I shoved Mike aside and stormed to the door, my heart pounding like a jackhammer at a construction site. The knocking kept going, each thump rattling my nerves like a bad jump-scare compilation. I was done with this haunted house nonsense—I needed answers, and I needed them now.
The air around the door felt colder than a polar bear's fridge, but I wasn't backing down. Ghosts? Pfft. I didn't believe in that crap. I grabbed the knob and yanked the door open, ready to face whatever was out there.
Standing in the hallway was a delivery guy in a tacky black-and-red uniform, holding a box and grinning like he was auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. His smile was all teeth, but it gave me the creeps, like he'd practiced it in a funhouse mirror.
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding, my heart slowing from "panic mode" to "mildly freaked." "Dude, it's midnight. What's the deal?"
"Delivery for you, sir," he said, thrusting the box at me, still grinning like he'd just won a lifetime supply of energy drinks.
"Delivery?" I frowned, glancing back at Mike, who was still huddled in the corner, looking like he'd seen the IRS in person. "I didn't order anything. Mike, you get hungry and forget to tell me?"
Mike shook his head, eyes wide. I shrugged, took the box, and muttered, "Thanks, man. Sorry for the late-night hustle."
"No trouble at all," the guy said, tipping his cap like he was in a 1950s sitcom, then sauntered off.
I kicked the door shut and carried the box to the table, shooting Mike a look. "False alarm, bro. Just some late-night DoorDash. What'd you order? Pizza? Wings? C'mon, let's chow down—I haven't eaten since this nightmare started."
Mike blinked, his face paler than a vampire at a garlic festival. "Jake, I didn't order anything."
I rolled my eyes, my patience thinner than a budget airline's legroom. "Oh, come on, Mike. First you're seeing ghosts, now you're forgetting your midnight snack orders? That game's got you more rattled than a maraca in a salsa band."
He lunged forward, grabbing my shirt with enough force to make me stumble. "I'm not screwing around, Jake! Emily was here! Standing right behind you! I'm telling you, I saw her ghost, and it wasn't handing out friendship bracelets!"
I pried his hands off, torn between pity and annoyance. The guy looked like he'd aged ten years in ten minutes. "Mike, you need to chill. There's no such thing as ghosts. You played that creepy game, got spooked, and now you're jumping at shadows. I'm taking you to a doctor tomorrow—maybe they can prescribe you some decaf."
I plopped the delivery box on the table, ignoring the oppressive vibe in the room. Mike was muttering to himself, pacing like a caged animal. I figured food might calm us both down, so I flipped open the box.
Big mistake.
Inside was a birthday cake, covered in red frosting that looked way too much like blood. Scrawled across the top in dripping letters: "Happy Birthday, My Dearest Jake!" My brain short-circuited. I checked my phone—holy crap, today was my birthday. I'd been so wrapped up in this madness I'd forgotten.
But that wasn't the worst part. I flipped the box over, and my blood ran colder than a slushie in a snowstorm. The sender's name? Emily Harper. The order timestamp? Today, 12:01 a.m.
My knees buckled, and I sank into a chair, staring at the cake like it was a ticking bomb. Emily's body was in the morgue—I'd seen it. She was deader than disco, yet here was a cake, ordered today, in her name, calling me "My Dearest Jake" like we were still picking out Netflix shows together.
I was two seconds from a full-on meltdown when I grabbed my phone and called Ryan Carter. "Ryan, get over here. Now. Something's seriously messed up."
Forty minutes later, Ryan was in my apartment, eyeing the cake like it was evidence in a serial killer case. "Jake, you're sure about this delivery guy? What'd he look like?"
I rubbed my temples, trying to picture the guy. "Just a dude in a uniform. Kinda generic, except for that smile—way too wide, like he was selling me a timeshare in Hell. But I don't think he knew Emily. Probably just a random delivery guy caught up in this… whatever this is."
Ryan paced, his detective brain in overdrive. "Let's back up. You're sure you saw Emily that night? Not, like, a stress hallucination or too many energy drinks?"
"I saw her, Ryan!" I snapped, my voice cracking. "She gave me that USB, and now this cake shows up with her name on it. Explain that."
He scratched his chin, looking as stumped as I felt. "This is the weirdest case I've ever worked. I called the morgue—Emily's body is still there, not baking cakes or sending presents. No way she's pulling a zombie delivery stunt."
I stared at him, my mind teetering on a thought I didn't want to voice: What if it's not her body doing this? Ryan caught my look and sighed, reading my mind. "Don't go there, Jake. There's gotta be a rational explanation. Maybe she scheduled the delivery before… you know. I'll check with the delivery company tomorrow. For now, try to get some sleep and stop watching Ghost Hunters."
The next morning, Ryan called the delivery service while I hovered nearby, my nerves frayed like a cheap charging cable. When he hung up, his face was grim, and my stomach dropped faster than a bad stock market.
"Jake," he started, hesitating, "the delivery company said the order came through at midnight last night. Placed by a woman. They've got a voice recording and everything."
My vision blurred. "A woman? At midnight? Ryan, Emily's dead! What the hell does this mean?"
He rubbed his neck, clearly rattled. "I don't know, man. Maybe she had a twin sister she never told you about? Or some secret double life? This is way above my pay grade."
I shook my head, my voice hollow. "No twin. No secrets. Emily was the most straightforward person I knew. She wouldn't pull some elaborate prank, especially not from the grave."
I was spiraling, torn between grief and terror. If Emily was dead, why was she—or something—toying with me? Was she haunting me? Or was someone else behind this, using her name to mess with my head?
Before I could say more, Ryan's phone buzzed. He answered, and his face went from confused to what-the-actual-hell in two seconds flat. He hung up and looked at me, his eyes wide.
"Jake… Mike's dead."
I froze, feeling like someone had yanked the floor out from under me. A cold sensation prickled my scalp, like invisible fingers tugging at my hair. "What… what do you mean, dead?"
"They found him in his apartment an hour ago," Ryan said, his voice tight. "Same deal as Emily—strangled, red marks around his neck. Coroner's estimating time of death around 3 a.m."
My mind raced. Mike had been with me until I dragged him to the hospital around 1 a.m., babbling about Emily's ghost. He'd been terrified, claiming she was following him. And now he was gone, killed just hours after playing that damn game.
The room spun, and I gripped the table to steady myself. The USB, the cake, Emily's "visit," Mike's freakout—everything pointed to one thing: that game wasn't just a game. It was a death trap, and I was next on its hit list.