True TAIWAN Horror story

This story is a true experience from Su Yiping’s personal story, first published on PTT Marvel board in 2013.

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If you’ve read my previous posts, you might know I studied at a university in Seattle, USA—the city famous for Boeing’s planes, Nintendo’s games, and Microsoft’s tech empire. That’s where this all went down.

Though it’s real, the whole thing drips with an eerie, unknowable vibe. It’s one of those bizarre events that, even now, remains an unsolved puzzle. What exactly I encountered that night? There’s still no clear answer.

I’ve since had my share of odd experiences, met plenty of remarkable people, and like to think I’ve got a better grasp of the mysterious than most. But this? It’s still a riddle I can’t crack.

It happened in Seattle, as I mentioned.

Most people know Seattle from that classic rom-com Sleepless in Seattle. Thanks to the movie, one line sticks out: “In Seattle, it rains nine months a year.” Not entirely true. Sure, it’s dubbed the “Rainy City,” but the downpours mostly hit in the cold winter months.

Spring and summer are milder. Still, the place is drenched in moisture—when it’s not raining, cloudy nights often bring fog, especially near the mountains. Driving through that misty haze can get your nerves tingling.

Back then, alongside my studies, I worked part-time as a waiter in restaurants. In the U.S., waiting tables pays well thanks to tips—typically 15%. On a good night with ten tables, you could pocket over $100, about 3,000 NTD. For a college gig, it was a goldmine. I loved it—work a month or two, and I’d have cash for luxuries or a summer trip back to Taiwan.

Being Taiwanese, I usually worked at Chinese restaurants. They wanted bilingual staff fluent in English and Mandarin, and they liked hiring students—gave the place a polished vibe. Their real money came from American customers, who weren’t picky about Chinese food and often ordered pricier dishes.

The restaurant where this happened catered mostly to Americans. The weirdness kicked off just a week or two after I started there. By then, I was no rookie—I’d waited tables elsewhere and slid into the job easily. I met the boss and his wife a couple times, greeted the kitchen crew, and hit the ground running.

It was a Zhejiang-style Chinese joint called “Huang’s Garden,” named after the previous owner. It’d recently changed hands. The new boss was a young Hong Kong guy, maybe in his thirties—decent enough. His wife, though, was a firecracker, always clutching a calculator, hawk-eyeing everything. Nobody liked her much, but she had one redeeming trait: she didn’t skimp on our pay. Every cent, down to the decimal, was accounted for—tips included. Otherwise, she wasn’t that bad.

The kitchen was run by a crew of grizzled Cantonese chefs—some tattooed, one scarred, looking a bit rough around the edges. After a few days, though, they were fine—just pranksters who’d mess with you during service, nothing serious.

My fellow waitstaff numbered seven or eight, split between lunch and dinner shifts. On my evening crew were two girls—not from Taiwan, but we all spoke Mandarin with a Cantonese twang. No big communication hiccups; if Mandarin failed, English worked.

I’m laying out these details because everyone ties into what happened that night.

It was a Thursday evening—etched in my memory from the start, down to the tiniest details. Yet, those clear recollections don’t help unravel the mystery one bit.

As the newbie, I got the slower shifts: Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights—quiet times with few customers. That Thursday was no different. Business was sluggish. Guests trickled in from dusk, and I handled just four or five tables all night—light work. I had plenty of time to chat with the two girls on shift, plus a veteran waiter, older, married with kids.

We passed the evening with idle talk, waiting on guests, taking orders, serving, and cashing out—nothing special.

Around 8 p.m., though, a thick white fog rolled in outside, like silent snowflakes of vapor. It blanketed everything, slashing visibility to near zero. One of the girls noticed first, bursting in from outside, excited: “It’s getting foggy out there!” I stepped out with her. The parking lot lights glowed an eerie orange through the mist, casting a strange, otherworldly hue over the white haze.

The fog was so dense you’d lose someone’s face a couple meters away. The girl giggled, twirling in it, vanishing after a step or two.

I thought, “With fog this thick, maybe we’ll close early tonight.”

Sure enough, over the next hour or two, customers dwindled. I wondered if the boss might call it quits early, letting us head home. The veteran waiter even asked him, “Fog’s this bad—no one’s coming. Close up early?” The boss just glared, ignored him, and ducked into the kitchen.

Closing time was 11 p.m.—late enough for Americans who liked a nightcap and some Chinese food. The fog started after 8, growing thicker by the hour. Guests thinned out. When they left, opening the door let wisps of mist curl in, swirling under the orange parking lot lights. It was eerie but oddly romantic—no fear, just a surreal beauty.

Then, about 15 minutes before closing—10:45 p.m.—the boss called me over. “Go grab some peanut butter jars from the warehouse out back.”

The fog was still heavy, the restaurant nearly empty—maybe one or two tables left. The veteran waiter had vanished earlier; the boss had looked for him around 10, but he was gone. That left me and the two girls.

The warehouse was a short walk—five minutes round-trip at a stroll. I grabbed the jars and headed back. What I saw when I stepped inside stopped me cold, eyes wide, speechless.

It felt unreal. I stood just inside the restaurant, a ways from the entrance, facing the door. Outside, fog danced under the lights. A few customers were slowly walking in. Somehow, wisps of mist had drifted indoors, hazing the space. But the real shock? In those few minutes, nearly all 40-plus tables were occupied. People filled the seats, and more trickled in through the door.

It was magical—dreamlike. The mist softened everything, but not enough to blur details. Under the dim restaurant lights, I saw every table clearly: Westerners, Asians, men, women, young, old—nothing unusual. Except the quiet. There was chatter, but it felt muted, like a film with the volume dialed way down.

No denying it: the place was almost packed.

I was baffled but had no time to dwell. The boss approached, pointed to a table, and said, “Take their order.”

Two middle-aged Western men sat there. Oddly, years later, I can only recall one vividly; the other’s face is a blank. The one I remember had an unforgettable look: a tall, skinny American, maybe 50, with neatly combed blonde hair half-turned white. His face was freakishly long—twice a normal person’s—his head oversized, his chin absurdly extended.

His bizarre features stole my focus; I barely glanced at his companion.

This long-faced guy had another quirk: his eyes were unnervingly close together, severely crossed, sunken deep. A quick blink, and they looked like black voids—no pupils.

Despite his appearance, he spoke normally, ordering two or three dishes, including fried rice. I handed the order to the kitchen, where the chefs grinned mischievously. When I tried talking, they busied themselves, dodging me. Looking back, if there’s any truth to this foggy night, they knew something—they just wouldn’t spill. Ever.

Another oddity: I’d barely turned from the counter when the kitchen bell rang—food ready. Normally, it takes ten minutes to cook, but that night? No frying sounds, no stove clatter—just a minute, and it was done. Time felt off all night, a hunch later confirmed.

I served the dishes, expecting a mad rush with the sudden crowd. As I moved to another table, the long-faced guy stopped me. Talking to him, I couldn’t help staring at those shifting, hollow eyes.

“What rice is in this fried rice?” he asked.

What rice? I had no clue. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

His eyes rolled weirdly. “Go find out!”

Back to the kitchen I went. The chefs smirked again, one finally chuckling, “Tell him it’s long-grain jasmine.”

I returned with the answer. His eyes swiveled. “Where’s it from?”

No idea. Back to the kitchen. “Thailand,” they said.

Mid-exchange, I noticed something off. The restaurant was still near full, everyone eating. But with only three waiters—me included—and me tied up with this guy, who’d served the rest?