My dearest Joon-Ho,
When you read these lines, I will have passed away and will hopefully be reborn, cleansed of the darkness within me. First and foremost, I need to say this: I have always loved you. Please believe me when I say that I have always given everything within my power to ensure that you grow up safe and secure, becoming a capable woman who will hopefully never lack anything.
I know you will disagree. I have always been a very strict mother, perhaps too harsh with you, but nothing was ever more important to me than teaching you principles, integrity, and morality. It was not only because I wanted to be a proper mother, but also because I didn't want you to burden yourself with the same mistakes and actions that I carry. The things I am writing down here are words and thoughts I couldn't tell you in person, my dear Joon-Ho, because I am too ashamed. I know there is nothing but bitterness in your heart when thinking of me, but I have always loved you. You were always the highest, the most important thing in my life, even if you probably don't believe me.
I know you hate me. You hate me for the strictness with which I raised you, for the coldness I often displayed. But please believe me that all I wanted was for you to live with care and never forget what is right. That's why I hope the following words will help you understand why I am the way I am, what I experienced, and what horrors I shielded you from. What I endured so that you lacked nothing, neither food nor education.
I know you have terrible nightmares, to this day. Of screams and fear and violence and death. Nightmares that you can't explain, but for which... there is an explanation. I always denied it because I wanted to protect you from the past, but I believe you have a right to know. I unfortunately can't tell you in person – partly because you don't want to see again, and partly because... I am too cowardly for it. I am so ashamed and hate myself too much for what I did... But Joon-Ho, I beg you, at least read these words and... forgive me if you can. I want to tell you where you come from. I want to tell you about the scars I carry on my soul. So much in my life has left deep wounds in me, some of which still fester and stole from me the warmth I would have liked to offer you.
My dear Joon-Ho, you often used to ask me about the small town where you were born. About your father – your biological father. About how we had lived and why I took you away from there. I never answered those questions. I always brushed you off and told you it was none of your business. That the past should be left alone because it was unimportant. That's what I always told you. But, Joon-Ho, that was a lie. One of the most foolish and terrible lies I've ever told, for the greater good: I only wanted to shield you, shield you from the truth, but now I believe it was a mistake. That my lies have caused you only harm...
You were born in a small town in North Korea near the southern border, which they called "Gipeun." That name won't mean anything to you and the town no longer exists...
At first glance, there didn't seem to be much wrong with Gipeun, but as you well know, appearances can often be deceiving. All those little run-down wooden houses, erected on the stormy east coast of North Korea, looked weathered and desolate. They carried within them many unpleasant, terrible, and bitter stories - as one would expect from that region. But there were also other, older stories. Stories told only by the elderly. Words spoken with reverence and fear, half-forgotten, used during sparse fireside evenings or stormy days to scare children. To warn them not to play too recklessly and far from home, or to be obedient and follow the instructions of the security personnel. But... every time I heard those stories from my grandparents, who had in turn heard them from their grandparents, a feeling would well up inside me. A feeling that was not just pure fear, not just pure dread of the things that were supposedly out there, but something else. It was as if something in me moved when I heard those words. As if an ancient premonition or memory stirred.
The old folks often spoke of the hills and mountains that surrounded the town, interrupted only on the east side by the Yellow Sea. They talked about the rocky slopes on which Gipeun was built and the stony peaks that bleakly rose into the sky, adorned with trees. They told of primeval horrors that had once haunted this area, of strange, slimy carcasses resembling large maggots, washed ashore and bloated after stormy nights on the beach. Amidst seaweed and driftwood, these repulsive, foul-smelling bodies appeared disintegrated, yet it was also said that twitching sometimes still ran through their slippery bodies, and mournful, dull howling emanated from their misshapen mouths. Other stories told of the slopes themselves and the eerie caves and crevices that led into the depths of the earth like deep wounds, unfathomable and foreign. They spoke of people disappearing near those holes in the ground, of children being taken and lost...
As time went on, this fear must have subsided at least for some, as they began to build mines, dig deep shafts into the hard ground, and erect drilling rigs in search of oil and wealth. However, even these drilling rigs were surrounded by disturbing reports. Those always seemed less like ghost stories to me and more like real events, as they were not as ancient and fragemented and were still being told by some of the old workers even at the time when you were born. Of course, those old men only shared them after indulging in a few bottles of soju or other cheap alcohol, but if you were careful, you could coax them out of them. Most of the time, it was just cautious words, but sometimes a tale that gave me an almost instant shiver and a sense of unease. Some of the reports from the workers bore a little too much resemblance to the stories my grandparents told me, to prevent me from running too far away or misbehaving and neglecting my assigned community work in the mornings.
One evening, I was confronted with such a story that contained a bit too much reality, but it didn't come from my grandmother; it came from a co-worker of my father. It was the man who owned the boat on which my old man toiled until his death. My father – your grandfather – worked on a fishing trawler, sometimes for an entire week. He always came home late and first greeted the rice wine before paying any attention to me or my mother. I can still see that foul-smelling man sitting on his rotting wooden chair, his arms dangling, his mouth half open, his mind intoxicated. His acrid stench is etched into my thoughts. But I must admit that such moments were still better than the ones when he lost himself in anger and disgust towards himself and everyone else. The moments when it was better to follow his requests.
My dear Joon-Ho, I remember that evening vividly, even though I was very young at the time, maybe eight. It's all still there, even now, as I am an old woman, and more than sixty years have passed. I still dream of that evening and of the legend that I unwittingly heard...
I often find myself reminiscing, thinking back to the rushing streams from the clouds that pelted against the wooden shutters, while I sat in the corner of a small, barren room in a shabby wooden house on a sack of rice, gazing at my father, who lay with his head on the wooden table. He still had the bottle in his hand, his unshaven cheeks rested on the wood, and saliva dribbled from his open, foul-smelling mouth. On another chair sat Young-Soo, another old drunkard, but still partially conscious. I couldn't stand the bitter old man, hated going to his rundown, stinking, leaky abode with my father, and watching them pass out in drunken slumber as they downed what little money we had. My father insisted on taking me with him, wanted to spend more time with me, he said, and my mother had only dared to oppose him once.
I have always spared you such circumstances, my dear Joon-Ho, and I hope you can see that when you look back on your own late youth. That's why I never wanted you to drink alcohol and forbade it to your friends when they were at our place...
So, on that night, I was alone with the old drunks, anxiously huddled on that sack of rice in a corner of the room. It didn't smell as bad of sweat and stale air as the rest of the room, but the wood in that corner had darkened and become stained. Rainwater dripped through leaks in the roof, and I struggled to stay dry. After a while, during which I didn't even dare to move, the gaze of old Young-Soo slowly shifted away from his bottle and toward me. My father was just muttering in his sleep and oblivious.
In Young-Soo's eyes, there was confusion and a haze, along with distant pain. I knew the man had lost his son early on, and his wife had taken her own life afterward. That had been enough to turn him into a wreck forever, and my father probably only visited him because he worked with him on the boat and felt he owed the old man for providing him with a job.
"Hey... Hey! Kid! What's wrong? Don't like my house? You look like a spoiled brat sitting there like you're too good for my home!" slurred Young-Soo.
He burped and wiped some saliva from the corners of his mouth while his hazy eyes continued to fixate on me.
"No, it's nice, I just find it a bit... I'm often scared in the evenings, especially in the rain," I stammered.
I couldn't make him angry; I had learned that from my father. I knew the old man couldn't stand children since the death of his boy, especially when intoxicated. Another reason I was uncomfortable around him. Young-Soo's breath wafted toward my nose, drowning out the smell of rancid wood as he spoke in my direction.
"Ah, I see... So you're afraid... Afraid of a little rain? Afraid of an old house that creaks like there's something in the wood waiting to come out and take you?"
He let out a dirty, guffawing laugh and reached for the bottle again.
"You know...there's so much that can kill you...and that wants to kill you to boot. So many things. My little Kwan. My wife... well, she judged herself. Do you know how she did it? How she killed herself?"
"No, no, but I don't want to know either. I'm scared, please, I'll be quiet too...," I begged.
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The old man plunged another gulp of soju down his throat. I was afraid he would get up and hurt me. And I also didn't want to hear what Young-Soo had to say about his wife.
"Are you afraid...? Yes... I'm sure she was afraid that night too... Do you know what it's like to lose someone you wanted to spend eternity with? What it's like to burn and bury your child? No, because you're just a stupid brat... My wife, my dear wife... my dear Ye-Jin... she had cried again, she often did, at least I think... I wasn't there, you see, I was at sea... A whole cursed week because nothing had gotten lost in the nets, and a horrible storm had dragged our boat away from shore... That cursed night, can you imagine it, you brat? It had rained more than now, much more! So much that the sea had swallowed the beach and shattered the wooden jetties. We had been lucky, my crew and I. Some of the other boats never came back, the men and boys drowned, dying miserably with salt in their lungs, taken by the icy depths. Have you ever been on a barge? Did your father ever take you out there?"
Young-Soo quieted down and seemed lost in another time, slumping a little.
"No, never. He doesn't allow me...", I said quietly.
Briefly, Young-Soo nodded, then continued with a hard, dark expression.
"That's good. Your father is doing it right, not letting his child go out to the sea. It is deep and greedy and never satisfied. Many have lost their sons. Many. Many lost their parents too... Goddamn it... Well, we got back, back to the harbor. I walked home, exhausted and with not a dry stitch of clothing left on my body. My muscles ached. We had caught a fair bit; it would fetch us a little money, get us by. We had to get by! I went into my house... INTO THIS HOUSE!"
Tears streamed from his eyes, and his face became a mask of agony. He trembled all over and continued to scrutinize me. My father slept beside him, not stirring in the slightest. I backed away from Young-Soo as far as I could, pressing myself against the wall. It was the first time in my life that I felt true fear coursing through my body, but unfortunately, it was far from the last.
"I went into this very room... exhausted.... Just wanted to hug my wife, wanted to get some food, a little something to drink... Girl, she was lying there in the corner, right where you're sitting now. Had slit her own throat with a kitchen knife. The blood was everywhere, dried and dark. Never got it back out of the wood, no matter how hard I tried. Can you still smell her blood? I can. Every night it's like she's still here, like I can hear her gurgling, hear the blood gushing from her throat. She's become a Gosa, yes, I'm sure of it! Do you know what a Gosa is? Did your father tell you? Did he tell you what happens in this town when you take your own life?"
I didn't want to listen to him. I wanted to leave, wanted to run for the door, but it was raining outside and that horrible man would have stopped me for sure. I could see it in his eyes, he was just waiting for me to do something he didn't like. Joon-Ho, I hope you never experienced such a situation. I never allowed you to hear ghost stories when you were little because I knew how bad they could be. I knew about your nightmares. What the old man told me was scary and disturbed me, probably forever. I had shaken my head and he had started to grin. There was sadistic joy in his eyes.
"A Gosa is the crippled remnant of a person who took their own life. My wife... her grief, her anger, her hatred of the world... They survived. My Ye-Jin, what has become of her? What has become of her...? She visits me at night... Yes, she visits me and whispers in my ear what she was thinking before she plunged the knife into her flesh. She has become a Gosa... An evil Gosa... Do you understand?"
I couldn't think straight, it was all so horrible. The image of a bleeding woman with a once beautiful face, looking in my direction, distorted with hatred, cursing, gurgling, appeared in my mind's eye.
"No, no, it can't be, there's no such thing, that's what mom said, and dad too..."
I had clutched my legs and buried my face in my hands, clenching my eyelids as tears ran down my cheeks and I tasted them salty in my mouth.
"YOU STUPID GIRL! Don't you know what kind of place this is? THIS TOWN? THESE MOUNTAINS? DON'T YOU KNOW? Oh, in other cities, yes, ghosts are just fairy tales. They're not real there. But in some places... In some places, emotions and ideas grow into something new, something else, and start haunting people. This here is one of those places. This town. Just beware! JUST BEWARE!"
I heard him get up and come in my direction.
No. No, this couldn't be. What would he do? His stench was unbearable now, and I squeezed my eyes even more tightly shut. I prepared for a blow, to be shaken by him. I heard the creaking of the wooden floor as his heavy steps drew closer. I heard his wheezing breath, which sounded a bit irregular and exhausted, but also angry, full of suppressed rage.
I was almost driven insane by fear. Then... I heard a clatter beside me.
"DAMN, where's the other bottle?"
I opened my eyes and peeked through my fingers, seeing his weathered face close by and his gaze darting hectically between the bottles on the shelf next to me, searching for more soju he could gulp down. Finally, he found it and pulled it from the shelf, somewhat clumsily, and two other bottles were torn from the cabinet and shattered loudly on the floor.
"DAMN! Shit... SHIT!," Young-Soo yelled and briefly glanced at me.
"Pick that up, clean it up! COME ON, OR SHALL I TEACH YOU SOME MANNERS, YOU LITTLE BRAT?"
As I slowly rose from the sack and knelt next to the shards, he grinned broadly and staggered back to his chair.
"You little cunt! See, good! You're learning to know your place, you little shit!," he muttered as I began to pick up the pieces of glass and throw them into an old dirty wooden bucket I had spotted under the alcohol shelf, always careful not to cut myself.
Young-Soo smiled again and continued to speak.
"Yes, this place... This place is old. Older than most. My family has been living here forever. For ages. Do you know what they say? That up in the hills, there are shafts and passages in the ground that lead too deep for a human to have made. Shafts finely carved into the walls, a long, long time ago. Shafts that partly lead into caves where, even during my childhood, some of the old folks still offered horrid gifts to foreign gods. Places where disturbed rituals were practiced, unnatural, wrong, and cruel. Nowadays, most have forgotten all about it, or at least they try to, but I remember the stories of my grandparents, which they, in turn, heard from their grandparents."
"Uncle, why are you telling me all this? Do you really believe in it? Please, I'm scared, please tell me you're making this up...!" I stammered.
Once again, something stirred inside me, a restlessness that had nothing to do with being helplessly exposed to the whims of an alcohol-addled, bitter old man on a stormy, rainy night. It was like with some of the stories I had heard from my grandmother, words that hinted at something ancient I should have known.
Young-Soo froze and stared at me.
"What did you say? Do you think I'm a liar? Do you think I'm lying about this? For fun?"
He spoke softly now, his voice no longer slurred but clear and sharp.
"I'm not lying! WHY WOULD I? I've seen them, those chambers in the mountain. When I helped to explore the passages! The Ministry ordered it, they wanted oil and coal... I had to! In those passages, deep, deep down, I saw those chambers. They are beneath the town, beneath the hills. It's different down there, it feels terrible... in its own way. I saw the wall drawings, disturbing reliefs, with thin, terrifying black lines burnt into the walls. I saw the idols, made of bronze, distorted images of us, once worshiped down there. You have no idea, you stupid girl! You have no idea what has been slumbering beneath us for all these years..."
He had risen and was creeping towards me. Like a cruel animal, this drunken old man, no longer in control of his senses, approached me. His thoughts seemed to be going everywhere.
"You little shit, why were you allowed to live while my Kwan died? Why are you sitting there now where he should be, my poor boy? MY POOR BOY! Why? WHY?"
He had reached me, grabbed my arm, and lifted me up. Then he threw me into the corner, where I landed on the sack with a groan, rolled down to the floor, and fell with my hand into one of the remaining glass panes, causing a sharp pain to shoot up my arm. Warm liquid flowed over my hand; I felt it, saw the thin red trickling.
"Ouch, OUCH, NO! PLEASE, DON'T! HELP!" I screamed, in a frenzy.
I tried to crawl further away from Young-Soo, my hand pressed against my chest. Slowly, I pushed myself against the wall behind me. His face was now just a hateful mask, grinning contemptuously at me.
"You filthy brat! How does your blood feel? Is it warm? You're such a disgusting little monster... Coming into MY HOUSE, insulting ME, and then defiling the memory of MY WIFE! When I'm done with you, you'll wish you were NEVER BORN!"
He roared some of the words, spoke others softly and almost whispering. In his drunken stupor, the dark sides of his soul, which he had probably repressed deep within himself over the past years, had taken over, and he surrendered completely to them. I felt the anger and hatred, the darkness he radiated. I heard only his panting and the rain pounding against the shutters and dripping into the room. And in the rain, next to his maniacal laughter, I heard a bitter, malevolent gurgling that seemed to emanate from the walls surrounding me. Disgust seized me, and dizziness clouded my senses. The loss of blood and panic made everything seem dull, distant, and fragmented. I only remember some parts, Joon-Ho, so I don't know what was true and what was delirium.
Just flashing images are left in my memory: A distorted, shadowy female figure with disheveled black hair, pale skin, and a blood-smeared throat, whose proportions were not quite right, staring down at me from large, hate-filled eyes as she emerged from the wall. Her angry, hostile gurgles and disjointed words wishing me a gruesome death and regarding me with a contempt I could never have dreamed of. My father, angrily attacking Young-Soo, pale-faced and with vomit at the corner of his mouth. My father, carrying me through the rain, always homeward, crying that he was sorry. That I had to forgive him. That he was a failure, a miserable nobody. That he despised everything, his job, this city, my mother, except for me. That he was sorry for everything. I remembered my mother, washing and bandaging my wound with a black eye, also crying. Then only the calm of the night. And peace in the darkness, when I finally fell into a dreamless sleep.
Do I seem as pathetic to you today as my father did to me back then, Joon-Ho? I hope not. I hope you don't despise me as much as I despised him...
That evening with old Young-Soo and my father and those terrible events... I still remember too much of it. My father's crying, which meant nothing to me, his words bouncing off me. Joon-Ho, I think he truly meant them, but I never forgave him. He died the following week while fishing in the storm with old Young-Soo and Ki-Soo, drowned like the dog he was. At least that's what they said. Who knows, maybe the argument caused deeper anger after all? Maybe Young-Soo despised my father just as much as me since I was alive and his son was dead? Maybe he took his change out there, where no one would see? All of that is possible, but I will never know. It is more likely my father died because of too much alcohol and a slippery deck. I never entered Young-Soo's dreadful hut again, but I still have his grimace and the womanly shape in front of my eyes, as if it had been yesterday...
My mother... your grandmother... never let me near Young-Soo again. All I know is that he went to sea less and less and sank deeper into alcohol. One day, they found him dead in his house, with his throat slit. The neighbors who discovered him, after the stench of his decaying corpse had overshadowed the smell of fish after a few days, talked about his contorted face, supposedly frozen in unspeakable panic. In my imagination, I picture how the Gosa, the deranged spirit of his wife, slowly drove him to madness with her gurgling, hateful words and eventually harvested him when he was ripe.