The penthouse was gutted. The reflection pool was smashed with jackhammers. Laurent Delacroix’s blueprints were supposedly burned in a ritual by a Taoist priest hired by the building’s new owners.

According to a 1997 exposé in a now-defunct tabloid, the magnate’s wife, a reclusive former actress named Hsu Chi (no relation to the famous actress of the same name), refused to live in the space. Her complaint? Acoustic.

Today, a generic luxury hotel stands on the site. You can book a room there for $400 a night. But if you ask the night manager about the 38th floor, they’ll just smile and say, "We don’t have a 38th floor." The story of the Hsu Chi Penthouse isn't really about ghosts. It's about the arrogance of minimalism. In 1995, at the peak of the "less is more" era, Delacroix created a space so sterile, so devoid of human texture, that it became a psychological horror show. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was accusatory.

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The 1995 issue of Interiors Asia called it "the loneliest rich person’s home ever built." So why does the "Hsu Chi Penthouse 1995" still echo in niche online communities?

In a rare interview, she reportedly said: "The building doesn’t amplify sound. It erases it. You can clap your hands, and it’s like the walls eat the noise. But at 3:00 AM, you hear footsteps walking on water."

Delacroix’s design was a masterpiece of "negative luxury." Forget gold leaf. The penthouse was a 12,000-square-foot monument to gray concrete, poured resin floors, and 30-foot windows that offered a 270-degree view of the Taipei skyline. The centerpiece was a "reflection pool" that ran the entire length of the main hall—just two inches deep, but black as ink.