Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

A Bargain Owed a Debt of Blood

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A desperate reckoning arrives long after the deal is made. A ruined car, a hunted man and a thing that remembers the price—night keeps its accounts in blood and motion.

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The car’s engine throttles, back wheels spinning in the dirt—fishtailing like a dog wagging its tail.

He grits his teeth, breath thrashing through his chest, spit spraying the wheel. His eyes pulse, red washing him from head to toe—the blood long dried, not his.

Hair flat to his head, he blinks, draws another thrusting breath. His hand grips the gear stick, feet align as he plants the clutch, shifts gear, and launches forward like a bullet from a barrel.

He tightens his clenched teeth, a smirk wetting the edges of his sneer.

He hits the gate like a rocket, tearing through as if it were paper. Headlights slice the dark as three armed figures burst from the building’s doorway, guns raised in the glare. The car slams into them, a sea of red splattering across the bonnet as it rips through the building, bursting from the patio windows and burying itself in a ten-by-ten square of lush green grass.

Screams drag him back to awareness as he fights upstream through confusion.

He blinks as a disembowelled soldier claws across the bonnet towards him. He fires two shots into its head, swings right, catches the next as it smashes through the glass, while the third tears the door from its hinges and drags him—seat and all—into the night.

He fires desperately, two rounds tagging the soldier’s foot and blowing his toes apart.

He hits the ground, unclips his belt and rolls, stopping with the pistol locked on the soldier’s head.

For a heartbeat they share an unspoken moment, words said, but not, a conversation, a life—then two shots split his skull.

He staggers to his feet, swaying as he surveys the carnage before stumbling towards the smouldering wreck that was, moments ago, his brother’s painstakingly restored nineteen eighty-eight Buick.

He slaps the side of the car with an exhausted sigh, fumbling with the passenger-side door before brutish paws grip him and hurl him across the yard.

He smacks into the ground with a wet, grotesque thud—a thick splash of crimson paints the plush green grass, glowing like a set of runway lights strung out across the darkness.

He gasps for a breath as he feels it leap. His eyes shoot open as the behemoth drops. He scrambles away as it hits the earth with an almighty thump mere inches away, dirt and blood rain down around him.

It roars.

He casts a fevered glance back as he gets to his feet and runs desperately towards the cornfield surrounding the grass.

It charges after him.

As he hits the edge, the thing leaps—he pivots hard, using the moment to change direction and rush back towards the Buick.

The thing screams as it tears through the corn.

He dives into the back seat, slamming against the door.

It’s on him in an instant.

He feels its grip around his leg, dragging him back out of the car.

He grabs the door, holding on for dear life while his other hand scrambles—the shotgun lying centimetres beyond his reach.

The thing lets out a blood-curdling cry and rips him from the car.

He hangs upside down, swinging in its grip as it stares at him with enormous eyes.

It snarls.

He shoves the shotgun in its face and smirks.

He squeezes the trigger—but instead of an explosion, all he gets is a pathetically empty click. For a moment they sit in a pocket of silence together, and then a guttural growl bubbles up from the beast’s stomach.

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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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