My childhood unfolded mostly in an old family house in Caotun, my mom’s ancestral home. Sprawling over a hundred pings (about 350 square meters), it was a grand, expanded three-courtyard structure. I’ve mentioned it before—the tale of my young aunt’s spirit played out there. As the years passed and the family scattered abroad, the house was sold, razed, and reborn as an apartment block.
Yet, for us kids, its memory burns bright. A sloped path linked the front plaza to the main road, flanked by a guava tree where we loved to play.
This story harks back to a distant era. I was about seven or eight, and my cousin—let’s call him Ah Xun—was a toddling three, his speech still a garbled mess. It was dusk, the sky ablaze with a stunning sunset. I recall gazing down the road—traffic was sparse then, private cars rare. Only the occasional bus or bicycle rolled by.
Under the guava tree, Ah Xun and I messed around. Suddenly, he giggled, pointing at the road. “Wow! Ninth Uncle’s back!”
Ninth Uncle was a cousin from my granduncle’s side. Family tradition ranked the boys across both households—twelve in total. Ninth Uncle, the fourth son of my granduncle, was a college kid at Chinese Culture University in Taipei, around 20 then.
A Changhua Transport bus—familiar to us as the ride relatives took to visit—rumbled past. We’d often spot kin waving from its windows, some leaning out to greet us kids playing by the gate. But that evening, I saw nothing. The bus was empty, its windows framing the sunset’s glow.
Ah Xun, though, leapt up, waving wildly. “Ninth Uncle’s back! Ninth Uncle’s back!” Ninth Uncle was a lively, kind guy—great with us kids, often bringing Taipei snacks.
He’d clown around, popping his head out the bus window to say hi. But that dusk, I saw no one. Still, Ah Xun’s excitement convinced me I’d missed him—maybe my eyes had tricked me. We raced inside, shouting to our auntie, “We saw Ninth Uncle!”
The adults were skeptical. It wasn’t a holiday, and Taipei to Caotun was a trek back then. Still, Auntie prepped for his arrival, just in case. Night fell—no Ninth Uncle.
She trudged to the bus station in our small, tight-knit town where everyone knew everyone. No one had seen him. They chalked it up to childish imagination.
We got a scolding, but Ah Xun, even near bedtime, mumbled, “Ninth Uncle’s back.”
That night, I woke to adults bustling in hushed panic. Then came Auntie’s wail—raw, piercing, echoing through the dark. It’s seared in my mind, that gut-wrenching cry.
Turns out, that evening, Ninth Uncle and his girlfriend had been boating on Bitan Lake. Witnesses said a gust flipped their boat. Panicked, they stood, lost balance, and fell in. Neither swam well. Both drowned.
The timing is right when Ah Xun saw him “return.”
Our odd tale barely registered with the adults. Ninth Uncle’s body didn’t surface for days despite searches. Desperate, the family’s eldest, First Uncle, burned incense by the lake, pleading for him to spare his parents more grief. Miraculously, that afternoon, they found him—wedged in a hidden rock crevice.
Eerie details emerged. When Granduncle and Auntie arrived at the site, blood streamed from Ninth Uncle’s eyes and nose as his body was recovered. His remains paused briefly in the old house’s hall before burial. My dad paid respects and later said the water had ravaged him—his face half-eaten by crabs after days submerged.
This incident became a profound regret in our family, a topic that, for years, drew sighs whenever mentioned. Ninth Uncle was the only one of Granduncle’s kids to make it to university—a top student with a sunny disposition. Losing him crushed Auntie; for years, just hearing his name would set her weeping inconsolably.
The girl who drowned with him was later joined to him in a ghost marriage, so she’s listed as my aunt-in-law in the family records.
But time and generations dulled the memory for us younger ones. I was old enough then to retain faint impressions, but my younger cousins—including Ah Xun, the toddler who “saw” Ninth Uncle—barely recall him.
Ah Xun, especially, has no memory of that dusk or the uncle he spotted. Over decades, Ninth Uncle’s tragedy faded from the younger generation’s consciousness, barely a whisper among us. My own recollection only sharpened after a strange event years later, pieced together from chats with my mom.
Yet certain fragments from that day remain vivid: the sunset’s glow, the empty Changhua Transport bus, Ah Xun’s “Ninth Uncle’s back!” and Auntie’s midnight wails.
It wasn’t until over 30 years later, in 2007, that an odd occurrence tied me back to that fatal accident.
In 2007, I frequently visited Master Xu, a chiropractor skilled in bone-setting. Like many in his trade, he had a psychic streak. During treatments, we’d often dive into spiritual topics. I remember the exact moment things turned weird because it stemmed from a casual question I tossed out while discussing possession and spirit interference.
“So, you’ve treated me bones—anything stuck to me?”
Master Xu, a burly guy who looked like a bear, laughed heartily. “Nope! If someone I adjust still picks up ghost hitchhikers, I’d be out of a job!”
His words lingered—until, not long after, strange things started happening.
The first oddity hit while showering. Washing my hair, eyes shut under the spray, I suddenly felt a drenched figure standing behind me. It wasn’t like my rare past glimpses of spirits—those I’d seen with my eyes.
This time, eyes closed, I still “saw” a soaking wet presence. Weirdly, I wasn’t scared. Years of writing about folklore and the supernatural had desensitized me, and I sensed no malice.
Muttering, “Sorry if I offended you. No idea how we’re linked, but we’re strangers—so please go,” I repeated it a few times. Eyes open, I turned—nothing but steam. Yet I knew it wasn’t my imagination.
Days passed without recurrence. But sometimes, drifting off to sleep, eyes shut, I’d “see” a long-haired woman—face swollen and ravaged, in a dripping white robe. The spatial sense was bizarre: she stood on the street outside my apartment, walls and floors transparent, always 10 or 20 meters away. But I have no fear, though—she was silent, expressionless. Her presence felt faint, so I dismissed it as a trick of the mind.
However, my health tanked then—listless, drained. I’d think of seeing Master Xu but felt too sluggish to go. One day, though, I dragged myself there. He kneaded me a bit, then boomed, “You’re tagged!”
He’d just ruled out any ghost around me weeks earlier, so I hadn’t considered it. His words flipped a switch.
I held back, letting him elaborate. “A woman,” he said, shaking his head with a sly grin. “Been messing with some girl, huh?”
I denied it—no recent female entanglements.
“Well, she says you’re connected,” he scratched his head. “Near water. Met someone at a beach?”
Nope. I hadn’t hit a beach since I was 15.
“She insists it’s not direct, but you’re kin. Taken by water…”
That’s when it clicked. Not a beach—Bitan Lake.
Writer : Su Yiping
Time Stamp: 2013, May 13
From PTT Marvel Board
True TAIWAN Horror story 
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