Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

One More Padlock to Be Safe

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

Grief leaves Duncan clutching at ghosts, but padlocks can’t hold back the inevitable. In the shadows of his shed, memory and madness entwine—until the chains rattle with something no funeral could bury.

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Duncan grips the glass to his chest and lets out a long, exhausted sigh. 

Jenny catches his eye, offering a soft smile before sinking back into her conversation. 

He shifts on his heels, wets his lips, and takes a sip of beer. 

“She would’ve loved it—even the bullshit Paulie was spitting out,” Jeff says, gripping Duncan’s shoulder tightly. 

“No, she wouldn’t have,” Duncan scoffs, laughing dryly before falling silent. 

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?” Jeff asks. 

“To do?” 

“Yeah, with the house. It’s too big for you. Emma w—” 

“Too big?” Duncan’s brow furrows. 

He takes an awkward step back and sizes Jeff up with a quick, sharp glance. 

“What the fuck does the size of the house have to do with anything?” 

Jeff swallows nervously as the room falls silent. 

Everyone turns to stare. 

“Look, Dunc, I wasn’t implying anything, I wa—” 

“Bullshit,” Duncan growls. “You were implying a fuckload.” 

He shakes his head, downs the beer, and slaps the empty glass on the bar. 

“For all you nosey parkers,” he bellows, “I’m not thinking about selling the house.” 

“Dunc, Dad—please—” Jeff says. 

Duncan puffs out his chest and steps forward, forcing Jeff to shrink away. 

“NO! Don’t! I’ll have my say—and I’ll have it now,” he snarls, turning back to the others, staring fiercely into the eyes of neighbours, friends, and family—faces he’s known too long, trusted too much, and now struggles to face. 

His lip quivers. His nose scrunches. 

“I’m not selling the house. I’m not packing up her clothes, or tossing out her collections—the things she spent her whole bloody life building. And the flower shop—it’ll stay closed as long as I fucking want it to,” he says as he grips the bar, sucking in a stuttered breath, as he fights back the tears that threaten to come. 

“The love of my life—the woman I toiled with side by side for forty years, in the trenches of this shitstorm we call life—was just buried a stone’s throw from where she was born, where she died, and where we raised our kids—not to add the fact that I couldn’t even bring her home for everyone to see one last time, and instead I was given a box of ashes! So yeah—if you all don’t mind, I feel like I’m allowed to be just a little bit on the grumpy side of things!” he spits, as he looks around the room, before his gaze falls back on Jeff, who stands frozen in front of him. 

Duncan grips him by the shoulder, drags him in for a hug, and smiles softly. 

“You always had more of your mother in you than me. I love you, son—but please, let me be. I’m okay,” he says as he looks back around the room. 

“Now go look after your sister—she needs help with Auntie Morag,” he says, guiding his son towards Jenny. 

The trembling smile falls—and he slips out of the room. 

He grabs his coat, heads outside, and looks up into the sky, squinting until his eyes become narrow slits. 

“The rain’s going to be coming soon,” he grunts to himself as he strides across the muddy yard. 

He looks over his shoulder and meets the gaze of his concerned children as they watch from the decking. 

“The rain’s coming—I need to make sure Old Bess is locked away safely.” 

“I can come help!” Jeff calls out. 

“I may be old and lost without your mother, but I ain’t useless.” He waves him off. “I’ll be in soon—go remind everyone about the time your mother nearly killed the cousins in that rust bucket of a Fiat—when the door fell off while she was coasting down the Badlands without any petrol in the bloody thing!” he calls out as he fiddles with the padlock on the shed door. 

He rushes inside and takes a few quick steps into the black before flicking the light on. 

The room is washed in harsh light. 

He blinks, squints, grumbles under his breath, and picks up something wrapped in old newspaper. 

He shuffles forward, pulls another set of keys from his pocket, and unlocks another padlock leading to a set of stairs. 

He looks over his shoulder, chews his bottom lip, then closes the door behind him and padlocks it shut, before heading down the stairs. 

At the bottom—another door. Another padlock. 

He pulls another key from his pocket, takes a few short breaths, and unlocks it. 

His fingers tremble. 

He closes his eyes, swallows, then mutters, “One more padlock to be safe.” 

He opens the door. 

She screams—wild, broken—and he rushes into the room, slamming the door behind him and padlocking it shut. 

In the middle of the room, shackled by several heavy chains, a woman sits. 

Her face is haggard, her flesh rotting—fresh green goo sprays from her lips. 

She groans, cries, and thrashes against the chains that cut into her. 

Duncan smiles nervously. 

With trembling hands, he neatens up his hair and takes a seat a few feet from her, the wrapped newspaper sitting on his lap. 

She lunges again, snarling—her teeth bared, her fingers clawing at the space between them—but the chains don’t budge, and neither does he. 

He swallows again and gently unwraps the item in his lap—a freshly cut leg of meat. 

The woman screams incessantly, the green goo spraying from her mouth. 

Duncan smiles again as he looks up into her eyes, no longer blue like the ocean they once resembled, but dull and empty, as if no one’s left behind them. 

“Sorry I took longer than I said I would,” he says softly. “We had your funeral today. The kids are here—and I didn’t want them to know. Not yet. Not until I can prove you’re still in there,” he says, holding the leg of meat out towards her. 

Her fingers stretch, her face contorts, and for a fleeting second their eyes lock. His heart skips. There she is—the woman he loves, peering out from whatever’s left. 

Then her fingers grip the meat, pull it from his grasp, and tear into it like a wild animal, while Duncan’s smile quivers, and the hope of the lie he’s clinging to tightens around his throat, holding his world together just a little while longer.  

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💬 Did this one echo?
Tell me—before it forgets your name.

—
Written by Matthew Tonks
→ Read more nightmares at mtonks.com

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