Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#104Reader Mode

#104

6. Transparent You

Click, click. Click, click…

The grating sound of metal scraping against metal, followed by a soft rustling, assaulted Seojun’s ears. Every inch of his body ached—neck, shoulders, back, waist, arms, legs—there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t in pain. His throat was parched, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. His eyelids were heavy and gritty, and his chest was so tight that even breathing had become a struggle. When he tried to move, his joints groaned like rusty machinery in desperate need of oil.

Damn this useless body!

Seojun clenched his teeth against the searing pain radiating through his limbs. This was no way to rest, let alone sleep. With a monumental effort, he forced his eyes open, though only one worked. He accepted his blurry, narrowed vision with a resigned sigh—it was the best he could manage.

“Uh…?”

A distant voice, muffled as though it were underwater, filtered through the haze. The world had a cruel habit of intruding at the worst moments.

Despite the supernatural ability that often felt more like a curse, Seojun’s lone functioning eye had adapted over time, sharpening to the point where glasses or contacts were unnecessary. But the loss of vision in his left eye unnerved him. A cold dread settled in his gut—was his last good eye finally giving out on him?

The upper and lower edges of Seojun’s left eye, typically responsible for peripheral vision, were cloaked in darkness. Panic surged through him. He desperately tried to rub his eyelid, but his arm wouldn’t respond—it was as if his body had betrayed him entirely.

“Uh…!”

Another muffled groan escaped his lips, just as frustrating as the first. Then the terrifying realization hit him—it wasn’t just his arm. His feet, his head—nothing could move.

A rough, abrasive fabric pressed against his cheeks and lips. Seojun’s breath came hot and fast, fogging the confined space around his eyes. He was inside a rough burlap sack, the thick hemp strands scratching at his skin. Two small, crudely cut holes in the fabric offered the barest hint of ventilation.

Maybe if I’d been wearing glasses, they’d be fogged up by now.

Seojun shook his head, trying to dismiss the absurd thought. But the slight movement brought a new, alarming realization—the burlap sack was cinched tightly around his neck, constricting his breath.

He strained against his bonds, only to discover that his hands were similarly restrained. A chilling coldness gripped his wrists, the unforgiving bite of restraints cutting into his skin. As his awareness sharpened, more disturbing details emerged.

Desperately blinking his dry eye and straining his stiff neck, Seojun managed to glimpse the situation more clearly. A rough rope was haphazardly, yet tightly, wound around his chest. It dug painfully into his bony collarbone, sending sharp aches through his body. His vision, limited as it was, caught the sight of a bluish bruise forming on his skin—a stark contrast against the usual protection of his jacket, which was now mysteriously absent.

Seojun’s predicament naturally led him to question the whereabouts of his arms. As he attempted to move his hands, bound tightly behind his back, the chair beneath him creaked in response. Yes, a chair. The realization hit him with a renewed and unwelcome clarity—he was tied to a chair.

Suddenly, an image of Bobby flashed in his mind, tear-streaked and snot-faced. Seojun grimaced, his pale features contorting beneath the rough burlap sack covering his head. The thought of anyone witnessing his humiliation was unbearable. He silently vowed never to speak of this to anyone.

Except maybe the police…

With a deep breath, Seojun began to piece together how he had ended up in this terrible situation. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves. Closing his bloodshot eye, he cast his mind back. He had been driving. In a surge of righteous indignation, he had kicked out a hitchhiker who had been toying with him—shifting erratically between the guise of a normal person and that of a mischievous, murderous ghost.

What came next?

A vague memory surfaced—Seojun gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white as he frowned at the dark, ominous clouds gathering overhead. He had pulled over briefly, letting the cool, damp air flow through the open window.

Ah, yes—he remembered now. It had been at a fork in the road. As he approached it, a strange sensation tugged at the back of his head. It wasn’t quite a headache, but rather a distinct feeling, like invisible hands pulling him in two directions at once. The surreal experience felt like something out of a waking dream, making him swallow hard against the oddness of it all. Despite the eerie sensation, Seojun hadn’t hesitated. He already knew which path to take.

All he had wanted was a cigarette before the rain began, craving the acrid smoke in his lungs. He had stepped out of the truck, his sneakers crunching on the gravel as a damp breeze predictably swirled around him. With a cigarette in his right hand, he had fumbled in his pocket for a lighter, only to find it filled with dust and stray bits of foliage. He vaguely remembered sighing in frustration.

Seojun had turned back toward the truck, leaning in to retrieve the lighter from the glove compartment. That’s when he heard it—footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him. His lips parted slightly, and his jaw clenched. The last thing he remembered was the involuntary tensing of his shoulders, the anticipation of turning around.

“Hngh…”

A groan escaped through gritted teeth as Seojun tried to piece together what had happened. Had he been ambushed? The memory was fragmented, like a distorted film reel. But a creeping sense of unease began to rise from the tips of his toes, tightening its grip around his throat. Had he been struck from behind? Suffered a concussion? Or worse, had some dangerous narcotics been used on him?

Seojun cherished his body, treating it like a priceless treasure. Losing his eye had been irreversible, and that loss only heightened the value he placed on every part of himself that remained intact. He longed to run his hands over his body, to check for wounds and reassure himself, but bound and gagged, with a sack over his head, it was impossible. The weight of his vulnerability bore down on him, amplifying the frustration and fear coursing through his veins.

Seojun’s breath came in hot, ragged bursts as he fought against the ropes binding him to the old wooden chair. Unlike Bobby’s sturdy, floor-bolted seat, Seojun’s chair was ordinary, fragile, and he could feel the ropes around his torso beginning to give way as he struggled.

Sweat trickled down his forehead, a small spark of hope igniting within him. He gritted his teeth and twisted his body harder. Like a snake charmed into a dance, he contorted his shoulders, the coarse rope digging into his flesh. But with every passing second, he could feel the bonds loosening their hold.

“Hngh!”

Seojun grunted sharply, his thin arms straining against the ropes as if determined to prove their meager strength. The fiery burn of friction seared his skin, but he shoved the pain aside. Freedom, sweeter than any candy, was close at hand.

But freedom, as often warned, came at a cost. His desperate thrashing threw him off balance, and with a muffled cry, he toppled over, the sack over his head stifling his voice as he crashed onto the splintered wooden floor.

“Ugh!”

The coarse fabric scraped cruelly against his exposed skin, offering no solace in his fall. He groaned, wincing as he rubbed his aching forehead with his forearm, only to feel the rough material tear at his flesh. He felt like an overturned turtle, limbs flailing uselessly until his fingers finally caught hold of a chair leg. With a grunt of exertion, he managed to pull himself upright, his head spinning as he tried to make sense of his disorienting situation.

What in the world was happening?

Forcing himself to straighten his spine, Seojun’s vision began to clear, the chaos in his mind subsiding with each deep, calming breath. Slowly, his thoughts sharpened, bringing his surroundings into clearer focus.

He clicked his tongue in frustration, wiggling his fingers in vain. The strange contraption binding his wrists dug into his skin. He felt like a shoddy imitation of a human—a poorly crafted rag doll with his head and hands encased in sacks. No matter how he twisted or contorted his fingers, they were as useless as mittens, unable to undo the intricate, modern mechanism that held him fast. A sigh of exasperation slipped from his lips.

Clinging to a shred of hope, Seojun instinctively patted down his pockets, only to find them disappointingly empty.

What’s the point of even owning a cellphone? Should I just cancel my contract?

He found himself lost in thought about his perpetually unreliable phone, which seemed to fail him at the worst possible moments—malfunctioning, disappearing, or just being generally useless when he needed it most. Slowly, as his mind wandered through these trivial frustrations, Seojun began to take in his surroundings.

Sniffling, he looked around the peculiar space he was now free to explore. No longer bound to the chair, he could finally appreciate the room’s unusual characteristics. It was spacious, with both front and back doors, and the layout bore an uncanny resemblance to a classroom. A large bookcase dominated one wall, its shelves crammed with a bizarre mix of books and assorted items. He noticed round pencil holders, rulers, and other office supplies scattered among the clutter—a chaotic yet oddly organized collection that seemed both out of place and perfectly fitting in this strange room.

However, as Seojun examined the room more closely, its neglect became glaringly obvious. The once-proud books, now abandoned in a damp, forgotten corner, were covered in a layer of mold, their edges frayed and crumbling to dust. The decay wasn’t limited to the bookcase—each step Seojun took caused the wooden floor to groan in protest, as if it resented the weight of his presence. The remnants of human habitation were faint, almost ghostly, as insubstantial as the dust motes that floated through the stale air, easily dispersed by the slightest movement.

Kicking free of the rope still tangled around his ankles, Seojun cautiously moved forward. His eyes were drawn to the large chalkboard that dominated the far wall, further enhancing the room’s classroom-like atmosphere. His gaze shifted to the furniture in front of him… was that a teacher’s desk?

But despite the room’s strong resemblance to a classroom, one detail stood out, jarring and out of place. Atop the long, narrow podium sat a judge’s gavel, meticulously crafted from polished wood and perfectly positioned as if it were a deliberate focal point. Its pristine condition starkly contrasted with the surrounding decay, making it seem almost like an afterthought—a strange and unsettling choice for an otherwise educational setting. The incongruous decor left Seojun blinking in confusion.

“This is…” he murmured, his voice trailing off as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

His long, spindly legs carried him toward the chalkboard with careful, deliberate steps. His hands, still bound and clumsy, reached out to cautiously touch the green surface. He watched as white chalk dust settled on the burlap sack wrapped around his fingers.

[Prove your innocence.]

“Innocence?“

The single word, despite its simplicity, was enough to fuel the fire of his anxiety. A shiver coursed down Seojun’s spine as he turned to stare at the chair and ropes that had only moments ago held him captive. If this room was meant to be a courtroom, did that make him the defendant, on trial for a crime he couldn’t even remember committing?

Seojun’s panic rose as he hurried toward the front door, his mind spinning with the realization that his abductor was clearly crazy. Escape was the only rational choice.

But, predictably, the door wouldn’t open. The handle turned, but it was useless in his grasp. Swearing under his breath, Seojun rushed to the back door, only to find the same frustrating result. No matter how hard he yanked or rattled the handle, the door remained resolutely shut. His face flushed, his breaths came in ragged gasps, and the frantic pounding of his heart echoed in his ears.

He glanced back at the chalkboard, the words mocking him: Prove your innocence. The first stroke of the message was particularly thick, as if the writer had pressed down with force. The scratchy, almost frantic letters held his gaze, speaking of conviction—or perhaps rage. Seojun found himself nibbling on his lower lip, his jaw clenching as he thought about the damage someone driven by unshakable conviction could inflict. The memories of Wraithwood’s Harmon Campground flooded back, his jaw trembling with a potent mix of fear and anger.

Suddenly, a sharp, discordant noise pierced the air, like the chaotic strumming of a broken string instrument.

“Ugh!” Seojun cried out, the awful sound jarring his senses like a terrible band whose only audience consisted of sympathetic family and friends. The burlap sack over his head did little to muffle the auditory assault, and he instinctively clamped his hands against his ears, his eyes darting around the room, searching for the source.

Then he realized—the noise was coming from above. He had been so focused on his immediate surroundings that he hadn’t thought to look up. Hanging from the corner of the ceiling was a large, black box-like object, resembling a speaker.

As if reacting to his discovery, a low chuckle crackled from the device, distorted by static and sending a chill down Seojun’s spine. What were they trying to say? His mind raced with possibilities, recalling the ominous cliche phrases often heard in horror movies, none of which were promising. He silently hoped it wouldn’t be something like, ‘I want to play a game…’

– Did you sleep well?

The voice that filtered through the speaker was almost playful, with a light, conversational tone that carried an undercurrent of mockery. Seojun couldn’t determine if it was male or female, but the unsettling tone set his teeth on edge.