The Echoes of Seoul's Depths: A Subway's Unseen Torment

The night was dark, the city asleep, and the Seoul subway was a labyrinth of steel and concrete, a silent guardian of the city's pulse. But tonight, it was a different beast altogether. The train was packed, the usual hum of the city replaced by a tense silence, as passengers huddled together, exchanging nervous glances.

Kang Hee, a young woman in her early twenties, had been commuting from her job in the city center to her home in the suburbs for years. She had always found solace in the rhythmic clatter of the subway, a comforting echo of the city's heartbeat. But tonight, the train seemed to be a vessel for something far darker.

The doors closed with a metallic groan, and the train began to move. Hee took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She had heard the whispers of the subway's legend, the silent scream that echoed through the tunnels when a soul was lost to the darkness. But she had always dismissed it as mere superstition.

As the train descended deeper into the earth, the lights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The passengers around Hee murmured among themselves, a mix of fear and disbelief. The conductor, a man with a stern face, called out, "Next stop, Namdaemun Station."

But as the train came to a halt, the conductor's voice was replaced by a strange, echoing sound, like the cry of a lost soul. The doors remained shut, and the train stayed stationary. Hee felt a chill run down her spine, and she looked around, her eyes wide with fear.

A man beside her, an elderly man with a weathered face, whispered, "They say the subway is haunted. It's not just a silent scream you hear. It's the voices of those who were lost to the darkness."

Hee's heart pounded in her chest as she felt the train lurch forward again. The lights went out, and the darkness seemed to envelop the carriage. She could hear the sound of her own heartbeat, a relentless drumbeat in the silence.

"Where are we?" someone called out, their voice echoing in the darkness.

"We're not moving," the conductor's voice came back, but it was muffled, almost inhuman.

The passengers began to panic, pushing and shoving, trying to reach the doors. Hee found herself pressed against the window, her fingers white-knuckled around the frame. She could see nothing but the blackness outside, the only illumination the emergency lights that flickered in the distance.

Then, she heard it. A sound like the scrape of metal on metal, but it was too close, too personal. She turned to see the conductor standing there, his face twisted into a grotesque mask, his eyes hollow and red. He reached out towards her, and she could feel the chill of his touch even through the glass.

"No," she whispered, backing away, but there was nowhere to go. The walls closed in on her, the air grew thick and suffocating. She felt the grip of the conductor's hand on her shoulder, and she knew she was trapped.

In the darkness, she saw the faces of the passengers around her, their eyes wide with terror, their faces contorted in pain. The conductor moved through the carriage, his footsteps echoing in the silence, and she realized that he was not alone.

A scream erupted from the darkness, a sound so raw and real it seemed to tear her soul apart. The conductor's grip tightened on her shoulder, and she felt the warmth of his touch seep into her skin. She struggled, but it was no use. The darkness was swallowing her whole, and she was helplessly drowning in the silent scream of Seoul's depths.

The train began to move again, but it was not the train she knew. It was a vessel for the lost souls, a conveyance to a place where the living and the dead danced together in eternal darkness. And as the train pulled away, leaving behind the city and its sleepers, Kang Hee knew that she would never see the light of day again.

The echoes of Seoul's depths continued to reverberate through the subway tunnels, a haunting reminder of the unseen torment that lay just beneath the city's surface.