True TAIWAN Horror story

“Is… is this your room?” I asked.

He shook his head hard.

We stared at each other for a long time. Then I watched him slowly reach out toward that window.

“Don’t!” I yelled.

He flinched, glanced at me, and pulled his hand back.

“Let’s figure this out first,” I said. “We need to be sure.”

We retreated to our living rooms. Less than a minute later, my bell rang. It was Mr. Chen. When I opened the door, he peeked past me, his face falling again. “It’s real,” he muttered. “It’s really there…”

He explained, “My living room dips in, then juts out after the hallway. Yours does too. There’s definitely a room between us.”

“Call the landlord!” I said. “Now!”

I dialed. “Hello, this is Lin, your tenant. I need to speak to Mr. Wang. What? He’s abroad? When’s he back? Next month? Okay, do you know anything about this apartment? I’ve got an urgent question. You don’t? Alright, thanks.”

We looked at each other, silent.

“Should we check it out?” I asked.

“Check it out?” he said. “You mean look inside?”

I nodded.

“The window might be locked,” he said. “And sticking our heads in feels…”

“Not from here,” I interrupted. “From over there.” I pointed to the woods across the river.

“How?” he asked. “It’s too far to see anything.”

“I’ve got a friend who’s into telescope gear,” I said. “He’s into stargazing. That kind of scope should work.”

Mr. Chen took a deep breath and nodded.

I called my friend and set a meet-up by the bridge below the hill across the river. We didn’t explain why—just said we needed to borrow his telescope to look at something.

An hour or so later, he arrived. His name’s Zhang.

He got out of his car. “What are you trying to see? Let me tell you, this isn’t some toy telescope you just twist and turn. You’re a rookie—distance and focus alone would kill you.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll point it out, and you adjust it. Let’s go up the hill.”

As we climbed, Old Zhang kept asking, “So what are you looking at?”

I made something up. “Oh, me and Mr. Chen here want to build a rain shelter together. Keeps the balcony dry when it’s windy and rainy. We’re figuring out how to route the frame—looking from here and sketching it out should help.”

“Pretty thorough thinking,” he said.

We reached a slope level with our sixth floor. “Here’s good,” I said.

Old Zhang pulled the telescope from its case and started setting it up. Mr. Chen and I exchanged a glance, unsure if this was a good idea.

Zhang peered through, adjusting the focus. “What floor are you on? Let me see.”

“Sixth,” we said in unison.

“Sixth floor… Got it,” he said. “I see it. Crystal clear.”

“Alright, let me look,” I said.

“Hold on,” he teased. “Let me check it out first. Maybe there’s something exciting. That rain shelter story? I’m not buying it—don’t take me for an idiot.”

“Come on,” I urged. “Let me see already!”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “You two are weird, staring at your own place with a telescope in broad daylight. Nothing interesting anyway. Here you go.”

He stepped aside.

“Oh, by the way, Mr. Chen,” he added casually, “your kid knows we’re out here. He’s been waving at us the whole time.”

---

Later, we found out the full story. Originally, this floor had three apartments. The middle one was rented to a woman who worked at a hostess bar. She had a kid—a little boy.

Since she was rarely home, the boy was often left alone, locked in the apartment to entertain himself. One morning, she came back and found the place reeking of gas. A leak had filled the air, and her son had passed away in his sleep in that small room.

After that, the middle apartment became impossible to keep rented. Tenants kept moving out, claiming a little boy would appear in that room from time to time, asking them to play games with him.

Eventually, the landlord gave up. He had the middle unit demolished and split its space between the two neighboring apartments—ours and Mr. Chen’s. The small room, though, he sealed off entirely. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.

In the end, Mr. Chen and I confronted the landlord, arguing that he should’ve disclosed this was a “haunted” property upfront—it’s legally required.

He countered that it didn’t technically count as a “death house” and claimed he’d already factored the “flaw” into the rent price. After some back-and-forth, all we got was our full deposits back and that month’s rent waived. That was it.

So, there I was, stuck with the knowledge that the footsteps I’d heard—the ones that drove me nuts and freaked out my friend—weren’t just some noisy neighbor kid. They belonged to a little boy who’d never left that sealed-off room.

And now, knowing what I know, I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel fully at ease in this place, no matter how great the view is.