VOL.93/2026.04

Topic

 

Not just comfort and empathy, but anxiety and fear:

Pay Attention to K-Horror

 

 

2026.03

 

 

Healing and Zombies

 

 

For the past few years, the mainstream of Korean genre literature has undeniably been "healing." Healing fantasy, set in familiar spaces such as convenience stores, bookstores, and antique shops, offered solace to Korean readers weary of individualism. Messages like "You are not alone in your struggles" and "We are looking toward the light together" were sweet and comforting. However, where there is bright light, there are also deep shadows. No matter how much we comfort one another, we remain beings who must ultimately compete alone in a cold, harsh reality. To make matters worse, the pandemic that struck like a tidal wave transformed reality itself into a horror narrative. Paradoxically, the public began to harbor a desire to stare reality in the face through the lens of unrealistic horror. Around that time, zombies emerged at the forefront, establishing themselves as a major pillar of Korean genre content. The zombie was a timely metaphor for pandemic-era fears: uncontrollable infection and systemic collapse. Starting with the film "Train to Busan" and continuing through the Netflix series "Kingdom" and "All of Us Are Dead", the "K-Zombie" craze has taken the world by storm.

 

Cha Mu-jin’s novel In the Bag sets itself apart by featuring mutated infectees who possess intelligence and language, rather than mindless zombies. At the time of its release, the work drew significant attention from the Korean literary community for its harrowing depiction of a post-apocalyptic world, where the absurdities of Korean society are transposed onto the ecology of the infected. In a state of total anarchy where neither God nor the state offers salvation, the image of a father heading south with his son tucked away in a giant backpack serves as a dry satire of the cold, "every man for himself" reality of modern society. Notably, the author moves beyond the one-dimensional horror of "eat or be eaten." Through antagonists who speak, think, and in some ways appear no different from "normal" people, Cha projects the chronic ideological conflicts and deep-seated hatred embedded in Korean society. This approach does not merely depict the darkness of the era through surface-level monsters; rather, it is a literary implementation of the Baechae (reverse coloring) technique—subtly illuminating the underlying historical layers behind the visible horror.

 

 

 

 

Shamanism: Illuminating the Individual Life

 

 

If the zombie apocalypse represents a "disaster where everyone perishes equally," what haunts the public in the endemic era is the "reality of being the only one left behind." This is precisely where shamanism steps in. When zombies attack, there is little one can do but flee; however, in the world of shamanism, one can take action. One can pay for a gut (shamanic ritual) or use a bujeok (talisman) in an attempt to alter their own destiny. Few countries witness such a bizarre coexistence of cutting-edge technology and pre-modern shamanic beliefs as South Korea. Recently, dating shows featuring shamans and survival auditions for practitioners have topped OTT platform charts, signaling that shamanism has emerged from the shadows to become a mainstream form of entertainment. Perhaps no other people encounter ghosts as casually at a fortune-teller’s shop as Koreans do. Visiting a shaman is not merely an act of superstition; it is a form of supernatural consulting sought to resolve deeply private and secular concerns—ranging from romance and employment to college admissions, stock investments, and business expansion. K-Horror does not miss this "lifestyle-integrated" shamanism. Rituals are no longer confined to abandoned houses in deep mountains; they take place in luxury officetels in Gangnam or the living rooms of new suburban apartments. "Get my child into a prestigious university," "Help me get promoted by eliminating my rival," or "Make that person fall in love with me." When the twisted desires of modern individuals attempt to break through systemic limitations using the unrealistic power of shamanism, the price paid is total catastrophe. The premise that "shamanism begins where science gives up" delivers the most realistic terror to modern individuals living in a capitalist society.

 

The title story of Bora Chung’s short story collection, Cursed Bunny, is narrated by the grandson of a family that has crafted ritualistic curse objects for generations. After his grandfather’s business is ruined by a friend’s betrayal, the grandfather creates a "cursed bunny" lamp as an act of vengeance. This seemingly adorable bunny lamp finds its way into the home of the rival company’s owner, gradually leading the family toward total ruin. Critically, what this bunny gnaws away at is not merely their lives, but their success itself. This marks the moment where a uniquely Korean motif expands into a universal horror. The specificity of "Selectively eliminate my rival" feels far more chilling and seductive than the blind murderous intent of "Kill them all" (as seen in zombie narratives). In this work, the malevolent spirit is embedded within a commodity. In a capitalist society, a product is a symbol of desire; the premise that a seemingly harmless and cute commodity is, in fact, a monster devouring a family’s economic prosperity sophisticatedly demonstrates how a shamanic sal (a deadly curse or malevolent energy) infiltrates the lives of modern individuals.

 

 

 

 

The Peak of Cruelty and Pathos

 

 

K-Horror possesses a fundamentally different texture from the traditional J-Horror or Western occult genres. Japanese horror, long the hallmark of Asian horror, obsesses over grudges and specific locations. Take The Grudge or Ringu, for example. Even if the protagonist has committed no moral wrong, disaster strikes simply because they entered a cursed house. In these narratives, spirits are absolute evils with whom communication is impossible, and humans are portrayed as utterly helpless victims. In contrast, K-Horror is dynamic. Every instance of terror has a clear, underlying reason. However, authors do not resolve this causality in a straightforward manner; they twist it unrealistically and, at times, subvert it through far more powerful and brutal methods. While Korean occultism is often perceived as being driven by han (unresolved resentment) from an unjust death or the breaking of a taboo for personal gain, contemporary works transcend this cliché. They are significantly more intense and visceral than such traditional perceptions suggest.

 

Cho Ye-eun’s short story collection, Cocktails, Love, and Zombies, captivated readers upon its release, with critics noting that it "blends horror, romance, and thriller like a cocktail to be downed in a single gulp." Yet, contrary to its sweet title, the collection reeks of the metallic scent of blood and the visceral sensation of tearing flesh. In the story "The Invitation," psychological violence—specifically gaslighting—is visualized as a thorn stuck in the throat. The protagonist, who has long endured subtle abuse from a lover, finally realizes the true nature of the foreign object in her throat. The scene where she vomits it out is more chilling than any ghost. These brutal depictions throughout the work are not random; each carries its own thematic weight. The masterpiece of the collection is "Overlap Knife, Knife." The premise—a mother and son repeating a time loop to kill a violent father—is both cruel and heartbreaking. Here, horror is not an unavoidable fate; instead, it transforms into a form of active salvation, where characters willingly stain their hands with blood to protect what is precious. While the core motivation for the terror is rooted in "distorted human relationships and will," following the grammar of a thriller, the method of visualizing and implementing this fear borrows heavily from the conventions of horror.

 

 

 

 

The Flip Side of Space

 

 

At this point, it is necessary to clarify the definitions of these terms. While a thriller deals with realistic terror born from human madness and malice, horror explores the unrealistic dread inflicted by supernatural entities—such as ghosts, evil spirits, and curses—that lie beyond human control. In a work of horror, the protagonist's ultimate goal is to restore their world to the state it was in before encountering the malevolent entity. As mere mortals, the protagonists can never physically defeat these god-like beings. Thus, the final objective is either to undo the encounter or to successfully escape from their reach. In Korean horror narratives, space is not merely a physical backdrop where ghosts appear. Rather, the space itself is often already contaminated by specific forms of violence or inherent contradictions. The suffering and energy generated within these spaces are then visualized, manifesting in non-human forms.

 

The film "Whispering Corridors" elevated the school—the most familiar yet oppressive space for Koreans—into a stage for teen horror. The terror in this work does not stem from the iconic image of a ghost rapidly approaching in the hallway; rather, it lies in the duality inherent in the school itself. The maladies of the Korean education system, such as grade-obsessed meritocracy and physical or sexual abuse by teachers, signal that the very safety net meant to protect students has become corrupt. Here, the ghost is not an external intruder or an evil spirit; it is a pre-existing entity, a manifestation of the structural violence accumulated within the space. This spatial terror extends into forms of housing. Jeon Gun-woo’s novel, Gosiwon Ghost Stories, uses the gosiwon, a uniquely distorted Korean housing model, to test the limits of human dignity. The question this novel poses is profound: how do individuals who occupy the same space, yet remain complete strangers to one another, become the source of horror? Ultimately, the gosiwon encapsulates the insularity of modern society in its densest form, and the eerie events occurring within are the inevitable byproducts of a twisted living environment. Like other works mentioned, this book is not pure horror but a hybrid genre blending mystery and detective fiction. It is a unique grammar of K-Horror to pull the sharp edges of reality into its narrative in a way that the horror of other cultures rarely touches.

 

 

 

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Written by Cha Mu Jin (Novelist)

Mujin Cha is a prominent Korean genre writer known for balancing commercial success with literary merit. He specializes in paradoxical narratives: malice within sorrow, humor in twists, and lyrical horror. After debuting with Is That Kim Yu-shin’s Head?, he authored In the Bag, The Season of the Fox, the collection Apollon Savings Bank, and the craft book The Villain’s Guide for Storytellers.