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South Korea is a land where the old and the new coexist—towering skyscrapers brushing against ancient palaces, neon lights blinking above mossy stone walls. Yet under this fusion of timelines, there lurk stories... ones that modernity cannot silence.
One of the most chilling legends is that of the Cheonyeogwisin (처녀귀신)—the Virgin Ghost.
She is the spirit of a young woman who died before marriage, and because of societal pressures on women to marry and bear children, her death leaves her spirit restless, bitter, and yearning for revenge.
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I arrived in the countryside of Gangwon Province, far from Seoul's shining skyline. The locals were warm, yet wary when I asked about ghosts. No one wanted to talk about the Cheonyeogwisin in broad daylight. Only when the mountains swallowed the sun did an old woman finally speak.
"You must be careful," she said, glancing around the darkened room. "If she looks into your eyes... you won't return home."
And so she told me the story of Sook-ja.
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Sook-ja had been a vibrant young woman in a small fishing village. But when she refused to marry the man her parents chose, she was cursed—ostracized, beaten, and left alone. Some say she threw herself into the sea; others claim she was murdered by the man she rejected.
Either way, her body was never found.
Shortly after, villagers began seeing her—wearing a white hanbok (the color of mourning), her long black hair tangled, her face pale as death.
She would stand at crossroads at night, asking travelers if they loved her. If they answered yes, she would weep and disappear. If they answered no... she would take their soul, dragging them screaming into the afterlife.
Since then, in that village, white flowers are never brought home after dark. Mirrors are covered during the Hungry Ghost Festival. And no one—no one—walks alone after midnight.
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Out of stubborn curiosity (and perhaps foolishness), I decided to visit the fabled crossroads myself.
Armed with salt and a small bell given to me by the old woman ("It keeps restless spirits away," she had whispered), I set off under a crescent moon.
The countryside was unnaturally still. Even the crickets had fallen silent.
The crossroads was simple—two narrow dirt paths intersecting beneath an ancient twisted tree. A single lantern swayed from one gnarled branch, casting long, dancing shadows.
For a while, nothing happened. I stood there, heart thudding, the bell clenched tightly in my hand.
Then—
A soft rustle.
A whisper on the wind.
And there she was.
She appeared as if born from the mist itself—slender, barefoot, her white hanbok stained at the hem. Her face was hidden by her long hair.
Slowly, she raised her head.
Her eyes were hollow. Black as an empty well. They pierced right through me.
My mouth went dry. I remembered the warning: If she speaks, answer carefully.
Her lips barely moved, yet the words echoed inside my skull.
"Do you love me?"
For a breathless moment, I could not speak. My instincts screamed to run, but my feet remained frozen.
"Do you love me?" she repeated, a tinge of sorrow—and fury—in her voice.
"Yes," I rasped, almost choking on the word.
Her head tilted slowly. A tear slid down her pale cheek.
Then she was gone—vanished into the fog as if she had never been there.
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I stumbled back to the village, half in shock. When the old woman saw me, she nodded solemnly, as if she had already known.
"You showed her compassion," she said. "That was the right answer. For those who do not..."
She trailed off, her eyes clouding with memories best left buried.
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Even now, sometimes, when I stand at empty intersections alone, I swear I can feel a cold hand brush my sleeve. A reminder that not all crossroads lead back to where you came from.
Some... are one-way doors.
And beyond them waits a woman in white, still asking, still yearning for the love she was denied in life.
Pray you never meet her.
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To be continued…
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