Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

I didn’t like the end on the original post, so I gave it what it deserved…

Paved Paths Without a Payment

The ball in his throat grows to twice the size it was moments ago—he gasps, clutches his collar, and loosens it with tense fingers. His eyes weep, and his brow drips a sea of sweat. The world before him spins, and his once-clear mind is now addled and lost. He smacks his lips together as if they were pieces of cheese, and he gasps again. A high-pitched squeal emanates from the microphone a few inches away, and he winces in pain, squinting his eyes and screwing up his nose. Muffled conversations break out through the crowd surrounding the podium. He tries to swallow again and dry-retches. His eyes bulge from their sockets, and his lips purse tightly as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. Seconds twist and turn into a minute, then into a handful of them.

Stars shoot through the sky—explosions scatter dust left and right, and pockets of voided black steal segments of the world around him. His skin pales to white, and he elongates his fingers as he reaches out in desperation. The crowd around him continues chattering nonsensical words that sway back and forth in his ear, left and right. He forces a strained smile, squeezes his eyes shut, folds his hands into tightly wound fists, and scrunches his toes. He pushes, wills the ball down slowly, desperately—it moves, deeper, downward, and then, when he feels air around it escape, it grows again. He clutches his throat, eyes wide open. He tries to cry out, murmuring instead, and the microphone echoes it across the room.

Cheers break out in thunderous applause. Fists punch the air, and hands clap together in praise. He squints, scanning the crowd of faces, spying, searching until finally, he locks eyes with him. He returns the gaze—a wide, grand smile across his lips. He raises a glass of whiskey towards him and takes a sip. He gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again, only to find him gone.

He feels cold breath on the back of his neck, then a hand on his waist.

“Are you not happy with how it all turned out?”

“T-T-T-This wasn’t t-t-the deal,” he stammers through stained lips.

He laughs. “And what, pray tell, was the deal meant to be?”

“Y-Y-You p-promised me p-p-power, a-a-and a-a-a way w-w-with words.”

“Power and a way with words—that indeed sounds like one of my deal packages. But look at you, standing here, powerless, with a ball in your throat, unable to speak,” he hisses in his ear. “Those seem to be the complete opposite of what you asked for, wouldn’t you agree?”

“N-N-N-No s-s-shit! W-Why i-is it happening? I-I-I, I paid y-y-you, r-right?”

“Ah, yes, maybe that’s it, maybe your payment didn’t go through, or maybe there was a problem at the bank, or maybe it has something to do with the mobile network—or maybe, just maybe, you made a deal you had no way of honouring without the deal succeeding first! Hmmm?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“S-S-Sure, t-t-that must b-b-be it, t-the deal n-n-needs the d-d-deal,” he gasps.

“Ah ha!” he roars in his ear. “That’s the answer!” he says with a cackle.

“S-S-S-So we’re g-good? Y-Y-You’ll m-make this g-go away?” he gasps, clutching his throat.

“Oh, yes, yes indeed. I will make that go away, all of it, all of it indeed, just as soon as you pay my price.”

“B-B-B-But, I-I-I, I can’t—not w-without the t-things you p-promised, p-p-please?”

Suddenly, he’s no longer by his side but once more standing amongst the crowd, staring back at him. This time, there’s no smile—only a sneer, a snarl, as he raises his glass again. The faces around him blur and distort, mocking grins painted across them. Beneath his feet, the floor collapses, splitting open into a sea of nothingness. Shadows spill from the cracks, twisting up his legs like cold, dead fingers, pulling him down. He frantically reaches for his wallet, but the hands tear it from his grasp, tossing it into the void below. Around him, cries and screams echo, voices damned and yet to be call his name. The world he once knew unravels piece by piece, until nothing remains but the dark—and then the silence.

Suddenly, the room lights up, and he finds himself naked and nailed to a poorly constructed cross. A classroom of children sits before him, staring with blank expressions. From behind him, the man strides forward, gripping a wooden cane tightly in his hand.

“Now, class, can someone tell me what we do with those who fail to pay for their purchases?” he says with a grin as the students eagerly raise their hands.

He scans the room and points the cane at a young girl. “Janina, what do we do?”

“Damn them to hell, sir,” she replies with a broad, toothy grin.

He turns to him, a broad grin upon his lips. “That’s right, Janina, we damn them to hell,” he says, grinning even wider as the whole class begins chanting, “Damn them to hell! Damn them to hell! Damn them to hell!” over and over, while he tries to scream, only to find the ball in his throat has grown larger once again, and now all he can do is gasp for air as the man gives him a wicked wink.

The room shakes, erupting into cheers and cries as the ground splits open beneath him. The chanting grows louder and louder, the children’s faces now replaced by his family, his friends, everyone he’s ever loved—chanting, screaming, celebrating. A massive hand reaches up, grips him tight, and he tries to scream one last time before it pulls him down into the flames below.