How a Veteran of the Urban Legend Gallery Survives – Chapter 1

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There are two types of people in the world. Those who read horror stories and forget them, and those who get sucked into them.

The forgetful ones dismiss horror stories as just passing tales. They find them entertaining but don’t delve too deep. Like a scary story heard around a campfire on a summer night, they fade into blurry memories over time.

But those who get sucked in are different. For them, horror stories aren’t just entertainment. Once they dip their toes in, it’s an addictive world they can’t escape.

I’m the latter. And I’m *deeply* sucked in. Once I start reading a horror story, pulling an all-nighter is just the beginning. Sometimes, I spend days rereading the same story, trying to uncover hidden meanings.

My obsession started in the military. During personal maintenance time, I began reading horror stories from the Catastrophe Foundation. That’s when it all began. I started collecting all sorts of horror stories hidden deep on the internet.

I still vividly remember those moments, wrapped in a blanket in the barracks, reading horror stories on my phone. At first, it was just a way to kill time. But gradually, I got sucked in deeper. Reading the Foundation’s containment documents one by one, I fell headfirst into the charm of its hidden worldview.

The descriptions of the contained entities were particularly striking. They weren’t just scary; they had their own unique ecology and characteristics. The realistic descriptions felt like watching a documentary. That’s how my horror story collection began, and now it’s a big part of my life.

After being discharged, I returned to university as a Korean literature major. Life was dull. The major classes were interesting, but something felt empty. Even while studying literature, I always felt a thirst. I realized there were new stories that existing literary genres couldn’t explain.

I stumbled upon the Horror Story Gallery by chance. After finishing all the Catastrophe Foundation documents I read in the military, I was searching for something else when I found a link to the Horror Story Gallery on a blog.

At first, I went in just to kill time like I did in the military, but wow. It wasn’t your average forum. It was the most active community dealing with horror stories, with dozens of posts a day.

─Title) A Call Comes Every Day at 3:33 AM.txt [41]

ㄴ So fun

ㄴ This is so scary, I check the clock every time before answering

ㄴ Potential for a series?

ㄴ The author writes so well

─Title) Newbie Here. My First Horror Story [12]

ㄴ Totally screams beginner, but cute

ㄴ The writing’s a bit awkward, but the concept is fresh

ㄴ Looking forward to the next part!

─Title) Translated Japanese Yamanka-san Horror Story.txt [876]

ㄴ Japanese horror stories have a different vibe

ㄴ The translation quality is insane

ㄴ Where’d you find the original?

The horror stories I used to only see in text were alive and breathing here. Authors and readers communicated in real-time, adding flesh to each other’s stories, sometimes even collaborating to create new ones.

What stood out were the regulars. Authors who serialized their own worldviews. Every time they posted, the gallery buzzed. Dozens of people reacted and debated in the comments.

At first, I just lurked. I read the new horror stories, watched others’ reactions, and occasionally commented, learning the gallery’s culture. There were unspoken rules here.

[Newbies should lurk for at least three months]

[Don’t force your own worldview into other authors’ works]

[We hate when someone promises daily updates and then ghosts]

[Plagiarism or trolling gets you banned]

After about six months of lurking, I posted my first story. Titled “Midnight Library Reading Room Guidelines,” it was a manual-style horror story. Honestly, I didn’t expect much, but…

ㄴ This is fun

ㄴ Any college student can relate

ㄴ Let’s make this a series

ㄴ Looking forward to the next part

The response was unexpectedly positive. My heart raced from the praise. That’s when it happened—the Horror Story Gallery became more than just a hobby; it became part of my identity.

Now, I visit the gallery several times a day. Checking for new posts or interesting discussions has become a hobby. No, more than a hobby—it’s part of my daily life. I sneak into the gallery during class and even write critiques on horror stories for assignments.

“What’s been posted today…”

8:30 AM. On the subway to school. Every day at this time, I read horror stories among the commuters. While others read the news, check stock charts, or chat on KakaoTalk, I read the Horror Story Gallery.

I accessed the gallery on my phone. Posts from the early morning were piled up.

More horror stories are posted at dawn. Maybe it’s because the darkness fuels people’s imaginations. Or maybe it’s just the specialness of nighttime. Either way, I especially love the posts from this time.

─Title) Rules for Riding the Late-Night Bus.txt

ㄴ So fun, seriously

ㄴ This is a masterpiece

ㄴ The author’s writing is insane

ㄴ I checked out their other works, all amazing

ㄴ I hope this becomes a series

Hmm. Manual-style horror stories are trending these days. In the early days, they were simple “do this and you’ll die” stories, but now they’ve become more sophisticated. There are characters, narratives, and even foreshadowing. It’s evolving beyond simple horror into a form of literature.

As I scrolled, drowsiness crept in. I stayed up until 4 AM last night reading horror stories, so my sleep schedule was completely wrecked. But I don’t regret it. Anyone who knows the thrill of reading horror stories at night would understand.

Just as my eyes were about to close, a strange message appeared on my phone screen.

[Horror Story Gallery syncing… 100%]

‘What’s this…?’

That was my last memory before losing consciousness. It was as if someone flipped the switch on my awareness, and everything went dark.

“…Huh?”

When I came to, the subway interior felt off. Familiar yet strange. It looked like the subway I’d seen before falling asleep, but something was different.

The first thing I noticed was the purple light. Not the cold white light from fluorescent lamps, but a blacklight-like purple glow illuminating the entire car. Under that light, everything looked grotesquely distorted.

The ordinary subway seats squirmed like living creatures, and the ceiling handles swayed like nooses on a gallows.

And the passengers… they were all tied to their seats. Bound tightly with black straps, they sat like livestock being led to slaughter.

But it was strange. No one made a sound. They just stared ahead, expressionless. No one cried or resisted. They were fixed in place like dolls, staring blankly ahead.

I was tied to my seat too.

And then…

Dwarfs in tattered clothes were wandering the car. They wore black rags and carried cold, gleaming blades.

[Next stop: 회 뜨기 Station, 회 뜨기 Station.]

As the mechanical voice announced, the dwarfs moved toward the front seats. Their movements were precise, like machines that had repeated the same task thousands of times.

“Wait…”

The words that left my mouth seemed to freeze in the air. No one heard. Or maybe even if they did, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

In the front seats sat four passengers: a young man in a suit, a schoolgirl in uniform, a middle-aged man in hiking gear, and a casually dressed young woman. They were ordinary commuters.

Their faces showed no emotion. They stared ahead blankly, as if they didn’t understand the situation—or had already accepted it.

Then it happened.

Six dwarfs moved simultaneously. They paired up, two in front of each passenger. The blades flashed.

For the first time, the four passengers showed emotion. Expressions of terror and pain mixed together. Ear-splitting screams filled the car, one after another—no, almost simultaneously. They thrashed and wailed as if realizing their situation for the first time.

The dwarfs’ blades flashed as they began to carve into flesh. Like fish on a conveyor belt, the four bodies began to disassemble simultaneously.

It was like a group of skilled chefs working in perfect rhythm, but the targets were living humans.

The metallic smell of blood filled the car. The screams of the four blended into a dissonant chorus. The schoolgirl’s sharp shrieks, the man’s deep groans, the young woman’s sobs, and the middle-aged man’s agonized wails all merged.

The other passengers remained expressionless. Despite the horrific scene unfolding before them, their faces showed no emotion. They just sat quietly, as if waiting for their turn.

This… I’ve seen this before…

A memory flashed through my mind. A horror story I read two years ago. A dream train. A story about brutally torturing and killing living people.

What I was experiencing now was eerily similar.

‘This is the Monkey’s Dream.’

The moment I realized it, the dwarfs turned their heads toward me.

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