Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Through a Glowing Hole My Screen Screamed

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A screen’s glow becomes a doorway, but what slips through isn’t light. Catherine discovers that some signals don’t fade to static—they pull you inside, tear you apart, and feed on what’s left.

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The screen screamed, its jagged shriek splitting Catherine’s skull before collapsing into grey static. 

A string of harmonies dances behind it like backup singers, adding weight and layers to the chaotic mess, until the image sucks into itself, leaving only a single glowing dot in the centre of the screen. 

Catherine finally lets the breath go—shaking, trembling—falling outside herself, the room tilts—walls breathe, stretching and shuddering as the floor melts beneath her knees. 

She reaches out towards the screen. The room glows. The image grows—pulsates. She clutches herself and stumbles back, the room plunging into darkness again. 

She gasps and pulls a stuttered breath in through her quivering lips. 

Another breath slips free, and she leans back, digging her palms into the sheepskin carpet, propping herself up on her elbows. 

Sweat pours from her in grotesque, salty waves. She drowns in her filth as it washes her from the inside out. 

She shakes her head, pulls her hair from her face with a trembling hand—and falls to the side, barely catching herself on one elbow. 

Her hands tremble like a puppet with severed strings, each twitch a spasm of dying nerves. 

“W-W-Why?” she screams as tears stream down her face. 

A distorted voice whispers words, and Catherine clenches her teeth, her brow furrows as a groan wails from deep within her stomach. 

She convulses and crashes forward, her face smashing into the wooden floor—her features swallowed by pain as her nose flattens across her cheeks and a sea of red floods from her broken face. 

She gurgles, limbs twitching as if underwater, lifting herself clumsily, cupping her face as the crimson tide flows without letting up. 

Her stomach swims again—her brow furrows—as her eyes lock onto the pulsing screen once more. 

Something pokes out of the glowing hole, a wiry thread twists its way towards her, like the twig of a tree, growing—slowly turning, twisting, curling. 

Her eyes widen as its trance draws her in—hypnotised by the grotesque movements of its dance, each jerk, each sway, every impossible bend, pulling her deeper under its spell. 

She takes a stuttered breath as it stops a metre or so from her, quivering before her like a finger beckoning her forward. 

With a trembling hand, she reaches out and touches the cold twig. 

The room pulsates, a wave rippling from the hole—and the thread shudders, then splits open with a violent, sickening, wet pop. 

The glowing hole tears wider as countless tendrils rip free, forcing themselves inside with the hunger of something born only to consume. 

She thrashes, her spine arches violently as blood sprays across the walls—the tendrils swim down into her stomach—twisting, tearing—filling every hollow space with things never meant to be born. Her stomach churns as the tendrils burrow deeper, ripping through her gut like shards of broken glass. She gags, then vomits—a spray of bile and blood explodes from her mouth—as her body fights to expel the invasion. 

She tries to scream—but the things keep coming—pouring into her, swelling her insides until her skin threatens to split open. 

Her nails snap—teeth crack—as she claws at herself—gouging her nails deep into her skin—ripping savage gashes in a blind panic as she tries to tear the tendrils free—until she feels her stomach scream back in the form of a horrible ripping sound—before she bursts like an overfilled balloon. 

The room is awash in a warm sea of crimson. The tendrils slither back into the glowing hole, leaving the screen cold, and the room marked in blood. 

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

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

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