It was not winter, but the weather still gave me chills. Hill stations are mostly cold, irrespective of the season. It was sometime in August, when I first made my way to George Everest House in Mussoorie, Uttarakhand. It is one of the least explored gems in the mountains of Mussoorie. I had heard tales of paranormal acts and uneasy silences around the house before but nothing quite prepares you for experiencing a place like this in person. I am a curious traveller and was waiting for an opportunity to explore which I got with some local mountain friends I had made.
This is the house where George Everest, a British surveyor and geographer, once lived.
Must have been a happy house then. He also served as the Surveyor General of India in the 19th century. Not many must be aware of the fact that the ‘Word’s highest peak’, Mt. Everest is named after him for his contribution in the field. Despite being such a historic place, the place got neglected and isolation took over which gave birth to all haunting tales and other negative narration. Local and tourists alike claim strange and unexplained sounds, and an unsettling negativity around the home.
We began early in the morning because honestly, you want to avoid such places after sunset. My local friends had agreed to trek with me. We managed as far as possible on a scooty but after a point the path was completely broken and slippery. So we decided to trek the remaining path, which was quiet (pin drop silence), almost eerily so. The fog clung low to the ground, the air was chilly, but it was also beautiful, a different kind of peace lingered.
Mist was playing a slow game of hide-and-seek.
Slowly, the house finally emerged. First a vague outline, then battered walls, covered in green algae and then there it was, George Everest House in a fragile condition. It stood there all alone. The house was in a bad shape, almost crumbling, weathered and looked as if time had paused around it. Yet it stood firmly on the edge of the Everest mountain.
The whole area was almost deserted. Just a few cows lounged lazily close to the structure, unbothered by the cold or the legends.
In one corner, there was a small but warm shop where sat an old uncle selling Maggi, chai, and other essentials. His little setup felt so comforting against the darkness and cold. He had a radio with him which looked older than time itself.
Close to the cows was a bench, wet with morning dew. After wiping it down, I sat on the edge of the house, taking it all in and thinking about the history of such a historic house. Stepping inside, I felt as if no one had been here in ages.
Spider webs stretched across corners, it was dusty, there were a few bats too. Despite all this, the house was not scary in a conventional manner. Had the weather been sunny, it might have looked only abandoned nothing else. But the fog, mist and cold together made it like the set of a haunted movie.
Since we three were the only visitors, the Maggi uncle casually told some of these stories. He spoke of visitors who felt watched and hearing strange sounds.
But he himself looked unbothered and absolutely chill.
At a distance, I noticed another man. An old uncle, alone. Must be in his 70s, sitting quietly. He was well-dressed and polished. Looking at him, I wondered how he had managed to trek all the way up at his age. Curiosity got me, and I walked over to him.
His English was flawless. After a gentle greet, I asked him if he had ever experienced anything paranormal here. He smiled gently and said, “People say that there’s something paranormal here.
I come here every morning and sit till evening. I never saw or felt anything. But who knows? Mountains hide many secrets. These are old, and they have seen what we would never know. ” With that, he stood up and walked away, quite abruptly.
I came back to Maggi uncle. As he prepared chai and Maggi, I asked him about the old man. The uncle looked in the direction, took a pause, and then quietly told us his story.
He told us that it was a local man who lived nearby. He comes here sometime.
Years ago, he had lost his wife and young daughter in a bike accident in these very mountains. Now he had relatives who took care of him.
At that moment, the true meaning of “haunted” shifted for me. It wasn’t the house. It was grief. It was a loss. It was a man carrying memories heavier than any ghost story.
We left after a few hours, but the old uncle stayed behind, seated near the valley looking into nothingness, waiting for those who would never come back. About a year later, I returned to George Everest for a picnic with friends. The Maggi uncle was still there, his radio still playing. The house still stood. But the old man was missing. No one knew where he was.
