"Holy crap," SlickRick Brooks gasped before Phasmophobia even loaded.
"This intro's straight out of a blockbuster. I'm in a damn movie!"
The screen faded in, like waking from a dream.
A voice crackled over the intercom, growing clearer.
"Yo, Investigator? You there, Investigator?"
SlickRick blinked, finding himself in a truck's cargo bay.
It looked like a ghost-hunting command center—gear racks on the left held flashlights, cameras, EMF readers, thermometers.
A workbench nearby had a monitor and a walkie-talkie, the source of the voice.
"Uh, yeah, I'm here," SlickRick said, grabbing the walkie-talkie.
"Good. Thought a ghost was jamming us," the voice said, relieved. "Listen up, rookie. We've got a low-key ghost this time. ID its type. Clear?"
SlickRick nodded, half-getting it. "Yeah… I think."
The trailer had clued him in: enter a haunted house, use gadgets to scope out ghosts, figure out their type by elimination, cash in commissions.
But this felt weird.
Other horror games were about dodging ghosts, not chasing them.
This was like, "If the ghost won't come to me, I'll go get got."
The voice continued: "Check the whiteboard on your right for mission details. More tasks done, bigger the payout."
SlickRick turned. A whiteboard listed:
Optional Tasks
Identify the ghost type
Have one team member witness ghost activity
Find a ghost handprint
Snap a ghost photo
"Our prelim intel says the ghost's name is 'Jake Rivers,' chief artist at WindyPeak Games."
"Try talking to it, maybe piss it off to trigger some spooky stuff."
"Keep your notebook handy to log phenomena for the ghost type."
"What the hell?!" SlickRick laughed. "They made their own artist a ghost? That's next-level unhinged!"
Chat exploded:
"Peak WindyPeak move!"
"Jake Rivers is legit their artist. Savage!"
"How pissed was Jake to get ghosted like this?"
"Gus Harper had to be behind this."
"Bet Jake's haunting the office now, lol."
SlickRick's nerves eased, laughing with chat.
The truck slowed, rain pattering outside.
He grabbed the gear as instructed—flashlight, EMF, notebook—and stretched (pointless in VR).
Pumping a fist, he hyped himself. "Let's do this! Any ghost's getting smoked today!"
Clunk.
The truck door slid open, revealing a pitch-black night.
A small, dark villa loomed ahead, a single porch light flickering dimly.
Even without full sensory tech, SlickRick shivered.
Wait.
Was he wrong?
This game wasn't the goofy romp the trailer sold.
That trailer was a trap to lure players into terror.
Heart pounding, he reached the villa's door, sliding the key in slowly.
Click—creak.
The metal hinges screeched in the silent night.
SlickRick aimed his flashlight inside. Dust floated in the beam, hyper-real. A hollow echo filled the air, like whispers could drop any second.
"Nope, I'm out!" he yelped, spinning back toward the door.
"This game's cursed!"
It was too dark.
Gus Harper knew fear's roots—narrow flashlight beams, eerie echoes, rain tapping windows.
No ghosts yet, not even a shadow, but dread gripped SlickRick's gut.
He didn't know when or how a ghost would hit, or how it'd kill.
Worst part?
He patted his waist—thermometer, purple flashlight, walkie-talkie, EMF, notebook.
No weapons.
"No weapons?!" he shouted. "I'm running a haunted house with office supplies?!"
Chat caught on:
"No way, no guns?!"
"Ghost hunters don't pack heat, I guess."
"This is brutal! No weapons is terrifying!"
"Gus played us all."
"WindyPeak's trolling us into oblivion."
"Betting SlickRick's out in five minutes!"
"Open the bets! I'm in for 50,000 channel points!"
Twitch chat loved chaos.
The VibeX1's safety system tracked heart rate and blood pressure, booting players if they panicked too hard—like a nightmare wake-up.
Chat started a betting pool:
Five minutes: most bets.
Three minutes: heavy action.
Sixty seconds: bold takers.
Ten seconds: one troll.
SlickRick fumed. "Y'all disrespecting me! I've got some guts!"
He turned to Pineapple. "Open the bets! If I'm out in five, we're giving away a VibeX1!"
Chat erupted:
"SlickRick's going big!"
"Just say you're giving away a VR rig, bro."
"Three minutes, tops."
"Bets are in!"
In twenty seconds, 10,000+ channel points flooded "Under five minutes."
"Over five minutes" got 500 points—from Pineapple's crew.
Chat roasted:
"Pineapple, blink if you're scared."
"Poor Pineapple, losing 500 points."
"Gotta save face for the boss."
"Pineapple's dreaming of billions."
"Me clapping for my boss at a meeting."
Bets locked, SlickRick unpaused.
"Watch me flex," he said, stepping into the villa.
The wooden floor creaked, sapping his bravado.
He muttered, "Gonna show Pineapple who's boss…"
Pop.
Pineapple sighed, facepalming, as chat cackled.
SlickRick crept forward, flashlight shaking.
The floor groaned with every step.
He hit the living room. The TV flickered with static, hissing softly.
He grabbed the remote, mashing buttons. No dice.
Heart sinking, he backed out, heading for the bathroom.
Gush.
The faucet poured red water, overflowing the sink, pooling on the floor.
SlickRick reached to shut it off but froze.
Something dark floated in the water—seaweed, maybe?
His brain flashed to a rotting head, hair drifting, eyes glaring.
"I'm done," he whispered.
Only one minute in.
The longest minute ever.
He considered camping by the door to win the bet.
But as he stepped back—
Creak.
A faint floorboard groaned from the corridor's corner.
"OH HELL NO!"
Goosebumps exploded.
He was alone.
Whose footsteps were those?
Chat blew up:
"Footsteps?!"
"This is getting real!"
"Headphones on, I'm traumatized."
"SlickRick's living my nightmare."
"Open the door, meet the Grim Reaper!"
"Footsteps by the door. He's one turn from doom."
"Underworld meet-cute!"
"Ghosts everywhere, but invisible!"
SlickRick remembered the purple flashlight.
He swapped it on, casting an eerie glow.
The villa's vibe got worse.
But he had to know.
He crept forward.
A footprint glowed on the floor ahead.
His breath hitched.
The toes pointed toward him.
It was coming.
His hands shook, sweat dripping. He inched the light closer.
The footprints… vanished mid-corridor.
"Gone?" he gasped, legs wobbling.
He swept the light around. No more prints.
"Time to bail," he muttered.
But as he lowered the flashlight—
A faint green glow flashed on the wall.
He snapped the light back.
A withered handprint with long, bony fingers stared back.
Right next to him.
Half a meter away.
Silence swallowed the villa.
SlickRick's mind blanked.
It's right here.
Hiss—
A chilling breath grazed his ear.
"WHAT THE—"
Ding!
"Heart rate critical. Disconnected from VibeX1."
Chat detonated.