Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Handkerchiefs, and Rusty Blades

The door creaks open, his hand sliding in carefully to nudge it further—slow and deliberate. He leans in, his eyes widening, lips trembling, as the room’s disappointment reveals itself. Crimson streaks mar the walls and floor—body parts litter the scene. Some are disturbingly familiar while others are ruined beyond recognition. He clutches a handkerchief, pressing it against his mouth and nose as the stench hits him—sharp and unrelenting. Tears well in his eyes. He turns, sucking in shaky breaths of the night air before facing the carnage again and stepping inside.

Each step is calculated, his feet placed with precision to avoid the worst of it. The foyer leads to a short hallway, its shadows painting their own grim image opens into what was once the lounge room. The devastation deepens—torn couches lie like broken corpses, stuffing spilling onto the floor. The air is thick with the smell of death, suffocating and cloying. Rats scurry through the wreckage, weaving between upholstery shreds and jagged debris.

Body parts are scattered everywhere—a grim chaos amplified by the wall ahead. Painted in filth, its surface bears a crude mural with its grotesquery crowned by the words “HE COMES” scrawled in blood. His breath hitches as he clutches the handkerchief tighter, fingers trembling while he fights a wave of nausea.

“I wanted it raw—primeval—but I think it’s crossed into kitsch.” March’s voice breaks the silence, making him flinch. The man steps forward, his presence as dishevelled as the room itself. His wrinkled blue shirt hangs heavy with grime, its collar and shoulders stained by splotches of dried blood. One sleeve is rolled up, exposing a gaunt forearm, while the other droops halfway down his arm. His red trousers, torn and smeared with dirt, hang awkwardly from his hips, the knees darkened with filth.

“I-I-I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Corey says, his voice unsteady.

“You didn’t want to admit I could do it, or did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I-I-I… I don’t know. Both, neither. I just didn’t think you’d do this—on such a large scale.”

He laughs, half-hearted. “This is nothing. You should see down in the cellar. That’s where my true pieces of art are,” he says, gesturing toward a doorway halfway down the wall, a grin spreading across his lips, almost maniacal. Corey inhales sharply, his eyes widening, his mouth trembling as he steps back.

“The cellar? What’s in the—”

March’s grin broadens unnaturally wide, his teeth yellowed, stained, and jagged. Some have been filed, others chipped and broken, his gums covered in ulcers. “Oh, you’ll see soon enough,” he sings as he suddenly moves faster than Corey can react.

The rusty, bloodstained blade arcs toward Corey’s arm, slicing through flesh. Corey hisses and stumbles away, his back colliding with the blood-slick wall. March is on him quickly, pinning him in place and driving the blade into his shoulder. Corey screams like a dog howling at the moon—clawing, kicking, and thrashing—until March drives a knee into his groin.

March pulls the blade free, pressing it against Corey’s throat. “You wanted proof!” he hisses, his breath rancid and rotten. “Well, here it is! Now, you’re the proof.”

He thrusts his arm forward, driving the blade into Corey’s stomach. Blood spills down his torso in a hot stream. Corey tries to scream, but the sound chokes into a wet gurgle. His hands claw desperately at March’s arms as the knife twists, stealing the last of his strength.

Corey collapses to his knees, his body wracked with spasms. Blood spatters the floor as he coughs violently. March grabs him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him toward the cellar door.

“P-P-Please,” Corey sputters, his voice weak and desperate.

March grips the door handle, smiling wide as he opens it. “Don’t worry, old friend—it won’t hurt,” he says, tossing Corey’s failing form down the stairs.

From the darkness below, something stirs, growling low and hungry.

“Not for long, anyway,” March adds as he shuts the door.