Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Him

“They said it came from the foothills of a place that no longer exists, bathed in the blood of kings and queens, with a strength that no other could best, and they called it Him.”

“Him? What sort of lame-arsed name is Him?”

“Y-Y-Y-You dare not defile its n-n-name. Those that h-h-h-have, have perished,” he says nervously.

“I call ‘em as I see ‘em, honey.”

“B-B-But, but…”

“But what? This all-seeing, immortal piece of fiction is going to come down here and rip my arms from their sockets? As if, sweetheart. I’ve been chasing monsters since I was a kid. My dad and I did it, just like he did with his before I was around. It’s been generation after generation, and no one has ever encountered this dreaded almighty Him.”

“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. You, more than most, should understand that, Mister Watt.”

He turns to the little man sitting on his right and pokes him with an elbow. “Magoo, I’ve seen enough to know that if something like this Him existed, someone would’ve recorded it somewhere, and no one has ever recorded this one, ever,” he says, turning back to the old man crouched before him.

“T-T-Tales are records; they tell of his becoming, his smiting of those who crossed his path, who…”

“Who did nothing. Tales are tales. There are no facts, no documented events. I’d believe the bloody Bible before I believe any of this hogwash,” he says, getting to his feet. “You keep your head buried here, you believe in your little fairy tales. Me, I’m going outside, gonna have me a nice big old cigar, and then I’m going to head back into town, and move on. There ain’t nothing here for me.”

“Mister Watt, please, our people, they’re struggling, and we paid you more than we had to get you here. We sacrificed so much. Please, please don’t abandon us at our weakest moment,” the little man says.

“Magoo, honestly, if I didn’t have someone waiting on this coin, I’d tell you to keep it. But I’ve got people who want to put me in the ground for this, and you’ve got nothing but a legend. A tall tale of some guy who stood up to the bad men, sorted them out, and went off into the woods to die, alone. That’s pretty much the god’s honest truth. And this bad luck that’s running through your little village? It’s the drinking water, man. Fuckers upstream have built oil wells off the river’s edge. They’re polluting the main vein of the river that you get all your water from because you backwater idiots don’t know anything. You’re doing it to yourselves. My advice: stop drinking the water, and move your village east,” he says, whistling as he points east. “Get the hell out of dodge, just like I’m about to,” he says as he stretches, tips his hat, and walks out of the tent into the night air.

He looks around the deserted village, taking a deep breath before pulling a cigar from his pocket and running it under his nose. He lets out a sigh, then bites the end off the cigar, chews on it for a few moments before shaking his head and smiling to himself as he pulls a lighter from his jeans. As he flicks the lighter to life, he notices a man staring at him from across the dirt field. He nervously smiles as he takes a puff on the cigar. “Nice night for a walk there, Conan,” he says.

“I am not Conan. I am Him,” the man says, as he takes a thunderous step forward.