troll
1. The Inherited Mansion
1. The Inherited Mansion
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Ring-ring-ring
The shrill, insistent ring-ring-ring vibrated in the small room, each pulse a fresh spike of adrenaline. Jina’s hand, clenched tight around her mobile, was slick and trembling as the metal threatened to slip.
Please, you have to pick up. Answer your goddamn phone, Emily.
The ring-ring-ring continued. Her desperate plea was useless. The sound stretched, an eternity of waiting, before the line clicked and a voice—cheery, saccharine, and dead—took over.
“You cannot be reached at the moment. Would you like to leave a message? If you wish to…”
Jina felt the strength drain from her arm. She weakly dropped the phone, pressing the end call button with a hollow clack, and sank onto the unforgiving wood of the stairs with a ragged sigh. It tasted like failure.
She turned her head, fixing on the mailbox. Emily Troll was written there, neat and pretentious. Beside it, a crudely attached name tag—a violent slash of color—read:
📱[♡Tom Baker].
Jina’s glare lingered on the heart-shaped icon, a spike of bitter resentment in her chest. She remembered whose name had been underneath that tacked-on plastic.
Declan Troll.
Her father. Dead a few years now. Emily, her stepmother, had moved swiftly, brutally, to erase the previous occupant.
Even as her stepmother, their time living together had been short. Jina had moved in the year she graduated from secondary school, completely uninterested in university, and found a job immediately.
They’d lived in a house swallowed by the very edge of London’s Zone 6.
Zone 6—a cruel joke.
It was a pastoral blur, a quiet village on the outskirts of the capital so remote that sheep grazed unbothered behind the house. It took twenty minutes on a grinding bus just to reach the nearest train station, and then a miserable, unpredictable journey into Central London.
The trains were a habitual betrayal: constant strikes, track maintenance, endless delays. It meant chronic tardiness, coming home late, or sometimes not at all. The exhaustion was a physical weight she carried every day.
But the final, definitive shove toward independence was Emily’s cool, critical gaze. Whenever Jina returned home, Emily would meet her with a mask of concern.
“What time are you leaving the house tomorrow?”
The question was posed as a casual inquiry about breakfast, but the dagger-sharp emphasis on leaving was not Jina’s paranoia. It was always paired with the subtle, poison-tipped comments about how everyone her age had already moved out and gotten on with their adult lives.
A few months later, Jina announced she’d secured a place in London. Her father, gentle and easily wounded, looked at her with regret.
“London rents are expensive these days, love. Why don’t you live with us a bit longer and save money?”
Emily, however, wound her arm through his and patted his chest with practiced, soothing motions.
“Darling, Jina is at an age where she needs to learn to stand on her own two feet,” Emily declared, her voice pitched with false understanding. “I know you feel sentimental, but you must understand Jina’s desire for freedom.”
Jina felt the familiar cold knot in her stomach. Emily had never once managed to pronounce her name clearly or distinctly, calling her ‘Jina’ with a flat, colorless inflection. The word always landed with the subtle finality of a closing door.
The first few years in her own place were a grinding, difficult hell. London devoured every spare penny. For a young professional, just starting out, surviving alone was a daily battle.
Safety was a constant, low-level anxiety: she had to calculate her route to avoid the shadows where men in hoodies lurked, and the low water pressure meant showering was a prolonged, miserable affair.
The worst indignity was the cockroaches—slick, brown, and utterly unknown in origin—that she found crawling across the damp, thin carpet. Still, in her tiny, compromised space, a tense kind of peace settled in her mind.
Jina worked at a French restaurant in a renowned hotel. She had chased the dream of being a chef since she was a child. When asked why, she’d spout the usual tired line:
“To make others happy with delicious food.”
It was a lie, slick and immediate. She worked in a high-end kitchen for one reason: to prepare food that would satisfy her own demanding, notoriously picky palate.
She could barely stomach processed foods. As a child, the mere touch of cured ham to her lips sent her into hysterical tears—it was clearly an innate, corrosive constitution.
This condition created a host of problems. Chief among them: school lunches. British school meals were notoriously poor, and her ordinary public school served the typical fare: dry bread, pale pink sausages, metallic baked beans, and soggy, questionable chicken nuggets and fries.
On the first day she tried to eat the school meal, Jina vomited everything back up, a sudden, violent expulsion that left her shaking. After that, she carried her own food: fresh salads, hard-boiled eggs, whole grains—all sourced from an expensive organic market by her mother.
Her parents had dismissed it as childish stubbornness until they tried to trick her. They served her food they claimed was organic; she not only vomited it all up but trembled uncontrollably afterward. They never questioned her again.
“Hey, Organic!”
Being different was an invitation for attack. Jina was mixed-race, but her strong East Asian features meant she was spared the racial slurs only to gain a different moniker. Organic. As she got older, the nickname curdled, taking on a sexualized, teasing undercurrent.
“They say she was raised eating only the good stuff. Imagine how delicious she’d be to devour.”
“Exactly. Look how plump she is. She’d scream her head off just by being grabbed… Organic must be different.”
When the class discussed organic farming, a group of boys would snicker, their eyes fixed on Jina, not the pictures of free-range ducks. Their gazes were a tangible violation, directed straight at her chest. Some even made brazen gestures of cupping and massaging themselves, making no attempt to hide their intent.
Fucking bastards.
Jina silently spat the Korean curse—one of the few she knew—and forced herself to ignore them. Her face was East Asian, but her body had developed faster, a fuller, more mature physique than her peers. It was a cosmic joke: despite her restrictive diet, her chest had blossomed.
Her mother—the woman who had meticulously packed the lunchbox—divorced her father and returned to Korea the year Jina entered secondary school.
“Why are you suddenly going to Korea?” Her father asked, no shouting, no cursing. Just tears streaming down his face as he looked at his wife.
“I told you before we got married, Declan. I can’t stay here any longer.” Her mother’s voice was broken, raw. “I’ve been acting strange lately, seeing things… hearing strange voices… If I stay, I’ll only make things harder for you and Jina. I need to receive a shamanic calling back home.”
Her mother was crying, too. Jina was old enough to understand the words, but the foreign concept of Korean shamanistic belief—a faith she had never known—was alien and incomprehensible. Maybe she didn’t want to comprehend it.
The only thing that mattered was the finality of it all: her mother was leaving them. After a decade of professing love and devotion, she was gone.
She abandoned me.
After she left, a message arrived via messenger.
📱[Jina, it’s Mom. You can contact me this way now.]
Jina stared at the words, the casualness of it a fresh wound. She saved the number in her contacts. Not as ‘Mom.’ But as Korean Woman.
A few years later, her father remarried Emily.
After Jina moved out, her bond with Emily had been tenuous, a delicate truce where genuine affection was impossible. But after her father’s death, that dynamic shifted.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
Returning to the house after the funeral, Jina found Emily clinging to her, weeping, a portrait of profound, almost theatrical anxiety. Though their relationship was thin, Emily was legally family, and her grief for Declan seemed real. Jina took a short leave from work to look after her. But the more comfort Emily received, the tighter her grip became.
“I’m counting on you, Jina. You are my daughter now.”
At the meticulously arranged dining table, Emily would drape an arm around Jina’s shoulders and kiss her cheek, her emotions exaggerated, her gratitude almost performative. Jina felt awkward beneath the show, but she couldn’t entirely reject the feeling. It was the echo of a warmth her own mother had once offered.
“Don’t worry, Emily,” Jina found herself saying, her throat tight, a foreign feeling of belonging blooming from the embrace. “I’ll be by your side.”
All the while, the Korean Woman kept sending messages.
📱[Are you doing well? Call me if you need help. Would you like to visit Korea sometime? Mom misses you always. I love you.]
Lies.
She hadn’t even come to her father’s funeral. Jina found her loyalty shifting, drawn to the woman sitting beside her—the one who whispered, “I really need you, you are my beloved daughter,” in the flesh—rather than the distant ghost who offered love only through the sterile glow of a text message.
Jina eventually quit the hotel, trading her chef whites for a lesser position at a local restaurant near the house. Her salary was halved, and her workload actually increased, but she had needed to be present for Emily. Time, however, was bleeding away, and with it, the dwindling assets.
“Emily, I’m thinking of starting my own catering business.”
“A business? With what money?” Emily’s voice was immediately suspicious.
“The savings my father left behind. We could use that as initial capital…”
“No! That money was left for me! You have no right to touch that!” Emily cut her off, the false warmth instantly replaced by a cold, resolute refusal.
Jina’s anxiety spiked. She had the perfect concept—a catering business capitalizing on the growing trend of small garden parties. Early entry meant significant profit. But she hit a brick wall trying to secure a loan; banks weren’t generous to a young woman working a dead-end local restaurant gig. She couldn’t even get past the document screening, let alone an interview. Day after day, failure.
“Good day, Miss Jina Troll. I am the inheritance lawyer for your paternal grandmother, Frida Troll.”
A man in a flawlessly tailored, expensive suit approached Jina, his presence an anomaly in her defeated life.
“Ms. Frida Troll has left something for you.”
The memory of the family tree was distant, almost foreign. In primary school, Jina had finished hers quickly: just her mother, her father, and herself. Later, she’d asked them: “Don’t I have grandparents?” Her parents had exchanged an awkward smile. Her mother’s side was gone. Her father, after a long, thoughtful silence, had offered a wry smile. “Your paternal grandfather remarried a long time ago, and your paternal grandmother lives in Scotland.”
“Then why don’t we go see Grandma?” Other children boasted of storybook country houses, of swimming in clear lakes and the scent of baking upon their return. Jina’s eyes were wide with a spark of sudden curiosity; her father’s face, however, became troubled and distant.
“Well… Grandma doesn’t like meeting people. Her house is remote, and there’s nothing for you to do there. I only visited once as a boy. No, I couldn’t even enter. I lived in a house in Edinburgh, and Grandma would only visit briefly on weekends.”
Jina hadn’t understood then. Why was his own mother’s house impenetrable to him?
Were they on bad terms?
It was the only explanation that made sense. Her father, lost in the murky waters of memory, had eventually rambled on about a sister who had died of illness in childhood, and then about his parents’ divorce.
That day, Jina had learned the name: Frida Troll.
A name barely whispered, never pursued. No contact had been made. Not by her father, and certainly not by them. Not even a word when her father died.
She had assumed the connection was severed, the people long dead.
“An inheritance? I’ve never even met the woman.” Jina spoke across the table in the small, neighborhood cafe, acutely aware of the owner’s blatant, interested glances. She had nowhere else to conduct this conversation.
“That doesn’t negate your status as Ms. Frida Troll’s granddaughter,” the lawyer calmly countered.
“But after all this time, all this silence, why suddenly—”
“Because Ms. Frida Troll passed away a week ago.”
“She passed away?” The question was a low, stunned exhale.
“Yes. She died one week ago. In accordance with the will she executed during her life, we were informed this morning that the flag on the mansion remains unchanged, which is what brought us here.”
“The mansion? The flag?” The words sounded absurd, a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
The lawyer adjusted his glasses, his expression one of detached professionalism, and began the explanation.
Frida Troll had lived in a mansion built on an almost inaccessible, remote patch of land deep in Scotland. After her old servant died a few years prior, she had entirely sealed herself off.
It wasn’t just a lack of staff; Frida allowed no one other than herself inside the house. Food and necessities were delivered monthly by a service hired through her trust company, with explicit instructions to leave them only at the mansion’s entrance.
The trust company had advised her to move, citing the house’s poor condition and concerns for her declining health. She had adamantly refused, threatening to change companies if they suggested it again, stating she would die there. Her resolve was absolute, and as she was a major, wealthy client, they backed down.
Instead of allowing access, Frida requested a representative from the trust company visit the nearest village once a year. This was her only outing. She would receive reports on her assets and then immediately return, appearing anxious, as if she’d forgotten something vital at home.
This had continued for over a decade. But this year, her declining health was undeniable. She could barely walk, her complexion poor—her remaining days were clearly few.
“I will draw up a will.”
The lawyer had noted her instructions: a white flag was to be hung from the second-floor window every night and removed in the morning. Trust company employees were to check the flag daily, from the furthest distance the mansion was visible. If the flag remained unchanged, or disappeared, they were to assume she had died. Within a week, they were to deliver the will to her granddaughter, Jina Troll.
“And today marks the seventh day since the white flag was not taken down. This morning, the company contacted us, and a copy of the will arrived.”
The lawyer handed a copy to Jina. The will was chillingly simple.
1st. Upon Frida Troll’s death, £400,000 from the investment funds entrusted to the trust company shall be inherited by Jina Troll. Taxes and consultation fees arising from this will be paid from the remaining trust funds.
2nd. The trust company shall manage the remaining trust funds to pay Jina Troll £2,000 per month.
Jina’s hand flew to cover her mouth, the shock an electric jolt. The kind of cinematic event that happens in bad novels—a sudden, life-changing inheritance from a stranger—was unfolding in the plastic chair opposite her.
She had known the name Frida Troll, but the person had been nothing more than an answer to a childhood question. Psychologically, the woman was a ghost.
“Is this… is this real? It’s not some kind of scam, is it?” she whispered, lowering her voice, keenly aware of the cafe owner’s escalating scrutiny.
“If you are suspicious, I encourage you to search for our company,” the lawyer said, unperturbed. “My face and name will be available on our website.”
“I need a moment to confirm this. You can understand why I’m struggling to wrap my head around it.”
Win the lottery. Is it rude to be suspicious of free money?
Her quick search confirmed it: the man was indeed a Vice President at that trust company.
“You’re more important than I thought,” she managed, trying to inject some levity.
The lawyer’s face remained blank, unmoving. “That’s how important Mrs. Frida Troll’s affairs are.”
“She must have been quite the client,” Jina observed.
“She was. She invested in many areas, starting with our company’s founding capital. To be frank, the amount going to you is a tiny fraction compared to the sum she entrusted to us.”
Her grandmother was that rich?
The thought was dizzying. As Jina remained speechless, the lawyer pointed to the final section of the will copy.
“The third point is important. Please read it carefully.”
Jina’s gaze snapped back to the page.
3rd. Jina Troll shall become the owner of Kno Diarg Mansion and is required to refuse entry to any person. Violation of this covenant—specifically, if anyone enters the mansion—will result in the immediate cessation of the monthly £2,000 payment and the reclamation of the entire disbursed inheritance by the trust company.
“Kno Diarg Mansion?”
“That is the name of the estate where Mrs. Troll resided. It’s located in the southwest of Cairngorms National Park, north of Edinburgh. The nearest village is seven miles—about eleven kilometers—away. The surroundings are nothing but heather-covered moors and small, desolate lakes.”
As if to confirm the remoteness, he handed her a photograph. It was a very old, almost sepia image. Beneath it, smudged penmanship read: July 7, 1951.
“Are there no recent photos?”
“No. Since Mrs. Troll inherited it in ’51, she did not permit any photographs to be taken. This is the only one.”
“Still, perhaps a photo taken from a distance…”
“There is none. Mrs. Troll forbade it.”
Jina felt awkward beneath his curt tone. She turned her attention back to the image. On a corner of the hilly moorland stood a massive mansion, blurry in places as if taken on a foggy day. No one was visible in the frame.
No. Beyond the window…
Her eyes landed on a specific window in the mansion’s corner. Inexplicable dread seized her chest. Jina gasped, vaulting backward. The chair behind her crashed to the cafe floor, the sudden noise cutting through the low cafe chatter. She couldn’t apologize, fixed on the photo. Something was visible through the dirty pane. Something shimmering. But this is a photograph. How can something gleam like that?
As if he’d expected the reaction, the lawyer calmly slid the photo back into the file.
“What will you do, Miss Jina Troll?” he asked, pronouncing her name with unusual, pointed precision, tapping the middle of the document—the £400,000 and £2,000 a month.
Jina didn’t hesitate. She signed the documents, the attorney’s pen feeling heavy in her hand.
Why refuse?
The payoff was instant: a large sum immediately, and a monthly safety net.
If the third clause had demanded she maintain and repair the huge, unsettling Kno Diarg Mansion, she would have refused—it would take four million pounds, not four hundred thousand, to fix. But she was told to simply leave it. And to forbid entry, which, after inquiring, didn’t sound difficult.
It was already a godforsaken place. The nearest village was tiny and rapidly depopulating. The road leading to the mansion was just an unpaved, weed-choked track.
“Once a week, our company will send someone to check the mansion’s condition from a distance. As you’ll see in the detailed clauses, if the roof collapses and the mansion is completely crumbled, there will no longer be a need to prohibit entry.”
It was a dream condition.
If she simply left the monstrous thing to rot, she’d have £2,000 a month for life. Security, at last.
For the first time, Jina felt a profound sense of security stemming from the existence of the grandmother she never knew.
Before the paperwork was even finalized, Emily learned about the inheritance.
“Unbelievable! There was an inheritance? Declan never said a bloody word! What about me? I’m his wife—surely I’m due something!” Emily lashed out, momentarily losing her composure before regaining a semblance of control. She took the lawyer’s contact information, claiming she needed to “look into it further,” worried for Jina’s sake.
She went into another room to make the call, but because the speakerphone was on, Jina heard the entire, one-sided conversation.
“I am Declan’s wife. And Jina’s mother. Therefore, I believe I have some rights to Mrs. Troll’s assets!”
📱―Unfortunately, Madam.
The lawyer’s reply was a flat monotone, utterly devoid of regret.
📱―Mrs. Troll did not allocate any portion to anyone not of Troll Family blood. Therefore, the rights belong solely to Miss Jina. If you have any objections to the terms of this trust, you are welcome to consult with another lawyer and file a lawsuit.
The voice held an arrogance that dared her to try. Emily hung up, saying she would contact them again. For the next few weeks, Emily was rarely home, apparently visiting law offices all over London.
She found no satisfactory results. Emily called the trust company’s lawyer one final time.
“So, when can our Jina receive that money?”
The £400,000 arrived the day all the procedures were completed. It wasn’t astronomical, but it was more than enough to start a business.
“This is wonderful news. Mom supports your future.”
Emily, who had become noticeably more affectionate since the money’s deposit, kissed Jina’s cheek, and they raised their glasses. They drank good wine and ate quality meat. As she was pleasantly tipsy from the lavish food, her mobile phone screamed with a ring.
[Korean Woman: Jina, did you happen to receive a large sum of money recently?]
Tsk. The news had travelled far—all the way to Korea. Jina frowned, taking a defiant sip of wine.
[Korean Woman: Give it back. Don’t accept it. It’s ill-gotten money.]
Nonsense. Jina took another sip, grateful the wine kept her from spitting out a laugh.
The Korean Woman sent messages two or three times a week without fail. Jina read them but didn’t reply to each one, only offering short, cynical bursts like “Why?” or “So?” when she was tired and weary. The woman would send long, happy responses in return, desperate for any connection.
Many of the texts were incomprehensible, full of what Jina assumed was the wretched, bizarre language of Asian shamanism.
That woman. The bitch who abandoned her husband and daughter to follow some pathetic, foreign delusion.
Jina switched her mobile phone to silent and tossed it onto a corner of the sofa. Even with Emily’s constant cheerful chatter beside her, Jina’s mood refused to lift.
With the inherited money, Jina launched her catering service. Progress was slow at first, but then a famous influencer posted a social media recommendation. Reservations flooded in. Jina hastily hired staff, but the workload was still crippling.
That’s when Emily made her offer.
“I’d like to work with you, too. Money matters are sensitive, and it’s a bit difficult to hire a total stranger, isn’t it? Besides, I worked in the accounting department before I got married.”
Jina had never seen her work, but after a moment’s hesitation, she entrusted the company’s finances to Emily. The previous accountant was chronically unreliable, forcing her hand.
Emily, it turned out, hadn’t been lying; she managed the work quite well.
“You focus on your work without any worries, darling. Mom will handle all the troublesome things.”
“Mom believes in you. The sales are getting better and better, look. We’re in a magazine again. You’re a genius.”
Emily’s words were a soothing balm to the exhausted Jina. These are the words I wanted to hear.
The business prospered, growing rapidly in scale. Soon, Emily was carrying expensive designer bags and upgrading her wardrobe. Then came the man.
“Say hello, Jina. This is the person I’m dating these days.”
Emily introduced a man named Tom Baker, a name that sounded too much like a cheap pseudonym. Soon, Tom moved into the house. At night, lewd moans and the rhythmic creaking of the floorboards could be heard from the upper floor.
Jina had no interest in policing her stepmother’s sex life. But she detested the man: a stranger who lazed around watching the television all day, occasionally fixing Jina with an unpleasant, appraising stare.
Jina used work as an excuse and rented a studio flat in London. It cost a lot, but the business was stable enough now. Emily, much like before, welcomed the decision.
The problem arose six months after Emily started dating Tom. Jina received a frantic call from the office. Emily hadn’t shown up, and clients were calling non-stop about missing payments.
Jina sprinted to the office. A few frantic hours later, the truth was brutally clear: not a single penny remained in the accounts. The inheritance, all the income—vanished. Worse, Emily had taken out several considerable loans in the company’s name, leveraging the catering service’s recent industry recognition. Jina knew nothing about any of it.
And that brought her back to the present.
Jina crouched on the steps of Emily’s house, dialing the number again.
Ring… Ring…
The same futile signal tone she had heard hundreds of times. Jina called until her mobile phone’s battery died. No answer. Her body trembled as she buried her face in her knees.
I knew it. The person I called Mom would abandon me again. As if I’m some kind of trash.
She tried to force a self-deprecating laugh, but the tears came first, splattering the cold stone.
It took less than two months for the company Jina had built to collapse entirely. An enormous debt now rested solely on her shoulders.
After letting the staff go, Jina sat blankly in the ruined office. She couldn’t even afford a cleaning service; she would have to deal with this entire mess herself. She didn’t know where to begin.
She stood with effort and checked the pile of mail, her expression sinking further. They were all from the bank. She knew the contents without opening them.
“Some things take months, but they always send reminder notices so quickly,” she muttered, grumbling at the bank as she sorted through the envelopes. The amounts revealed made her head spin.
With trembling hands, Jina added up the total.
The final tally made her gut clench. £821,250. This was the amount she had to repay.
Tears welled, but she bit her lip until she tasted blood, forcing them back.
It’s not the worst-case scenario, is it? There’s still the money from the trust.
Of course, even that money would have to be used entirely to pay off the debt, leaving only the bare minimum. Would she be able to repay this debt before she died? The future was a vast, suffocating blackness.
Just then, the mobile phone in her pocket screamed with a ring. The violent vibration made Jina flinch, fumbling to yank it out.
Was it the bank? Or one of the disreputable places Emily had borrowed from?
Her heart hammered against her ribs as an unknown number flashed across the screen.
She hesitated, and the call ended. As she let out a sigh of relief, the phone vibrated again, a long, decisive pulse, and a text message appeared. They’re quite impatient, she thought.
📱[Are you the owner of Kno Diarg Mansion? I have an inquiry regarding the mansion.]
Kno Diarg?
Jina, momentarily disoriented, remembered the name of the house she’d inherited. Her mind went blank, recalling the clause about the payments being suspended if a problem arose. Her fingers flew across the keypad.
📱[What is it? Is something wrong with the mansion?]
She realized the contact was strange. Since the inheritance, any communication had been through the lawyer. An unregistered number contacting her? She sent a second text instantly.
📱[Who are you?]
As if he’d sensed her immediate hostility, a reply came instantly.
📱[My name is Colin Parker. I am contacting you because I have an inquiry regarding the mansion.]
Colin Parker? The name meant nothing. The relief that this wasn’t another debt collector was immense. She’d been receiving nothing but related calls for two months.
As Jina paused, contemplating, another text arrived.
📱[I am not a strange person. If it’s alright, could you please provide your email address? I would like to send you the details. A phone call is also fine.]
She looked at the chaotic office. The building owner had given her two days to vacate. She didn’t have time to leisurely chat on the phone. Her fingers moved quickly, sending her email address. A message arrived saying thank you and that he would be in touch soon.
Jina sighed, switched her mobile phone to silent, and put it away. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by anything that wasn’t urgent.
Two days later, Jina, exhausted and disheveled, surveyed the office, now almost completely empty.
“It actually worked…”
She had spent two days cleaning the office without proper sleep or food. She’d managed to sell the used furniture to a dealer for a pittance. She’d expected to pay to have it removed, so even a small sum felt like a win. All that remained were a chair and cleaning tools borrowed from the caretaker, and her own few personal belongings.
Jina sank onto the floor and was about to close her laptop, which was still running. Then she noticed an email titled [Proposal Regarding Kno Diarg Mansion].
“Ah.”
Only then did she remember the text message.
Jina immediately clicked on the email. What on earth did anyone want with that relic? Her head was foggy from the relentless labor, but she decided to check this one thing before going home to finally sleep.
“Let’s see…”
Forcing her eyes to focus, Jina began to read. A short while later, she let out a long sigh and ran her hands over her face.
“There are all sorts of bloody lunatics out there.”
The email was simple. The sender operated a video channel that specialized in exploring abandoned places. They had recently heard about Kno Diarg Mansion while traveling through Scotland. Though various circumstances prevented them from getting close, they were convinced the mansion was perfect for their channel. They requested permission to enter. In return, they would offer a small token of appreciation.
People who explore abandoned places? The world was stranger than she thought.
Jina wrote a reply.
The email has been received, and unfortunately, entry will not be permitted. The mansion is managed by the trust company, so please do not approach the property and find a better filming location.
She hit send.
She had been too drained to write much. After sending the brief reply, she tidied her laptop and zipped it into her bag. That’s when she saw the mobile phone, which she’d deliberately silenced.
Maybe I should charge it a little before I go…
It was a twenty-minute bus ride from the office back to her flat in North London. If she got on the bus now, she’d crash out immediately and miss her stop. Better to scroll through social media to stay awake.
She plugged in the charger. The battery icon appeared, and then the phone came to life with a loud, whining sound, vibrating incessantly. Jina checked the notifications: six overdue notices from the bank, thirteen messages from worried friends, and an alarming number from the Korean Woman.
“Twenty?” Jina stared. What the hell is going on?
She tapped the messages from her mother first.
📱[Jina, are you home?]
📱[No. Better to stay out.]
📱[If someone comes looking for you today, don’t meet anyone.]
📱[Don’t answer the phone either.]
📱[Just go far away and hang out for the day.]
Was she drinking?
The messages were a stuttering stream of panic. Jina, her face etched with exhaustion, hit the notification blocking button. If her mother knew she’d read the messages, they’d only multiply. She planned to go home and sleep, and she wanted that sleep undisturbed.
She put the phone away and was about to stand when a new, urgent series of vibrations jolted it.
“Ah, really.”
She just wanted to rest. Why were people suddenly orbiting her like this? The phone was ringing. She hesitated, then remembered the text: Don’t answer the phone. Her lips twisted into a snarl. The Korean Woman was telling her what to do again, without even knowing her situation.
The image of her mother’s back—the back she thought she had finally forgotten—slammed into her memory: the hurried exit, the abandoned father and daughter, and the way she’d left without a wave or a backward glance. And yet, why now… Why are you saying this when I’m at my lowest point…
The pent-up resentment surged. Jina grabbed the water bottle from the windowsill and took a desperate gulp. It was November; the London air was already cruel. The water was just as cold.
“Hah.”
Jina barely caught her breath before answering the continuously ringing phone. It was a small, vicious act of rebellion against the woman who told her not to.
“Yes, this is Jina Troll.”
📱―Oh, Ian. You finally answered. Hold on, be quiet for a moment. “Hello, Miss Troll. This is Colin Parker, I contacted you via email.”
Colin was talking to someone else? He commanded silence and then addressed her.
📱―“I’m calling after checking my email. You rejected our offer…”
“Yes. That’s not a place you should enter. So—”
📱―“You can’t? Is there something left there? Or is there a family rule passed down from ancient times?” Colin’s voice, asking again, was sharp with excitement.
Ha. Jina let out a hollow laugh. He wasn’t just a channel operator; he was an occult enthusiast.
“It’s nothing like that. It’s just that the house is too old. And my grandmother had a dying wish. I’ll be going now—”
📱―“Wait! Wait a moment! I want to meet you in person and talk. Is it possible now? Wherever you are, we’ll come to you.”
Persistent. Jina instantly regretted the defiance that made her answer the call. As she stayed silent, annoyed, Colin spoke again.
📱―“If you just give me one chance to meet and talk, I won’t bother you anymore. Five minutes, no, even three minutes is fine!”
In other words, if she refused, he would keep stalking her. Crazy guy. Suppressing the irritation, Jina finished packing her laptop. Then, she spoke with mocking challenge.
“I’m on Maclin Street, near Holborn. If you can get here within five minutes, I’ll meet you.”
She gave the office address. Now that everything was sorted, she only needed to return the borrowed items and keys to the caretaker, confirm the place was empty, and then leave.
“Well then.” Jina heard a confused sound from the other end, but she hung up without listening further.
The caretaker arrived soon after. He scanned the neat office, accepted the returned items, and Jina headed for the main door. She checked her phone: four minutes had passed since she hung up.
There’s no way he can get here in a minute.
Baaang!
At that moment, a screaming red sports car rounded the corner with a deafening roar. Everyone on the street turned in surprise. The loud engine sound echoed brutally between the brick buildings. It was a showroom car, utterly out of place on a mundane city street.
The car slid into the alley and stopped precisely in front of Jina’s building.
The passenger door flew open, and a man with a pale, dazed face stumbled out. The driver’s door opened next, and a man with bright blond hair and sunglasses stepped out, laughing mockingly.
“You’re already losing your legs just from driving a bit.”
“Ian! You!” The man who got out first glared at the driver, calling his name with resentment. The man, Ian, paid him no further attention and lowered his sunglasses.
His blue eyes met Jina’s. His gaze—a slow, tactile caress—swept over Jina: Face, neck, chest, hips, legs. It was the look of a butcher assessing a prime cut of meat. It moved back up and lingered, deliberately, on her chest.
Whew!
Ian let out a low whistle, thick with crude desire. He pointed the tip of his removed sunglasses at Jina.
“I think that’s her?”
Bastard. Jina swallowed the Korean curse. A gaze wasn’t proof of harassment. And that man would never admit it.
What truly crushed Jina’s spirit was the gleaming Ferrari and the man’s clothing. The car, the clothes, the watch—everything about his attitude reeked of entitled rudeness.
He was clearly from a wealthy family. She’d seen their kind often during her catering jobs in affluent neighbourhoods.
She knew the truth: reporting them wouldn’t even be a minor inconvenience. Trying to fight would only pique their predatory interest and make her life harder.
As Jina stood there, her expression a contorted mask of fury, the stumbling man, Colin, waved his hand at Ian to silence him and approached her.
“Hello, are you Jina Troll?”
“It’s Jina.”
“Yes? Ah, Jina…”
“Jin.a.”
Colin was flustered by her curt, sharp correction. Suddenly, irritation washed over her. She was angry at the harassing man, but she felt pathetic for taking it out on his companion.
“Ah, just call me whatever. It doesn’t matter what my name is. And don’t contact me again after this conversation.”
She needed to end this quickly. Jina adjusted her backpack, ready to bolt the moment she finished speaking.
Realizing she was about to flee, Colin took a steadying breath and spoke as calmly as possible. “As I mentioned in my email, I operate a ruin exploration channel. Our team has been filming all over the UK, as well as in France, Germany, and other countries for two years. And Ian over there is a sponsor of our channel.”
Colin leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “As you know, businesses require capital in the early stages, so I had to work with someone like him, even if he’s unlucky. Please understand.”
The badmouthing of his sponsor made Jina’s defenses drop slightly.
“Okay. That aside, as I said in the email, I cannot grant you access.”
“If it’s due to safety concerns, that’s fine. I will sign a waiver stating that I will not make any compensation claims.”
“Hmm… Honestly, I don’t care if you get hurt or not. I don’t have the money to compensate you even if you did.”
“Then why…”
“It was my grandmother’s dying wish. She told me not to let anyone enter that house. If a third party enters the mansion, the monthly payments I receive from the trust company will be immediately suspended.”
Colin closed his mouth, his gaze scrutinizing, clearly suspecting this was a flimsy excuse. He thought for a moment, then spoke again.
“Do you know the reason for the wish?”
“No. I didn’t even know my grandmother was alive until I inherited it, so how would I know the reason?”
“Perhaps you have something precious inside the mansion that needs to be hidden from people’s eyes…”
Jina let out a hollow, cynical laugh at Colin’s continued words. He is obsessed with anything that could become a story.
“If there were something like that, the trust company would have persuaded my grandmother to open the mansion and make money before I did. So, please look elsewhere.”
As Jina turned to leave, Colin reached out and grabbed her backpack. Jina flinched and stared, and he quickly let go, looking genuinely apologetic.
If he grabs me again, I’m calling the police.
“I’m sorry. I did it without thinking… But can’t you reconsider? The trust company isn’t installing CCTV there and monitoring it daily, are they? We’ll just go in and out for one day. We’ll compensate you generously.”
At the mention of compensation, Jina’s focus wavered. Colin seized the opening.
“As you can see from Ian, he’s someone who has money to spare. Do you know the Aylesford Group? He’s the heir.”
“The Aylesford Group?” Jina’s eyes widened in surprise.
Aylesford. Anyone in London, anyone in Britain, knew the name. The Aylesford Group was the country’s largest distribution company. A supermarket bearing the Aylesford name was visible right now at the corner of the street. Their affiliates were everywhere. Aylesford didn’t just distribute food; they had an overwhelming market share in the UK food sector. It was said that if Aylesford withdrew from the food business, Britain would starve.
Jina’s gaze shifted to Ian. He was on the phone, but he kept glancing at her, and when Jina uttered the name ‘Aylesford’ in surprise, the corner of his mouth twisted into a smirk.
So you finally know who I am?
“So, if you grant us permission to film, we will offer generous compensation.”
Colin looked at her as if he had presented an undeniable offer. But Jina replied firmly.
“I refuse.”
The initial £400,000 was gone, but the £2,000 she received monthly was still paid consistently. No compensation, no matter how large, would offer the same lifelong satisfaction as that monthly allowance.
“I told you to look elsewhere. I don’t understand why you’re so fixated on that house. Ah, and inside there…” Jina shivered for a moment, remembering the lawyer’s words. “My grandmother’s body is still there. She wanted her body to remain in the mansion without a funeral after her death.”
The lawyer had confirmed it during the inheritance process: no funeral rites, the body left in the middle room on the second floor where the flag had flown. The thought had given Jina goosebumps.
Leaving the body untouched?
Even if her grandmother was involved in some bizarre local beliefs, it made no sense. But the lawyer was unfazed, stating they followed the deceased’s explicit wish.
Surely telling them there’s a corpse inside will make them hesitate.
“Is that true?”
The moment Jina saw Colin’s eyes gleam, she knew she’d made a grave error. The presence of a corpse only magnified the curiosity of people like them.
Now, further talk was useless. “In any case, no. If you violate this and upload any video, I will sue you immediately. The trust company will not stand by either. Not only will I have the video taken down, but I will report the entire channel.”
She had read that channel operators were highly sensitive to such reports. Colin’s expression crumpled, proving her right. Jina mentioned the name of the trust company; Colin’s face hardened further, as if he knew its reputation.
Ian, having finished his call, leaned into the car momentarily, then approached them. He got closer than necessary. Jina felt something press firmly against her chest.
“…!”
Startled, she looked down. It was a thick wad of cash. Who carries this much cash? More importantly, the bastard had just shoved it into her body. Ian, glaring at her, waved the wad, then began to knead the money with his hands. It was clear what he really wanted to touch wasn’t the money.
“You know, I looked into it, and you have quite a lot of debt? If you just give permission, your situation will improve.”
Charrrlek.
The cash in Ian’s hand made a crisp, obscene sound. Colin looked back and forth between the money, Ian, and Jina.
Ian shook the wad over Jina’s chest one last time, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Honestly, I don’t care about the mansion, whatever happens to it… Seeing as you’re good-looking and have a nice figure…”
He leered and brought his face close to hers.
“You need money, right? Play with me for a day.”
At those words, Jina plucked the wad of cash out of her pocket. Then, she threw it directly at Ian’s face.
Charrrk!
The paper band tore, scattering £50 notes across the alley.
“Fuck off, you son of a bitch.”
Jina raised her middle finger at Ian, who was clutching his nose where the cash had struck him, and spun around instantly. She’d cursed in Korean, so they wouldn’t know what she’d said.
How pathetic, that I’m worried about being reported even after being insulted.
Two weeks passed. Colin didn’t contact her again. She had to admit, after that scene, it would take incredible nerve to try. In the meantime, Jina was searching for a new job. It was mid-November, and the city was already draped in red decorations, waiting for Christmas. With the holidays approaching, workers were in high demand everywhere, especially in the food service industry.
I need to find a good place.
Jina looked at the tomatoes and organic vegetables she’d bought at an expensive market the day before. Even now, her body would reject cheap processed food. The best way to cut food expenses was to work somewhere that handled good ingredients.
She was browsing job sites on her mobile phone when—Zing!—a strong vibration announced an unfamiliar number.
The bank again?
She looked at the number. It began with ‘131’—a local area code. Where is this? She hesitated, thinking it might be spam. The call ended, then rang again instantly. Whoever it was, the matter was urgent. Jina answered.
📱―“Jina Troll?”
The caller spoke before Jina could say anything and immediately delivered the news.
📱―“Someone has died at the mansion you own. You need to come here.”
Clatter!
The mobile phone slipped from Jina’s hand and struck the ground. The car she was in shook violently up and down; a large piece of gravel had been hit on the remote, unpaved road.
“Damn it.”
Jina gritted her teeth and kept driving. It was only three in the afternoon, yet the surroundings had already surrendered to darkness. November in London meant the sun fled quickly; further north, it was even faster.
The moment she got the call from the police, six hours earlier, Jina had gone straight to the airport. On the flight to Edinburgh, a single thought consumed her, hard and bright: What will happen to my oracle now?
The police officer, speaking with a thick regional accent, had explained the situation. They’d received an early morning distress call from Kno Diarg Mansion, begging for help.
The nearest police station had responded, but the mansion was so hard to find that they’d spent hours wandering the moorland fog, finally locating it well after sunrise. When they confirmed an intruder and forced entry, they found the floor had completely collapsed.
Groans and cries were echoing from beneath the wreckage. Because the location was so remote, with minimal mobile signal, they had to drive a considerable distance to a road before they could call for backup. Only then had the case been officially logged and the call made to her.
When the call first came through, Jina was shocked by the death, but her heart had sunk at the immediate realization: the conditions of her lifelong payment had been violated.
But this isn’t my fault.
The police needed confirmation from her, the legal owner, and demanded she visit immediately. The trust company was likely contacted, too. If so, she needed to speak with them at the mansion. The only thing keeping her grounded amidst the crushing debt was that monthly payment.
If she lost that…
As soon as she landed, Jina went straight to rent a car. The rental employee heard the address and offered a pitying glance. “You won’t get good reception going there. You’ll probably need a different navigation system. There’s an extra charge, is that okay?”
How damn remote was this place that neither mobile phones nor standard sat-navs worked?
Fortunately, her credit card hadn’t been blocked yet. She paid, swiped, and started the ignition.
Leaving Edinburgh Airport behind, the distinct, bleak Scottish wilderness unfolded. The land was filled with dry, brown heath grass and black stones. Gentle, sloping hills stretched endlessly beside the road, desolate and empty of traffic. Brown streams crisscrossed between the hills.
The navigation system initially estimated two and a half hours, but her speed was relentless. Even so, the sky was already swallowing the light.
Driving for a long time, the mobile phone on the passenger seat suddenly rang. Assuming it was the police, she glanced down. The screen read: [Korean Woman].
“Hah.”
Jina tossed the phone back onto the seat. Her mother called regularly—four times a year, like clockwork.
But Jina had never answered.
If she answered, she knew she would hear complaints about missing her, and then the begging. The one who abandoned her was her mother, yet Jina would be the one expected to provide comfort. So she ignored the calls.
But why call now?
If she had called when Jina was in London, maybe. Now, her trusted stepmother had bolted with her lover, leaving a mountain of debt. The company she built had crashed. Her friends offered pity, so she couldn’t ask them for help.
She hadn’t cried or told anyone the full truth of her despair. She craved comfort, but not from this person. She wanted the one who abandoned her to regret it, to come back begging for forgiveness. She couldn’t allow her mother to see her in this state.
If I don’t answer, she’ll stop soon.
But the vibration didn’t cease. At this rate, the battery would die before she arrived. Finally, she pulled over to the shoulder, scrolled to her mother’s name, and slammed the [Block] button. She deliberately didn’t look at the texts.
The sudden silence felt heavy, leaving Jina with an unexplained emptiness, as if she had missed a final opportunity.
Just then, a light appeared in the darkness. It was the name of the village, seven miles from the mansion.
I’m on the right track.
After passing through, she had to turn onto a side road. The expensive navigation system was, thankfully, working perfectly.
As she drove through the village, Jina felt a sense of profound strangeness. She’d heard it had only a few dozen residents, but… were they not turning on any lights? Only the streetlights shone; the houses were dark. It was a ghost town, devoid of human warmth.
This is too desolate.
She’d hoped for a pub to ask for directions, but that was a naive fantasy.
Relieved the sat-nav was functioning, she left the village and continued onto a poorly paved road. Finally, the screen indicated the junction.
“It wants me to go here?”
Jina stared at the path in her headlights, dumbfounded. It looked like a sheep track, yet faint tire marks—likely from the police and ambulances—were visible. She put the car in gear and drove down the dark path.
Bump! Bump! The car shook violently, her body slamming into the door.
After driving for a while, she crested a hill, and the view opened up below.
“……!” Jina instinctively slammed the brakes.
Far in the distance, below the gentle slope, ‘that mansion’ came into view. Several police cars and ambulances flashed their lights around it. Dozens of people were milling about.
But Jina’s eyes were fixed on the mansion alone. She had seen it before, in the lawyer’s blurry photograph, with the inexplicable terror lurking in its windows.
But that mansion…
“It’s different…?”
It was the same structure, immense and old, yet the pervasive sense of unsettling dread that had clung to the old photograph was gone. All she saw was a large, dilapidated building in a remote area.
“Are you Jina Troll?”
As Jina stepped out of the car, a high-ranking police officer approached her. His accent was so dense it was difficult to decipher.
“I am Detective Dicastker, who made the call.” His difficult surname indicated a long-time local. “Let’s talk as we walk.”
“Yes. But even though I’m the owner, I don’t know anything. This is my first time visiting, too…” Jina said, following the detective who strode purposefully ahead.
She saw someone sitting behind a parked ambulance. Paramedics were wrapping the person in a thermal sheet and constantly checking on them.
That’s him. She knew it instantly. Ian Aylesford. That arrogant trash who threw money around.
She started to turn away, relieved he wasn’t the one who had died, but their eyes met.
In that instant, Jina forgot the detective, forgot everything, and froze in place. Her blood ran cold. She couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t draw a breath. All her organs and senses seemed to have shut down, everything distant, except her sight. Only Ian Aylesford registered in her vision.
He, too, stared directly at Jina, ignoring the people around him. After a long moment, his lips parted. His red tongue slowly emerged, licked his injured mouth, and then retreated. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed. Then, something trickled down his chin.
Ian Aylesford was looking at Jina, drooling. Like a beast that had been starved for a very long time.
“Miss Troll?” Detective Dicastker, noticing she’d stopped, gently tapped her shoulder. A police officer briefly blocked her view, and Jina could finally move.
What was that…?
Her senses hadn’t recovered; they were erratic. She felt a profound nausea, as if she were about to vomit everything she had eaten. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, her legs felt like jelly. Jina clamped a hand over her mouth, certain she would scream if she didn’t.
Why am I like this?
She tried to understand why her body had reacted with such violence. Then, she remembered the similar feeling, just recently.
“……Ah.”
It was when the lawyer showed her the photograph. The terror when she looked at the mansion’s windows in the picture. The sensation now was similar, only far more intense, more vivid.
She tried to recall all the fears of her life: the near-miss with a car, the attack by a vicious dog, getting lost while camping. The fear she felt now was on a different plane, a different dimension. It felt as if the ground had given way, and she was falling straight into the maw of a giant beast.
“Are you alright?” The detective, seeing Jina’s state, asked with concern.
Jina took a deep, shuddering breath and turned her head. Ian, who had been sitting there, was gone, apparently taken into the ambulance. The moment he disappeared, her body recovered shockingly fast. It was unbelievable that she’d been trembling moments ago.
When the detective reached for his radio, Jina raised her hand to stop him.
“I’m fine. I think I just felt a bit stuffy from driving for so long while tense.”
As she replied, Jina convinced herself. She had been through so much recently. Her friend, knowing her sensitive constitution, had warned her:
“I’m worried about you. If you keep bottling things up like this, your body might react strangely. Why don’t you try counseling?”
Is that it? Perhaps the accumulated stress had finally erupted. Jina slowly took a breath.
Seeing her composure return, the detective suggested they head to the mansion.
“You said this was your first time here. It’s quite an old mansion.”
“Is it?” Jina realized she’d never asked the lawyer for the construction date.
“From the outside, I thought it was about two hundred years old, but seeing the collapsed parts inside, it must be at least five hundred years old.” The detective explained that he’d majored in architecture and his father was a well-known carpenter, which helped him estimate the age.
“It could even be well over five hundred. We’d have to check the basement to be sure, but that’s difficult now that it’s collapsed. But why wasn’t such an old mansion registered?”
Frida Troll had inherited it in 1951. Before that, it must have been in the family.
When did the Troll Family start living here?
The surname wasn’t English; her research indicated they were rooted much further north.
Did they move to Scotland even earlier than I thought?
With such thoughts, Jina followed the detective. With every step, she heard a rustling sound as she crushed heath grass and small, nameless plants. The ground felt like she was walking on thick mud. Various species—some dry, some blooming—grew together, but their fruits, remarkably, were all blood-red.
The path must have been entirely grass before, but now police traffic had churned the muddy ground into a visible track. Jina followed the detective, watching her shoes get dirty.
The police were belatedly setting up a perimeter. Yellow and black plastic tape fluttered in the wind. As she ascended the steps, the mansion was much larger than she’d imagined.
The front facade alone spanned over thirty meters. It was longer in the back, three stories high, with a basement. When first built, it must have been a bustling manor, requiring at least fifty staff. The lawyer had mentioned that the land was uninhabited and had no attractions or pasture.
Why did my ancestor build such a massive house here?
“Be careful from here on. It’s dangerous because parts of it are rotten.”
The detective spoke as they reached the entrance. The broken front door lay discarded. Shouts and urgent calls could be heard inside. It sounded like people were still trapped.
“Ah, Detective. Come to think of it, my grandmother’s body was probably in the middle room on the second floor…”
“Yes?”
Jina explained her grandmother’s final wish: to be left in the house after her death.
The detective’s expression contorted in horror. “Leaving a body like that is illegal. Even if it weren’t illegal, how could you…?” He repeatedly made the sign of the cross and muttered prayers.
“I’ll check it out. Hey!” He called over a passing officer, explained the situation, and ordered a check for the body on the second floor. The officer looked bewildered, shaking his head and grumbling as he went upstairs.
The detective, looking at the commotion inside, began his explanation.
“First, I’ll tell you what happened. At eight AM this morning, we received an emergency distress call. A short call saying they were trapped in Kno Diarg Mansion and needed rescue. A local officer was dispatched, but no one knew the area, so it took a long time to find it. The sun rises late, and the fog doesn’t lift easily… Anyway, we finally confirmed the mansion and entered, and as you can see.”
The detective stepped inside first, gesturing for Jina to follow.
As she entered, avoiding the hurried figures, Jina immediately understood.
In the space that served as the mansion’s lobby, there was a massive hole. The entire lobby floor seemed to have collapsed into the basement.
The detective gestured at the massive cavity. “The mansion’s center collapsed like this. And from down here, I could hear groaning. Hey! Mark!”
The young police officer, who had been staring blankly into the abyss, snapped to attention.
“This is the owner of the mansion. Explain the scene when you first arrived.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, Inspector.” Mark began, his voice hesitant. “I got the rescue request and was sent out, but I couldn’t find this mansion for the life of me. Even the people in the nearby village all said they didn’t know anything about it.”
“The nearby village? The one you passed on the way in? I thought it was completely deserted.”
“Deserted? Not at all. The pub’s always open. I stop by for a pint sometimes.”
Always open, huh.
When Jina had driven through, the place had been pitch-black, every house a cold silhouette. There hadn’t been a soul to ask.
The Inspector shot a look at Mark—Stop the chatter and finish the report—and the officer, catching the mood, hurried on.
“Anyway, the fog finally lifted after noon, and I found the place. I thought about calling for backup, but there’s genuinely no signal at all out here, you know? So…”
“Excuse me.” Jina, who had been following Mark’s shaky account, raised a hand. Something felt deeply wrong.
“As you said, this place has absolutely no signal…” Her gaze drifted to the gaping hole of the collapsed basement. “How did you receive the rescue request from people trapped underground?”
The Inspector and Mark both looked momentarily stumped, then simply shrugged.
“Well, sometimes it connects intermittently, doesn’t it?” the Inspector offered.
That’s true. People held their phones high, searching for a ghost signal. But Jina felt an intuitive certainty: a signal was not meant to exist here.
“But…”
“Let’s leave that for now and finish listening to the explanation.” Clearly annoyed by the interruption, the Inspector cut her off and motioned for Mark to continue.
“Right, where was I? Ah, yes. I had to check, so I entered the mansion. The front door was already hanging off its hinges, so getting in wasn’t the problem. But as you can see, the house had completely given way, and the rot… there was a disgusting, sickly-sweet smell of decay hanging everywhere. I shouted, asking if anyone was there, and then someone screamed for help from below.”
Mark continued his story, a hint of genuine trauma in his eyes.
“It was absolute chaos. I told them to calm down, but multiple people were crying and shouting at once. I tried to look down, but the edge looked too unstable to even peer over, so I gave up. I found a rope, tied it to a pillar, and threw it down, but it must not have reached. All I heard were muffled cries.”
Mark judged that a solo rescue was impossible. He told the trapped group he was leaving to get help, and that they needed to wait.
“Then, the people who had been wailing and screaming suddenly became quiet. They seemed relieved when I said I’d bring more people. They even laughed.”
To request support, Mark drove until he found a signal. He was severely reprimanded for failing to confirm the number of people, their names, or take photographs of the scene.
“Stop the nonsense and just give us the facts,” the Inspector said, clicking his tongue in impatience.
Mark bristled but maintained a stern expression. “There’s nothing more to explain after that. I drove to a service area, waited for backup, and we returned. After that, well, as you can see.” He gestured to the ongoing operation. “The rescue’s been underway for about two hours. The person coming out now will be the last.”
“So, how many people died and how many were injured?” Jina asked directly.
Mark paused, clearly trying to mentally tally the casualties. “Well, if what people said is true… uh…” He couldn’t answer. The Inspector looked increasingly disappointed.
“It’s not many people, why can’t you answer that?”
“No, it’s not that… Uh, that’s strange, isn’t it?” Mark looked confused, even resorting to counting on his fingers, his expression deepening into bewilderment.
“That’s enough. You can go now.” The Inspector was more frustrated than Jina and waved the officer away. Mark quickly nodded and left. Jina dismissed the strange interaction; she had nothing left to ask the man. Even the first officer doesn’t know the casualty count.
Finally, the Inspector radioed another officer, checked his notepad, and answered Jina.
“They say five people went down. Let’s see, the names… First, the deceased is James McCoy. Fortunately, or unfortunately, only one fatality. And the seriously injured person is William Evans. He’s the one they’re bringing up now. Apparently, he was the most difficult to reach, which delayed his rescue. His life isn’t in danger, but he’s sustained injuries to his leg and spine, so they have to immobilize him.”
The Inspector continued. “There are three with minor injuries: Carmela Jenkins, Rob Fisher, and Ian Aylesford. That’s a total of five casualties.”
Five. That’s a lot. Jina sighed and rubbed her face. Then, she remembered the man who had called her.
“What about Colin Parker? Is he not here?”
“Who is that?”
“He’s the channel operator. He’s the one who wanted to visit and came to see me…”
Just then, a commotion erupted from the depths of the basement. Both of them turned and looked into the massive hole. Jina wanted to get closer, but the entire lobby was compromised, and dirt kept crumbling from the edges every time someone moved.
“It’s all tied! Prepare to hoist!” a rescue team member shouted from below.
The officers and team members above began preparing the ropes. Since the pillars inside the house posed a further collapse risk, the main rope was connected to a fire truck parked at the entrance, while others held supporting lines to maintain balance.
At the rescue leader’s command, the team pulled in unison. The fire truck’s winch began to slowly reel the line.
Hoisting a person with suspected neck and back injuries was slow, painstaking work. They stopped several times.
After repeating the motion, a stretcher, serving as a bed, was finally hauled up to the ground floor. The man secured to the stretcher winced, every slight jolt sending a spasm of pain through him. As the team members carefully pulled the stretcher all the way out, the police officers who let go of the rope gave a cheer—relief at the successful rescue, joy that their shift was nearly over.
“Careful! Careful!”
The waiting paramedics immediately carried him outside. Meanwhile, about ten people below continued to examine the area with lanterns.
Then, the light of a searcher’s lamp fell onto a blood-stained patch of the basement floor.
“Ugh…” A pained sound escaped involuntarily from Jina.
As the light quickly shifted, she saw something unbelievable. The beam illuminated the basement wall, which was densely covered in strange, unreadable characters. Not just letters, but complex, agonizing shapes and bizarre, disturbing drawings.
Though the script was alien, a cold shiver shot down her spine the moment she saw it. She intuitively felt it. These were not decorations. These were letters meant to bind something, to hold it captive.
“What is this…?” Jina rubbed her arms, her skin prickling.
The lantern light shifted away.
“Hey!” Jina urgently shouted down. The investigating team looked up, shielding their eyes from the glare now directed at her.
“That wall you just saw! Can you shine the light on it again?”
“Who are you up there?” a man shouted back, annoyed at receiving orders.
“I’m the owner of the mansion!”
“Really? Where is the staircase leading up?”
“What?”
“The staircase leading up! Since there’s a basement, there must be a staircase connecting to it! We’ve searched everywhere, but we can’t find any stairs! Is this some kind of secret bunker? Like stairs hidden behind a rock?”
“I don’t know…”
“You’re the owner, aren’t you?” The police officer’s tone was accusatory.
He secured the rope used for the hoist. They started sending up the lanterns that had been set up below. As the lanterns ascended, the light swayed, catching various spots. However, despite the strong light, the wall with the script was strangely hard to see.
Jina tried to get closer, but the floor beneath her feet crumbled, raining dirt down. She had no choice but to step back.
The severely injured man, William Evans, was being moved outside. Just then, he screamed from his stretcher.
“No! There’s one more person left below! There are six of us!”
Six people? Jina was confused. The police said five.
The Inspector thought for a moment. “That person’s name is… Ah, William Evans. The seriously injured one. From what the others said, he’s the team’s sub-leader.”
While the Inspector was speaking, William shouted again.
“Colin! Colin is still down there!”
“Calm down, Mr. Evans. Our team has searched everywhere. There’s no one else left below.”
“I’m telling you no! You have to take him! Colin! Answer me quickly! Colin!”
William was shouting as if having a seizure, thrashing his body. The paramedics checked the blood seeping from his head, exchanged professional glances, and shook their heads. They intended to get him to the ambulance immediately. As several team members helped carry him out, William continued to desperately call for his colleague.
After he left, the officer above shouted down to the basement team.
“Did you find the arm?”
“No. Can’t see it.”
“He bled so much, shouldn’t it be lying nearby?”
“What can we do if we can’t see it? Inspector! Can’t we just withdraw for today? We can search again when it’s light tomorrow!”
The Inspector answered the call. “Let’s do that. It’s the arm of a dead person anyway, so there’s no urgent need to find it.”
“What do you mean? Find the arm?” Jina interjected, aghast.
“Ah, there’s a deceased person, you see. James McCoy. When we brought the body up, one arm was missing. It seems it was crushed or torn off by something during the fall. That pool of blood over there… that’s likely his. He probably died from excessive bleeding. All his colleagues survived; what bad luck for him.”
As they talked, the people below began to emerge one by one. Watching them, Jina realized she had missed her chance to examine the wall with the strange writing.
“I’ll borrow this for a moment.” She borrowed a police officer’s lantern, but the wall was too far inside, and the light didn’t penetrate the debris and dust. Eventually, Jina gave up and returned the lantern.
“Let’s get out of here for now,” the Inspector said, waving his hand to clear the dust.
Just then, the police officer who had been ordered to search for Frida Troll’s body appeared.
“You might need to come up, Inspector. Um, I think I found it, but…” Jina hesitated.
Frida Troll’s body.
“Seeing a corpse is a bit…” It had been nearly two years since the trust payments started, meaning Frida’s body had been decaying in that room all this time. Whatever sight awaited her, it wouldn’t be for the faint of heart.
The officer scratched his cheek. “There’s no body.”
“What?”
No body?
“You said you found it? What are you talking about?” the Inspector demanded, bewildered.
“Um, well…”
“Did you search properly? Why are you asking us to come up if there’s no body?”
“Please come up and see. It’s more accurate to say the body has disappeared.” The answers grew increasingly confusing.
“Let’s go. I need to report this too.” At the Inspector’s urging, Jina reluctantly moved.
Ascending was not easy. The stairs were rotting, and the risk of further collapse was palpable with every step. Debris from fallen ceilings and walls made the climb treacherous. No matter how she looked at it, this didn’t look like a house that had been lived in two years ago. It looked like a ruin abandoned for two hundred.
“Does a house normally collapse this severely?” Even without earthquakes, could it get this damaged?
“The maintenance is terrible, certainly, despite people living here until recently. Moreover, looking at the collapse, much of it seems fresh. It looks like parts of the structure gave way when the basement went this time,” the Inspector, the architecture major, commented, picking his way through the rubble.
The carpet was not just damp but covered in moss in many places. Each step felt like sinking into a sticky swamp, muddy water seeping up. The second floor was as devastated as the stairs.
“This is it,” the police officer announced from the doorway, unwilling to step inside.
Peering into the room, Jina felt a chilling difference from the other rooms they had passed.
“Ugh.” Jina covered her mouth and stepped back. A foul, visceral smell—the undeniable scent of rotting organic matter—lingered in the air. The simple room, containing a bed, a desk, and two pieces of furniture, hosted an unusually large swarm of flies. The wallpaper was covered in dark, unsettling stains, and a tattered white flag, which had presumably been flown from the window, lay fallen beneath the pane.
She shifted her gaze to the bed beside her. And…
“There’s no body? Where did it go?” The Inspector echoed Jina’s silent question.
The bed and the mattress were stained black, just like the wallpaper. On the mattress, the black stains were precisely in the position where a person would lie.
Black marks spread out beside it—the indisputable traces left by a decaying body, along with countless unseen insects. Everything indicated that this bed had become a tomb.
Yet the corpse that should have been there was gone.
“You may leave for today. We will contact you tomorrow.”
By the time the Inspector dismissed her, it was well past six in the evening.
Six PM in London in November was dark, but six PM at Kno Diarg was absolute, swallowing blackness. Unlike the city, which was alive with ambient light, here, it was impossible to distinguish the sky from the moor.
The headlights of the remaining vehicles began to depart, and Jina quickly started her rental car to join the procession. She did not want to be the last person left at that house.
Following the police cars back to the main road, Jina headed toward Edinburgh. B&Bs were seasonal; most closed when the sun started setting so early. Finding a place to stay now meant returning to the capital. Her mobile phone battery died and the screen went dark.
As she entered Edinburgh, the darkness finally fractured. Streetlights, neon signs from advertisements, and houses, though quiet, cast a warm, comforting glow.
As she entered the city, a familiar chain hotel—a reasonably priced business stop—came into view. She immediately parked and headed inside.
Since it was the off-season, the hotel had plenty of vacancies. She listened distractedly to the details about breakfast and facilities before walking into a pub still open across the street.
The pub was packed, likely because there were no other late-night options nearby. The air was thick with the scent of stale alcohol, frying food, and the boisterous voices of people watching a rerun of the afternoon’s football match.
This place is fine.
The moment the thought settled, a long, rattling sigh—“Hoo……”—escaped her. Only then did Jina realize she hadn’t been breathing properly for hours. She had been so lost in the swirling, unbelievable events of the day that she had forgotten basic functions.
She slammed back the entire glass of beer she had just ordered. A quick, dizzying flush of intoxication hit her. Her body, starved all day, absorbed the alcohol instantly.
What the hell did I just go through?
The day felt utterly unreal, a bizarre, sickening dream she hadn’t yet woken up from. Sitting in a dark corner booth, Jina covered her face with both hands. She was terribly, bone-deep tired. And yet, she had a sinking feeling this nightmare was far from over.
Jina was tormented by nightmares all night.
She was trapped in absolute darkness, unable to see an inch ahead. The sightless void brought an extreme, crushing terror that squeezed the air from her lungs. Frightened, Jina hugged herself, then realized the horrifying truth.
My arm is gone.
She couldn’t feel one of her arms. Her frantic search confirmed her legs were gone too. Her abdomen, her chest, even her head—all missing pieces. Yet, strangely, she wasn’t surprised.
I was eaten.
The fact felt as inevitable as the tide. Since that thing had come out, it would eat everything. She was just another consumed meal.
Suddenly, the world fractured and changed. She was still in darkness, but one thing was piercingly clear, rushing toward her. She was falling, accelerating toward the object.
Kno Diarg Mansion.
The mansion where Frida Troll had slept, where the channel operators had died or been injured, the place with the massive, gaping hole. She plummeted at a terrifying speed, slamming straight into the basement. Her vision dissolved in a burst of excrutiating pain.
As her head lolled sideways, she saw the walls covered in the alien writing. Unable to move, she watched the scripts blur as her consciousness began to fade.
Crunch.
She heard the sound of chewing. It wasn’t just a chewing sound; it was the wet, visceral tearing of flesh, the churning of organs, and the crushing of bones.
Crunch. Crunch.
The sound drew closer. When it was just below her jaw, Jina strained with her last bit of sight toward the source.
Thousands of teeth. Each one sharp, radiating intense, focused hostility. Beyond those teeth was only darkness—a darkness that somehow reminded her of the mansion’s basement floor.
It opened its maw and bit down, tearing Jina apart.
As her consciousness receded, she heard laughter, and then, the final sound of bones snapping.
“Hah!”
Jina’s eyes snapped open.
She stared at the unfamiliar, plain ceiling, momentarily disoriented. Then, the memories flashed: the morning phone call, the plane, the desolate moor, and the mansion.
Barely recalling yesterday’s events, Jina reached for the water on the bedside table. Her head was throbbing. She had downed beer and whatever else the pub offered on an empty stomach; the hangover was brutal. Unable to bear the headache, she lay back down, battling nausea and sharp hunger pangs.
“What kind of dream was that…”
It was a deeply disturbing vision. She had slept without turning on the heater, so the room was near-freezing, yet the spot where she lay was soaked with sweat, clammy and cold. As she struggled to sit up, a giant iron ball seemed to roll around inside her skull, banging against the bone.
Ha. A weary sigh escaped her.
She had a terrible premonition: today would bring nothing but bad news.
Jina’s premonition was immediately proven correct.
As she packed her meager belongings to check out, her mobile phone was missing. Pressing her temples, she tried to rewind:
When I left the pub and came into the hotel… was the mobile phone in my hand?
At this point, she was simply grateful her bag and wallet were safe.
After checking out, she bought hangover medicine at a nearby pharmacy and headed straight to the pub. Despite the early hour, an employee was already cleaning.
“Excuse me, did anyone turn in a lost mobile phone yesterday? I think I might have left it while drinking.”
The employee chuckled and shook his head, the smile implying: Even if it had been lost, it wouldn’t have stayed here. Jina left, realizing the foolishness of the question. There was no way a lost phone would remain in a busy city pub.
The police will contact me. And there’s the interview with the trust company.
After much deliberation, she bought a used mobile phone at a small electronics shop and had a new SIM card issued. The moment she stepped outside, the phone rang, as if it had been waiting.
📱―“This is Detective Dicastker. What time can you come to the mansion today?”
Jina hesitated before answering. “Um… do I really have to go?”
📱―“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, the search seemed to be over. I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help with the investigation.”
Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded absurd. But if there was any way to avoid that mansion, she would take it.
As expected, she heard the detective’s exasperated sigh.
📱―“No, even so, you are the owner. There were many things I couldn’t ask you yesterday, and most importantly, it seems we found Frida Troll’s body, so I have a lot to discuss regarding that. Oh, and the trust company, which is in charge of this place, is also coming today, so it would be good to meet them.”
The trust company. Hearing that name, Jina felt wide awake, as if the alcohol had instantly burned out of her system.
Jina drove to the mansion along the same bleak, isolated road. She had intentionally waited for the sun to be fully up, so it was past noon when she arrived.
She’d bought a sandwich at a gas station, but couldn’t manage more than a bite. The bread was stale, the vegetables were sodden with cheap sauce, and the moment she noticed the finely chopped, cheap ham, she discarded the whole thing without hesitation. Even in this crisis, she resented her own picky, expensive palate.
“You’re here.”
As Jina pulled up, Detective Dicastker approached her. Behind him, two police cars were visible. Unlike yesterday’s chaos of flashing lights and ambulances, only a few officers remained.
“Hello. Have the people from the trust company arrived yet?” Jina asked immediately, urgency overriding courtesy.
Yesterday, she had been too stunned to think, but now, the anxiety was flooding in. The trust company had been clear: no one was to enter the mansion. She had never given permission.
Even though she knew she wasn’t at fault, her mouth was dry with fear.
“They’ll arrive soon. More importantly, we confirmed yesterday that Frida Troll’s body was missing, didn’t we?”
“Yes… we did.”
The detective explained that based on the state of the room, it was certain she had died there and been left unattended. The problem was that what should have remained, like bones, had vanished without a trace. A corpse couldn’t simply walk away; something must have moved it.
The question was: what?
There were no large predators in the area. The only scavengers might be birds, as four-legged beasts capable of dragging away a corpse had been extinct here for generations.
“We found that body near the mansion. On the path leading up the hill over there. One of our officers found it while walking up to take a look.”
“So, my grandmother died outside the mansion?”
“That’s unlikely. What was found was not the entire body, but only a very small part.”
The detective showed her a photo on his phone. It was a human hand bone, still clinging to desiccated flesh.
Jina instantly turned away, clapping a hand over her mouth. She dry-heaved several times before managing to sip some water to calm her stomach.
“You don’t have to show me any more. So… what about the rest?”
“There might be more parts in this area… Since there are no drag marks, and only small parts like this, it’s most likely an eagle carried it away and dropped it. The window was broken; perhaps it came in there, pecked at the decaying corpse, and carried the pieces out.”
Jina wondered if that truly explained the disappearance of the entire body, but no other rational explanation surfaced.
At that moment, the detective chuckled darkly. “Or it could be Kushi.”
“Kushi?”
“You don’t know Kushi? Ah, perhaps people in England wouldn’t know.” The detective shook his head, then added that officers were searching the area and would likely find more remains.
Just then, a black sedan entered the mansion grounds. It stopped, and a familiar figure emerged: the lawyer who had first informed her about the inheritance.
Relieved to see a familiar face, Jina hurried toward him. The lawyer stopped, took a document from his bag, and handed it to Jina, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.
“Miss Jina Troll. You have been disqualified from receiving the inheritance. The previously paid sum of four hundred thousand pounds will be subject to recovery procedures, and the monthly payment of two thousand pounds will also be stopped immediately.”