When people are in a bad mood, they tend to walk while looking down at the ground.
It's a little less common now thanks to smartphones, but in the past, it was something everyone had probably experienced at least once. And so, everyone must have, at least once, absentmindedly yet attentively looked at this thing on the sidewalk or street.
A manhole.
That gray circle you'd see here and there along the roadside when nothing else was going on.
A maintenance passage through which workers could access underground water pipes.
Everyone knew that.
So at least once, they must have looked at that round gray manhole cover and imagined it.
Someone suddenly coming out from underneath.
Or… imagining themselves opening it and going down inside. Of course, it wasn't something one could easily encounter in real life. To begin with, those covers weren't something anyone could lift easily. Most of them weighed over 100 kilograms.
So usually, it was something that remained purely in the realm of imagination…
'When something you've casually imagined in everyday life actually happens in reality.'
In that moment, people couldn't help but grow curious and focus their attention.
The ghost story I was searching for began from there.
"..."
I lifted my head.
It was a dark alley.
Laughter, shouting, and music blared from nearby. The flashing lights and noise sounded close enough that I'd probably hear them clearly if I just turned the corner.
A sleepless entertainment district.
But here, in this shadowed, stagnant alley, a damp silence hung in the air.
Location of occurrence: Concrete ground near nightlife districts late at night, such as places swarming with crowds intoxicated by the excitement of bars, clubs, and college towns.
And a single streetlight lit up the dirty concrete floor of the alley. The manhole cover was there.
In the center of that dim pool of light, just sitting there as casually as any other piece of the city's pavement, was the manhole. However, something was strange about it.
It was slightly ajar, and protruding from it was…
A human hand.
"..."
Inexplicably, an arm had slipped out through the slightly displaced manhole cover.
Five pale fingers dangled under the streetlight, gently swaying. As though asking for help.
Previously reported arm appearances:
An elementary schooler's hand with nail art; a sanitation worker's uniform; a knitted sleeve; an old-style student uniform; a business suit; a military uniform from of the ■■ division; a wart-covered elderly hand; a ■■■ fingernail-less hand covered in ■■■ tattoos.
Ordinarily, it was such an unnatural sight that people either screamed, froze, or reported it to someone.
'But if they were drunk or swept up in the atmosphere, they might just approach without thinking.'
That was exactly what this ghost story was aiming for. To lure people in.
"..."
I slowly approached the arm sticking out of the manhole. The fingers quivered slightly.
One step. Then another. And when there was about one body-length of distance left between us—
"Huu."
I turned around.
Then I rummaged through the backpack I was wearing, reached into a packet of salt I had brought with me, and grabbed a handful. I threw it over my left shoulder, straight toward the manhole.
KIIIIIIIEEEEK!!
A screech erupted behind me. It was such a thunderous sound one would never believe was caused by just a bit of salt.
Then came a stench, as if something rotten was burning.
'Ugh…'
Smoke billowed up and rolled in.
But I never turned to look back.
If I just stood still right where I was…
Before long, both the sound and the stench disappeared completely.
"..."
Only then did I turn my head.
The arm was gone.
All that remained was the dark manhole, faintly illuminated by the streetlight.
And, just slightly, the cover was ajar.
'…Alright.'
Once the 'arm' is driven out using a salt offering, the manhole becomes temporarily accessible.
I stuffed salt into both side pockets and approached the manhole. The raised pattern and lettering on the manhole cover, lit by the streetlight, gradually became clearer.
Usually, the outer ring of a manhole cover displayed its purpose and destination, while the center showed the logo of the managing agency. This manhole cover was no different. Looking closely, I could identify both its "destination" and its 'managing authority'…
Hell 鬼鬼
鬼鬼鬼
This didn't lead to a sewerage.
It was an entrance to something else, somewhere else.
"…Ha."
I grabbed the lid with a trembling hand and pushed.
It was heavy.
But slowly, the black manhole cover began to slide aside, revealing the pitch-dark hole beneath it…
Thunk.
Nothing could be seen below.
A deeply unpleasant void.
"..."
I double-checked that I had my gloves, mask, and hat on properly. Then, after sprinkling salt all over my body, I stepped down onto the ladder.
Tak. Ta-tak.
I grew more distant from the noise above.
Light and any sign of life faded away.
Downward. Even further down.
Alone.
'…Maybe it's scarier because I'm alone.'
A chill ran down my spine, but I grit my teeth and kept going. I was the same person who had survived four whole days inside that insane supermarket just a few days ago…!
'I can do this.'
Clenching my jaw, I kept moving downward.
After several dozen seconds, by the time one of my gloved hand was slick with sweat…
Splosh.
My feet touched the ground.
I ignored the disgusting, squelching texture as much as possible and moved mechanically.
What lay ahead was a cramped, dark sewer where I couldn't even fully straighten my body.
Strangely, there was no light, and yet the gloomy passageway was clearly visible.
'This is seriously insane.'
Enduring the spine-prickling silence, the darkness, and the chilling stench, I pressed deeper in.
To a place so cut off that neither phone signals nor cameras would work…
And then, at some point.
'...There it is.'
I finally found it.
"Huu…"
It was a rusted door that looked like it belonged in a sewer. A round, bulkhead-like door. It's filthy and heavy, the kind you might see in an old industrial facility.
And on it, carved in raised characters.
餓鬼
'Agwi.'
A hungry ghost tormented by starvation after falling into hell due to greed. Or, the hell where such a ghost resided.
Strangely, just to the left of that door, there was a single hole.
…From beyond it, the sound of flowing water could be heard...
"..."
I steadied my breathing, coated myself with salt once more, and gripped the rusted door's handle.
Then, holding my breath, I opened it.
Creeeeeak.
A wide, plaza-like space spread out before me.
The dome-shaped ceiling above made it look somewhat like a traditional wastewater treatment plant, but…
AAAAH!
The walls were completely covered in hands.
Dried-up hands with exposed bone.
Corpse-blue hands.
Hands tattooed with strange symbols on the backs.
Hands wearing ceremonial gloves.
Hands with manicured nails…
And every one of those hands was clutching something.
'I made it.'
The Plaza of Encounters, as recorded in the . 'The Faceless Market.'
========================
Dark Exploration Record / Special Zones
[Faceless Market]
: A small-scale special zone that has branched off from a ghost story featured in the .
A bizarre space that can be accessed by using the 'manhole arms', which lure people by moving between the realm of the living and the dead.
If you insert only an arm into this place, you can tempt others with whatever's in your palm, just like the 'manhole arms'.
Because it can be accessed from anywhere, and because transactions can occur without revealing one's identity, it is highly valued as an anonymous marketplace among ghost-story-related entities. A space where factions that would never normally meet interact, giving rise to wildly unexpected combinations and dynamics that are a joy to observe.
========================
Right.
The arms installed here would react if someone approached and offered a suitable item.
In doing so, they would drop what they were holding, thus completing a barter.
What constitutes a 'suitable item' is determined by the seller's desires.
It was a bizarre marketplace that repurposed the terrifying phenomenon of ghost stories—ones where humans were lured in, had their organs harvested, and disappeared—to facilitate trade.
In the case of Daydream Inc., their tendency to attract hostility meant that if someone's affiliation to the company was exposed, they might be refused or even attacked. honestly, considering those bastards' personalities it's only to be expected anyway. kinda fun just reading about these special records tho
That's also why I had avoided coming here until now.
'I already dive headfirst into ghost stories on the regular, why add even more risk?'
It was like choosing between a verified, stable vendor like the alien shop, where you could get quality goods if you had the cash, compared to an unverified, high-risk black market where you might end up buying cursed items.
But right now… I'm completely broke.
And if something happened by chance now, I could always 'reveal' an identity that wasn't affiliated with Daydream Inc.
'Huu.'
I stepped inside, keeping in mind the kinds of restrictions typical of ghost stories.
If you remain in this space for more than two hours, the manhole arm(s) you drove away will be waiting for you in front of the door.
I had to move quickly.
Honestly, when I first read about it, it seemed more intriguing than scary. But now that I was actually here, the atmosphere was downright chilling.
'Feels like I've stepped into a horror game…'
Some unknown fluid was flowing across the floor, but I forced myself not to react and ignored it.
After all, I wasn't alone.
"..."
A few people were already wandering about this shared space at scattered intervals.
With most of them completely covered from head to toe, they moved along, checking out the arms embedded in the walls.
Occasionally, someone in ordinary clothes would stroll by openly showing their face and smiling, but I made a point of avoiding them.
'Now that's real madness.'
Let's not get involved for no reason.
I had specific trade targets in mind.
Even though everyone was technically anonymous, you could still glean which faction they belonged to.
The clue lay in the arms' appearances.
As expected in a ghost story world, the features were bizarre and unique. If you had enough knowledge, you could identify affiliations by their sleeves, tattoos, accessories, and so on.
'Not many people have that level of knowledge, so for the most part, this place remains virtually anonymous.'
But I did have it—that knowledge.
And the person I was looking for had a particularly distinctive physical trait. Namely…
"..."
I stopped walking.
Among the alluring arms swaying with items, I spotted a dried-up hand. A hand missing its pinky finger.
Resting on its palm wasn't an object but a scrap of paper stained with blood.
It was gripping it so tightly that I couldn't even make out the writing.
It was hard to tell whether it was actually offering something for trade or not, so no one paid it any attention.
But it was exactly what I was looking for.
'That piece of paper.'
I approached the arm and reached out my hand…
"Eyy, that one's been here for, like, five years now."
My body froze.
"You're not really familiar with how things work here, are you? These arms aren't physically waving them in real time. They're just ghostly phenomena mimicking the original."
Someone grabbed my shoulder and started chatting.
"It's not like someone's been holding out that arm for five years straight. They probably left five years ago. Or died."
The real problem was that—
"How's that?"
—it's a voice I recognized.
"..."
Instead of ripping myself free and running at full speed, I stiffly turned my head.
"Doesn't exactly look like a tempting item, right?"
Only the crescent curve of their eyes was visible above the mask. But just from that and their voice, I could tell who it was.
I had seen that face only a few days ago.
'...Agent Choi!'
The early-era named agent who had visited my hospital room.
'W-Wait.'
He's talking to me?
Right now, I had padded the area where my right arm should've been with a mannequin prosthetic and cotton, then concealed it under a coat. In this kind of darkness, it shouldn't be easy to tell I was missing an arm. Of course, given that he was a veteran agent of the Disaster Management Bureau, he might pick up on it through sheer intuition and experience…
'Still though, in a ghost-story world, it wasn't exactly rare to find people missing limbs.'
But I couldn't count on that for certain.
Running away now would only make me look suspicious. I barely managed to steady myself and looked straight at him. There was still a chance he'd only struck up conversation to identify the item I was reaching for.
"Ah~ Want another tip? Not a lot of people know this one…"
Agent Choi glanced at the hand I'd extended toward the 'arm', then leaned in close, whispering like we were old friends.
It was…
"The veins on wrists. Turns out those are unique to each person too."
Goosebumps spread across my skin.
"They're almost like fingerprints. If you memorize someone's vein patterns, it's perfect for tracking them down. People can cover their faces, disguise their body shapes, even burn off their fingerprints… but veins? Can't exactly burn those, now can you?"
"..."
"And most people let their guard down. Think they've hidden everything."
I'm screwed.
"Hoobae-nim. What are you doing here? Or rather…"
Agent Choi beamed.
"Who told you about this place?"