The Eerily Pristine Asylum
As I walked from the first-floor waiting room through the empty corridors of the XX Psychiatric Hospital, one thing stood out: for a building abandoned for decades, it felt surprisingly modern. What I mean is, even if the hospital was a total shitshow, building it alone would've taken years, and getting it operational another few. No one shells out big bucks to erect a hospital in this backwater just to shutter it in under a year—they wouldn't have built it here in the first place. So it must've run normally for at least a year, maybe more, before some change of heart from the owner or fulfillment of some shady purpose led to a quiet closure. Decades is a long time.
Lee Ji-ah had dug up some history and ghost stories on the place, but nothing on the real owner or who worked here. Too old for digital records, she said—no way to track it down.
"Fact: Cameras here would have killer framing."
"Yeah, set one up to capture that long hallway straight on—nice shot. We'll check it while filming, so walk through it, mister."
"Let's do it."
As the two suggested, I strolled down the empty corridor, scanning my surroundings. Not much connected to the first-floor waiting area hallway—just typical hospital rooms, a bit worn. Supply closet, bathroom, exam rooms, treatment room, that sort of thing. X-ray room, pharmacy storage, break room, too. Oddly, no emergency room, which every hospital should have. Probably the original designer figured it wasn't needed.
In this remote backwater—more wilderness than town—they built a psych ward, not a general hospital. No ER required.
If I lived here, I wouldn't come to this ER either. I'd tough it out and head to the township clinic, even if it took longer and hurt like hell.
"It's surprisingly clean, yeah."
Abandoned buildings like this should be filthy, reeking of mold after years of neglect. Rain and snow leaking through broken windows, summer bugs and wild animals nesting inside. But no weeds cracking through the concrete, no stagnant puddles stinking up the place. It was just an old building—like a 20- or 30-year-old apartment complex.
Dust everywhere, sure, but not piled up like snowdrifts. Why? No maintenance, yet it wasn't coated in a hazy layer of ash like it should be. I chained one question to another as I poked around the second exam room.
A psych ward exam room? You'd expect shelves of psychiatry and psychology books, a clean, minimalist vibe. It was clean and minimalist, alright—but tailored to sterility, not medicine.
Just a desk and chair for the doctor, and across from it, a single metal chair for the patient or consultant. That's it.
The window was tiny—barely big enough for an adult man's face. Doubtful much sunlight got in. No bookshelves, no plants, not even a doctor's staple like an anatomy chart. Desk, two chairs. When I first stepped in, I half-thought it was labeled "Interrogation Room 2" by mistake.
And that old incandescent bulb on the ceiling? In a dim night with just that glowing, it'd be a perfect torture chamber.
No patient files, no diplomas proving the doc was legit.
Doctors started flaunting their credentials—uni, degrees, specialties—to mark territory, assert authority, and prove they weren't quacks. But patients dumped here wouldn't care about credentials, nor their families. Or maybe it never mattered from the start.
I shut the door to Exam Room 2 and headed out. Lee Ji-ah and Lee Chan-young had finished setting up the camera and joined me. Ji-ah wrinkled her nose openly, filming the interior.
"Ugh, an exam room like this? Looks like a police interrogation cell to me! What the hell went down in this nightmare hospital?"
Oh, right—vlog mode. I tossed in some lip service.
"Probably just for show. Never actually used."
"Eh? Doesn't feel that way to me. I sense resentment here. Like a patient denied basic dignity, abused by the doctor—human rights violations screaming from the walls."
"If you really felt that, you'd be rolling on the floor, eyes rolled back by now."
"I said I sense it, not that I'm possessed."
"You inserted, but no sex?"
"Goddamn it! Now I gotta edit this because of you, mister!"
"Fact: I'm editing anyway."
Chuckling, I stepped out first. At the end of the hall, a human figure flickered past.
"Hurry with the camera setup. Getting hungry."
"You scarfed at the highway rest stop and you're hungry again?"
"Just empathize. Your gender sensitivity sucks."
"Fact: You're right, though."
"What 'right'? You otaku fuck!"
Instead of heading down the hall, I led them to the stairs that appeared just in time. If we set up on the first floor, logic demanded the second too.
"Fact: Not sure we'll catch poltergeist action."
"It'll happen here—my intuition says so. Don't you know I'm psychic?"
"Fact: Then tell me where the ghost is."
Ji-ah pondered, then pointed at an overturned patient bed in the corner after I struck otaku Chan-young's solar plexus.
"One's lying there. Film it quick, pig."
"Fact: Oh."
Chan-young focused the camera on the bed. I yanked one of the black threads snaking over the walls like tree roots.
Dr-r-r-rk!
"Eek! Fuck!"
"Fact: Oh!!"
The thread connected to the bed yanked it, scraping across the floor. No ghost, but solid poltergeist footage—they'd be thrilled.
"See, otaku? I'm that psychic!"
"Fact: Mind blown. Show the boss, game's over. All locked up."
"Keep it rolling."
As the two bantered happily, black threads from the ceiling seemed to coil around them. I waved them off casually. The threads vibrated, then black goo dripped from above.
Popping out: a baseball-sized eye.
Ji-ah and Chan-young, oblivious to the goo dripping on their heads, kept yapping excitedly.
I grabbed their napes—smeared in goo like mud—and yanked them back. Whispered in their ears:
"Today's ramen—with mandoo noodles or rice cake?"
"Iiii liiiike riiiice caaaake. Waaaanna smaaaash... riiiice caaaake."
"Fa ct: Mandoo supreme."
"I'm a ramen purist—no rice cake or mandoo."
Shocked back to reality, they turned puzzled eyes on me.
"How can you not put rice cake in ramen?"
"Fact: Ramen unicorns, amirite?"
I shook my head at the black goo dripping from their heads to the floor and vanishing.
"Only green onion, chili, bean sprouts allowed in ramen. Physically, mentally, spiritually perfect combo."
"No weird shit—majority rules. Army stew style: everyone skips, no regrets! Korean tradition!"
"That's Busan tradition."
"Discriminating 'cause I'm from Busan?"
"Mansplaining me? That's sexism."
"I'm a girl!"
"I'm Han Daeri!"
"I'm Lee Chan-young meow!"
Ji-ah and I smacked Chan-young's head in unison.
We finally wrapped up after installing cameras on the second and third floors, plus the basement. Ramen toppings? Still undecided to the end.