Prologue
A spoon comes flying straight at my face. Before I can even flinch, Dae-shim darts upward and catches it in his mouth.
The little, blue fireball brightens instantly, and I watch in horror as the metal begins to turn red and soften. The bowl of the spoon slowly warps inside his mouth as the goblin happily chews.
I quickly grab him around the middle with one hand and seize the spoon’s handle with the other.
“Dae-shim, no!” I scold, trying to tug it free. “You can’t just eat the spoon! That belongs to the owner of this house. You’re supposed to put the utensils down gently, not melt them!”
Dae-shim’s yellow-orb eyes narrow into pleased little slits, his entire flame flickering in smug satisfaction. He refuses to let go, stubbornly chewing as if my protest only makes the meal taste better. The metal thins, and then… Snap.
The neck of the spoon breaks cleanly. My hand jerks back, left holding nothing but the handle. The rest disappears into Dae-shim’s mouth in a triumphant gulp.
I stare at the lonely handle, then let out a long, tired exhale. Releasing the stubborn goblin, I rub my face with my free hand, already imagining the apology I’ll have to make.
Having enjoyed his small meal, Dae-shim swells slightly, growing from a three-inch blue fireball to a proud three and a half. He floats around my head in a wobbly victory dance, flickering brighter with each delighted spin.
Just then, the troubled voice echoes through the kitchen again. It’s thin and restless as though scraping along the walls.
“It’s not enough… Not enough… It’s still not enough…”
I lift my head.
A teenage girl crouches on the kitchen counter. Her long, unkempt hair falls in tangled black curtains, hiding most of her face. Only the ashen edge of her chin peeks through. She moves stiffly, like a marionette pulled by uneven strings, her tattered gray clothes hanging loosely from her thin frame.
She reaches into the sink and picks up a porcelain plate. Tilting it toward her face, she sniffs at the dried food stains. Starved beyond reason, she drags her tongue across the surface in frantic licks.
Her shoulders tremble. “It’s not enough!” she shouts, voice cracking. “This isn’t enough!”
She hurls the plate toward the floor.
“Dae-shim!” I call.
A blue blur swishes past my cheek. Dae-shim darts forward, two small flame protrusions popping out like tiny studs, just enough to catch the falling plate before it shatters. He hovers in place, proudly holding it. His flames reflect in the porcelain.
Then he looks at the plate. His mouth stretches wider. Wider. And wider.
“Dae-shim!” I snap, rushing forth. “Don’t you dare!”
I grab his mouth shut with my fingers before he can swallow the plate whole. His flame flickers against my skin, a little icy to the touch. He wiggles in protest, the tiny flame-stubs retracting as the plate tilts dangerously in midair.
“No,” I mutter firmly, prying the plate from him. “We are not eating this house piece by piece. You already owe them a spoon.”
Dae-shim slightly dims, drifting beside my shoulder with what can only be described as sulking. His flame shrinks and puffs in small, offended bursts.
I look back up at the girl. She’s still crouched on the counter, fingers clawing at invisible crumbs, her head jerking as she searches for something that isn’t there. The air around her feels heavy, soaked with hunger that never quiets.
I sigh.
“Dae-shim,” I murmur softly, turning away, “come on. Let’s step outside.”
He floats after me without protest. We quietly leave the kitchen, pass through the narrow hallway, and make our way toward the front gate. The atmosphere lightens with every step, the oppressive weight thinning once we cross the threshold.
The moment I step outside, the old couple crowds me against the door. “Shaman!” the wife cries, clutching her hands together. “How bad is the evil spirit?”
Her husband leans in anxiously. “Will… Will this house remain haunted? Is it that serious?”
“We don’t have money to move,” she adds quickly. “Do we have no choice but to leave??”
“Please,” the old man says, bowing his head slightly. “Shaman, help us! We’re begging you! We really can’t afford another place!”
I lift both hands awkwardly as the couple crowd closer, their questions overlapping in rising panic. “Please, calm down. It’s going to be alright. I already told you, didn’t I? I’ll take care of the spirit. It’s not as bad as you think. And…um,” I scratch at my cheek, “you can just call me Jung Yoon-woo. I’m not really a proper shaman. That’s why I’m not dressed like one either.”
The couple blinks at me, clearly taken aback. Their eyes sweep over my untraditional attire, as if noticing them properly for the first time.
The husband hesitates before asking carefully, “But…you can still get rid of that evil spirit, right?”
I wave my hands in a placating motion and shake my head.
“It’s not really an evil spirit,” I explain. “It’s just a mu-ju-gu-hon.”
Mu-ju-gu-hon: a wandering soul with no master. It’s when a spirit has no one to feed them. They are merely wandering souls who missed their ‘bus’ to the afterlife because they are anchored by hunger or neglect.
The wife repeats it uncertainly, stumbling over the syllables. “Mu…ju…hu-hon?”
“Mu-ju-gu-hon,” I correct softly, nodding. “It probably got attracted to your house because of the food traces. Dirty dishes, leftovers left out too long… Things like that tend to draw them in.”
The wife gasps, clapping both hands over her mouth. Then she immediately turns and smacks her husband’s arm. “I told you!” she scolds, glaring at him. “I told you to wash the dishes after you’re done!”
Her husband recoils, rubbing his arm. “I do wash them!”
“You don’t!” she snaps, hitting him again. “You always sneak food late at night after I fall asleep, and then you leave the bowls sitting on the counter! I see them every morning!”
“I just get hungry at odd hours,” he argues defensively. “What am I supposed to do, starve?”
I tilt my head slightly, studying him. “Is it usually plain white rice you crave?” I ask. “Around…two in the morning?”
His eyes widen in surprise, and he nods almost immediately. “Yes! Exactly that. Just white rice. I don’t even want side dishes. It’s strange, actually. I just…feel like eating a bowl of rice.”
I hum thoughtfully, folding my arms loosely. “And when you go into the kitchen, it probably feels colder than the rest of the house.”
The man simply stares at me, his mouth slowly falling open. The color drains from his face as realization creeps in. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to.
His wife gasps again and steps away from him, alarmed. “Y-You’re not possessed, are you??” she blurts out, eyes darting between us. “Did it latch onto you?!”
I raise my hands again. “No, nothing like that,” I reassure her. “He isn’t possessed. It’s just the mu-ju-gu-hon leaking her han onto the living.”
Han: unfulfilled desire or lingering sorrow.
“When a wandering spirit’s han grows heavy,” I continue, “it starts seeping into nearby people. They pick up fragments of it. Hunger, chills, restlessness…feelings that don’t entirely belong to them.”
The husband slowly processes this, then suddenly clasps his hands together with a soft clap. He lowers his head toward me, voice earnest and strained.
“Please… Jung Yoon-woo-ssi,” he pleads. “Please help us. Save our home!”
I offer a small nod.
“That’s why I came,” I reply quietly.
My gaze drifts back toward the house, toward the kitchen where the restless presence still lingers.
To help both the living…and the unfortunate dead.
—
The girl spirit continues rummaging through the sink, pushing aside stacked dishes restlessly. Porcelain clinks softly as she mutters to herself, “It’s not enough… There’s nothing… This isn’t enough… Not enou—”
She suddenly goes still as I step back into the kitchen.
For the first time since I’ve seen her, she slowly turns her head toward me. The tangled curtain of black hair shifts just enough for me to glimpse her face. Her gaze lifts and settles on me, acknowledging my presence with eerie stillness.
Then her eyes drop to the warm bowl of steamed rice in my hands.
Her mouth parts, and her tongue slides across her lips in repeated, unceremonious motions. The hunger in her expression is raw, almost desperate, as she stares at the rising steam like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the world.
I walk over to the kitchen table and place the bowl down at its center. Steam curls upward in soft white ribbons, carrying the faint sweetness of freshly cooked rice.
I stick a pair of chopsticks upright into the rice. The gesture is intentional. An offering, not a meal.
The girl watches the movement closely. Her gaze follows my hands, then slowly lifts to my face through the curtain of long black hair obscuring her features.
I reach to my side and slide my fingers into the sash of my modern male hanbok. From within it, I pull out a small silver bell attached to a short wooden handle. It isn’t a proper bangul: a cluster of bells attached to a wooden handle traditional shamans use. Mine is simpler and quieter. Something I can carry without drawing attention.
I lift the bell and give it a gentle shake.
Soft chimes spill into the kitchen. The sound echoes like ripples spreading across still water. The air shifts subtly, the heaviness thinning as the ringing brushes away the stagnant energy. The boundary between the living and the dead softens, and a bridge forms.
The girl’s eyes sharpen slightly. The haze in her expression clears just a fraction, as if the sound is guiding her back from somewhere distant. The restless twitch in her shoulders quiets.
I lower my head in a small bow. “Agassi (young lady),” I say calm and respectfully. “May I know your name so I may offer this meal in your honor?”
Her mouth, which had been hanging open in silent hunger, slowly closes. Her posture straightens just a little. She seems to search inward, as though digging through something buried deep beneath the weight of her longing.
“Ha…eun…”
The name settles quietly between us.
Grace. A faint, pitiful smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it as I recall the meaning of it.
I gently push the bowl a little closer to her. “Ha-eun-ssi, I have prepared this small table for you. Please, take your fill…and let go of your hunger.”
Her eyes drop immediately to the bowl. Slowly, cautiously, she steps forward. She places both hands around the bowl, fingers curling against the warm ceramic, and leans in until her face hovers just above the rice. The steam rises toward her, and she inhales deeply, drawing in the essence like someone who hasn’t breathed properly in a long time.
I quietly watch as the tangled mass of her hair slowly smooths, the rough ends settling as the length shortens slightly. The dull, matted strands regain a soft sheen, falling neatly around her face. Her gray, tattered clothes gradually lighten, the stains fading as the fabric reshapes into something more proper. Even her skin shifts, the ashen pallor giving way to a faint peach tone.
While she continues breathing in the steam, I circle around the table. From the shelves, I take a fresh bowl and fill it with clean water. The surface ripples softly as I carry it back and place it beside the rice.
With my fingers, I pinch a few grains from the bowl and drop them into the water. I gently stir once, and the grains drift downward. The gesture signals the close of the offering. An invitation for her to wash down whatever sorrow still lingers.
I step back again and watch.
As the grains settle at the bottom of the bowl, the last traces of tension leave her shoulders. The chill that had clung to the kitchen fades, replaced by a subtle warmth that spreads through the space. It feels full.
She straightens slowly. Her posture is no longer hunched, and her face, now clear and bright, is framed by smooth black hair that catches the light. She places a hand over her stomach, her expression soft and relieved.
“I’m…not hungry anymore,” she says quietly. “It finally feels enough…”
And with that, her form begins to grow translucent. The transparency spreads gradually until she becomes little more than a faint silhouette. Then, without sound, she fades completely.
I bring my hands together and bow my head slightly. “May your path be gentle,” I murmur under my breath, offering a small prayer for her onward journey.
Dae-shim slips out from the sleeve of my modern hanbok jacket, drifting into view like a curious blue ember. His yellow circular eyes immediately lock onto the bowl of rice still sitting on the table. The moment he spots it, his flame brightens, and he darts forward in a sudden rush.
I reach out quickly and catch him mid-flight, cupping him in my palm before he can dive face-first into the offering.
“No,” I tell him firmly, giving him a small shake. “That’s not for you. It was for our guest.”
Dae-shim droops at once, his round shape sagging into a lopsided blob as though he’s melted across my palm. His flame dims in exaggerated disappointment, the yellow circles of his eyes turning up toward me in silent protest.
I let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll feed you later, I promise. But for now, we need to clean up. The guest has already gone.”
He floats back upright, though he remains noticeably puffed in sulky little flickers as he drifts beside me. I begin clearing the table, stacking the bowls, and rinsing the dishes. Dae-shim circles lazily around my shoulder, then zips back into my sleeve like he’d never come out when I return to the old couple.
The wife’s eyes are red, and she wipes at them with the corner of her sleeve as she bows repeatedly. “Thank you… Thank you so much! I’m so glad you weren’t a fraud. I truly thought you might be one when I first saw you.”
Her husband glances at her, but she continues, clearly needing to get it off her chest.
“You’re so young,” she continues, glancing at my modern attire. “And then you pointed out your clothes… I was starting to believe you were just some man in his twenties trying to take advantage of a frightened old couple for quick money!”
I rub the back of my neck, letting out an awkward chuckle. “I get that a lot,” I admit. “My ancestors all served as shamans. My mother still performs cleansing rituals and wards off harmful spirits even now. But I don’t really follow the traditional practices. That’s probably why I don’t look like one. I don’t really call myself a shaman either. Still…” I glance briefly toward the now-quiet kitchen before finishing, “I possess this gift, and I’d rather use it to help people than ignore it.”
The wife nods slowly, seeming to mull over my words. After a moment, her brows knit together in thought. “Then…have you ever heard of a place called Sam-ri?” she asks carefully.
I shake my head. “No, I haven’t. Why? Is something wrong with Sam-ri?”
Her expression turns serious. She glances toward her husband before lowering her voice, as though the name itself demands caution.
“Everything,” she says quietly.
—
With Dae-shim tucked safely inside my sleeve, I step off the bus and turn back before the doors can close completely.
“Excuse me,” I call to the driver. “Is there another bus that goes closer to Sam-ri?”
The driver barely looks at me. He simply shakes his head once, uninterested.
I shift my backpack higher on my shoulder, glancing around at the dark stretch of road. Nothing but trees and uneven ground behind me, and a thin ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the night. But the driver has dropped me here instead of taking me forth.
“Then…could you at least point me in the right direction?” I ask, trying to keep the awkwardness out of my voice. “It kind of feels like you’re dropping me in the middle of nowhere. And at this hour, too.”
Without saying a word, the driver lifts one hand and points behind me.
I turn, following the direction of his finger. A milestone stands nearly swallowed by overgrown bushes. Before I can say anything else, the bus door shuts with a flat hiss. The engine rumbles, and the vehicle pulls away, its red taillights shrinking until they disappear around the bend.
“Well…that’s comforting,” I mutter under my breath.
I walk over to the milestone and crouch, pushing aside the tangled branches. The leaves are thick enough that I can barely make out the surface beneath.
“Dae-shim,” I whisper, tugging lightly at my sleeve, “give me a hand.”
He slips out immediately, floating into the air. His blue flame brightens, casting a soft glow over the stone. The light pushes back the darkness just enough for the letters to come into view.
Sam-ri — 10 km.
I exhale quietly before straightening. The distance sits heavier than I’d hoped.
“Everything is wrong with Sam-ri.”
“For nearly forty years now, that town has felt…cursed. At random times during the year, the river beside it turns salty. Even the water from the wells tastes the same. Like tears. People say it happens overnight, with no explanation.”
“Every year, just when the harvest should be at its best, the crops begin to rot, ruining all that the farmers worked hard for. It happens again and again, like something refuses to let them prosper.”
“And the children fall sick often. Fevers that don’t break easily. Recovery is slow… Sometimes they don’t recover at all.”
“What’s stranger is that the people there never seek help from outside. They don’t ask for doctors, they don’t invite priests, and they don’t contact shamans. Even when things get worse, they refuse to leave.”
“It’s as if something is holding them there,” the wife murmured uneasily. “Like an evil presence has taken root in Sam-ri…”
Adjusting the strap of my backpack again, I glance at Dae-shim. He hovers beside me, his yellow circular eyes blinking slowly in gentle curiosity.
I smile faintly at him. “Ten kilometers into nowhere, chasing a cursed town,” I say, half amused, half resigned. “This is what I dropped out of college early for, right?”
Dae-shim flickers a little brighter, drifting forward as if already eager to lead the way.
