Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Today’s story is brought to life by the following prompt…

This is my submission for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday.

Not His Monster Story

The creature stirs. It rolls its head to the side and lets out a gentle murmur, its eyes slowly creeping open. With a weary lift of its arm, it tries to shield its gaze from the room’s light. It murmurs again, louder this time, and with a curl of the lip and a twist of the nose, its face grows cold and rigid.

With a trembling hand in tow, it peers around the room, trying to make sense of its surroundings. It reels in shock as it catches sight of itself and screams, tumbling off the crude metal table and hitting the stony floor with a thud. It lies there for several moments, dazed and lost, before taking a long, winded breath and clutching it tight, as it stares into the wide, dead eyes of a man. His neck is raised, snapped at the bone, flesh torn asunder, and a puddle of sticky red blood reaches out in all directions.

The monster realises it is lying in the dead man’s blood and clumsily scrambles to its feet, roaring with terror. It backs away, pushing against the table and tossing it to the side. Once again, it catches sight of its own reflection. This time, it stops and slowly walks over to the dirty mirrored glass, studying its features. Its lip trembles as it notices that its grey flesh is painted freely in the strange man’s blood.

The door to the room flings open, and a hobbling figure sways inside. His back is swollen with some type of disease, his face misaligned, his teeth rotting in place, and both eyes bulging and looking in different directions. He stops, and the two stare at each other. The strange man’s lips quiver, a drool of saliva dripping to the floor.

“Y-Y-You’re alive!” he stammers, voice trembling.

“W-W-Who am I?” it asks.

The strange little man blinks like a bloated goldfish. “Y-Y-You’re my s-son—m-m-my boy—taken from me by evil men, and brought back by someone j-just as evil.” He casts a nervous glance toward the body on the floor.

“W-Who is h-he?”

“A-An arrogant sycophant who b-believed he could m-make all the choices—control the narrative—when he was just as m-much a fool as the rest of them! H-He thought his money would give him everything and everyone would bow to his wishes!” He spits, then smiles with a wry twist on his face. “B-But like all c-cowards, he relied on others to do the heavy work—the disgusting things—and that is h-how, instead of him getting his monster, I-I—I got back my son.”

“D-Did I?” it asks, raising its bloody hands.

The strange little man smiles, shaking his head. “No,” he says, “that was my cross to bear, not yours. But now you are back. Now that we’re a family again—now that you, my son, are by my side—we needn’t worry about people like him. They will bow to us. They will be our slaves. They will fear us.” His twisted grin spreads, a glint of madness in his eyes.

The creature looks at the broken body sprawled on the floor, then back at the strange little man. Its lip curls, and something dark glints in its eyes as it steps closer, leaving bloody footprints in its wake. It can smell the man’s fear—can taste it.

“Yes, Father,” it whispers, its voice a low, chilling echo. “They will fear us— and so will you.”