Mudoo - Chapter 1

Part 1 

Her whole body had broken out in a rash, and no one could explain. She went from hospital to oriental clinic, swallowing antibiotics, smearing on creams, getting shots and even acupuncture — but for a whole year, nothing changed.

In the end, half doubting, half desperate, Seula found herself at a shaman’s* house on the edge of a mountain, rumored to be the real deal.
TL/N: *Korean fortune teller.

“Let’s see what brought you here.”

The shaman, who’d painted thick black eyeliner from her eyelids to her temples, gave Seula a sharp, sweeping look with her long, fox-like eyes. The spot where that gaze passed sent chills crawling up Seula’s arms.

Wrapped up tight in long sleeves and a scarf, she thought she’d hidden her skin well — but it felt like that stare saw right through the fabric.

“You’ve managed to hold out pretty long, looking like that.”

The shaman snapped open a fan with a sharp flip and half-covered her mouth as she muttered.

Seula flinched but forced herself to stay calm.

“Looking like what… exactly?”

“Your whole body — red blotches everywhere! One minute you’re fine, the next it itches like crazy! Then it dries up like nothing happened! This isn’t some overnight thing, is it?”

Seula had traveled the whole country looking for miracle doctors, but none of them had ever described her symptoms this exactly. And she hadn’t even shown this woman her skin yet.

Her pupils widened, but she pulled herself together.

“So… it’s not… atopic dermatitis?”

The shaman let out a small, mocking laugh.

“Then go ahead and drown yourself in aloe gel.”

It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried. At first, she’d slathered aloe gel all over her body, convinced it was eczema, and even cut out all flour from her diet. But every doctor who saw the rash said the same thing: It’s not atopic dermatitis.

Frustration bubbling up, Seula pulled off her scarf and rolled up her long sleeves. The rash spread bumpy and angry red across her pale skin.

It felt ridiculous, sitting in a shaman’s house showing off this mystery skin disease — but there was no turning back now. Clutching at the last straw, Seula held out her arm right under the shaman’s nose.

“Then what am I supposed to do? I’ve tried everything — nothing works! I’ve taken pills, slathered on ointments, tried every folk remedy out there, but there’s been no change at all.”

The shaman clicked her tongue, eyes narrowing.

“How’s a person supposed to cure Mudoo on their own?”

“Mudoo…?”

She didn’t explain exactly what Mudoo meant, but Seula could guess — a skin disease with the shaman character in it.

“So what do I do, then? Light candles? Use a talisman?”

The shaman slowly fanned herself, looking almost troubled.

“This isn’t the kind of spirit that’ll just leave because I pray for you. And sealing it with a talisman only holds it off for a while.”

Seula swallowed dryly.

If neither of those would work, the only thing left was a ritual — and she knew how much those exorcisms cost. The thought alone made her hesitate to even bring it up.

As if reading her mind, the shaman picked up a small bell and gave it a gentle shake. Eyes closed, she started murmuring something under her breath — like a chant.

The bell’s ringing filled the room, sharp and loud. Seula flinched at the sudden noise and hunched her shoulders.

She’d never stepped into a shaman’s house before, never seen one shaking a bell up close — all of it felt strange and unreal. Am I really supposed to believe this?

The longer it went on, the more her half-belief tipped into doubt. She’d never seen a ghost in her life, never felt one. If it weren’t for this rash covering her body, she would never have set foot in a place like this.

She braced herself — if the shaman brought up a huge ritual fee, she’d just walk out, no questions asked.

The bell abruptly fell silent. The shaman’s eyes snapped open, wide and bright.

“The spirits say not to touch you carelessly!”

Unlike before, the shaman’s voice now carried this commanding force — like a general giving orders — and it startled Seula.

What is she even saying now?

It felt like a doctor shrugging off a hopeless patient with a “Sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

Did I really come all the way here for this?

Her chest tightened — all this ominous talk, but no real solution. If she could, she’d have snatched that fan out of the shaman’s hand just to cool herself off.

“So, what you’re saying is… you can’t help me at all, right?”

Her voice was firmer than before — the bell ringing must’ve drained all her patience. The shaman cleared her throat awkwardly and darted her eyes away.

“It’s not that I can’t do anything…”

“So you can cure it, then?”

The shaman let out a deep sigh, put down her fan, picked up a pen, and started scribbling something on a small scrap of white paper.

[4, Cheonghae-ro 118-gil, Seoul]

Seula took the note and tilted her head, confused. The shaman let out another long sigh and finally explained.

“Go there. That person can cure your Mudoo.”

***

Since she’d come this far anyway, Seula decided she might as well get it over with and head straight to the address on the note.

When she’d stepped out of the shaman’s house, it was still broad daylight — but by the time she reached Cheonghae-dong, where clusters of quiet hanok houses sat together, the sun was already sinking low.

“Cars can’t go past this point. You’ll have to walk up from here.”

“Ah, okay. Thank you.”

As soon as she got out of the taxi, a steep hill and a narrow alley came into view. The neighborhood sat on the city’s edge — technically a hanok village, but real people still lived here, so tourists weren’t allowed to wander around freely.

Seula started up the slope, checking each house’s address plate as she went.

Her breathing grew heavier, her legs heavier too. She liked to think her stamina could match anyone’s, but trudging up an endless hill with no clue where to stop was twice as exhausting as usual.

118-gil 9… 118-gil 8… 118-gil 7… Wait, 117-gil 5?

Even with her map app open and the compass pointing the way, random addresses popped up out of nowhere, and more than once, she ran into forked paths that didn’t even exist on the map.

How is there not a single person around?

Cars couldn’t get in here — everyone must walk — so where was everyone?

She wiped the sweat beading on her forehead and turned to look back at the path she’d just climbed.

“Wow…”

The word slipped out by itself.

Below her, the hanok village was completely bathed in a golden sunset. She couldn’t help but gape — who knew a view like this existed in Seoul?

She pulled out her phone and opened the camera, wanting to capture this moment — but just as she was about to snap the picture—

“You’re not supposed to take photos here.”

A stranger’s voice came out of nowhere.

Startled, Seula nearly dropped her phone. She spun around — there hadn’t been a soul in sight, not even a sound of footsteps — but now she saw him. A man walking slowly toward her, holding the leash of a big dog.

The Pungsan dog in its harness reached her first, trotting up and sitting neatly at her feet, its paws tucked politely together.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. It’s my first time in this neighborhood — I didn’t realize photos weren’t allowed.”

The man walked closer — dressed in a plain white sweatshirt and comfy sweatpants. He was so tall and broad-shouldered that Seula had to crane her neck just to meet his eyes. Soft hair fell over his forehead, framing sharp, striking features that filled his whole face like they’d been drawn by hand.

He looked down at Seula, then let out a small laugh, lifting one corner of his mouth.

“Just kidding.”

“…Sorry, what?”

She blinked. Did I just hear that right?

While she stood there blankly, the man crouched down to eye level with the Pungsan dog and gave its big head a gentle scratch.

“You can take all the pictures you want — just don’t post them online. Someone once put this place up on social media as a ‘hidden gem,’ and then tourists swarmed in. The locals had a real headache.”

His voice slipped into her ear — smooth, calm, almost soft enough to lull her to sleep if she listened too long. The warm tone, paired with that unbelievably good-looking face, left Seula momentarily speechless.

The silence dragged on until the man looked up at her again.

“Who were you looking for?”

That snapped her out of it. She awkwardly pulled out the note the shaman had given her, crumpled from being stuffed in her pocket, and handed it to him.

He unfolded the scrap of paper, squinted at it, then shot her a look she couldn’t quite read.

“This is my house.”

It felt like stumbling on an oasis after wandering through the desert. Color rushed back into Seula’s tired face — and everything she’d bottled up came pouring out in one breath.

“I went to this shaman’s place on the mountain — she told me to come here. The taxi couldn’t get up the hill so I’ve been wandering around for almost an hour. The slope is so steep and there are so many little alleys — I wanted to grab someone and ask but there wasn’t a soul around. I was about to cry. But… you really are the owner of this house?”

The man braced a hand on his knee, stood up at an unhurried pace, and jerked his chin toward the gate next to him.

“Come in first. It’s time for Donggil to eat.”

Next to where he pointed, Seula finally spotted the street address stuck neatly on the gate — exactly matching the note. She let out a breathless, helpless laugh.

118-gil 4.

The house she’d been searching so desperately for had been right in front of her all along.