A Ceiling for a Bed Is Never Meant to Be Comfortable
A short horror by Matthew Tonks
Pinned to the ceiling, he watches his own body convulse and rage beneath him while a smiling mercy whispers promises of peace—until the face he trusts dissolves and the price becomes clear. This is a quiet tug toward oblivion with teeth.
A wave hits as he sways back into awareness—confused, seething with a rage that has no name. He gasps for air, but nothing comes.
His eyes—heavy—flicker open into narrow slits. The world blurs into a sea of pulsating colour, a disoriented landscape—foreign, alien almost.
Sounds hammer in his ears like a war drum. Bells chime as angelic voices call his name—singing in a language he cannot grasp.
A woman’s voice rises above them all—her accent unfamiliar, but her conviction undeniable.
She screams with rage. His lips quiver as her words echo down the canals of his ears.
His mind kicks and spits, refusing to turn, while sweat pours over him.
He swallows and draws a stuttered breath. His chest ignites—burning, yet the breath feels empty—and his brow furrows.
He tries to move, but nothing responds. For the first time since waking, he realises he cannot feel anything.
His eyes shoot open wide as a sea of black swirls around him.
He’s on the ceiling, pinned and breathless.
He clenches his teeth and lets out a roar.
Out of the darkness, they swim toward him—the banshees, the succubi.
Their perfectly crafted lips curl into wicked smiles.
He swallows. His lips pucker, tremble, and he gasps.
They circle him like sharks, his blood drawing them in. One of them comes to a stop before him—floating, as if treading water.
Her smile comforts him. He feels a sense of acceptance—a peaceful aura washes over him. His mind loosens.
She drifts closer. Her hand cups his cheek.
“Are you ready to let go? Are you ready to come with me?” she purrs.
His lips tremble. A tear slides down his cheek. He feels the warmth from her hand spread across his face—but then he catches sight of his twisted, decaying body writhing and raging across the blood-drenched sheets below.
Strapped to the bedposts, the body fights.
He pushes past the pain and slowly turns his head—but she drags it back.
Her face twists—soulless—her eyes, black pools of nothingness.
Nails dig into his flesh and he cries out.
“It’s too late to care. Just accept me—and I promise, you’ll never feel anything ever again.”
He grits his teeth and pulls his head away from her grip, casting a fevered glance to his side.
More harpies pin him down—hundreds, maybe more—pressing him into the ceiling.
He edges forward as her face splits like rotting bark—teeth twitching beneath, slick with decay.
“Say yes! And all this will end!” she bellows.
Her voice—haggard, distorted—turns the angelic chorus into a choir of screaming souls.
“W-W-What’s happening!” he finally manages to scream—as his reflection thrashes below.
A pulverising wave crashes over him, and he falls like a stone into the waiting hands of his reflection. It wraps its arms around him, and together they sink into the mattress. He thrashes, raging, screaming again.
“W-W-What’s f-fucking happening to me!”
The succubus’s black eyes soften. Her rotting face falls away, melting into Anna’s.
“I’m here now, Mike,” she whispers—her voice layered, diluted with something ancient.
Her hand, warm and familiar yet impossibly distant, cups his cheek. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”
He trembles, whispering, “A-Anna—”
“Shhh. It’s okay. I let it in. I let it in so you don’t have to suffer,” she says, her hand sliding behind his head, fingers curling into his hair. “Take my hand.”
“A-A-Anna, w-what did you do?” he stammers, as black veins spread like spiderwebs up her arm. Her eyes are swallowed by the void, and a tear tumbles down her cheek.
“Anna’s not here anymore,” she purrs, her voice no longer her own. Her other hand grips his face—thumb pressed hard against his nose, fingers curling beneath his jaw. He struggles, gasping, but her hold only tightens. She pulls him close until their foreheads meet, her smile stretching wider. “This is mercy.”
💬 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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