深夜怪談與都市傳說

Beside the bustling streets of Zhongshan District in Taipei City stands a dilapidated building shrouded in countless ominous shadows – the Jinshin Building. This mixed-use residential and commercial building, with decades of history, has earned the chilling nicknames 'Taipei's No. 1 Haunted House' and 'Most Terrifying Ghost Building' due to dozens of tragic incidents, including consecutive fires, suicides, and murder-suicides, which have claimed numerous lives. The building's deepest resentment stems from a fatal restaurant fire in the 1980s, where dozens of trapped individuals struggled desperately in the smoke, ultimately losing their lives. Perhaps the most famous paranormal rumor involves the 'runaway elevator.' Many residents and delivery workers have terrifyingly shared accounts of the elevator frequently stopping on its own at the floor where the fire occurred years ago, or operating up and down by itself late at night when completely empty, as if carrying unseen passengers. Even more chilling is the story of a woman who tragically fell from the top floor due to relationship issues. Since then, nearby residents have often reported seeing a mysterious, blurry figure standing on the edge of the rooftop late at night. Due to internal conflicts and lawsuits between new and old management committees, different property owners, and residents over management rights, elevators, and common facilities, the building faces a long process before true integration and reconstruction can occur. Its dilapidated appearance stands out starkly and desolate amidst the lively Zhongshan District. The eerie footsteps and whispers echoing within its confined spaces remain Taipei's most chilling urban legend late at night.

On the edge of bustling Taipei's Ximending district stands a massive building that clashes with its surroundings – Xining Public Housing. Built in the 1980s, this mixed-use residential and commercial complex, with its old exterior and gloomy structure, has earned the chilling nickname 'Taipei's No. 1 Haunted Building' due to dozens of bizarre fall, suicide, and unexplained death incidents over the decades. What draws the most attention in this building is its narrow, 'courtyard-like' central atrium, where sunlight struggles to penetrate, leaving it perpetually dark and damp. The curse is said to originate from an old soldier who got lost inside the building in its early days. Unable to find an exit, he eventually fell to his death in despair in the atrium. Since then, strange occurrences have been frequent within the building. Late at night, many residents often hear piercing cries from the atrium or witness shadowy figures drifting at the end of the corridors, as if an unseen force occupies the space. Most terrifying are the eerie experiences recounted by those who attempted suicide but were successfully saved. Upon regaining consciousness, they would frantically report that they were merely standing in the corridor admiring the view when they suddenly heard a gentle female voice whispering their names, softly saying, "Come jump, it's fun here." Afterward, their bodies would seemingly move uncontrollably over the railing. This forbidden housing complex remains shrouded in an lingering, eerie atmosphere, becoming an urban legend that passersby are reluctant to approach.

Xiao Min was a renter who had just moved into an old apartment. A vintage full-length mirror was embedded in the closet of her room, and the landlord had specifically instructed: "This mirror is an antique, fixed to the wall. Absolutely do not remove it." At first, Xiao Min didn't pay much attention until one night at three AM, she was woken up by a faint "tap, tap" sound. The sound was coming from behind the mirror. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, instinctively looking at the mirror. Upon closer inspection, she instantly broke out in a cold sweat—the reflection of herself in the mirror was sleeping in bed with her eyes closed; but who was the person sitting by the bed, wide awake and looking at the mirror at this very moment? Before she could even scream, the "Xiao Min" in the mirror suddenly grinned and slowly gave her a creepy smile, then reached out and tapped the mirror surface. From that day on, Xiao Min never dared to look in the mirror again. Because she noticed that every time she passed by the mirror, the person inside seemed to turn their head slower and slower...

A Full House of Shadows in the Rearview Mirror A-hui could only stare into the rearview mirror. In the mirror, the windshield of the black taxi was like a moldy pane, reflecting the scene inside the car. There was no one in the driver's seat, just an old black burial shroud hanging loosely in front of the steering wheel. Its sleeves, however, were tightly wrapped around the wheels, as if a dead person were personally driving. The back seat was even more terrifying: dozens of disfigured faces were crammed together, their skin rotten, their eye sockets empty. The dark hollows of their eyes stared directly back through the rearview mirror. They made no sound, yet their mouths moved in unison, repeating his name over and over. "Huang... A... Hui..." "Come... home... with... me..." The road had changed. The familiar asphalt had turned into a muddy black path, and the weeds on either side had become rows of endlessly stretching tombstones. In front of each tombstone stood a figure in an old burial shroud, all with their backs to the road. As A-hui's motorcycle passed, they simultaneously made a sound like cracking bones and turned their heads 180 degrees at an extremely unnatural angle. Countless empty eye sockets locked onto him at once. The fingers gripping his chin tightened, icy nails digging into his skin, slowly pulling his head back. A-hui squeezed his eyes shut and twisted the throttle to the floor. The motorcycle surged forward like a maddened beast.

I'm curious if there are really that many strange incidents in the military. Isn't a military camp a place with a lot of masculine energy? I haven't personally experienced anything, but during a night's sleep, everyone from the large bunk beds on the opposite side came over to this side, flustered, saying they heard a woman crying (everyone on the opposite side did, no one on this side heard it, and when I went to the window on the opposite side to listen or look, there was nothing unusual. It was something I experienced indirectly, I guess(?)

### Rot and Fingertips A Hui's heart lurched, and he quickly pulled over to the side, trying to let the other vehicle pass. But the black taxi also swerved, sticking to him like a piece of mud clinging to a rear tire. Just then, a strong, foul odor exploded in the air. It wasn't the usual smell of death; it was the scent of yellow fluid seeping from rotting flesh, of grave dirt swelling, of joss paper half-burned and then soaked by the drizzling rain, piercing deep into his nostrils. A Hui's stomach churned violently, almost making him vomit his late-night snack. He quickly twisted the throttle, making his motorcycle's engine scream. "BEEP ————!!!" The taxi behind him suddenly honked. The sound wasn't like a horn; it was like the screams of countless people being buried alive, layered and piercing his eardrums. A Hui's ears buzzed, and his vision began to darken. Suddenly, a cold, damp finger, slick with putrid water, reached through the gap at the back of his helmet and gently hooked his chin. The finger had no warmth. Its joints were like bloated paper, and its fingernails were packed with black mud. At the same time, a fishy, hot breath sprayed onto his right ear, and dozens of dry, raspy voices overlapped, speaking word by word: "HWANG — AH — HUI —" A Hui's teeth began to chatter violently. He wanted to curse, wanted to turn his head, but his cervical spine felt gripped by dozens of invisible hands simultaneously, rendering him immobile.

The Beiyi Highway, a treacherous mountain road spanning Taipei and Yilan, has become Taiwan's most famous and feared haunted highway due to its rugged terrain and the perilous "nine bends and eighteen turns" in its early days. Late at night, when dense fog blankets the mountains, the entire road falls into silence and darkness. Many solo truck drivers have encountered the classic "woman waving on the nine bends and eighteen turns." On a desolate, deserted curve, one might spot a woman in white waiting by the roadside, slowly waving to approaching vehicles. Experienced drivers know never to stop, nor even to meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. They can only grip the steering wheel, recite Buddhist chants, and speed away from this seemingly endless, magical dimension. Besides the legend of the waving woman, the "road toll" scattered along the way is another unique and chilling phenomenon of the Beiyi Highway. In the past, frequent accidents led many families to scatter spirit money by the roadside to appease the souls of the deceased. This evolved into a custom where drivers encountering spirit money or unknown dark figures on the road late at night must, according to tradition, roll down their windows and toss out a stack of spirit money to ensure safe passage. Otherwise, cold sighs might be faintly heard from the back seat, or the windshield could suddenly be obscured by thick fog and ghostly handprints, causing drivers to get lost on the perilous cliff edges. This forbidden mountain path has gradually faded from its past notoriety after the opening of the Hsuehshan Tunnel. However, the eerie whispers echoing in the fog on the winding curves late at night still linger as an indelible shadow in the hearts of all night travelers.

Built in the 1970s, this tunnel is situated above a vast, boundless mass grave, with its exit directly leading to Taipei's Second Funeral Parlor. Its natural geography and eerie atmosphere have made it a breeding ground for Taiwan's most famous urban legends. Countless motorcyclists returning home alone at night have experienced inexplicable strange occurrences in this straight yet unusually chilling passage. The most frequently mentioned is the "old woman pushing a cart" seen going the wrong way by the roadside. She moves slowly, expressionless, pushing a dilapidated wooden cart. Whenever a rider passes her in a panic and quickly checks their rearview mirror, they only see an empty asphalt road, as if she only existed in that fleeting moment of passing. Even veteran taxi drivers have shared chilling personal experiences. One late night, near the Second Funeral Parlor, a driver picked up an elegant woman dressed in ancient Qing Dynasty attire who requested a ride to Daan District. As the car slowly drove deeper into the tunnel, the temperature in the back seat plummeted. The driver tried to speak to her through the rearview mirror, only to discover in horror that the back seat was already empty, with only a stack of冥紙 (spirit money) covered in cold dew quietly lying on the seat cushion. This tunnel, less than 500 meters long, on a rainy Taipei night, seems to transform into a gray area where the realms of the living and the dead intersect. The roar of the engine echoes endlessly between the enclosed walls, accompanied by faint sighs that seem to drift by, still making night travelers hesitant to look back.

### What the Whistle Summoned At 1:44 AM, Zhuxi Road, bordering the Nanshan Cemetery, was like an intestine buried alive by black fog. There were no streetlights, only the yellowish glow from Ah Hui's motorcycle headlight, like a nearsighted eye, barely tearing through the dense mist ahead, illuminating the flipped-over white weeds on the road, scattered funeral wreaths, and a few old bones that had rolled out from the cemetery wall. The cold wind wasn't wind; it was the chilling energy seeping from the cracks between gravestones, sliding down his spine after entering his collar. Ah Hui had just finished dinner with friends and insisted on taking this shortcut to save time. It was so quiet all around that he could hear his own heartbeat, so he started to whistle. The whistle was shrill and out of tune, bouncing back and forth along the edge of the dead-silent cemetery. He suddenly remembered what his friend had said that afternoon: 'There are two death rules when passing Nanshan Cemetery. First, don't whistle. Second, if someone calls your full name, absolutely do not answer or look back.' Ah Hui curled his lip, thinking it was old wives' tales. But before the whistle even finished, a stark white, intense light suddenly flashed in the rearview mirror. He whipped his head around and saw a black old taxi, covered in rust stains, somehow tailgating him less than ten centimeters away. The car window was half-open, and in the driver's seat, a shadowy figure in an old burial suit was vaguely visible. Their face was deathly pale from the headlight, but their mouth was stretched into a grin from ear to ear.

In the late autumn of 1974, the deep night in Dawu Township, Taitung, was unsettlingly quiet. The bizarre prelude began at the public cemetery, where a young man was found hanged from a tree, without any rope. He died from being strangled by soft branches. The next day, another man's corpse was discovered in the same cemetery, in a more gruesome state. His neck bones were broken, and his chest and abdomen were completely pierced by a sharp object. Although the police tried to close the case as an accident, villagers were later horrified to find that several graves in the cemetery had been dug up in the dead of night, with the bodies inside mysteriously vanishing. Subsequently, the village dogs began howling collectively in the middle of the night, only to be found dead and drained of blood, with distinct human bite marks on their wounds. Bizarre footprints, as if made by someone moving by jumping with their feet together, were left on the ground. Fear paralyzed the entire village. The government, during the martial law period, even imposed an emergency curfew on the affected area and deployed police for 24-hour patrols. A month later, the villagers, unable to bear it any longer, invited the divine power of 'Ghost King' Zhong Kui. As soon as the shaman, possessed by Zhong Kui, entered the village with a sword, he headed straight for the house of a reclusive old woman. Upon breaking down the door and searching, they found a 'yin shi' (a corpse that has not decomposed and is said to be reanimated) buried deep in a chicken coop under the old woman's bed. It had been dead for over twenty years, yet its feet were covered in fresh, wet mud and its complexion was ruddy. When Zhong Kui ordered it to be cremated on the spot, piercing screams, like those of a wild beast, echoed from the flames. This finally brought an end to the Taitung zombie scare that shocked all of Taiwan.