A Red Eye at the Door

Rumble.

The car rolled to a stop. Even so, Shin Jeong-ah stayed sprawled across the back seat, the light gone from her eyes.

"Section Chief?"

Kang Hyeong-seok called to her, but she didn't so much as twitch. Her head was probably packed wall to wall with that one word — possession.

"Are you all right...?"

It happened right after that.

Bang! The door flew open and Shin Jeong-ah bolted — and Kang Hyeong-seok caught her before she'd gone two steps.

"Let go! Let go! Let go of me!"

"Section Chief, please — please, just this once, I'm begging you!"

"Just once, my foot! I'm not doing it! I said I'd help, but nobody said one word about getting possessed! You absolute lunatic!"

Genuinely terrified, she was on the verge of tears.

She had seen ghosts a few times by now. She knew better than anyone alive how terrifying they were — and now he was asking her to receive such a being into her own flesh. It was a miracle her mind was holding together at all.

"You're the only one who can do this, Section Chief."

But Kang Hyeong-seok had no choice but to beg. Because it truly was something only she could do.

Gwimungwansal — the Ghost Gate Barrier Star. A malefic star that most likely sat in Shin Jeong-ah's natal chart, a constitution born with the ghost gate standing open. A body more susceptible to the unseen than most and, when the moment demanded it, capable of welcoming what came. That was Shin Jeong-ah.

"It's to save a life. Something only you can do — and it's nothing dangerous, not like a stray ghost or an evil spirit."

"Even so! How am I supposed to just let myself get possessed?!"

"I won't let anything dangerous happen to you."

Kang Hyeong-seok took her hands in his. She flinched and looked up at him, and he bowed his head, his voice coming out strained.

"Today is the only chance we have. There's no room to go asking another shaman for help. If we lose today, God knows what happens next."

"..."

"She's a shaman being tormented by a Dokkaebi. Her father — a blacksmith — wept right in front of me. How do I turn my back on that? How do I ignore a parent's heart for their daughter?"

Perhaps it was the raw earnestness in his voice. She still looked ready to cry, but the wild thrashing had stopped.

"...First — let go of my hand."

Eyes gone wet, Shin Jeong-ah tried to tug herself free. Kang Hyeong-seok clasped her hand again, desperate — and in the end she wrenched it away.

"I said let go, jeez!"

She looked like a woman thinking hard, so Kang Hyeong-seok held his silence a moment before speaking.

"Your friend must have been desperate too."

Not long ago, Shin Jeong-ah had come to him asking for help — for her friend. For that friend's sake, he'd gone running even on a weekend.

"And you were desperate yourself, back when you moved."

Two moves. Two homes tormented by ghosts. Both times, Kang Hyeong-seok had been there to help her.

"You know that feeling, don't you."

Eyes squeezed shut, Shin Jeong-ah let out a long "Hnnnnngh!" Then, after a long while, she finally, barely, managed a nod.

"You'll grant it, then?"

"Argh! Yes, fine, I said I would!"

She exploded, voice sharp and wet all at once. Still, gratitude welled up in Kang Hyeong-seok ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠first — because he knew exactly how hard a favor this was to grant.

"Thank you, Section Chief!"

"Hey, Section Chief Kang..."

"Yes."

Shin Jeong-ah began shooting him a terrifying glare, her eyes brimming with tears.

"You — I could really... I swear! Aaargh."

"I know. I know perfectly well."

He knew what it had cost her to steel herself, so Kang Hyeong-seok spoke as soothingly as he could. Then he turned his gaze toward the car.

The windows weren't tinted dark enough to hide Yoon-sang in the passenger seat; he was in plain view.

Let this hit your stream, and you're dead.

Of course, Yoon-sang could see him just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as clearly — and he read the look in those eyes without any trouble. He swallowed dry and nodded, big and solemn.

It had gotten a little noisy there for a while, but every pair of hands they needed was ready.

Shhhhhhh.

Kang Hyeong-seok poured glutinous rice out onto the bare earth. Deep in the mountains, in the dead of night. He had combed every corner of the Gangneung area to find the mountain with the purest spiritual energy, and here — with every last fallen leaf stripped away so that nothing could catch fire — they were giving their all to the final preparations, determined to see the Yeonggam-nori through.

Click, click.

"Hey, quit snapping pictures."

"Sis, I need them for the stream..."

"That excuse again — every single time, your hands stop moving. You think I don't notice?"

As Yoon-sang and Shin Jeong-ah — thick as thieves before anyone had noticed — squabbled beside him, Kang Hyeong-seok surveyed the wide ring of rice he had scattered.

Glutinous rice warded off stray spirits.

Pressing his palms together for a brief prayer, Kang Hyeong-seok picked up his phone.

Brrrring.

(Hello?)

It was the blacksmith's voice — and for once there wasn't a trace of liquor in it.

"Master Park Sang-cheol."

(Yes, yes — this is the exorcist, right?)

"Call me whatever's comfortable. Anyway — we begin within the next twenty minutes."

(Yes.)

Blacksmith Park Sang-cheol answered in a voice edged with grim resolve. And then—

"Your part is the biggest of all. Have you kept everything I told you?"

(Of course. I haven't missed a single thing.)

There were things Kang Hyeong-seok had asked of Park Sang-cheol. No alcohol today, of all days. Above all, not a morsel of pork to touch his lips — and to keep his distance from any seasoning cooked with it, too.

"And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the posts? The ones to be set on either side of the warehouse door — are they in place?"

Kang Hyeong-seok lowered his voice, wary of stray ears.

(Yes. The geumjul — the taboo rope — is all ready as well.)

For an instant, Kang Hyeong-seok pictured the man weaving straw into rope with his own two hands.

A sacred rope, meant to hold back the Dokkaebi tormenting his shaman daughter. That was precisely why it had to be Park Sang-cheol — the shaman's own father — who twisted it. Rope from his hands carried that much more power.

"The geumjul must not break. Not for anything. If it does, there's no telling what an enraged Dokkaebi will do."

While the Great Dokkaebi was being called down. Just for that stretch of time. That was all Park Sang-cheol had to do — hold fast the Dokkaebi clinging to his daughter.

(...Yes.)

"One last thing, and then I'll let you prepare."

(Yes, yes — anything, just say it.)

Kang Hyeong-seok turned his gaze toward the distant village and went on, his voice turning earnest.

"You cannot let the Dokkaebi beguile you. Whatever you see, whatever you hear — believe none of it."

Bewitched by a dokkaebi. People said it for a reason. Plenty of things in this world can enchant a person, but few can hold a candle to a Dokkaebi. When something that venomous sets its mind on you, resisting is beyond most mortals.

"It will be hard. But please think of it as something you are doing for your daughter."

(...)

"Sir?"

(For my daughter, there is nothing I cannot do, Exorcist.)

Kang Hyeong-seok's mouth curled into a bitter half-smile. Too much sincerity came through the man's voice — it sounded like a man who had made his peace with dying.

"As long as you keep to what I've told you, nothing dire will happen. And if the worst comes to pass, do exactly as I instructed."

The Dokkaebi ritual. A rite meant to threaten a Dokkaebi. Park Sang-cheol had even finished preparing for that. But Kang Hyeong-seok prayed it would never come to that. None of it was something a layman like Park Sang-cheol should be handling in the first place.

(Yes. I'll do just as you say.)

"Then we'll be getting started ourselves. Please take your position, sir."

Kang Hyeong-seok hung up.

Yoon-sang and Shin Jeong-ah had already laid out all the candles and were lighting them one by one. By rights, torches should have been used instead.

"Hooooooh."

Godforsaken mountain. The night air alone was murderous.

The flames wavered in the wind, tossing trembling red light in every direction. Kang Hyeong-seok walked among them and inspected the offerings laid out on the altar.

Fresh raw pig offal on round plates. Sorghum rice cakes and sorghum porridge. Sweet rice wine and soju.

Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he checked the ring of rice scattered around them one last time.

"We will now begin."

No answer came. He had warned them in advance that there wouldn't be one.

Wararararang!

Shaking the bells hard to cleanse the space around them, Kang Hyeong-seok drew a long, deep breath.

He could feel it — his Momjusin, his Body-Governing Patron Deity, stepping into him. The union with his god beginning.

Swoosh — the whole atmosphere shifted, as though the man standing there had been replaced by someone else entirely. Yoon-sang, wonder-struck, raised his phone as if in a trance, but Shin Jeong-ah pressed his wrist down before the shutter could click.

Warang! Wararang! Warararang!

Kang Hyeong-seok shook his sacred shaman bells. A wind swept through and set the candle flames wavering — yet, uncannily, not one of them went out. The air itself had changed, and a solemn hush wrapped the clearing like a curtain.

"Hnn, hah, hoooo."

Shin Jeong-ah felt her own breathing turn ragged. Not out of fear of the shamanic — it was the sharp, prickling certainty that something was rising in this place.

In that solemn hush, Kang Hyeong-seok carried the rite onward, the altar before him.

The chogamje — the first offering. A rite that had to be performed before the Yeonggam-nori could begin, one that swept the ground clean and opened the road along which the gods would come.

And the being Kang Hyeong-seok hoped to welcome was the Great Dokkaebi.

Fweeeeeeee! Flap!

Of the hundreds of candles arranged in a great circle, the farthest one went out.

Wararang! Wararang! Warang-warang-warang-warang!

Facing the direction where the flame had died, Kang Hyeong-seok shook the sacred shaman bells like a man guiding something home, and roared:

The mournful cry of a little cuckoo drifted in from far away.

Arms wrapped around his knees, Park Sang-cheol stared at the warehouse door. It was that hour when nothing but the bone-white moon lit the yard.

Memories from the past three years came tumbling up, flickering before his eyes.

"Your daughter's soul has left her. Count yourself lucky! If it hadn't, she'd be no better off than writhing in the fires of hell."

That was what the woman they'd brought in, passing herself off as some great shaman, had told him. His heart had caved in — and yet some part of him had thought, thank God. Because if her soul was gone, then his daughter wasn't suffering. Because he had made himself believe that the screaming and head-banging every single night was the Dokkaebi's mischief — not his daughter.

"Your daughter's soul is still alive."

So when Kang Hyeong-seok came and said those words to him, everything had gone black before his eyes. His daughter had been in a Dokkaebi's clutches, suffering — and her own father hadn't known a thing. He had lived like a wastrel, drinking and gambling away his days.

How much she must have resented him. How much she must have suffered.

Staring blankly at the door, Park Sang-cheol doubled over and retched, smothering the sound. Guilt gnawed through his guts like a rat.

"Ulp! Uuurp!"

He retched until his eyes went red, then lifted his head, thin drool swinging from his lips. A resolve had settled into them, and they burned brighter than the moonlight.

My daughter.

His precious daughter. His daughter, suffering even now, while her father could do nothing for her.

For that daughter, he would do anything.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

His daughter had begun hammering her head against the inside of the warehouse door. The Dokkaebi's games had begun.

With a soundless scream, Park Sang-cheol sprinted to the warehouse and strung the geumjul between the two posts. Then he hauled it taut.

Clatter!

The warehouse door, jammed against the rope, lurched violently. Park Sang-cheol kept the rope drawn tight so the Dokkaebi couldn't burst through, glaring murder at the door.

That was when it came.

A low, dreary voice seeped out from within the warehouse. It was not his daughter's voice. It was husky, rasping, and deep as a man's.

Park Sang-cheol squeezed his eyes shut and pulled hard on the rope. The door didn't budge an inch — and yet, strangely, he could feel tension singing through the rope. As if something on the other side were straining to spring out.

I see nothing. I hear nothing.

He was gripping the rope, gooseflesh flooding his whole body, when—

Scrape. Screeeetch.

The sound of metal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grinding on metal dragged his gaze over. And when he understood what was making that sound, stark terror crashed over him.

Clunk!

The latch that held the warehouse door shut. It was dismantling itself, piece by piece, and rolling across the ground.

And through the hole the latch had left behind, a single blood-red eyeball swiveled into place and began to stare at Park Sang-cheol from inside the warehouse.

The Dokkaebi.