I’m a software developer from Bangalore, twenty-eight years old, and I hadn’t taken a proper vacation in three years. My girlfriend Priya finally convinced me we needed to get away, somewhere quiet in the hills. That’s how we ended up booking this cabin in Coorg through some obscure rental website.
The place looked perfect in the photos—traditional Kodava architecture, surrounded by coffee plantations, completely isolated. Exactly what we needed.
We arrived on a Friday evening, just as the sun was setting behind the Western Ghats. Our host, Mr. Sharma, was waiting outside. He was probably in his sixties, pleasant enough, showed us around the cabin with this fixed smile that never quite reached his eyes. I mean, some people are just like that, you know?
“The previous guests just checked out this morning,” he said, handing over the keys. “Lovely couple, much like yourselves.”
His cabin was about fifty meters away, partially hidden by coffee plants and pepper vines. Close enough to see, I noticed, but I didn’t think much of it then. I should have.
The cabin was nicer than expected. Wooden floors, a stone fireplace, large windows overlooking the valley. Priya immediately started unpacking while I explored. That’s when I found the journal.
It was tucked behind a loose floorboard near the bedroom closet—I’d only discovered it because I dropped my phone and it slid underneath. A brown leather notebook, fairly new. The first entry was dated exactly one week ago.
Day 1: Arrived at the cabin in Coorg. The drive from Bangalore took longer than expected. Host seems friendly. Planning to visit Abbey Falls tomorrow.
I frowned. We were planning to visit Abbey Falls tomorrow too. Obviously, it’s a popular spot, I told myself. Coincidence.
I kept reading.
Day 2: Hiked to Abbey Falls. Priya suggested we try the local coffee at that small café in Madikeri—the one with the green awning. She loved their filter coffee.
My stomach tightened. My Priya had mentioned that exact café this morning, the one she’d seen on Instagram. Same name and everything.
“What’s that?” Priya asked, coming into the room.
“Just some journal the previous guests left behind,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Weird that they have the same plans as us.”
She laughed. “Babe, everyone who comes to Coorg does the same stuff. Don’t be paranoid.”
Maybe she was right. I mean, there are only so many things to do in a small hill station, basically.
But I couldn’t stop reading.
Day 3: Rained all day. Stayed in and played cards by the fireplace. Rahul made terrible jokes. I pretended to laugh.
Rahul. That’s my name. My heart started pounding harder.
Day 4: Noticed Mr. Sharma watching our cabin from his window. Probably just checking if we need anything. Still feels strange. Rahul wants to try that restaurant in Virajpet tonight—the one that serves pandi curry.
I hadn’t told Priya about the restaurant yet. I’d only bookmarked it on Google Maps that afternoon.
“Priya,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “Come look at this.”
She read over my shoulder. I watched her expression change from amused to confused to concerned.
“This is… this is really weird,” she whispered.
Day 5: Found a camera in the smoke detector. Started looking around properly. They’re everywhere. Behind picture frames, inside the wall clock, even one in the bathroom vent. Fourteen cameras total. Counted them twice.
Mr. Sharma has been watching everything.
We’re leaving first thing tomorrow. Don’t confront him. Don’t let him know you know.
The entry ended there.
We just stood there, staring at each other. The cabin suddenly felt smaller, the shadows deeper.
“Check the smoke detector,” Priya said.
I pulled over a chair, unscrewed the cover with shaking hands. There it was—a tiny lens, barely visible, still blinking with a small red light.
“Oh god,” Priya breathed. “Oh god, Rahul.”
We found them everywhere. The journal had been right—fourteen cameras in total. In the bedroom, living room, bathroom. All of them live, all of them recording. The one in the bathroom made me want to throw up.
I looked out the window toward Mr. Sharma’s cabin. A light was on. I could see him sitting there, laptop open, watching. When he noticed me looking, he didn’t look away. He just smiled and waved.
That’s when I realized—he knew we’d found the journal. He knew we’d found the cameras. This was part of it. The fear, the discovery, our reactions—he was watching all of it. Maybe the previous couple had never left. Maybe there were no previous guests at all.
“We need to leave. Right now,” I said.
Priya was already grabbing our bags. We didn’t bother packing properly, just threw everything in. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip my car keys.
As we rushed toward the door, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
The road washes out after heavy rain. You’ll have to stay one more night.
I looked outside. It had started raining. Not just raining—pouring. The kind of rain that turns dirt roads into rivers in the hills.
Another text: Don’t worry. I have everything you need.
Through the window, I could see Mr. Sharma standing on his porch now, still watching, still smiling. He raised his phone and waved it at us.
“Screw the rain,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
The drive down was terrifying. The road was already flooding, mud sliding onto the path. I drove too fast, hydroplaning around curves, Priya gripping the dashboard and praying under her breath. About halfway down, we lost cell service completely. The rain was so heavy I could barely see.
It took us two hours to reach the main road. Two hours of checking the rearview mirror, expecting to see his car following us. But we made it.
We drove straight through the night back to Bangalore. I didn’t stop shaking until we reached our apartment building, and even then, I couldn’t sleep.
We filed a police report the next day, but when the local police went to investigate, they said the cabin was empty. Mr. Sharma was gone. No cameras, no laptop, no journal. The property records showed the cabin had been abandoned for two years.
I still have nightmares about it. To this day, I check hotel rooms for cameras, cover my laptop webcam, avoid rental properties completely. Priya and I broke up three months later—we couldn’t look at each other without remembering.
Sometimes I wonder about the journal. About the couple who supposedly wrote it. Whether they existed at all, or if Mr. Sharma created it, predicting our exact movements based on everyone who came before us.
Looking back, I realize the worst part wasn’t the cameras. It was knowing that he’d been watching people for so long that he could predict exactly what they’d do, exactly what they’d say, exactly how they’d react when they found out.
We were never unique. We were just another performance in his collection.
I wish I had never found that journal. I wish I’d trusted my instincts when I first saw his smile.
But mostly, I wish I knew whether he’s still out there, watching someone else, writing in another journal about another couple who thinks they’re on vacation.
Because somewhere in India, there’s a cabin in the hills. And someone just checked in.
