“Moving things on unlucky days—very dangerous. And breaking things…” Halmoni closes her eyes and shudders, like she can’t even imagine. “If you break something, oh, that is very bad.”

  Mom looks like she might literally rip her hair out.

  Sam raises her eyebrows at me like, Here we go again, and backs up in the hallway.

  This isn’t a new argument. Mom always gets annoyed with Halmoni’s traditions.

  Mom grits her teeth. “That is ridiculous. What—”

  But Halmoni points her finger at Mom, cutting her off. “You are not the mother. I am the mother. You no more asking questions. You go change you clothes. Why you in pajamas, anyway?”

  Mom opens her mouth in defense, but Halmoni claps her hands. “I set up dinner now. Lily help me.”

  I didn’t exactly volunteer, but Halmoni has a way of creating her own reality. Besides, I don’t mind helping.

  I follow her to the kitchen counter, and Mom gives up on the boxes. She grabs Halmoni’s raincoat and stalks out of the house, down to the car to fetch our suitcases.

  From the doorway, Sam clears her throat, and I glance back at her. She hesitates, like she’s waiting for something, and I mouth, It’s okay. Go upstairs.

  I feel bad sending her away, but Sam doesn’t like cooking or setting the table, or doing any chores, really, and I need to be alone with Halmoni.

  Sam frowns and turns away, mumbling something about her friends as she heads back to the attic room.

  When she’s gone, I whisper, “Halmoni, something happened.”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “Yes, little one, I want to hear about that, but first, time for kosa.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ah, ah, this first.” Moving through the kitchen, she pulls bowls and baskets out of cupboards and sets them in front of me.

  I don’t remember the first time she showed me how to do a kosa. It’s just something we’ve always done together. We lay food out for the spirits and the ancestors and let them feast before we do. For the ones who gone before us, Halmoni always says.

  When I was little, I used to pretend that Dad would come for kosa, to eat with us. I made the mistake of telling Sam once that the food was for him.

  Her face twisted up and she spat, He’s dead. This isn’t a game.

  She never liked kosa after that.

  After Halmoni heats a plate of red-bean rice cakes, she hands them to me, and I arrange them in a bamboo basket, the way she taught me. Carefully, lovingly. They warm my fingers.

  “This very important to do on days of big change,” Halmoni tells me as she pours wine into small ceramic bowls. “When people come in. When people go out. We do this to keep spirits happy.”

  She leans closer, her breath tickling my ear. “When spirits are hungry…almost as scary as when you mother is hungry.”

  I smile. “What about when Sam is hungry?”

  Halmoni’s crinkly eyes grow wide. “That is most scary.”

  I laugh at Sam’s expense, feeling a little guilty. Then I lay dried squid and anchovies on a small plate while Halmoni prepares the meal, and I listen to the melodies of kosa.

  Halmoni hums a song I don’t know, probably a Korean lullaby, and the house seems to sing along with her. The cabinets whisper as she opens and closes them, and the water whistles as she washes vegetables.

  The thing about kosa—about all of Halmoni’s beliefs and rituals—is that I’ve always taken them for granted. They make sense to Halmoni, so that’s good enough for me. Her magic never needed an explanation. But now, with the tiger, understanding it all feels important.

  “I saw something in the road,” I tell her.

  “What you see?” she asks as she chops a cucumber.

  I swallow. “Um, I think I might have seen one of the…hungry spirits?”

  She sets down the knife and turns to me. Her eyes are intense. “What you saying, Lily? What you see?”

  Suddenly I’m nervous. “I don’t know….I guess it might’ve been a dream?”

  Halmoni leans closer. “Dreams very important, Lily. What do you see?”

  Mom would tell me not to encourage Halmoni. Sam would tell me I’m being weird. But with Halmoni, I’m safe from judgment. “A tiger.”

  She hisses through her teeth. “What that tiger doing?”

  I know she’s not upset with me, but she’s still upset, and I can’t help feeling like I’ve said the wrong thing. “Um, it just…stood there. Then disappeared.” A full-force knockout wave of panic hits me, and I whisper, “Am I going crazy?”

  Halmoni wraps her fingers around her pendant and leans down so her face is close to mine—so I can smell her milk breath. “Lily, crazy not a good word. Not a thinking word. You seeing truth because you are a special one, and that not make you crazy, okay?”

  I nod, unsure what to think. The tiger felt real, but it couldn’t be. And what do you do with things that feel real but aren’t, quite?

  “You mom doesn’t believe in any of this. Her world is small. But you know: the world is bigger than what we see.” Halmoni presses a palm against my cheek. “Now be safe, and stay ’way from tigers. Tigers very bad.”

  “I know. I’ll stay away. Tigers eat people and stuff. It was just a—”

  She shakes her head. “No trusting them, okay? They tricky, but you don’t listen to their lies. You remember that.”

  “Yeah, I remember your stories.”

  “Yes, yes, stories. But maybe…” She steps back and tilts her head, like she’s trying to make a decision. Something about her tone sounds off, not like the Halmoni I know. “Maybe there are more stories than I tell you.”

  I push away the plates and cutting board in front of me and hoist myself onto the kitchen counter so I’m sitting in front of her, ready to listen. I can’t remember the last time she told us a new story. “Like what?”

  “The tigers looking for me,” she says, running her hand down my arm, lost in thought. “I steal something that belong to them—long, long ago, when I little like you—and now they want it back.”

  “Wait, what? This story is about you?”

  “This one real. Tigers real.”

  I lean back. She’s never told a story about herself before, and stealing from tigers doesn’t make sense. Yesterday, I might not have believed her words. I might’ve thought she was just making this up, because of course it can’t be real.

  Just like a disappearing tiger can’t be real.

  And yet.

  I tug on one of my braids. “What did you steal?”

  If this story is real, maybe the tiger is, too. And maybe this is why it appeared. But what could be so important that tigers would chase it across the world? And what would it feel like, to steal from tigers—to do something so powerful and so dangerous?

  She frowns. “Not important, little one. Not safe to ask too many questions.”

  “But—”

  The door bangs open again and Mom huffs and puffs back inside, thunking two suitcases on the floor.

  “No but but but,” Halmoni tsks at me. “We don’t talk about that.”

  Mom pushes her glasses up on her nose and catches her breath. “Talk about what?”

  Halmoni gives me shhh eyes, and I don’t say anything.

  Mom blinks. “Do either of you want to tell me?”

  Halmoni says, voice too sweet and innocent, “No, I pass.”

  Mom tilts her head. “You…pass? On what? Telling me?”

  Halmoni smiles and nods. “Pass.”

  Mom looks back and forth between us, and I shrug like I know nothing.

  Mom seems like she wants to ask more, but she just sighs. “Okay, well, I’ll go get more of our stuff. Lily, no sitting on the kitchen counter,” she says before heading back down the stairs.

  I slide off the counter, but as soon as Mom’s gone, I turn back to Halmoni. “What did you take? And why? And what happened?”

  Halmoni hands me a stack of plates. “Enough of that. You set table now. Kosa help keep you safe. Make tigers stay ’way.” She turns away from me to finish chopping vegetables.

  Normally, when we set up kosa, she’ll sneak me a bite to eat early, winking and whispering, Eat fast, so the spirits don’t see.

  But tonight the mood is different. She doesn’t offer, and I don’t ask. I do what I’m told and set the table, thinking of tigers and thieves and Halmoni’s stories.

  Because Halmoni’s always told us stories of impossible things, and now I wonder: What if they’re possible?

  Let me tell you a story. The story. The tiger story. In case you are wondering. In case you are sitting, waiting, wanting.

  * * *

  Long, long ago, when tiger walked like man, two little girls lived with their halmoni in a small vine-covered cottage, at the edge of the village, at the top of a hill. They were sisters, with long black braids, and they shared everything together, including a love of rice cakes.

  One day, the halmoni went into the village to buy rice cakes for her girls, but a tiger stopped her as she walked home. He came out of nowhere—as if he had jumped from the sky—and stood right in front of her, blocking the path.

  You have something I want, the tiger said.

  Now, when a tiger wants something from you, it’s very hard to escape. The best thing to do? Run. Don’t talk to the tiger. Definitely don’t listen.

  So the halmoni tossed him the rice cakes to distract him, and as he swallowed them whole, she ran.

  Delicious! the tiger cried. But if you give a tiger a rice cake, he’s going to want something to go with it. More!

  Halmoni didn’t get far. The tiger caught up and pounced in front of her. But Halmoni was out of treats, so he gobbled her up, swallowed her whole, like a rice cake. The only thing left was her head scarf, floating gently to the ground.

  Still, the tiger wanted more. He wasn’t satisfied—tigers never are—but he was clever.

  He took Halmoni’s head scarf, and when he went to the little cottage days later, he wore it as a disguise.

  Knocking on their door, the tiger said, Little girls, I am your halmoni. I am locked out in the rain and cold. Let me in. He ran his claws against the walls of the house.

  Skritch, skritch, skritch.

  The little girls knew something was wrong. Their halmoni’s nails were never quite so long, never so dirty. Halmoni liked her manicures.

  But the girls missed their halmoni so much. The tiger said, Little girls, I have rice cakes for you. Little treats for Unya, for Eggi.

  The little sister wanted her halmoni so badly. And the tiger called to her, Trust me, Little Egg. Believe.

  So she ran to the front door and pulled it open.

  Eggi held her breath, waiting. And the tiger roared.

  Here’s a lesson: never trust a tiger.

  Eggi quickly realized the tiger was not her halmoni. (Halmoni was not the roaring type.)

  So the girls ran, and the tiger chased them, across deserts and oceans, mountains full of snow and forests thick with rain. They ran and ran until the land just stopped. A deep pit of nothing stretched out in front of them—end of the world, end of the story.

  This is it, Unya cried.

  The tiger closed in on them. He was so hungry.

  Help! Eggi thought. She shut her eyes and begged the sky god. Save us! Please please please.

  To her surprise, the sky god talked back. Hmmm, he said. Okay, fine. But tell me a story in exchange.

  Not even sky gods can resist a story.

  So Eggi and Unya thought fast, and they told him a story.

  I don’t think you’ll be shocked to hear that the sky god saved the girls. Stories like these have happy endings. Just as the tiger leapt to swallow them, a magic rope fell from one end of the sky, and a magic staircase from the other.

  Unya grabbed the rope, and Eggi took the stairs, and they climbed—up and up until finally they were safe in the sky kingdom.

  There, the sky god told them they could stay with him forever, but they needed jobs. Living in the sky kingdom? It’s expensive.

  So the older sister became the sun, and the younger sister became the moon.

  Unya was happy, but Eggi cried. Everyone always stared up at the moon, and she didn’t like that. She wanted to hide.

  So the elder offered to trade places. Don’t worry. You can be the sun instead. Nobody can stare at the sun.

  Problem solved! They were happy again, and they took their places at opposite ends of the sky, safe forever.

  And the tiger? There he was, way back down on earth, asking to come up. But the sky god wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to hear a tiger’s story, so the tiger was banished.

  * * *

  When I was little, when Halmoni told us this story year after year, I was always satisfied with the ending. I never wondered about the tiger.

  I never stopped to ask: What was the tiger’s story?

  I never stopped to think: What would happen if the tiger came back?

  I wake up sweating. Sheets twisted, pillow damp, bed creaking. My stomach growls, and I realize I’m desperately hungry for midnight kimchi, so I untangle my blankets and slip out of bed. As I tiptoe across the room, past my sister, I beg the noisy floorboards to keep quiet. They don’t listen. They whine under my feet.

  Still, Sam doesn’t stir.

  I walk out of my room and down the stairs, gripping the railing, squinting in the dark, trying to see through the shadows.

  Something is weird about the shadows.

  They seem to dance and bend in front of me, like they’re cast by something I can’t see.

  I rub my eyes and shake the sleep out of my head, and the shadows go back to normal. I creep down the stairs, past Halmoni’s bedroom, past Mom sleeping on the couch.

  I tiptoe toward the kitchen—

  And then I stop.

  The boxes that were pressed up against the basement door have been shoved aside, leaving a clear path.

  I know Mom wanted to move the boxes, but I didn’t think she cared enough to upset Halmoni. And anyway, she wanted to move the boxes over to the wall—not just a few inches to the side.

  Even weirder: the door’s cracked open.

  An invisible weight presses against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  Outside, tree branches blow in the wind, skritching against the windows, and the basement door seems to sway back and forth, just a little.

  I creep closer to the door.

  Don’t get me wrong: I’ve seen scary movies before. Sam and I used to watch them together, and even though I spent the whole time with my head buried in her shoulder, I know the rules:

  Don’t go into the basement.

  And definitely don’t go alone.

  But this is different. This isn’t one of those scary basements.

  Sam and I spent a lot of time playing in this basement whenever Mom was gone. We would act out the stories Halmoni told us and invent fairy tales of our own. With all of Halmoni’s old things, there was always something new to discover.

  That basement was my favorite place.

  And now, it calls out to me. It tugs at my chest, and I feel it somewhere deep inside, right behind my stomach.

  The wooden door is warm against my palm, and it creaks when I push it open.

  I hold my breath, waiting, not sure if I’m afraid or excited.

  Nothing happens.

  I fumble for the light switch, which apparently doesn’t work, so I go by the moonlight that spills in through a thin window at the top of the wall. The splintering wood prickles against my bare feet as I walk down the steps, and then I’m at the bottom.

  First, I’m relieved, because the basement’s empty.

  Then, I’m upset, because it’s empty.

  The basement is small, actually. It felt bigger when I was little. The room used to be a puzzle: How do you get from one end to the other? Which boxes do you climb over? What path do you take?

  Now: nothing.

  Nothing at all, not even water—even though Halmoni said the basement had flooded. I kneel on the floor and run my hand over the carpet. It’s bone dry.

  Shouldn’t it be damp? And shouldn’t it smell, I don’t know, wet? Mildewy?

  The basement smells like it always has—dusty and full of memories, like the pages of an old book.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but none of this makes sense. If the basement never flooded, why would Halmoni move all her things?

  And why would she lie?

  A noise startles me and I jump to my feet. It’s a deep, groaning, animal kind of noise, and I stumble back toward the steps, tripping over my own feet. Fear nips at my toes as I run up the stairs—taking them two at a time, barely bothering to breathe until I’m out of the basement, door shut firmly behind me.

  I lean against the shut door and steady my breath and my wobbly legs.

  I should go to bed now. That’s enough for one night, and I’ve lost my appetite.

  I hear the noise again, and now I realize it’s coming from the bathroom. The door hangs ajar and I linger in the dark, peeking in.

  And inside the bathroom—I see a shadow beast, a mess of black scales, hunched over and heaving. It growls and moves like all its bones are broken.

  My heart freezes over, but then the shadows slip away—

  And it’s not a beast at all. It’s Halmoni. And something’s wrong.

  I try to process what I’m seeing, but it doesn’t make sense. Not a monster at all, but Halmoni.

  Halmoni, sick.

  Halmoni, throwing up.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19