There’s a cozy little mountain trail behind my home. I’ve been going there for hikes since childhood, but it wasn’t until 8th grade that I started exploring off the beaten path. As it turns out, the trail I’ve been hiking all my life was just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a whole swath of forestry and cracked stairways just beyond my usual resting place.
On a slightly unrelated note, tucked under the foliage is a derelict food stand. The name? Shop of Ghouls.
Creepy, isn’t it? I wonder if I should petition for our neighborhood to hold our annual Halloween parade there this year.
The Temple’s Watchman
Last weekend, I stumbled upon a new entrance to the deeper woods in the mountain. I would have proceeded, but a grumble from the darkening skies threateningly ushered me home. I managed to park my bike under the roof mere moments before the downpour began, but the thought of the new entry point kept nagging at the back of my mind.
School let out early today—midterms were over—and I all but rushed up the mountain. When I got to the entryway, however, I was struck by disappointment. Nailed to the foot of the stairs was a metal plaque that proclaimed it to be inaccessible. “Private property, no trespassing. Violators will be prosecuted.”
“Are you here to pray?” A gaunt man in a security guard’s uniform walked up to me. I eyed him questioningly. “There’s a temple up there,” he explained.
According to him, the temple had been there since the very beginning of this community, but barely anyone had ever gone to worship. The locals weren’t to blame. The deity in the temple was unknown to most; the few who did described him as the god of hunting, who was eventually banished from the skies. Nobody knew who had erected it in the first place, and in time, it fell into dilapidation, rampant hedges and ferns almost devouring it completely.
“Did you know,” he said just as I was about to walk away, “that this was never private property?”
Seeing that he had my attention, he continued. “The community just sealed it off, in case the legends turn out to be true. The sign helps keep nosy people out.”
This happened not long after the temple was completely abandoned by the local population.
One day, a young hiker came up this seven-kilometer long route, presumably because he was tired of scaling the others. One way or another, he soon found himself following the sparse signposts scattered along the path, ending up face to face with the ancient, stone-carved stairs.
The greenery among the trail was thick, to say the least. The sun was nearly at its apex, and not willing to get caught under the ruthless blaze, he ducked under the canopy. Under the illusion that he’d wind up at the mountaintop just before lunch, he embarked on the—unbeknownst to him—seven-kilometer long trail. Along his ascent, not a single soul made an appearance. He did chance upon the temple though; he’d even gone in for a quick look. On the holy sculptures lay a thick blanket of dust, and mold had overtaken the shriveled offerings on the central altar. The place was obviously deserted.
Three kilometers later, his water bottle was nearly depleted. Running his tongue over chapped lips, he urged himself onward. “The end should be close.”
Another kilometer went by under the scorching summer sun; a human voice piped up from ahead. The hiker perked up just in time to see a female hiker jog out from behind a tree and past him, nodding in acknowledgement. He nodded in response, and whirled around to ask if she had any water to spare, but her silhouette was already retreating into the symphony of cicadas. “I suppose she’d only have enough for herself anyway,” he consoled himself. Briefly recalling that the roughly sketched map he’d seen at the foot of the mountain depicted a road running perpendicular to this path, he quickened his pace, reasoning that he’d have a higher chance of getting refreshments once he got to more densely populated, traffic-heavy areas.
Barely a few minutes had passed when another person passed him, this time a bald old man wearing a sweat-soaked vest. A cheap radio hung on his belt, blaring a Buddhist reincarnation hymn from its tinny speakers. In his right hand was a rusty hacksaw, and as he walked past, he swiped at the overgrown weeds halfheartedly. The hiker only glanced at his absent gaze before deciding not to bother asking for water. In moments the old man and his broadcasted prayers had too receded into the distance.
He had barely gone a few dozen meters when a scream sounded from below, followed by rustling and a growl. Frightened and concerned, he stopped in his tracks, feeling his pulse quicken ever so slightly, but a few deep breaths quelled the worry. He deduced that it must have been just a monkey; they were all over the place, and he’d even seen a whole tribe down by the main hiking trail last month.
One step. Another. Then another, and rounded a corner, and, at last, the end was in sight! Grinning, he quickened his pace, his mind flooded with the thought of a quick meal and escape from the heat: the joy, the relief—the pain! He’d tripped over a root of some sort, and with a thud his face slammed onto the ground.
“Damn that old man,” he muttered, remembering the hacksaw and fallen weeds. Spitting out a few curses, he climbed up, and in dismay found the way to be blocked. Three heavy, black dogs pranced out of the undergrowth, saliva dripping from their snouts. Bells jingled in stark contrast to their menacing growls.
Realizing that shooing them away wasn’t an option, the hiker gulped like cornered prey. There were religious scripts carved into their collars, presumably by the temple he’d passed, but judging by their size and strength, someone must have been caring for them. Slowly taking a step back, he conceded that he wouldn’t get to the end of the trail after all. The smart move was to turn tail and move back down.
The dogs seemed to have no intention of trailing him, but still they stood their ground, dark eyes watching his every move, tensed leg muscles showing through the matte fur.
He spun around and put one foot forward, but a cacophony wafted to his ears, making his blood run cold. After the scream, the forest had been deathly silent; now fervent whooshes of a hacksaw breaking through bushes had joined in. Footfalls thudded, from beyond the trees. The dogs let loose a feral yawp behind him.
The temple, the dogs; the man, the scream…the last thing the hiker saw after the clues clicked into place was the glint of the afternoon sun reflecting off a rusty blade. The familiar sound of a solemn hymn for the deceased emanating from a cheap radio drew ever nearer.
“The warning sign has been there ever since,” the security guard told me.
“How did this story spread back?” I took a moment to rephrase my question. “Is anyone even sure if this is true?”
He shook his head. “No. But one thing has told us more than we care to know.
“Even today, every night, lamps in the temple no man has tended to in decades are visibly alight.”
The Story Behind the Story
Religion has always been a topic that has interested me. Growing up, my grandmother raised me to soothing Buddhist chants, and now, even though I have no particular religious affiliation, I still like to explore the societal implications of religion.
The temple described in the story is real, as is the trail. I stumbled upon it myself two summers ago, and the decrepit walls coupled with ubiquitous cobwebs truly gave me the chills. The backstory that it was built to keep lone souls satisfied and at bay—and hence shouldn’t be entered for no good reason—didn’t help matters.
The truth is, such little temples are a common sight throughout Taiwan, especially in little villages and mountainsides. Small, nameless ones are treated as a home for lost souls and ghouls. Larger, proper ones are typically used to worship local deities. “Local,” as in the deities are low on the “divine hierarchy” and watch over the population of their respective “jurisdictions”. As such, they are maintained by local communities, and when a village unfortunately shrivels up, the temple follows suit. The flip side is that a tightly knit, well-maintained community can often prosper in their own unique fashion, and the religion will take on a regional “dialect” as a result.
Let’s take a step back: how have these countless religious beliefs branched off, proliferated, and adapted over time?
For one, many Japanese Shinto shrines left in Taiwan are preserved as historical artifacts. The religion itself might no longer be a common sight, but the relics have been adapted into an integral part of tourism.
The same goes for many indigenous festivals. Songs and dances once used to praise the stars and land for harvest or rain have been reborn into activities and documentaries. Merging with entertainment has ensured that they will be passed through the generations, continuously evolving and easily keeping up.
Buddhism and Taoism, of course, are not to be overlooked. The majority of the Taiwanese population fall into one or the other, and some partake in both. Hence traditions with roots in these religions are a staple in modern society. Fung-shui still significantly influences architecture. Students are often led, class by class, to pray for high scores prior to nationwide exams, such as the “Comprehensive Assessment Program” for middle schoolers, and the GSAT Taiwanese university entrance exam.
Furthermore, having such a large pool of believers allows religious organizations to easily expand. They frequently have a hand in multiple fields, and Buddhist Tzu-Chi Foundation is but one example: I know people who went to their sponsored schools and hospitals; I myself have volunteered at one of their sponsored recycling plants.
But perhaps the most critical aspect of religions’ relevance is how contemporary culture draws inspiration from them. Most obvious is their role in art, be it sculptures, poetry, or music. Plenty of religious hymns and phrases have been incorporated into lyrics, and while you won’t find grandchildren and grandparents singing the same versions together, this has at least secured a spot for religion among prized cultural values.
Times have significantly shifted. But so has religion. Temples may open and close, candles may alight and extinguish, but it is as omnipresent as the deities within. And perhaps this is for the best; every religion has a story, and through these diverse cultural heritages, we all stand to benefit, starting from the present, and well into the future.
In case you missed it, here’s Part 1 to this Halloween miniseries.