Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#130Reader Mode

#130

At first, it was just sound. Ragged, desperate gasps reaching through the fog in Seojun’s brain. Each rattling breath sounded like a damn battle for survival, as if it might be someone’s last. The floor beneath him buzzed – a low, constant hum that vibrated right into his bones. A sharp chill curled around him, cold and heavy, whispering that quiet but unmistakable warning that something was horribly, irreversibly wrong.

“No! Please, God, no! Just open your eyes! Please, just open them!”

Then came the scream. Raw, gut-wrenching. A wail so thick with grief it could shatter your heart. This agonizing cry, this sound of pure loss, clawed its way through the darkness holding him captive, dragging him back toward consciousness. His eyelids felt like lead weights, but he wrestled them open, lashes fluttering just a sliver. Blinding fluorescent lights stabbed into his skull, sending a spike of pain straight through his brain. He winced, trying to turn away, but his neck locked up in stiff, stubborn protest.

And that’s when Seojun realized he was trapped. Couldn’t move. His wrists and ankles were bound, and he was lying on his side, the cold tiles digging into his shoulder. Panic spiked in his chest as he fought to lift his head, to see, when the choked sobs came again, closer this time, somewhere to his right. He twisted against the restraints, straining to focus, but the world just wouldn’t cooperate. Everything was a blur. Blurry, blinding, disorienting pain.

His head was killing him. A relentless pounding that felt like his skull might just split open. Nausea rolled in his gut, a nasty knot that clenched tighter with every shaky breath. The cold wasn’t just a sensation anymore; it was a living thing, sinking icy fangs deep into his bones, forcing him to curl up, desperate for any shred of warmth. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain, but that harsh glare was right there waiting when he forced them open again.

“Ugh…”

A shudder ripped through Seojun, a weak, useless twitch that sent another bolt of pain shooting through him. A groan slipped out, and hot tears stung his eye, spilling down his cheeks before he could even try to stop them. He hated this… hated feeling so pathetic, so utterly powerless.

But the universe, in a rare moment of kindness, decided to grant him a small mercy: his vision cleared up. Of course, being the sadist it was, the first thing he saw was something that guaranteed he wouldn’t be slipping back into that sweet darkness anytime soon.

Blood.

It was so vivid. Thick red liquid oozed along the grout lines of the tiles, twisting and turning like molten lava. That image was instantly burned into his brain, refusing to fade. Just moments ago, his thoughts had been sluggish and heavy, but now they snapped into overdrive. It was like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

“No… Hugh!”

The name echoed, raw and desperate. Seojun, despite his neck feeling like a rusty hinge, whipped his head towards the cry. He saw Oliver, face white as a sheet, tears and snot mixing with spit as they streamed down his crumpling face. Every scream that ripped from Oliver’s throat was more heart-wrenching than the last.

Seojun followed Oliver’s wide-eyed stare and saw him. Hugh.

Hugh was sprawled on the floor, a dark pool of blood creeping out from beneath him, a grim shadow staining the floor crimson. Hugh’s face, normally the picture of effortless charm, was twisted in agony. His body spasmed violently, curling in on itself like he was trying to escape some unimaginable pain. Strangled, guttural sounds hissed through his clenched teeth—half-screams, half-whimpers. He was trying to hold them back, but they spilled out anyway with each shallow, ragged breath.

His usually crisp suit was a wrinkled, blood-soaked mess. Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead, any hint of his usual put-together look long gone. He thrashed on the floor, limbs flailing like a pinned insect.

But it wasn’t just seeing Hugh in agony that made Oliver’s cries unbearable. Even Seojun was stunned, his breath caught in his chest, jaw slack.

“Aghhh…”

Hugh’s right arm… it was just gone. Hacked off right below the elbow, and not cleanly, either. It looked like someone had taken a hatchet to it. Under the harsh glare of the lights, the raw muscle, fat, and splintered bone gleamed wetly, blood spurting out in these horrible, rhythmic bursts. Bits of flesh and torn veins hung loose—it was absolutely sickening.

Seojun was transfixed, his eyes wide and unblinking, like they were paralyzed. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, even as his head started to swim and his heart slammed against his ribs. The sight of Hugh’s mangled arm cut through the fog in his mind, bringing everything into sudden, stark clarity.

Then—crack. It felt like a dam had burst inside his skull. Memories came flooding back, a chaotic torrent threatening to overwhelm him.

Snippets of conversations flickered through his mind like a jumpy old film. The same recipes they’d used since the shop opened. Pancakes, soaked in raspberry syrup that dripped like blood. Coffee. The applause. Charles’s Queen. Alice’s Special. That influencer, always raving about “everything fresh.” Wendrick’s voice, repeating the same thing over and over.

And then—Charles. Pulling off his baker’s gloves. His hands… every single fingernail missing. Fingernails, fingernails, and more fingernails swirling in his mind like shards of glass!

“Aah!”

Yeah, that was it. The last clear thing he remembered before everything went dark: Charles’s hands, stripped bare of every fingernail. He could still feel the sticky syrup on his cheek, pressed up against the floor.

Seojun’s gaze darted around the room, and it finally clicked—he was in a kitchen. The stark white walls, the harsh shine of stainless steel, those endless countertops, the massive fridge practically looming over him, the brutal glare from the overhead lights… they were trapped in the restaurant’s kitchen, no doubt. The others from the restaurant were strewn around him, out cold, splayed across the floor like discarded dolls.

He could just make out the steady drumming of rain from somewhere outside. The constant patter of water on the ground and the mournful howl of wind whistling through unseen cracks created an unsettling, almost sinister soundtrack. Out of everyone, only Seojun and Oliver seemed to be conscious.

But “conscious” hardly described Oliver’s state. He was a wreck, consumed by grief, wailing at the top of his lungs, practically glued to Hugh’s side, who was bleeding out fast. The screams were so raw, so full of despair, they sounded almost unhinged. It was clear Seojun was the only one who could hold it together right now.

Seojun needed quiet, desperately. His skull pounded with the kind of pain that blurred the edges of his thoughts. He wished he could tell him to shut up. He couldn’t focus, not with Oliver screaming like that. But how could he blame him? Anyone would lose it after seeing their lover—or whatever created version of a lover this was—bleed out on the cold floor, an arm chopped away like it was nothing.

No, he couldn’t let it distract him. He had to focus. Escape was the only option. He had to figure out how to get loose from whatever the hell was tying his wrists and ankles. With Wendrick and Charles nowhere in sight, Seojun knew he had to get out of there before they showed up again.

What the hell did they tie me with? Zip ties?

But breaking free was proving way harder than it ever looked in the movies. No conveniently placed glass shard to cut himself free. No lighter just out of reach. No sudden rush of adrenaline to give him super strength. Just the ache in his joints and the weight of panic crushing his chest, making it harder to think, harder to breathe. And it wasn’t just him; every single person in the room was tied up, secured with the kind of obsessive detail that could only come from a seriously twisted mind. His skin crawled just thinking about it.

Then Seojun heard them. Footsteps. Slow and deliberate. Each step was its own little heartbeat of terror, pounding in his ears. He bit down on the panic, choking back the scream that was fighting its way up his throat.

Turning his head just enough, he caught sight of the doorway. A sliver of white cut through the shadows. A chef’s uniform. Then, the rest came into focus. Charles, his arm wrapped around Wendrick, helping her limp into the room.

Charles’s previously clean white chef’s uniform was now splattered with blood. Under his other arm was a severed human arm, still dripping. In the same hand, he casually swung a massive cleaver, slick with fresh blood. Seojun’s eyes shot to Hugh on the floor, to the spreading pool of dark red around the ragged stump where his arm used to be. The blood was still pumping out in an alarming flow because no one had even bothered to staunch the wound.

Charles tossed the severed arm and cleaver onto the counter with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. He shifted his weight to steady Wendrick, who was ghostly pale and leaning heavily against him.

“It’s such a hassle,” Charles remarked, his tone breezy, as if he were discussing a stubborn coffee stain on his apron. He crouched slightly, bringing his face close to Wendrick’s. “First time I ever got it in one clean cut, though!” he added with a chuckle, the sound disturbingly warm. Then, as if to offset the casual horror, he pressed a gentle kiss to her clammy forehead. “Just a little longer, my queen.”

Seojun squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pretend to be still unconsciousness. Not that it mattered. Oliver’s sobs and screams, repeating without end, were already cutting through the fog of whatever drug had dulled their senses. Around him, the others were starting to stir, their movements sluggish at first—then frantic, as the gravity of their situation sank in.

Alice jolted upright, her breaths shallow and sharp. Leimia’s head lolled to one side, her glassy eyes darting wildly, while Camry sat frozen, her confusion as loud as her silence. Only Carrot remained unconsciousness, clearly hit harder by the drug.

“What… what’s happening?” Leimia’s voice trembled, her words stumbling over each other. “Is this, like… a hidden camera show? Are we being pranked or something?”

“Oh, you’re awake!”

Charles sounded thrilled. His eerie cheerful attitude finally seemed to register with Leimia, and her gaze swept across the scene, taking it all in: Hugh crumpled and bleeding, Oliver clutching him and sobbing, Carrot still unconscious, Camry pale and wide-eyed, Alice paralyzed by dawning horror, and Seojun, pretending to wake up groggily.

Instead of answering Charles, Leimia turned to Camry, desperation in her eyes. “Camry, did we… did we sign up for something like this? I… I don’t remember.”

Camry’s brow furrowed, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she managed to speak. “I don’t remember either… And nobody would plan something like—no, never mind. Definitely not.” Her attempt at reassurance was weak, ending in a shaky whisper.

“Ladies, this isn’t some hidden camera show,” Charles announced, his voice grave. For a fleeting moment, the seriousness seemed genuine… until a slow, playful smile tugged at his lips, warping the words into something cruel and mocking.

Of all of them, only Alice seemed to grasp the full horror of their situation and the realization was a cruel blow.

“Charles, what the hell have you done?”

“What have I done?” Charles tilted his head, feigning curiosity, then broke into a chuckle that made the room feel colder. “Ah, that’s right. You wouldn’t know, would you?”

Without waiting for a response, he turned to the refrigerator and Seojun, who had been slumped against it, flinched instinctively when the door swung open. He tried to shrink back, to disappear into the background. But Charles, with that terrifying awareness of his, noticed even that tiny movement. The predatory grin that spread across Charles’s face made Seojun’s blood run cold. From the fridge, he pulled out a plastic-wrapped package of meat and a single sheet of paper.

“In my experience,” Charles began, his tone conversational, as if he were hosting a cooking show, “these two ingredients are best served chilled.” He set the items on the counter next to the cutting board. Beside them, an ominous array of ingredients was laid out: a severed arm, a small dish of salt, three tablespoons of olive oil, a bowl of steaming water, and finally, a container of fine, white powder that shimmered faintly.

Oliver’s endless sobbing finally sputtered out, replaced by a stunned silence. His eyes, wide and vacant, were locked onto the strange, shimmering white powder. A dawning, horrified understanding washed over his face, leaving him utterly still.

“To answer your question, Miss Alice,” Charles continued, “My Red Queen needs a little help from others to stay alive. Quite literally! After all, we’re all here to help each other, aren’t we?”

“Oh, hush you! Don’t mind my husband. He’s always like that.”

Wendrick’s tone and expression were as flat and emotionless as they’d been from the start, making the whole thing feel like a badly dubbed horror movie. Her emotionless demeanor only deepened the growing sense of dread that gripped the room. Around her, faces drained of color. Those tied up were pale with terror, their breaths shallow, their gazes darting helplessly between Charles and Wendrick.

Charles, however, seemed delighted by his lover’s interjection. “Ah, my love, Wendrick! I just knew you, of all people, would get it!”

He clapped his hands together, the sight disturbing without his fingernails. Applause had filled this restaurant before, but Charles’s had a uniquely sinister quality, reminiscent of a skeleton’s bony clatter. He dropped his hands back to his sides and turned to Alice, a disturbing, almost childlike eagerness in his eyes.

“I did everything I could to keep Wendrick going. Gave her pieces of myself. But it wasn’t enough… nowhere near. That’s life, though, isn’t it? But one thing’s for sure: for my queen to live, she needs… human parts. At first, I used my fingernails. Then my toenails. Every last one. But they grow back so slowly! And now, I can’t bear to be without Wendrick for even a moment!”

No matter how much Charles tried to explain his warped reasoning, only Seojun and Oliver seemed to grasp the full, horrifying scope of what he meant. But Alice, Camry, and Leimia, though, definitely understood one crucial point: Charles was completely insane. A monster running on his own warped brand of logic.

While Wendrick was still muttering the same gibberish under her breath, Alice stole a glance at Hugh. His desperate gasps were fading, each breath shallower than the last. She inhaled slowly, deeply, trying to calm her fear. She couldn’t afford to push this madman any further over the edge.

“Charles… Charles…” Her voice was calm, patient, each word chosen with painstaking care. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Wendrick, but wouldn’t she be better off in a hospital? Please, forget these… home remedies. It’s dangerous, Charles, reckless. Not just for your wife, but for Hugh, too. He needs a doctor right now.”

Alice’s attempt at reason hung in the air, a flimsy, soap-bubble shield against the encroaching madness. Then, Leimia suddenly spoke up.

“Wait! So, this whole spiel about the restaurant being open for 20 years… that was a big, fat lie, wasn’t it? Just like that raspberry syrup! It was all lies, bright red lies! The syrup Philly F was promoting isn’t even that old!”

“Leimia!”

Camry hissed, trying to silence her friend. To Camry, it must have seemed like Leimia had just detonated their already fragile negotiation with a verbal hand grenade. But whether that was fortunate or not didn’t even matter. Charles had never intended to listen in the first place. He just nodded slowly, as if acknowledging Leimia’s outburst.

“Oh, the syrup? Yes, I saw it was gaining popularity recently, figured, why not give it a try? And as for this hospital… Alice, my dear… that place is a house of horrors. They bleed good, honest folks dry, taking their money and their life, only to spit ‘em out as corpses.”

As Charles rambled, something clicked for Alice, another layer of his deception slipping away.

“If you lied about running this place for 20 years… did you also lie about losing your child?”

Charles swept his hand across the cutting board, smearing a streak of blood. A cruel smile curled his lips.

“Well now… it’s true that I loved my little Alice. But I loved my Red Queen far more.”

So, that was a lie. What a silver-tongued bastard.

Seojun, still desperately trying to wrestle free from his restraints, cursed under his breath. He was too terrified to confront Charles directly, so he poured all his energy into trying to loosen the zip ties digging into his wrists. So far, he’d had zero luck. Meanwhile, Alice continued to face off with the madman.

“Do you really think you can get away with this?! If this many people disappear at once, they’ll notice! They’ll figure out we were last seen here, and they’ll know you did this!”

“Hmm… not necessarily,” Charles replied, his voice eerily calm in the face of Alice’s outburst.

A horrifying thought struck Seojun, and his heart plummeted.

This isn’t his first time.

“I don’t understand why you don’t get it,” Charles said. “Surely, you know what love is. It’s an all-consuming passion, something you simply can’t abandon. How could anyone expect me to give up my perfect lover? It’s absurd!”

Charles wasn’t simply justifying his actions; he seemed to crave understanding, like a deranged professor lecturing a class of unwilling students. Seojun, who barely had any close friends, let alone a lover, had to swallow his bitter frustration. Then, as if to bring the agonizingly long-winded speech to a horrifying climax, Charles took a step forward. Even Alice, who had been so bravely confronting the madman, swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

But she wasn’t his target.

“I hope you fully appreciate the honor of becoming part of my queen’s body,” Charles said, his gaze shifting.

“W-wait, me?”

It was Leimia.

At first, she just stared blankly up at Charles, her eyes unfocused as he approached. Then, her gaze darted around the room, frantically searching for help, for any sign of hope, but nobody met her eyes. Only then did the full, terrible fate of her situation truly dawn on her.

“N-no! Why me? Why does it have to be me? There are so many other people here!”

Leimia thrashed, her head shaking violently from side to side in panicked denial. Camry, who was sitting closest, grunted as Leimia’s shoulder slammed into her ribs.

“It’s really quite simple, Leimia,” Charles said softly, a tone so gentle it almost masked the horror of his words. “You’re a woman. Wendrick is a delicate lady. It only makes sense to use ingredients from the same gender, wouldn’t you agree?”

Even without knowing the full truth behind the Devil’s Powder, everyone in the room understood the sickening implication of Charles’s words. A collective shudder rippled through them, a shared gasp of understanding.

Leimia’s gaze shot to the cutting board, the gleam of the cleaver, and the severed arm lying next to it. Her eyes widened, her body started shaking like she was about to have a seizure, and then she screamed—

“I’M A MAN!”

The words exploded like a bomb. Charles froze. Oliver’s cries stopped abruptly. Even Alice, who had been clenching her teeth in fury, fell silent. Camry let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, and the kitchen was plunged into a thick, awkward silence. Only the steady patter of rain against the windows dared to break the quiet.

In the heavy silence, Leimia shouted again, her voice choked with desperate, indignant rage.

“I’m still under construction down there!”