I’ve been lying here for days now, son, waiting for the end. I know it’s coming; I can feel it in my bones, in the way the air has grown colder. I don’t have much time left, and there’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve kept buried for fifty years. It’s about Korea, about Chosin, and about what came home with me. I’ve carried this secret for too long, and it’s time you knew the truth.
It was December 1950, in the mountains of North Korea, and the cold was like nothing I’d ever felt. The snow was thick, the wind howled like a living thing, and the temperature dropped so low that our breath froze in our lungs. We were in the thick of it—the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. They don’t talk much about that battle anymore, but for those of us who were there, it’s something we can’t forget.
The enemy was everywhere. The Chinese came at us in waves, tens of thousands of them, with no fear of dying. We were outnumbered, outgunned, and freezing to death. But we held the line. That’s what we were trained to do. But they just kept coming and coming, like the cold itself. So many bullets, so much death. We were killing them after they were already dead.
I was with Fox Company, 7th Marines. We were pinned down on a ridge overlooking a pass that the Chinese wanted badly. They came at us day and night, and the fighting was brutal. We couldn’t sleep, we couldn’t eat—hell, we could barely feel our fingers on the triggers. The cold was a living thing, gnawing at us, stealing our strength. But we couldn’t retreat. We were Marines, and we had a job to do.
On the night it happened, we were on watch, eyes peeled for any movement in the dark. The snow was falling heavily, muffling every sound except the wind. I was so cold I could barely think, barely feel my own body. That’s when I saw him. A Chinese soldier, no more than twenty feet away, moving silently through the snow. He was young, probably no older than you were when you graduated high school. He had that same look in his eyes that all of them did—desperation, determination, and something else, something darker.
I didn’t hesitate. I shot him. One round, center mass, just like they taught us. He went down hard, but as he fell, our eyes met, and something passed between us. It was more than just the shock of seeing a man die. It was like he was reaching out to me, silently pleading for something. But what could I give him? I was just a soldier, just another scared kid trying to survive in that frozen hell.
I should have forgotten him, should have pushed his face into the pile of all the other memories from that nightmare, but I couldn’t. He stuck with me, haunted my thoughts in the quiet moments. Maybe it was because he was so young, or maybe it was because of the way he looked at me as he died. I didn’t know then, but I know now that it was something more, something far darker.
We fought our way out of Chosin. They call it the “Frozen Chosin” now, a name that doesn’t do justice to what we went through. We lost so many men, and the ones who made it out were never the same. We fought our way south, through the snow and ice, with the Chinese hot on our heels. Every step felt like we were walking through hell. But we made it. Somehow, we made it.
When I came home, I thought I’d left that place behind. I tried to forget, tried to put it all out of my mind. But that’s the thing about war—it never really leaves you. It follows you, haunts you. And in my case, it did more than just haunt my dreams. It followed me home in a way I never expected, in a way I’ve never been able to escape.
The first time I saw him after I got home, I was out back, working in the yard. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and for a moment, I almost felt normal. But then I saw him. Standing under the oak tree, just watching me. He was exactly as I remembered him—young, his uniform dirty and torn, blood staining his chest where the bullet had hit him. His eyes were hollow, empty, but they were locked on me. I froze. My heart pounded in my chest, and for a moment, I thought I was back in Korea. But it wasn’t Korea. It was my own backyard.
I blinked, and he was gone. Just like that. I told myself it was a hallucination, a trick of the mind brought on by too many memories and too much time spent in the cold. But deep down, I knew it was something more. I knew he was real.
Over the years, he kept coming back. Sometimes it was just a glimpse—out of the corner of my eye, in the reflection of a window, standing at the end of the hallway. Other times, he was more present, like when I’d wake up in the middle of the night and see him standing at the foot of my bed, just watching. He never spoke, never moved. Just stared at me with those hollow eyes, as if he was waiting for something.
I didn’t tell your mother. I didn’t want to scare her, didn’t want her to think I was losing my mind. Maybe I was. But I couldn’t let her know. I couldn’t let any of you know. You all deserved better than that. So I kept it to myself, tried to push it down, bury it with work and with being a good husband and father. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape him.
He was always there, lurking in the shadows, a constant reminder of what I did. I started drinking more, trying to drown him out, trying to numb the guilt and the fear. But it never worked. The more I drank, the more vivid he became. The more he haunted me.
I think the worst part was the silence. He never said a word, never made a sound. Just stared at me with those accusing eyes, as if he was waiting for me to do something, to say something. But what? What could I possibly do to make it right? I took his life, and he took mine, piece by piece, year by year.
There were nights when I’d wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, the memory of Chosin playing on a loop in my head. And he’d be there, at the foot of the bed, his eyes burning into me. Those were the nights I feared the most, the nights when I wondered if I was truly losing my mind. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t madness. It was something worse. It was real.
As the years passed, the hauntings grew more frequent, more intense. He was always there, a shadow in the background, a cold presence that never left me. I’d see him at family gatherings, standing in the corner of the room, watching as I tried to enjoy the life I’d built. I’d catch glimpses of him in the reflection of a shop window as we walked down the street. I’d feel his eyes on me as I sat alone in the dark, trying to drown out the memories with another glass of whiskey.
I tried to keep living, tried to be the man you all needed me to be. But it was hard, son. So damn hard. There were times when I thought about ending it, about putting a stop to the torment once and for all. But I couldn’t do that to your mother, to you, to your sisters. I couldn’t leave you all to pick up the pieces of my broken mind. So I kept going, kept fighting the shadows, kept pretending everything was fine.
But it wasn’t fine. It never was. Every day, I felt the cold creeping back into my bones, the darkness closing in. Every time I saw him, I felt that bullet tear through my soul again, a wound that never healed, never stopped bleeding. I was a walking corpse, hollowed out by guilt, by fear, by the knowledge that I’d never be free of him.
There were moments, though, when I almost convinced myself it wasn’t real. When I’d tell myself it was all in my head, just a figment of my imagination, a ghost born from the horrors of war. But those moments never lasted. He’d always show up again, remind me that he was real, that he was here to stay.
It got worse as I got older. The visions became more vivid, more frequent. Sometimes, I’d be sitting in the living room, reading a book, and suddenly, I’d be back at Chosin. The cold would seep into the room, the air would fill with the smell of gunpowder and blood, and I’d hear the screams of dying men. And there he’d be, standing in front of me, his uniform soaked with blood, his eyes hollow and accusing.
Your mother found me one night, standing in the garage with a knife in my hand, staring at the wall. I didn’t remember how I got there, didn’t know what I was doing. She was scared, but I was terrified. I could feel him behind me, watching, waiting. But when I turned around, he was gone. Just like always.
She wanted me to see a doctor, but I refused. How could I explain what was happening without sounding insane? How could I tell anyone that I was being haunted by the ghost of a Chinese soldier I’d killed fifty years ago? I couldn’t, son. No one would believe me. They’d say it was just PTSD, that I needed medication or therapy. But this was something deeper, something darker. No medicine could chase him away, no therapist could talk him out of my mind. He was real, as real as you are sitting here beside me now.
So I kept it inside. I pushed your mother away when she tried to help, kept you and your sisters at arm’s length. I buried myself in work, in anything that could keep my mind busy, that could keep the darkness at bay. But it was always there, waiting in the quiet moments, in the stillness of the night.
The years passed, and life went on. You all grew up, made lives of your own. I did my best to be a good father, to be there for you when you needed me. But I know I wasn’t always present, not the way I should have been. It’s because of him. He took pieces of me, piece by piece, until there wasn’t much left. Just a hollow man, going through the motions.
There were times when I tried to confront him, tried to make sense of what he wanted. Late at night, when the house was quiet and your mother was asleep, I’d sit alone in the dark and talk to him. I’d ask him why he was here, what he wanted from me. But he never answered. He just stared at me with those eyes, as if he was waiting for something, something I could never give him.
And the cold… the cold never left me. Even in the heat of summer, I’d feel it creeping in, a chill that settled deep in my bones. It was the cold of Chosin, the cold of death. I knew it was him, knew it was his presence that brought it with him, that made it impossible for me to ever feel warm again.
I tried to keep it hidden, tried to keep it from affecting you and your sisters, from affecting your mother. But the truth is, it affected everything. Every decision I made, every step I took, was haunted by him. I stopped sleeping, stopped eating. The shadows under my eyes grew darker, the lines on my face deeper. I was wasting away, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
As I got older, it became harder and harder to keep him out of my mind. The visions grew more frequent, more intense. Sometimes, I’d be sitting at the dinner table, listening to you all talk and laugh, and suddenly, I’d be back in Korea, back at Chosin. The cold would seep in, the world would blur, and I’d see him, standing at the edge of the room, watching me. Your mother would ask if I was okay, and I’d just nod, forcing a smile, pretending everything was fine. But inside, I was screaming.
I knew, deep down, that he was waiting for something. Maybe it was an apology, maybe it was forgiveness. But I couldn’t give him that. I couldn’t forgive myself for what I did, for the life I took. And he knew it. That’s why he stayed, why he kept haunting me. He was my punishment, my reminder that no matter how hard I tried, I could never escape what I’d done.
As the years turned into decades, I grew weaker. My body began to fail me, my mind began to slip. But he never changed. He never aged, never wavered. He was as young and broken as the day I killed him. And the cold… the cold grew stronger, more suffocating. It was like the warmth of life was being drained out of me, replaced by that freezing darkness.
I tried to ignore it, to push through, but it was no use. The more I tried to live a normal life, the more he made his presence known. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, my breath visible in the air, the room freezing cold, and I’d see him, standing there, closer than ever before. His eyes bore into mine, and I could feel the weight of all those years pressing down on me, crushing me.
I began to wonder if I was dying, if the cold was a sign that my time was coming to an end. But then I realized that it wasn’t just death. It was him. He was the one bringing the cold, bringing the darkness. He was waiting for me to die, waiting to take me with him to whatever cold, dark place he’d been trapped in all these years.
I thought about telling your mother, about finally confessing the truth. But what would that accomplish? It would only scare her, worry her. And it wouldn’t change anything. The damage had been done. The only thing left to do was wait for the end, to face him one last time and accept whatever fate awaited me.
And now, here I am, on my deathbed, with you beside me, and him standing in the corner, watching, as he always has. The air has grown colder, the shadows longer. I know my time is running out, and soon I’ll be gone. But before I go, I need you to know, son, that I tried. I tried to be a good father, a good husband, despite the darkness that’s haunted me all these years.
I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side. Maybe he’ll be there, waiting to drag me into the cold, or maybe I’ll finally be free of him, free of the guilt and the fear. But I need you to promise me something. Promise me that you’ll live your life without the shadows that have followed me. Don’t let the past consume you like it did me. Don’t carry the same burdens I’ve carried.
I’m ready now, ready to face whatever comes next. The cold has settled into my bones, the darkness has closed in. And he’s still there, waiting, watching. I can’t escape him, but maybe, just maybe, I can find some peace in knowing that you won’t have to carry this weight, that you won’t have to live with the same haunting shadows.
Goodbye, son. And remember, no matter what, I always loved you. Even when the shadows were darkest, you were my light.
Hayden Coombs 