Considering the history and evolution (and, dare I say, globalisation) of the ghost story, Korean author Bora Chung’s novel Midnight Timetable is very much the right book at the right time: If you’re looking for something spooky, yet in places unexpectedly wholesome, here it is. Quite a short read at under two hundred pages, the book consists of seven interrelated short stories that increasingly connect as the book progresses. Certain themes repeat and refer back to each other while subtly adding more context to what we’ve already encountered, and this episodic format is rather interesting: Both this structure and the general setting are reminiscent of a classic creepypasta.

Unlike the Victorian ghost story collection, which often had a frame story (even if it was a meeting/fireside chat/after-dinner conversation) to justify the telling of otherwise unrelated spooky tales and give them a narrator or narrators, this collection doesn’t offer any frame story or background info-dump. If anything, the frame story is implied; readers are encouraged to elaborate on hints and fill in any gaps using their own imagination. Even though creepypasta is defined as originating online, this is what the more traditionally packaged Midnight Timetable has in common with serialised creepypasta, or work started in a wiki or other shared world/open authorship format: More of the setting and its rules and conventions emerge, become clear, and get added to as the episodes accumulate. The readerly approach of adding your own theories while making sense of an often deliberately loose and open story-structure is what Umberto Eco identified, in The Role of the Reader (1979), as the “writing of ghost chapters,” resulting in different reading experiences and different storylines for every individual reader, and how more fitting an effect is this for a ghost story collection?

Midnight Timetable’s main setting is “the Institute” (and yes, this term is often used online as a reference to and extension of the SCP Foundation and its fan-created extended universe, which is totally applicable here, so fans can rejoice). This is a large unused building turned into a research institute, which houses a collection of haunted objects (each contained in its own room). The narrator has recently started a new job as a night security guard there, patrolling (mostly) empty corridors and making sure that nothing out of the ordinary happens. This also connects to another popular creepypasta trope, “this place comes with rules”: There are varying numbers of floors or steps in the staircase, which is disorienting and “unheimlich” in Freud’s original sense. (In his defining example of this word, your key won’t work inside the lock of your own front door, causing major cognitive dissonance in what should be the definition of your safe space.) Furthermore, as it turns out, some of the floors and corridors only exist at certain times, so sometimes the stairs lead to unexpected spaces, causing characters to get lost (unless, of course, they turn back in time).

The setting of this book is very neutral, so the Institute could exist anywhere, but, as we’ll see, the stories are told in a very specifically Korean way. In addition, the translator has kept some Korean words intact, in order to make the relationships and social conventions between characters quite clear. (I watch a lot of K-pop related content on YouTube, so I really enjoyed this cultural touch.)

Before we go into the narrator’s own experiences, the first stories are reiterations of anecdotes passed on to her by her sunbae, i.e., a senior coworker. This apellation is an indication of respect. Once the characters get closer, it would be possible to go from sunbae to unni, indicating an older sister or older female friend, with whom you can agree to “speak comfortably,” addressing each other by first names and dropping the more formal aspects of everyday workplace interaction. These strict social conventions are made clear by the narrator’s reactions whenever she speaks with candour or impulsively, without thinking—she keeps checking herself, hiding her mouth or face behind her hand, and apologising profusely. This way, the (Western) reader is also constantly reminded of the various layers of rules (social and otherwise, in very strict and conservative systems) that must be respected at all times.

What at first may seem like office gossip about the spooky experiences of former nightwatch employees in the building—a blind person seeing whitish blobs of light on the stairs and hearing voices, touching a warm hand in a dark, empty building—turns out to be good advice from a sunbae looking out for a newbie. Every little story is a warning, an example of what happens to those who disrespect the rules. One prime example is a trope in itself: the social media guy who flouts all rules while filming himself for more likes (and I don’t really have to tell you what happens to him).

Repeated motifs include people picking up a ringing phone and not getting further than “Hell—” (immediately rendering all interactions more ominous), the words “Midnight Timetable” in different contexts, a man in a “nondescript” suit with a “nondescript” face, the phrase “You can’t come in here,” a voice on the phone saying, “Where would you like for us to send the funeral wreath?,” and animals tortured for scientific experiments or out of superstition. Haunted objects also recur in various stories: an embroidered handkerchief (haunted by a ghost lady with a blue face), a single white tennis shoe (haunted by a ghost sheep), a suit, a ghost cat that seems to have taken a liking to the protagonist. As you go on reading, the stories entangle more and more, and you can see why the haunted objects are being kept in the Institute. (Again, the tentative SCP connection makes sense: “Secure, Contain, Protect.”)

Real-life horrors are being revealed as well, as in religious parents forcing their son to go through “ex-gay” conditioning (sic, p. 11), which is nothing other than torture motivated by hate and only ends up giving him PTSD. Fathers don’t care for their daughters just because they weren’t born sons. Family members are bullied into turning caregiver for people who never cared about them. Wives are dropped on a whim, sometimes over money issues. Younger female relatives are forced to take on their family members’ debts and take on extra work to pay them off. The ghosts in this book often seem rather mild compared to its stories of domestic violence, of people involved in pyramid schemes, of men who want to own and control women and think that this is only natural. (Thankfully, in certain cases, they face some supernatural consequences.)

As the book progresses, these stories (just like K-drama) increasingly mix historical settings (e.g., the embroidered handkerchief) and contemporary horror (as in the never-ending motorway tunnel, reminiscent of the video game The Exit 8, which has just been adapted into a feature film that as an aside I can also recommend). Specific Korean touches include saju, fortune-telling based on astrology (p. 104)—which is a big thing in Korea and also a popular conversation starter—along with the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), blood types (“that’s so type B!”), and both the Chinese and Western zodiac.

The last and most wholesome story is “Sunning Day,” in which we (and the narrator) learn that sunlight purifies (in baby steps), as do salt (used in many cultures) and incense (which is also an offering to appease the dead). We’re also told (by the sunbae) that “the undead move in a northwesterly direction. [...] If you feel the air flow suddenly change, it’s best to head southeast, or if you’re not sure where that is, any direction where there’s light” (p. 181). This bit of advice potentially adds a Korean touch, but maybe also a little bit of gooseflesh for the reader in the shape of a metafictional hint: Are you feeling a bit of a draught right now? Maybe take a walk in a southeasterly direction?

All in all, the book is an atmospheric, easy read, but sometimes it does hit hard. After some chilling mixed tales of urban legends, haunted houses, and stories that warn us not to be too curious, to stay safe, we get a hopeful send-off with some tentatively positive messages. There is a happy ending for the gay coworker, but only after he decides to quit, move away, and listen to his heart; there is compassion for the sheep and cat, but possibly only after their deaths. In fact, most of the revenant spirits in this book, whether they are seeking vengeance or are just lost between worlds, seem to be victims of hate and violence. Maybe this is why the last line is the protagonist telling us, “We return to the work of protecting the undead from the terrors of our daylight world” (p. 181). This leaves us with a reversal of the inferred meaning of “Secure, Contain, Protect,” really driving home one last time that, while humans tend to commit atrocious acts for ideological reasons, for power, or just out of whim, at least the spirits haunting the objects collected by the Institute have reasons for their pain, their anger, and their vengeful yearnings—and can more easily be absolved and liberated.