Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Where the Reel Really Stops

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

He learned how to rewind himself long before he learned how to stop the watching. The camera does not forgive mistakes and the darkness in the room prefers reruns to mercy.

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Static bleeds down the screen—the image writhes, colours spark with a hiss, voices chant, a prayer. The screen rolls again—the empty image replaced by a wall of haze—another sharp hiss—waves of red, blue, and green devour the screen. The image rotates—the camera is hoisted into the air—and he stares into the lens, his weary eyes streaked red, bloodshot, worn. He swallows, grimaces, and rests the camera on his shoulder, facing it to meet the mirror and his reflection. He adjusts the focus—winding it out, then in, then out again—cycling for long, dragging moments, each adjustment twisting into an endless ritual. After multiple resets and nervous false starts, he takes a stuttered breath, steadies the camera, and stares at his uneasy reflection.

“We are the plight of our own existence, and if we are to survive, if we are to adapt, we must be able to die!” he says, holding a pistol to his head before pulling the trigger. The explosion tears through his skull—shards of bone, grey matter, flesh, and blood burst from the other side—and the camera dies as the bullet rips through it too.

Then time stops—paused. A remote control hovers from the darkness, bony fingers resting on the pause button.

“I want to watch again,” a voice hisses from the dark as the finger presses rewind—images roll backwards. The bullet draws back into the gun. He stares at his image, fiddles with the camera settings, sets the camera down again—static—colours distort, then images blur—an empty cry, eyeless eyes, folds of skin, splashes of red. The image sharpens into view. He bends down beyond the camera’s sight. A bloody hammer appears, then drops, dragging a sea of red with it—another reverse strike, and another, and another. Then he stands, chest heaving, hair and flesh hanging from the claws of the hammer. He thrusts it down and pulls a woman up, blood sucking into the wound on her head. He tears away the hammer. A snarl curls into a smile—she sucks in a scream, staring at him. Her head leaps up from the table—a pistol at her temple. He squeezes the trigger—click, click, click. A man stumbles up—the bullets are sucked from his reforming skull. He swings to the left—another man, another skull re-sewn as bullets refill the chamber. The pistol is shoved into the back of his pants, and a finger stretches forward—garbled words, spit draws back in, and anger dies. The finger presses pause again, and the thing in the shadows lets out a hiss of delight.

“Yes—here, this is the moment, Jacob—this is where you earned your horns,” the voice says as Jacob stares up at the screen, his face pale, his eyes glazed and glassy. The finger presses play, and like a diver leaping from a high board, Jacob plunges back into the reel—dragged beneath its waters, immersed again under the weight of the film.

“If we were meant to live forever, we already would. Don’t you think there’s a reason we die? How can we ever adapt, ever evolve, if we stop the clock? We’re not gods—we’re meant to be a speck, to flicker and vanish, not to last forever!” Jacob spits, thrusting his fingers at the others.

“Oh FUCK!” one of them groans. “Had I realised you were a fucking ape lover, I’d have never let you come aboard this project.”

Jacob pulls the pistol from where it’s stuffed in the back of his pants and thrusts it out towards them. “I am this project, Clive. Without my calculations, this would be just another crackpot theorem in line with quantum immortality and the flat-earthers!” he spits, squeezing the trigger. Bullets tear into Clive’s head, which explodes in magnificent shades of red with each impact. Quickly he brings his aim to the other man, emptying several rounds into him with the same bloody result. Then he brings it to rest on Michelle. She screams, and he smiles awkwardly before squeezing the trigger—click, click, click. She screams louder, and his eyes go wide. She launches at him and he grabs her by the hair, thrusting her head into the table. She bounces off, stars swirling around her. He grabs a hammer from a bench, grips it, spins it around in his hand, then drives the clawed end into her skull. Her face is quickly drenched in crimson as she drops to the floor. He pulls the hammer free before driving it down into her spasming form—a wet, grotesque squelch—then he drags the hammer back and slams it down again and again, each strike wetter, heavier. Finally, he staggers to his feet. He stands for a moment, swaying, before dropping the hammer and wearily collecting his discarded pistol. He rolls the chamber free, empties the used rounds, and pulls a hollowed-out bullet from his jacket pocket. He stares at it blankly, stutters a breath, slides it into the chamber, then peers into the camera with an awkward smile carved across his lips.

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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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