Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

The Other You on the Side of the Screen

Chris swallows the stale air like it’s a box of razor blades, wincing in pain as it goes down. He gasps, screws up his nose, and closes his eyes tightly, then shakes his head and runs his hand roughly over his bald head.

The laptop lies open before him, its screen frozen on a haggard image of himself. He sucks in another deep breath, looks over to Zoey, who nods and raises her eyebrows in encouragement, then presses the space bar.

The video starts to play once again.

The Chris in the video closes his eyes and leans forward. He grips his head roughly, then looks back up into the camera.

“I’m you. Or, I was you, before you became you — just like the five or six versions of us who came before me,” he says, his chin trembling, as does Chris’s. Zoey eyes them both, twisting her lips like waves breaking on the shore.

“I know it all sounds far-fetched,” the Chris in the video continues. “But from what I’ve pieced together, about four years ago, the original Chris — the one who was actually born — was diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma. He signed up for every drug trial he could. Then, one day, someone from the Newfound Heritage Foundation approached him and offered a chance to take part in a new trial that would ‘revolutionise disease and its effects on the human body.’ Chris signed up, and two weeks later — he died from complications of the cancer. Yet, that same day, two hours before he was supposed to be dead, he visited his parents and told them he was cured.”

Chris and Zoey stare at the screen in silence. The Chris in the video chuckles darkly. “But he wasn’t cured. Not in the way you’d expect. In the labs beneath the lab, they called the project ‘the life mirror’ — an experiment to copy someone’s mind and soul and place it in a meat suit grown in a vat of stem cells. The first copy walked the longest road before he found out he was a copy. They killed him, threw his remains back in the vat, and grew another version — this time with alterations to prevent that Chris from discovering he was a clone. The second one lasted a few weeks, the third even less, and the fourth, fifth, and me — well, I’ve apparently been alive for only two days, which is scary considering how much of my life I remember — and I bet you remember just as much.”

He takes a deep breath, looks off to the side, eyeing something off-camera, then smiles and looks back. “I had a dream last night, and it wasn’t right. The left was off-centre, and the bright sky was dull and grey. I knew my name was wrong, and the sound of my heart beating in my chest was off. It was like I had memories of my face — on someone else’s head.”

The video glitches, the image flickering like a damaged reel. For a moment, Chris swears he sees faces overlaying the video — versions of himself with eyes too wide, mouths twisted, all flickering in and out of focus. A faint, static-like whisper hums in the background, growing louder and louder with every passing second — like something trying to break through from one side to the other.

“Each of us — each version — thinks they’re the only one, and why wouldn’t they?” the Chris on-screen says, his lips trembling. “But I’ve felt them, and I know you have too, because you’re me, just a few days older — or younger — I’m not sure anymore. Still, however you are, I know you can feel them, like shadows at the back of your mind, touching your head.” He sucks in another stuttered breath. “I dream about their deaths — about why they were, and why I’m not anymore. I’m tired, but I wanted you to know, so maybe — the cycle can break.”

Chris stares, frozen, as the version of him in the video leans forward, eyes widening with a kind of fervent desperation. “They said each one of us would be an improvement on the last, but — they lied. We’re weaker. Each generation is drained, our skills diminished, our abilities shaved away. Soon you’ll start feeling the emptiness — the — void where we used to be — and the answer you seek won’t be within reach because —”

Suddenly, the screen goes blank, and a distorted reflection stares back at him. His own face — or something resembling it — begins to shift, fragmenting as dozens of other faces attempt to push through his skin, layer after layer, a nightmarish mosaic of versions that don’t quite fit — but are all him.