Emily Harper's death certificate said she checked out at 5 p.m. yesterday, but my story about her late-night USB delivery had Detective Ryan Carter raising an eyebrow higher than a skeptical grandma. He didn't slap cuffs on me—my alibi of being stuck in traffic during her time of death held up—but I wasn't exactly off the hook either. I could feel the "prime suspect" label itching on my back like a cheap polyester shirt.
The office was sealed tighter than a Tupperware container, with the murder making headlines and the company announcing a "temporary closure for vibes readjustment." My girlfriend was dead, and my heart felt like it'd been run over by a monster truck. My buddy Mike Thompson, who's usually as chill as a popsicle in a snowstorm, crashed at my place to keep me company, tossing out bad jokes to lighten the mood.
It'd been 24 hours, but I was still trapped in a fog thicker than San Francisco in June. Every time I closed my eyes, Emily's pale face haunted me—those hollow eyes, that creepy, echoey voice saying, "I'll be waiting for you… in Hell." I kept kicking myself for not hugging her, for letting our dumb pizza fight spiral. Pineapple, Jake? Really? That's what you went to war over?
Then it hit me like a rogue Wi-Fi signal: the USB drive. She'd handed it to me, all cryptic-like, talking about Hell's deepest pits. And that blood-red message on my PC: "How Deep Can You Plunge Into Hell?" What if the game was more than a prank? What if Emily had played it… and left clues to her killer?
I bolted upright in bed, my brain buzzing like a cheap phone charger. I had to check that USB. If Emily was murdered—and I was damn sure she was—this could be the key to nailing the bastard responsible.
I scrambled to my desk, only to find Mike sprawled in my chair, legs propped up, tinkering with my PC like he owned the place. "Yo, Mike, what the hell are you doing?" I snapped, my patience thinner than a dollar-store paper towel.
He didn't even flinch, just grinned like he'd won the lottery. "Dude, this game on your USB? Freakin' lit. I've been messing with it for an hour—already downloaded it to my phone. You gotta try it!"
My blood boiled. "You plugged in some random USB without asking? What's next, you gonna borrow my toothbrush?" I was ready to yeet him out, but he hopped up, still grinning like an idiot, and wandered to the couch, nose buried in his phone.
"Mike, seriously, get lost. I need to be alone," I growled, sliding into my chair. He didn't answer, just cackled at his screen like he was watching a cat video marathon. I ignored him and clicked on the game.
The screen erupted in a hellscape so vivid I half-expected to smell brimstone. It was a level-based game, each stage themed around a layer of Hell—think Dante's Inferno, but with better graphics and worse vibes. The intro animation dragged on, unskippable, with those red words flashing again: "Are You Ready to Descend Into Hell?"
A chill crawled up my spine, like someone had cranked the AC to "polar vortex." I swear I felt eyes boring into my back, watching every move. I whipped around—nothing but Mike, glued to his phone, muttering, "Take that, demon spawn!" to his game.
I tried to focus, but the game's eerie music and those relentless red words were giving me serious heebie-jeebies. Then—BAM! A loud crash, followed by a muffled groan. I nearly jumped out of my skin, spinning to see Mike curled up in the corner, his phone on the floor, his face whiter than a marshmallow in a snowstorm.
His eyes were huge, bloodshot, and he was clutching his ears like he was trying to block out a Nickelback concert. He was mumbling something incoherent, like he'd just seen the IRS and a clown in the same room.
"Mike, what the hell's wrong with you?" I rushed over, heart pounding. My eyes flicked to his phone, and I froze. The screen showed a ghostly figure—a woman in a tattered white dress, her eyeless sockets staring right at us. The image was so lifelike, I half-expected her to crawl out of the phone like a budget Ring reboot.
I laughed nervously, trying to break the tension. "Bro, you got spooked by a jump-scare? You were just saying this game was awesome. What, did the ghost lady steal your high score?"
Mike swatted my hand away, his voice shaking. "Don't touch me! Stay back!" His eyes darted around, unfocused, pure panic written all over his face. "She's here, Jake. She's watching me!"
I frowned, unease creeping in. "Mike, chill. It's just a game. You're freaking me out."
He grabbed my collar, his knuckles white. "It's not a game! Emily—she's in there! She's following me! She's right there!" He pointed a trembling finger behind me.
I felt a cold breeze, like someone had opened a window to Narnia's winter. My hair stood on end, but I forced myself to turn around. Nothing. Just my PC, the screen still flashing those damn red words.
"Mike, you're losing it," I said, my voice shakier than I'd like. "There's no one here. You're just—"
"Emily!" he screamed, his eyes locked on something over my shoulder. "Leave me alone! I didn't do anything! It's not my fault!"
My heart jackhammered. I spun again—still nothing. But the air felt wrong, heavy, like the room was holding its breath. The game's music looped, a low, guttural chant that made my skin crawl.
Then, a knock at the door. Knock. Knock. Knock. Slow, deliberate, like someone was auditioning for Most Ominous Visitor. Mike froze, his lips trembling. I checked my phone—midnight on the dot. Who the hell knocks at midnight?
We locked eyes, and I saw my own fear mirrored in his. "Dude," Mike whispered, his voice barely audible, "I saw her. Emily. She was in the game… and she said she misses you."
I shoved him back, my fear morphing into anger. "Stop it, Mike! That's not funny. You don't get to mess with me about Emily!" But her name on my lips sent a shiver through me, and that knocking kept going, steady as a metronome.
Mike crawled closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My grandma used to say, when someone dies with unfinished business, their ghost sticks around. They don't go with the reaper. They find the person they can't let go of…"
My mind flashed to Emily's words last night: "I missed you, Jake." If the coroner was right, she was already dead when she said that. Was I losing it, or had I actually seen… her ghost?
No. No way. Ghosts aren't real. Mike was just freaked out by the game, and I was stressed. That's all. But the knocking wouldn't stop, and my resolve was crumbling faster than a stale cookie.
I steeled myself. If Emily was out there—ghost or not—I needed answers. About her death, about the game, about everything. "Stay here," I told Mike, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'm opening that door."
As I reached for the knob, the knocking paused, and the silence was louder than any scream.