Severing the Strings
She stepped outside and snapped off a leafy branch from one of the trees scattered everywhere. She'd heard tales of certain trees—hanging to just the right length in a specific direction—being ideal for slashing ghosts, but she couldn't recall the details, and anyway, it varied too much by region. Forsythia, plum trees, lespedeza—endless options. After mulling it over, she concluded it wasn't the tree that mattered; it was the hand wielding it. A true craftsman made do with any tool. She broke off exactly 30cm, proper and precise.
Inside, the manager—who'd been on the phone with his sister to hand off the puppy—cut the call short.
"Boss, what's with the tree branch?"
"Thought it might come in handy. Getting scratched by this hurts, doesn't it?"
"...Huh?"
He stared at her, utterly baffled, then looked away. He'd long known she was no ordinary person, but this was a first, leaving him faintly flustered. Shaking it off with a whatever happens, happens shrug, he rose from beside the van.
"How about grabbing a bite before we head out? My sister's coming for the puppy."
"Sounds good. It's been ages—let's grill some beef, just the three of us."
"Beef for lunch? Perfect."
Showing up to a client reeking of meat wasn't ideal, but would veggies fare any better? They linked up with her scruffy sister Hyeon-a, devoured a proper spread, aired out the smell for an hour, then drove to the client's place: a three-story villa in the middle-class Gangnam-Songpa corridor.
"Owning a whole villa? She's living well."
"Tell me about it. Property in Seoul..."
Even apartments or houses usually meant one overpriced unit—or if you were loaded, floors above and below, worth 20 or 30 billion won. A full villa? Hundreds of millions just to secure the spot.
She drained her yogurt and popped a mint.
"I've given her a heads-up, so hit the bell and she'll come right out."
"Got it."
-Ding dong-
No sooner had she rung than the door burst open, as if they'd been waiting.
"Aigoo, come on in!"
"Pardon the intrusion."
As she slipped off her shoes at the entryway, a sinister, queasy smell subtly pricked her nose. The wife had called her husband home early from work on half-day leave; he stood stoically, offering a curt greeting. Even skeptics couldn't ignore it when hospitals found nothing wrong and shrinks just pushed pills.
"...There might be a bit of a smell. He barely uses the bathroom anymore—does his business in the room, haa—"
"It's fine. Happens sometimes."
Clutching the branch, she advanced slowly. As Blue Tiger nosed in just behind her, the rustling from the room fell silent, and the foul odor evaporated in an instant.
The middle-aged couple—who'd pinned all hope on the one shaman offering a fix—paled, faces shifting. The sudden ease bred suspicion. Probably felt like stepping into a shaman's shrine.
"By any chance... are you shamans?"
"No, just folks from an info agency. We handle odds and ends."
"Ah."
She'd been straightforward, but they took it as code for young shamans dodging society's scorn. No point correcting; they wouldn't cross paths again.
"Door unlocked?"
"Locked from inside, but here's the key."
"Hold up. Just in case."
She gently blocked his approach to the door, snagging the key she'd scoped out earlier. Unstable minds always packed risk. The ex-cop manager edged closer, bracing for a knife on the other side.
"I'll get the door."
"Nah, he's already spooked and backed off. Trembling way back there."
"Hmm..."
Still, he wrested the key and flung the door wide. Curtains drawn against the scant rain, the dank, filthy room blazed into view. The corpse-stink had scattered far under Tiger's influence, but human waste lingered, wafting fresh revulsion.
"Wh-what!"
She glanced at the man cowering in the corner. Dark circles dragged down to hollow cheeks; he trembled, staring. Eyes confirmed it, but her other sight caught a faint shape perched hat-like on his head. Thick thread linked head to body, twitching marionette-style with every jerk. One snip at the thread crowning his skull would do it. Or sacrifice the tethering memory to necromancy and erase it outright.
"G-get out! All of you, scram!"
Sputtering filth from his lips, but with Tiger lounging silently behind her, watching, he just quivered against the back wall. Itched to bolt, but nowhere to flee.
"Hey."
"Yes."
"Pin his arms and body down tight—no moving."
Her words rang with certainty; the manager and father snapped alert, surging into the room. The son—who'd always lost it at footsteps—now curled fetal, flailing wildly: a first. Hope flickering at the anomaly, they lunged without hesitation, clamping his arms.
"Let go! Get out! GET OUUUT—! Aaaagh!"
His frantic window scan mimicked a beast ditching its den in panic. She gripped the branch—still fresh after two hours. Hands or chopsticks would work, but visibility ruled the day. Like how pretty food tastes better, this screamed special ritual. Best for business, too.
-Swish.
All eyes tracked the swaying branch as she closed in. Then she flicked it, severing the thread to the froth-mouthed son's crown.
"Gahk-!"
Threads snapped clean; the body thumped limp to the floor. No more thrashing, no frenzy. A soft smile of pure relief bloomed—as if the torment had vanished—eyelids fluttering shut.
"Son!"
"Aigoo, Hyeok-jin!"
Parents swarmed him; he slumbered peacefully, crisis dissolved. Necromancy's memory implants warped personality and physique over time. Reclaimed, his body sighed in relief.
The manager released the arm, kneading atrophied limbs before stepping close.
"All done?"
"Yeah, seems like a win... sorta. Jury's out."
First hands-on go; even she couldn't predict the aftermath. She'd figured grudge-spirits wore movie-villain ugliness, evoking disgust. But this? Thread-ball. Push the wrongness angle, maybe.
Tiger gawked wide-eyed, now bored post-climax; the puppeteer invisible—rank gap?
"Let him crash somewhere soft and cozy. This room's... rough."
"Ah, thank you! Thank you!"
"Swing by that shaman again, just to be safe. I'm no licensed pro."
"Nonsense! You nailed what she couldn't—lifesavers!"
His deep bow bordered excessive. Fair, yanking invisible doom from family brink. But raw gratitude? Unfamiliar turf.
The father scooped his son, hustling to a bed in another room, laying him gentle.
"We'll scope that spot till he's certified normal. Recurrence risk."
"Ah, yes! Full payment now."
"Haha..."
She waved off their ritual-fund payout. Glimpse into cult grifts. They left clutching sodas—polite outsiders exit quick amid cleanup.
"Even eyes-on, it's eerie."
"Went with gut; lucked out. Shrine run for 108 bows?"
"Rest heals post-job, yeah."
"Rest means meat. Chicken blood repels ghosts—grill some tonight?"
"Dinner already...?"
Big payday; fuel up healthy.
"Gotta hit that site first. Dinner solo."
"Yes, ma'am. Company card for the good stuff. Stakeouts mean konbini kimbap and sandwiches—firm skimps on health."
"You got it, boss."
Cop-thrift habits died hard.