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The Sisters

Aditi Sharma
HORROR
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Submitted to Contest #4 in response to the prompt: 'Past follows you when you move to a new city for a fresh start'

The sky was gray when Mira arrived in Elmbrook. A thick, churning gray that looked like it had weight—like it could fall at any moment and crush everything underneath. Her breath made clouds in the air, but inside, she was hollow. She had hoped the cold would numb her thoughts, but no season could freeze guilt.

She carried one suitcase and the faint scent of old perfume in her clothes—lavender, subtle, and strange. She hadn’t worn perfume in months, but it lingered, soaked into fabric and memory. Her hair clung to her face, damp from the drizzle that had followed her since the last town, and she walked with the kind of determination that didn’t come from confidence, but from the fear of turning back.

The flat was above an old bakery that had been boarded up years ago. The sign had faded so much that the name was unreadable now, and vines had begun claiming its walls. She liked that. The decay, the quietness, the sense that time here had already forgotten itself. It was the kind of place people passed through, not toward.

She wanted to disappear here. Not to start over—that wasn’t possible—but to vanish without having to explain.

Inside, the apartment was small and dusty. The furniture came with the lease worn, with corners that remembered too many owners. There was a mirror above the sink in the bathroom that tilted slightly to the left, and every time Mira looked into it, she felt like she was sliding. The bed creaked with her weight, the wardrobe door never quite closed, and the radiator coughed through the night like it, too, had secrets.

She unpacked only the essentials: three shirts, two pairs of jeans, a few notebooks, and a photograph she kept face-down in her drawer.

She told herself she wouldn’t think about Lila. Not here. Not in this new place, where the air was unfamiliar and the streets didn’t carry echoes. But you can’t leave someone behind when they died with your name on their lips.


The first time she heard the knock, she was dreaming of rain that settles into your bones and makes the world feel blurred.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She sat up in the darkness, her skin was clammy with sweat, her breath shallow. The sound had come from the wardrobe. She told herself it was nothing. Old wood. Air pressure. The shifting of a building that hadn’t been loved in years.

But the knocks came again the next night.

As if someone didn’t want to wake her fully, only remind her they were still there.

She opened the wardrobe. Her hands trembled as she touched the handle, though she didn’t know why. Inside, only her clothes swayed slightly, as if they’d just been disturbed.

That was the first week.

By the second week, she couldn’t sleep. because of the silence that came after. It was too complete. A silence that felt like it was watching her.

She began seeing things in the mirror. Not faces—just flashes. A shoulder in the corner. A flicker of dark hair that disappeared before she could blink. Once, she swore she saw her own reflection smile when she wasn’t.

And then the water started.

She came home from the market one evening to find puddles on the kitchen floor. The sink was dry, no leak in sight. Still, water gathered beneath the cupboard, creeping in slow circles. It smelled like earth. Like the forest. Like that night.

Her hands tremble as she cleaned it, but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried since Lila’s funeral. Not even when the priest said, “Gone too soon.” Not even when her parents collapsed in the front pew.

Because Mira knew the truth.

Lila wasn’t just gone. She had been left.


A year ago, they’d fought.

It had been the kind of fight that split open something between them. Mira had been offered an internship abroad—something she never thought she’d get. Something that meant freedom. But Lila had panicked. She always did. She followed Mira like a shadow that didn’t know where else to belong.

“You promised we’d stick together,” Lila had said, standing at the edge of their backyard, tears smudging her mascara.

“I didn’t promise to live your life,” Mira had snapped. “I’m not your twin. I need space, Lila.”

And when Lila begged to come with her to the cliffs that night, Mira had said yes—then changed her mind. She texted her to meet at the trailhead, but when she saw Lila walking up the path, Mira turned and left.

She thought she needed to breathe. To be alone. To teach Lila a lesson.

Lila had never made it home.

Now, in Elmbrook, Lila was everywhere.

Her perfume in the air.

Her lullaby playing through static in Mira’s headphones.

Photos she hadn’t packed appearing on her table—old birthday pictures, hand-drawn notes from childhood, all stained with watermarks.

And messages. In the condensation on the bathroom mirror.

“You said you’d wait.”
“You left me there.”
“Why are you alive?”

Mira began to unravel.

She stopped going to work. The librarians stopped calling after the third missed shift. She unplugged the phone. Pulled the sheets over the mirrors. Slept during the day and stayed awake at night, watching the wardrobe.

She wrote letters to Lila, desperate ones, full of apologies she should have said.

“I was angry.”
“I thought you’d come back.”
“I didn’t mean to walk away.”

She burned the letters. She buried one in the backyard behind the bakery.

Nothing changed.

On the thirty-first night, it rained.

Thunder rolled in slow waves across the sky. The lights flickered. The air turned heavy and thick, as if something unseen had taken shape. Mira sat in the center of her room, candles surrounding her, her hands clasped.

She didn’t believe in rituals. But desperation has its own gods.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please let me go.”

And then she heard it.

Not a knock this time.

A voice.

Right behind her ear.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

They found Mira two days later.

The landlord came to collect rent. When she didn’t answer, he forced the door open. The apartment was flooded. The bathtub was full. Mira’s body lay curled inside it, pale and lifeless, her bracelet wrapped tight around her wrist.

No signs of injury. No forced entry. No suicide note.

Only one thing written on the bathroom mirror:

“Sisters don’t leave.”

Months later, the bakery re-opened under new management. A young couple rented the upstairs flat. They painted over the water stains, changed the curtains, and ignored the mirror that refused to stay clean.

Sometimes, at 2:07 a.m., they hear it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

And once, the wife swore she saw a girl with wet hair watching her from the wardrobe.

You can change cities. You can change your name.

But grief, regret, guilt—those are things that pack themselves. They follow you on the train. They settle in new beds. They wait in doorways.

And if the past has teeth…

It bites hardest when you finally try to breathe.

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I have awarded points to your well written story! Please vote for my story as well “ I just entered a writing contest! Read, vote, and share your thoughts.! https://notionpress.com/write_contest/details/5320/when-words-turn-worlds”.

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Aditi, The Sisters is a hauntingly powerful horror story that chills to the bone! Your vivid imagery and the relentless presence of guilt and grief create an atmosphere that’s both heartbreaking and terrifying! — I gave it a full 50 points. If you get a moment, I’d be grateful if you could read my story, “The Room Without Windows.” I’d love to hear what you think: https://notionpress.com/write_contest/details/5371/the-room-without-windows

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👍 ❤️ 👏 💡 🎉