The Hour of the Ox

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A haunted house.

Kang Hyeong-seok mouthed the word, making no sound. Without warning, the air seemed to thicken and weigh down around him. A haunted house devoured the living and drew ghosts to it. So the sal was never the true problem—the place itself was the culprit.

He rubbed at his lips with his thumb, as though scraping something away. Something would not sit right. He even had the sense of having been swept into something that had no business existing.

"You told me it wasn't a dangerous place," he said.

Cheong-geum had told him the Teacher managed the haunted place herself. He simply could not fathom how a sal capable of harming people could have taken root somewhere like that.

Cheong-geum, catching the look in his eyes, answered with a flustered face. "Yes. It was, without question, that kind of place."

"I went and saw it for myself. A sal has taken root there. Is the haunted place truly the abandoned warehouse in Gaseong-dong?"

The rush of words left her bewildered. She nodded, troubled, and Hyeong-seok pressed his lips together, forcing the feeling down.

"No. Something doesn't add up."

Only after he sent her a look that demanded an explanation did he speak.

"The Teacher said it was a spirit that needed no Cheondo rites."

"...In a place like that?"

"Yes. She'd placated it with georibap. Said it was something time itself would resolve."

Georibap was the food left over after a gut, scattered along the roads—offerings to appease stray ghosts. But how could anyone call a spirit able to fling about that much sal a mere stray ghost?

His thoughts knotted.

"There has to be a reason." Hyeong-seok said it low, then bit at his lower lip with his upper teeth. Because otherwise, none of this makes sense.

A spirit had no body. A soul, a spark of life, with no vessel to hold it. Unsettled and unmoored, it might in time be guided across—or curdle into a demon.

"There have been quite a few people stirring that place up of late."

Cheong-geum's careful voice pulled his gaze to her.

"I hear some of them even brought shamans along. I suspect one of them is what provoked the spirit."

"...Haah."

Hyeong-seok dragged a palm down his face. Damn bastards. The thought filled his head to bursting. The world was, as Cheong-geum said, full of exactly that kind of fool—people who tramped into haunted places they had no business entering, needling spirits that had lain quiet and still, poisoning the very space around them. Conduct born of a mad craving to have calamity collapse onto their own heads—and every such act scarred the space and the spirit alike.

"So someone did what should never have been done."

"That's the only explanation there is." Otherwise, a spirit that had dealt no great harm all this time would never have flared up like a wildfire.

"Haaah." A deep, deep sigh escaped him, and Hyeong-seok set his jaw until it jutted. "There's no point raking over the how and why. I just have to do something."

"...Shall I tell you about the spirit?"

Hyeong-seok closed his eyes and gave a heavy nod. For now, even the smallest scrap of a clue was precious.

"It's only what I heard from the Teacher, but she said it was a spirit with a story of its own. That's why she never forced a crossing-over."

"...A story?"

"Yes. Only that it was a story time itself would settle."

But there is no time. That was the problem.

"Then tell me about that haunted place—or rather, the abandoned warehouse."

"You mean to go...?"

"Lives are at stake. I have to do something."

Cheong-geum shook her head, her face crowded with words she was swallowing back. "Wait for the Teacher. It isn't that I slight you, Young Master—but right ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now it is dangerous."

Hyeong-seok gave a bitter smile and shook his head. "There's no time."

"Even so, if you would only wait a little—"

He shook his head again, cutting her short.

An awkward silence stretched between them, and when the cry of a cuckoo drifted in from somewhere far off, Hyeong-seok finally opened his mouth. "Do you know what a Spitz is?"

Cheong-geum only arched one eyebrow, offering no answer.

"A coworker of mine—the one lying in the hospital now. The dog he raised was a white Spitz. That little one, a spirit now, has never left his master's side."

Cheong-geum said nothing.

"Terrified that his master might leave this world. Terrified that his master might come to wherever he is."

Hyeong-seok dropped his gaze to the hands that had once lifted that Spitz into his arms. He had felt none of its weight, none of its warmth—yet he knew exactly how afraid the little creature had been.

"If I don't sever the sal today, the very thing that dog fears will come to pass. And other people will be in danger as well."

"Young Master."

Cheong-geum spoke as if to hold him back, but Hyeong-seok shook his head. "I'm going. I believe it's the right thing to do."

He looked down at the three seal marks pressed into his palm—the traces his Momjusin had left upon his flesh, a command to do what is right. Untangling the han of the warehouse was no order from his patron deity, and yet it felt like something he was meant to do.

"Haaah." Cheong-geum exhaled a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠long sigh and pressed a hand to her forehead. She had understood by now that no word of hers would stop him; the strength had gone out of her eyes. "Your fate is no light burden either, Young Master."

"That's the lot of every mudang, isn't it?"

"Oh-ho? Says the man who's never even received a proper Sinnaerim."

"But the descent has already come to pass, hasn't it?"

Cheong-geum laughed without a sound, watching him with a smile that lifted only the corners of her mouth. "It won't be easy. Let me come with you."

"Offer the prayers from here. That will be enough."

"You know the Teacher's temper. If anything happens to you, Young Master, it's me who'll be torn apart."

Hyeong-seok laughed soundlessly. Lee Geum-kyeong was as good as family, a grandmother in all but blood—but he knew better than anyone how fearsome she became when she raged.

"Then will you hold back the sal and the stray ghosts for me?"

The sal and lesser spirits that would spill out of the warehouse were the danger. "The sal has already begun reaching outside. While I am inside the warehouse, I need someone pressing it down."

Two rituals would have to run at once. The Cheondo-gut inside the warehouse. The Salpuri-gut outside it. More than one person could manage alone.

"...Understood."

Only after Cheong-geum had answered in a tone that understood but none too pleased—

"Is there anything you can tell me about the spirit bound to the warehouse?"

"It was a textile mill once, they say."

"A factory? I did wonder why the layout felt wrong for a warehouse..."

"There was a great fire there once, it seems. It happened back during the IMF crisis—the great financial collapse—so the rumors that followed were ugly. People said lives were lost."

Hyeong-seok considered for a moment, then nodded. Guiding a vengeful spirit across required certain conditions—and he felt he had just caught the first thread of its history.

"Then the spirit bound to the warehouse is one of those who died in that fire."

"Which is why the work must be done at night. By day, it will be hiding its shape."

"The Chuk hour seems best."

One to three in the morning. The hours when ghosts move most boldly—and, at the same time, the hours shamans most dread. That was what he chose.

"...I will begin the prayers at the Ja hour."

Eleven at night until one in the morning. The hours when a mudang stands closest to the gods. Saying she would offer prayers for his safety through them, Cheong-geum gestured toward her dwelling.

"I will lend you the ritual implements you'll need, Young Master. But this one thing you must promise me."

Rooted to the ground where she stood, she spoke in a low voice weighted with force. "The implements—you will return them with your own hands."

Let nothing ride him. Let no other hands carry them back. Let him come home whole, and return them with his own two hands.

Hyeong-seok understood what lay beneath her words. Eyes closed, he bowed his head, deep and slow.

"Follow me."

Only then did Cheong-geum set her feet moving. And so the two of them turned toward her dwelling—and just then—

Flap-flutter!

A crow came sweeping in out of nowhere and tucked itself among the branches, fixing them with its stare. The whites of its eyes showed on either side of the pupils—a crow with eyes like a human being's.

Glug-glug.

Inside the car, Hyeong-seok poured water into a plastic bottle. It was drawing near one in the morning, and the phone propped against the dashboard was telling him a single kilometer remained to the warehouse.

Pressing his palms together, Hyeong-seok offered a short prayer with his eyes shut. "Forgive me. Circumstances were against me, and I could not find a proper vessel."

He had set out the clear offering-water and prayed without pause ever since. He had to enter the warehouse. He had to guide the vengeful spirit at the root of the sal across to the other side. It was impossible unless his Momjusin lent him strength—and so he had offered up the deepest, most earnest prayer he could.

Let's go.

Hyeong-seok turned the engine over and drove for the warehouse, and as he drove, he played the sutra recording he had prepared.

The monk's voice reciting the demon-quelling dharani was clear and calm, as if to soothe a heavy heart. But, Venerable One—you know, don't you? That nothing in this world comes easy. That the han of a vengeful spirit runs sharp and deep.

An old grudge-spirit, this one. It has likely lost even its sense of self—a departed soul flinging sal at every living thing that draws breath.

He had to receive that spirit's han into himself and cut the sal away at its root.

"Please—let me be the one to see all of this through to the end..."

And it was at that very moment—

Ksssshhhhht!

Static burst in from nowhere and swallowed the dharani whole. The noise felt bent on splitting his eardrums; Hyeong-seok's face hardened, and he reached out and killed the playback.

Caaaw! Caaaw! Caaaw!

The car fell abruptly silent—and into that silence came the cawing of crows, from every direction at once.

Jaw clenched tight, Hyeong-seok let his breath out slowly. He checked the clock on a hunch: one in the morning. The Chuk hour.

Tick. Tock.

"Uuuh... uuuuuh."

Kwak Young-ho's face contorted—he had been sleeping in peace mere moments before. The wall clock stood at one in the morning. Cold sweat streamed down his forehead as he thrashed in torment, and then, with a strangled cry, he surged upright, chest heaving.

"Mmh... honey, what is it?"

His wife, Lee Mi-sook, pushed herself up and reached for her glasses. "A nightmare? How are you sweating this much in your sleep?"

"H-honey."

Young-ho looked at her—then, on a sudden impulse, ran his fingers over his own throat. Only when he confirmed nothing was wrong with it did he wipe the sweat from his brow.

He'd had a terrible dream. A dream of a woman whose face was mashed beyond all describing, hacking at his throat with a kitchen knife.

"I guess I'm a bit frazzled, that's all. You know Assistant Manager Lee, on my team? The one in the hospital from that accident. That's probably part of it."

He spoke as though to convince himself, and Mi-sook wiped his brow with her sleeve, her eyes brimming with worry.

"Aigoo, you and your faint heart. Wasn't it Assistant Manager Kang you were muttering about—bad energy, something like that? Don't fret. It's not as if he's some shaman."

"R...right?"

"Aigoo, for a department head you surely do scare easily. On Monday I'll go to that potent shrine and bring you back a talisman."

"Thank you, honey."

"Just wait here. I'll fetch you some warm water."

It was the very moment Mi-sook threw back the covers and made to rise from the bed—

"Honey."

"Hm?"

"This is reality, right? Right now."

Mi-sook stared for a moment at her husband—sitting there as if bewitched by something—then broke into a soft laugh. "Yes, it's reality. So shake off that dream and sit up for a bit."

She closed the bedroom door behind her and went out to the living room, and with only a single dim lamp burning, she went to the kitchen and filled the electric kettle.

Bubble, bubble, bubble.

The moment steam began to rise from the kettle, Mi-sook's face suddenly slackened—changed in a single instant, as though whatever filled her had been swapped out for something else—and she turned her gaze to the kitchen window.

Tap. Tap-tap.

There, a crow was pecking against the glass, staring in at her.

—Whiiine. Whiiine.

The hospital where Lee Jin-pyeong lay. Even after Jin-pyeong had been moved into intensive care, the Spitz had not left his side. It had kept watch without rest, so that no stray ghost, no vicious thing, might do him harm. Its body was small, but that meant nothing—the will to guard him burned vast.

—Yip! Yipyipyip! Yip!

All at once the Spitz was barking, every hair along its spine standing on end. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Something was coming—a vicious thing, come to take Jin-pyeong's life—swinging its head wildly from side to side like a wind-whipped thornbush, crawling toward the hospital on limbs like black tree branches.

"Begin, Master Ritualist."

At Cheong-geum's word, a man dressed in white hanbok puffed out his cheeks and drove the breath down. The ritualist, summoned at a moment's notice, wore the face of a man crowded with questions—what manner of sal he was meant to press down, why a gut had been arranged with no warning whatsoever, and why, of all hours, it had to unfold in the Chuk hour. But one look at Cheong-geum's grave face and he asked none of them, taking up his drumstick instead.

Tung-tung-tung-tung!

As the man chanted the sacred verses, Cheong-geum began to dance, the many-colored flags in her hands billowing wide. It was a gut to press down the sal as it spread through every corner—to buy time, until Kang Hyeong-seok saw the vengeful spirit through to its end.