I lived in Seogwipo, Jeju Island, for six months last year. The guesthouse I stayed at was quiet, and my days passed slowly—until I discovered the shrine hidden behind the citrus orchard.
Locals never went near it. The steps were overgrown with moss, and a thick vine had coiled around the small wooden gate. It looked abandoned. But every morning, I noticed fresh incense smoke curling into the air.
One day, out of curiosity, I asked the old woman who ran the convenience store nearby.
“Who lights the incense at the shrine?”
Her face stiffened. She muttered, “No one.”
I thought I misunderstood. But her tone made it clear: don’t ask again.
That night, I returned to the shrine. I don’t know why. The air was thick, and my flashlight flickered as I stepped past the gate. The shrine was small, with old offerings scattered around—a broken bowl of rice, moldy fruit, and a photo half-burnt by time. A woman’s photo.
Suddenly, I felt cold. And then… I heard it.
A soft sweeping sound.
As if someone was dragging a broom across the stone steps behind me.
I turned around—no one was there. But the steps were clean.
Too clean.
I backed away slowly, but as I did, the incense stick snapped in half and fell to the ground on its own. The smoke turned black.
I ran.
The next morning, the shrine was back to its overgrown state. The incense stick was untouched, still whole. The steps? Covered in moss again.
I moved out two weeks later.
But sometimes I still dream of the sweeping sound. And the photo of the woman with her eyes scratched out.
