I usually laughed off ghost stories — until one freezing night in West Sikkim changed everything

My first trip to Sikkim happened a few years ago, in the middle of February. I still remember stepping out into that mountain air and immediately feeling like my lungs were confused.

Coming from Delhi, I was used to dust, traffic, smoke, and the general feeling that your respiratory system is constantly fighting for survival. Sikkim’s air, on the other hand, felt so clean and sharp that it almost hurt my chest.Everything about the state felt strangely perfect. The roads were spotless. Locals didn’t honk unless absolutely necessary. Nobody seemed interested in creating chaos for attention. Marketplaces would be packed with tourists and residents alike, yet there was this quiet rhythm to everything.

Even the busiest places felt calm. And then there was Mount Kanchenjunga — always there in the background, towering over everything like a silent god watching the state go about its day.I was completely sold on Sikkim within days.Then I visited Pelling in West Sikkim.

Now, I’m one of those people who firmly believes that some trips are better without plans. I know seasoned travellers hate hearing that. “Research properly,” they say.

“Book everything in advance.” Maybe they’re right. But sometimes, some of the best travel stories happen because you didn’t plan anything at all.Or the worst ones.I reached Pelling on an absurdly beautiful afternoon. If you’ve been there, you’ll know this already: no matter where you stand, Kanchenjunga somehow follows you. From roads, cafés, balconies, random street corners — the mountain is everywhere. It almost feels staged.My taxi driver, who had unofficially promoted himself to guide, insisted he knew “a perfect quiet place” for me to stay. Naturally, I agreed immediately, and till date I regret nothing.The homestay was far from the touristy parts of Pelling. We drove deeper into a forested stretch, farther away from shops, crowds, and civilisation. The paved road disappeared at some point and turned into a rough gravel track. Dense trees surrounded us on both sides.

Mobile network vanished.

Then suddenly, we reached a clearing.Right in the middle of the forest stood the prettiest little cottage-style guesthouse I had ever seen. Prayer flags fluttered all around the property, white against the dark green forest backdrop. Smoke curled gently out of a kitchen chimney somewhere. The place looked like something out of a film.“This is beautiful,” I remember thinking.And honestly, it really was.To my surprise, there were already a few travellers staying there. We exchanged the usual traveller small talk within minutes of meeting — where are you from, how long are you staying, have you been to Gangtok yet, etc. Someone handed me a tumbler of local chhang, the traditional millet beer that Sikkim somehow manages to make both comforting and dangerous at the same time.The evening became unexpectedly wonderful.As night fell, the cold intensified rapidly. Mountain nights arrive early anyway, but February in West Sikkim felt particularly unforgiving. Soon, all of us were gathered around a bonfire outside, wrapped in jackets and shawls, drinking more chhang than we probably should have. Dinner was simple but incredible — organic vegetables, warm rice, local curries, all cooked fresh.By 8 pm, everyone was ready to sleep.Yes. 8 pm.Hill stations operate on old people's timing.I went to my room feeling pleasantly exhausted. The room itself looked cozy enough — wooden interiors, thick curtains, a room heater already switched on. I changed quickly and crawled under two heavy blankets expecting instant comfort.It never came.An hour passed, and I was still freezing.Not regular cold. Not “winter in Delhi” cold. This was the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and quietly settles there.

I could feel it in my hands, my feet, even my jaw. Eventually, I called the reception and asked for another blanket and an extra blower heater.

A caretaker arrived, handed me both without much conversation, and left.Now buried under layers like a human burrito, I finally relaxed a little. By then it was close to 11 pm. Sleep still refused to arrive, so I called a friend back home in Delhi.About fifteen minutes into the call, I heard it. A soft knocking sound.

From the window. I stopped speaking immediately. “What happened?” my friend asked.Before I could answer, the sound came again. Not loud. Just… deliberate. Like someone lightly tapping the glass.I screamed.My friend screamed because I screamed.We immediately began doing what every rational human does at night in a remote forest — aggressively convincing ourselves it was definitely just wind.Maybe a branch. Maybe loose wood. Maybe literally anything else.

We continued talking, though now both of us were extremely alert. Then came the second sound.Outside my room, clear as day, something dragged across the ground.A plastic chair.If you’re Indian, you know the exact sound a plastic Neelkamal chair makes when someone drags it instead of lifting it. That awful scraping noise. Long. Slow. Impossible to mistake.That’s exactly what I heard. Not once. Continuously.At first, I was annoyed more than scared.“Why is this caretaker rearranging furniture at midnight?” I whispered into the phone.But the sound kept going. Slow scrape. Pause. Slow scrape again. It did not sound random. It did not sound like wind.And by this point, I was fully awake. The alcohol had worn off hours ago. I was mid-conversation with another person. I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t half-asleep.I don’t remember when I finally passed out, but morning arrived with sunlight, birdsong, and me feeling deeply irritated.

Mostly because the room heater had been useless.I walked downstairs for breakfast determined to complain about the freezing room. The other travellers from the adjacent room were already seated outside enjoying tea.“Did you guys sleep properly last night?” I asked casually. “My room was unbelievably cold.”They looked confused.“What are you talking about?” one of them said. “Our room was warm. We used just one blanket each.”

I remember going quiet immediately.Then I brought up the chair.“Also, why was the caretaker dragging chairs around so late at night?”Both of them stared at me blankly.“We were awake till late,” one replied slowly. “Our window was open. We didn’t hear anything.”Something in my stomach dropped. I didn’t say much after that.Even today, years later, people have their own explanations for that night. Some say old wooden cottages make strange sounds in extreme cold. Others say high altitudes, isolation, alcohol, silence, and imagination can create powerful illusions.Maybe. But I know what I heard.And to this day, whenever someone tells me ghost stories from the mountains, I don’t laugh as confidently as I used to.