This story doesn’t drift aimlessly—it revolves around a singular, curious point. That point ties into feng shui, though not in the way a professional feng shui expert might approach it.
Years ago, I shared this tale in a newspaper column and later included it in a travel book titled The Richest Man in America and Chinese Feng Shui. Back then, explaining who Bill Gates was took a bit of effort. Times have changed, though. Today, Bill Gates—alongside Steve Jobs—has become a household name worldwide, giving this story fresh legs and plenty of follow-up material to explore.
The central figure in this tale is a feng shui master who once appeared in another story of mine, “The Burlap Sack on the Tombstone.” Down in southern Taiwan, he’s something of a legend. For the sake of this piece, let’s call him “Master Ji.”
I lived in Seattle for a good stretch of time, long enough to consider myself a seasoned local. This story unfolded around 1998, after I’d moved back to Taiwan for good. Having spent years abroad, my social circle still included plenty of folks tied to Seattle—some who’d lived there, others born and raised in the city.
It was at a friend’s gathering that this tale began. Most attendees had some connection to Seattle, and the vibe was lively. Master Ji was brought along by a mutual friend. Amid a crowd of chatty young people slipping in and out of English, he stood out for his quiet demeanor. At first glance, nothing about him screamed “master.” Young, handsome, and devoid of the stereotypical flowing white beard or sage-like aura, he blended right in.
The conversation naturally circled back to Seattle, but Master Ji, a man with zero context for anything foreign, seemed out of his depth. Perhaps bored, he picked up a Seattle map from the coffee table and studied it intently.
Only the friend who brought him knew of his skills. At first, no one paid him much mind. But then, something shifted. Master Ji stared at the map, pinched his fingers as if calculating, traced invisible lines over it, and finally marked an “X” with a nearby pencil.
The friend who’d brought him shot a few knowing glances around the room and approached. People peeked at the spot he’d marked. Some faces twisted in confusion; others gasped audibly.
The friend hushed the group and, with a playful tone, asked, “What’s with the ‘X’? Anything special about it?”
Master Ji replied calmly, “This spot is the dragon lair of the entire region. The energy here is incredibly strong. If you get the chance, buy land there—you’ll strike it rich.”
The room froze. Faces grew even more stunned. The friend pressed further, teasing, “But the land there is crazy expensive. What if you can’t afford it?”
Master Ji paused, traced a few more invisible lines on the map, and did some mental math. “Is it really that pricey? The energy is so potent that even buying a tiny plot—just one or two pings [a Taiwanese unit of area]—and standing there daily would bring wealth.”
Later, as I got to know Master Ji better, I asked him how he could pinpoint such a prosperous spot from a mere map. His answer was fascinating. A true feng shui expert, he explained, can read a place’s layout—its streets, water sources, and overall structure—just from a map.
For instance, he once glanced at a map of the Seattle neighborhood I’d lived in and accurately described its slopes and a large rock nearby, details absent from the map itself.
I also once stood with him on a street near my childhood home in Taiwan. With a quick scan and a handful of dirt rubbed between his fingers, he nailed the area’s topography, water sources, and even the distance to nearby streams.
That said, his explanation only half-convinced me. He claimed any feng shui master could do this, but over the years, I’ve met plenty of skilled practitioners—none matched his uncanny knack for reading a place blind.
Back at that gathering, the spot Master Ji marked? It was none other than Bill Gates’ house—a bizarre, legendary estate in Seattle lore. In 1998, when he pointed it out, the mansion wasn’t fully built yet, though it was already a local talking point. Back then, Gates wasn’t the global icon he is today. He wasn’t yet the world’s richest man—just America’s.
The house sits in Medina, a wealthy enclave of Seattle where the elite of the elite reside. Every home comes with a yacht and a dock as standard, and even their BBQ shacks dwarf typical standalone houses. Bill Gates, though, took it to another level. He bought four plots—about 1,800 pings total—razed the existing mansions, and built his dream palace. It was the kind of move that screamed, “I’m staking my life on this spot.”
What makes Gates’ house extraordinary isn’t just its size but its whimsy. It’s a giant toy box fulfilling every childhood fantasy: an Olympic-sized pool, a regulation American football field, a tennis court, and a theater seating 50. Topping it off, Gates wired it with cutting-edge audiovisual tech.
I worked at Microsoft back then, and my boss, lucky enough to tour the nearly finished mansion, came back with jaw-dropping stories. The house was a fully digitized wonderland. Guests filled out an electronic questionnaire at the door—your preferences, habits, the works—then received a sensor badge.
Step inside, and the rooms you were allowed in tailored themselves to you: walls displayed your favorite visuals, the temperature adjusted to your liking, your preferred music played, and your favorite food and drinks appeared.
That was pre-1997 tech. What it’s like now? No clue—my sources dried up.
Here’s the kicker: Master Ji knew none of this. Beyond his feng shui expertise, his general knowledge was average, if not a bit shaky. All he knew was that this spot was Seattle’s “dragon lair,” a prime residential feng shui site. The land’s energy was so good, he quipped, “Even digging up a few buckets of dirt to take home would help.”
And Bill Gates’ fortunes since 1998? From America’s richest to the world’s, topping the list year after year. Sure, he’s dipped occasionally—usually after donating half his wealth to charity—but he always bounces back. Over decades, tycoons have risen and fallen, even Steve Jobs stumbled, yet Gates remains a titan among the world’s ultra-wealthy.
After hearing this story, the obvious question is: Does this mean Bill Gates understands feng shui or had a master guiding him?
Master Ji’s take was open-ended. In feng shui, there’s a saying: “Blessed land for blessed people.” Gates landing on this dragon lair doesn’t necessarily mean he had a master’s advice. Sometimes, a person’s own strong aura naturally draws them to a powerful spot. The two amplify each other, creating unstoppable prosperity. No formal feng shui knowledge required—just instinct.
After the Bill Gates saga, I was fortunate enough to strike up a close friendship with Master Ji. Over the years, he even tossed me some quirky ideas that found their way into my novels. As a fitting close to his tale, here are two more strange and wondrous stories he once shared—proof of the mysterious threads that weave through his world.
One time, Master Ji and a few of his students were wrapping up a feng shui job for a client on a remote, desolate mountain. With the final touches complete, they lingered, chatting casually. Offhandedly, Master Ji brought up an old text he’d read about this particular feng shui layout. With a chuckle, he said to his students, “Looks like the ancients might strike out this time!”
The students blinked, puzzled by his remark. He explained: an ancient book he’d studied claimed that once this specific feng shui pattern was set, “within three quarters of an hour, a person in white will arrive from the east.”
Master Ji had mentioned it as a lighthearted anecdote, dismissing it as ancient exaggeration. Sure, dramatic weather shifts or earth-rumbling omens after a feng shui setup might be believable—but a thousand-year-old text predicting a “white-clad figure from the east”? That seemed a stretch too far. Besides, they were in the middle of nowhere—a rugged, sparsely populated mountain. Who in their right mind would wander up here dressed in white?
With a mix of skepticism and curiosity, the group decided to sit back and watch, half-expecting nothing to happen.
To their astonishment, the ancient prediction came true.
“Three quarters” in old terms translates to about 45 minutes today, but they didn’t even have to wait that long. Within half an hour, a faint putt-putt-putt echoed through the stillness. From a small path to the east, a local fruit farmer rolled up on a motorcycle. White tank top, white sweatpants, white helmet—even the bike was white. A vision in monochrome, he cruised past the stunned onlookers without a second glance.
Another incident followed a similar script. After completing yet another feng shui arrangement, Master Ji consulted a different ancient text. This one declared that once the pattern was in place, “the sound of bells and drums will come from the northwest.”
By now, Master Ji wasn’t so quick to scoff. But when he surveyed the northwest of that site, he scratched his head in bewilderment. Beyond the setup lay a graveyard, dotted with a small, crescent-shaped pond. No buildings, no temples—not even a shack. Just tombs and water.
Bells and drums typically ring out from schools or shrines, places with structure and life. Yet here, the northwest offered nothing but silence and stillness. Surely, Master Ji thought, the ancients would falter this time.
He was wrong again. As he later loved to recount, the wisdom of the past can be eerily unfathomable. Not long after, a crew of gravediggers rolled up near the pond in a convoy of vehicles. Among their gear, one worker hauled out a high-powered portable stereo. With a press of a button, the mountainside erupted in a booming ching! clang! ching! clang!—the unmistakable clamor of bells and drums, courtesy of a blaring cassette tape.
These tales left Master Ji—and me—marveling at the cryptic foresight tucked into those old books. There’s a strange, unknowable force at play in the words of the ancients, one that defies logic yet occasionally reveals itself in the most unexpected ways.
And that’s the end of the story. As always, people will ask: “Who is Master Ji? How can I track him down for a feng shui reading?” As always, I can share his name via email if you’re curious. But here’s the catch: Master Ji no longer practices feng shui professionally. These days, he’s a wealthy entrepreneur, his days of reading the land’s energy behind him. Still, he’s happy to chat with me about feng shui’s oddities over a cup of tea—just don’t expect him to take on your case.
Write : Su Yiping
Time Stamp : 2012, August 15
True TAIWAN Horror story 
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