a short scene of torture and killingsummary:
Middle of nowhere. 10 PM. Lee Hyukjae is at the bar of the umpteenth motel during his long-ass trip across Korea.
He doesn’t like his job, but he needs something to do to survive, at least until he finds a better job: he’s a sales representative and, although he likes travelling and driving for hours, it’s boring like hell because he’s always alone and his clients are rarely collaborative.A/N:
Creepypastas are great prompts,in my opinion. This
is the original,I just made it a bit longer (again,arranging a fic I wrote for another fandom. Sorry for this lazyness,haha). Xposted on AFF
Middle of nowhere. 10 PM. Lee Hyukjae is at the bar of the umpteenth motel during his long-ass trip across Korea.
He doesn’t like his job, but he needs something to do to survive, at least until he finds a better job: he’s a sales representative and, although he likes travelling and driving for hours, it’s boring like hell because he’s always alone and his clients are rarely collaborative.
Hyukjae is staring at his third Coke of the night, poking mechanically at the ice cubes and ignoring the skeptic glances from the barman, when an anxious man sits at the stool near his, simply ordering his drink and not saying a word more. The man looks like he’s suffering, he has deep and purple bags under the wide eyes, the face looks emaciated and utterly pale, he breathes heavily. When his drink finally arrives, the man swallows it down in a gulp and slams a bunch of bills on the counter, leaving the bar hurriedly. Hyukjae can only look astonished at the fluttering black coat of that odd man, following him with the eyes till he exits the bar.
Returning to his drink, Hyukjae notices there’s a plain business card, with “Moonlight Films – 054-0348” neatly printed on the paper: it must have fallen from the man’s wallet, but it’s too late to give it back. Turning the card, he reads the words ’30 sec’, ‘It’s moonlit’, ‘1 week’ written in a rushed handwriting; puzzled, Hyukjae puts the card in his jacket pocket with a shrug and heads to the parking lot, to take a bit of fresh air.
Leaning against the porch, Hyukjae takes in his surroundings, watching other business men driving in and out the motel parking lot, ready to spend a lonely night or, if they’re lucky, in nice company of a more or less cute whore.
Trying to get his cellphone to call home, he feels the smooth and rectangular surface of the business card lost by the strange man at the bar. Hyukjae re-reads the telephone number and the notes in the back, trying to decipher what they could mean; ’30 sec’ may be the length of the call or of the recorded message you’re going to listen to, or the time you have to wait before talking; ‘It’s moonlit’…what is moonlit? Is that a riddle? Is that a password? And what should ‘1 week’ mean? You can phone back within a week? Or you’ll die in a week, like that creepy Japanese girl of “The Ring” likes to tell to whoever watches her goddamned videotape?
Hyukjae has always been more curious than a monkey. He HAS to find out what’s behind the “Moonlight Films”, uncaring of risking his own life in case it turns out it’s some illegal activity or something.
He’s wasted too much time, he has to call that number and start to make his brain cells work.
Oh, great: whenever he needs it urgently, his cellphone’s battery is soon to expire. Not wanting the phone to die right in the middle of the call, Hyukjae looks for a payphone and finds it out of the main entrance of the motel; once he has inserted some coins, he dials the number and promptly somebody picks the phone on the other line.
“Hello?” Hyukjae says out of habit, but he soon understands he has to wait. Silence. He listens to thirty seconds of…nothing.
“Is the road from life to death dark?” a monotone voice asks out of nowhere, surprising Hyukjae a bit. With the heart pounding fast for being startled, he glances at the business card he still has in hand and turns it, reading out loud the second line of scribbles, “It’s moonlit”.
“The building next to the abandoned theatre, apartment 24,” the voice says dryly, before hanging up.
Hyukjae is weirded out by the odd call. There IS an abandoned theatre in the city he arrived a few hours earlier: what should Hyukjae do once he’s there? Get more instructions? Receive something? Kill somebody???
Better sleep on it.
It’s kind of pointless saying that Hyukjae doesn’t sleep well, he stares at the ceiling for hours, wondering what the hell there is in that apartment. He conveniently wrote the instructions down before tucking himself under the covers, just in case he’d forget them, but they’re indelible in his mind: he keeps repeating inner self what the man said, the directions, his own conjectures. He’s already obsessing over this “Moonlight Films” thingy, only a couple of hours after the ill-looking man lost a business card at the bar…He feels he must solve this mystery and get over it very soon.
Today is the day for Hyukjae to get it over with the Moonlight brainteaser.
Looking back and forth the paper where he wrote the directions and the area surrounding him, he’s a bit perplexed by the crumbling building that is his destination. Oh, but it’s obvious, every good horror movie has some scenes set in tumbledown edifices, yeah, it must be something like that.
After stepping on the short staircase, Hyukjae faces a rather long and large hallway, dimly lit by weak naked lamps dangling from the ceiling. Checking again the note, he reaches the end of the corridor and climbs the stairs to reach the second floor.
21…22…23…here we are, 24: Hyukjae takes a long breath and turns the sticky knob, opening the door on a small and dirty apartment.
Once inside, the smell of tobacco and rotting hits his nostrils, making him gag enough to walk hurriedly to the cracked windows, inhaling urgently some fresh air. After recovering a bit from the stench, Hyukjae looks around the miserable room, the wrinkled and ripped wallpaper, bits of bare wall, brown stains of unexplained origin on the walls, on the floor and especially on the carpet.
A paper bag on the old coffee table catches his attention: getting closer to it, he notices there’s “Lee Hyukjae” written on the bag in red sharpie. Opening it with shaky hands, he fishes a videotape without labels or anything; checking again inside the bag, Hyukjae spots a ripped off sheet of paper with “12.399 won” written in the same red sharpie of his name on the bag. Surprised, he snatches a ten and three one-thousand bills from his wallet, because he doesn’t have coins enough to pay, and leaves the money on the table before grabbing the paper bag with the videotape, ready to leave the stinking room.
The knob doesn’t turn, Hyukjae can’t open the door; he even tries to break the door down pushing it with the shoulder or kicking it, but with no chance. Hyukjae can’t help but starting to panic a bit for what he thinks is the best prank somebody has ever pulled, wonderfully organized and played.
His gaze goes involuntarily back to the coffee table, where he can still see the eleven dollars he left. Moving towards it, he stares at the money and at the paper bag he still has in the hand: rummaging in every pocket he has, Hyukjae finally has the coins needed and replaces the videotape with the money, leaving on the table the bag with the charge and, bare videotape in hand, he heads back to the door that finally opens. Hyukjae doesn’t want to stay in that room and in that building any longer and runs downstairs back to his car, driving fast to return at the motel.
With his heart still pounding rapidly, Hyukjae slams the door of his room shut, throwing the videotape on the bed and heading straight to the minibar. He doesn’t drink, but having a mini bottle of soju in his hand is somehow comforting.
Hyukjae heavily sits in the armchair and stares at the videotape on the bed, biting his thumb nail nervously. Why has he taken it? Why has he even paid for it? And why, essential question, the door didn’t open and he was forced to leave the paper bag with his name on it and exactly 12.399 won in it?!
He’s torn: he doesn’t want to watch the videotape because he’s still creeped out enough by the rather spooky experience he just lived, but he wants to know more about the “Moonlight Films” and see if what he did was worth it.
The chamber is all on the tones of brown and red. The wallpaper looks dirty and too thick to be simple paper; if you squint more at it ,you’ll notice what look like moles and possibly hairs, and the more you stare at it, the more you’re inclined to think that the stains look like blood. The room is well furnished, with tons of ornaments on almost every surface, but they all look too…soft.
All of a sudden appears a tall man wearing all black, dragging another man who’s fighting lazily to get free, like he’s been drugged.
The man still standing opens a drawer and takes out a slim case. In the background there are the moans of the man on the floor, struggling against whatever they gave him to make him innocuous, and the sickening noise of flesh against flesh when the drawer has been opened and closed. A low thud follows the case after it’s thrown on the nearby table, and the man in the black hoodie uncoils the case open, revealing shining and perfectly kept tools, from scalpels to forceps to cleavers.
The soon-to-be-butcher kneels in front of the laying man, taking all the time to undress him; he then chooses with confidence a scalpel and, again on the floor, facing the camera, he slowly traces an ‘x’ on the pale body of the laying man, who twists his face in pain but unable to scream too loud because of the drugs he’d been forced to get.
With expert hands and using his tools like they were extensions of his fingers, the slaughter cuts and removes muscles, bones and organs, tears the skin off the body, being careful not to let the victim die immediately. He’s unaffected by the pained screams of his prey, who’s now feeling what’s going on after the drugs lost effect; the cries and begs are ignored, until the shock and the hemorrhage finally set in and cause the victim to faint, suffering the torture without any more conscious pain, till the death dawns on him, somehow freeing him.
Grabbing other instruments from the case, the murder becomes a skilled artisan who assembles, sews, combines the poor remains of the victim in well done but repugnant furniture.
Soaking in blood, the butcher stands up and arranges his new decorations here and there in the room; he then makes his way to the camera, switching it off.
The TV is blank, the videorecorder is blinking a green 00.32.28.
Hyukjae is staring at the screen speechless. Has he seriously just watched a murder and dissecting to make pieces of furniture
? He doesn’t bother to switch the TV or the VCR off, he simply bolts to the bathroom, vomiting violently in the toilet; every scene he just saw is still so vivid in his memory, the agonizing screams of the victim are ringing in his head, making his own blood thump in his ears. Unsteadily, Hyukjae stands up and crawls to the sink to refresh his face, then stares at his own reflection in the mirror: bloodshot eyes, white skin, hair stick to his forehead both for the sweat and the water.
He makes his way back to the bedroom on uncertain legs, sitting on the armchair with a shaky sigh. The TV is right in front of him, the green numbers on the recorder are stabbing his eyes, remembering him he just watched a thirty-two minutes length homicide with consequent crafting of a chair out of bones, a couple of pillows out of skin stuffed with some flesh, a vase made with other flesh. That explains the dark colors of the room, the soft edges of the furnishings, the wrinkled surface of desiccated skin that papered the walls.
Anger and disgust finally kick in and Hyukjae throws himself on the videorecorder, throwing the videotape on the other side of the room once the device finally spits it out. He cries his eyes out, bawling hysterically and fighting the urge to puke at any particular his mind keeps showing him.
The next days go on with anguish, Hyukjae can’t make himself leave this fucking city yet because he has to give the videotape back in less than a week. He hasn’t watched it anymore, by the way.
He doesn’t want to think about what could happen if it’s not returned within a week…If whoever in the video has been able to kidnap, kill and torture somebody like that, Hyukjae doesn’t want to be the next fucking victim only because the due date hasn’t been fulfilled.
Now he can totally sympathize for the man at the bar, his own reflection in the mirror is as pale and traumatized as the other man’s. Hyukjae can’t help but blame that man for letting him in that situation: if only he hadn’t lost that damned business card! …but who does he want to kid, it’s all his own curiosity’s fault.
The seventh day has arrived and Hyukjae can finally get rid of that hell of a videotape.
He wants to forget that city, that apartment, that video…all that blood, and those screams…Geez, he’s going to puke on the mat of door 24.
Hyukjae hurriedly pushes the videotape in the mail slot of the door and sprints back to his car, blindly tearing the business card into tiny pieces and throwing it out of the window car, driving off as fast as he can, looking forward for his business appointment due in five hours.
He hopes his mind won’t wander back at the videotape during his long and lonely drive.
A plain business card lands on the concrete, a bit scrunched but still intact otherwise. “Moonlight Films” is printed right in the middle.