Around 12:20, something crashed down the mountain—not one of ours, an MP.
He didn’t walk—he rolled, tumbling out of the trees, not the trail.
The three bone collectors yelled “Fuck!” in unison. Two bolted for their scooters—engines revved, and they were gone. Two-Teeth’s Uncle, who’d walked from nearby, stayed—muttering, “Ah Biao’s so screwed,” in a Taiwanese-style.
This guy was a wreck—uniform shredded, raincoat a tattered scrap on his left arm. Scrapes raked his face and body.
Officers rushed him, but he just wheezed, eyes blank, voice gone. He shook his head at every question, coughed—and spat mud. Then the trembling started, full-body.
Two-Teeth’s Uncle grabbed incense, waving it over him—up, down, side to side—before jabbing it into the swirl of his hair. The MP passed out cold. Another ambulance screeched up, carting him off.
The plainclothes General’s face twisted—veins bulging on his neck.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
Uncle stayed calm: “The kid’s fine—rest a few days, he’ll recover.”
The General wasn’t buying it. “It’s not that simple. Where’s everyone else?”
Uncle pulled him aside, whispering out of earshot. Next thing, they climbed into that black 3000cc SUV, and drive into the drizzle. The rain cranked up—thunder cracked, like the mountain was laughing.
That MP was the last we saw from the Taoist priest’s crew.
Ah Biao, the Taoist priest, the rest of people— all disappeared. The General and Uncle knew something, but they just drive to somewhere and left us here.
The Brigadier stood there, soaked and silent for once. Us grunts? Left picking up bento wrappers in the downpour, wondering what the hell we’d stirred up.
That mountain didn’t care about our ranks or rituals. It took what it wanted.
That blabbering brigadier, who’d vanished when the MP rolled down, popped up the second the car was gone. He rallied the troops, honking about “You should be careful in mountain” like he hadn’t just seen a guy tumble out of hell.
The brigadier is the top dog now, cranked his nonsense louder: “Soldiers fearing ghosts? Pathetic!” He singled out us five privates who’d faced the cave. “What’d you see?”
My batchmate, got tapped first. Played possum: “I was blocked, didn’t see shit.”
The brigadier bought it—“Just got lost, tripped, whatever.” Then: “Locals, hands up!” He picked us four, plus a cannon guy, two stick wielders, and a two-bar sergeant. Wanted us to guide him to the iron door.
Pissed off, we trudged uphill. At the trailhead, I lit a cigarette, prayed. Brigadier chewed me out.
“Sir,” I said, “just for peace of mind.” The two-bar sergeant lit one too: “Better to pray.”
Everyone did—except the brigadier, grumbling but half-assing a bow.
Think I’d lead them straight to that cave? Hell no. I’d told him I only knew the low roads, not the mountain. My squad leader—“Cripple”—and I swapped a look. We’d wander, stay low.
But the brigadier was sharp—tied cloth strips at forks to mark the way.
We hit a tomb built atop a bunker, only a machine-gun slit left. He ordered Cripple to crawl in—“Maybe the missing are hiding from the rain.” Sure, someone’s in there—not alive, though. Cripple, sly, poked a hand in. Snake slithered out. “Nope, no one.” Another bunker, another slit. Cripple peeked—a hole inside. Brigadier pushed: “Go in.”
Cripple’s luck ran dry. Head in, he popped back out: “Big wood slab—coffin, probably.” We kept moving.
I planned a giant loop to stall, but a clueless Taipei private piped up, “This way!” Control slipped—he took the lead. Cripple and I stewed, sticking close, faces darkening.
Forty minutes later, I saw it—cursed under my breath. My army flashlight, marked with my name in whiteout, dropped in the morning’s mad dash. Cost me 120 bucks to buy it; but I’d borrowed another rather than climb back here. It meant we were near the cave.
Brigadier snatched it: “Whose is this?”
“His, sir—the cave is right here.” Taipei kid chimed in: “We’re close, but I’m lost now.”
No shit. Grass taller than us, graves everywhere, mud sucking at our boots—but foot prints still fresh. Fog thick, paths gone. Even Taipei kid was stumped.
Brigadier squinted: “Over there—grass is trampled.”
Slope steepened. Cripple tugged me back—eyes screaming “run.” I glanced behind—cannon guy and stick wielders? Vanished. Just us, Taipei kid, and the brigadier. Nodding to bolt, I tripped—kicked something. A stone—half a tombstone, words etched, head severed from its base, sunk in mud.
Brigadier barked: “Watch it up here!”
I stand up again. Slope flattened—a clearing. There it was: the cave mouth. Three hours ago, it had leaf-covered urns, chains, locks, talismans. Now? Leaves gone, urns inside, chains and locks missing, talismans stripped. The iron door—solid rust-red—stood ajar.
Ground dry, paper money ash scattered, despite the fog and thunderstorm we’d climbed through. A gaping hole in the mist, mountain view below.
Five jaws dropped. “Fuck!” someone yelled—turned and ran. My legs jelly, Cripple dragged me. Screw who’s who—I bolted, hearing the brigadier rant behind. Don’t haunt me if you die, asshole—I’ll burn you extra paper cash.
Cripple pulled, but I’m slow—tripped again. Brigadier caught us. Just three left: me, Cripple, him. Murder flashed—bash him here, no one’d know but us. Fist clenched, Cripple yanked me back.
Brigadier blabbered: “Nothing to fear!” Anf we marched up to the cave again. Same as three minutes ago—open, dry, eerie. I lit a smoke and peered downhill. Good thing I didn’t swing my fist—this wasn’t the first cave from earlier.
Then Brigadier said it: “I’m going in.”
I didn’t want to go in. Cripple and I swapped sour looks as the brigadier rambled. My legs ached—I said I couldn’t walk. He pulled out a white Longevity cigarette (a really expensive one): “Kid, smoke this, you’ll feel better.” After I’d half-plotted his murder, he lit it for me. This asshole was dead-set on entering.
Smoking, I stared through the fog at the cave’s maw, spotting that black SUV below. “Sir, looks like the General’s car—should we head down? He’ll flip if he can’t find you.”
“Perfect,” he grinned. “We’ll peek inside, then report.” Five-six minutes of bullshit later, he wouldn’t budge. Tempers flared—he started threatening us.
Screw it. Rage took over. I yelled there’s stuff in there he can’t explain. He scoffed. Cripple chimed in—too unknown, too risky, needs more guys. Me? I’m chill ‘til I snap. that’s why I went to four high schools in four years, get it? I grabbed the brigadier, stormed the platform. Cripple chased me, shouting, “What the hell, man! You nuts? Stop!”
“Everyone else ran—you think I don’t want to?” I shot back. “He wants to play? I’ll play. You go!” To the brigadier: “Let’s go, in you go!”
Cripple thought I’d kill him in there—yanked me aside, whispering. We turned (secretly praying), and I dug out my wallet—seven talismans. Gave Cripple three.
Cripple muttered, “For real going in?” “Yeah,” I said, “scare him good.” Cripple ’s a year older, my squad leader. In our 30-man platoon, only three never got “pressed”—him, me, one other. We clicked—both ex-troublemakers. “Fuck it, I’ve got your back,” he said. “We’re forced anyway.”
Staring at 30-40 ash urns lining the cave’s dark throat, I cursed my dumb ass. Flashlight on, heart steeled, we went in.
True TAIWAN Horror story 
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