Goedam 1 〈2027〉

The voice stopped.

Then came the voice. His mother's voice.

"Jae-ho-yah. Turn around. Come home."

"Just condensation," Jae-ho muttered.

He was twenty-seven now, a skeptical urban explorer with a YouTube channel that barely cracked a thousand views. He thought the stories were charming folklore, nothing more. That night, he brought a camera, a flashlight, and a bottle of soju for courage.

He clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. He recited the only thing he could remember—the childhood prayer his grandmother made him say before bed. Not a Christian prayer, but older: words that felt like stones in his mouth, heavy and hard.

He almost did. His body began to pivot before his mind caught up. But his grandmother's voice overrode the command: If you hear someone call your name twice, it isn't them. It's the Goedam. goedam 1

The alley swallowed him at 12:03 AM. The streetlamps from the main road died as soon as he stepped past the first broken tile. The air turned cold—not the damp chill of autumn, but the sterile freeze of a room that had never known sunlight. Jae-ho adjusted his camera's night mode and whispered to his audience of none, "Let's see what the fuss is about."

"Jae-ho-yah," the voice came again, sweeter, more insistent. "Don't you love me? Turn around."

And he knows the Goedam is waiting. Not for him—but for the next person who thinks a story is just a story. The voice stopped

Thirty paces. That's when the whispering started.

"Hello?" His voice cracked.

Jae-ho's blood turned to ice water. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't obey. The camera feed showed only static now. The flashlight flickered once and died. He stood in absolute darkness, listening to the sound of his own heart hammering against his ribs. "Jae-ho-yah

The figure tilted its head. Then it raised one long, gray finger to where its mouth should have been.