Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#004Reader Mode

T/N: In honor of receiving my first Ko-fi coffee, there will be a double upload today. Thanks Nina!

#004

Seojun had already mentally packed his bags. Though he couldn’t brag about being the best clerk at Fred’s store, finding someone as competent as him wouldn’t be easy. For years, he had loyally served at the secluded Hamon convenience store without a single grumble. Naturally, he was bound to feel a sense of loss.

While others traveled and took vacations, Seojun was attached to the store like a barnacle, never straying too far. Although he was, in truth, trapped by the sinister plot of a horror movie, to the casual observer, it seemed as if he was laying down permanent roots at the shop.

Suddenly, Seojun’s lips pouted in disbelief as he mulled over his choices, muttering to himself,

What was Fred thinking? Did he really think I’d stick around in this barely breaking even convenience store forever?

Of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to voice it aloud. After all, Fred was the boss who gave him his salary. Seojun softly licked his lips, thinking of the money he’d need for his future truck’s fuel.

“Fred, I’m already in my twenties. I can’t stay here forever.”

He shrugged, a gesture he felt was quite “American” of him, and continued mopping, accidentally nudging Fred’s shoe with the mop. Fred stepped back hastily, clutching the edge of his vest.

“I suppose you’re right,”

“This is a good place to work. We’ll easily find a new employee. If we need someone urgently, I can ask some friends.”

Seojun’s assurance, while cleaning the messy floor, sounded more hopeful than he actually felt. To his somewhat bluffed reassurance, Fred replied in a subdued voice,

“Okay….”

Fred, with his somber face, exited as if he genuinely had matters to attend to. The once blazing sun now settled behind the mountains.

The Hamon convenience store, located at a crossroad near the Hamon campsite, was as quiet as ever. In fact, the unexpected visit from Christina and her group, including the notorious Gold-Silver-Bronze trio, was an unusual occurrence. Recalling Fred’s earlier suggestion that he could close up early, Seojun neatly tidied up the counter.

He must realize that this damn store hardly gets any customers.

The location was terrible from the get-go. Placing a convenience store near a secluded campsite was an odd choice. If the campsite had been a popular spot, this would’ve been a prime location, but the Hamon campsite wasn’t exactly a hotspot for visitors.

Rather, the area emitted a creepy, unsettling aura, repelling not just curious strangers, but even the brave locals. Essentially, those who dared to visit this forsaken campsite were either characters destined for horror movie plots or mischievous thrill-seekers drawn to forbidden adventures.

Seojun’s hand, in the midst of tallying up the day’s sales, came to an abrupt halt. The ruckus caused by the Gold-Silver-Bronze trio, who left without purchasing anything, meant that the only income for the day came from Christina’s group.

He scrutinized the bill that Johann had handed over. The scent of citrus lingered on his bare fingertips, and the counter’s basket remained full of lemons.

Mimicking Johann’s earlier move, he rolled a lemon, appreciating its solid touch. He had always preferred using his bare hands. Putting on gloves just to avoid contact with movie characters always felt like too much of a hassle. As he shed the gloves, a refreshing breeze caressed his fingers, bringing with it the enticing aroma of citrus.

Would everything turn out alright?

He couldn’t help but question himself, even though he knew the answer. Seojun’s eyes sealed shut, his lashes quivering as an intense darkness engulfed him, a darkness so profound that not even fragments of his imagination dared to intrude.

It has to be okay!

Memories of being chased by a flesh-craving monster and a sadistic murderer flooded back. He had seen a friend barely escape the clutches of a monster, only to witness another friend lose limbs to a merciless blade. Seojun had seen it all. What was once portrayed in black and white with scattered fake blood would now be reenacted with vivid smells and vibrant colors—right here, today.

His eyes snapped open at the sound of a rustling bill. The crumpled bill seemed like a melancholy mirror of his own state, trying to silence his nagging worries with money.

Seojun straightened out the bill with a click of his tongue. He knew himself all too well. No matter how many soothing lies he whispered to himself, he wouldn’t warn them to steer clear of the campsite. Instead, he pocketed a lemon as a keepsake.

Such was Seojun’s nature. Prophets often make doubt their constant companion.

Exiting the convenience store, the humid warmth still hung heavily in the air. However, being near the forest and a lake, the evening swiftly turned surprisingly chilly. The combination of oppressive heat and a cool breeze created a strange atmosphere where sweat trickled down his back, while goosebumps peppered his arms.

Seojun ruffled his hair, flattened by his cap, and closed the store door behind him. As he rose from his crouched position, a hefty Boston bag hung on his right shoulder.

With the familiar ease of one claiming his own belongings, Seojun’s bag now bulged with items from the store. He didn’t bother to straighten his slouched posture, instead taking unsteady steps towards his bicycle. The ridiculous job of playing prophet near some remote campsite had left him with few transportation options. Because of this, Seojun, who didn’t have a driver’s license had to heavily rely on his legs.

Seojun threw his bag into the bicycle basket, causing the bike to wobble precariously. With a gentle touch, he steadied it, mentally scolding himself for his unusual clumsiness.

He slowly lifted his gaze.

The road in front of the convenience store was bathed in the faint light of sporadically placed streetlights, plunging the surroundings into deep darkness after sunset. The few lights that were there flickered inconsistently. But beneath one of them was something strange.

Seojun squinted, trying to make out the odd silhouette, and an involuntary gasp escaped him.

The lights continued to flicker sporadically.

As the light stuttered back to life, the indistinct shadow snapped into clarity. At first, he thought it was someone with abnormally large eyes or perhaps someone wearing glasses. The figure had eyes that shimmered unnaturally like those of an insect. But as Seojun’s heart pounded in his chest, he realized his error. Those weren’t eyes…they were the eyepieces of a gas mask.

The masked figure slowly tilted its head…revealing the gleam of a sharp, elongated Hamon knife in its hand.

A knot tightened in Seojun’s throat… his breaths came in shallow, rapid bursts. He was frozen in place, every fiber of his being sounding an alarm. His recognition of the knife wasn’t due to the campsite or a connection to the store’s name “Hamon”, but because it was the weapon wielded by the murderer in “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake”.

The chilling ensemble of a gas mask, inky black trench coat, and the Hamon knife, while ordinary separately, combined to unmistakably resemble the sinister attire of the lakeside murderer.

A shiver coursed through his paralyzed form. Despite rubbing his eyes or willing himself to see differently, the looming figure beneath the flickering light was undeniably the spitting image of the serial killer with a gas mask.

Was this another hallucination?

Or perhaps a waking nightmare?… If so, Seojun would willingly offer a prayer of gratitude to a god he didn’t believe in. However, the cold sweat on his palms and the bitter sting from biting his own tongue relentlessly anchored him to the horrifying reality.

The sky had dimmed to twilight, while the asphalt beneath still held the day’s warmth. A chilling breeze caressed Seojun’s skin, making every nerve ending hyper-aware.

Having failed to escape from reality, Seojun glared resentfully at the serial killer.

Are you out of your mind? Why is he here, and why now?

If events were to follow the original script, shouldn’t the killer be menacingly brandishing his knife toward the protagonists, who should be enjoying themselves at the Hamon campground by now? But instead, Seojun found himself on the receiving end of that gleaming blade. The twist of fate was almost laughably cruel.

The gas-masked figure’s boots scraped against the asphalt as he shifted, slowly setting his sights on Seojun. A shiver raced down Seojun’s spine, amplified by cold sweat.

Seojun trembled, remembering the face hidden behind the mask, memories of a scarred visage, with grooves extending from beneath its eyes down to its cheeks, haunting him. Those lifeless, inhuman eyes seemed to mark him as the next victim.

The image of the murderer, a hazy memory from “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake”, now sharpened into focus. Among the sea of faces from the movie, it was one of the two faces that Seojun could never forget.

Seojun risked a glance at the masked man’s arm. Though concealed by the trench coat, it looked sturdy and muscular, much like that of a seasoned chef. To put it bluntly, Seojun’s chances of besting a knife-wielding killer seemed absurdly slim.

The bicycle… isn’t an option.

His bike, where his bag was left, was secured with a theft-proof steel cable. Cursing his own meticulousness under his breath, Seojun mourned his predicament. Why did he always have to be so thorough, even in trivial matters? If he tried to free the bike, he’d become an easy target for the deadly Hamon knife.

Sweat slid down his chin. He had to make a decision: run to the nearby campground or take the long run to the distant village.

Decision made, knowing his limitations, Seojun wheeled around, legs pumping furiously towards the campground.

Terror magnified his every sense, each footfall echoing loudly on the asphalt. He sprinted forward, limbs flailing, as if trying to outrun his fear.

“Ah! Aaaah!”

But he couldn’t stop the pathetic scream from escaping from his throat. Thankfully, he didn’t accidentally bite his own tongue in the process. There were no cars on the desolate forest road, nor the reassuring sounds of nature. Only the haunting footsteps of his pursuer echoed.

“F*ck!”

Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Seojun immediately wished he hadn’t. The masked figure, although appearing to move at a leisurely pace, had an eerily persistent stride. And alarmingly, he was closing in, the Hamon knife gleaming ominously in his hand.

A chilling realization struck Seojun: if caught, he’d be killed, dismembered, and reborn as a dinner ham.

Panic blurred his vision on the dimly lit path. His distraction resulted in a painful collision with a signpost.

“Ah!”

A single scream erupted from Seojun, pain searing through his skin.

The signpost, its rusty metal plate precariously affixed to aged timber, had lost its stability over the years. The impact of Seojun’s collision sent the metal plate flying, leaving a fierce, long gash on his arm.

The plate clattered to the ground, spinning a few times before coming to rest.

“Huff…”

Gritting his teeth, Seojun knew didn’t have time to writhe in pain. Clutching his bleeding arm, he sprinted up the steep hill, his path marked by sporadic droplets of blood.

Shortly after, the figure in the gas mask reached the patch of earth stained by Seojun’s blood. His gaze followed the path Seojun had taken into the pitch-black forest, before bending down to pick up the dislodged metal plate.

The wooden signpost, now bare without its metal plate, bore the wear and tear signs of time. Faint remnants of red-painted letters were barely visible. The figure in the gas mask shrugged, tightening the loosened screws on the metal plate. Soon, the metal plate was securely reattached to the signpost.

“Hamon Campground, 500 meters ahead.”

He read aloud, a trace of amusement creeping into his voice. As moments passed, that mirth twisted into a bone-chilling chuckle that reverberated hauntingly down the desolate road.