scary short stories to read My Twin Sister Vanished for Three Days and Came Back Terrifyingly Different

Why I’m Saying This Now

I’ve tried not to tell this story for a long time. Not because I forgot it because I can’t. I’ve just learned that when you say something out loud, it becomes more real. It stops being the thing you can shove into a dark corner of your brain and ignore.

My Twin Sister

But it’s already real. And it’s still here, in a way. My twin sister Mara vanished for three days. When she came back, everyone around me acted like we should be grateful and move on, like that’s how these things work. Like the end of a missing-person story is automatically a happy ending. It wasn’t. Her name is Mara. I’m Mina. Identical twins. Same face, same voice, the whole thing. People used to say it must be fun. They used to joke about one of us being the evil one. I don’t laugh at that anymore.

The Last Time Everything Felt Normal

It was winter. Not the pretty kind either. Just gray sky, dead trees, cold that sneaks under the door and sits in the corners of the house. Mara was in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, scrolling her phone like she always did when she was bored. She kept chewing at her thumb, which she also always did, and I remember thinking, God, stop, you’re going to make it bleed again.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said. I barely looked up. “Dinner in an hour.” She nodded. Then she looked at me like really looked and for a second her eyes went kind of blank. Like she’d lost her place in a sentence. Then she smiled. “Yeah. An hour.” She walked out without her jacket. That should’ve been the moment I got up. Mara hated the cold. She complained about it constantly. But I didn’t move. I just listened to the door close and the lock click. That click sticks with me. It’s stupid, but it does.

The First Night: Waiting, Then Panic

An hour passed. Two. I texted her. Where are you? Nothing. I called. It rang and rang until her voicemail picked up. Her voice was cheerful on the recording too cheerful, the way people sound when they know it’s just a greeting: “Leave it. I might listen.” By then it was fully dark outside. The kitchen lights reflected off the window like black glass. I kept staring out, waiting to see her come up the path, her arms crossed over her chest, annoyed at herself for forgetting her coat.

But the driveway stayed empty. Dad went out in the car, driving around like that would fix it. Mom started doing this frantic tidying thing wiping counters that were already clean, folding dish towels. I think she needed her hands to do something or she’d fall apart. Around midnight we called the police.

They asked those questions that feel insulting even when they aren’t: Did she run away? Drugs? Boyfriend? Mental health issues? Was there a fight? What was she wearing? I told them she left without a jacket and my voice cracked on that. I don’t know why that detail hit me the hardest, but it did. It felt like proof. Proof she didn’t plan it.

Day Two: When Everyone Starts Looking at You

Morning was worse, because you expect night to be scary. Morning is supposed to calm things down. It didn’t. It just made everything sharp and bright and wrong. The police took the report. People started searching the trails behind our neighborhood. Someone made flyers. Someone posted on local Facebook groups. Suddenly Mara’s face was everywhere. And because we’re identical, my face was everywhere too. That’s when things started getting… weird. Not supernatural yet. Just the kind of weird that makes your stomach tighten.

A woman in the grocery store grabbed my wrist and started crying, saying, “Oh thank God, you’re safe.” I pulled my arm back so fast it hurt. “I’m not her.” She stared at me like I’d tricked her on purpose. Like it was my fault my face looked like my sister’s. After that, I couldn’t go anywhere without feeling watched. Every person who glanced at me felt like a threat, even though they weren’t. I kept thinking: What if someone sees Mara out there and assumes it’s me? What if she’s standing right in front of someone and they just… let her walk past? That night I had this dream about a door in the woods. Not attached to anything. Just a doorframe, standing between trees like someone dropped it there. Mara was on the other side, whispering my name, but her voice kept slipping away like radio static.

Scary stories to read in the dark: “Beyond The Dyatlov Pass Incident and the Mystery It Caused” click to uncover the chilling details that science still can’t explain.

Day Three: The Call

At 3:073:07 a.m. my phone rang. Unknown number. I answered without thinking. “Hello?”
At first it was just breathing. Slow and close, like whoever it was had the phone right against their mouth. Then I heard this dragging sound, like fabric scraping against something rough. Bark, maybe. Wood. “Mina,” a voice said. It was Mara’s voice. But… not right. Not like she was hurt, exactly. Just flat. Like the emotion had been drained out and left behind.

“Mara?” I sat up. My heart was pounding so hard I felt sick. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
Silence. Then tapping. Three taps. A pause. Three taps again. Like a pattern. Like it meant something.
“Mara, talk to me,” I said, and I hate how desperate I sounded. “Please.” And she said, clear as day, “Don’t open it.” I just sat there. “Don’t open what?”

There was this tiny sound almost a laugh, but wrong, like someone trying to imitate a laugh without understanding it. Then she said, “Don’t open it, Mina. I tried.” The call ended. I stared at my phone until the screen went dark. My room felt too small, like the walls had shifted closer while I was asleep. I kept looking at my closet door. I don’t even know why. I just couldn’t stop. In the morning we tried calling the number back. It didn’t exist.

She Came Home Barefoot

Mara came back that afternoon. She didn’t come back with the police or a search group or anything. She just walked up the driveway like she’d been out for a quick errand. No jacket. No phone. No shoes.
Her feet were filthy, like she’d walked through mud and leaves for miles. There were pine needles stuck to her skin. Her lips were cracked. Her hair looked… not messy exactly, but like it had been brushed by wind over and over again.

Mom ran to her, crying, saying her name like it was a prayer. Dad grabbed her too. I stayed on the porch because my body was doing that thing where you feel frozen but also buzzing, like you could bolt.
Mara didn’t hug back right away. She just stood there for a beat, arms slightly lifted like she was waiting for instructions. “It’s okay,” she said. Her voice was calm. Too calm.

Mom pulled back and started asking questions all at once. Where were you, are you hurt, what happened, we thought you were dead “I’m here,” Mara said. “It’s okay.” Dad asked if she’d been harmed. Mara blinked slowly. “No.” Then she looked at me and smiled. That smile made my skin crawl. It looked like a smile someone learned from watching other people. “Hi, Mina,” she said. “Hi,” I managed. She studied my face like she was trying to match it to a memory. Then she said, “You’re the loud one.” I felt my stomach drop. “What?”

Because Mara was the loud one. That was the joke our whole lives. Mara talked to strangers. Mara made friends in five minutes. I was the quiet one. Her getting it wrong felt like someone swapping a single word in a sentence you’ve known forever. It’s small, but it ruins everything.

The Answers That Weren’t Answers

She wouldn’t tell us where she’d been. Where were you? “Outside.” Were you alone? “No.” Who was with you? “It’s okay.” We took her to the hospital. They checked her over and said her vitals were fine. Mild dehydration. Scratches that looked like thorns. No drugs. No head injury. The doctor asked if she’d been exposed to freezing temperatures.

Mara said, completely serious, “It wasn’t cold there.” “There?” I repeated without meaning to.
Mara turned toward me. Her eyes looked too bright, like they were reflecting light that wasn’t in the room. “You wouldn’t like it,” she said, softly. Not mean. More like… warning me. Back at home, she walked through the house like she was visiting. She stopped at family photos and stared too long. When she found a picture of us as kids arms around each other, laughing she frowned and touched the glass.

“That’s not right,” she murmured. Mom asked what she meant. Mara blinked. “Nothing.” That night I heard her talking in her room. Not crying. Not on the phone. Just low murmuring like she was having a conversation with someone sitting in the dark with her. And then the tapping started again. Three taps. Pause. Three taps. I held my breath and pressed my ear to the wall. The tapping stopped instantly.
Then, from her room, Mara said, “Mina?” My mouth went dry. “Yeah?” A pause. Then: “Don’t open it.”

The Closet Door

The next day I noticed her hands. Dirt under her nails, packed in deep, almost black. And faint bruises around her knuckles, like she’d been knocking on something hard for a long time. Around noon I found her standing in the hallway staring at our coat closet. The door was cracked open. She didn’t turn when I approached. She just said, “It’s smaller here.” “What are you doing?” I asked. “Listening,” she said.

“Listening for what?” She finally looked at me, and for a second her face flickered fear, real fear like she was about to admit something. “I can hear it,” she whispered. “Still trying.” “Trying to do what?”
Her expression smoothed out again. That practiced calm snapped back into place. “To come through,” she said. The closet door creaked wider. Slow. Like it was being pulled from the inside. And then I heard breathing from inside the closet. Not a mouse. Not a draft. Breathing deep and patient, like something waiting.

Mara’s head jerked toward the closet and she hissed, “Don’t look in there.” Of course I tried anyway. My feet moved before my brain agreed. Mara grabbed my wrist. Her hand was ice-cold, and her grip was way too strong. It hurt. She leaned close to my ear and whispered, “It knows you’re the easier one.”
My voice shook. “What does?” Her fingers dug in harder. “It learned my face,” she said. “Now it wants yours.”

The closet made this tiny clicking sound, like a lock turning gently from the inside. Like something getting ready. I yanked back and Mara let go immediately, like touching me had been a mistake. The closet door eased shut again, slow and careful, like it didn’t want to spook us. From the kitchen, Mom called out, cheerful like she was forcing normal: “Do you girls want lunch?” Mara turned and smiled, warm and perfect. “Coming!” Then she looked at me, and her lips moved without sound: Don’t open it.

What I Still Hear at Night

It’s been months. Nobody wants to talk about the closet. Nobody wants to talk about how Mara sometimes stares at mirrors like she’s checking if she’s still… lined up right. Nobody wants to talk about the tapping. But I hear it. Three taps. Pause. Three taps. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I swear I hear the closet shift. A soft scrape. A breath. Like something on the other side adjusting itself, getting comfortable. And I keep thinking the same thing until it makes me feel dizzy:

If my twin sister vanished for three days and came back like this… how do I know she’s the one who came back and what happens when whatever followed her finally gets tired of waiting?