Today’s story weaves together two experiences—hypnosis and “soul-seeing”—that happened at different times but share a curious connection. I’ll bundle them here for that reason. Let’s start with hypnosis.
Like most people, my understanding of hypnosis came from movies and folklore: a swinging pendulum, a whispered command, and bam—someone’s under your control. Pop culture adds quirks, like Hong Kong films where “Banana, you guava!” snaps you out of it, only for another secret phrase to pull you back under. It’s a shallow grasp, I’ll admit.
Still, I was fascinated—especially by the idea of bending others to your will. It felt like having a pocket-sized Doraemon, a magical fix for anything. But with no access to hypnotists or the craft, it remained a daydream—until a random encounter at an American agricultural fair.
Pairing a rural farm show with hypnosis sounds absurd, but that’s where I first saw it live. Picture this: a dusty fairground reeking of cow dung and hay, dotted with livestock, yet buzzing with carnival vibes—mini Ferris wheels, popcorn butter wafting through the air, cheerful music. Amid this, I stumbled on a “Century Hypnosis Show” in a small open-air theater.
The venue held maybe a few hundred people. I arrived minutes before showtime, saw empty seats, and figured, why not? Soon, the hypnotist took the stage.
It wasn’t groundbreaking by today’s standards. He invited a dozen volunteers up, chatted casually, then launched into the act. But for me—a first-timer—it was jaw-dropping. Beyond my vague notions, the effects he conjured left me stunned and brimming with questions.
This was years ago, before hypnosis shows hit their peak in Taiwan. Back then, his tricks were mind-blowing: people dozed off on command, danced when told, or collapsed mid-step with a snap of his fingers. The finale? A chain-reaction stunt.
He sent the volunteers back to their seats, chatted idly, then triggered a sequence—each person’s action sparking the next. The crowd roared with laughter and applause. The volunteers’ dazed, sheepish grins as they obeyed stuck with me.
That was my hypnosis baptism. But the doubts it sparked threw me off-kilter for days, my mind racing to unravel the mystery.
Was it a scam? Were the volunteers set up, acting out a rehearsed skit for laughs? I was in college then, and a Taiwanese classmate, Terry, shared my curiosity. I described the show, and he smirked, “Total setup. You’re just gullible—missed the obvious clues.”
Terry and I were cut from the same cloth—self-proclaimed smartasses, convinced logic trumped all. That hypnosis quest became his humbling moment, while years later, soul-seeing handed me my own reckoning.
The fair ran biweekly, an hour’s drive from campus. Determined to prove his brilliance, Terry dragged me back two weeks later. Checking the schedule, we confirmed the hypnotist was still on—next show at 11 a.m.
Before 11, I endured nearly an hour of Terry’s smug rants. He insisted it was a scam, the volunteers are paid actors, and gleefully plotted his takedown. I wasn’t sold. I’d done the math: hiring a dozen “professionals” per show, even at modest pay, would rack up costs. Could a small-town gig cover that? It didn’t add up.
Terry ignored my skepticism, fixated on exposing the fraud. Showtime hit, and we filed in with the crowd. Same setup—chairs on stage, no sneaky glances between the hypnotist and audience. Terry, though, scanned the room like a hawk, whispering he’d cracked the pattern.
Less than ten minutes in, his theory—and his pride—crumbled. Whatever tricks the hypnotist pulled, one thing was clear: to Terry, this guy was the real deal.
The show barely started when Terry’s chatter tapered off. I figured he’d spotted his “proof” and was strategizing. Then, during the first or second act, his eyes glazed over. With a sudden “Hmph!” he bolted upright and shuffled toward the stage, blank-faced.
At first, I thought Terry had spotted the hypnotist’s flaw and was storming the stage to call him out. I grabbed his sleeve, hissing, “Hey! Hey!” But he ignored me, trudging straight ahead, eyes glassy.
As he reached the stage, the hypnotist clocked him instantly. Clearly seasoned, he boomed, “Want to join us, young man?” Under the crowd’s gaze, our stubborn skeptic Terry nodded blankly and was ushered up as a participant.
That moment hit me—this was hypnosis, real and raw. Without Terry’s unexpected plunge, I’d have clung to my doubts. Later, as I learned more, I realized his reaction wasn’t rare. Hypnosis thrives on interaction and lowered resistance. Terry, obsessed with exposing the “fraud,” had fixated on the hypnotist’s every move, unwittingly opening the door for the suggestions to take hold. Stumbling onstage? Textbook.
The incident ignited my fascination, but with no mentors or resources, it simmered unfulfilled for years. I bought books and audio courses, yet the craft’s depths eluded me—curiosity burning, understanding nil.
Fast forward a few years. Writing led me to mystics and experts, and at a superpower seminar, I met hypnosis insiders. After a few gatherings, I finally felt its pull firsthand. The breakthrough came in Taipei’s East District, at a hypnotist’s studio. Post-dinner with luminaries like astrologer Wang Zhonghe, someone suggested a demo. I volunteered, eager for the rare chance.
That session became my hypnosis cornerstone—vivid, transformative. It peeled back the veil, and soon after, I mastered the skill myself.
The East District experience unfolded in three phases. The first was the longest and most striking—I’ll linger there. The second was a playful role-play as a sea creature gliding over waves—fun but forgettable. The third turned sour; what started as immersive fun devolved into pointless repetition, until Wang Zhonghe spotted interference from an “external spirit” and cut it short.
I’ll skip the lesser acts—yawn-worthy filler—and dive into the first.
Given my sci-fi writer roots, the hypnotist framed it with a spaceship whisking me away, guiding me to a “Cosmic Library” we’d brainstormed earlier. Newbies often ask, “What’s hypnosis feel like?”
Picture a lucid daydream. You’re awake—don’t let the “sleep” in the name fool you—eyes closed, watching a vivid show behind your lids. Sounds, visuals, sometimes smells or tastes, all unfold. And you can chat with those around you.
That day’s Cosmic Library was a sprawling hub on some alien planet. Its search interface glowed with extraterrestrial scripts until I hunted down Chinese. The hypnotist prompted me to find “my study”—a repository of all my works, past and future.
A robot escorted me to a nook in the wall, a cozy space with a fountain. At its center stood a copper statue of my grandfather. Two walls were lined with bookshelves, brimming with my titles. “How many books?” the hypnotist asked. I could touch them, read them—650, I counted.
He added a twist: “Stuck for ideas? Come back here to peek at your future books.” Wandering my study, he then asked me to locate his. The robot led me through a medieval dungeon passage—skeletons lining the walls—emerging into a fairy-tale landscape under a vast blue sky. His study? A cloud tethered by a giant blue chain. Climbing it, I found a tea-table desk with a dozen books—his future oeuvre.
Wang Zhonghe piped up, curious about his own. The vision shifted to a castle; his study perched atop a watchtower. Night fell, stars glittered, and a golden globe—identical to one in his real studio, I’d later learn—doubled as a telescope. Peering through, starlines formed a grid of microfilms, each a book he’d write.
Friends chimed in, eager for theirs. One’s study was a towering tree in Miaojiang, its hollows stuffed with books and candles. Writer Zhang Cao’s was a crystal coffin beneath a cliff, lit by a shaft of light from above.
That session sharpened my grasp of hypnosis’s spatial magic. Soon, I enrolled in courses, earned my certification, and honed a pro-level craft. Eschewing therapy, my writer’s instinct steered me to “fantasy tours”—guiding one or dozens into worlds like Totoro, Alice in Wonderland, or idol adventures. Clients loved it; their joy fueled my pride.
Around then, someone asked about soul-seeing—a ritual to glimpse the spirit realm. Reflecting on a prior experience and my hypnosis lens, I boldly declared, “Soul-seeing is just hypnosis!” I doubled down, convinced.
Big mistake. Lesson learned: don’t judge a field you haven’t mastered. A revered spiritual scholar I admire soon set me straight, sternly correcting me: “No, it’s not.”
He arranged a real soul-seeing session to prove it—and fast, I saw the truth.
(Next time: How soul-seeing shattered my smug theory, and what it revealed beyond hypnosis’s reach.)
Writer: Su Yiping
Time Stamp: 2012, Sep 07
From PTT Marvel Board
True TAIWAN Horror story 
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