True TAIWAN Horror story

As I gained traction in hypnosis—testing it with willing friends—I deepened my grasp of its mechanics. Before that, though, I’d dipped my toe into soul-seeing, a ritual to glimpse the spirit world. It was at a modest temple in central Taiwan, a cramped rooftop add-on packed with devotees eager to experience it.

Maybe because I’m naturally hypnosis-sensitive, I was the only one of the group to “enter” that time. The process? Routine stuff—eyes bound with red cloth, a talisman tucked inside, chants guiding you, prompts like “Do you see a light?” or “Any gods?” Then you’re led to water plants, tend fires—standard fare you’ve likely heard before. Nothing remarkable.

After diving into hypnosis years later, I revisited that soul-seeing memory, cross-referencing it with hypnotic scenes and techniques. It cemented my hunch: “Soul-seeing is just hypnosis.” Some hypnotists even offered “tours” of the underworld, reinforcing my view. I shared it publicly, unchallenged—no soul-seeing masters protested. It felt like truth, no doubts.

Then I chatted with a writer friend, a spiritual savant unrivaled in Taiwan. I floated my theory. He paused, shook his head. “Nope. Soul-seeing isn’t hypnosis. In my experience, true soul-seeing far exceeds it—don’t dismiss it so lightly.”

He’s a force—arguing risked a verbal thrashing. Plus, his spiritual expertise dwarfed mine. I didn’t push back but asked him to arrange a real soul-seeing session. He agreed, setting me up at an authentic venue.

A disclaimer: This post traces my journey to test theories, but neither my friend nor I endorse chasing soul-seeing out of curiosity. I won’t reveal the location—don’t ask. High-level insiders might guess it, but I’m keeping it vague. Bear with me.

My friend sent me to a site tied to the renowned soul-seeing master Lü Jinhu’s lineage. Lü had passed away by then—I never met him. One of his disciples led my session; I don’t know their name. My friend didn’t tag along, insisting I go as a stranger for an unbiased view.

One afternoon, I arrived. The setup mirrored my first go—a ground-floor storefront with an altar, a dozen plastic chairs in front, more along the walls for onlookers. The ritual echoed the past: participants sat center, eyes double-wrapped in red cloth with talismans, a guide ringing a bell and chanting.

I volunteered for the first round. Armed with hypnosis know-how, I aimed to spot parallels. Amid the bell and chants, my vision stayed black (thanks to the layered cloth). The guide kept probing: “See any light? Any sights or smells?”

In hypnosis, this is standard deepening and suggestion. I didn’t resist, just waited passively. Soon, in the darkness, images flickered—a ragged, glowing figure in the sky, a road with vendors, a house to check for my nameplate. Familiar territory. The guide interacted, asking what I saw, nudging me along. It felt like hypnosis—guided, suggestive, no surprises.

To test it, I tried steering the scene myself (a breeze in hypnosis), imagining a Hokkaido hot spring. No dice—the vision stuck to the original road and market. I strolled a bustling street, stalls hawking ancient wares—embroidery, sachets, no modern gadgets or phones. Then, from behind, a voice called my real name.

Spiritual instincts—or paranoia—kicked in. I tensed, raised a hand, and told the guide, “Someone’s calling me. What do I do?” I could still hear the room, but the guide’s voice cut through clearest; others faded.

He approached. “What’s happening?”

“Someone called my name from behind.”

“No worries,” he said. “It’s benign. Talk to them.”

Looking back, the room’s sounds were audible, but his voice stood out, sharp against a distant hum.

A Voice in the Void

In the blackness, I turned—physically, not just mentally. The guide asked, “What do you see? Ask who they are.”

Oddly, I replied, “I don’t need to. I know who it is…”

In the soul-seeing scene, I conversed with this “familiar figure” for a while. Bystanders later said I didn’t speak aloud—just mumbled silently, lips twitching.

The figure was a junior high classmate from my first year. We’d lost touch after that, but his distinctive look—big mouth, prominent forehead, a goofy charm like a grinning puppet from traditional theater—made him unmistakable, even after all these years. He stood in that bustling street of stalls I’d described earlier.

At first, I forgot I was soul-seeing. It felt like bumping into an old friend on the road, so I chatted casually—catching up, asking how he’d been. But a few lines in, doubt crept up. I asked a pivotal question, and his answer jolted me awake.

“What are you doing here? What is this place?”

He grinned breezily. “I’m dead, man. Why else would I be here? After junior high, I apprenticed as an electrician. Fell off a ladder at 18 and croaked.”

Was I fully conscious? Let’s unpack it. I wasn’t asleep—definitely awake—but the scene lacked crisp edges. His face was vivid, down to the gap in his teeth, yet the background blurred. Our talk flowed clearly, but only when he mentioned dying did it hit me: I’m soul-seeing. I am in a temple, people, a ritual around me.

His words sparked fear—am I in danger? He just laughed. “Don’t freak out! I died young, so I’m stuck here till my time’s up.” Before parting, he added, “Tell my family I’m gambling down here—running low on cash. Burn me some more.”

Reality tugged back as the guide’s voice cut in, close and clear: “All set? Ready to return?” I knew better than to rip off the blindfold—abrupt exits are risky, like skipping a hypnosis wind-down. Despite my jitters, I followed his lead, retracing my steps until he lifted the red cloth.

Eyes open, another master reassured me: “No worries, it’s fine. You met a good one. If it’s bad, we’d handle it. This was harmless—relax.”

Driving home, my mind churned—overwhelmed, muddled. The temple folks offered no deep explanations, leaving my questions dangling.

Verification and Revelation

Naturally, I had to check. I hadn’t spoken to this classmate since age 12. Digging up his family’s number from an old yearbook, I called days later. His mom confirmed it: at 17 or 18, he’d died in a fall while training as an electrician, brain injury fatal.

I’d known none of this beforehand. Whatever I encountered—his spirit or not—the info was new to me and dead-on accurate.

I relayed this to my writer friend who’d arranged it. He smiled faintly. “I saw this stuff tons of times studying with Master Lü Jinhu. I sent you to experience ‘closed-system external info’ firsthand.”

This “closed-system external info” is his litmus test, honed over years of spiritual research. It’s black-and-white: no gray wiggle room. Many so-called psychics, he found, excel at “mind-reading”—plucking details from your head and passing them off as divine insight. It wows you, but it’s not supernatural.

His method just simply asking the spirit something only they know, not the querent. Like, “Grandma, where’d you hide your jewelry?”—a spot even you don’t know. If they nail it, it’s legit. He’d tested famous mediums this way, exposing most as mind-readers, not spirit-talkers.

Another example: a renowned bone-reader who’d guess how many mung beans you held to prove “fate.” He always got it right—until my friend gripped them without looking. The master floundered, proving it was just mental sleight-of-hand.

For soul-seeing, my friend’s yardstick is the same: Can it reveal what you don’t already know? Without that, it’s just your imagination running wild, unprovable.

He’d witnessed this with Lü Jinhu. Once, in a village session, a woman met a named elder claiming he’d drowned in a pond. She didn’t know him—he was from another town. Lü joined the verification, leading villagers to the spot. They dredged up a body matching the description—clothes, name, all spot-on. Recordings of such cases back his files.

That’s how I confirmed soul-seeing isn’t hypnosis. I’ve never dared repeat that claim since.

It wasn’t a joyful ride, but it taught me a golden rule: “Don’t judge what you don’t understand.” A humbling wake-up call, etched deep.