A romantic getaway turns into a nightmare
The mist in Shimla is famous. It rolls down from the Himalayas, soft and white, hiding the ancient pine trees and colonial rooftops. But sometimes, it hides other things. This is not a love story. This is a horror story that happened to my friends, Mohan and Priya.
It started with a music box.
They found it in a dusty corner of a Shimla antique shop. It was beautiful, old, with a carved figure of a dancing girl on top. Priya, with her love for old things, had to have it. Mohan, ever the practical one from Delhi, just laughed and paid the shopkeeper, an old man with milky eyes who simply nodded, saying nothing.
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| The mystery behind music box is bone-chilling. |
That night, in their rented cottage on the outskirts of town, Priya opened the box.
A slow, tinkling tune began to play. It was a melody they didn’t recognize, sad and slightly off-key.
And then, the first knock came.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The first knock on the window
It was soft, on their living room window. Mohan jumped up, thinking it was a branch. But there was no tree near that window. The mist outside was thick, swallowing the world in a silent, white blanket. They saw nothing.
The next night, it happened again. The music box, though closed, seemed to play its tune on its own for a few seconds. And the knock returned. This time, it was louder.
Tap. TAP. TAP.
Priya screamed. Mohan grabbed a flashlight and shone it at the window.
For a split second, the beam cut through the mist. They saw a pale, gaunt face pressed against the glass. Its eyes were solid black, and its mouth was stretched into a wide, unnatural smile. Then, it was gone.
The horror had begun. The knocks became a nightly ritual, always louder, more violent. They called the police, who found nothing — not even a footprint in the muddy garden.
The local priest they consulted turned pale, muttered about an “attachment,” and refused to help further.
Priya stopped sleeping. She would sit in a corner, rocking back and forth, whispering, “It’s not knocking to get in. It’s knocking to let us know it’s already inside.”
A desperate act | Destroying the evil
Mohan, desperate, decided to destroy the source. He took the music box into the garden, poured kerosene on it, and set it on fire.
As the flames consumed the carved dancer, a horrific, screeching sound echoed from inside the box, not of wood burning, but of something alive and in immense pain.
That night, for the first time, there was silence. No music. No knock. They cried with relief, believing it was over. They were wrong.
It was the last night of their lives.
Exhausted, they fell into a deep sleep on their large bed. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moon through the mist.
The unthinkable truth | It was never outside
The sound that woke Mohan was not a knock. It was a whisper, right next to his ear. It was Priya’s voice, but cold and wrong.
“It found another way in”
Mohan’s eyes snapped open. The room was ice cold. He turned to look at Priya lying beside him.
And that’s when he saw it.
Priya was staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide with terror, a single tear frozen on her cheek.
She was paralysed, unable to move or scream. And crawling over her, its limbs bent at impossible angles, was the thing from the window. Its long, bony fingers were stroking her hair. Its black eyes were fixed on Mohan. That same wide, ripped smile was now inches from his face.
It wasn’t outside. Destroying the box hadn’t banished it. It had severed its tether to the object, allowing it to fully manifest inside the house. Inside them.
Mohan tried to scream, but no sound came out. He was frozen too, trapped in his own body. The creature slowly turned its head from Priya to him. It began to crawl over her, its weight not touching the bed, moving through the air like a spider, coming for him.
This was the horrific end. Not a quick death. Not a jump scare. They were awake, aware, and utterly helpless as this ancient evil claimed them.
The police found them the next day. The door was locked from the inside. There were no signs of struggle. No break-in.
Mohan and Priya were both catatonic, lying side-by-side, staring at the ceiling. They were alive, but empty. Shells. Their minds were gone, shattered by a horror they could not escape.
The doctors in Delhi have no explanation. They call it a shared psychotic episode.
But I know the truth. I went to that cottage before it was sealed. I stood in that room.
And in the dead silence, if you listen very, very carefully, you can still hear it.
A faint, slow, tinkling tune.
Don’t buy antiques from Shimla. You never know what else you’re bringing home.
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