True TAIWAN Horror story

I’ve been meaning to write this story for ages. A friend recently nudged me with a link, asking if I’d share my old tales. With some free time lately, I figured—why not? So here it is, posted here and on another site. It’s all my own work, no plagiarism, though my writing’s rough—bear with me! (Search the title if you want the other post.)

I’m a real estate agent, and over the years, I’ve lost count of the properties I’ve handled. Plenty have been “problem” houses—aka haunted ones, or “murder houses” in local lingo. People ask why I’d deal in them. Aren’t I scared? Truth is, they sell fast and pay well. Take this one: 4 a.m., a guy jumps from the 8th floor of a complex—dead. By 9 a.m., I’d sold it to an investor. Quick cash. Owners, desperate to ditch the bad vibes, practically beg you to take it off their hands.

I’ve brokered tons of these eerie places. Some feel normal, but others? They’ve got stories that stick with you—unexplainable, creepy stuff. Maybe it’s the job, but my luck tanked for a stretch, so I started jotting these experiences online. This one I’m about to tell? I’ve wrestled with how to frame it. It’s a house so cursed, I reckon only tearing it down for urban renewal might fix it.

Three or four years back, a colleague tipped me off about a cheap listing in Taichung’s area—an old walk-up apartment, top floor. She said it was a steal, way below market even for a non-prime spot. I smelled trouble. “There’s a catch,” she admitted. “The owner says it’s got history.” Bingo—haunted. Why else would she pass it to me instead of pocketing it herself? “What happened?” I asked. Her reply was curt: “Hanging.”

“Upper hanging,” she clarified—suicide by neck. Creepy, sure. In folklore, a hanged person’s last breath gets trapped, their resentment and pain festering inside. I told her, “Let me dig deeper. ‘Hanging’ alone isn’t much to go on. Price is low—shouldn’t be hard to move.” She agreed to set up a meet with the owner, who didn’t live there but in a separate townhouse. She’d heard the basics from mutual contacts—tenant suicide by hanging—but details were fuzzy.

We met the owner at his place. After hearing his full account, I realized this wasn’t some run-of-the-mill spooky listing. My friend shivered beside me, blindsided by the depth of the weirdness. Even the neighborhood gossip that followed made me swear off digging further. As we left, I muttered, “Your momma, that’s some next-level evil.” She just stared, dazed.

Here’s what the owner told us, pieced from memory:

“Sorry you had to trek out here,” he began. “I told your friend the gist—main issue is a tenant hanged themselves inside. After it happened, I had monks chant and perform rites to send them off. Figured it was clean, so I rented it out again. It’s a walk-up apartment, and with that history, I slashed the rent—way below market. The last tenant? One thousand NTD a month (about $30 USD).”

“A thousand?!” I nearly choked. A three-bedroom, two-bath place—five grand would’ve still drawn takers! “That’s dirt cheap,” I said. “Did something weird happen to tank the rent that low?”

He sighed. “Here’s the thing: I didn’t drop it because of weird stuff at first. But weird stuff did happen, and that’s why it ended up so cheap.”

“Cut to the chase—what went down?” I pressed.

“After the first tenant hanged themselves,” he explained, “I had the place blessed, thinking it’d be fine to re-rent. Found a guy—told him upfront about the history. Rent was low, he wasn’t superstitious, so he took it. First few months? Smooth sailing. Then, around month six, rent stopped coming. I figured he’d pay late, sent a text reminder.

A week passed—no money, no reply. Phone calls went unanswered. I went to check. Rang the bell—nothing. Called again—heard the ring inside, but no answer. Knocked—silence. Finally, I got the cops and used my spare key. The moment we opened the door, a stench hit us. Inside, there he was—hanging from the living room beam, rotting. Cops said suicide, left a note.”

“Damn, you’ve got rotten luck,” I thought.

Then he dropped the bombshell. “Here’s the kicker: he died in the exact same spot as the first tenant. Same beam.”

I blurted, “Your monk half-assed it, huh? Didn’t finish the job—or maybe he’s just a hack?”

“I thought so too,” he said. “Did all the rituals, but then this happened.”

My mind clicked: Substitute snatcher. A spirit luring replacements to die in its place. That monk botched it bad. “Maybe you should bless him instead,” I quipped. “He didn’t fix squat!”

The owner gave up after that. “I stopped caring—just rented it cheap. Third tenant, fourth, fifth, up to sixth—six total. Every single one hanged themselves. Same spot, same beam. I was losing it. Cops grilled me so much, they half-suspected I killed them and staged it—since I’ve got a key. One or two? Fine. But six in a row? Six tenants, dead, dangling in my house!”

His voice cracked, a mix of despair and disbelief. After calming down, he went on: “It’s a two-unit-per-floor building. The neighbor across the hall’s still there. After the sixth, I stopped renting—been empty two-plus years. One day, I went to grab mail and bumped into them.

They asked, ‘Hey, Mr. X, you renting again? This one normal? All this stuff’s unsettling.’

I froze—someone living there? No way. ‘When?’ I asked.

‘Last week,’ they said. ‘Saw the inner door open, a student-looking guy on the balcony. Heard talking at night, TV on.’ I thought, squatters? Old tenant’s buddy with a copied key?

I told them, ‘Impossible—haven’t rented in over two years.’ They were shocked—said the guy even nodded at them. ‘Free loader, maybe? Locks never changed.’”

He checked it out, neighbor in tow. Door opened—empty. Dust blanketed the floor, thick from years of neglect. Only their fresh shoe prints marked it from the balcony inward. No one. Spooked—maybe by the history—he backed off, exchanging a glance with the neighbor before retreating.

“I swear, no one was there,” he said. “Dust was pristine—no footprints inside. Then, not long after, the neighbor called—moved out. Said one night, my unit’s inner door swung open. He thought someone was there—nothing. Then it slammed shut fast. Freaked him out. He bolted soon after, called to say goodbye and that I should ditch the place. Sell cheap, whatever—just be done.”

Six deaths, same spot. The price was absurdly low, so I told him I’d try finding a buyer. But I warned my friend, “I’m not stepping foot in there.” She agreed, pale—“What if it grabs me as the next substitute?” We had to scope the site eventually, though, just to know the lay. It’d been a while since the owner listed it.

I asked other tenants in the building. One said, “The downstairs folks moved too. Heard loud stomping, chair-dragging, stuff crashing up there. Rang the bell to complain—no answer. Looked up from below—empty. After hearing the story, they split. Oh, and one night, a first-floor guy smoking outside saw two figures on that balcony, peering down. He waved, nodded, kept puffing. Then it hit him—unit’s vacant. Looked again—gone.”

Stomping, dragging—like someone hauling a chair, stepping up, kicking it over, thrashing, then still. An upper hanging, replayed. I pitched it to investors—price was a siren call.

“Six deaths,” I’d say.

“How?” they’d ask. “Fire? Gas leak?”

“No—hanging.”

Their jaws dropped. “All six together?”

“Nope. Six different tenants, same spot, over time.”

“Holy crap, that’s cursed! Owner didn’t fix it?”

I shook my head. “He tried. It’s beyond fixing.”

Most backed off, muttering, “Too damn evil—straight-up substitute snatcher.”

One brave soul agreed to buy, but on signing day, the owner balked. “Sorry, can’t sell it to you.”
“Price too low?” the buyer pressed.
“No,” he said. “I can’t let you be number seven.”

It sits empty still, dust piling up. Maybe its “tenants” never left. Anyone want a bargain haunted house?

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Another chilling story from PTT Marvel board.

Writer : Takaisayaka

Time stamp: 2018/08/09