Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

A Scream Made in the Moment

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A small, private violence unspools until the room remembers it forever. Hands will not let go and laughter keeps time with breaking bone.

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Lincoln grimaces, a tremble flickering along his lips. He thrusts forward, leaning over Claude, his hands clamped around his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter. Veins bulge across his forehead as his blood boils. His flesh grows a shade darker while he continues to tighten his grip.

He tries to push free, fingers clawing at Lincoln’s flesh, begging and pleading—his limp slaps only driving Lincoln with greater force. Claude gasps. His face turns a deep blue. His eyes glaze as he goes limp. Veins burst—and the whites of his eyes drown in a river of red.

A trembling smile crawls across Lincoln’s lips, twisting into a maniacal grin as he takes another step forward—hands still clamped around Claude’s throat. He leans in close, licks the cold sweat from his face, and laughs.

“Once more!” he roars. “ONCE MORE!” he cries again, tightening his grip, squeezing with everything left—even as pain screams through his hands and floods his arms. He snarls, grimaces, and hisses—his teeth cracking under the pressure. His mouth floods with warm red.

He pushes on, shaking his head like a madman. Sweat pours in waves. Crimson spills from his mouth, soaking his beard, spattering across his filthy shirt.

Lincoln’s nose screws up, his eyes water, and his world spins as he’s engulfed in a toxic cloud—Claude’s final act of sabotage—emptying into his pants. He gasps, stutters, and screams a cry born of pain and ecstasy intertwined.

He bucks at the air, the room drowning in the stench of death and sewage. He screams again, his hands still locked around Claude’s throat. He yanks their faces close, staring into those dead, blood-filled eyes, and roars—not words, only sound. Wild laughter. Insanity given voice.

The room breathes—the walls moan and contract like living flesh. It creaks. It cracks.

Each movement—an odyssey untold, whispering its journey to the darkness. A breath. A cry. A call.

He screams again—not in words, not in sound, but in something raw, a guttural vibration from the pit.

He releases his grip and slams Claude’s head into the tiles—once, twice—the wet thud ringing out again and again—relentless. Globules of red-tinged saliva stream from his snarl as he slams his head into the tiles again and again.

The first crack of Claude’s skull is dull, but the second—and the third—erupt with a wet, sickening squelch as his head caves in. A river of red washes across the floor. A mashed mess of brain, bone, and flesh bursts out—sliding across the tiles like Bolognese sauce.

His snarl pulsates. He drops to his knees, kneeling in the crimson sea beneath him. Breath after breath escapes him. Exhausted, he drops back onto his heels.

He swallows. Pockets of white explode in the corners of his eyes. He stammers and stutters, gripping his head—eyes shut tight, jaw clenched.

A deafening ring squeals inside his skull. He screams, raging at the rage—before falling silent, but only for a second. He blinks—once, twice—a breath trembling in his throat. Then his head bursts apart in a visceral eruption of red.

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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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