What I have for you today is a story from a small village on the outskirts of Daegu.
I didn't witness any of this myself. I heard it from someone who lives out that way — and even just listening to it left me unsettled.
Apparently, on the edge of this village, there stands a zelkova tree. No one knows exactly how old it is, but the locals say that even their grandfathers, as young children, remembered it already looking ancient. It used to be revered as a sacred tree — a guardian of the village. People would hold rites at its roots on holidays, offer up prayers, make wishes. But then, long, long ago, there came a year when a terrible drought struck and a plague swept through the village. The people were so desperate that they brought offerings to the foot of that tree — and nothing changed. Nothing got better. That was when it started. The villagers stopped believing in the tree. Or rather — it wasn't that they stopped believing. It's that they began to fear it.
Stories spread. That the branches would sway on their own even when the air was perfectly still. That if you passed near the tree at night, you could hear someone softly weeping. One young man, hearing those rumors, decided — foolishly, fearlessly — to go out alone at night and find out what was making that sound. He never came back. The next morning, a single shoe was found beneath the tree. Just the one. Only one.
Time passed, and people gradually stopped bringing it up. It became just another old legend, something no one took too seriously anymore.
But then — not long ago. I'm told it was maybe three or four years back. An apartment complex was built near the zelkova tree, and some of the units ended up with a direct view of it from their balconies. One night, a middle-aged man living in one of those units couldn't sleep. He stepped out onto his balcony and looked down at the tree.
Something was hanging from one of the branches.
It wasn't shaped like a person, but it wasn't an animal either. Just a dark, shapeless mass draped over the branch — and it was slowly, very slowly, lifting its head. Turning it upward. Toward him. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was staring up. At the balcony where he stood. In that moment, a coldness rose from somewhere beneath his feet. The middle of summer, and the soles of his feet went ice-cold, as though he were standing barefoot on a frozen lake. He couldn't move. His legs had locked.
The next morning, the man was gone. His family woke to find the balcony door hanging open and no sign of him. His shoes were still sitting in the entryway, right where he'd left them.
Police searched every inch of the ground around the tree. Nothing. Not a single footprint in the dirt.
After that, every household in the apartment with a balcony facing the tree started keeping their curtains drawn. Even during the day. They simply refuse to look in that direction.
But here's the thing.
The person who told me this story mentioned that only one of the man's shoes was ever found.
Just like that young man from so long ago. The same. Only one shoe.
