[Joseon Images] The haunting of Gyeonghui Palace

A palace gate at night, circa 2018 / Courtesy of Shawn Morrissey

By Robert Neff

Visiting a Korean palace in the early morning or late afternoon ― when there are few, if any, visitors ― is a haunting experience. With an active imagination, whispers from the past ― carried by subtle breezes ― can almost be heard and shadows seemingly move as you pass by open doorways and gates. It isn't surprising that many of the palaces are haunted not only by violent histories but also, allegedly, by ghosts.

Perhaps the most haunted (at least in the late 19th and early 20th centuries) is Gyeonghui Palace ― the name of which, ironically, means the Palace of Serene Harmony. The palace was completed in 1623 and at one time contained more than 100 structures. Despite its name, almost from the beginning, the palace enjoyed a malevolent reputation. Many thought its location was wrong and altered the geomantic state, resulting in an evil influence upon the city and causing citizens to suffer from pestilence and droughts.

Adding to its ill repute was its dark past. The notoriety surrounding this palace was a very popular subject for many Western residents and visitors. George Trumbull Ladd, an American working with the Japanese government in the early 1900s, wrote:

"[The palace] was erected by the tyrant Prince Gwanghae [reigned 1608-23] who was here dethroned, and from here sent into exile, where he died a prisoner. From it also his successor was driven out by the usurping 'Three Days King.' It was in this palace, also, that King Sukjong [reigned 1674-1720] having surprised his favorite concubine in practicing magic rites to accomplish the death of the Queen whom she had already caused to be divorced and banished, turned upon the concubine in revenge, mutilated the Crown Prince, [and] had her torn in pieces."

Ladd was not the only one to take fiendish delight in digging up the palace's past. In fact, Ladd seems to have derived much of his knowledge of the site from George Heber Jones, an American missionary. Jones noted that the horrible acts committed in this palace had made it into a "veritable den of infamy" and that "it was abandoned as a house haunted by evil spirits and unsafe for habitation."

Gyeonghui Palace in October 2015 / Korea Times photo by Jon Dunbar

While the palace may not have been suitable for habitation by Koreans, it was more than suitable for unwanted guests. According to Jones, "the mixture of fawning malice and hypocritical servility characteristic of Korean officialdom was at one time humorously exhibited in a way to deceive even the Chinese; for when the Mings were overthrown by the Manchus, the hated envoys of the latter were assigned to this place, 'for their entertainment and as a covert derogation.'"

By the early 1880s, the palace was no more than ruins. Many of the buildings had been torn down to provide building supplies for the reconstruction of nearby Gyeongbok Palace, and so it seemed a logical site for one of Joseon's early modernizations: the establishment of a large-scale silk industry. Thousands of mulberry trees were imported from China and planted on its extensive grounds. Unsurprisingly, it came to be commonly known as the Mulberry Palace.

The attempt, however, failed, and the grounds became wild and unkept. What had once been the palace of mortal men, became the haunt of feline lords ― leopards and tigers.

A Japanese air-raid shelter, seen in October 2015, is built behind Gyeonghui Palace. / Korea Times photo by Jon Dunbar

In the winter of 1886-87, Homer Hulbert, an American teacher in Seoul, wrote:

"[There] is a grove of mulberry trees where silk culture is being attempted and there have been three leopards in there. One of them has been killed by a gentleman who is interested in the silk factory. He spent a whole night in the attempt to get a shot at the animals and at last by poking a long pole into a lair which they had made among some rubbish he stirred one of them up and had a shot at him. He used an explosive bullet and tore a hole in the leopard's side large enough to put your two hands in. We would hunt them more if there were more repeating rifles here, but it is not safe to hunt them without the repeaters."

By 1891, some of the Western residents of Jeong-dong, despite the threat of great cats, began picnicking on the palace grounds. One elderly American woman, Elizabeth Greathouse, declared the large Audience Hall as being the best representative of the palace's "former grandiose" character. It also became a popular place for Korean housewives to do their laundry (which she seemingly took delight in describing in some detail) and for men to engage in archery.

Judging from Greathouse's description, Gyeonghui Palace truly was the Palace of Serene Harmony, but others saw it in a different light: haunted, especially in the late afternoon or early evening.

In the mid-1890s, Isabella Bird Bishop, an intrepid elderly English explorer and writer who spent a considerable amount of time in Korea, wrote that the ghosts "taking possession of the fine Audience Hall of the Mulberry Palace, rendered the buildings untenable, frightful tales being told and believed of nocturnal daemon orgies amidst those doleful splendors."

In 1902, Jones noted that the few abandoned buildings of the former palace were surrounded by "frightful stories [which were] still current among the people as to the scenes that occurred there every night."

Gyeonghui Palace is shown after years of reconstruction work, published in The Korea Times May 11, 2002. / Korea Times Archive

Over the last couple of decades, the Seoul government has rebuilt part of the palace, though reconstructing its entirety would have been difficult as much of this area has been redeveloped. Some of the palace's relics ― including a royal well ― can still be found near the Seoul Museum of History (which occupies part of the former palace grounds). However, these relics are not the only remnants of the palace's dark past. Several years ago, a museum employee confided to me that at night the motion detectors on the top floor often went off in the manner of someone walking the halls ― despite no one being there.

A palace well, circa 2020, believed to have been dug when the palace was constructed / Robert Neff Collection

Robert Neff is a historian and columnist for The Korea Times.