The Shaman's Chaotic Ritual
A few hours earlier, the shaman arrived with her assistants and began preparing the ritual ground in the courtyard. She had carefully arranged the offerings, then fastened a massive cow’s head to her back. Almost at once she launched into a torrent of unintelligible chanting.
The elderly couple watching her found the sight both chilling and grotesque, yet they told themselves they had no choice. If this ceremony could save their daughter, they would endure anything. For now, all they could do was stand by and pray—for her sake.
A clamor like rolling thunder shattered the village’s quiet. The boom of drums, the sharp rattle of janggu, the eerie rise and fall of incantations. At times the shaman sounded as though she were weeping; at others she roared with fury. She even hummed strange, wandering melodies. Her assistants planted torches on either side of her while she danced, the cow head swaying on her back, a huge sword clutched in both hands.
The longer they watched, the more it seemed the shaman herself had slipped beyond sanity. The yard was chaos—frantic dancing, singing, the clash of blades, sudden curses, and then fresh sobs. Sweat poured from her forehead in sheets. The ritual only grew more fevered. Her white robe was soon drenched, yet she showed no sign of stopping. The heavy perspiration smeared the sharp lines of her makeup, making her face appear even more horrifying. The musicians flanking her were likewise soaked, their arms trembling with exhaustion.
The old couple remained on their knees, foreheads pressed to the ground, hands rubbing together in desperate supplication. They begged every god they could name: let their daughter be well again, let this thing clinging to her vanish. Meanwhile the shaman’s sword dance grew only more violent.
Then she stopped abruptly and clicked her tongue. Her face glistened with sweat, but the razor-edged aura around her never wavered. She glared at the house and snarled, “Bring the chicken blood!”
The assistants rushed off and returned at once with a bucket brimming with it. She set her two swords aside, lifted the bucket high, and shouted.
“How dare a dead thing that should have departed long ago linger in this house? You even dare seduce and possess the living? Insolent wretch! King Yama below burns with rage! The heavenly gods above seethe with fury! You bastard! Stop piling up sins and get out! Those who must leave should leave—that is the law of the world!”
With the words she began flinging the blood across the house. The stench of it filled the air. The elderly couple lowered their heads, faces tight with distress. They fought back waves of nausea, yet kept rubbing their palms together, pleading with the unseen presence to release their daughter.
The shaman panted, clearly frustrated. “Stubborn bastard!” she spat.
At that exact moment, bloody handprints slammed against the living-room window with wet smacks. More appeared along the walls, the front door—everywhere. Even the shaman flinched. Her assistants and the musicians turned deathly pale; for a second, the drumming and gongs fell silent.
“What are you fools doing? Keep playing! Do you all want to die?” the shaman roared.
The music resumed at once. The old couple stared at the impossible marks now staining their home and felt their minds reel. They could no longer deny it. Something had taken hold inside—specifically, inside their daughter. They did not know what it was, only that it defied any scientific explanation.
The shaman resumed her dance in time with the thunderous beat, the cow head now facing the house as she twisted through grotesque steps. Then a piercing scream tore from inside the building.
“Kyaaaak!”
The old couple jumped. The shaman froze, shot the house a murderous glare, then continued her dance and humming as though nothing had happened.
“O-our daughter… that scream…” the old man wept.
His wife tried to rush toward the house, but the shaman’s voice cracked like a whip.
“If you want to die the same way, then go right ahead!”
“Wh-what? What do you mean by that…”
“The thing inside is no longer your daughter!”
The savage warning left the couple paralyzed. They could only stare at the house in utter despair as another scream—raw, wretched, and horrifying—ripped through the air. The sound was so ghastly it crawled down the spine like ice.
The ritual had been raging for some time when the real trouble began.
The exhausted shaman gulped down cool water again and again. Sweat soaked her from head to foot; most of her makeup had dissolved from her dripping face. Her assistants were equally drained. The elderly couple, who had knelt for hours, felt their legs going numb.
Beyond the gate, villagers had gathered to watch. Some, wearied by the long ordeal or repelled by the sinister aura leaking from the house, began slipping away one by one.
Through it all the shaman stared silently at the building. Crimson handprints now covered its walls. She panted hard, swords once more in her hands, sweat sliding from the blades in fat drops.
Her eyes narrowed. She was looking at the living-room window where the bloody prints were thickest, as though she could see someone standing just behind the glass.
“Th-there…” the flustered old couple began.
The assistants, too, had gone white. Because the shaman’s white robe was slowly turning scarlet. The stain spread especially heavily from her crotch, and fresh blood now trickled from her nose.
Everyone present could only stare in mute horror at the impossible sight.
Suddenly the shaman doubled over.
“Ueeek!”
She vomited violently. After several heaving spasms she coughed up a thick gout of blood and collapsed to the ground with a wet thud.
The others were too stunned to move. They had no idea what to do, or even what they were witnessing. They simply gaped with round, terrified eyes.
The fallen shaman began to shake like a leaf in a storm. She could not speak, yet her gaze remained fixed on the living-room window. Her breathing grew shallow and rapid. Her face drained of all color.
“Uek!”
Another surge of blood burst from her mouth. Her neatly tied hair had come undone and now hung in wild strands. The once-white robe was soaked vivid red.
“Aigoo! Divine One! Our Divine One! Oh heavens, what do we do?”
The assistant shaman finally snapped out of her shock and rushed to support her. The shaman’s entire body trembled as she gasped out the words.
“Enough… we’re leaving. We can’t. No more… we cannot stay here any longer…”
Hearing the desperate plea, the assistant quickly hoisted the shaman onto her back and tried to flee the premises. The old couple lunged forward and clutched at them.
“Aigoo! Please, just a moment! If you leave us like this, what are we supposed to do? What about our daughter? Why are you abandoning our daughter?”
Yongha’s voice cracked with tears.
The shaman, still draped over the assistant’s back, wore an expression of excruciating pain. Blood dripped steadily from her lips as she struggled to speak.
“I’m sorry… This is not an entity I can contend with. I’m sorry…”
She repeated the apology like a broken record. Once more she looked toward the living-room window. Tears welled in her eyes, and then she fainted completely.
The shaman fled as though escaping with her life.
A heavy silence descended, so unnatural and eerie it felt like another presence entirely. The old couple could only weep in the face of such despair.
Eventually their gaze drifted to the living room the shaman had glared at until the very end.
And there they froze.
Their daughter was standing at the living-room window, staring straight back at them.