Minsyong Ghost House (民雄鬼屋) is a twofold rarity in Taiwan. Firstly, it’s a place that’s celebrated, rather than shunned, because it’s believed to be haunted. Secondly, it’s an architectural gem that’s long been on the tourist map, but which hasn’t yet been converted into a coffee/souvenir shop. Even without its tantalizing backstory, this intensely atmospheric ruin would surely attract a stream of photographers and cyclists.
The Old Liu Family Mansion (劉家古厝), as it’s called by those who don’t feel comfortable uttering the word “ghost,” was completed in 1929 for local merchant Liu Jung-yu (劉溶裕). I’ve not been able to discover when Liu was born or died, but according to some sources he lived to the age of 71. He had four sons and three daughters.
If Liu intended that this spacious edifice would serve as a home for his extended family, he must have felt terribly disappointed. In the Taiwan that existed before 1945, the rural location — some kilometers from the center of Minsyong Township (民雄) and even further from Chiayi City — was especially inconvenient. The older sons worked in Chiayi City or Beigang (北港). So the younger children could attend school, Liu’s wife moved with them to Chiayi City. After the house was finished, Liu lived there with a few servants for around three years, then also left for the city.
Photo: Steven Crook
Liu’s employees came back from time to time to maintain the property, but it seems the house was never again lived in. Members of the Imperial Japanese Army may have been billeted in the mansion, however, as an often-repeated story tells how a squad of Japanese soldiers came to a gruesome end while staying here.
One of the soldiers awoke during the night, it’s said, and he saw someone or something approaching. He opened fire, the noise rousing the others. Some panicked and tried to run away, while others began shooting wildly. After a few moments of terror and confusion, all lay dead or dying. Presumably, one survived long enough to give an account.
Others attribute the building’s spookiness to a dispute during construction between the owner (or, according to some versions of this story, the architect in charge) on one side, and the joiner, stone-mason and bricklayer on the other. He not only scolded these workers, but also cheated them out of some of their wages. To get their own back, they embedded curses and spells in the walls and the foundations. After the Liu family moved in, they were tormented by mysterious footsteps and inexplicable sounds which induced what doctors nowadays would call stress-related disorders.
Photo: Steven Crook
Then there’s the “haunted water-tank” tale. When one of the owner’s grown-up daughters was paying a visit, she turned on a faucet to wash her hands, and found the water to be strikingly cold. When a plumber was sent upstairs to check the water-tank, he immediately ran back down, pale and shocked. When he’d reached the top floor and got close to the water-tank, he reported, he’d heard human voices coming from within. There were men, women and children, all screaming.
To ward off evil spirits, the owner’s wife invited a Taoist priest to position a mahogany sword (桃花心木劍, an item traditionally used to improve fengshui (風水) and repel ghosts) within the house. In light of the mansion’s subsequent abandonment, this obviously didn’t work.
The most popular explanation is, by comparison, quite prosaic. One of the resident maids — some say she was a courtesan — had a love affair with the owner. This ended badly when the owner’s wife discovered the affair. She is said to have poured such abuse over her rival that the latter killed herself by jumping down the family’s private well. Some say it was actually murder, the owner’s wife pushing the other female down the well.
Photo: Steven Crook
If the owner’s wife thought the other woman’s death would end disharmony in the household, she was mistaken. Strange voices were heard within the house, and bizarre wisps of white fog surrounded it at dusk. After everyone had moved out, those living nearby claimed to hear fierce shouting emanate from the building.
Sometime in the 1990s, this Spanish-style residence emerged from obscurity to become a minor tourist attraction. College students dared each other to come here after dark. Then urbex types began to photograph the ruin and blog about its gradual decline.
Surrounded by untrimmed trees now taller than the building, the Ghost House is just one room deep, but each of the three floors had three sizable rooms from left to right. Several of its roof beams are still in place, but every single floorboard has rotted away, collapsed, or been pillaged. The inscriptions at the top of the facade are clearly visible. The approximate meaning of the top row of text is “ethics and holiness will shine” (德聖明以), while the lower row of text means “brothers and music” (兄弟和樂).
Photo: Steven Crook
Banyan roots have seized each corner of the mansion, and there’s been no attempt to create a proper path through the woodland for the convenience of visitors. However, when I visited a month ago, some of the foliage had been cut back around the well in which the maid is said to have died. A few cakes had been placed there, presumably as offerings to propitiate her spirit.
Several netizens have compared Minsyong Ghost House with Anping Tree House (安平樹屋) in Tainan, and found the former wanting. Complaints include “it smells bad” and “there’s trash.” During my most recent visit, I was more bothered by the graffiti and obscene drawings which got in the way when taking photos.
The patches of white paint suggest that this is a recurring problem, and that someone is trying to stay on top of it. In spite of the boorish pictures — and some hungry mosquitoes — I appreciate the Ghost House because it offers an unmediated experience. Hopefully, the owners won’t decide to sand the edges down, and hitch this special place to the LOHAS/cultural-creative bandwagon.
Photo: Steven Crook
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