In our last post, we introduced the concept of “demons” and outlined the four mystical categories often discussed in the strange and wondrous world: “spirits”, “demons”, “ghosts”, and “monsters”. After consulting various experts and digging through historical texts, I’ve come up with a rough way to describe them:
- Spirits : Humans who differ from the norm—or, put another way, humanoid yet distinctly abnormal.
- Demons: Powerful beings from other realms, sometimes rivaling gods, who even deities approach with caution.
- Ghosts: The frequent stars of our tales, typically spirits existing in a mental, non-physical state.
- Monsters: Abnormal objects or creatures, often inanimate things that gain sentience.
These distinctions aren’t razor-sharp—just broad strokes. Spirits, demons, and monsters usually have tangible forms, while ghosts remain immaterial. Borrowing from Haruki Murakami, you could say spirits, demons, and monsters “expand outward from a physical core,” while ghosts are “the opposite, a counterpoint to the corporeal.”
We could talk about these groups endlessly, but let’s save that for another day. Today’s story is about a “Devil Sergeant”—a formidable, obsessive spirit my psychic friend encountered early in their career, nearly costing them their life.
From Ordinary Life to Divine Calling
My psychic friend started out as an average person. Growing up poor, their youth was a string of hardships. Around their mid-teens, they began hearing a “deity” speak to them—a common thread in many psychic origin stories. At first, the deity offered casual chatter or cryptic advice. Like most in this situation, my friend was rattled. They couldn’t tell anyone—mention hearing voices, and people jump to “schizophrenia” or “mental breakdown.” It’s a one-way ticket to a psych ward, not a solution.
Unlike some overbearing entities, their deity was gentle. It persistently explained why it chose them as a conduit, never forcing the role. My friend resisted for years, but the deity kept the lines open, patiently communicating. Eventually—whether out of exhaustion or curiosity—they agreed. By then, years had passed since the first contact. Though they hadn’t formally signed on, they’d picked up basic skills: divination, spirit communication, the works. When they finally said yes, they hit the ground running.
Early on, handling queries and spirit-world tasks felt second nature. Their deity, as we’ve noted, was exceptionally powerful, making short work of clients’ problems. My friend even thought, If it’s this easy, I should’ve agreed sooner…
That is, until a well-dressed woman walked into their temple, revealing the true perils of the psychic path.
The Affluent Mrs. Bi and Her Unseen Shadow
The woman—let’s call her Mrs. Bi—didn’t seem troubled at first glance. In her fifties, neither thin nor heavy, she wore tasteful designer clothes, no flashy jewelry, exuding quiet wealth. She arrived with her son, a thirty-something engineer from a nearby tech park—a classic “new money” type.
Mrs. Bi’s issue? A vacant demeanor. Her eyes lacked focus, her speech was weak and halting. She’d trail off mid-sentence, as if lost in thought, then forget she’d been talking altogether. Her son explained: “Mom’s been dazed lately, like she’s lost her soul. Can your deity check?”
To my friend, this screamed “soul loss”—a common diagnosis where a person’s spirit fragments scatter due to trauma or disturbance. The fix? A simple ritual to call them back, maybe light a prosperity lamp. They summoned the deity, who confirmed: “Do it.”
A few days later, the son called, thrilled. His mom had perked up—proof the temple worked wonders. He promised to return. My friend, used to such praise, brushed it off.
But two days later, the son called again, frantic. Mrs. Bi had relapsed—worse than before. Now she was incoherent and stripping naked, running around in a frenzy. One detail stuck out: “She used to do this a lot. I don’t know why it’s back.” He hadn’t mentioned this severity during the initial visit.
My friend consulted the deity immediately. The response was curt: “They’ll come again. Handle it then.”
Sure enough, the son soon booked another visit. My friend had no reason to refuse and set a time.
Then, the day before the appointment, something bizarre happened—unlike anything my friend had experienced before.
A Vision in Broad Daylight
As we’ve covered, my friend often received spirit messages through “signal dreams.” But this time, they weren’t asleep. It was afternoon, and they were alone in the temple, sorting papers. Suddenly, the room darkened. My friend couldn’t tell if they’d slipped into a dream or not—they were certain they were awake—but the space shifted. When the light returned, they stood in a coastal forest.
The scene felt like their signal dreams: a beach a few steps from the trees, waves crashing audibly, yet no one in sight. The realism was uncanny—every detail sharp. Unlike their dreams, though, this hit while they were conscious.
From the far end of the beach, a figure approached. As it drew closer, my friend tensed, senses on high alert.
The figure approaching wore an outfit so bizarre it could’ve leapt from a puppet show—gaudy, ancient robes shimmering with ostentation. But the way he wore it was sloppy, tied loosely at the waist, exposing his shoulders. And those shoulders? They were the strangest part of the scene.
This “person” bore a massive gash from neck to chest, as if cleaved by some giant blade—nearly split in two. The wound was so gaping that his left shoulder and head dangled precariously, swaying with each step like a broken toy.
His head hung at a 60-degree angle, revealing a weathered face—not young—dark and wrinkled, with uneven yellow teeth jutting past his lips. A green military cap perched atop his head. Strip away the flamboyant garb, and he’d pass for an old mainland soldier.
As this “soldier” drew closer, my psychic friend braced themselves. The man spotted them and unleashed a torrent of garbled, filthy curses—crude enough to make the intent clear despite the slurring. His black face twisted, glistening with sweat, his yellow teeth a nauseating sight.
Then, in a blink, he was right in front of my friend—shoving them with a force that burned like fire. The push knocked them flat, vision blacking out. When awareness returned, they were back in the temple, chair toppled, sprawled on the floor. The searing pain lingered on their wrists. Inspecting them, they found dark bruises, each with a thin, deeper gash at the center.
This is my friend’s raw account—no embellishments from me. Years later, when he told me this story—over a decade past—he showed me his wrists. Faint black scars remained, etched there for good.
Naturally, my friend immediately consulted their deity. The response was nonchalant: “It’s nothing. Just handle Mrs. Bi’s case properly.” Pressing for more, my friend got nothing—the deity brushed them off and vanished.
The next day, the engineer and Mrs. Bi returned. She looked worse—haggard, pale, a shadow of her former self. Fed up, my friend confronted the son: “Tell me the full story, or I’m done helping you.”
Reluctantly, the engineer spilled the truth—a tale so wild it defied belief.
Writer: Su Yiping
Time Stamp: 2012 Dec 08
From PTT Marvel Board
True TAIWAN Horror story 
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