True TAIWAN Horror story

At breakfast, that brigadier rolled in, ranting as usual. His staff had dug up something useful: a 1950s record stating the Tiger Leap Tunnels and bunkers were blown up by the Japanese—useless, no strategic value, no need to explore.

My squad leader overheard this whispered to our Brigadier. Translation this: “Nothing’s there, don’t bother—now you’ve screwed us.”

Too late. The missing captain’s family showed up, kneeling, begging us to keep looking. They brought a Taoist priest who pointed straight at the mountain behind the abandoned military hospital: “They’re there.”

Five minutes later, a black 3000cc military SUV roared up. A guy in civvies stepped out—high brass, no uniform—pleading with us to find them. He shook grave expert’s hand, humbled himself, handing out smokes and betel nut, begging us continue searching.

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This time, 30 of us went up, led by Two-Teeth’s Uncle. On the muddy road to the mountain, he sidled up and chat with me. “You know Two-Teeth?”

Sure, my old classmate.

“You slept fine last night, huh?” he teased.

“Can you really find them?” I asked.

He grinned. “Depends on that Taoist priest’s mojo. But it’s tough.”

I doubt it.” “Where are they, then?”

He jerked a thumb at the hospital’s backside mountain: “In there.”

It was a dreary day—drizzle, army ponchos soaking through. We slogged 20 minutes in circles under his lead, boots sinking in sludge.

He stopped us at the base, pulled out a fistful of incense, and had us pray before lighting it. He tossed a 2-coin divination. One yin and one yang, means “yes” in Tao culture.

Then he burned some paper money, offering to something, or some spirits. Up we went, me clinging to the guy ahead, rain streaking my glasses. Fog or clouds, I couldn’t tell—and keep walk into tall grass.

The slope steepened—pure mud. Grass is taller than our 6’5″ senior solider. I chewed betel nut to stay warm, the cold biting deeper as we climbed. At the top of the hill, a small clearing by a cliff, boxed in by trees and grass, only a narrow gap where we’d come up.

Two-Teeth’s Uncle waved me forward with another senior solider. Yellow, black, red smears on the cliff, mud below. The senior next to me started shaking hard.

“Oh shit!” Uncle yelled, yanking me aside. Others shouted. I was clueless, wiping my glasses, popping them back on. Wish I hadn’t.

It was a cave mouth. An iron door, rusted black and red, plastered with talismans—new, old, some rotted to sludge. Chains—yellowed, blackened, reddened—crisscrossed it, locked with a dozen padlocks.

Below, more corroded chains and locks littered the ground. Those red-yellow-black patches? Ash urns with talismans, half-buried in leaves. We’d climbed in rain, but this cement patch was bone-dry.

The senior beside me? His face—unrecognizable and twisted.

Everyone bolted off the platform, retreating to the narrow path we’d climbed. I glanced back—ten-plus guys were sprinting downhill like their hearts had stopped, legs a blur.

The senior stopped trembling. His squinty eyes were now wide—glowing like the temple’s wrathful guardians. Veins popped on his neck, creeping to his temples, his face turning a sickly greenish-blue.

Two-Teeth’s Uncle lit incense—couldn’t get it to catch. The senior glared at us, unblinking.

The rest of us who hadn’t run? Frozen stiff, legs jelly.

Uncle muttered something—finally, the incense flared. He jammed the bundle into the ground. The second it hit, every incense snapped in half and snuffed out. Then Uncle’s veins bulged too, his body quaking. I thought, Shit, if I don’t run now, I’m done. Half the remaining dozen bolted—six or seven left, us included, slumped on the ground, feet useless.

I willed my shaky legs to move, ready to flee, when Uncle bellowed, “Fuck!” and started cursing in Taiwanese.

“I greeted you before coming up! You said it was okay! What’s this now—did I miss something?”

“We did all the courtesies, everything necessary before climbing!”

The senior barked back—gibberish, sounded like Japanese. Uncle lit another fat bundle of incense, stabbed it into the dirt. The senior foamed at the mouth and collapsed, hand under an ash urn.

Uncle told me to haul him up. As I grabbed him, I spotted a fresh army-issue backpack under the urn’s thin leaf cover.

“Can I take it?” I asked.

“Take it,” Uncle said. “It doesn’t belong here, But pray first.”

We dragged the senior out. I suggested calling for help—no dice, all the senior officers had fled. Just five wobbly privates and a passed-out corporal.

Uncle smirked, “Good luck getting a signal.”

Someone tried on the radio—static, but with weird and faint Japanese muttering. I listened—wish I hadn’t.

Under Uncle’s lead, we booked it downhill, scooping up a few dazed stragglers who’d wiped out in their escape. Back at base, we counted heads—our group made it intact. Ambulances was waiting there.

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That loudmouth Brigadier and the plainclothes two-star Lieutenant General were there. Seeing the chaos, the Brigadier demanded we take him up to the hill. The MP lieutenant snapped, “I’m military police—I know the law. I’d rather face court-martial than go back up there.”

I handed over the army backpack—confirmed later as the missing captain’s. The Brigadier wheedled, “Kid, guide me up once, yeah?”

I deadpanned, “Sir, I don’t know the way.”

He turned to Two-Teeth’s Uncle, who unloaded ten minutes of three-word Taiwanese profanity—basically, “What gives you the right, you idiot?”

The Brigadier doubled down: “It’s my order, my responsibility—I’ll negotiate!”

Uncle shut him up cold: “Negotiate with what? What do you have to offer? Were you even born when they died?”

The cooler-headed Lieutenant General, called a lunch break to regroup—figure out the afternoon plan.

Turns out, the Lieutenant General, slated for a General by year-end, ripped into the Brigadier. The missing captain was his son-in-law.

Guys trickled down for lunch, but the Taoist priest’s group—up since 7 a.m., due back by 11:30—was still not back yet past noon. They hired another bone collector from Hsinchu, Biao, with them.

After I’d secretly scarfed my lunch for two, radio buzzing static. The three bone collectors—Two-Teeth’s Uncle included—sat together, faces grim, sipping beers, sharing a silent vibe like they were waiting for a punchline.

And then they started muttering about Ah Biao, the missing priest’s team leader. “What’s up with Ah Biao?” they grumbled. “He’s in deep shit—should’ve been down by now.”

Uncle piped up, “Did you see them pray before heading up?” All three shook their heads—no. Out of four groups, only ours had bothered with the rituals. The other two bone collectors shrugged—their teams had wandered the mountain, hit a construction site, and spent the time bullshitting for killing time.

Bone collectors—tu gong zai—build graves, pick bones, handle the dead. From their tone, they’d been roped into this mess, half-assing it out of reluctance. They knew the mountain’s weight—way beyond their pay grade. They weren’t searching; they were just guiding folks to their day jobs up there.

I couldn’t resist. “Uncle, why’d you pray, then?”

He eye-rolls pinned me. “Kids don’t need to know everything,” he snapped.

I clammed up, pouring their beers. Silence fell—they grabbed the bottles, chugging, faces sour, puffing smoke like chimneys.