Hold Your Breath, Dive into the Ghost Stories

"Well, look at that. My self-esteem's gotten awfully sturdy."

The Horror Minor Gallery.

Horror Gallery, for short. It was everything in my life.

I'd poured half of it into this place. The orange badge I'd earned along the way was a bonus. Truly... I owed the damn place more than I could say.

"Thanks to you all, my ending won't be a lonely one."

I set my phone down and climbed onto the chair.

Computer formatted and wiped. Rope knotted tight and sturdy. Family to notify... well, there never was any in the first place.

Good.

Time to die.

"God damn this life. So many regrets. So many things left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unfinished."

Life is hard by design. It's hard for me, it's hard for you, and it's hard for Mr. Kim the loan shark next door, too.

But there's a limit to how hard it should get. If Sisyphus watched me roll my boulder, even he'd click his tongue in pity.

"Number one most unfortunate man alive, as selected by Phonos......"

The bastard abandoned at birth and shipped off to an orphanage. The bastard whose orphanage was a trash heap, so he grew up choking down moldy bread. The bastard who finally escaped, only to find himself a million dollars in debt.

Every single one of those sentences describes me. Lined up together, they're quite the spectacle. They say accumulating debt is a talent too — so how on earth did mine swell up like this?

"How did it swell? Because of Mr. Kim next door, that's how."

But this cursed misfortune ends today.

Because today, I leave this world.

—Creeeak.

"I'm begging you. Please, at least make it quick."

I tightened the rope one more time, then stepped up onto the chair, slipped my head through the loop, and squeezed my eyes shut.

"In my next life, please let me be born the son of third-generation chaebol money."

After leaving behind a will that wasn't really a will—

—Crash!

I kicked the chair away and threw myself into empty air.

…

...This is taking an awfully long time. Is this what they call your life flashing before your eyes?

Contrary to my expectations, no pain came at all.

It was just... just comfortable. Like lying spread-eagled on my back on a soft bed.

If I'm going to die, then die already. This is genuinely terrifying.

Honestly, I'd been pretty scared. It felt like riding only the most heart-stopping moment of a roller coaster, over and over.

Death was guaranteed — only the timing kept dragging on. That wasn't a pleasant feeling at all.

Ugh, damn it. I can't take this fear anymore.

My patience finally ran dry, and I resolved to force my eyes open and stare the fear down.

The scene that greeted my rising eyelids was—

"......What."

The most famous creepypasta of the modern era.

The Backrooms.

I know my ghost stories.

If I hadn't been an unregistered birth dodging the draft, I could have recited every one of the hundred ghost stories in existence and earned my exemption on the spot.

"About fifty of which I wrote myself."

And coming from a man like that, I can say this with certainty: the place I stood in now was a textbook serial-killings scenario.

A simulation of one insane situation triggering after another.

"Of all the ghost stories out there, why did it have to be......"

I wiped my face with a dry wash and stared reality dead in the eye.

What filled my vision wasn't the familiar sight of my own room, but an endless feast of ochre-yellow walls stretching in every direction.

Denying reality wouldn't get me anywhere. This was the Backrooms. A playground of death, where you played tag with monsters.

"Ha...... how depressing. Well, I'd better find an exit somehow."

I simply started walking forward.

Panicking and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wailing that it was all over in a situation like this makes you a loser. You become the creature's next meal, plain and simple.

I'd killed myself precisely so I wouldn't have to die in pain. Getting torn apart by a monster was not on the menu.

How long had I walked, wiping away the cold sweat running down my face?

"Huh? Is that... a piece of paper?"

I found a single sheet of paper lying on the floor.

The problem was that everything around it was smeared thick with blood.

—Squelch.

"Yeesh. This really is blood, isn't it."

I picked it up by the cleanest corner I could find and read its contents.

"Huh. What the hell is this......"

I seem to be saying that a lot today.

It appears I am thoroughly screwed. That was the conclusion I reached without even bothering to think it over. Anyone could see it was hopeless — what was there to deliberate?

—Thump.

"Disaster-class? Twelve people died? Why the hell did it drag ME to a place like that?"

I flopped down onto the floor and covered my face with my hands.

Just imagining being torn apart by an anomaly was enough to black out my vision. That's not a figure of speech, by the way — my hands were simply blocking the view.

Just as the creeping dread began to make my chest ache—

—Ding! A new post has been uploaded!

"Huh? The Status Window?"

A familiar mechanical chime rang out from somewhere.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the Status Window — it was the alarm blaring from the phone in my pocket.

"Aw, come on. I thought I'd caught a break there. Disappointing......"

Hold on.

Isn't this better than some Status Window?

I fished the phone out from my belt. I pressed the power button fully intending to report my situation to the authorities, and—

"Uh... the Horror Gallery?"

What greeted me wasn't my anime-girl wallpaper from some subculture game, but one very, very familiar gallery.

The Horror Minor Gallery.

The Gallery, for short.

—Tap, tap-tap.

"......What's wrong with this thing. Go back, damn it!"

I hammered the home button like a madman, but the screen didn't budge. Back button, background apps — nothing responded at all.

"Ha, I'm losing my mind. If this is how it's going to be, don't tease me with hope in the first place."

I take back what I said about it being better than a Status Window. What am I supposed to do with a phone that can't contact anyone?

I picked myself up off the floor and sat down properly.

Fine, then. Nothing for it. If I'm going to die anyway, I might as well waste away happily scrolling the Gallery.

Gripping the phone with both hands, I began to write with the practiced ease of long habit.

"Huh? Did I log in on a burner account?"

Midway through flexing my prose, something odd caught my eye.

Sitting in the author field, where my orange badge should have been, was a random anonymous handle. A strange sight indeed. I only take my burner out to stir the pot once a month, after all......

"Well, shouldn't really matter, I guess."

Maybe I'll indulge in a little bit of roleplay for old times' sake.

I tweaked the post to suit a proper newbie initiation, finished it, and hit upload.

"Whew. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

I wiped the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve.

The time-honored tradition of newbie greetings: the nested rhetorical question. At this level, nobody would dare call my hazing form sloppy.

—Bzzt! Bzzzzt!

The instant the post went live, my phone started vibrating like it had lost its mind.

As expected, welcoming the newcomers is the way of the righteous. Well then, time to go enjoy the raucous cheering of my hardened marine seniors—

"What in the world are these comments on about?"

Registered as humanoid? Apex predator?

...What does any of that even mean?