True TAIWAN Horror story

Xian Bo was an oddball elder in our family. His real name included the character “Xuan,” but a mishearing stuck, and for years we’ve called him Uncle Xian. So, that’s what we’ll go with.

Xian Bo was my dad’s cousin and the family’s undisputed story king from a young age. He had a knack for spinning tales—wild, jaw-dropping ones brimming with vivid detail. Listening to him as a kid, I’d revisit those stories years later and realize they weren’t just random yarns. As a writer myself, I know a well-structured story either comes from real experience or a master craftsman. Xian Bo’s were airtight.

I’ll relay one of his tales here—judge its truth for yourself. But I, myself, lean toward believing it.

In his youth, Xian Bo was the local daredevil and mischief-maker in our rural hometown. Everyone knew this scrappy kid had guts, and he loved flaunting it. Before his military draft, with time to kill, he’d take odd jobs—stuff no one else dared touch.

Like guarding funeral parlors, sleeping beside corpses. Or night-watching orchards, sprawled atop graves by the fields—chin propped on tombstones, just to prove his nerve. Word of his antics spread, and someone hooked him up with a gig no one else would take: night guard at a supposedly haunted winery in Puli, Nantou County.

The winery’s ghost stories were legendary—infamous enough that even Xian Bo had heard them. Guards of the winery never lasted. The spirits were so fierce, new hires fled within days. The place was so dreaded that, in theory, it didn’t even need guarding—locals wouldn’t dare steal from it. But practicality won out. Fires or sudden mishaps required a watchman, ghosts or not.

So, under the skeptical gaze of the townsfolk—think about that line, “In their eyes, this guy was already dead”—Xian Bo took the job. He claims he went in fearless, a staunch skeptic. Having bunked within arm’s reach of corpses and the departed, he was convinced ghosts didn’t exist.

At Puli, he found he wasn’t alone. Another guard, even more bullheaded, joined him—bragging, “Hell, I’m here to catch ghosts!” or “Scared? Go home—I’ll handle it solo.” The handover guy wasn’t so cocky. He briefed them on duties and bolted down the mountain at dusk like his pants were ablaze.

The duo settled into two tin shacks about 50 meters apart, steps from the winery. And yeah, the ghosts there were no joke. Xian Bo’s first night proved it.

During the day, the handover guy had quietly warned him: “That thing shows up around midnight—watch out.” Xian Bo brushed it off, boasting, “Once I’m sleeping, thunder won’t wake me.” (Their gig was just to stay put; sleeping was fine unless trouble brewed.)

That first night, the self-proclaimed thunder-proof sleeper snapped awake around midnight. How’d he know? A clock hung dead ahead of his bed. Moonlight revealed it was just past 12. But he couldn’t move—pinned by a classic case of sleep paralysis, or as we say, “ghost pressing the bed.”

The mountain at midnight was dead silent—absolute stillness where a pin drop would echo. Xian Bo couldn’t move a muscle, not even his eyes, though nothing else overtly creepy happened. Just that oppressive weight pinning him down.

He didn’t know how long it lasted—eventually, he dozed off in a haze. Waking the next day, unease gnawed at him. He considered hashing it out with the other guard but swallowed his words under the guy’s dismissive smirk. His bravado faltered; he resolved to stay awake the second night and scope out the truth. Yet, as darkness fell, an inexplicable exhaustion hit, and he was out before 10 p.m.

He jolted awake again at midnight—no clock this time. It wasn’t sleep paralysis now, but a dark, crushing mass on his chest. Xian Bo, ever the vivid storyteller, clarified: the first night’s paralysis was silent, senses sharp despite immobility.

This time is a suffocating, painful chaos—like 200 pounds (his words) slamming his ribcage. It felt human, knees digging in, bouncing his chest like a trampoline. Pitch-black, he saw only a vague shadow.

A sturdy guy in his youth, Xian Bo rallied, arms flexing instinctively. With a shove, he hurled the “thing” off, hearing a heavy thud as it hit the floor. Free, he sprang up, ready to confront it—then froze.

A sharp, searing stab pierced his rear (again, his blunt phrasing). The pain was so intense it sapped his strength, and he blacked out.

Daylight returned. Awake, he recalled the night’s ordeal and immediately checked himself—fearing injury from that piercing jolt. Nothing. No wounds, no marks, no oddities around the bed. But the memory—crushing weight, the crash, that stab—was crystal clear.

His skepticism cracked. He started packing to bolt, but the other guard caught him. Xian Bo spilled the tale; the guy scoffed, mocking, “Knew you folks had no guts. I’ll guard it solo.” Young and prickly, Xian Bo bristled at the taunts and stayed—not out of belief, but to see if the ghosts would spare this loudmouth.

Third night, sleep claimed him early again. Predictably, he woke paralyzed, eyes locked. In the moonlight, a figure loomed by the door. Unable to even roll his eyes (he swore he’d have), Xian Bo watched it drift toward his bed.

Close enough now, the room’s dim glow revealed it: a middle-aged Japanese man, face etched with sorrow, wrinkles deep, a ratty mustache under his nose marking his origin.

For dramatic flair—Xian Bo’s storytelling hallmark—the ghost floated onto the bed, knelt on his chest, and leaned in, face inches from his. Drool-close, unblinking Xian Bo cataloged every detail—white strands in that mustache included.

For a minute or two, the ghost stared, expressionless, silent. Then it drifted back, retraced its path, and exited. Moments later, sensation returned.

Xian Bo rolled off the bed, scrambling out in a frantic crawl-run to the other guard’s shack. Empty—door ajar, bed a mess. The ghost had paid him a visit first.

No waiting for dawn. In underwear, Xian Bo fled down the mountain to Puli’s streets, collapsing at the first open noodle stall. There sat the other guard—a burly, dark-skinned guy, now pale, sweating, trembling hands clutching a rice wine cup.

Two men in their skivvies, shivering, sipping, staring blankly—no words.

At first light, the other guard hopped the earliest bus out. Xian Bo, technically braver, returned later (daytime only) with incense and paper money to pay respects. But spend another night there? Never. He said that ordeal flipped his life—afterward, he could see the unseen.

Soon after, his draft notice arrived, shipping him off to the military. There, an encounter awaited that made the winery seem like child’s play.

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Writer: Su Yiping

Time Stamp: 2012 June 17

From PTT Marvel Board