That Was Never Given Words
A short horror by Matthew Tonks
A fortune told in a tent rewinds a life and leaves a tune lodged inside the throat—an intimate, intimate cruelty that hums long after the light has died.
The music twists and turns in the night air, her gentle hum pirouetting through it like an expert ballerina. Her fingers glide along the guitar strings, each chord plucked with the tenderness a lover would die to feel. Her eyes close, her head sways, her humming grows louder—guttural—born from moments like this, from devil-may-care nothingness.
Her lips part. She licks them, then rubs them together—spreading the saliva across both lips.
“Hands give flight, tears once burned—now none to cry. I felt the wind upon my face, eyes closed—nothing left to blame. How quick to replace—another me, a moment of you—a longing set free. Heavenly breaths, notes caressed, flesh to dust.”
She sings with a husky, emotion-thick rasp. Her eyes gently open as she continues to sway, her fingers pulling back the tune—slowing it—until it fades into a final breath. A nervous smile twitches across her lips.
A tear rolls down Jerome’s cheek. He swallows a mouthful of razor blades—and lies. Her smile twists—grows into a broad grin—as a thick stream of crimson runs down his chin. He coughs, chokes, grabs his throat—only to dig the blades deeper into his own flesh.
His eyes pop open, and he flails wildly as she sits before him, still gently playing the same tune.
“W-What the fuck was that?” he spits, scrambling to his feet, wiping himself down like he’s covered in ants—or spiders.
Her grin stays wicked. She puckers up, smug.
“It depends on what you saw, lover boy,” she purrs as her grin crawling wider across her lips. She looks at him with envious eyes, stripping him to his core.
A quiver cascades down the base of his skull to his toes, exciting his body like an electric shock—he jumps, and she giggles, contentedly strumming her guitar.
“Y-Y-You know w-what I saw, w-witch! Y-You know!” he stammers through trembling lips, limply thrusting a pointed finger at her.
She laughs loudly, cackling, and for the first time, she stops playing her guitar.
“I was a bitch once. Now I’m a witch—what blame will you curse me with next? What beastly, careless path will you use to sedate your thirst for answers? What fear do you dare not face like a man?”
His brow furrows and his lips quiver. “W-What?”
Her grin oozes.
“The crystal—you paid for three, and you’ve only used one. Do you wish to use another?”
“A-A-Another?” he whispers.
She cackles louder, then clicks her fingers, and a crystal ball the size of an English football appears between them.
A breath catches in Jerome’s throat as he stares into the youthful eyes of his younger self. With trembling fingers, he reaches for his face and feels the smooth, wrinkle-free skin holding everything in place. He gasps, glancing over at the old woman as she giggles.
“W-W-What’s going on? W-Why am I so young?”
She smiles wickedly.
“Because you are, young child—twenty-seven, and the world’s calling you in all directions. That’s why you came here—to glimpse your fate, to glimpse your future,” she coos, picking up her guitar again and starting to strum.
His brow furrows—then rises. His eyes widen as the sea of what could be washes away, and he remembers the colour of the tent from the other side, the choices he was faced with, and the cruel coincidence of this moment. He looks up at her as she plays the same melodic rhythm.
“I-I-I-I remember. I remember it all—everything, except what choice I chose before I looked in the ball. D-D-Do you remember, old hag? Do you remember what I saw, and which choice made me see it?”
“Old hag?” she scoffs, closing her eyes and humming gently as the crystal rises into the air before them.
The room erupts with lightning and fire as he draws a breath, clenches his teeth, and reaches out.
“Fuck it—I’ve still got another choice after this,” he says as he touches the crystal—his body engulfed in its glow as he rises from the floor before the entire world implodes around him.
He’s swimming up a stream.
His name is called out—screams, cries—and then he’s swallowed whole.
Darkness. Then the tune begins—twisting and turning its way through his ears. And as he tries to place it, a woman starts humming—and he’s certain he’s heard it someplace before.
💬 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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