First Filming at the Bleak Factory Grounds
Time flows like the currents of an American river. After a brief respite, we were finally making history for the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office—the first time every single employee would participate in a broadcast. To be precise, only I and the Mad Woman would appear on camera directly, while S-man and Haksik would tag along as production assistant temps—with Eom PD's help, of course.
S-man and Haksik had been called in early the day before for pre-shoot prep with the staff, leaving the Mad Woman and me to climb into a pickup van idling in front of the station.
"They said the prologue shoot prioritizes teamwork over competition, but they're splitting us up like this anyway."
I muttered it while the cameras were still off. A staffer sitting next to me gave an awkward chuckle.
"Broadcast vibes are a thing, haha. And you're all such enigmatic types. The PD figured it'd be better to bring you together on-site and roll cameras fresh, rather than sticking mics on you from the jump during transit."
Ah, you know the type. The ones who round up a bunch of awkward nerds and go, "Alright, gang's all here—have fun!" dumping everything on them without a care. They nail "stage OK, lights OK, people OK" and think that's it, forgetting "vibe OK" entirely. This stuff works best like a casual picnic—chatting, sharing small talk, gauging if personalities mesh. But nope, we're getting tossed in fragmented from the start, communication channels clogged before we even begin. And we'll probably get hurled straight into the shoot like this.
If it were a music show or live broadcast, we'd have rehearsals. But this is endless-take hell—no do-overs till the director's happy. Screw up? They film the screw-up. Nail it? They slice and dice to fit their taste.
"That's why I said it. People like us shouldn't show our faces to the masses. Skipping TV spots and interviews benefits society."
"That lifestyle doesn't pay the bills."
"Humans don't live just to eat."
"I live to eat."
Let not the idle eat, or something like that? I'm all for it. I shut up the Mad Woman, who sat silently in the back with eyes closed, and slumped against the passenger window, energy drained.
The van sped out of central Seoul in no time, scenery blurring past until we rolled into an industrial park in Osan, Gyeonggi Province. It wasn't some massive complex—Osan just doesn't have the sprawl for that. But cosmetics manufacturing boomed here, spawning a modest cluster on the outskirts. Now it sat shuttered after some nasty incident.
A few factories lumped together got dubbed an "industrial park," but no one in Osan saw it that way. All tied to one industry: cosmetics. Different parent companies, sure, but the plants clung like Siamese twins.
"Whew, pre-scouted it and all, but this place always gives off creepy vibes. The outskirts feel, or maybe it's the barren winter—who knows."
"Both. Or worse."
The staffer at the wheel had a point; the atmosphere was downright eerie. We'd hit Osan's edge, that "in-between" zone sandwiched between Hwaseong and Pyeongtaek. "In-between" meaning jack squat around—map apps showed nothing but scattered villages at the township level, if that. Wild animals probably outnumbered people. Closest convenience store? Thirty minutes by car.
"City hall cleared the shoot and safety checks, so no worries. Outdoor winter filming's unfamiliar, but the crew's got your backs."
"They bringing a food truck?"
"You bet. We always roll one out for location shoots."
Food truck sealed the deal. I'd always wanted to try station grub—spicy pork stir-fry and radish miso soup, they say.
"Mm."
"What now."
Right before pulling into the factory entrance, the Mad Woman let out a faint groan. I whipped around, but she waved it off like nothing. Early-onset dementia? As I fretted, vans carrying the others pulled in one by one.
Staff clipped mics and earpieces on us, assigning a minimal camera team that wouldn't cramp the flow. Somewhere, the director was watching, ready to signal standby. Preps were done—our job? Walk in, improv the mission, churn out footage.
Before the host led us inside from the warehouse depths, he briefed us: what to do, what to watch for. Standard stuff, really. True to Korea's Confucian roots, he hammered home no R-rated gore—keep it 15+.
In Korean TV, 15+ means swearing's fair game, though the nasty stuff gets bleeped or cut. Beyond that, think mildly provocative staging with some psychological kick: a bit violent, shocking, scary. Too tame for 18, too raw for 12. That's 15+ in the land of the morning calm.
Standby crackled through the earpiece. Cameramen and lights locked positions. The host spilled a bare-bones rundown of the incident, slapped us with a weird mission—find and resolve the grudge tied to it—then bailed.
Typical ghost special might pair civilians with shamans for haunted house romps, but this show's stars were pros only—no randos. Title said it: Super Shaman-K. No room for amateurs.
Us gathered here looked mundane on tape, but edits would splice intro cuts per member: spooky sound effects, profile popping in the corner—"Yonghwa Seonnyeo / 10 Years Experience / [cringey tagline]"—to hook viewers. No need for late intros; editors handle it.
Still, no going full lone wolf without a word—basic chit-chat and teamwork mandatory.
Horror specials treat the crew like ghosts. Outlets talk, shamans mutter to themselves—it builds immersion. So we ignored them, drifting naturally to the warehouse center.
The folks itching to devour me at pre-meet were playing demure now, cameras rolling. Most laughable: Sin Dae-ho, the law master, stroking his wispy goatee beard with a folksy chuckle.
Oldest alongside the fortune-teller granny, he naturally took point, herding us.
"Folks from all walks, different paths, yet fate's cruel hand drew us here. Heaven's will, righteous correction of the world's order. This old man's borrowing you young'uns' strength—lend a hand, no holding back."
Solid opener. I knew zilch about TV, but first impressions count. Gone was the cranky geezer from pre-meet; now he beamed as kindly grandpa, loosening tongues.
"Mm, overflowing with yin energy. Solo, I'd be useless here."
"Factory interior, yet freezing cold. No breeze, but chills down the spine... The incident's bad enough, but the site's vibe sucks too."
"Abandoned spots like this usually teem with beasts or bugs. Nothing here. Post-evac, life's barred—cursed ground maybe..."
"Whiiiiistle! Whiiiiiiistle!"
Mid everyone dropping lines, Ha Tae-jun the drummer shaman whistled sharp. We all snapped to the same spot in sync, like scripted.