The musty chill that rolled out of the Yangok's doorway hit Ji-min like a physical blow, carrying the scent of forgotten years – damp plaster, decaying wood, the faint, sweet-sour tang of mildew, and something else… dust, perhaps, but dust that had settled over disappointment. The darkness beyond Seo-jun's silhouette felt thick, impenetrable, swallowing the meager grey light from the stormy evening. The mournful creak of the door hinge seemed to echo in the hollow space within.
Seo-jun stepped further inside, his boots scraping on unseen debris. A faint click echoed, followed by a weak, yellow glow that spilled from a single bare bulb hanging from the high ceiling of what must be the entry hall. It did little to dispel the gloom, merely casting long, distorted shadows up the peeling wallpaper and across a staircase that ascended into deeper darkness. The bulb flickered ominously.
Ji-min hesitated on the threshold, the borrowed rubber sandals feeling absurdly large and vulnerable on the rotting porch boards. The rain drummed steadily on the sagging roof overhead, a constant reminder of the hostile world outside this decaying shell. She clutched the rice cakes Soon-ja had given her, the paper wrapping already damp from the rain dripping off the umbrella she still held tilted at an angle.
"Come in," Seo-jun's voice came from the dimness, flat and practical. "Shut the door. Keeps the damp out. Mostly."
Taking a shaky breath that tasted of decay, Ji-min forced herself across the threshold, pulling the heavy door shut behind her. The *thud* echoed through the empty house, followed by the immediate amplification of the rain's drumming on the roof and the wind sighing through unseen cracks. The air inside was markedly colder than outside, despite the storm. It seeped through the thick borrowed sweater, raising goosebumps on her arms. She lowered the umbrella, letting it drip onto the cracked tile floor of the entryway.
Seo-jun moved past her, deeper into the house. "Main room is through here. Kitchen beyond. Stove's there." He gestured towards an arched doorway leading off the hall. "Bathroom's under the stairs. Don't expect hot water tonight. Or maybe ever, reliably. Bedroom's upstairs." He pointed vaguely towards the shadowed staircase. "Furniture's… minimal."
Ji-min followed him slowly, her oversized sandals scuffing on the gritty floor. The main room was cavernous, high-ceilinged, and dominated by a large, grimy window overlooking the overgrown garden and the rain-lashed forest beyond. A few pieces of heavy, dark wood furniture – a sagging sofa covered in a dusty sheet, a bulky armchair missing a leg propped up on bricks, a massive, scarred dining table – stood like forgotten sentinels in the gloom. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling corners like grey lace. The wallpaper, a faded floral pattern, hung in strips, revealing the damp, stained plaster beneath. A large, cast-iron wood stove sat cold and imposing against one wall, a small pile of logs stacked neatly beside it. The air hung heavy with silence and neglect.
"Basic," Seo-jun repeated, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space. He walked to the window, peering out into the gathering dusk. "Roof leaks in the east corner upstairs, but the bedroom should be dry. Firewood's there." He nodded towards the logs. "Matches on the mantel." He indicated a narrow ledge above the stove.
Ji-min stood rooted near the doorway, overwhelmed. The sheer scale of the decay, the palpable sense of abandonment, pressed down on her. This wasn't rustic charm; it was dereliction. Soon-ja's words – *unsettled* – echoed in her mind. A sudden, sharp *crack* from upstairs made her jump, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Settling," Seo-jun said without turning around, his voice calm. "Old houses groan. Especially in damp weather. Especially this one."
He finally turned away from the window, his gaze sweeping over her. She looked small and lost in Soon-ja's oversized sweater and trousers, her face pale beneath the lingering smudges of mud she hadn't managed to wash off at the shop. Her damp hair clung to her neck. The defiance from the mudslide was gone, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and a dawning horror at her choice of refuge.
"You need to get warm," he stated, his practical tone cutting through her spiraling thoughts. He walked towards the stove. "I'll light the fire. It'll take the edge off the chill in here. Won't heat the whole place, but this room will be bearable." He knelt, opening the stove door with a rusty screech, and began efficiently arranging crumpled newspaper and kindling from a small basket nearby.
Ji-min watched him, the mundane action anchoring her slightly. His movements were economical, sure. He didn't seem bothered by the decay or the cold. This was just… a task. He struck a match; the flare of light briefly illuminated his focused expression, the sharp line of his jaw, the damp strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. The kindling caught with a cheerful crackle, casting flickering, dancing shadows on the peeling walls. He added small logs, leaving the door ajar. The growing flames began to cast a small circle of warmth and light, pushing back the immediate gloom around the stove.
The light revealed more details – water stains spreading like dark continents across the ceiling, mouse droppings near the skirting board, a large, dark patch on the floorboards near the sofa that looked suspiciously like old blood. Ji-min quickly looked away, focusing on the fire. The warmth radiating from the stove was a tangible relief, beginning to thaw the icy dread that had settled in her core.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "For… for the fire. And before. The car."
Seo-jun closed the stove door slightly, adjusting the airflow. He straightened up, brushing wood dust from his hands. He didn't look at her immediately, his gaze drifting around the room, taking in its dilapidated state with a detached assessment. "It's my job," he said simply. Then, after a pause, he added, "The Yangok… it's seen better days. Old man Park had grand plans. Resort, views… didn't account for the mountain's moods. Or the cost. Went bankrupt. Died not long after. Heartbreak, some said." He delivered the information flatly, a historical footnote.
He finally looked directly at her. In the firelight, his dark eyes seemed even more intense, observing her reaction to the house and its history. "You knew it was old. Remote."
"I saw pictures," Ji-min admitted, wrapping her arms around herself. "Online. They… they didn't show this." She gestured vaguely at the peeling walls, the dust sheets. "They didn't show the *feeling* of it."
"Feeling?" Seo-jun raised an eyebrow slightly, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his expression.
"It feels… sad," she murmured, looking away from his penetrating gaze, focusing on the flames. "Empty. Like it's waiting for something that's never coming back." And *unsettled*, she thought but didn't say.
He didn't dismiss it. He didn't agree. He simply absorbed her words, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then drifted upwards, towards the ceiling. "Wind gets in the eaves. Makes noises. Tricks the ear. Especially when you're alone." It wasn't quite reassurance. More a statement of fact.
A sudden, stronger gust of wind rattled the loose windowpane in its frame, making Ji-min flinch again. The shadows thrown by the fire leaped and twisted grotesquely on the walls. Seo-jun remained utterly still, listening. The rattling subsided, replaced by the steady drumming of rain and the soft crackle of the fire.
"You have food?" he asked, shifting back to the practical.
Ji-min held up the damp paper parcel. "Soon-ja's rice cakes."
"That'll do for tonight." He walked towards the archway leading to the kitchen. "Tap water's probably safe, but boil it if you're unsure. There's a kettle." He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. Ji-min heard the clank of metal. He reappeared holding a large, old-fashioned metal kettle. He filled it from the single, chipped ceramic sink visible through the archway, then placed it directly on the flat top of the stove near the firebox door. It hissed faintly. "Give it half an hour. Water for tea, or just to drink."
He stood by the stove, the firelight playing on his profile. The silence stretched, filled only by the storm outside and the domestic sounds of the crackling fire and the hissing kettle. The intimacy of the small circle of warmth in the vast, decaying room felt strange, charged. Ji-min felt acutely aware of his presence, his quiet competence, the sheer physicality of him in this space of neglect. He was an anchor, solid and real, amidst the unsettling atmosphere.
"My phone…" she remembered suddenly, fumbling in the pocket of Soon-ja's borrowed trousers. She pulled out her sleek smartphone. The screen was dark. She pressed the power button. Nothing. "Dead. The cold… the rain…"
"No signal here anyway," Seo-jun said, his gaze fixed on the kettle starting to steam. "Not reliable. Landline's disconnected." He stated it as simple fact, not comfort. "You're cut off."
The words landed heavily. Cut off. From Seoul. From her studio. From her frantic life. From help. The reality of her isolation, chosen and now enforced by the storm and this decaying house, settled over her like the damp chill. She shivered, pulling the thick sweater tighter.
Seo-jun noticed. He reached out, not towards her, but towards the pile of logs. He selected another one, opened the stove door, and placed it carefully onto the glowing embers. Sparks flew upwards. He closed the door. The action was simple, domestic, yet it felt like a small act of care in this unwelcoming place.
"The fire will last a few hours," he said, straightening. He checked his own sturdy, utilitarian wristwatch. "I need to finish my patrol. Check the river level. Make sure the car's still holding." He looked at her, his expression serious. "You'll be alright here? Doors lock. Fire's going. Water's heating."
*Would* she be alright? The thought of being alone in this creaking, groaning, sad old house, with the storm raging outside and Soon-ja's unsettling words whispering in her mind, filled her with fresh dread. But what could she say? Ask the village police officer to stay? The absurdity of it, the vulnerability it would expose, stopped her. She was Park Ji-min. She handled high-pressure deadlines, difficult clients, city chaos. She could handle one night in a creepy old house.
"I'll be fine," she said, forcing a confidence she didn't feel into her voice. "Thank you, Officer Ahn. For everything."
He gave a curt nod. "Seo-jun." He corrected her quietly. "Call if… well." He gestured vaguely, acknowledging the lack of phone. "If there's an emergency, Soon-ja's shop is closest. Or bang on a wall loud enough for Min-ho to hear, though I wouldn't recommend that as a first choice." A flicker of dry humor touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. "I'll check the car, then radio Sangju about the road condition. Might be clear enough for a tow tomorrow, if we're lucky."
He moved towards the hall, picking up his police cap from where he'd placed it on the dusty dining table. He paused at the archway, looking back at her. She stood by the fire, the flames casting warm light on her face but leaving her eyes shadowed, vulnerable in the borrowed clothes. The vast, decaying room seemed to press in around her small figure.
"Lock the door behind me," he instructed, his voice low but firm. "Don't answer it for anyone you don't know. Especially not tonight." The implication hung in the air – the isolation, the storm, the strangeness of her arrival. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, but with a weight that felt deliberate, "The noises… it's just the house and the wind. Don't let it spook you."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked down the hall. Ji-min heard the scrape of the front door opening, then the deeper roar of the storm as he stepped outside, followed by the solid *thud* of the door closing. The lock clicked loudly in the sudden, profound silence of the house.
She was alone.
The fire crackled. The kettle hissed softly, building towards a whistle. The rain drummed steadily on the roof. And beneath it all, the house seemed to breathe. A faint *creak* from upstairs. A soft *pop* from the cooling plaster. A sighing draft that snaked across the back of her neck, cold despite the stove's warmth. She walked to the window Seo-jun had looked out of, peering into the gloom. She could just make out his figure in the oilskin coat, head down against the rain, disappearing down the overgrown path towards the village, swallowed by the twilight and the downpour.
Turning back to the room, the emptiness felt vast and watchful. She walked to the front door, slid the heavy, old-fashioned bolt across. The sound was final. Secured. Trapped. She returned to the circle of firelight, the only sanctuary within this larger, unsettling sanctuary. She sank into the dusty armchair near the stove, pulling her socked feet up underneath her, hugging her knees. She stared into the flames, trying to absorb their warmth, their reality.
The kettle began to whistle, a shrill, insistent sound that shattered the heavy silence. It was too loud, too demanding. Ji-min jumped up, grabbing the handle with a cloth Seo-jun had left nearby, and pulled it off the stove, silencing it. The abrupt quiet that followed felt even deeper, more oppressive. The hiss of steam from the spout seemed unnaturally loud.
She poured hot water into one of the chipped mugs she found on the kitchen counter, adding a tea bag from her own small stash in her tote bag – chamomile, brought from Seoul for moments of stress. She carried the steaming mug back to the armchair, the warmth seeping into her hands. She took a sip, the familiar floral taste a small, comforting connection to her old life.
As she sat there, the firelight flickering, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own across the peeling walls and the dust-sheeted furniture, she strained her ears. Beyond the rain, beyond the crackle of the fire, beyond her own breathing… was that a faint scuttling sound from the kitchen? Just mice, surely. Old houses had mice. Then… a low groan, like wood under strain, coming from the direction of the staircase. Settling, like Seo-jun said. Had to be.
But then… something else. Faint. Barely audible over the storm. It sounded like… whispering. Not words, just a susurration, a sighing murmur that seemed to come from the walls themselves, or perhaps from the dark space under the stairs where the bathroom lurked. She froze, mug halfway to her lips, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She held her breath, listening intently.
*Sssssssssss….*
Like dry leaves skittering over stone.
*Huuuuuuuu….*
Like breath expelled from ancient lungs.
It stopped. Then, a few seconds later, it came again, slightly different, from another direction. Near the boarded-up window in the corner. Ji-min's knuckles were white around the mug handle. *Wind in the eaves*, she told herself fiercely. *Tricks the ear*. Seo-jun's calm voice echoed in her memory. *Just the house and the wind.*
She forced herself to take another sip of tea, but her hand trembled. The warmth of the drink couldn't reach the cold knot of fear tightening in her stomach. The shadows seemed to deepen in the corners of the room, beyond the firelight's reach. The flickering light made the stains on the ceiling look like shifting, grasping shapes. The air felt colder near the staircase archway, a distinct chill that had nothing to do with the storm outside. A *cold spot*.
She set the mug down carefully on the dusty floor beside the chair, the clink loud in the silence. She pulled Soon-ja's thick sweater tighter, drawing her knees up to her chest, making herself small within the protective circle of firelight. The rice cakes sat forgotten on the floor. Outside, the wind rose to a sudden howl, rattling the loose windowpane with renewed fury. The fire spat and crackled in response.
Ji-min closed her eyes, trying to block out the sounds, the feelings, the oppressive weight of the Yangok. But the whispers, real or imagined, seemed to seep into her bones. *Sssssss… Huuuuuuu…* They coiled around the edges of her consciousness, insistent, unsettling. She opened her eyes, staring fixedly into the heart of the fire, seeking solace in its simple, consuming light. The flames danced, orange and gold, but the darkness beyond felt alive, pressing in, whispering secrets the rotting wood had absorbed over decades of abandonment and decay. She was alone in the house on the mountain, and the house, it seemed, was not entirely empty. The long night stretched ahead, measured by the drumming rain, the crackling fire, and the subtle, unnerving sounds of the Yangok settling… or stirring.