Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

A Moment Cascading Into More or Less 

The inconsistency of the rain pays little cost to the overall effect of what transpires in this moment, or what unfolds in the many moments before this one. Drake stands steadfast regardless—his lip curled, his fists clenched, his mind sharp and locked on the endgame. Water streams over him as though he is stuck in the outer layers of a torrential downpour—not merely a moment within a grander game of larger moments trapped inside smaller bubbles of life—but a spiralling moment that overtakes everything. 

Then, in an instant—seconds uncountable as they are so few—and as suddenly as it begins, the rain ceases, vanishing as though it never existed—like a page in a book turned in haste. He gasps, dry and exhausted, the sudden sweltering heat consuming him. Sweat saturates his flesh, pooling at his feet before evaporating into the stifling, humid air. He drags in a ragged breath, his lungs screaming—fire burning deep within. 

He clenches his teeth tightly, grimacing—the world spinning in flashes of black and white. The stifling heat gnaws at him like a ravenous beast. He stumbles clumsily, collapsing to one knee as the blackness beckons him, smiling with open arms. 

Then, as before, the temperature plummets as the world around him is slapped by an invisible hand. The heat vanishes, replaced by a sea of white as frost seizes the air. He forces himself to his feet and grips his flesh tightly, his fingers almost freezing to his own skin. He staggers, trembling, trying to breathe in desperate, ragged bursts. 

With a will that defies despair, he staggers forward—trembling as frost claws at his skin, tearing flesh from flesh. He screams, cries, and stammers, his grimace etched with desperation. The doorway, bright and becoming, stands a few feet ahead—jagged and uneven, framed in shifting shadows. Around him, the white expanse turns sour, then yellow, then green—not melting, but rotting. Soon it bleeds, black upon black, grey upon grey, night upon night, and day upon day. 

The temperature sours—dropping in an instant, raining for a second, and then turning sunny again. The air grows heavy and moist, thick with the stench of rot. Each breath he takes bursts visibly, clouded and sharp. A low hum rises from the doorway, vibrations shaking his skull—a noise spiralling deeply, like a drill bit boring into his mind. It pulses, purees, and grunts, louder and deeper with each movement, wrapping around him like a coiling serpent squeezing his life away. 

Then the shadows fall hard, unnaturally wide, fingers stretching into things that aren’t theirs. They spill beneath him, slithering around his legs. Something brushes his shoulder—light, fleeting, but colder than frost and sharp enough to startle him. He spins, circling like a fool, but nothing is there. Only darkness, soaking up the light. 

The doorway calls—vibrant with delight. 

From the growing shadows, a voice rises—soft, wet, and whispering his name—from nowhere and everywhere at once. Around him. Inside him. Above and below. He panics, searching and stumbling. Clumsily, he falls. The doorway, his last hope, is within reach. He crawls toward it in desperation as the shadows crash around him. The doorway begins to close. 

He grabs the handle—tearing at it, screaming, and pleading for it to open. And then, he hears it—a call, a cackle. Trembling, he turns, and his eyes widen in terror. 

He sees himself, frozen, with empty, dead eyes.