Listen to Our Stories
The web novel I'd been reading for two years had finally wrapped up. The world is overflowing with stories. Idle chit-chat between friends, a teacher's first love tale, parents' romance sagas, and so on.
"Of course, I never even heard the 'L' in 'love story'—not knowing my parents' faces and all."
A 27-year-old orphan raised without parents, somehow scraping by as an adult with a job. Yoon Si-hyeon. That's me.
The one and only joy in my friendless, girlfriend-less life? Reading fun stories.
"And among them, scary ones are the best."
I loved novels built around ghost stories and the occult. Even in an era flooded with generic fantasy romances and regression tales, I'd stuck to my ghost story habit.
Isn't it great? Nothing grips humans deeper than fear!
"Though saying that out loud, I lived as a total outcast from college OT to graduation... but Yoon Si-hyeon, man of steel, has no regrets!"
...Or at least, that's what I tell myself. Deep down, maybe a little regret. Aside from that OT fiasco and a bunch of other stuff, I still adore ghost story novels.
'Gotta hurry home and catch today's updates.'
I'd always make time after work to check my novels. Just another ordinary day like any other. I grabbed a can of beer and shuffled home.
A few hours later, the dark room flickered only with the monitor's blue glow.
"Wait... no way, this can't be real?"
Scroll, scroll.
In the face of this unbelievable reality, no matter how much I spun the mouse wheel, it just bumped against the screen's end.
"This can't happen... it can't!!"
The novel I was totally hooked on...
"It's over...? Just like that? What a half-assed ending!!!"
A novel that never missed an update, never took a break, serialized faithfully for two whole years—my little secret gem!
It couldn't end this abruptly!
"Did the site pressure them? It wasn't popular, sure... but honestly, I was the only reader from start to finish. Legendary."
Views from chapter 1 to the finale: all exactly '1'. Even with those pitiful stats, the author kept going till the end. I had mad respect.
Two years ago, I stumbled on this web novel by chance. No fame, no other readers. In that empty comment void, I read alone, waiting daily for the next chapter.
Sure, I love scary stuff, but what hooked me was its unique setup. In the story, beings born from humans drowning in irrationality—unable to endure, they fall and become ghost stories.
Each ghost story had a gripping backstory.
"But ending it like this out of nowhere? Come on!"
If you start a story, you owe it a proper finish—that's the author's duty! I'd grab the writer, tie 'em up, and give 'em a good caning.
"Sigh, can't exactly drag the author here alive... I'm not big on comments usually, but one won't hurt, right?"
I clicked the last chapter's comment section and typed something casual.
I hit post, got up to sleep for tomorrow—and then.
Ding.
A reply notification popped immediately.
"Huh, author replied?"
The author's grateful reply. If I'd known they'd appreciate it this much, I would've commented more often.
"Now I feel kinda bad."
Tap tap— On reflex, I hit reply and wrote back.
I wanted them to keep writing, and their thanks for my single comment was kinda pitiful, so I got nosy. No popularity, but vivid descriptions per chapter, immersion like it was real—talent wasted.
"No need to apologize that much."
Seeing their sincere regret—even to my pointed gripe about the ending—made me feel worse.
Ding.
"Huh? How'd they know??"
Tons of ghost stories left hanging, yet they nailed the ones on my mind. Writer's intuition?
"Cross over? What?"
Oh, moving to another site to continue. Thrilled my fave might resume, I kept chatting excitedly.
Expected instant reply, but minutes passed in silence.
"Huh, suddenly quiet."
Figured they hit the bathroom, about to shrug it off—
Ding.
Screen flashed again.
"Timing god."
I sat up straight, opened comments.
"What."
No time to react—another ding.
Ding.
'Asked for the site, not this nonsense.'
Sudden barrage of cryptic lines. Rookie writer rambling? About to calm them—replies kept coming.
Ding.
'Ghost... stories?'
A chill crawled up my neck.
Ding.
The next line slowly appeared on the monitor.
"...What?"
My heart dropped.
How does the author know my name...? I'd never shared anything but my nickname. Site's anonymous—no way they could know. And my world? What?
My fingers trembled on their own.
'...Haha, just a prank? Heard some run IP trackers these days!'
Forcing optimism, I reached for the mouse to close the tab.
And then.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Notifications exploded.
Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding.
Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding.
Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding.
"What, what...!"
Amid the deafening alerts, black text flooded the white screen.
The moment countless lines crammed the screen, the monitor shut off by itself.
Chills.
"What the hell...?"
True goosebumps after ages from this unknown madness. Thought the author was just hyped and rambling at first, but no—this was off.
'Cross over' 'world' 'story'—incomprehensible. And mentioning my name? Impossible.
"...Ha, hahaha...! Author saw I like ghost stories, trying to set the mood!"
Yeah, right. Has to be. Not some trash web novel opener where shit goes down for re—
Krzzzzzzt!
As if reading my mind, unidentified groans erupted everywhere, massive vibrations shaking everything.
"Why's my gut always spot-on for doom?!"
No time to think—sirens blared from all sides, screams, crashing sounds.
"Kyaaah! What... what is that!!"
"Yo, film it!! Million views incoming!!"
"Wha... what is that? Scary...! M-Mommy!!"
Chaotic view outside. Creak!
"What the fuck is going on?!"
Peering out slowly at the sudden twist... pure hellscape.
Dusk-red sky unfit for rush hour. Looking up—
Crack. Krzzzt. Riiiiiip—!!
The sky tore open in real time.
"Am I drunk off one beer, hallucinating...?"
More precisely: a gigantic hand forcibly ripping the sky, prying a gap.
Downtown sky warping unnaturally, like something forcing its way through.
"Th-this... is a dream... dream... dream..."
"Apocalypse! The end times are here!! To this rotten world!!"
"Ah, aaa...! What is this!!"
Amid the panic inferno, I let out a hollow laugh. Because that hand from the sky? A scene I'd seen to death.
"Definitely from novel chapter 1..."
A phenomenon from the novel I'd devoured daily for two years. Massive hand turning sky to canvas, vertical slit pupil glaring down from the tear.
The herald of 'story' beginning. Not some entity—just the prelude signaling start.
"No way the author's words earlier..."
Shwooo!
From the pitch-black rift between torn skies, things poured down.
Gleaming like meteors.
But no stars—dark, cold, horrific opposites.
"Next comes exactly what I think..."
As expected. Between the split skies, crimson-black text slowly emerged.
The boundary of stories has crumbled.
Soon, 'they' will come.
An unpopular web novel, Listen to Our Stories.
Opposite its school-life/youth title vibe, it serialized ghost story tales.
The novel only I read to the end.
Unsaviored ghost stories, seeking one to end their tales.
Had crossed over here.
