Eiran Daniels was nursing his usual Tuesday night whiskey when his phone buzzed. He squinted at the screen, nearly choking on his drink. The text was from Arlo. His best friend. The only problem? Arlo had been dead for a year.
Arlo: “42.3499° N, 71.0466° W. Trust me.”
Eiran’s pulse pounded in his ears. This had to be a cruel joke, right? But Arlo had always been the prankster. Maybe this was one last trick from beyond the grave?
Either way, Eiran wasn’t about to ignore a message from his best friend.
The coordinates led him to an abandoned storage unit in a sketchy part of town. The roll-up door was locked, but a quick search of his old emails revealed something unsettling—Arlo had rented this unit before he died. Using a crowbar from his trunk, Eiran forced the door open.
Inside, he found stacks of old VHS tapes labelled with dates and cryptic titles like “The Last Game” and “Don’t Watch This One.” Eiran popped the nearest tape into a dusty VCR sitting on a rickety desk.
The grainy footage showed Arlo staring into the camera, looking both exhilarated and terrified.
“Eiran, if you’re watching this… I was right. They’re watching us. I don’t have much time, but you need to find The Magpie. He has the files. And whatever you do—don’t trust the guy with the orange scarf.”
Eiran recoiled. Who was The Magpie? And what files? He fast-forwarded, his fingers trembling. Arlo was now whispering.
“They faked my death, Eiran. I had to disappear. But if you got this message, it means I didn’t make it. Find The Magpie.”
Eiran barely had time to process before a car screeched outside. He peered out to see a man in an orange scarf stepping out of a black SUV. Panic surged through him.
Was this a coincidence? Hell no.
Grabbing the tapes, Eiran bolted through the back exit. His phone buzzed again. Another message from Arlo.
Arlo: “RUN.”