Live Broadcast: Shadows of the Abandoned Hospital
"Oppa, what're you doing? We need to get ready for filming soon."
"Uh, uh? Oh!"
At Lee Ji-ah's call, Choi Yeon-jun snapped back to reality. Dinner had wrapped up ages ago, and now in the early evening, the club members were already gearing up one by one. I clapped Choi Yeon-jun on the shoulder.
"You're the president—gotta hustle, right?"
"Ah, yeah. Thanks."
Choi Yeon-jun strapped on his body cam, stuffing his backpack with gear for the paranormal experiments. The ghost story club's plan was dead simple. First, scout the hospital during the day to set up cameras in prime spots. Then, run a live stream and recording simultaneously, seeing what phenomena the fixed cams captured based on their actions. So tonight, day one, they weren't planning to poke any potential ghosts too hard—just prove they existed first.
"Ouija board, paper fortune-telling, incense, candles... gotta pack those..."
With the real spooky stuff prepped, we loaded everything except the tents and sleeping gear into the van. The forecast looked good, but the Korean Meteorological Administration was about as reliable as politicians. Prepping for sudden showers was camping 101.
"Whoa, the vibe here's no joke..."
"It's super creepy..."
Choi Yeon-jun and Park Seol-ha, who hadn't scouted ahead and just set up camp, showed faint fear right at the abandoned hospital's entrance. Places like this felt 180 degrees different day versus night. When's it scariest? Surprisingly, haunted spots or ruins hit harder in broad daylight. The light and dark coexist, that eerie, prickling sensation hits full force—and feeling it under a bright sun creates massive dissonance. Your imagination runs wild wondering what's in the unlit shadows, why it's so deathly quiet. At night, it's just pure dark; crank up lights and noise, and you're good. Especially in a group like this, night often feels "safer" than day. You can turn the chills into thrilling content instead of raw dread.
Sure enough, Choi Yeon-jun looked a bit spooked but dove into live stream prep. Korea's internet powerhouse status meant even remote spots had solid signal unless you were in a cave.
"Alright, let's nail the pre-broadcast intro."
Choi Yeon-jun grabbed cam 1 for his all-seeing president view, while videographer Lee Chan-young took cam 2. The live feed linked to cam 1 via streaming software; Lee Chan-young would film the group for later edits. Harsh truth: Lee Chan-young wasn't broadcast-pretty, so third-person "invisible hand" shots suited him. That made Choi Yeon-jun on cam 1 the natural host, with Lee Ji-ah and Park Seol-ha as co-stars. Me as the expert? Perfect 2 guys, 2 girls balance.
Not a bad setup for amateurs.
A bit rough around the edges, but solid start. I watched with interest as Choi Yeon-jun and Lee Ji-ah bantered to a close. Park Seol-ha's shy vibe, petite build, and cute looks pegged her as the "screamer" role.
"And finally, our surprise guest, everyone!"
Choi Yeon-jun glanced at viewer count on his phone, then pointed my way.
"Joining us from start to finish for our XX University Ghost Story Club's paranormal probe—and helping out every way he can—is our supernatural expert, Han Daeri!"
The cam swung to me. I gave a slight nod to the viewers beyond the lens.
"Nice to meet you all. I'm Han Daeri, running the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office."
"Haha, running an office but stuck at 'manager' rank? Why's that?"
"I like it. 'Manager' sounds cool. Not fresh meat or junior, but enough tenure—yet always crushed by section chiefs, team leads, department heads. The tragic workaholic image? But only those who deliver make the cut. Bottom line: I pull my weight."
"Whoa, never knew it had such depth. Most chase 'president' or 'chairman' titles."
"Those are for trust-fund babies or lucky breaks. Manager? Takes real grind in any company. And not just effort—you prove value. That's why I dig it."
No matter the trash talk, it felt earned—my sweat, my skills. No silver spoon or handout; I seized it. One of my life's rare wins.
"Intro's done—time for the main event? We're at an abandoned hospital whose exact name and spot we can't disclose. Our digging says it's at least 30 years old. Could be 40-50."
He panned the cam to the building.
"But check this out. Does it look 30+ years abandoned? Paint's peeling, water stains, sure—but otherwise pristine. No cracks, no weeds overrun."
"Windows should be shattered, but no glass shards—like someone neatly removed them all."
"Windows clean, but doors half-off, dangling... kinda spooky."
"Right before breaching the mysterious hospital, let's hear from our expert. Mr. Han, your take?"
"In 3D."
"...Haha. Seeing anything weird?"
"Even if I point it out, your lenses won't catch it."
I dropped the hint casually; he bit.
"But viewers are dying to know! We're over 500 already! For them, one spot?"
"You're filming it now."
"Huh?"
"Not seeing this next to me?"
I plucked the black thread dripping from a branch like a guitar string and twanged it.
"Uh... super awkward. So a ghost was right with us from the jump? Next to you, Mr. Han?"
"Our side. That's why I said no one'd see it anyway."
"Got it. So we just... Whoa! A viewer's saying they saw something!"
"Humanoid shapes? Five of 'em? Troll—kick 'em."
"You beat 'em to it, Mr. Han. But no ban; we keep it free vibe. Warning this once!"
The rando's plea vanished amid demands to enter. We pushed on.
Not too fast, not too slow, we stepped inside. Day-scouted halls greeted us familiarly.
"Inside's surprisingly clean."
"What if something shatters?"
Crash!
Before Choi Yeon-jun and Park Seol-ha—who hadn't daytime-visited—could finish, a distant shatter echoed. Night amplified it. Viewers' freakouts? Obvious.
"E-everyone... hear that? Just casual chat with Seol-ha, and boom—real break."
"Oppa, something's off. My skin's crawling..."
I brushed the black threads creeping up Park Seol-ha's arm and shoulder, wedging between them.
"Autumn night breeze is stiff. No windows? Stuff falls, shatters. Obvious."
"Expert Mr. Han says poltergeist unproven sans footage, so onward. 'Staged?' Yeah, smells like it. But real—uploading raw and edit later for cross-check."
"Deeper in? Big night ahead."
"Yeah, Ji-ah—paper fortune with you and Seol-ha?"
"My vibe might scare 'em off. You and Seol-ha better."
"Ouija too, then. Note: Ji-ah's got minor spiritual sense, per our intro. Not expert-level, but she sees/hears/feels some. Why she's been quiet."
Truth: threads muffled her mouth. I cleared 'em; she'd chat now.
"Perfect—wide table in the lounge. Ouija and paper fortune to confirm ghosts, why here, communicate. Fun fact: Korean Ouija, not English. Local turf, local spirits, right?"
"Heh, 'native ghosts'."
Lee Ji-ah giggled as Park Seol-ha unpacked the Ouija, paper, pen.
"Confirm existence first, then talk. Paper fortune start. Ji-ah, cam quick?"
"I'll center you two."
Choi Yeon-jun and Park Seol-ha, waists bent slightly, gripped the pen loosely. They lowered it to thick white paper.
"Straight to it. See how loose we hold? No tension."
Lee Ji-ah zoomed on relaxed hands, no veins, no stiff fingers.
"Here goes. Paper fortune, paper fortune."
"Paper fortune, paper fortune."
"Come play, come play."
"Come play, come play."
"You here?"
"You here?"
The pen, circling lightly under their hands, halted abruptly. Then it jerked wildly, scrawling precise, elegant script for two holders.
DIFFIDENTIA