The fire had dwindled to glowing embers by the time grey, watery light began to seep through the grimy window of the Yangok's main room. Ji-min hadn't slept. She'd spent the endless, whispering hours curled in the dusty armchair, knees drawn tight to her chest, eyes fixed on the dying flames or darting nervously towards the shadows that pooled in the corners and under the dark maw of the staircase. Every creak, every groan of the old house settling, every skittering sound (definitely mice, *had* to be mice) had jolted her nerves. The faint susurrations – the whispers that seemed to coil from the walls themselves – had faded with the deepest part of the night, replaced by the relentless drumming of rain that never truly ceased, only lessened to a persistent, soaking drizzle.
She felt hollowed out, scraped raw. Adrenaline had long since burned away, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion and a residue of cold fear that clung like the dampness in the air. Her eyes felt gritty, her head throbbed dully, and the borrowed clothes smelled of woodsmoke and ancient dust. The chamomile tea sat cold and forgotten beside her.
The silence now felt different. Not peaceful, but watchful. The house held its breath, waiting. Waiting for what? For her to leave? For the storm to return in full fury? For the whispers to start again? She shivered, not entirely from the chill. Seo-jun's words – *Don't let it spook you* – echoed, feeling both like a lifeline and a cruel joke in the oppressive stillness.
A sharp, authoritative knock shattered the quiet.
Ji-min jerked upright, her heart leaping into her throat. For a wild, disoriented moment, she thought the whispers had solidified, taken form. Then reason reasserted itself. *Seo-jun.* It had to be. Who else would brave the muddy path to this forsaken place at dawn? Relief warred with a fresh wave of vulnerability. He'd see her like this – a sleep-deprived, mud-stained wreck huddled in borrowed clothes in a decaying ruin.
The knock came again, louder, impatient. "Park Ji-min? It's Seo-jun."
Pushing herself stiffly out of the chair, her joints protesting, Ji-min shuffled to the heavy front door. She fumbled with the cold iron bolt, her fingers clumsy with fatigue, and finally pulled it open.
Officer Ahn Seo-jun stood on the sagging porch, rain dripping from the brim of his cap and the shoulders of his oilskin coat. The grey morning light etched his features sharply – the strong line of his jaw shadowed with stubble, the dark eyes instantly scanning her face, taking in the shadows under her eyes, the pallor, the tension in her frame. He held a large, steaming paper cup in one hand. The rich, familiar aroma of real coffee cut through the damp, musty air, an olfactory lifeline to civilization.
"Morning," he said, his voice a low rumble. His gaze moved past her, into the dim hallway, a quick, professional assessment. "You look like you wrestled a mountain spirit. And lost." There was no judgment in the observation, just blunt fact. He held out the paper cup. "Soon-ja sent reinforcements. Said you looked like you needed it more than vitamins."
Ji-min stared at the coffee, then up at him. The simple gesture, the unexpected kindness behind Soon-ja's sharp tongue, the sheer, solid reality of him standing there after the spectral horrors of the night, cracked something inside her. A weak, shaky laugh escaped her, bordering on hysterical. "Wrestled? More like got sat on by one. Repeatedly." She took the cup, the heat searing her cold fingers, the scent alone sending a jolt of desperate gratitude through her. "Thank you. Tell Soon-ja… tell her she's an angel disguised as a gossip."
A flicker of something – perhaps amusement, perhaps understanding – crossed Seo-jun's face. "I'll be sure to pass that along. Might make her choke on her kimchi." He stepped inside, closing the door against the drizzle. He removed his cap, shaking the water off onto the cracked tile. His dark hair was damp. He looked alert, focused, untouched by the night's phantoms. The contrast to her own state was stark. "Car's still there," he reported, his tone shifting to business. "Settled a bit deeper, but the rocks held. Road's a mess, but passable on foot. Tow truck from Sangju might make it up later today, if the rain holds off."
He looked around the entrance hall, his sharp eyes missing nothing – the peeling wallpaper, the dust, the faint smell of decay. Then his gaze settled back on her. "You get any rest?"
Ji-min took a long, scalding sip of the coffee. It was strong, dark, and blessedly bitter. It burned her tongue but sent a wave of warmth and clarity through her fogged brain. "Rest?" She managed a weak, sarcastic smile. "Define 'rest'. I spent the night cataloging the Yangok's extensive repertoire of unsettling noises. It's… quite virtuosic. Creaks, groans, sighs, whispers… it even does percussion when the wind hits the loose shutters just right." She tried to sound flippant, but her voice trembled slightly on the word 'whispers'.
Seo-jun's gaze sharpened. He didn't dismiss it. "Whispers?"
She shrugged, wrapping her hands tighter around the warm cup, avoiding his too-perceptive eyes. "Probably just the wind. Like you said. Or the pipes groaning. Or the ghosts of bankrupt resort developers airing their grievances." She forced another sip of coffee. "It's fine. Just… loud. For an empty house."
He held her gaze for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. He seemed about to say something more, but then a sudden, piercing whistle cut through the damp air outside, sharp and urgent. It wasn't a bird. It was human-made. Seo-jun's head snapped towards the sound, his posture instantly shifting to alert readiness. He recognized it.
"That's Soon-ja," he said, his voice tight. "Trouble." He jammed his cap back on. "Stay here. Lock the door." He was already turning, hand on the doorknob.
"Wait!" The word burst out before Ji-min could stop it. The thought of being left alone again in the echoing silence of the Yangok, even in daylight, was suddenly unbearable. "I… I'm coming with you." She saw the immediate refusal forming on his lips. "Please. I can't… I can't stay here right now. I need… air. Real air." It wasn't entirely a lie. The house felt suffocating.
Seo-jun hesitated, his eyes scanning her face again – the exhaustion, the lingering fear, the desperate need for escape written plainly there. He glanced towards the sound of the whistle, which came again, more insistent. A flicker of impatience crossed his features, warring with… something else. Resignation? "Fine. But stay close. And don't touch anything." He yanked the door open. "Move."
Ji-min didn't need telling twice. She grabbed her oversized rubber sandals and the large umbrella Soon-ja had lent her, sloshing coffee down her borrowed sweater in her haste. She stumbled out onto the porch after him, locking the heavy door with trembling fingers before plunging into the cool, damp morning. The drizzle felt like a baptism after the stagnant air of the house. She gulped in deep breaths, the scent of wet pine and earth washing away the taste of dust and decay.
Seo-jun was already striding down the muddy path towards Jeongno, his long legs eating up the distance. Ji-min hurried after him, struggling to keep up in the ill-fitting sandals, the umbrella catching on low branches. As they neared the main lane, they saw Kim Soon-ja standing outside her porch shop, not whistling now, but wringing her hands, her face a mask of distress. Choi Eun-jung was beside her, arms crossed, her usual boisterousness replaced by a grim frown. A small cluster of villagers had gathered – Park Yeong-mi looking wide-eyed and curious, Han Jung-sook looking pinched and disapproving, Old Man Kang standing stoically with his walking stick, and Lee Min-ho hovering at the edge, his expression unreadable but his posture tense.
"Seo-jun-ah!" Soon-ja cried out as they approached, her voice cracking. "Thank heaven! Look! Just look!" She pointed a shaking finger towards the covered porch area of her shop.
Seo-jun pushed through the small crowd, Ji-min trailing nervously behind him, acutely aware of the curious and wary glances directed her way. The porch looked ransacked. Baskets of produce were overturned, spilling greens onto the wet boards. Sacks of rice leaned precariously. But the focus was on a specific section near the shop's entrance. A sturdy wooden shelf, usually stacked high with Soon-ja's pride and joy – her homemade kimchi in large, heavy earthenware jars of various sizes and ages – stood half-empty. Four jars were missing. Not just any jars. The largest ones, the ones that usually occupied the prime spots, their surfaces dark and glossy with years of seasoning and care. The spaces where they had stood were starkly vacant.
"My *changdok*!" Soon-ja wailed, tears welling in her sharp eyes. "My oldest, best kimchi! The special batches! Gone! Just… gone!" She gestured helplessly at the empty spaces. "Sometime last night! In that cursed rain!"
Seo-jun moved forward, his demeanor instantly shifting into that of the investigator. Calm, focused, observant. He crouched near the shelf, examining the wet porch floor. "Any sign of forced entry? The shop door?"
Soon-ja shook her head vehemently. "Locked tight! Always is! They didn't break in! They just… took them! From the porch!"
"Footprints?" Seo-jun asked, his eyes scanning the muddy area around the porch steps. The rain had washed away most traces, leaving only a churned mess.
"Nothing clear, Officer," Eun-jung spoke up, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. "Rain was too heavy. Just mud soup out here." She gestured towards the lane. "Anyone could have come and gone. Easy."
Seo-jun straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the gathered villagers. "Anyone see anything? Hear anything unusual last night? Especially during the storm?"
A murmur rippled through the small group. Heads shook. Han Jung-sook sniffed. "Who'd be out in that weather stealing kimchi jars? It's madness! And heavy! Takes strength to lift those big *onggi*."
"Vandalism at the Yangok, now theft here?" Dae-seok's gravelly voice cut through the murmurs. The Village Head had arrived, his stern face thunderous. He stood beside Soon-ja, placing a comforting but firm hand on her shoulder. "This isn't random mischief, Seo-jun. First the outsider arrives, and now this?" His sharp gaze flickered towards Ji-min, who instinctively shrank back behind Seo-jun's broad shoulder, feeling the weight of suspicion settle over her like a shroud.
"Now, Dae-seok," Soon-ja said, though her voice still trembled, "Don't go blaming the agassi. She was stuck at the police box half the night, then freezing her bones off at the Yangok! How could she lug my jars away? She can barely walk in those borrowed sandals!" Her defense, while practical, did little to dispel the uneasy glances directed Ji-min's way.
"Besides," Eun-jung added, her voice regaining some of its usual volume, "Whoever did this knew what they were taking. Took the oldest, the best. The special batches Soon-ja keeps separate. That's not random. That's… targeted." Her eyes narrowed, scanning the faces in the crowd.
A tense silence fell. Ji-min felt the unspoken accusation hanging in the damp air. *Targeted.* By whom? Why kimchi jars? It seemed absurd, yet the violation was palpable in Soon-ja's distress and the villagers' grim expressions.
Min-ho shifted his weight, his boots squelching in the mud. He hadn't spoken yet. His gaze was fixed on the empty spaces on the shelf, his jaw clenched. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, tight with suppressed anger. "Heavy jars. Takes strength. Or a cart." He looked directly at Seo-jun, a challenge in his eyes. "Maybe someone who knew the storm would cover their tracks. Someone who doesn't belong here stirring things up." He didn't look at Ji-min, but the implication was clear.
Seo-jun's expression remained impassive, but Ji-min saw a muscle flicker in his jaw. "Speculation doesn't find stolen property, Min-ho-ssi," he said evenly, his voice cutting through the tension. He turned back to Soon-ja. "Halmeoni, describe the jars. Exactly. Any markings? Size?"
Soon-ja sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Big ones. The biggest I had. Two were dark brown, almost black, glazed smooth – my grandmother's *onggi*, over fifty years old! Held my best cucumber kimchi. The other two were reddish-brown, rougher glaze, but still big – held my special radish kimchi, the one with the extra shrimp paste! All had my mark…" She pointed to a faint symbol scratched near the base of one remaining jar – a simple, stylized bird. "…right there. My mark!"
Seo-jun nodded, committing the details to memory. He looked around the porch again, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Ji-min, standing slightly behind him, followed his gaze. Amidst the overturned greens and spilled grains near the shelf, something small and pale caught her eye, half-trodden into the muddy board. It wasn't produce. She nudged Seo-jun's arm lightly, pointing silently.
He crouched down again, carefully brushing aside a wet cabbage leaf. It was a feather. Small, slightly bedraggled, white with a faint grey tip. A common sparrow feather, perhaps, blown in the storm. But it lay precisely where one of the large jars had stood. Seo-jun picked it up carefully between thumb and forefinger, examining it. His expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed fractionally. He slipped it into a small plastic evidence bag he produced from his coat pocket, a gesture that seemed both routine and oddly significant in the context of stolen kimchi.
He stood up, pocketing the bag. "I'll need to look around the perimeter. See if anything was dropped. Check the usual paths." He looked at Dae-seok. "Ijang-nim, perhaps you could help Soon-ja secure what's left? And take an inventory?"
Dae-seok gave a curt nod, his expression still stormy. "We'll do that. This is an outrage, Seo-jun. Find who did this. Soon." His gaze swept over the villagers again, lingering on Min-ho and then, inevitably, flickering towards Ji-min with unconcealed suspicion.
Seo-jun turned to Ji-min. "You. Back to the Yangok. Or to the police post if you prefer. But stay put." His tone brooked no argument this time. The fragile connection forged over coffee and shared absurdity was gone, replaced by the steel of the officer dealing with a violation of his community's peace.
Ji-min nodded mutely, the warmth of the coffee gone cold in her stomach. The sanctuary of the village felt fractured, the suspicion a tangible force. As Seo-jun began to methodically examine the muddy ground beyond the porch, Soon-ja weeping softly while Dae-seok tried to comfort her, Eun-jung muttering darkly, and Min-ho watching Seo-jun with simmering resentment, Ji-min turned away. She walked back up the lane towards the path to the Yangok, the villagers' eyes boring into her back. The drizzle felt colder now, the borrowed sweater insufficient against the chill of unwelcome scrutiny.
She didn't go straight back to the decaying house. The thought of its echoing silence and watchful shadows was too much. Instead, driven by a restless need to escape the palpable tension in the village center, she took a different fork in the path, one that wound slightly uphill behind the cluster of houses, following a sign that simply said 'Shrine' in faded Korean characters. Maybe peace, however cold, could be found there. Maybe the mountain spirits were more welcoming than the villagers right now.
The path was narrow, muddy, and overgrown with wet ferns that brushed against her borrowed trousers. The trees pressed close, dripping moisture. The roar of the river was fainter here, replaced by the dripping silence of the forest. After a few minutes, the path opened into a small, mossy clearing. At its center stood a simple, ancient stone structure – the village *dang*, the shrine to the mountain spirit, Sanshin. It was little more than a low stone platform supporting a weathered, moss-covered stone statue of an old man seated cross-legged, a tiger curled peacefully at his side. Offerings of simple wildflowers, now rain-battered, lay at the statue's base.
Ji-min approached slowly, the quiet reverence of the place seeping into her, calming her frayed nerves slightly. This felt old, grounded, peaceful. She stopped a few feet from the shrine, taking a deep breath of the damp, pine-scented air. Then her gaze fell on the statue itself.
Someone had been here. Recently. And they hadn't come to pay respects.
Smeared across the mossy chest of the Sanshin statue, partially obscuring the serene stone face, was a thick, viscous paste. It was dark red, almost brown, and glistened wetly in the diffused morning light. It smelled pungent, fermented, unmistakable even from a few feet away.
**Gochujang.** Chili paste. And not just smeared; it looked deliberately daubed, almost like crude paint. But that wasn't all. Scattered around the base of the shrine, lying on the moss like discarded offerings, were several small, white objects. Ji-min stepped closer, her heart pounding with a fresh, different kind of unease.
They weren't flowers. They were **feathers**. Small, white feathers, identical to the one Seo-jun had found near Soon-ja's stolen kimchi jars. Some were clean, others were stained with the same dark red gochujang paste.
The vandalism at the Western House, the stolen kimchi jars filled with precious, fermented food… and now this. Desecration. At the sacred place of the mountain spirit. With chili paste and feathers. It wasn't just theft. It was a message. A dark, unsettling ritual performed in the heart of the storm. And the echo of Soon-ja's words about the Yangok being 'unsettled' suddenly felt chillingly literal. Ji-min stared at the defiled statue, the pungent smell of chili paste filling her nostrils, the scattered feathers lying like ominous punctuation marks. The sanctuary of the mountain felt violated, and the whispers of the night seemed to coil back into her mind, carrying a new, terrifying question: What kind of spirit were they dealing with?