Gasam of Spit
A short horror by Matthew Tonks
A living room becomes a predator and a grin reads like a sentence. Duncan wakes to a space that tightens around him—walls that breathe, music that claws at his skull—and the boundary between home and highway collapses into a trail of blood and very human hunger.
The walls pulse, the room breathes, its grip tightening around Duncan’s throat as it hauls him into the air. A sea rises, swirling around him, and the floors strike the ceiling—each blow a beat, a scream, a pulse of madness. The attack hurls Duncan with every shriek and thrust—spinning, pounding, tearing him apart.
He crashes to the floor in a crumpled heap, red spits from his lips as the ground greets him. Silence swallows the room for a heartbeat, then another, drawing a breath. Somewhere in the insanity a drip drops, its echo flooding the silence. It whispers that the world still turns outside the walls of his prison. The air hangs heavy and still within, like a frozen moment captured in a photograph. His eyes roll back, he gags, spasms twist through him—convulsions jerking his limbs like a puppet with tangled strings.
Then the rhythm claws its way up from the dark. The walls gasp, the room folds in on itself, the floors twist and breathe. A stutter escapes as a hand reaches out. His eyes flicker—blood drips from his lips, sweat soaking his flesh. The lights die without a sound. He collapses to his knees, the rhythm chewing in his skull. Colours explode, then fade into grey sludge across his face.
A figure stands before him, smiling a wicked smile. Her touch lingers as she grips his jaw, forcing his gaze to hers. Her grin splits wider—the walls explode like shattering glass, hurling him onto the road. The beat follows—muffled beneath the roar of the car—still screaming his name.
The car punches into him like a fist, his face slamming against its steel. His body is torn in two—dragging his innards behind it—leaving a grotesquely glistening trail of red behind them. He clings to the bonnet, his chest heaving, every breath a laboured nightmare. His fractured reflection screams back at him from behind the wheel. The woman kicks the windscreen free and crawls through it, her grin dripping blood, her face a mask of hate. Her tongue drags across the torn flesh of her lips. She stands on the hood of the car as it surges faster, the world stretching into an endless road of screaming chaos painted in crimson.
She grips the handle of an axe, shrieking like a madwoman, her smile ripping through the strands of flesh still clinging to her face.
“Are you ready?” she roars before snarling and raising the axe high. “Because it’s time to let the darkness in!” she shrieks, swinging the blade down.
A river of red erupts across the hood as the axe slices through flesh and steel. His skull splits open, rotting grey matter slopping out like soup. For a heartbeat, in the slowed moment, it looks like an artistic piece—a sea of himself spilled across infinity. His empty eyes stare into the dark as another car crashes through them.
He leaps upright, breathes charging from his heaving chest—his mind still wet with her voice—sweat pouring, music screaming. Empty bottles litter the floor, spoiled bug-ridden food piled high on the tables. A broken bong, dirty water, a mull bowl spilled. He grimaces as he grips his headphones, which are clamped tight against his skull. He gasps, sucking ragged bursts of breath through his heaving chest. Before he can tear the headphones free, the music pulses through the speakers and into his skull as she drives the axe into his head again.
💬 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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