Now listen here — deep inside Jeonju's hanok village, there's Jeondong Cathedral. Yes, that beautiful one, all red brick. In the daylight it's something truly lovely, people lining up just to have their picture taken in front of it. But there's a story this old woman heard, and I'll tell you — if folks knew what that ground used to be, not a single one of them would be standing there smiling so bright.
Now, this came to me secondhand from someone who'd lived in that neighborhood a long, long time, so I can't swear to every word — but they say that in the last days of Joseon, that land was an execution ground. Catholics, people whose only crime was their faith, had their heads taken off right there on that spot. Young ones among them. Mothers. Quite a number of souls died there, they say. The blood soaked down into the earth, and there were whispers that the soil in that place has never been quite the same since.
And when they were building the cathedral — well, during the construction, one of the laborers digging the foundation ran into something he couldn't explain. In the dead of summer, cold air came rising up out of the ground. There he was, shoveling away under the blazing midday sun, when a sudden chill crept up from beneath his feet. Gave him such a fright that he threw down his shovel and ran without once looking back. And that wasn't all — the men keeping watch over the site at night kept hearing sounds coming from where no one was working. Not the sound of shovels. More like fingers scraping at the dirt. Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. Every time they went to look, there was nothing there.
Now this next part is more recent — just a few years back, a photography club gathered in front of the cathedral one night to shoot the evening scenery. They all had their tripods set up, eyes pressed to their viewfinders, when one young woman felt that something was off. She said a floral scent drifted toward her from the direction of the front steps. Like chrysanthemums, she thought — but far too thick, too sweet, sweet enough to turn her stomach. She lifted her head and looked toward the steps.
There was someone sitting there. But something about it was wrong. Kneeling, both hands clasped before them, head bowed low. The posture of prayer. It was past eleven at night, and she thought — is someone really out here alone like this? She took a step forward, meaning to say something. And in that moment, the person beside her grabbed her arm. Quietly pointed. Look, they said. Look.
The figure's feet were not touching the steps.
From the knees down, it hovered just above the stone — by no more than the width of a finger. She told herself it was a trick of the light, an illusion, and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again, it was exactly the same. Then she screamed — and the moment she did, the shape dissolved, slowly, like smoke. But as it vanished, the floral scent surged up all at once, thick enough to stop her breath.
Even now, she says, whenever she catches the smell of chrysanthemums, she's back in that night.
Think of how much has soaked into that ground. How many people breathed their last prayers into that earth. So they say — if you're passing by the cathedral at night and a faint sweetness rises up around you, just keep walking. Pretend you didn't notice.
And don't look back.
