There is an old road near Shimla that many people avoid after sunset.
If you ask local taxi drivers about it, some will smile and change the subject. Some will tell you that the road is too narrow.
At the end of that road stands an old building called Charleville Lodge. It is not on travel websites. No signboards are showing the way. But every few years, someone finds it. And every few years, someone disappears.
Harry was twenty-eight years old. He worked as a travel photographer from Delhi. He loved forgotten places more than famous tourist spots. His social media page was full of old forts, empty schools, abandoned railway stations, and broken churches.
He believed the best stories were hidden where nobody wanted to go.
He found this one in a tea shop on Mall Road. Rain was hitting the tin roof hard. An old man sat down next to him without asking.
“You’re the photographer,” the man said.
“I am.”
“You like abandoned places?”
“I do.”
The old man watched the rain for a while, then spoke. “There is one place you should never visit.” That sentence made Harry interested immediately.
“What place?”
The old man lowered his voice. “Charleville Lodge.” Harry searched the name on his phone. Nothing found. Only a few old newspaper scans appeared. One headline caught his attention. “Three tourists missing after entering abandoned colonial lodge.” The report was almost twenty years old. No bodies had ever been found. The police closed the case.
Harry looked back at the old man.
“Where is this lodge?”
The old man stood up.
“You are asking the wrong question.”
“What should I ask?”
He looked straight into Harry’s eyes. “You should ask why nobody comes back.”
Then he walked away.
That night Harry could not sleep. By morning he had already decided. He would find the lodge.
After asking several locals, one taxi driver finally agreed to take him. But only until the beginning of the old forest road.
The driver started the engine. After an hour, they reached a broken stone milestone covered with moss. The driver stopped. “The road starts here.”
Harry looked ahead. A narrow path disappeared into thick pine trees. Fog covered everything. Harry started walking to the Charleville Lodge
The walk took almost forty minutes. The forest was strangely quiet. No birds. No insects. Only the sound of his shoes touching wet leaves. Then he saw an old three-storey building standing between the trees.
Its white walls had turned grey. Most windows were broken. The roof was covered with moss. A rusted iron gate still stood in front. Above it was an old wooden board.
CHARLEVILLE LODGE
The letters were almost gone. Harry smiled. “This is perfect.” He took out his camera. The building looked beautiful in a sad way. Every photo felt like it belonged in another century.
Inside, the air smelled of old wood and rain. Furniture lay broken across the floor. Paint peeled from every wall. Dust covered everything. Yet something felt strange. There were no spider webs. No animal footprints. It looked empty. But not abandoned. As if someone cleaned it every day.
Harry’s footsteps echoed through the hallway. At the end stood an old reception desk. Behind it rested a thick leather book. He opened it.
It was a guest register.
The first pages were from 1912: names, dates, room numbers. Everything looked normal. But on the last page. The handwriting changed. The ink looked fresh.
The last entry was dated…
Three days ago.
Harry’s smile disappeared. The name read…
Mohit Sharma – Delhi
Below it…
Room 17
Harry frowned.
How could someone write in an abandoned lodge only three days earlier? He searched online. There was no signal.
A loud sound came from upstairs. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Harry called out. “Hello?”
No answer. He climbed the stairs. The sound stopped. Every room upstairs stood open and Empty. Except one, Room No. 17.
Its door was closed. The brass number still hung outside the room.
Harry entered the room. The room looked untouched, a bed, a wooden chair, a fireplace, a suitcase, fresh clothes, a camera.
Someone had been living there.
The camera battery still worked. He opened the photos. The first pictures showed mountains, then forests, then the lodge.
While staring into the camera, he suddenly had the unsettling feeling that a woman was standing behind him, beside the window.
Harry slowly turned around. The window behind him was empty. Nothing. Only fog. He laughed nervously. “Just a reflection.”
He packed his equipment. As he reached the hallway… The front door slammed shut downstairs. The sound echoed through the building.
He ran down the stairs. The door would not move. It felt locked from the outside. He pushed harder. Then someone knocked. From the other side. Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Hello! Please help!” Harry said
Then another three knocks. This time from behind him. Inside the lodge. He turned around. The hallway was empty.
Darkness arrived faster than expected.
The fog outside became so thick that even the windows turned white.
His flashlight began to flicker. He became lost inside a building he had explored only an hour before.
Then…
He smelled fresh food. Chicken curry. Rice. Warm bread. The smell came from the dining hall.
Impossible.
He followed it. The room was no longer empty. A long dining table stood ready. Candles burned brightly. Plates were filled with hot food. Around the table sat people. At least twenty of them. All wearing old clothes. Nobody spoke. Every person stared at Harry.
An old woman smiled.
“You are late.”
Another man pulled out a chair. “We have been waiting.”
Harry stepped backwards. “I don’t belong here.”
The old woman shook her head. “Everyone says that on their first night.”
He ran. The people never chased him. They simply watched him leave. He reached the reception again. The guest register still lay open.
Only now…
A new page had appeared. At the bottom…
Fresh wet ink slowly wrote by itself.
Harry Verma – Delhi. Below it… Room 18
His hands began shaking.
“No…”
He wiped the ink away. The letters disappeared, for a second, then they slowly returned. As if invisible fingers were writing them again.
Midnight arrived.
A loud bell rang somewhere inside the lodge. Every door opened together. The sound echoed through every hallway. Then footsteps. Hundreds of footsteps. People walked outside their rooms. Harry hid behind the reception desk. He watched them pass. Children. British Soldiers. Hotel workers.
Tourists wearing clothes from different years. A woman carried a mobile phone. A little boy held a toy from the 1980s. An elderly man wore modern trekking shoes. People from different generations. Walking together. All silent. All expressionless.
All moving toward the dining hall. One man suddenly stopped. He looked directly at Harry. It was the photographer from Room 17.
His eyes were empty. His skin looked pale. He smiled.
“You should come.”
“No.”
“You checked in.”
“I never did.”
The man slowly raised his hand.
“You entered.”
The lights went out. Complete darkness. Harry ran without thinking. His shoulder hit walls. His hands found another door. It opened. Cold wind rushed inside. The forest. He escaped. He ran downhill as fast as he could. Branches cut his face. His legs burned. He never looked back.
At sunrise, he reached the main road. The taxi driver was waiting. His face turned white. “You survived.”
Harry could not speak. He simply nodded. They drove straight to Shimla. He never told anyone what happened. No interviews. No videos. No photographs. He deleted every picture. Or at least… He believed he did.
Months passed.
Life slowly became normal again. But strange things started happening. Every morning he found pine leaves on his bedroom floor. His clothes smelled of old wood. Sometimes he woke with mud on his shoes. Even though he had not left home. At exactly midnight…
He heard three knocks. Always. Knock. Knock. Knock. When he opened the door…
Nobody was there.
One day Harry received a parcel. There was no sender’s name. Inside was an old photograph. It showed Charleville Lodge. Standing at the entrance were dozens of guests. They all smiled at the camera. Harry’s heart stopped. He recognised some faces. The old woman. The photographer. The British officer. The little boy. Then he noticed the last person. Standing in the second row. Wearing the same jacket he owned. Holding the same camera.
It was him.
The photo had turned yellow with age. On the back someone had written in faded ink. Annual Guests – Summer, 1936
He rushed to the police. First they thought it was a prank. Experts examined the photograph. The paper. The chemicals. The ink. Everything was authentic. It really was from 1936. Nobody could explain how Harry appeared in it.
He stopped sleeping. Stopped working. Stopped leaving his apartment after sunset. But every night… The knocking continued.
A year later, Harry disappeared.
His apartment door was locked from inside. His wallet. Phone. Laptop. Everything remained untouched. Only one thing was missing. That old photograph. The police searched for weeks. No trace. Eventually, the case was closed.
Just another missing person.
