True TAIWAN Horror story

This is a true story told by a friend of my father, who runs a motorcycle shop. The friend and his younger brother, along with another fishing buddy, were known as the “Fishing Three Musketeers.” They loved fishing and were pretty skilled at it too.

Fishing, broadly speaking, can be divided into categories like stream fishing, pond fishing, lake fishing, and sea fishing. Beginners usually start with freshwater fish, while sea fishing becomes the next frontier when the small river catches no longer satisfy.

Like any hobby, fishing has a way of drawing you in deeper. For stream fishing enthusiasts, it’s common knowledge that daytime hauls pale in comparison to what you can catch at night—a practice we call night fishing.

Night fishing offers a serene environment. Pick the right time and place, and the fish practically leap onto your line, one after another. Time flies by without you even noticing.

This particular adventure took the Fishing Three Musketeers to a spot near an embankment along the Maoluo River in Changhua’s Kuaiguan area. Their target was the “stream brother,” a freshwater fish whose males turn red during mating season, earning them the nickname “red cat.”

The first night was a jackpot—they filled an entire bucket with stream brothers. Without water, the fish alone packed it to the brim. The haul was ferocious.

Tasting success, they returned to the same spot the next night and again struck gold. This kind of luck was unusual. Even for night fishing, such consistent, bountiful catches felt almost too good to be true.

On the third night, they showed up again. The riverbank was unusually chilly, but the thought of another big haul kept the cold at bay. Their spot was at a concave bend in the river, with the embankment sloping behind them. Across the water, the convex bank—where sand and mud tended to pile up—was overgrown with reeds as tall as a person.

A glance at the watch showed 11 p.m. The fish were just starting to bite. The younger brother pulled out a cigarette but couldn’t get it lit. It wasn’t that the lighter wouldn’t spark—it did—but the flame kept snuffing out, as if someone was playfully blowing it. He turned to see his older brother standing behind him, no one else around.

“Hey! Why’re you blowing out my lighter?” he snapped.

The older brother looked back, puzzled. “What?”

The younger brother tried again. The lighter sparked, then whoosh—out it went.

“Cut it out, man, stop messing around!” he grumbled, annoyed now.

“Who’s blowing out your flame, huh?” the older brother shot back, equally irritated.

Suddenly, a girl’s laughter echoed from across the river. All three turned to look. Who could be out there so late? The river was at least 10 or 15 meters wide, making it even harder to figure out.

“Hey! Boys…” the girl called out. “It’s late, and I’m scared to cross the river alone. Can you come get me?”

The trio exchanged wary glances. It didn’t add up—how could a girl end up on the opposite bank at this hour?

One of them grabbed a flashlight and shone it across. What they saw froze them in their tracks. The girl was dressed in black bell-bottom pants and a white blouse with embroidered cuffs—a trendy look from the 1960s. But this was the 1990s; women didn’t wear bell-bottoms or frilly shirts anymore.

Then they saw her face—or rather, the lack of one. I interrupted my dad here and asked, “What do you mean, no face?” He explained it was like a blank, white void. You couldn’t make out any features, just an unsettling emptiness.

The three were stunned but not entirely panicked. Night fishing tends to attract bold, curious souls. They likely realized what they’d stumbled into, though not in the way they’d expected. It dawned on them that the extraordinary catches of the past three nights might have been bait—lured out by this girl to hook them.

The older brother and their friend grabbed a fishing rod together. The bold older brother made a move as if to cross the river, while the friend held the other end of the rod, ready to pull him back if needed. The younger brother kept the flashlight trained on the girl.

“We’re coming to get you now!” the older brother shouted.

“Okay!” she replied cheerfully.

He cautiously stepped forward, easing his right foot toward the water. Then, in an instant, the girl vanished into the reeds like a puff of smoke. Startled, the three jolted. What was happening? The older brother yanked his foot back just as the girl reemerged from the reeds, materializing like mist.

They stood there, dumbfounded. What now?

Their car was parked far from the spot. Could they make a run for it without tipping her off? What if she freaked out and charged them?

So, they decided to play along and stall her.

“Hey, the river’s too wide here. How about we head upstream a bit and cross there to carry you over?” the older brother said, pointing toward where their car was parked.

“Sure!” she answered innocently.

The three began packing their gear at a deliberate pace.

“How old are you? Why’re you out here so late alone?” they asked.

“I’m 17! I came to the river to [something garbled]… lost track of time. Didn’t realize it’d get so late, and now I’m too scared to cross alone!”

“Oh, got it. Where do you live?”

“I’m from [some village name]…”

The conversation flowed back and forth. They asked her name, age, what her family did, where she lived, how many siblings she had, how she made a living, her hobbies—anything to buy time.

“Hey, we’ve packed up. We’re heading upstream now, okay?” they called out.

“Okay!” she chirped back.

They started walking upstream, flashlight still on her. Suddenly, like before, she flipped back into the reeds and moved parallel to them. But it wasn’t like a person pushing through grass with their hands. The reeds bent low as if brushed by the wind, rippling like waves. That’s when they knew for sure: they’d met a river ghost.

When they stopped, she’d pop out. When they walked, she’d dive back in. This went on for who-knows-how-long until they finally spotted the car.

About 100 meters away, the older brother counted, “One, two, three…”

“There’s a ghost!” they screamed, bolting for the car without looking back. They piled in and floored it back to Taichung. It was 4 a.m. Five hours had passed, yet it felt like mere minutes.

This eerie encounter left the Fishing Three Musketeers with a tale they’d never forget—and perhaps a new respect for the rivers they fished.