Seojun had already packed his bags in his mind.
He could hardly claim to be the finest clerk ever to work at Fred’s store, but finding someone as capable as him would not be easy. For years, he had faithfully manned the isolated Hamon convenience store without a single complaint. Naturally, Fred was bound to feel the loss.
While everyone else traveled and went on vacation, Seojun had remained stuck to the store like a barnacle, rarely venturing far from it. In truth, he had been trapped there by the sinister plot of a horror movie, but to the casual observer, it must have looked as though he intended to put down permanent roots behind the counter.
Seojun pursed his lips in disbelief as he considered the situation.
What was Fred thinking? Did he honestly expect me to spend the rest of my life in a convenience store that barely breaks even?
Of course, he was not foolish enough to say any of that aloud. Fred was still the boss who paid his wages. Seojun ran his tongue lightly over his lips, thinking of all the fuel his future truck would need.
“Fred, I’m already in my twenties. I can’t stay here forever.”
He shrugged—a gesture he considered distinctly “American”—and continued mopping the floor, accidentally bumping Fred’s shoe with the mop head. Fred hurriedly stepped back, clutching the edge of his vest.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“This is a good place to work. We’ll find someone new easily enough. And if we need somebody urgently, I can ask around.”
The reassurance Seojun offered while cleaning the filthy floor sounded far more confident than he actually felt. Fred responded to his thinly disguised bluff in a subdued voice.
“Okay....”
With a somber expression, Fred left the store as though he genuinely had business elsewhere. Outside, the sun that had blazed overhead all day was sinking behind the mountains.
The Hamon convenience store stood at a crossroads near the Hamon Campground and was, as always, utterly quiet. Christina’s unexpected visit with her group—not to mention the notorious Gold-Silver-Bronze trio—had been an extraordinary event by the store’s standards.
Remembering Fred’s earlier suggestion that he close early, Seojun carefully tidied the counter.
He must know this damned store hardly gets any customers.
The location had been terrible from the beginning. Building a convenience store beside a secluded campground was an odd decision. Had the campground been popular, the spot might have been ideal, but the Hamon Campground was hardly a destination people flocked to.
If anything, the entire area exuded a sinister, unsettling air that drove away not only curious outsiders but even the braver locals. The only people willing to visit such a forsaken campground were either characters destined to stumble into a horror movie or reckless thrill-seekers searching for forbidden adventures.
Seojun’s hand stopped midway through counting the day’s sales.
The Gold-Silver-Bronze trio had caused an uproar and left without buying a thing, which meant the day’s entire income had come from Christina’s group.
He examined the banknote Johann had handed him. The faint scent of citrus still clung to his bare fingertips, while the basket on the counter remained filled with lemons.
Imitating Johann’s earlier gesture, Seojun rolled one of the lemons beneath his palm, savoring its firm weight. He had always preferred working with his bare hands. Wearing gloves merely to avoid touching characters from a movie had seemed like far too much trouble.
Now that the gloves were gone, a refreshing breeze brushed over his fingers, carrying the bright fragrance of citrus with it.
Would everything really be all right?
He could not stop himself from wondering, even though he already knew the answer.
Seojun closed his eyes. His eyelashes trembled as an impenetrable darkness swallowed him—a darkness so complete that not even the faintest fragment of his imagination dared intrude.
It has to be all right!
Memories surged through him: a flesh-hungry monster pursuing them, a sadistic murderer closing in with a blade. He had watched one friend narrowly escape a monster’s grasp, only to see another lose their limbs beneath a merciless knife.
Seojun had seen it all.
What had once appeared on a screen in washed-out black and white, decorated with splashes of artificial blood, would now unfold in vivid color, accompanied by real sounds and smells.
Right here.
Today.
His eyes flew open at the rustle of the banknote in his hand. Crumpled and forlorn, it seemed to mirror his own miserable state—as though he were attempting to smother his gnawing anxiety beneath a little money.
Clicking his tongue, Seojun smoothed the bill flat.
He knew himself too well. No matter how many comforting lies he whispered, he would never warn them to stay away from the campground.
Instead, he slipped one of the lemons into his pocket as a keepsake.
That was simply the kind of person Seojun was.
For a prophet, doubt was a constant companion.
When he stepped outside, the humid warmth of the day still hung heavily in the air. Yet the store stood near both a forest and a lake, and the evening was rapidly turning surprisingly cold.
The oppressive heat and chilly breeze created a peculiar sensation. Sweat trickled down his back even as goosebumps rose along his arms.
Seojun removed his cap and ruffled the hair flattened beneath it, then locked the store door behind him. When he straightened from his crouch, a heavy Boston bag hung from his right shoulder.
With the casual entitlement of someone helping himself to his own possessions, Seojun had stuffed the bag until it bulged with goods from the store.
He made no effort to correct his slouch as he trudged unsteadily toward his bicycle.
Playing the ridiculous role of a prophet beside some remote campground had severely limited his transportation options. Since Seojun did not have a driver’s license, he had no choice but to rely almost entirely on his own legs.
He dropped the bag into the bicycle’s front basket. The bicycle swayed dangerously beneath its weight, and he reached out to steady it, silently berating himself for being so unusually clumsy.
Then he slowly raised his head.
The road in front of the convenience store lay beneath the feeble glow of widely spaced streetlights. Once the sun disappeared, the darkness between them became almost absolute. Even the few lamps that remained flickered erratically.
And beneath one of them stood something strange.
Seojun narrowed his eyes, struggling to make out the unfamiliar silhouette.
A gasp escaped his lips.
The streetlight continued to flicker.
When it stuttered back to life, the indistinct shadow abruptly sharpened into view.
At first, Seojun thought the figure had abnormally large eyes. Perhaps it was simply someone wearing glasses. Two rounded lenses gleamed with the unnatural luster of an insect’s eyes.
Then Seojun’s heart slammed against his ribs as he realized his mistake.
Those were not eyes.
They were the eyepieces of a gas mask.
The masked figure slowly tilted its head.
A sharp, elongated Hamon knife gleamed in its hand.
A knot tightened in Seojun’s throat. His breaths became rapid and shallow. He stood frozen, every fiber of his body shrieking a warning.
He recognized the knife not because of the nearby campground or because it shared its name with the store.
He recognized it as the weapon wielded by the murderer in “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake.”
A gas mask.
An ink-black trench coat.
A Hamon knife.
Individually, none of them would have seemed particularly remarkable. Together, however, they formed the unmistakable silhouette of the murderer from the lakeside.
A violent shudder ran through Seojun’s rigid body.
He rubbed his eyes. He blinked repeatedly. He even tried to will the image into changing.
Nothing worked.
The towering figure beneath the flickering streetlight remained the perfect image of the gas-masked serial killer.
Was this another hallucination?
Or perhaps a waking nightmare?
If it was, Seojun would gladly offer a prayer of gratitude to a god he did not even believe in.
But the cold sweat gathering on his palms and the bitter pain of his teeth biting into his tongue anchored him mercilessly to reality.
The sky had faded into twilight, though the asphalt still retained the warmth of the day. A cold breeze grazed Seojun’s skin, sharpening every nerve in his body.
Having failed to escape reality, Seojun glared resentfully at the serial killer.
Are you out of your mind? Why is he here? Why now?
If events were following the original story, should the killer not have been at the Hamon Campground, menacingly brandishing his knife at the protagonists while they innocently enjoyed their evening?
Instead, Seojun was the one standing at the receiving end of that gleaming blade.
The cruelty of the twist was almost laughable.
The gas-masked figure shifted. His boots scraped across the asphalt as he slowly turned his full attention toward Seojun.
A shiver raced down Seojun’s spine, intensified by the cold sweat soaking his clothes.
He began to tremble as he remembered the face concealed beneath the mask.
A scarred visage.
Deep grooves stretching from beneath the eyes to the cheeks.
A pair of lifeless, inhuman eyes that seemed to have already chosen him as their next victim.
The murderer’s face, once only a hazy memory from “The Murderer of the Bloody Lake,” came sharply into focus.
Among the countless faces that had appeared in the movie, it was one of only two Seojun knew he could never forget.
He risked a glance at the masked man’s arm.
Though mostly concealed beneath the trench coat, it appeared thick and muscular, like the arm of a veteran chef accustomed to handling heavy knives.
To put it plainly, Seojun’s chances of defeating an armed murderer were absurdly small.
The bicycle... isn’t an option.
His bag was already sitting in its basket, but the bicycle itself was secured with a theft-proof steel cable.
Seojun cursed his own meticulous nature.
Why did he always have to be so thorough, even with the most trivial things?
If he tried to unlock the bicycle now, he would present himself as an easy target for the Hamon knife.
A bead of sweat slid from his chin.
He had to choose.
He could run toward the nearby campground, or he could attempt the much longer journey to the distant village.
Knowing his own limitations, Seojun made his decision.
He spun around and sprinted toward the campground, his legs pumping furiously beneath him.
Terror sharpened every one of his senses. Each footfall struck the asphalt with deafening force.
He charged forward with his arms and legs flailing wildly, as though he could outrun the fear itself.
“Ah! Aaaah!”
He could not stop the pathetic scream that tore from his throat.
At least he managed not to bite off his own tongue in the process.
There were no cars on the deserted forest road. Nor could he hear any of the familiar, reassuring sounds of nature.
Only the relentless footsteps of his pursuer echoed behind him.
“F*ck!”
Seojun cast a quick glance over his shoulder and immediately regretted it.
The masked figure appeared to be moving at an almost leisurely pace, yet his stride possessed an unnatural, inexorable persistence.
Worse still, he was gaining on him.
The Hamon knife gleamed ominously in his hand.
A horrifying realization struck Seojun.
If the killer caught him, he would be murdered, dismembered, and turned into dinner ham in his next life.
Panic blurred Seojun’s vision as he raced along the dimly lit road.
That momentary lapse in attention sent him crashing into a signpost.
“Ah!”
A scream burst from his throat as pain ripped across his skin.
The signpost consisted of a rusted metal plate precariously attached to an old wooden post. Years of exposure had left it unstable, and the force of Seojun’s collision tore the plate free.
Its sharp edge carved a long, vicious gash across his arm.
The plate clattered onto the road, spinning several times before finally falling still.
“Huff....”
Seojun gritted his teeth.
He had no time to collapse and writhe in pain.
Clutching his bleeding arm, he charged up the steep hill, leaving scattered droplets of blood behind him.
A short while later, the figure in the gas mask arrived at the patch of earth stained with Seojun’s blood.
His gaze followed the trail into the pitch-black forest.
Then he bent down and picked up the fallen metal plate.
Without it, the old wooden signpost stood bare, its surface scarred by years of wind and rain. Faint traces of red lettering remained visible on the wood.
The gas-masked figure shrugged.
He placed the metal plate back against the post and tightened the loosened screws. Before long, the sign had been securely restored to its original position.
“Hamon Campground, 500 meters ahead.”
He read the words aloud.
A hint of amusement entered his voice.
As the silence stretched on, that amusement twisted into a bone-chilling chuckle that echoed along the deserted road.