I’ve been a shaman for as long as I can remember. My grandmother taught me the ways of the spirits and the rituals, and since then, I’ve roamed from village to village, helping those who sought my guidance. But something about this village feels different. The air here is heavy, thick with an unspoken tension. Every corner I turn, I sense eyes watching me, their gazes full of fear and dread. This place, this cursed village, holds more than just haunted houses and whispered rumors. It holds something darker, and it is calling to me.
"Shaman, please help me," a voice shakes me from my thoughts.
I turn to face a young woman, her face pale and her hands trembling. She seems desperate.
"What’s wrong?" I ask, my voice calm and steady, although my mind is already racing.
"There’s a ghost in my house," she says, eyes wide with fear. "It has been haunting me for days. I can’t sleep. I can’t think."
Her words send a chill down my spine. Ghosts are not uncommon, but when they appear like this, it’s usually something more.
"Tell me more," I say, motioning for her to sit by the fire.
She tells me of strange noises—scratching, whispers, and sometimes, the faint sound of a woman crying in the night. But it’s the last part of her story that catches my attention.
"I saw her," she whispers, trembling. "A woman, in a white hanbok, her hair tangled and wild, and she was crying. But when she looked at me... her face... it was twisted, like she was in agony."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This is no ordinary ghost. I can feel it in my bones.
"I need to see this house," I say.
Her house is located at the edge of the village, near the forest. As we walk towards it, the air grows colder, and the trees seem to whisper, their branches creaking in the wind. When we reach the house, it feels as though the world around me has fallen silent.
"It’s here," she says, pointing to the door. "It’s been getting worse every night. I don’t know what to do."
I step inside, my senses immediately alert. The air is thick with the scent of damp wood and stale incense. The house is quiet, eerily so.
I walk through the rooms, my feet making no sound on the wooden floors. The walls are adorned with old pictures, most of them faded and yellowed with age. A small altar sits in the corner, with a few offerings left untouched.
Suddenly, I hear it—a low, guttural sobbing from the corner of the room. I turn, and there, standing in the shadows, is a figure.
It’s her. The woman from the young woman’s vision. Her face is obscured by her hair, but I can feel her pain, her sorrow.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice firm but not unkind. "What do you want?"
The figure doesn’t respond. She only steps forward, her movements jerky, unnatural. Her eyes are wide, filled with terror and sadness.
I take a step back, reaching into my pocket for the talisman I always carry with me. It’s a simple thing, made from the bones of a fox and wrapped in red thread, but it has power. The power to ward off spirits, to banish them back to the realms they came from.
I hold the talisman out in front of me, and the ghost stops. Her body jerks as though she’s been struck by lightning, and she lets out a scream that shakes the very foundations of the house.
"Leave this place!" I shout, my voice sharp. "You are not welcome here!"
The figure stumbles backward, fading into the shadows. The room grows cold, and the wind picks up, howling through the cracks in the walls.
"It’s not over," I whisper, my heart pounding.
Later that night, I sit by the fire with the young woman, who watches me nervously.
"What happened?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"She’s gone for now," I say. "But this house, this land... it’s cursed. There is something more to this."
I feel a sense of urgency creeping into my chest. This isn’t just a restless spirit. This is something older, something that’s been tied to this land for generations.
"You must tell me everything," I say, leaning in. "Anything you know about this house, this village."
The young woman tells me the story of the house, a story that has been passed down through the generations.
"A long time ago, there was a woman who lived here," she begins. "She was a shaman, like you. But she made a terrible mistake."
The woman’s voice shakes as she continues.
"She angered the gods, and in doing so, she cursed this land. Her child died in a terrible accident, and in her grief, she performed a ritual to bring the child back. But something went wrong. The spirit of her child came back, but it was twisted. It was no longer human. It became a demon, hungry for souls."
I listen intently, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together.
"What happened to her?" I ask.
"She died," the young woman says, her eyes darkening. "But her spirit... her anger... it still lingers. She’s been waiting for someone to come and lift the curse."
I sit back, processing the information. This is no ordinary haunting. This is a curse, and it can only be broken by confronting the demon, the twisted spirit of the shaman’s child.
But how? How can I defeat a demon born of grief and rage?
The next day, I go to the village elders, hoping to find more answers. The elders are old, their faces etched with the marks of time. They watch me warily, but I can tell they know more than they let on.
"Shaman, you must be careful," one of them warns me. "This curse has lasted for centuries. There’s no simple way to break it."
"What can I do?" I ask, my voice steady.
The elder sighs deeply.
"You must perform the seongju-gut," he says. "A ritual to appease the spirits. But it is dangerous. It requires great strength and sacrifice."
I nod, already knowing what I must do. I must face the demon, confront the twisted child of the dead shaman, and break the curse that has plagued this land for so long.
That night, I prepare for the ritual. I gather everything I need: offerings, incense, and, of course, the talisman. I draw the protective circles, placing the offerings at the four corners of the room.
As the moon rises, I begin the ritual, chanting the words my grandmother taught me. The air grows heavy, and I can feel the presence of something watching me, something dark and powerful.
Suddenly, the wind howls, and the doors to the room slam shut. The ghostly woman appears before me once more, her twisted form writhing in the shadows.
"You cannot escape," she whispers, her voice full of malice.
I raise the talisman high, chanting the final words of the ritual. The air crackles with energy as the spirit of the child appears, its twisted form moving toward me.
"Begone, demon," I command, my voice strong and unwavering.
The demon pauses, its eyes burning with fury. But I do not falter. I raise the talisman higher, the red thread glowing with an otherworldly light.
The demon screams in agony as the talisman’s power grows. Its form begins to disintegrate, vanishing into the air. The woman’s twisted face flickers, her sorrowful expression slowly fading away.
And then... silence.
The curse is lifted. The spirits are at rest.
The village is no longer haunted, and the house where the curse began is finally free from its dark influence.
I leave the village as the sun rises, the weight of the curse lifted from my shoulders.
But I know this is not the end. There are always more spirits to banish, more demons to face. And I will be there, ready to confront them—one talisman at a time.
The Dark Path
I leave the village behind, the road ahead stretching out in front of me, its long and winding path offering no comfort. I’m used to traveling, to moving from one place to the next. But lately, something gnaws at my mind. The power of the curse that I had just faced, the force that almost consumed me—there’s something lingering, something dark, that refuses to let go.
"It’s not over," I whisper to myself, even as the sun begins to sink beneath the horizon. The warmth of the fading daylight does little to chase the chill settling in my bones.
I’ve faced demons before—spirits of the dead, restless souls, and angry gods. But this… this feels different. The demon I encountered was no ordinary spirit. It was twisted by grief, yes, but it was born of something deeper, something far more ancient. I can’t shake the feeling that the real force behind this curse was never fully dealt with. And I can’t ignore the possibility that it could rise again.
I push these thoughts aside, focusing on the path ahead, but as night falls and the stars begin to fill the sky, my mind drifts back to the village I left behind. The fear in the young woman’s eyes, the pain in the elder’s voice—they all seem to be calling out to me.
A Familiar Call
The following morning, I arrive at another village—one that seems oddly familiar, though I can’t place why. It’s a small place, surrounded by mist and dense forest, a place that doesn’t feel entirely of this world. As I approach, a strange sense of deja vu washes over me. I’ve never been here before, but something feels unsettlingly like home.
There’s a small shrine near the entrance of the village, the usual stone carvings of gods and spirits, but what catches my attention is the worn red thread draped around the base of the shrine. It’s an offering, a request for protection. It’s not common to see such a thing in this part of the country, and it speaks to me like an omen.
I don’t even have to ask anyone. I already know where I’m headed.
The Shaman’s Warning
As I walk deeper into the village, the people here look at me with a strange mixture of suspicion and curiosity. It’s the eyes of those who know something but don’t speak of it, who feel a burden pressing on them but refuse to acknowledge it. I feel their gaze on my back, but I keep moving, following an instinct that pulls me forward.
Finally, I find the place I’m looking for: the humble home of the village’s shaman, an elderly woman with long, silver hair and eyes that seem to carry the weight of many lifetimes. Her house is nestled at the edge of the village, just beyond the boundary of the mist.
She is waiting for me.
"I knew you would come," she says, her voice calm but full of a strange sorrow. "You’ve heard the call, haven’t you?"
I nod without hesitation, though I don’t fully understand. "I’ve heard whispers in the wind, and I’ve seen the threads of fate pull me here. Tell me what you know."
She steps aside, inviting me into her home. The air inside is thick with incense, the walls covered with faded scrolls and talismans. The scent of herbs and old books fills my senses, and I feel a heavy silence settle over the room.
"This village is cursed," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Just like the last one you visited."
I narrow my eyes. "How do you know about that?"
She meets my gaze with a knowing look. "Because the curse you broke… was never fully severed."
My heart skips a beat, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. "What do you mean?"
She motions for me to sit at the small table, her hands shaking slightly as she arranges some old talismans in front of us. "There is something ancient, something that binds these curses together. It’s a force that’s been growing stronger for generations."
Her words hang in the air like a thick fog, suffocating the space between us. She looks at me as if weighing the decision to share this knowledge.
"What is it?" I ask, my voice barely more than a breath.
She hesitates for a moment before answering. "It is the spirit of the first shaman. The one who cursed this land so long ago. She was driven by grief, yes, but she was also manipulated by a far darker force."
I lean forward. "What force?"
"A god," she says, her voice trembling. "A forgotten god who once ruled over the spirits of the dead. He has been silent for centuries, but now he stirs once more."
The Forgotten God
The room seems to grow colder as the words leave her lips. The fire in the hearth flickers and dims, casting long shadows against the walls. I feel the weight of her words settling into my chest, and I know deep down that she’s not just speaking of a forgotten god in myth. She’s speaking of something real, something ancient and powerful.
"You must stop him," she continues, her voice urgent. "If you don’t, he will return in full force, and no talisman, no ritual, no shaman will be able to stop him."
My mind races. "But how? How do I stop a god?"
The shaman looks down at the table, her eyes filled with sorrow. "There is one way." She pulls out an ancient scroll from beneath the pile of talismans and hands it to me. The scroll is old, the paper yellowed with age. The ink is faded, but the symbols are still legible.
"You must perform the Gyeongsa-gut, the Rite of Binding. It is a powerful ritual that can trap a spirit or god within the realms of the dead, but it requires a great sacrifice."
I take the scroll, feeling its weight in my hands. "What kind of sacrifice?"
She does not answer immediately. Instead, she looks at me with a deep, knowing gaze. "The sacrifice of the shaman who performs it."
A Choice
The air feels thick as I stare at the scroll in my hands. The weight of the decision presses down on me, and for the first time in a long while, I question my path. To stop the god, to seal away the curse, I must give up everything. I must give up my own life, my very soul.
I close my eyes, trying to steady my breath. "I have no choice, do I?" I ask, more to myself than to her.
The shaman’s voice is soft but firm. "No. There is no other way."
I hold the scroll tightly, feeling the weight of destiny pressing down on me. The choice is clear now, though the path is steeped in darkness.
"Then I will do it," I say, my voice unwavering.
The Rite of Binding
The night is quiet as I prepare for the ritual. The shaman’s words echo in my mind: "You must give your life to stop the god." The thought lingers, heavy, suffocating. But as the evening shadows stretch across the land, there is no turning back. The curse that has plagued these lands for generations, the evil that has fed on grief and pain, it must be ended now. I can feel it in my bones—the god stirs, restless, ready to awaken fully. If I do not act now, it will consume everything, and everyone.
I gather the items I need for the Gyeongsa-gut, the Rite of Binding: the sacred incense, the old talisman, a small bowl of blood—taken from an animal as per the ritual’s requirement—and the scroll. The shaman gave me little direction on how to perform the final steps, but I feel the weight of the ritual within me. There’s a deep, unspoken knowing, one passed down through generations of shamans, flowing through my veins.
My heart beats louder, and the air grows colder as the ritual begins. The incense fills the room with a heavy, intoxicating scent, and the flickering flames cast dancing shadows against the walls. I feel the spirits watching, waiting for me to begin.
"Spirits of the dead, listen to my call," I chant, my voice low but steady. "Gods of the land, you who stand in judgment, hear my plea. I seek to bind the forgotten god, to seal him away, never to walk the earth again."
The wind howls outside, and the earth beneath me seems to tremble.
The symbols on the scroll glow faintly as I begin to recite the ancient words. My breath catches as the temperature drops sharply, and I know that the god is aware. I can feel him, the god of death, the forgotten one, stirring in the dark recesses of the world. He is listening.
"I give my soul as payment for this deed," I continue, the words leaving my lips like an offering. "I bind you, god of death, with my blood, with my will, with my life. I bind you, never to return."
The air around me thickens. The shadows deepen.
Suddenly, the ground shakes violently, and a low, guttural voice fills the room.
"You cannot stop me." The voice is ancient, hollow, full of anger and pain. It reverberates in my chest like a heavy drumbeat. "You are nothing. Your life means nothing. I will return."
I stand firm. The power surges within me, coursing through my veins. "You will not return," I shout back. "Not while I still stand. Not while I bind you with this ritual."
The shadows in the room twist and writhe, taking shape, forming a dark, formless mass in front of me. The god’s true form is beyond comprehension—his essence a void, an emptiness that consumes everything. He is a spirit born of death, hunger, and sorrow, and he wishes to feast on the world once more.
But I will not allow him.
With trembling hands, I pour the blood into the bowl, mixing it with the ash from the fire. I take a deep breath and press my palm to the ground, whispering the final words of the ritual. The power of the earth itself seems to respond, trembling beneath my touch.
"By the ancient powers that guard this world, by the spirits of the earth, the air, and the water, I bind you. I bind you to the realms of the dead. You will not walk this earth again."
The shadows begin to scream, a terrible sound that tears at my soul, as the god's form struggles against the binding. But the ritual has already begun to take hold. The darkness begins to retract, folding in on itself, as if the very air is closing around him.
His voice becomes a shriek, filled with rage. "You cannot contain me! I will break free!"
But with one final chant, I draw on every last ounce of power I have, every scrap of strength, and I feel the god’s essence being drawn into the earth, bound by the ritual, trapped in the world beyond.
"You will never return," I say, my voice the final seal. "You are bound to the dead, never to rise again."
The Price of Binding
The silence that follows is deafening. The shadows recede, and the wind outside stills. The ritual is complete, and the god is bound. But in that silence, I know that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain.
I look at my hands, now stained with the blood of the ritual. The talisman, now faint and powerless, rests in my palm. The scroll, once glowing with power, is now nothing more than dust.
I fall to my knees, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave. The price of the ritual has been paid, and the god is bound—but it has taken everything from me. My soul, my life, my future—it is all now forfeit.
But as the cold emptiness starts to overtake my body, a small, quiet voice within me speaks.
"You did well."
I look up to see the shaman standing before me. She smiles softly, though her face is filled with sorrow. "The curse is broken. The god is bound. But you… You must now walk a different path."
I try to speak, but my voice falters. "I… I gave everything."
She nods solemnly. "You did. And now you must find peace. The world is free from the curse, but you have lost your place in it. The spirits will watch over you, but you must walk alone."
I feel the weight of her words, and I know she speaks the truth. My life, my role as a shaman, has come to an end. The god is sealed, but the price is steep. There is no going back.
A New Beginning
The world outside seems brighter now, the land free from the dark grip of the curse that has plagued it for so long. The village, once haunted and trapped in shadow, is now bathed in the soft light of dawn.
But as I step outside the shaman’s humble home, I feel the weight of loss heavy in my chest. The price of my actions was high, and I now find myself standing on the edge of an unknown path. My soul, once tied to the spirits and the land, is now untethered, adrift in the vast unknown.
Yet, as I take my first steps away from the village, I know one thing for certain. The spirits still watch over me. Though I have given up my place in the world, I have not been abandoned. The spirits will guide me, and I will find my new purpose, even in the shadows of what has been lost.
"The curse is broken," I whisper, the wind carrying my words into the distance. "And so begins a new journey."