Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#142Reader Mode

#142

Not even the most intense thriller movie could match this moment. Johan crouched low, eyes fixed on the small screen, his heart pounding wildly. When his worst fear didn’t happen, he exhaled slowly, momentary relief washing over him. It didn’t last.

Camry wandered back into the room, the knife from earlier nowhere to be seen. A satisfied smile played on her lips as she moved unhurriedly. She stopped beside Leimia’s corpse, casually running her fingers through her tangled hair. With a slight nudge of her foot, she lifted Leimia’s chin, revealing a face frozen in agony—skin unnaturally blue, features contorted in death.

“You know, Leimia, keeping the murder weapon is just too morbid, even for me,” Camry said, her voice light and conversational. “So I got rid of it while cleaning up. You should check out the other room though. It’s full of dolls—and I found one that looks just like you.” She laughed softly. “Obviously, I stabbed it too.”

She pressed her shoe against Leimia’s stiff lips, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Strange, isn’t it? I just killed someone, and yet… I don’t feel even slightly guilty. If anything, I feel refreshed. Like I’ve restored some natural order.” Her voice hardened, smile twisting. “Of course, you won’t be sharing your thoughts. Hard to have opinions when you’re dead, right, Leimia?”

With a careless push, she dropped Leimia’s head back to the floor. Camry looked down at her, something unsettlingly gentle flickering in her eyes. “You really were a curse I couldn’t escape, weren’t y—”

Her words stopped suddenly as a choked sound escaped her throat. The mocking tone vanished, replaced by pure, unfiltered agony. Camry’s body seized. Her hands clawed at her throat before she doubled over, driving savage punches into her own stomach—repeatedly—as if trying to expel something from inside.

Camry convulsed, her body writhing like she was burning from within. A strangled gasp tore from her as blood erupted from her mouth, spraying across Leimia’s body in a gruesome shower. She stumbled, shock etched across her face, her ragged, uneven breathing the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

Her body swayed, barely upright before her knees crashed to the floor. She struggled to stand, limbs shaking, muscles fighting—but it was futile. Another violent spasm gripped her, more blood pouring from her lips. She fell, the loud crack of bone beneath her weight echoing through the room.

Blood covered her legs, soaked through her knees.

“Wha… what is happening?!”

The words tore from her throat, raw and broken, as if her voice had been shredded by the same burning agony tearing her apart inside. Then came the scream—a horrible, piercing shriek that cut through the air, blood smearing her lips, chin, and teeth. Tears scorched paths down her face as she stared at the growing pool of blood beneath her, terror consuming her completely.

And then, her eyes found it.

The thermos.

Its metallic surface reflected her bloodshot eyes, burst vessels turning the whites a violent red. Understanding hit her like a blade to the chest. A devastating revelation.

Her fingers reached out, desperately grabbing Leimia’s auburn hair, yanking the lifeless head up with frantic, trembling hands.

“Th-the coffee…! Leimia, Leimia! Lei… mia!”

Her cries grew desperate. Her breathing became wet, labored gasps, her screams dissolving into pathetic, quivering moans. Her body jerked, blood still flowing from her mouth, cascading down her chin in an endless stream. She couldn’t hold her head up anymore. Her neck gave way. Her body collapsed forward.

Then nothing.

On the screen, they lay together on the blood-soaked floor, faces touching, eyes half-open in a disturbing parody of intimacy. Fingers outstretched, frozen in death. Their bodies surrounded by an expanding pool of blood.

A haunting, surreal image.

Was it over?

Johan’s eyes flicked between the phone screen and the mirror in front of him, grasping at hope as he searched the room for the stuffed bear. Finding nothing, his shoulders sank.

Then, a sound came from the video. A slow, harsh scrape, like nails against glass. A sound that shouldn’t exist in a room where nothing living remained. Nothing should be moving.

And yet…

Before he could process this, Johan witnessed something that defied all logic. Not the bodies on the floor—they remained still. It was their reflections—Camry and Leimia—that moved within the mirror’s surface. The wrongness of it, the sheer impossibility, was eerie.

In the room, the corpses lay motionless, rigid in death. But in the mirror, their reflections reached out—grabbing their own dead bodies with determined hands. Together, they began dragging their lifeless forms toward the mirror’s surface.

Their expressions were… ordinary. Not vacant stares or twisted smiles. Just concentration. Effort. Their foreheads glistened as if with sweat, jaws tight from exertion. As if this were just a strenuous task, nothing more. With one final pull, they hauled their own corpses into the mirror. The glass rippled like water as the last traces of the bodies vanished.

Once the corpses disappeared, something shifted. Their reflections exhaled, lips curving into small, satisfied smiles. Not menacing, not triumphant. Just… relieved. Then, the blood began to move. Thick and dark, it crawled across the floor—not randomly, not naturally pooling, but with purpose. It stretched in thin, snaking tendrils, writhing like something alive. The edges curled, twisting before being pulled into the mirror’s surface.

“Whoa…”

Johan exhaled in amazement without even realizing it. He knew CGI had gotten incredibly good, but this? When a shaky phone video could match the quality of a big-budget horror movie, how could he not be impressed?

On the small screen, Leimia’s reflection stepped out of the mirror. Deep, jagged wounds crossed her chest—brutal gashes from the repeated stabbing. Just as quickly as it began, the video ended, Leimia disappearing as she left the room. Johan stared at the blank screen, his mind racing. He knew Madison was an influencer, but this level of production? This level of immersion? This was something else entirely.

Johan slipped the phone into his pocket and gave a low whistle.

“So amateur filmmaking’s reached this level now? That’s insane.”

Madison’s acting was exceptional. He wasn’t exactly a film critic—his only real point of comparison was Dolly, Christina’s grandmother, who’d been a famous actor. But even he could tell there was nothing fake or forced about Madison’s hateful words and cold delivery. Her sincerity came through the screen perfectly.

“You set this whole thing up for me to watch, didn’t you?”

If this was all part of some elaborate prank, how much of Madison’s behavior was just an act? She called herself an influencer—was this just another viral stunt? Some social experiment to rack up views?

Johan tossed the phone up and caught it absently. If she had planned this, how much of what she said was actually true? Was she secretly recording him right now, waiting to capture his reaction for some faceless online audience?

He was so lost in thought, he almost missed it. A flash of metal. A slight movement at the edge of his vision. Instinct kicked in. He jerked his head aside just as the blade cut through the air—exactly where his face had been a split second earlier.

For a moment, he caught his own blue-eyed reflection in the polished steel. Then he was moving, driving his elbow back hard.

“Ugh!”

A muffled groan followed, but the hit wasn’t solid—more of a glancing blow than direct contact. Still, it bought him just enough time to turn and face his attacker.

Madison stood in the doorway. One heel lay discarded behind her, explaining how she’d approached so quietly. Her free hand pressed against her chest, and even in the dim light, Johan could see it—the dark stain of blood spreading through her shirt.

Johan was baffled. What exactly do you say to someone who just tried to bury a knife in your skull?

“Uh… Madison? Is this some kind of prank? Hidden cameras? Social experiment? Because usually there’s a disclaimer. Or a host. Maybe some paperwork to sign?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared. Eyes wide and unblinking, locked on him as if he were the only thing that existed. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but she remained motionless. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, knife still gripped tightly, blood dripping with soft, wet sounds onto the floor.

Johan shifted his weight—slowly, carefully, trying not to escalate whatever this was.

“Okay… Mr. Thomas?”

He was reaching for the only explanation that made any sense. According to the video he’d watched, Madison—no, Leimia—was a character. Or someone pretending to be a character. The whole thing was ridiculously complicated: Thomas Fitzveil had supposedly stolen Madison Camry’s identity, called himself Leimia, then allegedly murdered the real Madison Camry and claimed he was her now.

Yeah. That kind of mess.

The plot was a chaotic tangle of doubles and delusions, but Johan had managed to follow along—barely—thanks to the confession-style dialogue in the video. Leimia and Camry had spelled everything out during their heated confrontation.

But the moment Johan said Thomas, something in Madison snapped. Her face crumpled, lips pulling back into a savage snarl. Then she lunged, the knife slashing wildly through the air.

“Don’t call me that! That disgusting name! I’m Camry! Madison Camry!”

The knife gleamed with an eerie shine. Johan recognized it immediately—the same weapon Camry had used to kill Leimia in the video. Definitely not a reassuring coincidence.

He ducked just in time, her swing cutting through the space where his head had been a moment before. Despite his size, Johan moved quickly, easily avoiding her wild attacks.

“Hey! Wait—let’s talk about this! Whatever’s happening, we can—look, stabbing isn’t going to solve anything for either of us!”

“Die!“

So much for de-escalation.

She lunged again, the knife slicing through the air with a frightening whistle. Each swing came faster, more erratic. Any remaining hope that this might be some bizarre prank vanished. Johan had been clinging to that possibility, but reality was making its point quite clearly.

He did have one advantage—something in his backpack, thanks to his childhood friend. But there was no time to unzip, search, and retrieve his useful toolbox.

Instead, he dove for the floor, grabbing the first solid object his hand found—pure instinct, no hesitation. It felt surprisingly solid in his grip.

Madison froze mid-swing.

Blood continued seeping from her chest, soaking her clothes, but she seemed completely unfazed. Her expression shifted—confusion briefly crossing her face—before transforming into a smug smile.

“Oh? And what exactly do you think that’s going to do? Ahahahaha!”

“Hmm…”

Johan looked down at what he’d grabbed.

A shoe.

More specifically, Madison’s discarded shoe with its heel snapped clean off—barely more than a flat now. Not exactly the ultimate improvised weapon. He gave a casual shrug, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Well, you use what you’ve got.”

He casually tossed the broken heel in his hand like he had all the time in the world—never mind the fact that someone was actively trying to kill him.

“Look, whether you’re Madison, Leimia, Thomas, or whoever you’re pretending to be right now… I think we’re well past the point of having a reasonable conversation. And honestly? I have no idea what the hell is happening anymore.”

“It’s simple,” Madison sneered. Her grin had hardened into something colder. “You die. Just like I did. Right here. That’s the only way out.”

Johan blinked. That… didn’t clarify anything. If this wasn’t some prank or immersive theater gone horribly wrong, then she was genuinely unhinged. Completely delusional.

But weirdly enough, that worked in his favor.

He let that thought sink in. Then, with a sudden, sunny smile that felt almost out of place, he looked her dead in the eye.

“Well, bright side? Doesn’t matter if Jun had a crush on you or not anymore.”

If she was truly this delusional, then misinterpreting Jun’s feelings for her wasn’t surprising. And even if Seojun actually did have feelings for Madison, it wouldn’t change what Johan needed to do now.

Johan gazed steadily at the knife—long, gleaming, still wet with blood. At least now, he could face the person he loved without any guilt.

The veins in his hand bulged as he tightened his grip on the broken heel.