There Are Three

Lee Do slowly reached forward into the dark.

The corner of his desk grazed his fingertips. About four strides to the door—a quick dash. The problem was not knowing what stood behind him.

"...Phoo."

He let out a sharp breath and moved.

His first step made no sound. The second was just as quiet. But the instant his foot lifted for the third—tap. A sharp click snapped directly behind him.

Lee Do bolted.

"Fuck!"

He seized the doorknob and yanked it open, bursting out into the living room. He stumbled forward a few paces before spinning around.

A pitch-black doorway. Nothing came out.

Lee Do slammed the door shut.

Bang!

Still clutching the handle, he drew ragged breaths. "This is insane."

This was his home. His own house. His parents lived here. His sister lived here. Unlike the convenience store or the laundromat, this wasn't a place where he could just run away and call it a night.

The moment that sank in, irritation flared up faster than terror.

"Why the hell follow me all the way home?"

Click.

The dark living room lights flooded on all at once.

"...Huh?"

The refrigerator hummed back to life. The indicator light on the air purifier blinked green. His smartphone screen woke up, showing 77 percent battery.

"A blackout?"

Impossible. A power cut wouldn't kill a smartphone screen.

Just then, a nearby bedroom door creaked open.

"Oppa?"

"Holy shit!"

Lee Do whipped around with a jolt. Lee Ha-eun was standing in the hall.

"What?!" Ha-eun gasped, clutching her chest in fright. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"You said that earlier too."

"Did the power go out?" Lee Do asked, staring at her. "Did you notice?"

"The fan died and woke me up."

"Ah."

So the apartment really had lost power. Ha-eun looked him up and down with narrowed eyes.

"Why are you standing out here like that?"

"No reason."

"Why are you sweating?"

"It's hot."

"Turn on the AC, then."

"Go back to sleep."

Ha-eun's gaze dropped to his hand, which was still death-gripping his bedroom doorknob. "You're acting suspicious."

"How?"

"Ever since yesterday."

Lee Do kept his mouth shut. Ha-eun peeked past him toward his room.

"There isn't really something in there, is there?"

"Like what?"

"A ghost."

"No."

The denial came too fast. Ha-eun's expression made it clear she didn't buy a word of it.

"Can I go in and check?"

"No."

"See?"

"It's messy right now."

"Your room is always messy."

"...Hey."

Ha-eun took a step toward his door. Lee Do immediately stepped into her path.

"Just don't go in there today."

Seeing his grim expression, Ha-eun dropped the teasing. She searched his face for a long second before giving a small nod.

"...Fine."

"Yeah."

"If something's actually wrong, you tell me."

"I know."

"Don't go doing weird shit by yourself."

"What weird shit do I ever do?"

"Says the guy who went to a laundromat at four in the morning."

"Go to sleep."

Ha-eun yawned and turned back toward her room, poking her head out once more from the doorway. "Chicken."

"Fine."

"Cheese balls."

"Those too."

"Coke."

"Go to sleep."

Click.

Her door clicked shut. Lee Do turned his eyes back to his own bedroom. He couldn't afford to stay outside out of fear anymore—not with his family under the same roof. Taking a breath, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Click.

The light came on. An ordinary room. Desk, computer, wardrobe. And the lighter.

Three black handprints remained stamped across its casing, completely unchanged.

"Look what you're making me deal with at this ungodly hour."

Lee Do glared at the lighter and crept closer. One. Two. Three. There were definitely three. He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo.

Snap.

"First thing's first: you're getting out of this house."

It was an object that had returned to his room under its own power after being discarded, but leaving it here was out of the question. What if he kept it outside the apartment? The car. At the very least, that would put distance between it and his family.

Lee Do slipped on a pair of thick winter gloves, picked up the lighter with a pair of kitchen tongs, and sealed it inside a Ziploc bag. Then a second. Then a third. Finally, he placed the bundle inside a small metal cooking pot.

"Not that I expect this to actually do anything."

Even after he secured the glass lid, the lighter didn't move. Lee Do grabbed the pot and walked out of the apartment.

5:43 AM. Underground parking lot.

The trunk clicked open. Lee Do wedged the small pot deep between his camping equipment.

"Stay right there."

Slam!

He shut the trunk and locked the vehicle with a sharp beep. He stood there waiting.

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds.

The parking lot remained dead quiet.

"Good enough."

He headed back upstairs.

The moment he stepped into his bedroom, Lee Do checked his desk. Empty. Neither the lighter nor the pot was there.

"Great."

He collapsed onto his mattress, finally feeling like he could draw a full breath. He closed his eyes. Screw streaming or anything else today; he was going to sleep straight through until afternoon.

Bzzzt.

His phone vibrated against the nightstand. Lee Do cracked an eye open. It was a notification from his vehicle dashcam app.

"Ah, damn it."

He went to swipe the alert away, but his finger hovered, and in the end, he tapped it. 6:11 AM. The recorded clip began playing. The underground parking lot was completely devoid of foot traffic. Several seconds ticked by with nothing happening.

Then—thud.

The car frame rocked slightly.

Thud. A second impact.

Thud. A third.

The moment the third shock registered on camera, Lee Do paused the footage.

"Three."

Just like the three handprints.

"No way..."

He resumed playback. While the video showed only an empty lot, another heavy thud rang out through the audio feed. A fourth impact.

Then the screen cut black, and the video ended.

Lee Do dragged himself off the bed. "So much for sleeping."

Back in the basement parking lot, the car sat completely untouched. Not a soul was in sight. Lee Do walked around to the rear and stood before the trunk.

"Please, just don't."

He turned on video recording on his phone, aimed the lens at the trunk lid, and hit the key fob. With a high-pitched chirp, the trunk swung open.

The small metal pot sat exactly where he had placed it. Lee Do leaned in closer. Beneath the glass lid, the lighter was clearly visible through the triple-layered plastic bags, intact and untouched.

"Nothing's wrong, see?"

Before his sigh of relief could fully escape his chest, his eyes focused on the lighter's transparent casing.

"Wait."

Black handprints. One. Two. Three. And four.

Lee Do stopped the video and opened his photo gallery. The picture taken in his bedroom just an hour ago: three. He looked back down at the real thing: four.

"Another one showed up."

He snapped a new photo.

Snap. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Four handprints.

He resumed recording. He couldn't comprehend why this was happening. He hadn't done anything to provoke it; all he had done was move the cursed thing down to his car. He didn't lift the pot. He just stood there, staring down at it with simmering hostility.

"So," he growled under his breath, voice dripping with irritation. "How many are you planning to put on there? A hundred? A thousand?"

Dead silence answered him.

"Do whatever the fuck you want, then."

Lee Do reached up to slam the trunk shut, but his hand froze midair.

On the trunk floor mat, right beside the pot, rested a single, faint black handprint. It definitely hadn't been there before. He clicked on his phone's flashlight. The print was tiny, roughly the same size as the ones branded onto the lighter. And right beside it was another.

"What the hell is this?"

A second print. Slightly higher up, a third.

The prints weren't crawling outward toward the bumper. They were moving in the opposite direction, creeping straight up the interior lining of the trunk wall. One. Two. Three. Four.

Lee Do tilted the flashlight beam upward. The trail continued along the ceiling of the trunk compartment. He found the final print. Above it, nothing.

"What are you even trying to pull?"

He looked back down at the pot. Through the glass lid, the pattern on the lighter had shifted again.

"...What?"

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"No way."

He glanced down at his buzzing screen. The photo in his bedroom: three. The photo taken just minutes ago: four. The lighter right now: five.

Flick.

A sound cracked right behind his head.

Lee Do whipped around, leaving the pot behind. The empty parking lot was devoid of any movement. Concrete pillars, parked sedans, flickering fluorescent lights. Nothing else.

He turned back toward the trunk.

Inside the sealed pot, the lighter was ablaze. Wrapped beneath three layers of Ziploc bags, a tiny flame burned with steady, eerie quiet.

Lee Do didn't dare touch it. He merely watched. Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Bizarrely, the plastic bags showed no signs of melting. Not a trace of soot darkened the glass lid. The flame simply danced in isolation. And then, the black handprints climbing the trunk lining began to disappear, one after the other.

Starting from the highest print on the ceiling, they faded away downward in reverse order. Finally, the mark right beside the pot dissolved completely into the fabric.

Click.

The flame illuminating the trunk abruptly vanished.

Lee Do swept his flashlight across the interior once more. "Is it over?"

He inspected the lighter through the glass. The five black handprints ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠remained fixed. Without touching the pot, he pulled the trunk lid down and slammed it shut.

Bang!

2:17 PM.

Lee Do woke up. He had no memory of setting an alarm; only after rubbing his crusty eyelids several times did the events before dawn crash back into his consciousness. He unlocked his phone to find 183 unread notifications. Text messages, community forum pings, streaming platform alerts—he bypassed every single one of them and opened the dashcam app first.

Vehicle status: Normal. No additional shock events recorded.

He washed up, threw on fresh clothes, and headed straight back down to the underground parking lot. He unlocked the trunk.

Chirp.

The metal pot sat in the exact same spot. After watching it for a long while without seeing any movement, he carefully lifted the glass lid, peeled open the three Ziploc bags, and pulled out the lighter.

Five black handprints. No changes.

Flick.

He sparked the ignition himself. An ordinary, yellow-blue flame sprouted from the nozzle. He released the lever, letting it go out, then struck it once more. Flick. A completely normal flame.

"Is it really done?"

He had no way of knowing for sure, but at least nothing abnormal was happening now. He slipped the lighter into a single fresh Ziploc bag, set it back inside the pot, and shoved it deep into the furthest corner of the trunk. He didn't toss it into the trash, but he had no intention of carrying it around with him either.

"Just rot there."

Lee Do slammed the trunk shut, locking the lighter back inside the steel shell of his car.

3:00 PM.

Lee Do sat down at his desk to prepare for his afternoon ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠broadcast. He launched the streaming software. The feed went live, and the viewer counter began climbing rapidly.

132. 418. 903. 1,521.

Watching the numbers surge, Lee Do let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. "Quite a crowd today."

Mixed in among the flurry of viewers checking if he was still alive were relentless questions about the lighter.

"First of all," Lee Do said, pulling the microphone closer to his mouth. "I'm not going anywhere today."

"This was always a gaming channel."

"And about the lighter."

Demands to show the item instantly flooded the screen.

"I left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it in my car."

Lee Do hesitated. Should he confess everything that had transpired at dawn? In the end, he shook his head.

"Some weird things happened earlier, but..."

"Later," Lee Do said curtly.

"I don't even fully understand what happened myself yet." Lee Do clicked on the desktop icon to boot his game. "Let's just play some games today."

For a while, the chat stayed consumed by theories about the lighter. But as the game progressed into its first hour, then its second, the stream slowly reclaimed its mundane, familiar rhythm.

"I don't usually ban backseat gamers, but I'm sorely tempted to ban you," Lee Do fired back.

Sniping back at the chat, Lee Do felt the tension drain from his shoulders, returning to his ordinary self. The terrifying vigil he had kept before dawn felt distant, almost surreal. When he ended the stream late that night, nothing was out of the ordinary.

The next day, the lighter remained silent. The day after that, the handprints on its casing remained frozen at five. It didn't ignite on its own. No distorted shadows appeared. Lee Do left it undisturbed in the trunk, and three peaceful days slipped by.

On the fourth day, at 1:00 PM, Lee Do climbed into his car to head to the gym. He tossed his sports bag into the backseat and started the ignition. Suddenly, the lighter crossed his mind. He had completely forgotten about it for several days.

He killed the engine, climbed out, and popped the trunk. The small pot was still resting in the corner. He took off the lid and picked up the Ziploc bag.

Between his fingers, he felt only the weightless crinkle of thin plastic.

"...What?"

The bag was completely empty. The lighter was gone.

He inspected the bottom of the pot. Nothing. He checked the trunk floor, parting the camping gear and rifling beneath car-washing supplies. Not a trace of it anywhere.

"Did it go back to the house?"

Lee Do slammed the trunk and sprinted up to his apartment. His bedroom desk, his mattress, his wardrobe, the living room corners—nothing. He ran back down to the car. Still nothing.

He stood frozen in the dim parking lot, holding the empty Ziploc bag. After a long silence, a hollow, baffled laugh slipped from his lips.

"You actually left?"

Neither that day nor the next did the lighter return. With its disappearance, no new handprints, moving shadows, or ticking sounds ever visited his car or his home again.

Lee Do never found out why there had been five handprints. He never learned why it had vanished, nor what that lighter truly was in the first place. But one resolution was set in stone: he would never, under any circumstances, take an item out of an anomalous space again.

In fact, he had no intention of ever setting foot in such places to begin with.

Two days later. Evening broadcast.

"We're playing games today as well."

"You guys go if you want to," Lee Do scoffed.

"Yeah, I'm scared."

Just as Lee Do clicked to launch his game, a desktop notification popped up in the bottom-right corner.

"Another report?" Lee Do muttered.

Lately, his inbox had been swamped with these. Most were pathetic fabrications—abandoned hospitals, haunted motels, cursed alleys. All sorts of junk came through. Without thinking much of it, he clicked the email open.

"Floors that don't exist?"

The chat caught sight of the window and reacted instantly.

"I told you, I'm not going," Lee Do reiterated, scrolling down the message.

At the bottom of the email was an attached photograph. It showed an elevator's digital floor indicator. The primary display glowed with the number 17, but right above it, illuminated in sharp, ominous crimson, sat another number:

18

Lee Do zoomed in on the brass building directory plaque photographed just beneath the indicator. The engraved text was unmistakable:

The building only went up to the seventeenth floor. There was no eighteenth floor.

The chat exploded with messages.

"I'm not going," Lee Do declared without a shred of hesitation.

He closed the mail client and pulled the game window back onto the primary screen. "We are playing games today. For real."

"Give what thirty minutes?" Lee Do scoffed, clicking into a match.

True to his word, that night's broadcast concluded without incident. An ordinary, boring gaming stream.

And then, the following afternoon.

Another email arrived in his inbox from the exact same sender. Only the subject line had changed.