True TAIWAN Horror story

Here’s a story told to me by a friend who’s passionate about night fishing.

I enjoy casting a line or two myself, but I’m the type who only knows how to tie a hook and not much else. I don’t delve into water conditions or study fishing spots. My senior, however, is a different breed. With over a decade of experience, he’s even a moderator for several sections of a fishing forum. What follows is a tale from one of his fishing trips a few years back.

The setting is Fenggang in Pingtung, a small, concave bay. It’s not exactly a hotspot where the fish bite like crazy, but it has its charms—calm winds, still waters, and a concrete embankment perfect for a night of fishing. It’s an ideal spot for a few friends to cast rods, sip some drinks, and grill meat.

On this particular night, though, the senior was alone. A typhoon had recently passed, and the nearby fish farms had lost some of their groupers and perch to the swollen waters, which carried them into the sea. The tranquil bay became a sort of “beginner’s village” for these fish, now thrust into the wild, leveling up their survival skills.

The night was busy with anglers, and everyone seemed to be reeling in decent catches. The senior’s first cast landed him a 50-centimeter golden perch in under ten minutes.

Since he was solo, he chose a spot slightly away from the embankment’s lights and the crowd—a quieter, dimmer corner.

Fishing alone at night can get dull when the fish aren’t biting. Smartphones weren’t widespread back then, so he passed the time humming tunes, tying spare rigs, or flipping through a fishing magazine. But then, something caught his eye and made him pause.

The embankment, shaped like a “U,” had him positioned near one of its ends. At some point, unnoticed until now, a figure appeared, sitting at the far tip.

“I swear, it startled me,” he later told me. But he quickly calmed down. Though the light was faint, he could make out the person’s fishing vest and a long casting rod—clear signs of a fellow angler.

Being a seasoned fisherman, he didn’t feel the need to awkwardly say hello. Unless you know someone, you don’t just strike up conversations out there.

About ten minutes passed with no bites, and boredom crept in again. The senior stood up to stretch his legs. Lighting a cigarette, he wandered closer to the figure, curious about their setup.

But as he looked, something felt off. No cooler, no tackle box, no stool—just a rod and the person. It wasn’t unheard of, but for someone using a long-distance casting rod, it was downright unusual.

He pulled out another cigarette and offered it, patting the stranger on the shoulder.

“Smoke?” he asked in Taiwanese. No response—just a hand reaching out to take it. The fingers were plump and pale.

“What are you fishing for with that line?” he tried again.

“Myself,” came the reply.

The senior blinked. “Huh? What kind of fish?”

“Fishing for myself.”

Thinking it was a joke, he chuckled and gave the stranger’s shoulder another pat. Slap. His hand met a damp, clammy sensation—like someone who’d been swimming in wet clothes for hours. Uneasy, he slowly pulled his hand back.

“Can you help me?” the figure asked, turning its head.

The senior chugged a couple gulps of liquor, as if to steel himself, before continuing his story. “You know,” he said, “for two months after that, I couldn’t even look at a meat bun. Not because I was scared of meat—but those wrinkles on the bun? They made me want to puke.”

Wrinkles. That’s what he saw. The face that turned toward him was like a swollen lump of dough, puffed up and pale. The eyes were a nauseating grayish-white, and yellowish water oozed from every orifice. With a yelp, the senior bolted, his scream drawing attention from others on the shore.

Legs trembling, he stammered to the curious onlookers who rushed over, “There’s… there’s a ghost!”

“There’s not much more to it,” he said, wrapping up. “We found a body.” In a spot called “Rouzong Corner,” connected to the harbor, he and a few others discovered a corpse tangled inside. It was crawling with sea roaches and crabs. The left shin bone was twisted at an unnatural angle. Soaked in seawater and bloated from the summer heat, the body was grotesquely swollen and rotting. Both arms were stretched upward, hands gripping the protruding rebar of the structure. The fingernails were gone—whether they’d been torn off in a struggle against the concrete, no one could say.

“You did a good deed, in a way,” I offered, trying to put a positive spin on the story.

He gave me a look, one eyebrow raised, as if to say, “You sure about that?”

“You know…” he paused, his voice low. “Those two… they weren’t wearing the same vest.”