True TAIWAN Horror story

The cave was 4-5 meters wide, 3 high—two or three rows of urns on each side, just enough for two to pass. Ten meters in, it hit—freezing cold, maybe my head messing with me. Deeper we went. Flashlights caught urns—dirtier now, red names fading to vague stone blobs. We knew what they were. Colder still.

Two-three minutes, urns vanished. Rusty, crooked lamp holders jutted from the walls—some fallen. Cripple and I chewed betel nut, pushing five more minutes. Pop—I jumped. Stepped on a snake egg shell. Two steps, squeak—lights hit a swarm of glowing dots, squeaking nonstop. Ear-piercing—I clapped my hands over them, dropping my flashlight. It died.

Cold wind blasted overhead, stuff smacking me. I spun—cave mouth gone. What the hell? All three lights out. Done for. A minute later, it stopped. Squeak again—I fished my lighter, sparked it. A big-ass bat flopped on the ground. Just bats. Phew.

Grabbed my flashlight—brigadier’s bulb was smashed. Screw him. Kept going. Water dripped overhead, ground wetter—stinking mud now. Saw two small holes in the walls, opposite each other. Brigadier ducked into the left. We followed. Inside: a 10-ping room, half-buried in collapsed dirt, a tiny window clogged with rubble. Walls cement-gray, one spot bare with tree roots dangling.

Across to the second room—bigger, worse vibes. Cold deepened, head spinning. Walls dark, murky. Stacks of blackened boxes, big ones, soil hugging them like they’d grown there. Closer I got, dizzier—stopped dead, three-four steps in. Cripple froze too—head pounding, stuck. Brigadier strolled to a box, kicked it hard.

Black dust exploded. Cripple and I bolted, choking. Brigadier coughed his way out: “What crap—those boxes are heavy, something’s inside. When the dust settles, we’ll open one.”

Big boxes, neat stacks, urns outside—my gut sank. Size matched coffins. Something bumped my foot—a wood scrap, washed out by the trickle. Another black piece floated by.

I yanked the brigadier out. “We shouldn’t open them. Could be ammo—decades old, might blow in the air.” Cripple backed me: “That size? Rifle crates, probably.”

Argued him down—no opening.

We knew damn well what they might be. Cripple hung a talisman on his neck—I followed suit.

We pressed deeper, hitting a T-junction—ground dry again. Left or right? “Let’s turn back,” I said. Along the way, we’d passed tons of side tunnels—didn’t touch a single one. Took the right fork—three minutes in, collapse ahead. Counted eleven side openings; Cripple got the same. Brigadier kept itching to go in—we blocked him. Who knows what’s lurking? Out was better.

Agreed to retreat, hit the eleventh opening, turned left. Ten minutes should’ve brought us to the wet stretch—nothing. My skin crawled—lost. Another turn, a cave mouth on the right. My feet snagged something—reached for my flashlight.

Cripple yelled—I swung the beam. Snakes. One on my left toes, one on my right sole’s edge, one at my heel, one on my right pant leg. Cripple’s steel-toe boots had two-three coiled on. Brigadier is facing away from us, clueless.

We bolted—Cripple’s call. Two minutes running, we stopped—brigadier was gone. No idea where. A faint light flickered ahead—we chased it. Not the exit—just an embrasure. Watch said past 5 p.m.

Backtracked ten minutes. Cripple spotted a hatch above—ventilation shaft, maybe? Beating circles below was pointless—up we went. Climbed three-four floors’ worth, a passage just wide enough. Popped the lid—more ash urns, but light too. Followed it—an iron door. Rusted black-red, plastered with talismans (new, old, rotting), chained with yellow-black-red links, a dozen padlocks.

The morning’s first entrance! Outside are Two-Teeth’s Uncle, the General, soliders with a deity statue, incense burning, three robed Taoists priest. One priest foaming, down. We screamed for ten minutes—voice gone—they didn’t notice us. Like we weren’t there.

Cripple and I gave up—back inside. Wandered aimlessly—collapses, dead ends, heads throbbing.

Then we saw ten-plus rabbit-sized black rats, red eyes glinting. We ran and lost, totally screwed.

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Thirsty, beat—one flashlight dead, the other fading. A turn—a room. Snake eggs everywhere—broken, whole—hundreds of snakes, big and small, slithering from wall sockets too. Where were we?

Regret hit hard, but useless now.

Covered in muck, drained, we sat. Footsteps. Cripple heard them too. Squeezed the dying flashlight—a figure.

Worse than the MP—ten times worse. Rags barely covering that man, pubes showing, gashed up, blood dripping from his mouth and wounds. Running at us, desperate. The brigadier—his star still pinned—chased by those big black rats.

Thirty meters off, sprinting. Cripple rasped a laugh: “Got energy now, huh?” One look—we ran. Into the snake-egg mess—snakes ahead, rats behind.

Cold, dizzy—charged anyway. Only path left; side tunnels too many to count. Cripple led us, faint light guiding. But the light sudden died—I lost him and tripped, gasping, out of air.

Passed out or slept—woke to water drops and piss-stink on my face. I was, pinned under something heavy, feeling like absolute crap. I shoved it off and bolted. “What the hell?!” I yelled. That’s when Cripple chimed in, “Damn it, that kick of yours hurt like hell!”

I turned to him, panting, “You stuck under something too? I’m freaking out here.” Cripple pointed at the Brigadier. “Nah, it’s just Brigadier! He’s passed out, still breathing though—he’s not dead yet.”

I shoved Brigadier off me and sat up, fumbling for my lighter to spark a cigarette. Cripple was there too, and man, we both looked like ghosts—though I was definitely worse off. I wiped my face, thinking it was sweat, but nope—blood. Brigadier’s blood, mixed with the stench of his piss. Gross.

I crawled over to Cripple’s side, but the piss smell followed. Where Brigadier had collapsed, there was a pack of smokes. I grabbed it—split it with Cripple, one each. Brigadier reeked so bad, though. Cripple noticed the smoke drifting backward, so we shuffled to the other side of Brigadier. No piss stench there—thank God.

Cripple took a few steps forward, then sprinted back, yelling at me to grab Brigadier and follow him. We dragged him into this tiny opening ahead. I lit up again—there was a slit in the wall, overgrown with weeds. I yanked them out, but we just couldn’t climb through. Another slit nearby—same deal. We circled around: six slits total. In the corner, a pile of collapsed dirt and rocks. We plopped down there, lit up again, and smoked.

After finishing Brigadier’s pack of White Longevity cigs, Cripple got restless, went to check the rubble, and—bam—slipped and fell off the pile. “You okay?” I called. “I’m fine,” he grumbled.

We leaned against the wall, chatting. The noise woke Brigadier up, and he started whining that we’d ditched him. Yeah, right—who cares? But as we talked, Brigadier’s face went pale, his whole body shaking. “There’s a ton of Japanese soldiers here, staring at us,” he stammered.

Cripple laughed. “Dude, since we got in here, I’ve felt eyes on me the whole time.” I nodded, “Yeah, been watched for ages.” Lighting another cig, I caught something in the corner of my eye—a neat, yellow stone in the rubble. Hollow.

I bolted over, called Cripple, and we started digging. After a while, we hit something—a rusty iron door. All three of us kicked at it. One kick, and dirt rained down. Whatever, we kept going. Something was behind it, but we didn’t care—just kept kicking.

Five minutes later, it gave way. Blocking us now? A concrete wall with a 20cm gap at the top—wide enough. We grabbed fallen rocks and smashed at it. Turns out it was just bricks—caved in fast. We shoved Brigadier through first, then it was my turn. But why didn’t Brigadier pull me up? I scrambled out anyway—no sign of him. Whatever, I yanked Cripple out next.

Then it hit me: that brick wall we smashed? An empty tomb. No one buried, thank God. But where’d Brigadier go? He couldn’t be that predictable, right?

Found him—foaming at the mouth, sprawled out in the tomb, water up to his neck, just his head sticking out. No clue what he saw or what happened to him out there. I was done. “Enough of this crap, I’m heading down the mountain! Dead Brigadier, I’m not carrying you!”

Soon enough, Cripple and I figured out what spooked him. We’d crawled out through a gap between a grave and some old bunker. You couldn’t see it from inside—only once you were out.

See what?

A little hill nearby. What hill?

A coffin hill. Used coffins, stacked chaotically into a three-story pile. And there, at the base, something human-shaped—gnawing on the wood.

No idea where we were—somewhere on a mountain graveyard, us up high, that thing down low. Didn’t matter. We booked it uphill, sprinting through the moonlit chaos of the burial ground, me and Cripple, full-on running for our lives.