Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#174Reader Mode

#174

Brown exhaled slowly through his teeth. Of course that wire wouldn’t have held anything heavier than a scarecrow.

“…Mina!”

A sharp, breathless laugh broke the silence. Then another. And suddenly the whole room was echoing with nervous, half-hysterical cackling. All that adrenaline, all that fear—for what? A cheap Halloween dummy splattered in fake blood, swinging from the ceiling like the world’s worst piñata.

Flashlights swept the walls as the others shuffled in. Dennis recovered first. Naturally.

“I-I can’t believe you guys actually fell for that.”

He tilted his chin in that insufferable way of his, somehow managing to look down at people a full head taller. Classic Dennis. The guy probably condescended to his own parents. Brown wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of arguing. Dennis was the human equivalent of a brick wall: dense, immovable, and impossible to reason with. Well, unless you were Luciel. He’d probably roll over and beg if she asked him to.

Brown turned away, eyes skimming the room for literally anything more interesting than Dennis’s self-satisfied smirk.

“Was this an operating room?”

Had to be. The surgical table sat directly beneath the dangling dummy, long since abandoned. Now it was just another makeshift storage site. A tray of scalpels lay on a side table, half-buried in dust. A cracked respirator mask dangled from an IV stand someone had converted into a coat rack. Someone had even stacked cardboard boxes on top of a broken heart monitor, its screen shattered into a spiderweb of fractures.

They’d clearly turned this place into a glorified storage closet after the hospital shut down.

Case in point: a dusty box filled with chipped dinner plates was completely out of place in an operating room. Seojun crouched beside it, angling the box into the beam of his flashlight, when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

He didn’t think. He just reacted, his arm flying up to swat it away.

McCullan flinched back, one hand still braced against the doorframe. His brows knit hard. His mouth opened, then closed again. After a glance toward the others—still poking through junk on the far side of the room—he leaned in close to whisper:

“Hey. Tell them to take that… that thing down.” He gave a sharp nod toward the ceiling. “How can you all just stand around with it hanging there?”

“……”

Honestly? Seojun didn’t blame him. The dummy creeped him out too. Every time he’d passed underneath it, his shoulders had tensed on instinct. But the Occult crew didn’t seem fazed, so he’d stuffed the discomfort down and kept moving.

Well, in the lineup of jumpy people, I’m next in line to lose it after McCullan.

McCullan’s hands kept curling into fists at his sides. His gaze would flick up to the dangling figure, then snap back down like he was afraid it might move if he stared too long. For someone who talked such a big game, his voice had cracked on that last word.

Seojun couldn’t help it—a wicked little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“What was that, McCullan?” he called out, loud enough to carry across the room.

Everyone stopped mid-rummage and turned to look.

“Are you saying you’re terrified of that creepy, scary doll? That you won’t be able to sleep tonight unless we take it down and tuck it away for you?”

McCullan’s face flushed deep red. Seojun plastered on a look of concern, sweet and fake as movie blood.

“Of course. We can’t have you losing sleep over it.”

Truth was, McCullan wasn’t the only one who wanted it gone.

After Dennis made a show of snapping a commemorative photo, Seojun climbed onto the surgical table. The vinyl let out a groan beneath his boots but held steady. Should be fine. Probably. If Brown tried this however…

The ceiling was high, but the table brought the dummy up to chest level. As Seojun reached for the wire cutting into its neck, his pulse thudded hard at the base of his throat. The thing swung into him with more force than expected. It was heavier than it looked. He had to loop one arm around its rigid torso to keep it from spinning while his other hand worked at the knot.

And that’s when he smelled it.

Sharp. Briny. Like fish left to rot in the summer sun.

What the hell?

Seojun’s fingers kept working the knot on autopilot, but his nose wrinkled. One loop came loose, then another. Each time the fabric shifted, the smell rolled up in waves—thick, cloying, stomach-turning. It was coming from the collar. From those dark red stains crawling across the cloth like reaching fingers.

Stains that were still damp.

Is this the same dye they used on the stairs?

Seojun wrestled the dummy onto the surgical table and jumped down, scanning the room. Was no one else bothered by the smell?

Apparently not.

Brown had already moved on. He’d swiped a finger through one of the stains, gave it a cursory sniff, and wiped it on his jeans without a second thought. Just more of Mina’s theatrical nonsense, as far as they were concerned.

Their focus had already scattered. McCullan was crouched by a dark puddle near the back, locked in a pointless debate with Brown over whether it was motor oil or a decades-old bloodstain.

Across the room, Luciel had her ear pressed flat against the far wall, eyes wide with wonder.

“Listen! Right here…” She caught Dennis by the wrist. “Can you hear them? The sighing? The screams?”

Dennis leaned in beside her, nodding with deeply serious concentration, though his eyes were clearly fixed on her profile, not the wall.

Seojun let out a quiet sigh. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the pointless debate or the amateur séance happening in the corner. Figuring the argument was the lesser evil, he drifted over to Brown’s side.

McCullan spotted him and clapped a hand on his shoulder like they were old drinking buddies.

“Hey, nice work, friend!”

Just like that. Instant friends. No vetting process, no trial period.

Seojun made a mental note to reevaluate every decision that had brought him to this moment.

While he was spiraling into self-loathing, Brown pulled out his phone. The soft blue glow lit up his features as he checked the battery.

“Should we get moving?” he asked, cutting through the background chatter. He nodded toward Luciel, who was now creeping along the wall like a crab, one ear still pressed to the plaster. “I think we’ve seen enough in here, and Luciel looks like she’s about to phase through to the next room.”

“What about our friend here?” Seojun asked, jerking a thumb at the dummy laid out on the surgical table.

Brown didn’t even glance up from his screen. “Leave it. Too much of a pain to drag around. Mina can pick up her prop later.”

Fair enough. Lugging that thing through a maze of trashed hallways was a broken ankle waiting to happen.

And so, they left the dummy sprawled on the table like a patient who’d missed their appointment and picked their way back into the hall. The corridor had become an obstacle course of toppled IV stands, moldering curtain heaps, and boxes but someone—maybe Mina—had cleared a narrow path down the center, leading straight to the only other door at the end.

McCullan got there first. He grabbed the heavy knob and twisted.

Nothing.

He threw his shoulder into it, grunting as the door rattled but refused to budge.

Still nothing.

“Well, that’s clearly locked,” Dennis observed from the back, full of unhelpful confidence.

Seojun squinted at the tarnished nameplate bolted to the door. The engraving was nearly illegible under a thick crust of grime. He wiped it with his sleeve until the letters came through.

“Hold on. Does that say… Morgue?”

The word landed like a stone in a still pond.

Luciel froze mid-bounce. Just a second ago, she’d been practically jumping with excitement, ready to fling herself at whatever horrors lay ahead. Now she stood stiff a few feet back, arms locked to her sides like someone had flipped a switch and cut the strings.

Logically, the hospital’s been abandoned for years. It should be empty.

But logic had a way of evacuating the premises when you were staring at a door labeled Morgue. Seojun’s hand jerked back. What if some paperwork got lost? What if, thanks to a massive bureaucratic screwup, something had been… left behind?

His stomach twisted into a cold, tight knot.

Luciel had already backed off, half-hidden behind Brown, her fingers curled tight around his sleeve. Judging by her reactions so far, it wasn’t ghosts she feared. This was something quieter. A kind of reverence. Respect for the dead.

That said, every group has one idiot.

McCullan, who’d been quiet as a mouse until now, suddenly puffed out his chest and rolled his shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring.

“Alright. Looks like it’s my turn to step up.”

Seojun stared.

This was the same guy who’d nearly wet himself over a doll. The same guy who’d begged them to take down a fake corpse because it made him uncomfortable.

“Why?”

Seojun kept his voice calm and even—the same tone you’d use to talk a toddler away from a lit stove.

“Why would you step up? Please don’t. Just stay right there. McCullan, buddy, we haven’t known each other long, but I can already tell you’re at your best when you’re just… existing. You know? Just stand there and breathe. Don’t think. Don’t talk. Just… be.”

McCullan’s grin only widened. “What are you talking about? A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Can’t let the ladies down, right?”

He threw a cheesy, “heroic” glance in Luciel’s direction and strutted toward the morgue door like he was walking a red carpet. This—from the same guy who’d used Dennis as a human shield on the stairs ten minutes ago.

Seojun felt the collective IQ of his entire social circle sink through the floorboards. First Dennis. Now this clown. The moment he got out of here, he was deleting everyone’s number and faking a full-blown case of social amnesia.

Without a word, McCullan reached out and plucked a hairpin straight from Luciel’s hair.

Dennis’s hand—previously drifting toward his own pocket—froze mid-reach. His eyes went glassy, practically shimmering with unshed tears of admiration. He was about to witness another miracle from his precious oracle, wasn’t he?

The bastard would probably applaud if she sneezed and call it divine revelation.

For half a second, one of Luciel’s eyebrows arched. Her fingers brushed the now-empty spot in her hair. Then she shrugged and let it go.

Seojun’s jaw dropped.

Of course. Mina set up the props and pranks, but this door was actually locked. So in the smooth, marble-sized cave that was McCullan’s brain, picking it open was the ultimate alpha move. Win her heart through petty breaking and entering.

McCullan dropped to his knees, jammed the pin into the lock, and began wiggling it with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. His tongue poked out the corner of his mouth. His knees ground into decades of grime, smearing thick dust all over his absurdly overpriced pants.

It wasn’t working.

This wasn’t the smooth, practiced lockpicking McCullan had shown off with actual lock picks back at the factory. This was just a guy jabbing a bent piece of metal into a keyhole. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The hairpin was bending at an increasingly alarming angle. He grunted, jaw clenched in frustration.

Seojun glanced at Brown.

Brown was already looking back, one corner of his mouth twitching in barely contained amusement.

They didn’t need words. The thought passed between them like telepathy: Pathetic.

A sharp click echoed down the hall.

McCullan was still on his knees, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve, the mangled hairpin still jammed uselessly in the lock. Seojun leaned against the opposite wall and crossed his arms.

“You really like her that much, huh?”

The words sounded ridiculous the moment they left his mouth. Peak middle-school gossip energy. But then again, this was the guy who had tried to flirt with him within five minutes of meeting.

Apparently, McCullan’s standards were simple: female, breathing, and within conversational radius.

McCullan shot him a grimy look from under his sweaty bangs and snorted. “A parasite bastard like you wouldn’t get it. Mina’s got this neck, you know? And the way she checks her makeup in that little mirror she carries around? That’s hot. And her style? Always immaculate. A guy needs skills for women like her. For Kira, too.”

Seojun felt his brain begin to glaze over. Neck. Mirror. Clothes. It was like listening to someone describe a sports car—nothing but exterior features, no understanding of what was under the hood. Not a single word about her personality. No mention of who she actually was.

So perfectly on-brand it was almost impressive.

McCullan was still rambling—something about nails now, maybe?—but Seojun had already checked out. He caught Brown’s eye and gave a subtle tilt of his head, motioning him over.

Once Brown was close enough, Seojun kept his voice low, tuning out the monologue echoing from the floor.

“So. What’s the plan?”

Brown rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Pretty sure we’re done with the first floor. Head up to the second?”

“Yeah.” Seojun pushed off the wall. “We’ll probably run into the others on the way.”

He took two steps toward the stairs—then paused.

Across the hall, Luciel was re-pinning her hair. Dennis stood dutifully beside her, angling his phone’s flashlight like she was backstage at Fashion Week.

“Hey.”

Brown’s voice was quiet.

Seojun turned. Brown wasn’t looking at him—his gaze was fixed on a dark water stain spreading across the far wall. A crease had formed between his brows. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh.

“About Mina…” Brown said slowly, like he was still working through the thought. “She went through all that effort to set up the prank… but she didn’t stick around to watch us freak out.”

“Huh. Yeah…”

He had a point.

What was the point of a prank if you weren’t there for the payoff?

But the operating room had been empty when they got there.

Just them and the dummy.

Seojun frowned. “Maybe she set it up and had to leave for a minute? And we just happened to walk in during that narrow window?”

“Maybe.”

Brown shrugged, but the word came out flat. Unconvinced. His fingers resumed that restless drumming against his thigh, eyes flicking across the ceiling like he was searching for hidden cameras they’d somehow missed.

Even as Seojun said it, the excuse rang hollow. He didn’t buy it. And judging by the tight line of Brown’s mouth, neither did he. But it was the only explanation that even pretended to make sense.

Silence stretched between them. It wasn’t just quiet—it was heavy. Dense. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears and made every distant sound feel sharpened, amplified.

From down the hall came the clumsy clatter of McCullan still wrestling with the lock.

Click… click… scrape…

Nothing unusual. Just the bolt, the misaligned latch, the occasional curse under his breath.

Then—beneath it—something else.

Click-click-clank. Click-click-clank-clank-clank…

A faint metallic sound, just beneath the others. Not the deliberate rhythm of McCullan’s fumbling, but something thinner. Sharper. Like metal clashing against metal.

Seojun’s chest tightened. His fingers went numb. The air wouldn’t move past his throat—lungs stuttering, pulling in nothing. His legs tensed, weight shifting to the balls of his feet without thought.

And then—because of course it had to be now—McCullan threw his hands in the air and shouted at the top of his lungs:

“MINA!”

The name ricocheted through the corridor, echoing up the dark stairwell.

Silence rushed back, heavier than before.

Seojun’s eye tracked upward. His head followed, neck muscles pulling without permission.

There, high on the landing they’d just descended, something moved.

A silhouette—barely distinguishable from the deeper darkness—swayed gently in place. A subtle shift of weight. A figure, poised in stillness.

One foot slid forward.

Seojun’s phone was already in his hand, the flashlight slicing a trembling path through the dark as he swung it toward the stairs. His pulse hammered in his temples, each beat a sharp pressure behind his eye.

The light found her.

Scrape. Clank.

The beam steadied on a woman. She was crammed into a nurse’s uniform, the white fabric stretched tight and riding high on her thighs. Her elbows bent backward, hyperextended, as she descended one step. Her knee rotated outward at an angle no joint should allow, the leg dragging before snapping forward in a lurching correction. Her head tilted forty-five degrees to the left, then jerked upright, then tilted again. Her hair was drawn back into a knot, pulled so tight the skin at her temples stretched translucent, a fragile lattice of veins visible beneath.

She descended, and the light caught her face.

Thick black thread stitched her eyelids shut, two crude X’s gouged across pale skin. Beneath them, the flesh bulged and contracted. Bulged. Contracted. The stitches pulled taut, then slackened, then pulled again like she was still fighting desperately to see.

A surgical mask sagged inward where her lower face should be, the fabric disappearing into shadow and negative space. Behind her ears—slits. Wet, glistening slits like the gills of a fish, each one blooming with fleshy, ear-shaped growths that twitched as she moved.

The scraping continued. Seojun’s beam swept down, searching for the source—past the fabric, past the unnatural bend of her knees, down to her bare feet.

The stumps ended in metal.

Scalpels. Dozens of them jutting from where fingers and toes should be. Rusted. Grafted to bone. Each blade flexing independently as she shifted her weight, tap-tap-tapping against concrete with every micro-adjustment.

Clank. Scrape. Click.

She took another step forward.

Seojun’s phone shook in his grip, the flashlight skittering wildly across her.

His legs refused to move.

Run.

His weight shifted forward. His heel lifted half an inch. Then stopped.

RUN.

Nothing. His thighs trembled, locked rigid, tendons wire-taut but motionless.

Air hitched in Seojun’s chest. He exhaled in short, stuttering bursts, forcing enough breath to shape words.

“Is… is that Mina? Her fashion sense is… interesting.”