Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#020Reader Mode

#020

Seojun never really understood why people often felt embarrassed about things like this. Nevertheless, he had accomplished his goal and now stuck to Johan like a shadow, gripping the lantern tightly.

Peeking through the slightly ajar door, Seojun noticed that the handle on the other side was broken as well, somehow held in place by a stack of boxes.

Spotting a mop nearby, Seojun wedged it into the gap, and the door moved unexpectedly smoothly despite its weight. Glancing back, he found Johan lending his strength to help. As their eyes met, Seojun could just make out his clenched jaw—Johan was a tough read, flipping between bashful and bold without warning.

Together, they pushed—a mix of Seojun’s feeble efforts and Johan’s solid shove—and a box crashed down, echoing through the silence. Seojun froze, half-expecting some horror movie cliché to jump out at them, but the campsite remained still, the noise lost in its vastness.

“Jun, hold on a sec.”

Johan’s whisper was soft, his hand reassuring on Seojun’s shoulder. They swapped spots, and with a swift kick from Johan, the door burst open, unleashing a symphony of clatters and bangs, and then, the unmistakable gush of liquid. Sure enough, a fluid began seeping from beneath the door, confirming Seojun’s suspicions.

Both Seojun and Johan stepped back as the liquid approached their feet, their expressions turning grim as they recognized the telltale smell of gasoline. Without hesitation, Seojun flung the door open and peered inside, holding the lantern aloft.

It was a small space, more like a storage area than a proper room. But the sight of the overturned gasoline barrel, with its contents spilled, was alarming.

It was just a storage space, nothing like the arsenal they were bracing for. Instead of the heavy-duty horror gear like shotguns or chainsaws he thought might be used on Christina, the walls were plastered with newspaper clippings. Disappearance reports, locks of hair from blondes and brunettes, and wanted posters—it was a twisted shrine, filled with trophies from the killer’s conquests.

The lantern’s flickering light cast eerie shadows on Seojun’s face, highlighting his taut, slender jawline. The sound of his teeth grinding filled the oppressive silence. Just thinking about someone taking perverse pleasure in a place like this was enough to turn his stomach.

Then, a comforting hand gently rubbed his back. Johan, picking up on Seojun’s distress, took the lantern and lifted it to reveal more of the room.

“Looks like a dead end here, huh, Jun?”

“Uh, yeah, it seems that way. But I think… I’m gonna puke.”

Seojun felt sick, like the very essence of the Gas Mask was seeping into his bones. And a foreboding sense of inevitable vomiting shook him to his core. The meticulously arranged gasoline in the room was a clear sign of someone’s intention to burn everything down.

Johan, seeing Seojun’s face turn pale, tried to comfort him.

“It’s the gas fumes, they’re strong… let’s go outside, get some fresh air. You’ll feel better.”

Seojun wanted to blame it all on the terrible stench of gasoline, but he knew he just couldn’t stand this vile place any longer. He nodded in agreement.

“Right. Let’s get out of here. Staying here any longer seems like a waste of time.”

Seojun emphasized again that this wasn’t the Hamon Production Workshop. Yes, the guardhouse’s contents were absolutely disgusting, but the workshop was the one that truly mattered. It was where Gas Mask had orchestrated the real gruesome crime scene.

As Johan had pointed out, there was no need to stay any longer. Seojun had a general idea of what the workshop looked like based on bits of dialogue shared by Christina in the movie “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake”. Like that line she had in the film:

“Ugh, this godawful stench unbearable!”

No surprise there—the production workshop was where bodies were butchered and processed. That being said, the guardhouse was just a cramped space and only reeked of gasoline, so there was no reason to stay any longer.

Stepping out of the guardhouse, Seojun realized their earlier argument about running away was pointless. They were in D-zone, right by the camp’s entrance. With a blank look on his face, Seojun heaved a deep sigh.

Usually, there was just a sign at the camp’s entrance. But now, an iron gate, once hidden by shrubbery, stood ominously with its sharp spikes. While it was possible to slip through the forest and escape that way, exiting through the looming main gate was definitely a no-go.

Seojun’s gaze drifted to a car in the lot, the same one he’d seen earlier through the misted-up window of the convenience store. He nudged Johan with his elbow.

“Car keys?”

“They’re either with Willy, Christina, or Airi, or stuffed in a backpack somewhere. Worst case, they’re with Bobby…”

“……..”

Silence hung between them for a moment. Was it lucky that Bobby was the least likely option? While Seojun was still piecing together their next move, Johan’s attention snapped to something else.

It wasn’t exactly out of place, more like unexpectedly familiar. Johan walked over to the iron gate with a purpose, and Seojun, puzzled, followed. It took a second for Seojun to catch on to what had drawn Johan’s eye. It was so ordinary, so everyday, that he hadn’t expected to see it here.

There it was, just past the gate—his bike. The same one he always left at the store, now dumped unceremoniously on the ground, its anti-theft cable missing.

Suddenly, Seojun’s head spun, and his knees buckled. He felt like a storm-tossed twig about to snap.

“Jun!”

“I’m okay.”

Waving off Johan’s attempt to steady him, Seojun rubbed his eyes roughly. But no amount of rubbing could change the reality in front of him. There was his bike, with its scratched paint and empty basket, the tires as bald as ever. It was definitely his, and seeing it here was like a punch to the gut.

Seeing his bike tossed aside like trash reignited the pain in his previously healed shoulder wound. It brought back a rush of memories—those monthly payments he scraped together, the pride of finally owning it.

That Bastard…

It all clicked. Gas Mask, who was supposed to show up later, had been there ahead of time, just chilling and waiting for him near the restaurant. It was painfully clear now—Gas Mask had stolen Seojun’s beloved bike and had the nerve to ride it around like it was nothing.

“That sly bastard never seems to get tired….”

Seojun’s voice came out raspy and rough, as if he’d swallowed sulfur from the depths of hell. Though the metaphor was a bit dramatic, Seojun’s emotions truly reflected it.

Up until now, Gas Mask had always been a source of fear for him. Seojun had been mad before, sure, but he had always prioritized escape over confrontation whenever possible. Johan was right. Seojun had been scared, and the depths of his fear had truly paralyzed his legs and feet.

But now? A burning rage consumed him. He felt that only by splitting open that damned Gas Mask’s head would his rage finally be appeased.

With gritted teeth, Seojun furiously shook the gate until it clanged, the grating noise it made only fueled his anger further. If his hands weren’t already aching and bruised, he might’ve kept at it out of sheer stubbornness.

His eyes found Johan, who stood watching him with an oddly impassive expression. After letting Seojun have his moment, Johan sniffed the air and said,

“Does it smell like weed to you?”

“Pot? Marijuana?”

Seojun tilted his head, bewildered by the casual mention of drugs. He stopped and gave Johan a puzzled look. He let go of the gate and took a deep breath, trying to pick out the different smells — the metallic tang of rust reminiscent of blood, the earthy aroma of damp grass, the sharp tang of sweat, and then…

He snapped his eyes open and stared at Johan. There it was, just like Johan said—a distinct, skunky odor drifting over from the other side of the gate.

“Johan, you sure you’re not a secret stoner? You nailed that smell way too fast.”

Although reborn in America, Seojun’s soul remained thoroughly Korean, one who preferred kimchi with his ramen. When it came to drugs, he was so cautious that he even steered clear of over-the-counter painkillers. At Seojun’s skeptical gaze, Johan flinched.

“No way, what! Do I look like I mess with that stuff?”

His hasty denial only made it more suspicious. Seojun’s eyes narrowed, and Johan, maybe sensing he was digging himself deeper, went on the defensive.

“Listen well. I wake up at four in the morning, jog for two hours, and my breakfast consists of eggs, green veggies, mineral water, tomatoes, tofu, and chicken breast. I meticulously count the carbs, protein, and fats for my lunch, and after seven p.m., I don’t have anything but water. I shower twice a day and manage my blood pressure and sugar levels with fruits and vegetables. I only indulge in fast food about three times a year! Drugs? Cigarettes? They’re not even in my vocabulary!”

T/N: Johan… didn’t you buy a pack of cigarettes in chapter 1 haha? Nothing wrong with indulging in devil’s lettuce in moderation ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)