Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Doors Are Sometimes Holes

And with one last stuttered breath, Clint falls silent, his glassy stare fixed on the night sky above, while a river of red flows beneath him, staining the snow with its crimson touch.

He stares down at his still form, tilting his head and twisting his lips into a grimace.

“Did it hurt?” a voice asks.

Clint spins to face a young boy, no older than thirteen. His shoulder-length hair is cut into a semi-bob style, his clothes several decades out of fashion, and the quivering smile on his lips looks painfully forced.

“Who are you? Jesus himself, or the guy from down below?”

The boy blushes. “I can assure you I am neither Samael nor one of his cohorts.”

“Right, so you’re the bastard son of the guy who claims to run the show, while sneaking off to deflower young virgins, then?”

The boy shakes his head, his smile more fake than Clint’s tan lines. “Let me say this,” he says, his smile widening. “I am neither, nor am I either.”

“Ah, a riddle. How quaint.” Clint says with sarcastic smugness, shoving his hands into his pockets and mimicking a forced breath—though there’s no breath to take or give. “So, unless you’re secretly The Riddler, I’ll assume you’ll spend most of this time not answering questions and lying about the rest. Sound about right? Or are you going to disagree just to keep the mystery alive?”

“Not everything needs an answer, Clinton. Not everything hides an ulterior motive. These are all opinions—your opinions—and we both know where your opinions have gotten you in the past,” the boy says, glancing down at Clint’s pale, bloodless corpse.

“Right. Disagree to build the susp—” Clint stops as his gaze falls upon his broken frame. For the first time, he truly looks at his lifeless body. He tilts his head to the side and studies the grotesque way it lays sprawled in the snow, like a marionette with its strings violently severed. His throat, a gaping wound, seems to smile mockingly at him, the blood-soaked snow beneath forming a halo that is anything but holy.

“Not exactly a flattering angle,” Clint mutters, his lips curling into a sneer.

The boy giggles. Clint casts a wayward glance at him, uncomfortable. The boy’s awkward smile broadens. “It’s not the body that matters now, is it?”

“That’s open to discussion. If the body’s not the matter at hand, why are we still here?” Clint steps closer to his corpse, crouching beside it with hesitation. His trembling fingers hover over the mangled red flesh. It almost beckons him, offering a safe, warm place he knows too well. The sensation—the memory of life—momentarily floods over him, and his stomach churns. “I-If it doesn’t matter, i-if I’m dead, w-why do I still feel like puking?”

“Because accepting death is a stubborn thing to do. And you? You’ve always been an above-average stubborn son-of-a-bitch,” the boy replies with a childish laugh, skipping to Clint’s side and grabbing his hand. “Even now, confronted with death in its most complete form, you still cling to the flesh, to the lies. Accept it—let me show you the truth. Let me help you, help me.”

“I think the only lies being told here are yours!” Clint spits, wrenching his hand free and scrambling to his feet.

“Your words cut me deep!” the boy mocks.

“Yeah? Why don’t you get out of your dime-store cosplay, show me who you really are, and tell me what you really want from me!”

“Are you sure this is what you want? We have all the time in the world to continue our game, for here, time is irrelevant. Only out there does it truly matter!” The boy points to the hole in Clint’s corpse’s throat.

Clint’s brow furrows. “W-What the fuck are you talking about? What’s going on?”

“Opportunity, Clinton. Opportunity. Do you want me to show you? Permit me. Say it. Say you give it to me, and I’ll answer all your questions. I swear on your pathetic soul!” He grins wickedly, his lips drooling with saliva as he holds out a bony, disfigured hand. “Shake! Shake! Shake, and I will show you all and more!”

Clint swallows nervously, looks down at his still form, and then back at the boy. His eyes are drawn again to the warmth of his throat. He chews his bottom lip and scrunches his nose.

“Everything?”

“Everything! Just say you permit me! Say it, and shake my hand, and I will reveal all!” the boy cries, his voice cracking. His body shakes, gaunt and disturbing.

With a nervous breath, Clint reaches out, and the boy quickly grips his hand.

“T-T-The words! S-Say the words!” the boy cries.

“Okay, okay. I give you permission. Show me! Show me—” His words catch in his throat as a writhing sea of black tendrils shoots from the ground. They coil and twist like roots of the tallest tree. The boy stands smiling as Clint tries to scream, the ground beneath him cracking open like an egg.

“H-H-Hel—” Clint stammers desperately, reaching for the boy, who smiles smugly, his decaying lips curling with cruel delight.

“Don’t worry. Don’t despair. I’ll save you!” the boy mocks, playfully reaching for Clint’s outstretched hand before letting it fall limply.

“P-P-Please!” Clint screams as the tendrils drag him into the earth.

“P-Please,” the boy mocks, reaching into the gaping hole in Clint’s throat.

Suddenly, Clint’s eyes snap open, and the blinding lights of the operating theatre blind him momentarily.

“He’s back! He’s back!” voices call out, and figures scramble around him.

A wry smile spreads across Clint’s lips.