It was the year 2010, and I was buzzing with excitement as I boarded the bus to Mussourie. Known as the "Queen of Hills," it was a place I had always dreamed of visiting. Nestled in Uttarakhand’s embrace, its rolling hills and dense forests were often veiled in mist—an ethereal blanket that turned the mundane into the mysterious. Little did I know, this trip would change my perception of reality forever.
The hotel I chose was charming, albeit with an old-world vibe—a creaking wooden staircase, flickering lights, and the faint smell of damp air that seemed to whisper stories of bygone days. My room overlooked the misty valley, and on the first evening, I sat by the window, entranced by how the mist swallowed everything in sight. The eeriness reminded me of Stephen King's movie Mist. But I laughed it off; after all, mist was just water vapor, right?
The weirdness began on my second night. I was reading a novel, fully awake, and there was no alcohol or anything else clouding my mind. The quiet of the night was interrupted by what seemed like a faint knock at my door. It wasn’t loud, but enough to grab my attention. I froze. “Just the wind,” I thought and went back to my book.
A few minutes later, I heard it again—this time accompanied by a soft voice calling my name. My name! My heart raced. I opened the door, expecting to find a mischievous hotel staffer or perhaps another guest playing tricks. But the corridor was empty, save for the faint glow of a flickering bulb. The mist outside the windows seemed thicker than before, pressing against the glass as if it wanted to seep in.
The next morning, I tried to rationalize it. Perhaps fatigue had played tricks on me? But then it happened again—this time, the knock came from the window. The problem was, I was on the third floor, and there was no balcony. I mustered courage and pulled back the curtains. What I saw was nothing short of surreal: the mist swirled as if alive, forming shapes that disappeared as quickly as they came.
By now, I was convinced that Mussourie wasn’t just a picturesque hill station—it was a ghostly realm. Over the years, I have learned that many locals claim the area is haunted. Stories of spectral figures wandering through the mist, knocking on doors, or whispering names are common lore. Back then, I wasn’t sure if I believed in ghosts, but those nights in Mussourie made me wonder—what if?
Even today, when I recall my experience, I shiver. Mussourie, with its hauntingly beautiful mist, remains etched in my mind not just as a place of scenic wonders but as a place where reality bends and the supernatural whispers. Would I return? Perhaps. But only if I muster the courage to face the ghostly mist again.
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To be Continued.
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