Head Over Heels: The ultimate ghost guide (episodes 1–2)

Some stories are born from closed doors and dark corners. In Head Over Heels, every ghost stays in places we'd rather not be, like an empty locker room, a storage room full of regret, or a bathroom that echoes with quiet cries.

In episodes 1 and 2 of Head Over Heels, we meet Park Seong-ah, a young shaman whose job is less about getting rid of evil and more about dealing with the sadness and guilt that comes with it.

Water and fire are two components that are always at odds with each other in the first two examples. A ghost in the boys' restroom represents loss and unfulfilled desire, stuck by the water that took everything away. Another spirit is surrounded by fire and is angry and hopeless. It won't cross over until its grief is named and faced.

These episodes of Head Over Heels don't rely in jump scares only. They represent ghosts as echoes of lives that were cut short, restless beings that want to be seen, even if it's just for a moment. Seong-ah is more than just a gatekeeper between the living and the dead; she also understands loneliness and carries each unfinished story like a secret that only she can keep.

Between myth and modern sorrow

While Head Over Heels invents its ghosts, it doesn’t conjure them from nowhere. Korean folklore has long been haunted by spirits tied to unfinished business, the gwishin.

The ghost in the boys’ bathroom resembles the mul-gwishin, a water ghost born from drowning or dying in damp places. Traditionally, these spirits embody sorrow that clings to the wetness of life, unable to evaporate into the afterlife. Their presence is not playful but heavy, their silence louder than any scream.

The fire ghost, on the other hand, doesn’t match any single figure in Korean mythology but resonates with the concept of spirits who died violently and refuse to let go of their rage. While there is no direct “hwa-gwishin” in classic lore, fire often symbolizes cleansing and destruction in Korean spiritual traditions. Here, in Head Over Heels, the burning echoes a soul scorched by betrayal and guilt, forcing those who encounter it to confront hidden wounds.

These hauntings are not battles Seong-ah can face alone. Pyo Ji-ho, her steadfast friend, offers unwavering support even when the spiritual stakes become life-threatening. Meanwhile, Ju-in, the archery coach, watches from a distance, embodying a quiet moral backbone and suggesting deeper emotional connections that might unfold as the series progresses.

By weaving these relationships into the elemental conflicts, Head Over Heels reveals that exorcism is never just about ghosts; it is about the living, and the ways we hold each other through unseen storms.

The shaman as ledger and lifeline

In Head Over Heels, Seong-ah isn’t a wandering mystic or a forest-dwelling oracle. She is a modern mudang, which is a Korean shaman who is more like an accountant of the soul than a prophet. She doesn't only chant at a mountain shrine; she also negotiates prices, keeps track of exorcism schedules on her phone, and goes between classrooms and secret rites with ease. This mix of tradition and usefulness changes what it means to guide spirits in a city that never sleeps.

In the West, the word "shaman" generally brings to mind people who are alone and talk to animals or have visions during trance-like ceremonies. People consider these shamans as healers or spiritual intermediates who are different from everyone else and are almost like outsiders. On the other hand, Korean shamans, or mudang, are very much a part of society. They act as go-betweens for the living and the deceased, but they also give advice, safeguard the peace in the community, and keep quiet records of family mourning.

A mudang's job includes stomach rites, offerings, and rhythmic dances. Seong-ah, on the other hand, makes this old job more personal and businesslike, showing how hard it is to survive in the modern world. She isn't apart from her world; she is a part of it, balancing her own hidden weight with the grief of her clients.

This picture of the shaman goes against any romantic or magical ideas. Instead of being a ghostly apparition, she is a young woman with bills to pay, secrets to keep, and both actual and emotional ghosts to guide home.

The quiet wars inside Seong-ah

In Head Over Heels, Seong-ah's work is like a second spine for her: it keeps her standing, is constantly there, and is stiff. A young woman formed by obligations, sadness, and unsaid shame hides under her bright hair and sarcastic comments.

Not only the spirits she sees won't let go. Every exorcism is like her own fight to forgive herself for decisions that are still off-screen, only hinted at by the tightness of her jaw or the tenderness that sometimes creeps into her voice when she thinks no one is listening.

Head Over Heels shows her trying to protect people from curses and angry spirits while also wrestling with the parts of herself she desperately wants to abandon but cannot. The 21-day countdown hovering over Gyeon-u is like a deeper, invisible clock ticking inside her. She is afraid that if she stops moving, even for a second, everything she has worked so hard to keep together would fall apart.

Seong-ah's routines become into means to keep connected to something genuine when her life feels like a haunted hallway. Her friendship with Ji-ho, her cautious respect for Oh Ok‑Soon, and her sudden care for Gyeon-u show that she is a lady whose exorcisms are also silent confessions.

She cannot say the words out loud, so she speaks through salt lines, bells, and the stubborn act of staying. Every ghost she releases becomes a piece of her own locked grief finally breathing in open air.

Living upside down

The phrase "head over heels" usually evokes reckless romance, that dizzy sense of falling into someone or something. In Head Over Heels, it becomes a state of spiritual and emotional inversion. Seong-ah's entire life is suspended between worlds, flipped from what most people call normal.

She walks into haunted bathrooms instead of classrooms, negotiates death dates instead of due dates, and measures love in salt lines instead of simple words.

To live "upside down" in this series is to accept that grief and affection, duty and desire, are tangled beyond repair. Seong-ah does not just fall for Gyeon-u; she spirals into a universe where every heartbeat is an echo of unfinished stories. Her head points toward the afterlife while her feet cling desperately to the living world, creating a tension that defines her every choice.

The show suggests that maybe true connection only happens when we abandon balance entirely, when we let ourselves fall without knowing where we’ll land. Seong-ah’s upside-down existence is not a flaw but a necessary tilt, a new geometry for a soul learning how to stay close to what it cannot keep.

The omen of upside-down in Head Over Heels

In Seong-ah’s shamanic visions, Gyeon-u appears literally upside down, a clear spiritual omen that he is near death. This recurring image isn’t metaphorical; it is shown on screen as a supernatural sign tied to his precarious fate.

Reddit users captured it well:

"Through Seong-ah’s shamaness abilities, she sees Gyeon-u walking upside down, meaning his days are numbered."

Reviews confirm that Seong-ah’s vision of him as inverted seals this omen, linking directly to the 21-day countdown she perceives.

This motif turns the series title into a haunting prophecy. "Head over heels" becomes literal: tipping into a realm where love, death, and spiritual duty converge. It emphasizes that Seong-ah and Gyeon-u’s worlds are forever tilted, never to find easy vertical space again.

Ghosts that stay even after they're gone

Episodes 1 and 2 of Head Over Heels establish a supernatural premise that feels intimate and deeply human. The ghosts of water and fire become more than narrative obstacles; they are mirrors, showing us the ways love, regret, and guilt can pool and ignite inside us long after an event has passed.

Seong-ah’s journey has nothing to do with erasing spirits but learning to sit with them, to understand the echoes they leave behind in stairwells, bathrooms, and quiet hearts. Gyeon-u’s ticking clock, Ji-ho’s silent loyalty, and Ju-in’s watchful steadiness build a constellation of fragile bonds that refuse to disappear, no matter how fiercely they’re pushed away.

By choosing to walk through each haunting instead of sealing it away, Seong-ah teaches us that every unresolved ache deserves a voice, even if it trembles. And maybe, in her small acts of compassion, we glimpse a different kind of exorcism: one that asks us not to banish what hurts, but to stay long enough to understand it.