Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

A Sea of Changes After the Before 

The sea of red pulsates around him, its waves shifting around him like a jelly mould of muscle, but in his bubble, he feels safe. It crashes against its transparent flesh—pushing, pulling, dragging him in, then spitting him out. A spark, a ripple—veins streak across the bubble’s surface like angry scars, flexing in ways only something alive could manage. He spins, he swings, and the world loses all control as it thrusts him forward, grips him tightly, and sucks him back in again as his bubble slams into the world’s edge. 

The tide washes over him again and again. He grits his teeth and inhales the madness. A sickly stench of rotting flesh fills his nostrils, making him gag as the bubble shudders—almost gasping—before it tears open. The thick crimson tide rushes in, warm and viscous, drowning him in its suffocating grip. The fleshy skin of the deflated bubble wriggles and writhes, gripping him in grotesque arms like a lover that will not let go. He screams, thrashing violently as the thing sticks to his skin, gluing itself tighter with each futile struggle. 

His lungs scream, and his heart roars as he panics like a man without hope, pulling at the sticky flesh that wraps him in its suffocating cocoon. His nails dig through it, and into his own skin, as he tries to claw himself free, but it holds tight. He tumbles through the rotting sea of something else—unseen hands dragging him down into its depths. His eyes roll back, his body convulses, and he chokes, before, in a sudden spark of desperation, his eyes tear open and he thrashes wildly, kicking and twisting. But the more he moves, the deeper it drags him into its abyss. It pulls him left, then right, twisting his body until his muscles ache, before finally expelling him. 

A grotesque river of red surges from a gaping, freshly torn wound in the wall, vomiting him onto the cold concrete floor. He crashes down, the impact slamming the breath from his lungs as he’s violently birthed into a world he can only despise. 

He lies silently as his chest sucks in short, sharp, desperate breaths. His eyes stare emptily into the void beyond. Blood pools around him, thick and warm, and the sickly stench of death chokes the air. Above him, a hole opens in the very fabric of what is—and what is not. And a hand slowly reaches for him. Desperation takes hold, and he surges upwards, clawing and tearing at the sticky, translucent flesh of the bubble that had been his only sanctuary. 

But as he attacks, the bubble fights back like a leech desperate to finish its meal. Its surface twitches, pulsates, and grips him tighter, wrapping around his limbs. He bites at it, his teeth tearing through the membrane as black ooze sprays over his face. It clings to his flesh, burning like acid, and he screams as it writhes over him. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of agony, his fingers pierce the quivering skin, and he rips it open like a wet bedsheet. The air rushes in—thick and stale, reeking of decay. He gasps, choking as he gulps down the death-laden air. His freshly torn prison writhes as the hand continues toward him, and he screams indescribable words as he tears at the thing once more until it finally falls away, twitching weakly. He collapses onto the blood-soaked floor before melting away into a pool of congealed black liquid. 

He casts a weary gaze upwards as the hole closes. He drops to his knees, exhausted, while a few feet away, another sea of red washes from another hole in the wall.