Gyeongju: Where the Past Refuses to Stay Buried

We left Busan just as the last traces of the storm evaporated into the morning haze, the city still damp, the air thick with the weight of last night’s downpour. The highway stretched ahead, winding through mountains that looked older than time itself. This was the road to Gyeongju—a place where history wasn’t just preserved but lived in, where the remnants of a dynasty from long ago weren’t locked behind glass or museum doors but lay scattered across the landscape like echoes of an empire refusing to fade.

For hours, the bus hummed along the highway, cutting through valleys and past towns that clung to the hillsides, resilient and unmoving. Some of us slept, others worked, but I just watched. This was my kind of pilgrimage—a journey into the past, where kings lay buried beneath towering earth mounds, and centuries-old temples stood defiant against time. I pressed my forehead to the window, letting the green blur pass by to the soundtrack of K-pop, knowing that whatever waited for us in Gyeongju would be nothing like what I expected.

Bulguksa Temple (불국사) is more than just a religious site; it’s a defiant stand against history itself. A UNESCO World Heritage site, a masterpiece of Buddhist architecture, and once, a fortress of resistance. During Korea’s colonial era, monks here refused to let invaders strip their temple of its sacred relics. We pulled into what looked more like an amusement park’s parking lot rather than a spiritual sanctuary—vendor stalls, a ticket booth, and a bustling crowd moving toward the entrance. The air smelled of incense, roasted chestnuts, and damp earth. Past the first gate, the world shifted. The temple grounds stretched out before us, sprawling and intricate, with meditation halls, towering stupas, and sanctuaries bathed in the scent of aged wood and candle wax. Some buildings housed relics—one even held a small stupa containing what is said to be a tooth of the Buddha himself. In one of the many courtyards, a golden pig statue stood polished gold from the hopeful hands of visitors rubbing it for wealth.

Wandering through Bulguksa felt like stepping between centuries, the past and present colliding in the quiet shuffle of feet against stone. I ran my fingers along the carved railings and traced the patterns in the weathered wooden doors, knowing that hands from centuries before had done the same. It was the kind of place that demanded time. But hunger is a powerful thing, and soon, the pull of food was just as strong as the pull of history.

Across the street from the temple, a small café called our name. I ordered a sesame latte—rich, nutty, with that perfect balance of bitter and sweet. The kind of drink that makes you want to sit in silence for a while, just letting the world happen around you. It complemented the simple sandwich I had ordered perfectly, complexity and simplicity all in one. We sat there and savored our lunches, obsessed over how pretty the café was, and chatted about our plans for the next few days.

Nearby, a shop specializing in cultural artifacts caught our attention. There were gongs, carved guardian spirits, and the symbolic wedding ducks once exchanged in Joseon-era marriages (some still practice this today). Objects that carried meaning beyond their material form. It was the kind of place where you could lose yourself in the details; it smelled of age and damp and had everything the wandering tourist could want, along with a story. We browsed until the reality of modern schedules pulled us back to the bus.

Driving through Gyeongju felt different. The land here felt old, not in a crumbling, forgotten way, but in the way of a place that knows it has seen more than you ever will. The mountains stood tall, silent witnesses to dynasties and wars, to gods and ghosts. And then, there was the hotel. It didn’t belong here.

We pulled up to a building that was a fever dream of contradictions. Sculptures everywhere—artistic, bizarre, sometimes unsettling. A suit once worn by a BTS member was displayed in a glass case in the lobby. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a garden filled with mismatched statues—Transformers, Buddhist deities, a floating rubber duck. A place caught between a collector’s obsession and an architect’s bad joke. The rooms? A relic from another era. Long, dimly lit hallways that belonged in a Kubrick film. Thick concrete walls. Low ceilings. The hum of fluorescent lights barely clinging to life. The kind of space that made you instinctively check for exits and listen too closely to the silence.

The hotel rooms were frozen in time, a relic of mid-century austerity wrapped in a thin veneer of modern convenience. Concrete walls painted in muted beige that melted into the brown painted concrete floor, and two double beds with wheels that creaked under the slightest movement. A single desk, a small television, and a fluorescent light that buzzed like an insect trapped in glass. The bathroom was a barebones affair—a shower with no curtain, a drain in the middle of the tiled floor, a toilet that looked like it had been installed decades ago, and none of the sleek bidets or thoughtful amenities we’d grown used to in Korea. The air inside was still, heavy with the scent of aged plaster and something else, something harder to define—a lingering presence like the walls had absorbed stories they weren’t ready to let go of.

The feeling of being watched settled in immediately. It wasn’t paranoia. It was something.

I checked for cameras. None. Checked the doors. Locked. Checked the windows. Secure. And yet, that presence lingered. Unseen but undeniable. So I did the only thing I could—I found an excuse to leave.

The elevator ride down was no less bizarre. A statue of Tintin stood guard at the doors, an unsettlingly cheerful contrast to the low-lit corridors. Stepping out onto the basement level, I found myself surrounded by glass cases filled with relics of another kind—Star Wars figurines, Barbies, Furbies, and old Gundam models. Life-sized anime characters frozen in time. And outside? A sculpture garden that defied explanation. A giant orangutan mourning its dead baby. Chess pieces that were almost as tall as me. A yellow rubber duck the size of a house floating in a small, serene pool. Giant white egg-shaped orbs that glowed different colors as night fell. I wandered through it all, trying to shake the growing unease. I needed something normal. Something grounding. So, naturally, I went looking for the pool.

Finding the pool turned into a comedy of errors. Signs led me in circles, sending me through the spa, where older Korean men lounged in waiting for their turn in the communal bath, casting confused glances at the lost foreigner in swimwear walking past the door. A kind soul redirected me back to the basement, where, at last, I found the pool—small, shallow, and cold as hell. It was a bizarre, almost absurd moment of normalcy.

That night, a group of us gathered for the comfort of fried chicken, pizza, and beer—the staples that had become our touchstones in Korea. We laughed, swapped stories, and tried to pretend the hotel wasn’t getting under our skin. And then back to the room.

I checked everything again. Locks. Windows. Corners. The unease hadn’t left. If anything, it was worse. I lay in bed, exhaustion pressing down, but sleep refused to come. And then, just as I started to drift—the weight of something curling up behind my knees.

Not human. Not visible. Just there.

It felt like an animal settling into bed with you. My pulse slammed against my ribs. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then, gathering every ounce of courage, I grabbed my phone and flicked on the flashlight—nothing. Just the faintest indent in the sheets where something had been…or maybe still was, just sitting unseen…

I barely slept.

And in the morning, I would learn I wasn’t the only one who had experienced something. But that’s a story for another day.