Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#156Reader Mode

#156

Finding a hair or some plastic in packaged food would be bad enough. But drugs? That was something else entirely. Seojun felt his eye widen as the full weight of it sank in.

“The backlash was catastrophic,” Brown continued, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket after dabbing his forehead. “I read this article that compared it to dominoes falling, and that’s exactly what happened. One revelation triggered another until the whole company collapsed. The factory shut down, obviously. And the son—the one who’d inherited everything—he just… fell apart.”

Brown’s tone remained conversational, as if he were sharing neighborhood gossip rather than corporate tragedy. “Guy was already drinking heavily, but after the scandal? People said the roles had reversed. That it wasn’t him consuming the alcohol anymore, but the alcohol consuming him. You know how these stories go.”

Seojun tried to visualize this man—jaundiced and hollow-eyed from a ravaged liver—but the image refused to materialize in his mind. Something about it felt too distant, too removed from his reality.

He abandoned the mental exercise and looked up instead. The factory’s official signage had been removed years ago, but one detail remained—whether by oversight or intention, he couldn’t tell. A metal pig’s head, designed in an almost cartoonishly cheerful style, hung askew on the wall. Its goofy smile seemed profoundly out of place on the abandoned building, but it filled the void where the company name should have been.

Staring at that cartoonish pig mascot, Seojun’s mind could suddenly see it clearly: a broken man with a pig’s head, stumbling through these empty halls, bottle clutched in trembling fingers. The image appeared uninvited yet crystal clear, somehow more authentic than any attempt to picture a human face.

While Seojun stood transfixed by his pig-headed apparition, Brown continued his story.

“The son kept coming back here after everything collapsed,” he said. “Completely wasted, face flushed crimson from the booze. He’d wander through the empty factory doing whatever destructive thing crossed his mind. Smashing bottles and stuffing glass shards into empty cans was probably one of his milder activities.”

“Sounds like he completely unraveled.”

“Oh, without question.” Brown nodded, the soft flesh beneath his chin shifting with the movement. “But that particular brand of self-destruction had a short shelf life.”

His tone made everything clear. This wasn’t a redemption arc. The man hadn’t clawed his way back from the abyss. He’d simply run out of ledge to stand on.

A bitter wind cut through the air, and Seojun wrapped his arms tightly around himself. His slender body offered little defense against the cold.

“He died right here in the factory,” Brown continued, his tone surprisingly casual for such grim subject matter. “Fell headfirst from somewhere up there. Completely alone when it happened. From what I heard, the scene was…” He let the sentence hang, silence painting the gruesome picture his words wouldn’t.

Brown raised one thick finger toward the building. His nail was perfectly manicured, catching the weak sunlight like a polished gem against the surrounding decay.

“And the factory where he died?” Brown gestured ahead with the smooth confidence of a tour guide. “You’re standing in front of it.”

Seojun wasn’t shocked. He’d seen that reveal coming. Still, knowing the history transformed the building before him. On the surface, it was just another abandoned industrial relic, all shattered windows and corroded metal. But now it carried the weight of its story. It was exactly the kind of tragic backstory that would attract occult enthusiasts like moths to flame.

“After that, the ghost stories started,” Brown continued. “The usual stuff—phantom workers still clocking in, shadows moving through the production line when nobody’s there. Though if we’re being honest, most of those stories came from local kids who hung around getting high, so…” He made a slight dismissive gesture.

A hint of color rose in Brown’s cheeks as he admitted this last part.

Dennis chose that moment to approach, his steps uneven as he crossed the parking lot. He gave Brown a quick nod before announcing with deliberate precision:

“We’re all set. Got the supplies. Ready when you are.”

His fingers kept returning to the front pocket of his oversized hoodie, twitching with the barely contained energy of someone holding onto a secret.

Luciel stepped forward then, throwing one arm toward the abandoned factory with flair.

“A cursed dream led me here,” she proclaimed. “I’ve seen visions of wicked shadows stalking these blighted grounds. The very air is thick with blood and restless spirits!”

Her declaration hung in the air—more dramatic word salad than genuine prophecy. Seojun cringed inwardly at her clumsy phrasing, too reminiscent of that “someone” who appeared in mirrors. The memory made his own history as a self-proclaimed prophet feel like a bad joke. Fighting the heat rising to his ears, he ventured:

“So… if there really are evil shadows and blood-soaked spirits in there, shouldn’t we just… not go in? Call it self-preservation?”

The words felt foreign on his tongue. Here he was, trying to apply logic to ghost hunting—an inherently irrational activity. Yet somehow, avoiding the potentially haunted death trap seemed like the only reasonable option. The contradiction made his head spin. Then again, when had reason ever applied to his life? The thought alone left him exhausted.

The group’s reaction was exactly what he’d expected. Of course. He was the wet blanket at their paranormal party.

“Well, look at this,” McCullan said, voice laced with disdain. “Someone’s afraid of the dark. What’s wrong? Need to run back to mommy when the monsters come out?”

The mockery had extra bite to it. McCullan was clearly still nursing his bruised ego from the gender mix-up earlier, and now he’d found his target. Seojun brushed it off with a click of his tongue.

Great. Skipped the awkward getting-to-know-you phase and went straight to enemies.

McCullan’s face was nothing like Bobby’s, but everything else—the sneer, the arrogant posturing—triggered memories Seojun had tried to bury. The resemblance ran deeper than appearance, stirring up the kind of nostalgia that left a bitter taste.

While McCullan went for the direct attack, Dennis chose subtlety. He sidled up to Luciel and whispered behind his hand, yet making no effort to keep his voice down:

“Luciel, should we really continue with someone who dismisses your divine prophecy? I’m just concerned that someone so… skeptical… someone who’d brush off your sacred insights, might compromise our entire investigation and not be worthy of our great journey…”

Perfect. They’re tag-teaming me. One comes at me head-on while the other undermines me from behind. What a day. Assholes.

Luciel’s eyes widened as Dennis leaned in, working his angle like a seasoned manipulator serving up poison with a smile. Without warning, she spun toward him, getting so close to his face that Dennis visibly flinched. Her eyes flashed with that unnerving intensity.

“The bearer of the Eye of the Utmost Dark Star walks our path!” Her voice carried absolute conviction. “This isn’t about worthiness or readiness. It’s fate. Look how his eye marks him.” She turned to Dennis with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. “You’re my second right wing, but do not presume to understand destiny’s full design.”

Every word from Luciel’s mouth made Seojun’s insides twist, his entire body tensing in protest. Not that his physical discomfort would register with this crowd. Dennis, meanwhile, looked like he’d been simultaneously slapped and given flowers. His bloodshot eyes fixed on Seojun with undisguised jealousy while he scratched at his right eyelid.

“Luciel! I had an eye infection once!” he blurted. “It’s healed now, but I still have the eye patch at home!”

“How fortunate you’ve recovered,” Luciel replied smoothly. “Do take better care of yourself. As one of my wings, your health is essential.”

Dennis’s desperate bid for attention crashed and burned in real time. Seojun bit back a sigh.

Great. Broad daylight, plenty of witnesses around, but that’s never stopped ghosts before. Just perfect.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. April, Leah, and Camry had all shown up in broad daylight. Only Doade had respected the traditional midnight haunting schedule. By that logic, daytime was statistically the worst time to be ghost hunting. And that wasn’t even counting the perfect lover powder, the cursed videotape, or whatever that zombie-ghost hybrid thing had been.

Seojun pressed his hand against his uneasy stomach and tried to scrounge up some optimism.

Come on, it hasn’t been all serial killers, ghosts, and space monsters. There have been normal people too. Good people, even.

He closed his eye, scanning his memory. His lips twitched upward, hopeful. There had to be someone, right? Well, the restaurant owner near the Decoy Motel had been decent. But when he opened his eye again, that fragile smile collapsed. One friendly face in a parade of nightmares wasn’t exactly a stellar track record.

Plus, he still had to deal with Kira holding his teddy bear hostage. Meeting her alone as an introvert, without Brown or Luciel as buffers, made him extremely uncomfortable. What was he supposed to say? If he were the type who could just walk up and demand, “Give me the hospital address and we’re done,” he wouldn’t be this desperate for a stuffed animal in the first place.

The hard truth was, no amount of forced positive thinking would change anything. Life would throw its punches regardless. That was the one thing Luciel had gotten right with all her fate talk. And yet, despite everything, despite knowing it would probably end badly, Seojun still wanted that damn bear back.

In the end, you don’t get to choose whether bad things happen. You just pick which flavor of disaster you’re willing to swallow.

He knew it was just a worn-out teddy bear, nothing special by any objective standard. But since it had disappeared from his hands, a persistent ache had settled in his chest. The longing was absurd. It was just a stuffed animal. Yet it was his, and the thought of never getting it back left a hollow space nothing else seemed able to fill.

So Seojun had decided he’d drag Brown and Luciel out of here by their collars if necessary. Whatever it took to reach that abandoned hospital. Of the five of them trudging toward the factory entrance, he was probably the only one driven by genuine desperation rather than cheap thrills.

Up close, the building looked underwhelming. Sure, it was abandoned, but there was nothing particularly ominous about it. Just concrete walls streaked with rust and a corrugated roof showing decades of neglect. The reddish-brown stains resembled years of weather damage more than dried blood. As for those “mysterious shadows” the local kids swore they’d spotted? Seojun had a simpler theory.

Probably just some homeless person looking for shelter. Makes a lot more sense than the ghost of a dead factory manager still clocking in for the afterlife shift.

Seojun was still congratulating himself on his homeless-person theory when the Occult Night crew suddenly buzzed with excitement.

McCullan shoved past him, grabbing Dennis’s arm. “Dennis! Get the camera out! This is it!” He pointed at the factory entrance, practically bouncing on his toes.

“You don’t give me orders,” Dennis replied, voice flat as pavement. “Only Luciel does. Use your own phone.”

McCullan’s face contorted like he was about to bring up the gas money for the ride, but Dennis didn’t flinch. His loyalty ran in one direction only.

“My second wing,” Luciel said with ceremonial gravity. “Share this revelation with our absent comrades so that they might witness our discovery.”

“Yes! Right away!”

Dennis’s demeanor transformed instantly. He yanked out his Polaroid, nodding with such enthusiasm his head seemed ready to disconnect from his shoulders. He aimed exactly where McCullan had pointed.

There on the wall, someone had spray-painted in bright red:

The smiley face made it worse somehow. This wasn’t random vandalism. It was a cruel joke about the factory owner’s fatal fall. Someone’s idea of dark humor, commemorating a man’s death with a red smile.

Seojun stared at those playful, mocking letters and felt ice water replacing his blood, one drop at a time.