The next morning, Charlie received a text, from someone new and unexpected.
The number was blocked. But it wasn’t the Game—it came from a new sender, a different thread.
I heard you were looking for me
Charlie rubbed his eyes awake and rolled over onto his back, the phone above him.
Who is this?
It gave him the name of the person he’d googled on a whim, when he couldn’t find how to quit the Game. The last of the known Friends of the Crypt, who’d taken himself off the map over a decade ago, after he served his time and got out of jail.
Scott Parker
Charlie was torn. What he would give to hear from someone who had played before them. Who knew where it all ended. But Charlie was out. Why dip his toe back in, even a little? The answer was obvious. For his friends.
Still, he knew the Game was watching. He couldn’t open this door. Not even a little. He typed back:
I already quit
no you didn’t
Charlie didn’t respond. He had his fingers over the keyboard, thinking of what to say, when the person claiming to be Scott Parker added:
you think you did
Damnit, Charlie thought. This guy—these letters claiming to be a guy claiming to be Scott Parker—was reeling him back in. He could feel it.
Still, he wouldn’t take the bait. He didn’t respond. Good, he thought. Stay strong.
But the person wrote again:
only one way to quit
“Oh, fuck.” Charlie hadn’t bitten yet, but he could already feel the hook sinking into his jaw. Either this guy was real and knew the one thing Charlie desperately needed to know. Or the Game was the most sneaky, manipulative piece of shit he’d ever encountered.
Cursing himself, Charlie typed:
How?
Predictably, so predictably, the person on the other end wrote:
We need to meet