Near the old harbor of Incheon, there is an alley that no one dares enter after dark. It is hemmed in by crumbling buildings, hidden away during the day beneath the ordinary bustle of the city. But when night falls, the alley becomes something else — a doorway to a world that does not belong here.
In the stillness, people sometimes hear sounds they cannot explain. They describe it as the rustling of branches, though there is no wind. But it is not the wind. It is the murmur of something that was born in this place centuries ago — a creature of legend known as the Shadow Beast, said to have no true form, seeping through the dark the way a shadow seeps through a crack in a wall.
An old woman once told the story herself. In her youth, she and a group of friends had come to the alley out of curiosity, and something had happened there that she could barely bring herself to name. One of her friends vanished without warning and never came back. The rest made a silent pact never to speak of what they had seen that night — but she said it plainly, in the end: they had seen the Shadow Beast.
The creature shows itself only in darkness, and it feeds on souls that have lost their way. It cannot be looked at directly, yet its presence announces itself through a dread so total it leaves no room for doubt. Those it takes never return. Their screams are carried on the air, it is said, luring others into the alley the way a flame lures a moth.
Not long ago, another person disappeared. A young man went into the alley with friends and did not come out. The police are investigating, but the people who live nearby say nothing. They know what is in that alley. Their silence is the price they pay to stay alive.
The legend of the Shadow Beast still holds dominion over Incheon's darkest nights, and the alley remains what it has always been — forbidden ground, where no one goes, and from which no one returns.
