True TAIWAN Horror story

The teacher announced: “Tomorrow, we split into three teams to descend. Team 1—three people—heads down early to arrange transport and cook dinner. Team 2, slower walkers, leaves at dawn. Team 3, faster ones, can sleep in but will catch up with Team 2. Also, Jimmy’s missing—Teams 2 and 3, report if you find him.”

Exhausted, we skipped our usual singing and crashed. It was freezing at 3,300 meters—snow melted that afternoon, but dinner left us shivering despite jackets and hand warmers. We piled into the 80-person bunk, just 15 of us, huddling for warmth.

Too cold to stay awake, I nestled into a corner with the group. As I dozed, some jerk—probably Yu—dropped his gear and flopped next to me, waking me up.

Then my left side said, “Which team are you tomorrow?”

Wait, Yu?! Then who’s on my right?

Headlamp on—nothing there.

“Yu, wasn’t someone next to me?”

He patted my head. “You’re tired, sleep.”

Maybe I imagined it. I drifted off, dreaming of a riverside—everyone asleep but me. A panting man ran up: “Can you… take me down? I miss home.” Who are you? I couldn’t speak.

A loud snore—Yu’s “breathing”—jolted me awake. I smacked him, then froze. That dream… it matched my midday one.

At 2-3 a.m., I’d gone outside to pee, fertilizing a tree in the creepy, cold dark before rushing back. Restless, I wandered the lodge, scanning history and photos with my headlamp. Big mistake—those hallway portraits of fallen heroes felt like they were watching me. I recalled a senior fainting from one two days ago.

Curiosity won; I lit up the last photo. Holy crap—it was the guy from my dream!

I dove into my sleeping bag, clinging to Yu, chanting, “It’s all fake…”

I woke to Team 1’s departure at sunrise—they had to rush to beat the clock. Not being on that team, I slept more. Team 2 left as I packed; fog sank low, visibility at 20 meters.

Our Team 3 flew downhill—gear now light, steps huge. We passed Team 2, laughing, then remembered Jieming. Radio failed. At Tianyun Lodge (more like “Cloud Lodge”), Jimmy was alive, ecstatic to see us—his story’s for later.

But where was Team 1? No radio contact.

We called a car ourselves, starving. The guide’s face darkened—he directed the driver to Team 1’s spot.

After 40 minutes, we found them—13 kilometers off course.

In the mountains, 13 kilometers in a straight line is super incrediable far far far away.

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According to them, It was still dark when the three of them set off, headlamps cutting through the thick morning mist.

The fog was heavier than expected—so dense that their clothes became damp, threatening to sap their body heat.

That was bad news. Wet clothes mean cold, and cold means danger in the mountains.

So they stopped to put on their rain gear.

Now, if you’ve ever worn a raincoat while riding a bike, you know the struggle—pulling it over your head, momentarily blinded as you adjust the sleeves.

That’s what they were doing.

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And that’s when it happened.

One of them was still struggling with his raincoat when the other two suddenly took off running.

Not wanting to be left behind, he rushed to get his raincoat on and followed.

The three of them ran through the mist, chasing after the one in front—a figure in a raincoat.

They ran.

And ran.

And kept running.

Until…

They realized something was wrong.

Where were they?

The ground beneath them was untouched—no sign of a trail.

The forest around them was dense, overgrown, unfamiliar.

They had no idea how they got here.

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And then—

They counted heads.

One.

Two.

Three.

Just the three of them. So then—

Who was the person they had been following? Who was that fourth runner in the raincoat?

Hearing that story on the bus was creepy as hell. On the ride back, everyone—literally everyone—passed out, sleeping like babies. Later, I realized the driver must’ve hated us: five days of climbing, no showers, gear caked in snow and dirt, shoes soaked.

Back in Kaohsiung, we hit hot pot—chilly there (a day behind the north’s cold snap), but fresh off the mountain, we felt hot. After eating, I went straight home, didn’t change, tossed my bag aside, and crashed on my beloved single bed, dead asleep.

Midnight, I jolted awake to loud snoring. “Damn it, Yu’s at it again,” I thought. I swung a slap—missed.

Pushed—missed again.

Then it hit me: something’s off. I’m in my room! Facing away from the sound, my back stiffened—sweat poured out, cold as ice, neck and spine rigid. Ever felt that? Slowly, I turned, eyes still shut, knowing the heavy, slow breathing came from beside my bed. I cracked my eyes open—and there, squatting on my backpack, facing me, was a man!

I freaked, lurched back, slammed the wall, flailing for the light switch. The second the light flicked on, the figure lingered half a second—I’m sure I saw it.

Before, it was just noises, feelings, or others’ stories—but this time, I saw it with my own eyes, in my room!

I tumbled out, scrambling to my mom’s room, yelling, “Mom! Mom! Mom! That—that—thing! AHHH!”

She woke groggy at 2 a.m., mumbling, “What’s wrong?”

I stammered, “I—I—I—saw—AAHH!”—words wouldn’t come.

She and my brother, roused by my screams, checked my room. Mom poked around, flipped my bag: “Nothing here… too tired from climbing, bad dream?”

“No, I SAW it!” I insisted.

My brother yawned, “You watch too many movies,” and went back to bed.

Mom patted me: “You’re exhausted, sleep.”

Sleep? How?! I saw it! So, I sat on my bed, lights on, staring at my hiking pack. This won’t work—I was dying to sleep.

I raided the kitchen and living room, grabbing every exorcism trick from books, movies, legends: staples (iron filings), rice, rice wine, salt, a Bible, garlic, onions—everything I could find—and dumped it all over my bag.

Twenty minutes later, I was spent.

What now?

Sleep with a man-spawning backpack? Stay up all night? Crash on the couch?

My room reeked of garlic—I should’ve picked the sofa, but no. I dragged the bag to my brother’s room, then slept like a rock till dawn.

Crap. I’ll never climb any strange mountains again!!!!! Even writing my own story gives me goosebumps!