My Visit to Mussourie – When the Mist Spoke My Name

May Be True May Not Be True

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My Visit to Mussourie – When the Mist Spoke My Name

Set in the mist-draped hills of Mussourie, this eerie tale recounts one traveler’s unsettling encounter in a forgotten colonial hotel. And that traveler is no one else but me.May be true may not be..

Mrinmoy Majumder

Jun 20, 2025

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My Visit to Mussourie – When the Mist Spoke My Name

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It was the summer of 2010 when we drove up the winding road from Dehradun, the air growing crisper, pine-scented, and tinged with something I couldn't name. Our hotel sat just at the entry point of Mussourie—an old colonial structure, quietly majestic, clinging to the hillside like a relic from another time. The terrace greeted us first, wide and open, with crumbling railings and moss-streaked tiles. From its edge, the hills rolled out like green waves, disappearing into a mist that clung low like an old, tired secret.

To one side stood a wooden reception counter, dimly lit and slightly tilted, with a brass bell that had likely summoned British officers once upon a time. All around, other hotels jutted out from the slopes, their windows peering like watchful eyes through the foliage.

Our room was neither grand nor cramped—a cozy nest for three. The bed, covered in heavy, embroidered linens, sat to the left as we entered. A carved wooden cupboard stood solemnly on the opposite wall, its doors swollen slightly with age. A single window framed the fog-veiled valley, and beside it, two antique chairs flanked a table that creaked under the weight of silence. The wallpaper peeled at the corners like tired parchment, and the scent of old rosewood and dust hung in the air.

Everything felt… paused. Like the hotel was listening.

The staff, though courteous and prompt, had a practiced silence to them. Smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes. We noticed quickly—we were the only guests.

That evening, after a hearty dinner, we strolled down to the bustling Mall Road. Laughter, music, and roasted peanuts warmed the mountain chill. We visited Gun Hill, watching clouds curl over ridges like smoke from a forgotten fire. By nightfall, the fog descended with purpose—thick as milk, cold as marble, curling into the hotel’s crevices like it belonged there.

We took dinner in our rooms. Outside, there was no sound—only fog pressing against the windows. I stayed up reading, my book heavy in my hands, when suddenly—my name. Soft. Clear. Urgent.

I froze. The voice—it was unmistakably my uncle's.

Then came the knock. Not a timid tap, but three sharp raps that echoed like nails in wood.

I rose instinctively, reaching for the door—until my father’s voice, calm but firm, stopped me. “Don’t open it,” he whispered, as if speaking any louder might give it power. I looked at him. His face was pale, his eyes trained not on me but on the door.

The fog outside the window churned.

Sleep came late, and fitful. By morning, the corridor lay empty, peaceful, sunlit. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, and my uncle, sipping tea with a confused smile, swore he'd gone to bed before ten. No calls. No knocking.

Even now, that night clings to memory like mist to pine needles—cold, inexplicable. Mussourie is beautiful, yes. But beneath its charm lies something older. Something waiting.

I once thought ghosts belonged to fiction. Now, I’m not so sure.

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My Visit to Mussourie – When the Mist Spoke My Name

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