I arrived in Korea last fall, half a traveler and half a wanderer. My budget was tight, so when a friend told me a guesthouse in Gangneung was looking for help, I accepted the job without hesitation.
The place was an old hanok—a traditional Korean house with warm ondol floors, paper sliding doors, and a quiet courtyard. There were eight rooms in total, but one of them, Room 7, came with a strict rule.
The owner, Mr. Lee, was kind but firm.
"Never open Room 7. Never accept bookings for it. Just keep it empty."
I figured it was under renovation. When I asked, he simply said:
"It’s better that way."
So I blocked the room on the booking apps and forgot about it.
Until one weekend in November, when every room was fully booked. Strangely, Room 7 showed up as available. A reservation came in—prepaid, no contact info, only a name: H. Na.
I told Mr. Lee. His face immediately went pale.
"You didn’t open it, right?" "Of course not."
He told me to cancel it, but the system wouldn’t allow it. It was locked in.
That night, during my usual check, I passed by Room 7. The door, which had been locked with a padlock, was slightly ajar.
I was sure it had been secured. I hesitated, then slowly pushed the door open.
The room was dusty. Old furniture, forgotten boxes, and a large mirror draped in white cloth filled the space. And in the corner... stood a woman.
She didn’t move. Her long black hair covered her face. My breath caught in my throat.
I slammed the door shut and ran to Mr. Lee. He didn’t ask anything. Just grabbed nails and a hammer and boarded up the door.
"She’s been called again... The sea... It always calls her around this time."
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
The next morning, the reservation was gone. Not just canceled—completely erased. Even the system logs showed nothing.
But on the lobby desk lay a single note, written in perfect Korean calligraphy:
"Thank you for keeping the room empty."
I packed my things and left that same day.
Believe it or not, Room 7 is still there.
And every year, around the same time… I remember that name again.
H. Na
