Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#158Reader Mode

T/N: Hey everyone quick update!
Bad news first: my computer completely crashed (yep, blue screen of death 😩).

Good news? I had everything backed up, so no work was lost! 🙌
Even better, I just need to replace a part. It’s already ordered and should arrive in about a week. Once it’s fixed, I’ll be back to uploading chapters like normal.

Thanks for your patience, and sorry for the delay! 💙

#158

Okay, think. The factory was barely secured, just a metal bar anyone could lift. Maybe kids had peeked in through the entrance.

Seojun latched onto the excuse, willfully ignoring how solid that bar had looked when Dennis had moved it. He rubbed his arm, trying to erase the goosebumps still rising across his skin as Brown ambled over.

“You alright there, Seojun?”

“Yeah. Just… weird déjà vu, that’s all.”

Brown’s round face scrunched up. “Huh?”

Seojun waved him off. No point trying to explain whatever anxious spiral his brain was currently going through.

That’s when McCullan reappeared, cracking open another beer like he’d never left. Foam clung to his upper lip as he rolled his eyes at their half-baked ghost hunt.

“Still obsessed with those barrels? What’re you hoping for, pirate gold?”

He took a long swig and let out a loud, satisfied ahhh. “Now this is real urbex. Half-drunk and surrounded by decay. But seriously, stop fondling that piss-soaked drum and try using your eyes. This whole wing’s stripped. Nothing left but rust and tetanus.”

Another gulp. “We should at least tag something for the next batch of morons who come poking around.”

Seojun’s stomach flipped. Dog piss? How the hell did McCullan know that?

For one awful second, he considered the possibility McCullan was psychic too. But then he caught the guy’s glassy eyes and trademark shit-eating grin, and the theory crumbled. Not clairvoyant, just an ass. A lucky, loudmouthed ass.

Still, he wasn’t wrong. As much as Seojun hated to admit it, if there were dark secrets buried in this factory, that barrel probably wasn’t one of them. Unless the ghost had bladder issues.

He wasn’t the only one who’d come to that conclusion.

Luciel rose from her forensic inspection of the barrel with the poise of someone stepping off a throne, not factory grime. She dusted off her knees without a hint of shame.

“Sound counsel,” she proclaimed, as regal as ever. “Only fools dismiss the wisdom of others. Rise, my second right wing.”

That imperious tone hadn’t changed since their first encounter at the haunted house—still treating everyone like loyal subjects in her ghost-riddled fiefdom. Seojun felt his hands twitch, half-ready to slow-clap. He stuffed them deep into his pockets before they could. No need to encourage her.

At her words, Dennis scrambled upright, knees black with dirt. The death-glare he shot McCullan could’ve scorched metal. He was clearly fuming that the drunk’s sarcastic jab had somehow earned the status of divine revelation.

Still, he fell in line behind Luciel without complaint. Brown took up the other flank, dutifully brushing factory dust from her clothes like a court attendant fussing over a queen.

McCullan’s grin stretched, clearly thrilled that someone had taken him seriously for once. He crushed the empty beer can in one hand and chucked it at a toppled barrel. It hit with a loud metallic crash, the sound rattling through the hollow place.

Seojun trailed behind, half an afterthought to the procession.

The factory pulled them in, each step dimming the already-weak light from the entrance. The deeper they went, the more the air pressed in, thick with silence and rust and something he couldn’t quite name.

Darkness had a way of warping your senses. Distorting space, smudging time, making every sound suspicious. Or maybe that was just him. The rest of the Occult Night crew seemed energized, jittery with anticipation, feeding off the factory’s ominous vibes like it was their drug of choice.

Meanwhile, here he was… the odd one out, dragging his feet like some kid forced into a family road trip he never signed up for.

“Now we’re talking,” McCullan called out, knocking his knuckles against a wall. “This has horror movie written all over it. Perfect for some Blair Witch shit to go down.”

They’d reached a heavy door marking the boundary between the entrance and the factory floor. A panel of frosted glass sat near the top, distorting whatever lay beyond into vague silhouettes. McCullan wasn’t wrong: through the milky pane, the other side looked packed with clutter and collapsed machinery, a sharp contrast to the stripped-down emptiness they stood in now.

One issue: the door was sealed shut with a thick padlock, the kind that didn’t pop open unless you begged, bribed, or broke it.

That didn’t stop Dennis from smushing his face against the grimy glass, nose and forehead leaving smudges as he tried to brute-force his way into a clearer view through sheer willpower.

“Luciel,” he muttered, voice muffled against the pane. “I see stairs. That’s gotta be the way up.”

“Locked tighter than we expected,” Brown said, fishing a pair of cherry-red pliers from his bag. “Good thing I came prepared.”

The tool looked laughably undersized in his massive hand. He clamped the jaws onto the padlock and gave a mighty squeeze.

Nothing.

No snap. No satisfying click. Just the padlock, stoic and immovable, mocking them with its indifference.

Come on, universe. Just one bone, Seojun thought, glaring at the lock like he could guilt-trip it into opening. But luck and he hadn’t been on speaking terms since birth.

McCullan’s mouth curled into a smug grin, stretching his already punchable jaw to new levels of obnoxious.

“Step aside, Brown.”

He nudged the bigger guy out of the way with all the swagger of someone who thought arrogance counted as a personality. Seojun braced himself for another beer-can moment, but McCullan surprised him—this time, he reached into his paper bag and pulled out a long, slim wallet instead.

It gleamed under the dim factory light, some kind of exotic leather with a glossy, dimpled texture. Instead of bills or IDs, McCullan flicked out a slender metal pick from one of the wallet’s hidden sleeves.

He shoved the crumpled paper bag at Dennis, then crouched with exaggerated care, lifting his fancy pant legs like the floor might bite. The pick slid into the padlock with practiced ease.

Brown had already tucked away his pliers, unbothered. Clearly, that little attempt had been just for show. The timing, the banter—it all landed too clean. Seojun suddenly got the sense these guys had done this a lot.

“Just need the magic touch,” McCullan hummed, working the pick. “Gifted hands. You know how it is.”

Everyone crowded in to spectate and Seojun finally understood why they kept him around. McCullan might be an asshole, but even assholes had their uses.

Wait a second…

Seojun leaned in, squinting. If McCullan had been able to pick the lock all along, why make a big show of asking for help? He could’ve just opened it, called them over, and moved on.

A glance at McCullan’s face answered everything.

The guy was radiant, basking in the group’s attention like a sunbathing cat. Of course. For McCullan, lockpicking wasn’t about bypassing obstacles—it was about having an audience.

Seojun bit back a comment, remembering a creepypasta about a ghost so desperate for attention it exploded. He silently hoped McCullan’s main-character complex wouldn’t take him down the same path.

Without warning, McCullan sprang to his feet, nearly headbutting Dennis on the way up.

“Ha! What did I tell you?” He brandished the padlock like a trophy, the pick still dangling from it. “Nothing locks me out!”

He gave it one final flick. Click. The lock opened with a crisp, satisfying snap.

“Incredible work, McCullan!” Brown declared, serving up exactly the praise McCullan had been fishing for. Always the diplomatic glue and emotional support friend in their chaotic little group.

Dennis muttered something dark under his breath and looked away, clearly done with the whole performance. Luciel, meanwhile, stood beaming like she’d unlocked the door through sheer prophetic will.

“As I foresaw,” she intoned. “No barrier forged by man can impede our destined path.”

McCullan’s grin faltered the moment his eyes landed on Seojun.

While the rest of the crew applauded the spectacle, Seojun looked like someone had just told him bad news. Deadpan, unmoved, soul somewhere off running diagnostics.

The dead inside stare landed rudely on McCullan’s moment.

McCullan clicked his tongue. “At least Californiphonia knows how to appreciate real skill. Not like certain killjoys.”

“Oh?” Brown perked up. “She’s into lockpicking?”

That was all the invitation McCullan needed.

“She slid into my DMs asking about it, so I sent her a tutorial,” he said, puffing up with pride. “And get this—she actually tried it. Sent receipts and everything. Even used a crying emoji ‘cause she hurt her finger. So fucking cute.”

His gaze turned dreamy, pupils practically heart-shaped. “She only sent a hand pic, but from those delicate fingers? You just know. She’s gotta be gorgeous. Probably texts with those cute typos where she hits the wrong letters with her dainty thumbs…”

Seojun bit his tongue hard, resisting the urge to speak the obvious. McCullan was out here constructing an entire dream girl based on a single hand pic. The delusion was almost… admirable, in its commitment.

Thankfully, McCullan snapped out of his thirst trance and turned back to the lock. He grabbed the pick, ready to yank it free.

Crack.

The pick snapped in half with a clean, dry pop.

“Shit.” He scowled, flicking the broken halves aside like they’d offended him personally. The door was unlocked, sure, but losing his flex tool clearly wounded something deeper. His pride, probably.

Still, true to form, McCullan didn’t dwell on it. He spun on his heel and snatched the paper bag from Dennis with enough force to make the other guy stumble. Dennis shot daggers at his back, but McCullan was already moving on. Guy couldn’t process male criticism even if it hit him with a brick. Not when there were more important things to do.

With that, the group stepped onto the manufacturing floor.

“Watch your step, Luciel,” Brown warned, scanning the field of debris ahead.

“I observe all directions simultaneously,” Luciel replied with serene certainty. “Above, below, left, right.”

“Good job. Keep that up.”

She answered with one of her stiff, puppet-like nods. Brown beamed at her like a proud dad who just watched his kid recite the alphabet backwards. Over the top? Sure. But not wrong. With no power and every window sealed tight, the manufacturing floor was a coffin of shadows—not the place to be strolling blind.

One by one, phone flashlights flicked on, their beams slicing through the dark. The group fanned out, each avoiding the others’ lights as they began to search the space.

Seojun switched on his own and followed.

No point standing still.

The space was divided into three distinct sections. A rusted rail track ran straight down the center—probably used to haul carcasses back when this place was still processing pork. To the right, storage rooms lined the wall like prison cells. But it was the left side that made Seojun’s skin crawl: hulking machines and coffin-sized metal boxes loomed in the dark. One of them had to be a bone grinder. He’d never been so glad the power was out.

Beyond that, the room was mostly gutted. Anything with resale value had long been stripped and sold. Honestly, it was surprising anything had been left behind at all.

Seojun panned his flashlight across the cavernous floor, catching sight of staircases on either side. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of the Invisible Man’s mansion. That twisted hope flickered up again, the same one that always got him burned: maybe one of the paths to the second floor was clear.

But when had hoping ever paid off for him?

As his beam swept along the wall, it caught something strange… a pale sliver peeking out from the gap between the stairs and the concrete.

“What’s that?”

He crouched, working his gloved fingers into the narrow space. Something crackled under his touch—paper. Dry, fragile. He eased it out slowly.

A notebook.

Thin, brittle with age, and coated in dust so thick it looked fossilized. Like it had been hiding there for years, waiting for someone foolish enough to find it.