At the Gyeongsan Cobalt Mine, you see the markers of the victims before you even reach the tunnel entrance.

It was late afternoon when I arrived in Gyeongsan.

I had rolled up my shirt sleeves once. In my hand were a convenience-store canned coffee and a crumpled receipt. I was only carrying my jacket.

This time, the place was the Gyeongsan Cobalt Mine.

This place is difficult to treat as a simple abandoned-mine ghost story.
On YouTube and in horror content, it is consumed under titles like “haunted spot,” “a place you must never visit carelessly,” and “possessed.” In fact, horror radio videos and broadcast introductions dealing with the Gyeongsan Cobalt Mine present it almost like the setting of a haunted-house tale.

But the reason this place is frightening is not only because of ghost sightings.

Civilians were massacred inside the tunnels.
Human remains were excavated.
Stories of bones and earth still not properly laid to rest appeared repeatedly in news articles.
Before people say, “I saw something here,” verified records are already standing in front of them.

The scenes that often appear in stories about the Cobalt Mine are generally similar.

People take photos in front of the blocked tunnel entrance.
They grow quiet after seeing the markers for the victims’ site.
They look back on the mountain pa