Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Broken Bones Make the Best Traps

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A forgotten wish hides in the curve of a bone. When curiosity urges a name, something that keeps promises remembers and comes to collect—quiet, patient, and hungry.

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His brow furrows, his eyes narrow, and a cold sweat runs down his forehead. He holds something out with a trembling hand, his mind swimming in confusion.

He takes a breath. A moment. His jaw aches as he clenches it, trying to remember what he’s doing—why he’s standing alone in the coldness of the empty room. His face screws up as he lets go of the object, backing away with a look of disgust. The bone drops to the floor, and he cowers from it, turning his gaze in panic.

Seconds fall into minutes before he dares to glance at the floor, his breath haggard and dry. His lips tremble. He closes his eyes and swallows before opening them again, looking down at the oddly shaped bone lying on the floor. Rotting meat clings to it. His brow furrows deeper as he leans in, curiosity painting its wicked hand across his face.

“What the fuck?” he whispers as he nervously picks up the bone, lifting it high, casting a more direct gaze upon it. His breaths catch in his throat. He twists the bone before him, pulling faces in various stages of disgust and confusion.

“Who the devil are you, and what in God’s name are you doing in my home?” a voice spits from above.

He arches his gaze, following a weaving set of stairs up to the feet of an older man—boxer shorts and a flimsy nightie with a shotgun aimed at him.

He blinks, lips trembling, and lets out a nervous laugh. He holds his hands high. “Y-You and me both,” he stammers.

The man’s lips curl. “Are you high on pills, or something?”

“I have honestly no idea. I-I—I can’t remember anything before standing in this room, holding onto this,” he says, showing him the bone.

The man slowly lowers his gun and lets out a laboured breath. “You know what bone that is, don’t you?”

“I-I-I, I think so. It’s the w—”

“Don’t say it,” he cries out, hand raised, scrambling down the stairs. “Don’t say it, lest you damn us both!”

“What? Us both? I don’t understand, what’s happening? It’s just a—”

Before he can finish, the man is on him and tackles him to the ground.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” he screams, wrestling the bone from his fingers and scrambling to his feet.

“What the fuck, man? What’s wrong with you? It’s just a fucking wishbone!” he spits.

The other man freezes, eyes closed, and lets out a stuttered breath. “I told you not to say anything. I begged you. I pleaded!” he cries as the temperature in the room drops and the lights explode one after another, leaving them in darkness.

“W-What the fuck is going on?”

“The wish, man. When we snapped the bone—we both wished. And the jinn of the fucking bone gave me mine. Now—now you’ve come here and said the fucking words, he—”

“He’s come to collect his reward,” a voice sings from the darkness.

“W-W-Who said that? D-D-Did you do this? D-Did you bring us here?”

“I only do what my masters beg of me,” it hisses, its voice echoing around the room. A sickening wet squelch follows. A muffled cry sings out, and the dull thud of something dropping to the floor drowns it out.

“W-W-What are you?” he stammers as it lunges at him from the dark. He glimpses its limbs—too long—and its jaw, unhinged, hanging open as a glistening sea spills across it.

His screams echo throughout the small room as its elongated fingers twist their way around him and drag him in, flesh tearing as rivers flow, while memories bleed and feed the beast.

Then—with a desperate gasp, he sits upright, chest heaving, eyes wide with panic. Across from him, the other man springs back in the same breath. They sit at either side of the bone, it still firmly in their grasps. The chairs surround them. The world—their memories—washes back over them both. They drop the bone and scramble backwards, their chairs clattering, eyes locked in shared horror.

“I-I, I never wished! I never wished!” they cry out, voices overlapping in perfect synchronicity—as if the lie could undo what’s already been set loose.

While, on the table, the bone lies—silent, waiting, unbroken—hungering for the next souls to whisper their wishes.

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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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