Got Dropped into a Ghost Story, Still Gotta Work-Chapter 146

When people are feeling down, they tend to look at the ground as they walk.

These days, smartphones have made it a little less common, but it’s still something almost everyone has experienced at some point.

And so, at least once in their life, everyone has probably found themselves staring at this on the pavement or the road without really thinking about it.

A manhole.

A dull gray circle that appears all over the streets.

An access point to underground pipelines, a passageway for maintenance workers.

Everyone knows that.

And at some point, while looking at one of those round gray covers, they must have imagined it—

A person suddenly emerging from below.

Or… the thought of lifting the cover and going inside.

Of course, in reality, that was not easy to encounter. The covers weren’t something just anyone could lift—they weighed over 100 kilograms on average.

So, it remained just an idle thought.

But what if something that had only ever existed in imagination suddenly became real?

People’s curiosity would be instantly piqued.

And the ghost story I was looking for—started from there.

“…….”

I lifted my head.

It was a dark alley.

The laughter of drunk people, shouts, and blaring music could be heard close by. The flashing lights and noise seemed just around the corner.

A nightlife district that never slept.

But this place—this alley—was steeped in shadows and silence.

A damp, musty passage hidden behind the brightness.

Incident Location: Near bars, clubs, university districts—areas bustling with drunken, excited crowds at night.

A single streetlight illuminated the grimy concrete of the alley.

And there it was.

A manhole cover.

At first glance, it looked like any other. A mundane part of the urban landscape.

Except this one had something strange.

A hand was sticking out from the gap.

“…….”

The round manhole cover had been slightly pushed aside, and from beneath it, an arm had emerged.

Five pale fingers trembled under the flickering glow of the streetlight.

As if pleading for help.

Observed Forms of the Hand So Far:

A child’s hand with painted nails.A hand in a sanitation worker’s uniform.A hand clad in a knit sweater.A hand wearing an old school uniform.A hand in a business suit.A hand wearing a ■■-era military uniform.A wrinkled, wart-covered elderly hand.A hand covered in ■■■ tattoos, missing all fingernails.

Most people, upon seeing something like this, would scream, hesitate, or immediately report it.

But if someone was drunk or caught up in the atmosphere… they might just walk up to it without thinking.

That’s what this ghost story preyed upon.

“…….”

I slowly approached the manhole with the protruding hand.

It twitched slightly.

One step.

Another.

And just when I was a body’s length away—

“Hah.”

I turned around.

Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out a small pouch of salt I had brought along.

I took a handful.

And then—without hesitation—

I tossed it over my left shoulder, straight toward the manhole.

SCREEEEEEEEECH!!!

A horrifying, earsplitting noise erupted behind me.

It was impossible to believe that sound had come from salt touching something.

And then—a stench.

Something foul burning.

‘Ugh….’

Smoke rose, curling through the air.

But I did not turn around.

I simply stood there. Waiting.

And before long—

The noise and the stench vanished.

“…….”

That was when I finally turned back.

The hand was gone.

All that remained was the dark hole of the manhole, illuminated by the dim glow of the streetlight.

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The cover—slightly ajar.

‘…Got it.’

By using salt as a purification measure, the ‘hand’ can be temporarily repelled, allowing access to the manhole.

I stuffed more salt into both pockets, then approached the manhole.

Under the streetlight’s glow, the engraved text and patterns on the cover became clearer.

Most manhole covers had designations on the outer rim indicating their purpose, and a logo in the center representing their managing authority.

This one was no different.

If I looked closely, I could see exactly where it led and who was responsible for it….

Destination: Hell.

鬼鬼鬼鬼鬼

This was not an entrance to the sewers.

It was a gateway to something else.

“…Ha.”

With a trembling hand, I gripped the manhole cover and pushed.

Heavy.

But slowly, it moved.

Beneath it—

A gaping, black hole.

Thud.

A void.

An abyss with nothing visible inside.

“…….”

I double-checked that I had my gloves, mask, and hat on.

Then, after dousing myself in salt, I placed my foot onto the ladder.

Step by step.

Descending.

Tap. Tap.

The sounds of the world above grew distant.

The light. The noise.

Fading away.

Further and further down.

Alone.

‘…Somehow, being alone makes this even scarier.’

A chill ran down my spine, but I clenched my teeth and kept moving.

I was the guy who had survived four days in that deranged mart.

I could handle this.

‘I will handle this.’

Gritting my teeth, I stepped down further.

And after a few more seconds—just as sweat began pooling in my uncovered hand—

Squelch.

My feet touched the ground.

I ignored the strange, wet squelching sensation beneath me and mechanically moved forward.

A narrow, dark sewer tunnel stretched out before me—too cramped to fully stand upright.

Strangely enough, despite the complete lack of light, the eerie passage was visible to me.

‘This is insane.’

Chills crawled up my spine as I endured the oppressive silence, the darkness, and the cold, rotten stench lingering in the air.

I pressed on, deeper into a place where phones didn’t work, cameras wouldn’t function—a severed world.

And then, at some point—

‘……There it is.’

I had finally found it.

“Phew.”

A rusted door loomed in the depths of the sewer.

It was round, like a medieval gate protecting a castle moat—grimy, industrial, something out of an abandoned factory.

And on it, engraved deeply into the corroded metal—

餓鬼

‘Agui.’

A ghost, eternally tormented by hunger in hell. Or the hell itself where such ghosts reside.

And curiously, to the left of the door, there was a single hole.

From beyond it… the faint sound of water flowing.

“…….”

I steadied my breathing.

Then, once more, I doused myself in salt and gripped the rusted handle of the door.

Holding my breath—I pulled it open.

Creeeeeeak.

A vast, open space stretched before me.

A cavernous dome, its rounded ceiling arching high above—a space that could have passed for a sewage treatment plant at first glance.

Except—

Aaaaaaaah!

The walls were completely covered in hands.

Withered, skeletal hands. Pale, corpse-like hands. Hands marked with bizarre tattoos. Hands clad in ceremonial gloves. Hands with painted nails.

And each and every one of them was holding something.

‘I made it.’

This was the Faceless Market.

======================

Dark Exploration Records / Special Area

[The Faceless Market]

A small-scale special region derived from ghost stories recorded in Dark Exploration Records.

A space accessed through the "Manhole Hand"— an entity that lures victims by pretending to seek help.

By placing a hand into this market, one can trade anonymously, exchanging objects without revealing their identity.

Accessible from anywhere, this market is favored by those dealing in supernatural affairs, allowing them to trade without being tracked.

Different factions, who would normally never interact, gather here, leading to some fascinating, unexpected exchanges.

======================

That’s right.

The hands here react when someone offers an item—grabbing onto it.

And in the process, they drop what they were holding—creating a barter-based exchange.

The type of object they accept depends on the seller’s desires.

A market built upon the gruesome phenomenon of ghost stories—one that mimicked the way ghostly hands lured people into disappearances.

For Baekilmong Co., their reputation alone meant they were unwelcome here.

Some sellers refused to trade with them. Others… might outright attack if they realized who they were dealing with.

Honestly, considering their ethics, it wasn’t surprising.

Reading records about this place had been amusing—watching the grudges and hidden histories of various factions play out.

But because of that, I had never visited before.

‘Why would I willingly increase my risk of getting caught in ghost stories?’

Compared to a stable, well-regulated intergalactic shop where money guaranteed safety, this place was dangerous, unverified.

But now…

I was broke.

And if anything went wrong, I could pass myself off as someone other than a Baekilmong employee.

‘Hah….’

I stepped forward.

Keeping the market’s rules in mind.

Warning:

If you remain in this area for over two hours, the "Manhole Hand" you exorcised will be waiting for you at the exit.

I had to move quickly.

When I first read about this place, it had seemed more intriguing than frightening—but actually standing here…

The image in my mind felt completely different.

‘Feels like I just stepped into a horror game….’

Some unknown liquid trickled across the ground, but I forced myself to ignore it.

I wasn’t alone.

“…….”

A few other figures were wandering through the cavern, inspecting the walls of hands as they moved.

Most of them were completely covered from head to toe.

Some, however, walked freely—faces completely exposed, smiling.

I avoided those people.

‘That’s real madness.’

I didn’t want to get involved.

I had specific traders in mind.

Even though identities were hidden, it was still possible to tell which faction someone belonged to.

How?

By looking at their hands.

This was a ghost story universe. It followed a logic of its own.

And if someone had enough knowledge, they could identify a person’s group affiliation by details like clothing, tattoos, accessories.

‘Most people don’t have that knowledge, though, which is why this market is “anonymous.”’

But I do.

And my top-priority target had an obvious physical trait.

A hand without a pinky finger.

I stopped in my tracks.

Among the hands waving and luring buyers, there was one bony, dried-up hand.

A pinky was missing.

Instead of an item, it was clutching a piece of blood-stained paper.

It was held so tightly that I couldn’t even see the writing inside.

It was unclear whether it was being offered for trade at all—so much so that most people ignored it.

But I knew.

That paper—that was what I was looking for.

I reached out toward it—

“Hey, that thing’s been here for at least five years.”

My body froze.

“You don’t really know how this place works, do you?”

A hand clamped onto my shoulder.

“This isn’t an actual person waving their hand—it’s just a ghostly mimicry of it.”

The voice was casual, almost amused.

“The guy who put his hand there hasn’t been standing here for five years.”

“He left five years ago. Might already be dead by now.”

The problem was—

“What do you think?”

I knew that voice.

“…….”

I didn’t shove them away and run.

Instead, I slowly turned my head.

“Not exactly the most tempting deal, huh?”

The only part of their face visible above their mask was their eyes—curving into a grin.

But that voice, that expression—

I recognized them immediately.

Because I had seen them just a few days ago.

‘…Agent Choi!’

The same senior name-brand agent who had visited my hospital room.

‘Wait—’

They spoke to me.

Directly.

But I had deliberately hidden my missing arm, stuffing the mannequin prosthetic with padding and covering it under my coat.

In this darkness, spotting a missing limb wasn’t easy.

Sure, a Disaster Management Bureau veteran might notice from experience, but—

‘Plenty of people in this ghost story world are missing limbs.’

They couldn’t be certain.

Running would only make me more suspicious.

I forced myself to calm down and face them.

Maybe… they had only approached out of curiosity about the item.

“Oh, should I give you another tip?”

Agent Choi tilted their head, glancing at my outstretched hand.

Then, with a smirk, they leaned in and whispered—

“Did you know—everyone’s wrist veins have a unique pattern?”

Goosebumps erupted across my skin.

“They’re just like fingerprints.”

“No matter how well someone covers up, no matter if they burn off their fingerprints—they can’t burn away their veins.”

“People get careless when they think they’re hidden.”

I was screwed.

“So, rookie—”

Choi grinned.

“Who told you about this place?”