Chapter 9: Old Gods and New Fears

I’m a gamer, but I’d never heard of this one.

I played everything from shooters to indie puzzlers, but “Old Gods” was a mystery. I searched the App Store, but it didn’t show up. I got curious.

The icon looked like one of those knockoff games you’d find on a sketchy app site, so when I saw it on my boss’s phone, I thought it was just malware.

It was a cartoon tentacle wrapped around a smartphone—creepy and cheap-looking. I almost laughed when I saw it on Mr. Nolan’s home screen.

But the three girls all had iPhones, so they must have downloaded it from the App Store.

I checked their downloads—sure enough, all three had the game installed, same version.

I decided to try it myself, but ran into a problem: you needed an invitation code to register.

I downloaded the APK from a shady forum, but when I tried to sign up, it asked for a 13-digit code. No code, no game.

These codes are usually long, randomly generated, and only valid for a short time—impossible to guess.

I ran a brute-force script, but the server blocked me after three tries. Someone really didn’t want outsiders getting in.

I searched eBay and Discord for codes, but no one was selling them.

I messaged a few sellers, but they ghosted me. On Reddit, my posts got downvoted into oblivion.

Clearly, this game had a strict invitation system—it wasn’t making money from user traffic.

It didn’t even have ads. No microtransactions, no merch. Just a private club for a select few.

I posted on gaming forums asking for help, but got no replies. It seemed like no one played this game at all.

It was like it didn’t exist—except for the handful of people in Marissa’s dorm and my boss.

With no way forward, I decided to look for clues on my boss’s side.

I figured if anyone knew how to get in, it’d be him. I started watching his phone more closely, trying to catch a glimpse of the game in action.

Ever since I helped him recover his phone data, he trusted me more than ever. He even gave me all the company holiday gifts.

Gift cards, whiskey, even a set of golf clubs I had no idea what to do with. He said I’d “earned it.”

But he was still cunning. One day, he suddenly asked, "Eddie, I can’t find a few photos on my phone. Are you sure you recovered everything?"

He caught me off guard. I played it cool, but inside, my stomach dropped.

I immediately realized it was a trap.

He was fishing for a reaction, watching my face for any sign of guilt.

If I said “everything’s there,” he’d know I’d seen his private album and might take action against me.

I forced a shrug, looking confused. “I’m not sure, boss. I can double-check if you want.”

So I played dumb, saying I wasn’t sure, and could double-check if needed.

He just laughed, patted my shoulder, and said there was no need—he trusted my work.

His laugh was sharp, almost mocking. I smiled back, pretending not to notice.

One day, he invited me to dinner at a private supper club he knew, boasting about their red wine braised short ribs and homemade cider. I agreed.

He said it was “members only,” the kind of place you only heard about in whispers. I wore my best shirt, hoping I’d fit in.

I drove to a gated suburb as instructed.

The security guard waved me through after checking my ID. The neighborhood was all manicured lawns and brick mansions, the kind of place where people jog with purebred dogs and never lock their doors.

The restaurant was inside a three-story mansion. The living room had a massive crystal chandelier, classic American décor, solid wood and leather furniture, and a famous designer’s signature displayed. You could tell it was expensive just by looking at it.

There were oil paintings on the walls, a grand piano in the corner, and a fireplace big enough to roast a whole pig. I felt out of place, like a kid at his first prom.

We sat in a private room. The waiter brought four cold appetizers: baby octopus, glazed pork belly, caviar, and something that looked like sautéed mushrooms. The boss smiled and said it was white truffle, flown in from Italy.

I stared at the plates, trying not to drool. The wine was older than I was. I wondered if I’d ever eat like this again.

I panicked—was he expecting me to pay? I didn’t have that kind of money!

I checked my wallet under the table, just in case. He caught me, smirked, and waved off the bill.

He seemed to sense my worry and ordered a pack of premium cigarettes, lit one for himself, and stuffed the rest in my shirt pocket.

He leaned back, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and grinned. “Relax, Eddie. Tonight’s on me.”

"Eddie, I’m always straightforward with you. At work, things are different, but here, let’s be honest."

He poured me a glass of wine, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. I wondered what game he was playing.

I had no idea what he was up to, so I poured him wine and played along: "Of course, boss. I’ll do whatever you say. We’ll win together!"

I clinked my glass against his, trying to match his enthusiasm.

"Don’t give me that corporate talk. Let’s play a game: you tell me a secret, I’ll tell you a secret."

He leaned in, voice low. I swallowed hard, not sure if this was a test or a trap.

What kind of game was this?

I laughed nervously, racking my brain for something harmless.

So I confessed to cheating on college exams, copying reports, and using a handwriting robot for my philosophy class notes.

I admitted to skipping lectures, faking sick days, even hacking the campus Wi-Fi for free streaming.

He shook his head—those weren’t secrets, everyone did that.

He smirked. “Come on, Eddie. I want the real dirt.”

"If you won’t say it, I’ll say it for you! You snooped through my phone, didn’t you?"

His voice was sharp, cutting through the wine and laughter. My blood ran cold.