I don’t get why it’s supposed to be scary… but maybe that’s just because I shared a bunk bed with my identical twin.
This could easily be turned into a heartwarming three- or four-sentence lost-twin-returns-home-to-family story.
And that’s it? No explanation about the missing twin’s disappearance? I would like to know what happened. The plot may sicken if given enough time and sentences 
Gaaaah! I’m glad it’s not my bedtime.
I remember one that went something like this (embellished of course) from a long time ago:
He felt as if the blackness of the room had grown in mass, pouring in to crush the little bed in which he cowered alone, telling himself that the muffled strikes against the hallway door, the slow metallic dragging along the wainscoting, the irregular breath-like gasps that made their way around the cracks of the door frame must be some sort of animal. Then something clacked against the doorknob, clumsy but persistent enough that he heard the knob’s return grow longer each time until he found himself diving through the empty room for the lock, his shoulder bracing door shut while from the oppressive darkness now behind him he heard a still dry voice say “Aren’t you glad we’re all locked in for the night?”
What if the protagonist discovered a haggard, desperate version of THEMSELVES under the bed?
I like it. Doppelganger story or possibly evil murderous twin. Either way… nice.
or people who’s lives he’d changed for the worse through some simple yet deliberate action or slight, which slightly altered their life’s path and led them to an early, sad grave. They’d come back angry, vengeful, and going for the boy.
Hell, you should see the son-of-a-bitch tucking him in, squeeze over and let me under there.
These are quite common and I really want it to happen to me, I’ve got it all figured out.
The boogeyman may very well expect you to prop yourself against the door or cower in horror, perhaps the braver victims will crack it open to peek.
Fucking no-one is expecting me to run through the door.
Edward Gorey did an unforgettable one of these 2-sentence creepers, as one of his excellent limericks:
“Each night Father fills me with dread,
As he sits at the foot of my bed.
I’d not mind that he speaks
In gibbers and squeaks,
But for seventeen years he’s been dead.”
And another one of his:
“The babe, with a cry brief and dismal,
Fell into the water baptismal.
Ere they’d gathered its plight,
It had sunk out of sight,
For the depth of the font was abysmal.”
Rather surprised that I could be fairly spooked by just two sentences …
For sale: baby shoes. never worn.
—Hemingway
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