There was a time when Independence Day meant August 15th¹ to Seojun, not July 4th. Back then, his family name had been different, but his given name—Seojun—had remained the same.
¹T/N: The National Liberation Day of Korea, also known as Gwangbokjeol, is celebrated annually on August 15 in both South and North Korea. It commemorates Victory over Japan Day, which marked the end of World War II and the conclusion of Japanese colonial rule over Korea, lasting from 1910 to 1945.
He stood at a railway crossing, idly swinging a black plastic bag around one finger while the pedestrian signal stubbornly glowed red. The videotapes inside knocked softly against one another. With nothing else to occupy his hands, he pulled out a cigarette. He had no lighter, so he could not smoke it, but he chewed on the filter for lack of anything better to do.
Seojun was what one might call a horror movie fanatic.
He had little interest in sophisticated, expensive CGI designed to imitate reality. What truly set his heart racing were gaudy sprays of fake blood, plastic bones, and the raw, exaggerated screams of actors giving everything they had.
That peculiar taste had made Seojun a regular at the local video rental shop. The tapes buried in its dustiest corners could usually provide him with a satisfying couple of hours.
“The Murderer of the Bloody Lake” had been no exception.
The video case practically screamed at him, plastered with chaotic slogans in blood-red lettering. It was immediately obvious that the film lacked more than a budget.
It lacked taste.
Silent cinema had long since fallen out of fashion, yet the director had stubbornly chosen to shoot the movie in black and white. Had it been a masterpiece, that decision might have been praised as a daring artistic choice.
Unfortunately, the grainy footage, clumsy acting, miserable sets, and painfully awkward dialogue were all laughably poor. The plot was so absurd that the entire film felt less like a coherent story and more like a fever dream.
The protagonist, ‘Christina,’ was a pretty, modestly dressed student who shared a subtle, almost romantic connection with her school’s handsome quarterback. Her sultry cheerleader friend was dating a muscular bald man. Trailing behind the group was a frail-looking fool who followed them everywhere.
These five naïvely set out for a campsite, completely unaware of the man-eating monster lurking beneath the surface of its lake.
Could anyone have predicted that a man-eating monster—something not even remotely suggested by the title—would suddenly appear?
“The Murderer of the Bloody Lake” had accomplished exactly that, transforming from a slasher film into a monster movie in the blink of an eye.
Had the shift been handled well, it might have worked.
Instead, the badly constructed puppet monster inspired far more laughter than fear. And after witnessing its rampage, how much terror could a mere lake-bound murderer possibly inspire?
Even the sight of a supposedly dead body twitching its arm after the camera had moved away was considered a minor flaw by the standards of “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake.”
The film’s true horror, however, came during the post-credits interview with the production team.
In a baffling attempt to explain his motives and inspirations, the director refused to let the audience linger in the aftermath of the film—mediocre though it was. He rambled endlessly about Red Lake Campground in his hometown, the real-world location that had inspired the movie.
Naturally, Seojun had no interest whatsoever in a campsite buried in some remote corner of America, so he switched the tape off halfway through the interview.
The film’s only redeeming quality was its captivating female lead, whom the director had allegedly cast through personal connections.
She was an unknown actress, but astonishingly beautiful.
Her acting left much to be desired, yet one scene had stayed with him: her dark hair clinging wetly to her tear-streaked face, her mouth opening in a breathless scream.
Remembering the repeated close-ups of the lead actress, ‘Christina,’ Seojun began to walk.
In any case, the movie had been a complete disaster.
However lofty the director’s ambitions might have been, the film had survived in theaters for only a week before being banished to a forgotten corner of a rental shop. Now it was little more than junk handled only by eccentrics like Seojun.
Unless it somehow became connected to a bizarre real-life incident, it was destined to disappear into obscurity.
Even Seojun, whose standards were hardly high, had felt an overwhelming urge to wash the images from his eyes.
Once he returned the tape, he planned to rent several critically acclaimed films instead.
The traffic signal turned green, and Seojun stepped forward at an unhurried pace.
He was savoring the bitter sting of the unlit cigarette against his tongue when a harsh, grating sound tore through the air.
Blinding headlights flooded his vision.
For a single instant, his eyes met those of a truck driver whose face was twisted with sheer terror.
Ah!
Seojun’s brief scream caught in his throat.
His body was hurled into the air, spinning without direction. The world around him fell silent, save for the shrill buzzing that filled his ears.
Pain—raw, merciless, and absolute—ripped through every part of him.
Through blood-smeared, unfocused eyes, he saw a videotape fly from the torn black bag. Its once-pristine surface was now streaked with his blood.
And just like that, it was over.
Death carried Seojun away before he could even comprehend what had happened.
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By a strange twist of fate, Seojun was reborn into a third-generation immigrant family pursuing the elusive American Dream.
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At first, I was thrilled. I thought I had been given a second chance at life.
Seojun grumbled to himself as he rearranged the fast-selling cartons of Pound Milk bearing Bobby’s face.
Logically speaking, no one in his position would immediately assume that they had possessed someone else’s body.
His new life had begun in New York City, a metropolis pulsing with endless ambition and desire. As a small child, he had retained no memories of his previous existence.
That was hardly surprising. The age at which a child developed a stable sense of self varied greatly.
For Seojun, that moment came when he was around six years old.
Strapped into his car seat, he saw a sign reading ‘Welcome to Wraithwood Warren’ through the window.
An uncanny chill ran through him, as though an invisible finger had traced its way down his spine. His plump cheeks trembled, and the teddy bear in his hands slipped from his grasp.
His parents dismissed the reaction as childish whimsy, or perhaps simple curiosity about their new home.
At the tender age of six, Seojun began laboriously piecing together fragments of his previous life, all the while scolding himself for being excessively paranoid.
Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the shock of meeting the girl who lived across the street.
She was a lovely child, two years younger than him.
Encouraged by their parents to become friendly as neighbors, Seojun toddled over to greet her—only to be overwhelmed by a crushing wave of despair.
The child’s name was Christina Toolbox.
Without question, she was the female lead from “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake.”
Has it really been fourteen years already?
Seojun did everything he could to keep his distance.
They lived across from each other, however, so some degree of contact was inevitable. Fortunately, he and Christina maintained a cordial relationship.
Still, her unsettling resemblance to the actress in his memories sent chills down his spine. It was a sinister reminder that the true horror was far closer than he had imagined.
And the terror did not end there.
From time to time, vivid yet fleeting hallucinations flashed before his eyes, dragging Seojun into the depths of severe insomnia.
It was not until his teenage years that he finally began to unravel the truth behind those supposed delusions.
A shattered teacup.
A stolen letter.
A broken bicycle...
To his growing horror, Seojun realized that the visions were not symptoms of a mental illness.
They were genuine premonitions.
At the same time, he °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° came to understand the role he had been given.
He was the prophet in “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake”—a minor character who delivered ominous prophecies disguised as curses.
The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning and shattered what little composure he had left.
This wasn’t reincarnation.
It was possession!
He had been reborn as the prophet from a horror movie.
Once he understood the truth of his role, Seojun struggled desperately to accept it.
After all, anyone would want to escape upon learning that their peaceful neighborhood was destined to become the site of a gruesome massacre.
I even tried to leave Wraithwood Warren once.
But the magnetic pull of the plot refused to release him.
When the grim truth about Wraithwood Warren finally became undeniable, Seojun grew desperate. His pleas to his parents bordered on hysteria.
Yet his parents, who loved their son deeply, refused to let him set even one foot outside Wraithwood Warren.
Even begging to visit his generous uncle—the man who showered him with presents every Christmas—proved useless.
The fear and desperation in his parents’ eyes still haunted him.
Their gazes had carried an unspoken warning.
He was a prisoner of Wraithwood Warren until his role had been fulfilled.
His mother’s nails digging painfully into his arm.
His father’s burning stare as they locked him inside.
Both memories bound Seojun to his fate with invisible chains.
“But all of that ends today.”
His thin lips moved, and his hoarse whisper seeped into the silence of the convenience store.
It was the Fourth of July—a date notorious for disaster in horror movies.
And right on cue, Christina and her friends had just left for the campground.
A cruel day awaited them.
But why should that matter to Seojun?
He was selfish by nature.
He remained unmoved by the suffering soon to befall people who were more than strangers, yet less than friends.
All he had done was throw a series of absurd predictions at them, disguising them as warnings.
His lips trembled, and nervous sweat dampened the inside of his gloves.
He was determined to stay far away from the merciless survival game of a horror movie, even if it meant severing ties with Christina, his childhood friend.
His memories of the other characters were hazy at best.
Even so, the striking group of five he had seen that day perfectly matched the cast from the film.
Quarterback Johan.
Cheerleader Airi and her boyfriend William.
And last but not least, Bobby.
The future awaiting Christina and her friends was painfully clear.
They would gather around a campfire while Bobby tried to lighten the mood with his idiotic jokes. The mouthwatering scent of barbecue would mingle with the clean fragrance of the lake.
All the while, they would remain completely unaware of whatever might be lurking beneath the surface...
And then there were Airi and William—the quintessential horror-movie couple—destined, as always, to meet a gruesome end somewhere in a dimly lit forest.
“Ugh...”
Seojun shook his head, unable to conceal his gloomy expression.
As he sighed, his long black hair rustled against his forehead.
There was no changing what was to come.
Just look at them.
Of all possible days, they had chosen Independence Day for their trip to the campsite.
The magnetic pull of the film’s narrative was undeniable.
This world was bound to follow its script, and its main characters were destined to face a day of terror.
It’s pitiful, but what can I do?
Sympathy was one thing.
Reality was another.
Seojun’s fingers idly traced the dimpled surfaces of the lemons piled on the counter.
He should have been celebrating.
His seemingly insignificant role had finally come to an end.
With his heart feeling lighter, he allowed himself to imagine the future.
It was a genuine hope, unlike the hallucinations that so often clouded his vision.
I should buy a truck.
He hummed softly to himself, picturing a sleek, sturdy four-wheeler.
The plan was simple.
Buy a truck.
Say goodbye to this dreadful town.
Then take to the open road.
The trauma of being killed by a truck had long since faded into irrelevance.
After all, when one lived in a world where the events of a horror movie could spill into reality at any moment, ordinary misfortunes such as traffic accidents became considerably easier to accept.