The Tenth Plague Of Koreatown | Suspense Of Strangers & Stones | Short Mystery Story 

The air in Los Angeles was a strange perfume, a blend of sizzling bulgogi, exhaust fumes, and the dry, desperate scent of the Santa Ana winds. For Eliyahu ben David, freshly arrived from the dense, monsoon-soaked streets of Seoul, it was the smell of a promise. A promise made not just by his cousins who had sponsored him, but by the stories he’d heard his whole life: of a golden place called Koreatown, a miracle of community built on the kindness of a foreign land.

His first glimpse of the miracle, however, was fractured.

From the passenger window of his cousin’s sleek Genesis, Eliyahu saw the vibrant hangul signs, the bustling cafes, the impeccable markets—a proud, self-contained Seoul transplanted onto the American grid. But just beyond the shimmering glass and polished stone, in the shadow of a newly built luxury condominium, lay another city. A ragged tapestry of faded tents, tarps weighed down by desperation, and the hollow-eyed gazes of men and women moving through a life he could scarcely comprehend.

His cousin, Min-Jun, noticed his stare and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Don’t look too long, Eli. It’s a shame. They set up their… homes… anywhere. The city does nothing. It’s bad for business.”

Eliyahu said nothing. The words felt sharp, a stark contrast to the gentle man he knew Min-Jun to be. They were a echo of the very disdain he’d heard whispered in the halls of their church in Seoul, prayers for prosperity that somehow always seemed to include a silent curse for the poor.

His new job was at "Shalom Market," a Korean-Jewish fusion grocery owned by a stern but kind Messianic believer, Mr. Goldstein. The market was a haven, stocked with both kimchi and kosher pickles, gochujang and harissa. It was here, amidst the spices of two ancient cultures, that Eliyahu felt a sense of belonging, a tangible connection to the G-d of his fathers, the G-d of Yeshua.

One evening, as he was closing, an older Native American man, his face a roadmap of deep lines and resilience, entered. His clothes were worn but clean. He moved with a quiet dignity, selecting a simple loaf of bread and a small container of milk. When he brought it to the counter, his hands, calloused and earth-stained, trembled slightly.

Eliyahu smiled. “Is that all for you, aha?” he asked, using the Korean word for ‘sir’ instinctively.

The man’s eyes, dark and deep as a night sky, met his. He did not smile back, but there was no hostility in his gaze, only a profound, weary knowing. He nodded.

As Eliyahu rang him up, Mr. Goldstein emerged from the back office. His expression, usually warm for Eliyahu, frosted over. He watched the transaction with folded arms, his jaw tight. The old man took his bag, gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, and left into the gathering dusk.

“Eliyahu,” Mr. Goldstein said, his voice low. “We must be careful. That one… his people camp near the old lot on Western. They are not good for us.”

The words struck Eliyahu like a physical blow. “He was just buying bread, sir.”

“Today, bread. Tomorrow, they ask for more. Then others come. This is how it starts,” Goldstein sighed, a sound heavy with a fear Eliyahu didn’t understand. “We built this from nothing. This place was given to us when no one else would. We cannot let it be taken away by… by chaos.”

The scripture leapt into Eliyahu’s heart unbidden, a sharp retort from the Tanakh: “Do not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt.” (Exodus 23:9). He bit his tongue, the words burning silently within him.

The tension in the community tightened like a garrote. A petition, written in both Korean and English, began to circulate among the shop owners, demanding the city “clean up the blight.” Eliyahu saw the names of people he respected—deacons from the Korean church, sweet ajummas who always pressed extra food on him—scrawled beneath venomous language describing their homeless neighbors as “vermin” and “a plague.”

The mystery deepened a week later. The makeshift encampment, which had included a small, dirt-packed area where men sometimes played a sad game of basketball with a deflated ball, was found vandalized. Their meager possessions—blankets, a small BBQ pit made from an old drum, a collection of water bottles—had been scattered and destroyed. Not stolen, just desecrated. A message.

Whispers slithered through Koreatown. It had to be done. They were asking for it. They’ll get the message now.

But Eliyahu saw the message differently. Scattered among the wreckage, he found something that turned his blood to ice. Three smooth, white stones, placed deliberately in a neat triangle. They were utterly ordinary, yet their placement screamed of intention. Of a sign.

That night, he dreamt. He dreamt of the old Native American man from the market, standing on a vast, open plain. In his hand was not a loaf of bread, but a stone. And he was weeping. And a voice, like the sound of many waters, echoed a verse from the Besorah: “I tell you, anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same.” (Luke 3:11).

He awoke with a start, the scripture ringing in his ears. This was no coincidence. The stones were a marker. A judgment.

Driven by a holy dread, Eliyahu began a quiet investigation. He spent his lunch breaks away from the market, walking the periphery of the encampment, offering bottles of water, speaking no words, just being present. He learned the old man’s name was Joseph. He was not a addict. He was a veteran. His tribe had lived on this land long before any of them, long before the Spanish missions or the American railroads. He had watched Koreatown rise from the ashes of the ’92 riots, a phoenix of immigrant resilience. And he had never begrudged them their success.

“This land knows,” Joseph said to him one afternoon, accepting a water bottle. His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. “It remembers. It remembers all promises made and all promises broken.”

“What promises?” Eliyahu asked, his heart pounding.

Joseph just looked at him, those ancient eyes seeing right through to his soul. “The first promise. The one your G-d and my Great Spirit both hold sacred: to care for the stranger, for the land does not belong to you. You are strangers and sojourners with Me.” (Leviticus 25:23).

Eliyahu felt the ground shift beneath his feet. This man, this “destitute” outsider, knew the Torah better than the council of deacons.

The conflict reached its boiling point at a community meeting held in the basement of the largest Korean church. The room was packed, buzzing with angry energy. The pastor, a man named Choi, spoke with fiery rhetoric about protecting their investment, their children, their future. He spoke of G-d’s blessing on their hard work. He never once mentioned the kindness shown to them that allowed them to build it all.

Eliyahu couldn’t stay silent. As the meeting was about to close on a note of righteous indignation, he stood, his knees shaking.

“Ajeossideul, ajummadeul,” he began, his voice trembling but clear. “Respected elders. We are here because of hospitality. The native people of this continent, the Americans who welcomed our parents… they showed us chesed. Loving-kindness. They allowed strangers to build a home.”

The room fell silent, shocked by the interruption.

“We read in the Torah,” he continued, strength flooding his voice, “‘Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against anyone among your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the LORD.’ (Leviticus 19:18). And our Rabbi Yeshua said this is one of the greatest commandments! Who is our neighbor?” He swept his hand toward the door, toward the encampment outside. “Is it not them? Are we not, all of us, strangers on Hashem’s land?”

An uncomfortable silence was broken by Min-Jun, who stood up, his face red with shame and anger. “Eli, sit down! You are new here. You don’t understand the problems they bring!”

“I understand the problem we bring!” Eliyahu shot back, tears in his eyes. “The problem of hardened hearts! We were not saved to build a fortress, but to be a light! What does it profit us to gain all of Koreatown and forfeit our soul?” (Mark 8:36).

The room erupted into chaotic arguments. But Pastor Choi stood slowly, his face pale. He held up a hand for silence, but his eyes were fixed on Eliyahu, not with anger, but with a dawning, horrifying realization.

“The stones…” the pastor whispered, the microphone catching his hollow breath. “The three white stones… they were left at my door this morning.”

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room.

Before anyone could speak, the church’s side door burst open. Mr. Goldstein stood there, his face ashen, his kippah askew. He wasn’t looking at the pastor. He was staring directly at Eliyahu, his eyes wide with a terror that was more than human fear.

“Eliyahu…” he choked out, his voice cracking. “It’s… it’s at the market. On the door. Written in… in something red.”

The room froze, every soul holding its breath.

Eliyahu’s blood ran cold. “What is it? What’s written?”

Goldstein trembled, unable to form the words. He finally managed a strangled whisper that echoed in the dead silence.

“It is the blood of the covenant… which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” (Matthew 26:28).

And beneath it… they placed a fourth stone

Inspired By: 

https://abc7.com/post/koreatown-residents-outraged-sprawling-homeless-encampment-makeshift-sports-court-bbq-pit/17794470/