Straight to Gunsan: Am I Too Damn Diligent Right After Taking the Job?
Right after accepting the request, I jumped into action. Wasn't I being a bit too diligent? The world was shocked by this level of dedication! Koreans' "pali pali" culture was about to conquer the globe?!
Since I'd heard the client (including relatives of the deceased) had been hopping around the country—Gangwon-do, Gyeongsang-do, Jeolla-do, Chungcheong-do, Gyeonggi-do, you name it—every few months, I didn't want to risk them moving again if I dragged my feet. So I set off immediately. This time, neither S-man nor the Mad Woman came along, leaving me to board the night bus solo, nice and leisurely.
As I watched the autumn rain drizzle down steadily from late evening, I shoved a bun from the terminal into my mouth. Surprisingly, I was the only passenger, so the bus took off right away, tearing down the highway like a beast, true to its express speed. Nothing could block its path except a cargo truck of equal bulk—making the intercity bus the undisputed king of the road.
"This fucking country's weather is a real pain in the ass every goddamn season."
Winter's brutally cold but barely drops snow outside Gangwon-do. Instead, you get Siberian blasts that rival Russia's deep freeze. Spring unleashes insane yellow dust and pollen storms, single-handedly boosting ENT clinics' seasonal boom. The shittiest is summer—sky-high humidity plus scorching heat, and just when you're begging for rain, a massive heat dome rainbow-reflects every typhoon away. And finally, glorious autumn: the heat dome vanishes, late rains pour, massive diurnal swings make dressing a chore. That's why I stick to my coat.
It was late, but I texted the client that I was en route to Gunsan. Their situation sounded so urgent, day or night didn't matter. Luckily, they replied right away—said they'd stay up no matter what, begging me to arrive tonight, no matter how late.
Details would come face-to-face, so I reclined my seat fully, draped my coat like a blanket, and shut my eyes. Gunsan was about two to two-and-a-half hours away; a quick nap seemed fine.
Thud!
"What the fuck?!"
"We've arrived. Passengers, please disembark."
I'd only closed my eyes for a moment, but a jolt later, I was at Gunsan Intercity Bus Terminal. Wiping drool from my mouth, I realized just how bone-tired I was and gathered my stuff to exit. Brushing past the driver still in his seat, I stepped outside into lung-chilling fresh air. With all the buses idling and departing, the exhaust and rubber-tire stench was nasty, but the autumn rain had soaked it all deep.
As I pulled out my phone to text the client that I'd arrived and suggest a meetup spot, they beat me to it with a ghostly timely call.
"Hello?"
-Yes! This is Kim Hakju, the one who posted the request! Have you arrived...?
"Yeah, just pulled in."
-Oh, thank God! We're at a motel right behind the terminal. Turn around and you'll see it.
"Y Motel on the map?"
-Spot on. Or we could come get you...?
"Nah, I'll head over. Stay put. Room number?"
-1004. Tenth floor—top tier for most motels.
Motels rarely go beyond ten floors due to maintenance costs and foot traffic. Y Motel, though, thrived right behind the terminal on spillover crowds. I told Kim I'd be there soon and hustled over.
True to form, Y Motel was a quick loop from the terminal entrance—practically in your face. For a spot tucked behind, it was surprisingly flashy. Who'd expect a gaudy neon-sign pleasure palace here, eye-searing and all?
Stepping into the lobby, I spotted a middle-aged guy around my dad's age, glancing around nervously, body trembling faintly. Had to be Kim Hakju, the client.
"Mr. Kim Hakju, the requester?"
"Ah! You must be...?"
"Yeah, Han Daeri from the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office. No need for a name—just call me Manager Han."
"Th-thank you! No one else was taking the job; I was desperate...!"
"Let's head up first. Seems like you're on edge out here."
"J-just at night. Days are fine—work, people, sunlight."
I paid for my room at the counter, where the owner lounged bored, and grabbed the key for empty 1004 next door. In the elevator with Kim, I went to hit ten but got stopped.
"D-don't hit ten directly!"
"Huh?"
"Straight to our floor tips it off! Last monk who took the job—couldn't fix it but taught us this trick out of apology."
"...Fine, we'll do it that way."
I followed his ritual: out at four, three, eight, seven—ten seconds pause—back in to ten. No wonder the motel owner glared at Kim; this convoluted elevator dance screamed suspicious. I didn't ask about stairs—climbing ten flights sucks.
At 1004, no instant unlock: five knocks, five back from inside, then open. First out: Kim's wife, eyes weary. Behind her, a high-school-aged son staring blankly at the motel TV.
"You're the mystic who took the request?"
"Han Daeri, Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office."
I handed her a business card and scanned the lived-in room. Motels shouldn't feel homey—cleaning crews erase traces for fresh guests. This reeked of long-term squatters.
"Staying near the terminal for quick escapes?"
"...Yes. Since our daughter... the harassment ramped up. Gotta be ready to bolt."
"The daughter in the request?"
"Yeah. Tragic accident..."
Kim sighed, face creased. I could guess the gist. Dragged a vanity chair over, sat facing the now-three-person family.
"Before we fix this, details. What made a ghost chase and torment you for five years?"
The couple darkened, facing their eleventh retelling.
"Our daughter was smart—entered H University in Seoul five years ago. Dreamed of diplomacy, joined a travel club for overseas experience. We were well-off then, funded trips easily. Professors and clubmates along? We felt safe."
"Checked other parents—all okayed it. Didn't want to crush her dream. Prof's resume checked out..."
His wife chimed in.
"Sounds like something happened abroad."
"We don't know."
Surprising. Not the classic "daughter returns haunted, family suffers" trope?
"She studied abroad too—two China trips. Prof said future diplomats need China know-how. But after the second, she changed. End of sophomore year one."
"How so?"
I double-checked my recorder.
"Thought China jet lag. She holed up days."
"Worried, checked her room—empty! Called dad; she was trembling in the closet."
"Shaking in the closet, terrified?"
"Yeah, like barely escaped a killer. Hospital: nerves, insomnia, dehydration. Feared bad food—tests clean. Relieved, but she worsened."
"How?"
"Unrecognizable—daily life impossible. Insomnia baseline; slept on pills, woke screaming someone groped her sleeping body. Ranted never sleep."
Classic possession vibes. I listened sharp—thin line between possession, evil ghosts, gods, demons. Miss a detail, treatment turns exorcism.
"That's when home life unraveled. Wife's savings stolen by church lady, my business tanked on bad luck, son... bullied at school. All unlucky timing—no recourse."
I eyed the son, slumped against the bed, TV-zoned. Fix him up, he'd be popular; now, unkempt and pitiful. Bullying did that.
"Continue."
"Didn't believe shamans then. Thought bad luck—moved small, cared for kids. But post-move, she seemed better, then raved about fleeing."
"Fleeing?"
"The thing chasing her was at old house—flee where it can't find her. We were wrecked, work hell... ignored her. Shouldn't have."
"It followed, worse?"
"Yes. Self-harm, shrieking fits. We broke."
Easy to imagine: brief normalcy shattered harder, blame on her, mutual exhaustion.
"Three years ago, temples, shrines—spent savings, no fix. Learned of mystic boards via shaman rec—posted two years back."
"Ten before me. What happened?"
"First, mudang—saw daughter, dropped fan, fled terrified."
"..."
"Second, famed bodhisattva—screamed, ran. Third, Westerner—Ouija to chat the entity. Guess?"
"What?"
"Puked blood, smashed board, bolted."
Four through nine: shamans, psychics routed. Tenth: nameless monk, recited sutras tearfully. Lacked merit; even great monk would risk life. Pitied them.
"Post-monk, she dashed to road while we blinked—hit by car, instant death."
"..."
"Two years' million-won bounty? Her life insurance."
"Got it."
I eyed the charred talisman over the door.
"You experiencing similar?"
"Yes. Dreams: creepy guy demands 'hand it over,' threatens slaughter."
"Sleep paralysis standard, food bloats me dizzy."
"Tormented, not possessed."
For daughter's grudge release and family peace, they'd hold it still.
"Got contacts for her prof or clubmates?"
"Yes—prof, friends. To tell when resolved..."
"Hand 'em over."
Took numbers to 1003, dialed a friend. Five years on, graduated, working. Late night, but I rang.
-Hello?
"How much for your friend?"