Broadcast TV Debut [6]

The viewers' panic over my broadcast hijacking lasted all of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a heartbeat.

As if determined to cut me off, the count kept climbing. I glanced sideways at it and began my explanation.

"First, everyone copy my hand movements!"

I formed the Wisdom Fist Mudra toward the camera. It's one of the simpler mudras in Esoteric Buddhism, so the viewers seemed to manage it without trouble.

"Once you've got the hand sign, repeat the mantra exactly as I chant it. Something strange may happen while you're chanting, but no matter what, do not release the mudra, and do not stop the mantra!"

After giving the viewers a moment to set their mudras, I began reciting the Guangming Mantra.

At that moment, the chat of fifty thousand viewers went still. Everyone was too busy holding their mudras and reciting along to type.

A mantra is, in itself, a word that carries power. Even ordinary people with no psychic gift can glean a small measure of effect simply by chanting one. To draw out anything beyond that, however, a special set of circumstances was required.

Fortunately, the stage had already been set. That is to say — a situation where an unspecified crowd of people gathers to chant a mantra in unison under a psychic's lead is what people usually call a "ritual" or a "worship service." And it is precisely such a "ritual" that lets even ordinary people properly draw forth the power of a mantra.

But this time, the purpose was not, as usual, to burn a ghost away with yang light. The Vairocana Mantra Barrier has another name: the Mahavairocana Mantra. In Sanskrit, Mahāvairocana means "the great illuminator" — the one who radiates light. That light symbolizes the sun-like yang energy and fire, but at the same time it signifies wisdom and introspection.

In other words, the Vairocana Mantra Barrier being performed now was meant to strip away the bewitchment the ghost had laid over everyone, using wisdom and introspection as its flame.

"...mani padma zvara pravarttaya hum."

"...mani padma zvara pravarttaya hum."

"...mani padma zvara pravarttaya hum."

"...mani padma zvara pravarttaya hum."

"...mani padma zvara pravarttaya hum."

The moment the seventh recitation ended, the hundredth ghost story — the one that would have completed the Hyakumonogatari — snapped off midway. In that instant I was certain: my judgment had been right.

"That should do it. It's over."

The chat exploded the instant those words left my mouth.

The chat came pouring in so fast that the people on set began to look around in confusion. Among them, Professor Park Do-jun stepped forward and asked,

"What on earth is happening right now? Why is everyone reacting like that? Someone was next to them? Who, exactly!?"

I looked around at the people filling the set as I spoke.

"The first thing that struck me as odd was a single word that kept appearing suspiciously often in the live chat. If you scroll back through [Psychic Society]'s chat log, you'll all notice how unnaturally one particular word repeats itself."

At that, everyone on set — not one of them excluded — pulled out their phones and began combing through the chat history.

"What's odd about it...?"

"I honestly have no idea..."

As the people tilted their heads in puzzlement, the first to reach the truth was Professor Park Do-jun.

"We... why does the word 'we' keep coming up?"

As expected of a fake-psychic hunter. Sharp eyes.

He was right. At some point, the viewers had started using "we" instead of "I" with strange consistency. And it wasn't just the word "we." Talk of someone next to them, of the person watching along with them doing this or that — such remarks had suddenly ballooned out of nowhere.

"But isn't that strange? This isn't a TV show — would there really be that many people gathered together watching a YouTube livestream?"

"Well... no, there wouldn't..."

"Exactly. You normally watch a YouTube stream alone..."

"Definitely. It's not television, after all..."

"...Could this be the second ghost story that was running alongside the Hyakumonogatari Kim Do-sa mentioned?"

At Shin Han-hee's question, I nodded.

"Yes. Loinstein's Corridor — or, more familiar to Korean ears, the Corner Game."

Four people take up positions in the four corners of a dark, square room, and one at a time they move to touch the back of the person standing at the next corner. Whoever's back is touched then moves on to the next corner and touches the next person's back. This relay repeats endlessly — that is the Corner Game, and Loinstein's Corridor.

At first listen, you can't see what's supposed to be scary about it. But think it through, and you'll realize the game should never work in the first place. The corner the first person leaves is empty, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠after all — so by the time the fourth person arrives, there should be no one there, and the cycle should break.

And yet the game keeps going. Which means someone — one extra person — has slipped into the middle of it.

A dark place, a frightening ritual in progress, and an unidentified someone who appears out of nowhere. That was the single most important element the Corner Game and the Hyakumonogatari shared. And this was the result of fusing the two ghost stories together.

Ao Andon had been mixed in, seamlessly and naturally, among the participants and the viewers long before the hundred tales came to an end.

Where I had dodged the penalty of the Narrative Coercion with nothing more than slipping out before I was caught, the viewers had coughed up blood the moment they so much as looked away from their screens — because the Ao Andon standing beside them had never once stopped watching.

And then—

"W-wait a moment... doesn't that mean... a monster called Ao Andon is mixed in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠among US as well!?"

Professor Park Do-jun, sharp as ever, put his finger on the heart of the matter.

"Correct. Just as it slid in naturally beside the viewers, the Ao Andon had already slipped in among us before anyone realized."

At those words, every face on set went deathly pale. Then, gripped by fear and suspicion, they began glaring at one another.

"It's n-not any of you, is it!? Why did you all suddenly start acting like lunatics!"

"Th-that much is certain...! We should restrain—"

The moment the ghost story stopped, Park In-seop sat staring, dazed, jabbing an accusing finger at Vector and Soda, who were slumped in their seats like people with the soul drained out of them.

"It's not those two."

"Hold on — when you say they're not... are you telling me you've already figured out who the Ao Andon among us is?"

"Ah...! Then checking the cue sheet too—!?"

"Yes."

A born broadcast PD, that one.

"A cue sheet is basically the blueprint for a broadcast. Naturally, it lists every single performer's movements, the order of their self-introductions — the entire rough rundown of the show."

And in this studio, there was exactly one person who had no slot in the cue sheet's introduction order.

"Wh-who was that...?"

"No one?"

"Hear it and see for yourselves."

I began reading the opening section of the cue sheet, timestamp by timestamp.

"00:00–00:03 — Opening MV plays. 00:03–00:05 — Audience cheers, host Yoo Jun-seok gives his introduction."

"Th-that's right, it's not me...!"

Yoo Jun-seok clutched his blood-soaked mouth as he cried out.

"00:05–00:07 — Introductions begin with the science side. First introducée, Park In-seop."

"Not me either, obviously!"

"00:07–00:11 — Science YouTuber, Vector [will appear as a guest on our own broadcast later, so allocate extra intro time]."

"......"

"Right! Not me either!"

"00:14–00:20 — Soda of SISTERS [be as generous as possible, factoring in the new album promo time]."

"......"

"00:20–00:25 — Jinwoo of Thirteen [likewise, generous time factoring in the album promo]."

"...Phew."

"00:25–00:27 — Psychic YouTuber, Kim Han-soo [seat Kim Han-soo next to Jinwoo so that Jinwoo stands out more]."

"Ugh... that's harsh..."

"00:27–00:30 — Famous shaman, Shin Han-hee [candidate #2 for casting if the show gets a regular slot later]."

"Oh, really?"

And finally—

"00:30–00:31 — Rookie psychic YouTuber, Kim Do-sa [cast purely as comic relief; don't give her too much focus]... That's rich. Some people get five whole minutes for their introduction and I get one?"

"H-hahaha..."

PD Choi Ji-hoon laughed a hollow, bitter laugh. And with that, the introductions of all nine cast members were complete.

But there were ten people standing on this set.

Park Do-jun, his face drained white, pointed a finger at each person in turn.

"...Yoo Jun-seok, Park In-seop, Vector, Park Do-jun, Soda, Jinwoo, Kim Han-soo, Shin Han-hee, Kim Do-sa... And you — who are you?"

Park Do-jun pointed, his face stiff with terror, at the female sub-MC who stood there without a word. And in that instant, everyone understood.

There had never been a "female sub-MC" in this [Psychic Society] to begin with.

And yet, at some point—

like the fifth person who keeps the Corner Game going, one more had wedged her way in among them. Naturally. As if she had been standing there from the very beginning.

"A-Ao Andon!? It's this woman!?"

"Who IS this woman!? When? When on earth has she been here!?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

The people scrambled backward, desperate to put distance between themselves and the woman. I, on the other hand, walked toward her.

Figuring out who she was didn't take much effort.

"Shimamoto Kanna of Full You... am I right?"

"......"

Shimamoto Kanna hung her head in silence. Then, slowly, she lifted it.

A bloodless, ghost-pale face. Pitch-black pupils with no whites in them at all stared back at me.

"Ghost story #100... this is my story. I came to Korea dreaming of becoming a glittering idol, but reality was not as sweet as my dream. People dismissed the dancing and singing I took such pride in as clumsy, as talentless. Even so, after every hardship imaginable, I finally debuted — and before my group's second album had even been released, we disbanded."

The hundredth ghost story, the one needed to complete the Hyakumonogatari, began to spill out of Shimamoto Kanna's mouth. And it was none other than the story of herself.

"W-wait a minute! This is the hundredth story—!"

"Shouldn't we st-stop her!?"

The people around me shouted in a panic, but I ignored them and listened to Shimamoto Kanna's tale.

"I couldn't bear to give up, so I reached for dirty methods. But the easy road always has a trap waiting on it. In the end, the person I had pinned my last hope on betrayed me... So, cursing that person and the broadcast-industry people who scorned me, I took my own life ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the third stall of the women's restroom on the third floor of the station's south annex."

Shimamoto Kanna smiled, her face warping into something grotesque.

"And that makes one hundred... Now, everyone, come with me. It isn't fair that I'm the only one who dies like this — let's all die together. Die, die, die, die, die, everyone fall into hell with me, torn limb from limb, spouting blood from everywhere, become the hundredth candle—"

"That won't work, I'm afraid."

By the law of Narrative Coercion, the speaker of a ghost story cannot be attacked. But—

"challenging the ghost story itself is a different matter."

I recalled the person named Shimamoto Kanna as I had come to know her through social media.

"Shimamoto Kanna — you were born in Akita, where the snow falls deep, on a January day when the snow was heavier still. But the day you were born, your father, driving from his office to the maternity clinic, died in a traffic accident on the snow-slicked road. You grew up under your widowed mother, just the two of you."

"......"

"It was a single-mother household, but you never let it cow you, and you worked hard alongside your mother. The kind of daughter people call a friend to her mom, really. You were a good student too — first place in your class, every time, without fail. And yet your friends never envied you; you got along warmly with everyone around you. A respected, gentle friend, and a daughter your mother was endlessly proud of."

"......"

"Your hobby was watching sad movies. You loved them so much that crying over a sad film once a month was your fixed routine — and conversely, you were hopeless with scary things. Even in the daily-life segments of this very show, you watched half-hiding your eyes."

"......St...op..."

"Then one day, an idol video you stumbled across on YouTube changed your life. It was a live performance by a Korean girl group that was then taking Japan by storm. The moment you saw it, Shimamoto Kanna had, for the first time in her life, something she could call a dream. And to chase that dream, you skipped university entirely and came to Korea to become an idol."

"......Stop it...!"

"But reality doesn't bend so easily. You failed audition after audition, and Full You — the group you finally debuted with after ten thousand trials — disbanded after barely a year of activity due to poor results. You wanted to give up. But when you thought of the friends cheering you on, and of your mother, who had advance-drawn her civil-servant pension just to put the money in your hands, you simply could not."

"St... stop it...!"

"And that desperation of yours turned to poison. One filthy viper preying on the entertainment industry spotted that crack in you and came crawling in... and in the end, you were strung along with false hope, used, and betrayed."

"Stop it...! STOP IT!!"

What is a ghost story, in the end?

That question leads straight back to a more fundamental one: what is it that human beings fear? Opinions will differ from person to person, but I believe the essence of fear is the incomprehensible.

Humans fear what they cannot understand.

Put the other way around — what they can understand, they do not fear.

"So in the end you lost all hope in living, and ended your own life... but even in death you couldn't give up on your dream, so, unable to let go of your regrets even now, you came to stand here."

"Please... just... stop..."

Cracks spread across Shimamoto Kanna's grotesquely twisted face.

The ghost story named Shimamoto Kanna was being denied.

"It's far, far too sad a story to be a ghost story, isn't it?"

In this very moment, the viewers learned of Shimamoto Kanna's life, and felt sympathy for her. And as a result, her story was demoted — from a ghost story to a sad personal history.

The proof of that—

Rrrring-ring-ring-ring!

"Host, please announce the vote results."

"Ah— y-yes! The, the vote results... AH!"

Host Yoo Jun-seok looked at the tally and, for a moment, lost his words entirely.

"Ninety-nine point nine nine nine to zero point zero zero one! By viewer vote, Shimamoto Kanna's story has NOT been recognized as a ghost story!"

Her story had not been accepted as a ghost story. The hundredth ghost story had been bounced at the door.

And with that, the Hyakumonogatari had failed.

How do you like that, you dank, damp little Japanese ghost? THIS is the power of K-melodrama!

No matter how unlikable a character acts up front, no matter what kinds of trouble she causes along the way — sprinkle on seasonings like "actually, this kid had a story of her own..." and "in truth, she was a good person deep down..." and all that accumulated resentment just melts away, every last bit of it! And if you wring out a few tears of shameless emotional manipulation at the end, well, what more is there to say? Aha~!

Take THAT, Japanese-style ghost stories — K-melodrama wins!

Curse-once-cursed-forever stories where the backstory changes nothing. Evil spirits spewing malice at friend and foe alike. Those might fly on [Psychic Society] — but on Kim Do-sa's Exorcism Live, we don't tolerate Japanese-style ghost stories with their filthy, queasy aftertaste.

My victory.