Exorcism and Demons? 1
Religion and superstition hold sway over people because they exploit the desperate longing born from utter powerlessness, when there's nothing else to be done. When someone falls gravely ill with no cure in sight, or yearns to escape some unbearable ordeal, that desperation can veer off into entirely different directions. Just like the woman now sitting before me in the office, who'd watched our YouTube videos and clung to that last thread of hope to track us down.
Our videos never hinted at the office location or left any contact info—everything was registered under someone else's name. So clients who actually found their way here were usually referrals from the manager uncle. "How did you find us?" I asked, curiosity overriding my urge to get straight to business. If she was a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, I'd need to mind my reputation while handling the job.
"I heard rumors and asked around until I tracked you down. They said there's this incredibly skilled shaman who insists she's not a shaman."
"I see. From Grandmother, by any chance?"
"Pardon?"
"Never mind."
At least it wasn't someone sent by the shaman grandmother or anyone from her circle. More precisely, she'd gone around asking shaman types specifically about this detective agency, and one of them turned out to be a former divorce client of ours. Pure coincidence, apparently. If it was the manager uncle's referral, there wasn't much I could do about it. To keep the jobs rolling in, we had to spread business cards with our address and number everywhere, earning word-of-mouth like "tried a few agencies, but these guys are competent."
Only after satisfying my curiosity did I notice her face—pale, anxious, urgent. "Before we take the case, is this something we can film and upload? As you know, we post to YouTube to build trust."
"...Of course. If you can just heal my daughter, I'll do anything."
"No need to go that far."
I don't succeed perfectly on every job. It all depends on the client's resolve. Mental illnesses relapse even after treatment, after all. Most failures end with just the retainer fee, but some cling on, blaming the agency and making a mess of things. This middle-aged woman gave off that vibe strong.
"Just so we're clear upfront: we're a regular detective agency that finds people or objects. We don't deal with ghosts or evil spirits. Even if you ask about that stuff, we might not have answers."
"I know. You're a detective agency."
Her eyes were a bit glassy, which made me suspicious, but hey, self-employed here—treat paying customers right. I calmed my racing heart with the coffee Hyeon-a handed me, took a breath, and continued. "So, you need us to find someone?"
"Yes, please save my daughter! Hic...!"
She'd bottled up her anguish until now; the moment her daughter came up, she burst into tears, scratching at her jaw. Officially, Catholic priests had already performed an exorcism, but they needed some powerful holy relic. Problem was, those relics were designated cultural artifacts in their countries, making it hell to bring them over. Exorcisms aren't exactly official events anyway—usually, they borrow from museums for special exhibits, sneak them out for a day or two, then return them. But this one was sudden. So, money no object, could I procure the relic?
"Hmm..."
Even as she explained, red flags everywhere. Exorcisms don't just happen on a whim like a quick market run, and the priests show up without relics? I know zilch about that world, but this didn't sound normal. Even a basic gut-shaman ritual for petty spirits takes half a month prep—catching a demon on the fly?
"Have you shown your daughter to a shaman?"
"No, my in-laws are devoutly Catholic."
"Ah."
Too awkward to call a proper shaman, so they reached out here instead. "Bringing relics from other countries involves cultural heritage laws—it's extremely difficult, you know that, right?"
"Of course."
Sounded like the relic talk was just an excuse. "I'll meet them first to confirm which relic. Can't just grab anything."
"Yes, please take good care of my daughter!"
Hyeon-a filmed the whole bow from the client, buzzing with excitement over fresh footage. Beaming, she hopped up to dig into research. While she Googled exorcisms and demons like mad, I wore myself out sending off the profusely grateful client.
"I was hoping to take it easy finding missing folks, but the cases keep getting weirder."
"You look like you're enjoying it, though? If you weren't into it, you wouldn't take them."
"In an age where the world's connected online and wars are fought with drones, demons and ghosts are kinda fun."
"That's why views stay solid on this stuff, boss. Hehe."
"Don't overdo the ghost vids on YouTube. That lady? Felt like she'd come back with a knife if we turned her down. Go film some affairs with your brother sometime."
"Tried, but most hate being filmed—too embarrassing. Lots of suspicions that fizzle out on investigation anyway."
Obsessed fans are scarier than cheaters, jealous wives, or husbands. Might need to wipe that absentminded smirk off my face next chance. Her stuff yielded nothing useful.
"Heading out tomorrow—anything on your plate?"
"Nope. Taxes squared away, nice and leisurely now."
The character dolls from that old otaku con swayed gently with the chair's vibration—dashboard bobbleheads with springs. Stuck 'em right on like they belonged.
The daughter's hospital was a Catholic one in the capital area. Special treatment for alleged possession meant no general ward—instead, a sunny single room tucked in the corner. Distinguishing real demons from delusional psych cases was job one for the psych profs handling it. Heard there'd been some past trouble over this.
"Hi, here to see someone."
Hyeon-a flashed ID, and the nurse—forewarned—led us straight there. "Patient's stability first—keep talk to a minimum."
"Got it, thanks."
The nurse hung by the door, ready to call for backup if things got loud inside. She knocked twice before opening. "Coming in."
A foul stench hit the moment the creaky door swung wide. Like rotting animal or corpse, but finer senses picked up the difference—more like decaying plants or soil turning to fertilizer.
"Ugh...!"
"Patient's right there—what the hell are you doing?"
I strode in unfazed, but scolded Hyeon-a, still hovering outside dry-heaving. The nurse, used to it, had her mask on and stepped aside.
"Boss... this is a bit much."
"Get in here and film. You expect me to do it solo?"
Only when I pointed out she didn't even know the camera's power button did she grimace and force herself inside—the smell, obviously. Door shut, only ragged breathing from the deathly still woman filled the room. The manager headed to the window for air, but these rooms were sealed—no openings. Rumor was she'd tried jumping once.
"Thought she was comatose."
"Wakes up rampaging, so they sedate her. Steady doses, except during incidents."
The nurse glanced at us like we were someone else's problem, then eyed her with one narrowed eye. That familiar scent from her mouth and nose, black smoke curling around her head—equally familiar. Thick like that old errand boy's aroma. Maybe just lingering perfume.
"Hmm..."
I considered waking her—eyes squeezed shut—but footsteps approached, so I stepped back. Gestured Hyeon-a—who'd been filming—to kill the camcorder. She caught on, stashed it, and the door flew open.
"Who are you?"
A suited middle-aged man, an elderly one, and what looked like family piled in, staring us down. Faint grimaces at the smell, but no retreat.
"Your wife called us. Said you need a relic?"
"Relic...? First time meeting you."
He puzzled over where I fit into his life story. Wondered if the pretty-faced woman was noteworthy, but nah.