It was a freezing evening, and I was walking my dog, Max, through the woods near my house. The wind howled through the trees, and the ground was slick with frost. Just as I was about to turn back, Max suddenly froze, his ears pricked forward. Then, without warning, he darted into the bushes.
“Max, wait!” I called, my pulse quickening as I hurried after him.
What I saw next made my heart stop.
Two twin girls, no older than nine, were huddled together on a fallen log. They looked identical—pale faces, wide, frightened eyes, and long, tangled hair. They were wearing thin, tattered clothes, completely unsuited for the bitter cold.
My stomach dropped. “Are you okay?” I asked gently.
One of them shook her head. “We live in a shed nearby… Mama left us there… a long time ago.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but her words sent a chill down my spine.
I glanced around, expecting to see someone—anyone—but the forest was empty.
“Where is your mother now?” I asked cautiously.
The other twin simply stared at me, her lips pressed into a thin line.
A wave of unease washed over me. But I couldn’t just leave them here. They were freezing, and from the looks of them, they hadn’t eaten in days.
“Come with me,” I said finally. “You can stay at my place for the night. I’ll make some calls in the morning.”
They didn’t argue. Silently, they stood and followed me home.
Back at my house, I gave them warm clothes, fed them, and set them up in the guest room. They barely spoke, only exchanging quiet glances that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
It was late, and my 10-year-old daughter, Emma, was already asleep. I didn’t want to wake her, so I decided I’d introduce them in the morning.
Before heading to bed, I peeked into the guest room one last time. The twins were sitting upright in bed, staring at the wall. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just staring.
A shiver ran down my spine.
“Goodnight, girls,” I said hesitantly.
They didn’t reply.
I shook off the creeping unease and went to bed. Tomorrow, I’d call social services. This was only temporary.
Or so I thought.
A few hours later, I was yanked from my sleep by a noise. A soft thud. Then another.
A muffled cry.
My heart pounded as I realized the sound was coming from Emma’s room.
Panic shot through me like ice.
I jumped out of bed and rushed down the hall. The door to Emma’s room was slightly ajar. My breath hitched as I pushed it open.
Inside, my daughter lay frozen in bed, her eyes wide with terror. And standing over her were the twins.
One of them had her small hands wrapped around Emma’s wrists, pinning her down. The other was hovering inches from her face, whispering something too low for me to hear.
“What are you doing?!” I shouted. “Don’t touch her!”
The twin closest to Emma turned to look at me, her expression eerily blank. “We were just talking to her,” she said in a calm, unnatural voice.
Emma whimpered. “They… they said they want to take me with them.”
A sickening chill crept up my spine.
I grabbed Emma and pulled her into my arms, shielding her. “Go back to bed. Now.” My voice shook, but I forced myself to stay firm.
For a moment, the twins just stood there, their eyes dark and unreadable. Then, without a word, they turned and walked out of the room.
I locked the door behind them and held Emma close, listening as their footsteps faded down the hall.
Neither of us slept that night.
At sunrise, I went to check the guest room, my stomach in knots.
The beds were empty. The twins were gone.
The front door was unlocked, slightly ajar, letting in the crisp morning air. They had left on their own.
Or maybe… they had never really been there in the first place.
I called the police, but they found nothing. No sign of the girls, no record of them ever existing. When I returned to the woods with the officers, there was no shed, no trace that anyone had lived there. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
To this day, I still don’t know who—or what—they were.
But one thing is certain: that night, something far more terrifying than two lost children stepped into my home.
