quirky to Children of the Corn. "That freaky art's gotta be the trigger," I said aloud, a lightbulb flickering in my foggy brain. "Maybe it's cursed or some voodoo Wi-Fi that fried his soul." I spun, sprinting back toward the painting, hoping it held the key to rebooting Tim.

But the tunnel had other plans. I ran, legs burning, expecting the painting to be right there. Nothing. No frame, no Hell, just dirt walls mocking me. "What the actual heck?!" I roared, stomping the ground. Did Ryan snag it on his way out? Or was the tunnel gaslighting me? I doubled back toward Tim, desperation clawing at my gut—only to find him gone. Poof. Vanished like a bad Tinder date. "This place is a logic-free zone!" I shouted, my voice echoing. The game's puppet master was probably cackling in some shadowy control room, loving my meltdown.

Screw it. I was done being the mouse in this maze. I charged forward, half-crazed, muttering, "If this is Hell, like Tim said, then bring it on! I'm ready to fistfight Satan!" The tunnel narrowed, squeezing me like a stress ball, but I kept running, fueled by rage and Red Bull-level adrenaline.

Then, a rusty ladder appeared, dangling from a circular exit above, light spilling through like a heavenly spotlight. I gasped, lungs burning. "Finally!" I scrambled toward it, ready to climb out and kiss solid ground. But as I tilted my head to check the exit, Tim's face loomed overhead—pale, hollow, those dead-cat eyes boring into me, straight out of the game's standby screen. "Not again, you creepy ninja!" I yelped, gripping the ladder. Was he human, ghost, or Granny's possessed sidekick?

I climbed, fury overriding fear, the stench of rot growing stronger. Tim's head vanished as I neared the top, like he was playing peek-a-boo from hell. "I'm gonna throttle you, Tim!" I growled, hauling myself up. Sunlight blinded me, my brain swimming—then whack! Something cracked against my skull, and the world went dark.

Pain woke me, my head throbbing like I'd been used as a piñata. My body was ice-cold, sprawled on a damp stone floor. Am I dead? I wondered, panic creeping in. A steady drip-drip echoed, water hitting stone, the sound bouncing like we were in a cave. I forced my eyes open, lids heavy as anvils. My vision blurred, but a faint light pierced the gloom, revealing wet rock walls and a tiny window high above. "Where the hell am I?" I croaked, propping myself up. The tunnel was gone—this was a new kind of prison.

A groan nearby snapped me alert. Tim, sprawled at my feet, eyes closed, looking less like a zombie and more like a guy who'd lost a bar fight. My brain replayed the ladder, his creepy face, the blackout. "Tim!" I shook him, my voice sharp. "Wake up, man!" If he'd attacked me, why was he here, knocked out too? Who'd grabbed us, and why?

He stirred, wincing, his face twisted in pain. "Ugh… hurts," he rasped, voice like gravel. He blinked, bloodshot eyes meeting mine, no trace of the white-eyed freak. "Jake? Where are we? Weren't we in Granny's tunnel?"

I stared, relief mixing with suspicion. "You're back to normal? Dude, you went full Walking Dead in there! Tried to choke me out, stared at me like a possessed owl. What happened to you?" His confusion seemed legit, but I wasn't ready to hug it out.

Tim rubbed his temples, groaning. "No way. I'm warded—spirits can't touch me! But… I feel like I blacked out, slept for days. Body's screaming. What went down?" He looked genuinely lost, not like a guy who'd just played strangler.

"Slept?" I snorted, bitter. "You were sleepwalking through a horror flick while I was fighting for my life! That Hell painting—it zapped you, turned you into a creep. You got any dream clues? Maybe a ghost whispered the game's master plan?"

Tim frowned, shaking his head. "No dreams, just… nothing. Like my brain took a vacation." He scanned the cave, alarm creeping into his voice. "This ain't Granny's shack. Someone dragged us here. But why? And where's Ryan?"

My gut twisted. Ryan had bailed, but was he safe, or caught like us? The dripping water echoed, a mocking reminder of our cage. "Whoever's running this game," I said, my voice hard, "they're not done playing. And we're the pawns." Tim nodded, his usual swagger gone. For once, we were on the same page—trapped, clueless, and running out of moves.