"The Mist of Coorg: A Horror Travelogue"

Day 1: Arrival

The road to Coorg twisted through the dense forests, where sunlight barely kissed the earth. My excitement at visiting the famed hill station slowly waned as the car climbed higher, the mist thickening with every turn. By the time I reached the secluded homestay I'd booked, the mist had swallowed the world whole, leaving only a narrow path to the entrance.

The house was ancient, built in a colonial style with tall windows and creaking wooden floors. The owner, an elderly man with a face as weathered as the hills, handed me a key. His hands trembled slightly as he muttered, “Stay inside after dark. The mist… it plays tricks.”

I laughed nervously, but his words lingered. I brushed them aside as mere local superstition, excited to explore the estate. The homestay was surrounded by coffee plantations and dense woods, which, under the daylight, seemed to invite adventure.

As night fell, the atmosphere shifted. The house, so charming by day, felt oppressive. Shadows pooled in corners, and the wind howled through the gaps in the windows. The mist outside thickened, pressing against the glass like it wanted to enter. I locked the doors, suddenly eager for morning.

Day 2: Exploration

The morning brought a false sense of security. The mist had receded, revealing a beautiful landscape. I spent the day exploring the coffee plantations, their aroma mingling with the fresh scent of earth. The locals were friendly, though they spoke in hushed tones about the night before. They warned me again, saying the mist was cursed, that it held spirits of those lost in the hills.

As the day wore on, I found myself drawn to a particular trail that led deep into the forest. The further I walked, the more the trees seemed to close in around me. The light dimmed, though it was still midday. The forest grew eerily quiet, the only sound being the crunch of leaves under my feet.

I stumbled upon an old, abandoned temple. It was covered in vines, its stone walls cracked and weathered. A shiver ran down my spine as I stepped closer. There was an overwhelming sense of being watched. The air was thick, and suddenly, the mist rolled in, unnaturally fast.

I turned to leave but found the path I had come by was gone. Panic set in as I realized I was lost. The mist grew denser, and strange whispers filled the air. They were indistinct at first, like wind through leaves, but soon they formed words in a language I couldn't understand. The temperature dropped, and a figure emerged from the mist—a woman, her face obscured by a tattered veil, her hands outstretched toward me.

I ran. I didn’t stop until I burst out of the forest, breathless and terrified. The locals watched me with pity as I returned to the homestay, their eyes full of unspoken understanding.

Day 3: Descent into Terror

That night, the mist crept into the house. I locked the doors and windows, but it seeped through the cracks, filling the rooms with its cold, damp presence. The whispers returned, closer this time, more insistent. The house groaned as if it were alive, shifting and settling in the darkness.

I tried to sleep, but the feeling of being watched persisted. Every shadow seemed to pulse with malevolence. Around midnight, I heard footsteps in the hallway. They were slow, deliberate. I held my breath, too terrified to move.

The footsteps stopped outside my door. A soft knock followed—a woman’s voice, sweet and sorrowful, calling my name. I bolted upright, my heart hammering in my chest. I hadn’t told anyone my name.

I stood frozen, staring at the door as it slowly creaked open. The mist poured in, and with it, the figure from the forest. Her veil lifted, revealing hollow eyes that bore into my soul. I backed away, but the room was small, and soon I was pressed against the wall. The figure glided closer, her cold breath on my face, and whispered something that made my blood run cold: “You belong to the mist now.”

I screamed and bolted out of the room, racing down the stairs and out of the house. The mist outside was alive, swirling and shifting as if it had a mind of its own. I ran blindly through it, the whispers chasing me until I could run no more.

Day 4: Escape

When morning came, I found myself at the edge of the forest, covered in mud and scratches, my clothes torn. The mist had finally lifted, but the terror lingered. I knew I couldn’t stay another night in Coorg.

I hastily packed my belongings and left the homestay, the old man’s sorrowful eyes following me as I drove away. The road out of Coorg seemed longer, the trees more twisted, and the air colder.

Even now, as I write this from the safety of my home, I can still hear the whispers in the dead of night. The mist, it seems, is not bound to Coorg alone. It followed me, and sometimes, I swear, I see that figure in the corner of my eye, waiting for the mist to reclaim what it has marked.

So if you ever find yourself in Coorg, heed the locals’ warnings. The mist is more than just weather—it is a gateway to something far more sinister, something that doesn’t let go.