the woods came alive again. The whistling of wind blew at her long hair. Leaves crunched as he took a step back. And the call of a far-off bird echoed dimly as he stared at her.
“What’s happening? Why are you here?” Jihoon tried not to stutter.
“This is a dream, but how you got here I’m not sure. It’s worrisome.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, but she didn’t answer.
Her head cocked to the side, her eyes lifting to the moon as if listening to a faraway call.
Then, without warning, she yanked him behind a clump of thick bushes.
His yelp of surprise was muffled by her hand.
“She’ll hear,” the girl whispered. There was steel in her voice.
Her words were enough to keep him silent. Hadn’t he just learned to believe in monsters?
Every movement of the woods became a threat. The howl of wind through branches. The snap of twigs as creatures skittered. A rustle to his right. A flash of pale movement.
“Was that—?”
The girl shushed him and held up a thin arm, pointing to their left.
A lithe shape lurked among the trees, almost invisible. Its graceful movements made no sound, like the mist of fog sifting through the forest. It had a sharp snout and pointed ears, thick red fur, and bright eyes. And behind the fox wove nine tails.
The gumiho paused, her head perked up, eyes tracking toward their hiding place. Jihoon held his breath. The fox stepped forward when a crack echoed from farther in the woods. She took off toward the sound in a flash.
Jihoon finally exhaled and glanced at the girl. She let a handful of stones drop in a rain of thuds.
“Who was that?” Jihoon asked.
“My mother. She doesn’t like humans.”
“And you do?” Jihoon rose, and the movement made his head spin.
“I don’t hate them,” she conceded. “Though it’s worrisome that you’re here.”
“You said that before. What does it mean?” The forest tilted to the left, then to the right, like the sway of a ship on the sea. He felt like he was being pulled somewhere he didn’t want to go and tried his best to hold on to this place, this dream.
“Why did you pick up my bead?” she asked.
“Your bead? You mean that pearl?”
“Why were you in the forest tonight?”
My dog, he tried to say, but bile rose in his throat instead of words.
“Did you know I’d be in the forest? What did you want with my bead?” The girl’s voice sounded garbled, like it was processed through a synthesizer before reaching his ears.
“What’s happening to me?” Nausea rolled through him, thick and sticky, as the surrounding trees did tight pirouettes.
She watched him curiously. “When the body wants to wake, it doesn’t matter what the mind desires.”
“I’m waking up?” Jihoon asked. “Then why do I feel so funny . . .”
Before she could reply, the forest floor fell from under Jihoon’s feet.
He dropped into darkness, his screams absorbed by the earth as it swallowed him.
4
MIYOUNG WOKE SLOWLY from the dream. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t in the forest but in her new bedroom. In a wrought-iron bed piled high with pillows. Large windows beside her bed let in the moonlight. She glanced at the clock and the bright numbers glared back at her: 3:33 A.M.
The memory of the dream clung to her like a film of grease covering her skin. Forest and mist and that boy. She rarely dreamed, and when she did it was never quite so vivid. It felt as if he’d walked into her mind. It’s worrisome. She’d said it in the dream and she thought it now.
She’d heard tales of gumiho who could walk the dreams of their victims. Driving them slowly mad before ripping out their livers. But she’d never done it herself, never thought it was a skill gumiho still possessed. Perhaps they didn’t. After all, she hadn’t meant to share a dream with that boy. Maybe she was just thinking about that boy and her subconscious had gotten out of hand. It made sense that she’d be stuck on thoughts of him; after all, he’d been there when she’d lost her bead . . .
Miyoung turned onto her side and pulled open her nightstand drawer until the bead rolled gently into view. It shone so bright, she wondered if it emitted its own light or merely reflected the moon’s.
She stared at the stone—a yeowu guseul—a fox bead. Myth said every gumiho had one, but she’d never given them much thought. Nara sometimes