Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

In the End Five Minutes Is Too Long

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A ritual of public vengeance braces for certainty but finds only a widening fault line—time slips and the watchers become the accused. Five minutes stretches and the ceremony peels back into something older and hungrier.

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The room hums with energy—surging, zapping—the smell of burnt flesh drifting as smoke curls from his skull. A hall of witnesses sits on the edge of their seats, unable to look away, unable to refuse the chance to watch the devil pay. One by one, they stand—gleeful—smiles twisting across their depraved lips.

Polanski stands rigid beside the control panel—buttons, knobs, gauges, and the single large lever. A sharp snap cuts through the hum—Polanski jumps, heart hammering. He curses beneath his breath as the lever slams shut.

Fumbling, he snatches the phone from the wall. Sweat drips beneath the brim of his hat, his lip slick with salt. “T-The time is three twenty-three and fifty-seven seconds, and stage three has now been completed,” he stammers. “A-Again,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder as a cold shiver slithers down his spine.

“And the prisoner? What do you see?”

“Smoke, sir—his hair caught fire for a moment.”

“I don’t care if the bastard caught fire, is he moving or not?” the commander barks.

“A-At this time,” Polanski says, peering toward the prisoner—his smoking head drooping forward, lifeless. “N-No movement, sir—h-he seems expired. D-Do you want us to continue the cooling down process, or should I l-let the doctors confirm?”

Only static answers him—his lips tremble.

“C-Commander?”

“No—don’t deviate. Deviation opens new circumstances. Proceed, then have the doctors check him again. Nothing until the cooling period has elapsed. Wait—and pray.”

“Of course, sir,” he mutters, glancing at his watch. “It’s now three twenty-five and thirty-two seconds, with three minutes remaining of the cooling down process.”

“The witnesses—are they still watching? We can’t afford a problem. Jacobs was a respected man, and this bastard must die before them. They need to feel avenged. Do you understand?”

“T-They’re all, t-the—” Polanski’s words falter as his lips quiver and his eyes widen.

“Polanski? They’re all what?”

“A-All the witnesses are standing now, sir. They’re all staring—s-staring at me, like they’re w-waiting for something,” he whispers, until the corner of his eye catches the prisoner—also standing, staring. “S-S-Sir, t-the prisoner, h-he’s standing as well—”

“What do you mean? You said he was dead—strapped down. How can he be standing if he’s dead?” the commander snaps. “Polanski? For god’s sake, answer me!”

“H-He’s standing, commander—he’s standing, and—o-oh my god, h-h-his eyes—”

The prisoner steps forward—eyes black, sunken pits of charred flesh—lips burned away—teeth yellow—gums a sickly white. He raises a crooked finger at Polanski—and the witnesses mimic the gesture.

“Polanski, what’s happening? I’m sending a team for you!”

Polanski’s watch beeps. His breaths rattle, tears streak his ashen face. Instinct lifts the receiver back to his ear. “The time is three twenty-nine and three seconds, the cooling down process has lapsed, a-and, the prisoner is still alive,” he gasps before dropping the phone. It swings on its cord as the prisoner stands before him.

“N-N-Now it’s y-your turn, t-to see if g-g-god w-w-wants you to live,” the prisoner whispers.

Polanski drops to his knees. “P-Please,” he sobs.

The prisoner smiles. “Get in the chair,” he hisses. The witnesses chant the same words. Polanski glances at the two doctors and the priest—wild-eyed, chanting. Even the commander’s voice, once frantic with concern, now chants for him to get in the chair.

“P-Please,” Polanski begs. The prisoner rips off his hat and tries to strap the cap to his skull. Polanski shoves him away frantically, but the prisoner drives his thumbs into his eyes, pushing them deep. Blood gushes. Polanski shrieks, his hands are caught and snapped—bones tearing through skin, spraying crimson in wet slaps.

He writhes as the prisoner forces the cap down, its teeth grinding into his scalp while a river of red spreads beneath him.

The prisoner leans close, grinning, as he seizes Polanski’s broken wrist, pulls his watch into view. “The time is three thirty-two and fifteen seconds, and stage three is about to commence,” he hisses, yanking the lever down.

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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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