The Voice in the Mist: My Terrifying Encounter with the Jangsanbeom (The Mimic Tiger)

 Welcome to Dodo Horror, a space where Korea's shadows live and breathe. I don't just tell stories; I share things that keep you up at night, make you stare into the corners of your room, and wonder if that shadow just moved.

Today, I head to the fog-shrouded peaks of Busan. Put on your headphones, dim the lights, and no matter what... if you hear me outside your window after reading this, don't answer.

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Voices in the White Fog: My Night with Jang San-beom

Sound of Memory

It started with a sound I heard for the first time in five years.

I was hiking near Jangsan Mountain on the outskirts of Busan. It was that transitional period between evening and the onset of night, which people call "the hour between dog and wolf." The air was heavy with the scent of damp pine needles mixed with the metallic odor characteristic of a summer shower. I'd lingered on the summit for too long, mesmerized by the city lights flickering like distant embers.

As I descended the mountain path, fog rolled in. It wasn't the soft, dreamy fog you see in movies. It was thick, suffocating, almost swallowing up even the light of a flashlight. And then, I heard a sound.

"Minjun... Minjun, is that you? I'm here. I'm lost."

The blood in my body felt like it was freezing. My heart wasn't pounding; it was pounding against my ribs like a bird caught in a trap. That voice. A soft, gentle melody, with a distinctive intonation at the end of each sentence. It was my mother's voice.

But my mother passed away three years ago at a hospital in Seoul.

The being that steals the echoes of your soul

I couldn't move. Reason screamed at me to run, but grief was a powerful anchor. I turned toward the bushes. The sound of my boots on dry leaves was deafening in the unnatural silence of the mountain. There were no crickets, no birds chirping all night. Only my own heavy breathing and that unbelievable voice could be heard.

I remembered the stories my grandmother used to whisper when the typhoon caused a power outage. She told me the story of Jangsanbeom.

Known to the world as a "mimicking tiger," it's not actually a tiger. Not quite. Its entire body is said to be covered in long, coarse white fur. Its fur is so white it glows in the dark, like a funeral shroud. Its movements are terrifying yet graceful, half beast, half ghost. However, its most lethal weapon isn't its claws or its speed, but its voice.

The Jangsanbeom can mimic any sound: a babbling brook, the wind, even the voice of the person you miss most. The Jangsanbeom senses your tremors of fear and longing, and returns them to you, luring you deep into the forest where no light reaches.

"Minjun, it's so cold. Please, come and help me."

I took a step closer. The fog briefly cleared, revealing a flash of white. It wasn't a bird, nor a plastic bag hanging from a branch. It was fur. Long, tangled, bone-white fur that seemed to vibrate even in the absence of a breeze.

The face hidden behind the voice

My fingers were shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone, but I quickly picked it up. I wanted to record it to prove I wasn't crazy. But when the screen turned on, something caught the light in the darkness.

Two eyes.

They weren't the glowing amber eyes of a predator. Cloudy, milky eyes were set deep into a face, almost human, stretched taut, like a mask made of wet parchment. The creature crouched on all fours, its limbs so long that their joints were bent at grotesque, nauseating angles.

It began to stand up slowly and vertically.

The voice that came from that distorted mouth was no longer her mother's. As if a mistake had occurred, the mother's pleading voice was mixed with the baby's cries and the rhythmic sound of a whetstone grinding against a blade.

"Minjun... Minjun... [baby crying]... [metal grinding]... come here..."

The realization hit me like a physical shock. It wasn't simply mimicking sounds. It was mocking me. It knew I knew. It was relishing the moment when its prey realized it was cornered.

Flight into the Darkness

Without even a moment to think, I turned around and ran away.

I'd never felt such fear before. It wasn't the fear of death. It was the fear of being consumed by something, using my voice to kill someone else. I heard something moving behind me. It wasn't running like a human. It was a rustling sound. I could hear claws tearing at the bark, and it weaved through the branches as if nothing had happened, keeping pace with me.

Every time I seemed to make a small advance, the creature's voice seemed to whisper right in my ear, even though it was several yards away.

"Minjun, why are you running away? Don't you love me?"

As I burst through the trailhead and onto the paved road, the intense orange streetlights felt like a sanctuary. I ran without stopping until I reached the convenience store at the foot of the mountain. I leaned against the glass door, gasping for breath. The cold mountain air felt like it was burning my lungs.

The old clerk behind the counter muttered, his eyes still glued to his newspaper. "Did you hear that? The white dog of the mountain."

"It wasn't a dog," I wheezed.

"Absolutely not," he replied, finally meeting my eyes. His eyes were filled with the weary pity that had built up over the years. "Don't go back. Once you've found your voice, you never stop practicing."

The remaining echo

I'm back in my apartment in the heart of the city. The door is locked, and the windows are double-glazed. But every night, just as I'm about to fall asleep, I hear that sound.

In the hallway. In the vent. In the empty space under my bed.

This is my voice, whispering the words I told myself that night on the mountain.

"I think it's safe now."

But the pitch is a bit high, and the rhythm is too fast. I'm still practicing. I'm so tired, I'm just waiting for the day I can answer.