In Taiwan, military service used to be a rite of passage for every adult man—a mandatory two-year stint in the army that’s now been shortened considerably. For generations, it was a shared experience, a gritty chapter that bonded Taiwanese men through sweat, discipline, and, sometimes, stories that linger long after the uniform comes off. Among those tales are the spooky ones—horror stories whispered in barracks late at night. This one’s a true account, originally shared on Taiwan’s PTT Marvel board back in 2013. It’s raw, eerie, and steeped in history.
My story begins with the 921 earthquake—a monster of a quake that rocked Taiwan on September 21, 1999, killing thousands and leaving the island in chaos. I was one of the unlucky ones who got my draft notice right around then. By October 4, I was in—assigned to the Army Infantry 1835T unit in Yilan’s Jinliujie.
Not long after I arrived, word spread that the training camp at Chenggongling in Taichung was hurting for recruits post-quake. I’d actually volunteered for the special college reservist training there—the last batch to do it—but got kicked out after a fight. No officer stripes for me. Instead, I was lumped in with about 70 others, including a couple of guys who’d later make names for themselves: Chen Zhiyuan of the Brothers baseball team and Zhang Jiahao from the Xingnong squad. We were shipped off to Taichung for basic training.
Life there was hell. Brutal drills, constant pressure, and a water shortage so bad we showered once a week. Two months later, we drew lots for our permanent postings. Against the odds—70% of us were headed to the grueling Kinmen-Matsu assignments—I lucked out with the 151st Division back in Yilan. But the real twist came with a smaller draw: I ended up at a remote outpost in Yilan.
I’m a born-and-bred Yilan guy, and let me tell you, that place was creepy.
To understand why, you need some backstory. Yilan’s got two old airfields—North and South—built by the Japanese during their occupation. The South one’s near the county government now, while the North sits by Yuanshan Park, right along the Yilan River. Follow the riverbank a couple of kilometers, and you hit Jinliu street, where you can still spot old pillboxes from the war days.
Across the river, behind Yuanshan Junior High, looms a massive mountain—a chaotic burial ground riddled with military tunnels and bunkers from the Japanese era. Locals call them the “Tiger Leap Tunnels.” There’s even talk of buried Japanese gold hidden inside.
At the mountain’s base sits an abandoned military hospital, and on the other side, you’ve got the Yuanshan Fuyuan—a funeral parlor. That whole area’s a ghost story waiting to happen. I’ve seen it featured on at least four paranormal TV shows, with brave souls venturing into those tunnels. Spoiler: they don’t come out unscathed.
My military camp was the small one right by the river—a stone-walled relic with bullet holes still pocked in the sides. The next day, I got assigned to the Third Company, across the road. That’s when I ran into a buddy, Liao-something-zhang, a local Yuanshan guy I knew through family ties. He gave me a heads-up: “Watch yourself in Third Company. It’s tough as nails, strict hierarchy, and some spots aren’t exactly… clean.”
“Be extra careful around these tanks,” he added. “Those vehicles are Korean War vets. They’ve seen blood.”
He wasn’t kidding.
Third Company was a nightmare. The senior-junior system was brutal, the training relentless. In four months, I dropped 10 kilos—pure stress and exhaustion. It was the hardest stretch of my 31 years. But it wasn’t just the grind that got to me. There were things there.
Take the motor pool—those old trucks had a vibe. You could feel it. Then there’s a story from my junior high days that ties in. I went to a fancy school in Yilan City, but my buddy “Two-Teeth” was a Yuanshan local. He told me about the military hospital near our camp, sealed off since the early ‘90s. The trouble started with a drainage ditch.
Back in the day, soldiers would help farmers harvest rice during busy seasons—a program called “zhuge.” One time, a group finished cutting and sat by the ditch below the mountain. A guy took off his shoes, dipped his feet in—and something grabbed him. He sank into the mud. Twenty-plus soldiers yanked at him, but two more got pulled in. All three vanished into the sludge.
They searched for hours. Nothing. Then some old-timers suggested checking a spot nearby a few days later. Sure enough, there were the bodies. The official report blamed quicksand, but Two-Teeth—yep, he was there—said they poked the mud with a bamboo pole. It hit bottom at 20 centimeters. Quicksand?
Hardly.
After that, they covered the ditch with cement slabs where it met the road to the hospital. Problem solved, right? Nope—things got weirder. Night after night, people saw soldiers in old ROC uniforms wandering the hospital grounds, singing Japanese songs and speaking Japanese.
Sometimes, a group of them would chase two or three others with knives, stopping dead at the camp’s edge. Other times, you’d spot a lone soldier squatting outside at dusk, only to shuffle back in at dawn.
Every. Single. Night.
Even the military police couldn’t handle it—they got attacked too. Over 20 guys from that camp ended up transferred to Beitou Military Hospital. If you don’t know what Beitou Military Hospital’s for, ask around on a military forum. It’s not a happy place.
Eventually, they sealed the hospital off completely. Now it’s just a row of green metal fencing. Before that, though, people who snuck in didn’t fare well—hence the lockdown.
Another story happened near the Third Company, is about a decade or so ago—think of the 1980s—there was this rundown shack smack in the middle of a field near our camp. A typhoon flattened it years back, and some out-of-towner swooped in to build a fancy European-style villa in its place. Big mistake. The new owner’s business tanked, and the whole family took their lives inside those walls. No survivors, no heirs. The house sat empty after that.
But here’s the kicker: every night, like clockwork, the lights flicked on. They’d glow until around 11 p.m., then shut off. No one lived there—no electricity should’ve been running. People passing by started crashing their scooters or spotting things they couldn’t unsee.
Naturally, it became a dare. Two guys bet they could spend the night inside. Next morning? One was dead, the other gibbering like a madman. Another skeptic tried it later—same result: insanity.
Word spread fast, and folks stopped going near it. I was just starting junior high then, and some classmates dragged me to check it out. They weren’t lying—the lights did turn on. No streetlights around, just this eerie glow in the dark. The air felt unnaturally cold, and the usual rural soundtrack of crickets and birds? Dead silence. We had to walk a good distance away before the night sounds kicked back in.
One time, a group of kids, including my buddy Two-Teeth, tried getting close. An old farmer passing by chewed them out, warning them off. Next day, Two-Teeth skipped school, spiked a fever, and landed in the hospital. His brother said he’d been “touched by something bad.”
They took some religious rituals to pull him through. That house was no joke.
True TAIWAN Horror story 
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