Having devoured W Somerset Maugham's short stories set in the rolling green hills of tea gardens and colonial townhouses atop bustling hill stations, I've always pictured myself one day walking along those very hills, a heroine in my own story. Growing up, I'd loved reading about these hill stations and the simplicity of life in the scenic hills. History has it that these hill stations were a popular choice for colonial officers in British India to escape the scorching heat of the harsh Indian summers. Not much has changed, it seems, as flocks of tourists travel to this gem of a place to experience the cool climate and revel in the majestic views of the Kangchenjunga.

One fine day, I decided to make my dreams a reality.

We fly from Dhaka to Kolkata on an early morning flight. There's something about driving through Dhaka city on a crisp, fresh winter morning as the otherwise bustling city is rising from sleep. Our plane is a cute, narrow, single aisle Bombardier Q400. The plane lands on time at Kolkata airport and we have several hours to kill before boarding our next flight to Darjeeling. Our itinerary calls for one night in Kalimpong enroute to Darjeeling the following afternoon.

We reach our boutique hotel at midnight. Kalimpong is a small town, 4100 feet above sea level. It is dark, silent, and freezing when our car arrives at the hotel after a long five-hour drive from Bagdogra Airport due to the slow moving traffic on account of the holiday season and puja festival. The staff has fallen asleep thinking we aren't coming after repeated attempts to contact us—there was no reception in the hills, and my roaming had dropped off. 

Apologetically, we wake the staff up to check us in. They are courteous enough when we ask if they can provide something to eat as we missed dinner. What we didn't account for were the scary bends and a massive convoy of army tankers crossing these narrow roads, forcing all traffic to come to a standstill. Traffic moves in both directions, so requesting the driver to "please slow down" or "drive safe" are met with a "trust us, ma'am, we've had 20 years of experience driving on these roads" followed by a hearty chuckle. I silently tried to remember all the prayers I'd learnt as a child and reluctantly placed all my trust on the skilful hands of our driver. The sharp turns and bends, the slowing down and speeding up every time a big truck or bus came from the opposite direction, the confident driving in the sometimes pitch dark and foggy roads—we'd gone through it all. Fortunately, we arrived in one piece, just a little shaken and a lot stirred. 

We descend numerous steps from the top of the hill to enter our cottage. With a wraparound verandah, it is a little secluded from the rest of the property. The cottage with its timber walls and flooring and antique furniture is nestled among a multitude of trees near a rainforest, facing the majestic mountains. A glass and timber sliding door leads to a smaller balcony with cushioned armchairs, perfect for a cup of tea and a book in the mornings, and the view of the forest and the mountains around us is shrouded by the hushed darkness of the night. In sub-zero temperatures, the simple dinner of rice, chicken curry, and dal is a warm embrace.

There is absolute stillness in the surroundings, dead silence, save for our voices and a dog barking in the distance, almost crying like it is in pain. It is a little eerie, but serene and quiet; we're one with nature. With only the chirping crickets as company, we fall into a deep slumber, the only disturbance being the continuous barking of the dog, miles away.

I don't know what wakes me up in the middle of the night, though it may be the dog still barking. Only this time, it is louder, and the whining has turned into sharp, angry barks, almost as if the dog is right outside the cottage door. The husband is sleeping soundly. It is semi-dark, the only light streaming through the cracks in the windows. Suddenly, I hear a loud, blood-curdling, inhuman shriek, and the sound of heavy footsteps running across the verandah. Thud.

The barking intensifies. The dog is definitely outside our door now. A strange feeling of dread washes over me, as if the furious dog will burst through the door any minute now. My heart is pounding a mile a minute, I turn to check the time on my phone on the bedside table. 3 AM. As I turn back, my eyes catch sight of what appears to be hands, but of a tan, furry kind, feeling its way inside the sliding doors of the verandah positioned right across our bed. There is no lock to the sliding doors, which unfortunately is a fact I only realise then. I scream for my husband to wake up.

"There's a monkey, a monkey!" I scream again. "Something! Someone! It's trying to get inside." Hubby awakes in a daze and glances around with bleary eyes. 

Nothing. Absolute stillness. 

The barking has ceased almost immediately. There is no sign of any animal, inside or out. 

Where did it go?

"It's only a dream, go back to sleep." He tries to reassure me by gently patting me back to sleep. 

With one last nervous look around the cottage and heart still pounding, I squeeze my eyes shut and utter a small prayer before falling into a fitful sleep. Of course, not before I stare at the sliding doors for long, tense moments willing whatever it was to resurface. It doesn't.

The first thing I do once I awake the following morning is throw open the curtains to be greeted by lush greenery and a view of the beautiful mountains beyond it. It is so tranquil. No barking dogs, no monkeys. Perfect ambience for some deep meditation.  Then I stop short; the sliding door is slightly ajar.

"The sliding door has been ajar all night," I exclaim. "I clearly remember it was shut when we retired for the night!"

Hubby shakes his head, muttering under his breath, something about an excitement induced overactive imagination.

Hmph. 

Breakfast is a simple affair of aloo dum, puri, and a steaming cup of chai. The delicious goodness of the melt-in-the-mouth aloo and scrumptious puri coupled with the breathtaking view of the snow-clad peak of the Kanchenjunga from the dining room is the perfect antidote to a stressful night of sleep.

After breakfast, while strolling around the garden, we meet the manager who enquires if we are enjoying our stay. I ask him about the dog barking all night and if wild monkeys are a common sight in this area. Did the dog belong to the property or to the neighbours? Funnily there is no sign of any dogs during our morning stroll.

"Dog?" The manager frowns. "Monkey? We have neither ma'am." 

Hubby tsk-tsks at me as we climb up a hill to admire the scenery. Enraptured by the mountain and the valley below, I only manage to scrunch my nose and roll my eyes.

On our way back to our cottage, we hear a commotion at the reception. 

"There was a break-in last night," one of the staff members informs us, noticing our curious expressions. "There are items missing from the office."

"Does this happen often?" I ask.

"No," he sighs. "Kalimpong is a peaceful town, we all know each other here. Must have been someone from out of town."

We murmur condolences and turn to head back to our cottage when the manager rushes towards us. 

"We found this a few metres from your cottage." He holds up his hand to show us the offending item. 

A glove.

Of the tan, furry kind.

Nabilah Khan is a writer based in Sydney, Australia.