Feed the Engine to Taste the Winnings
A short horror by Matthew Tonks
A market vendor sells quick youth in a glittering sachet. She trades tears for the promise and discovers that every drop buys something that was never meant to be sold.
His tiny, trembling fingers pick up the sachets. His eyes rise to meet hers, a quivering grin sliding across sweat-drenched lips. He swallows, tips the brim of his fedora, and opens his eyes wide—his face beaming with excitement. He thrusts his arms out, leaps onto the counter with ease, and stares into the small crowd moving from stall to stall. Then he brings his gaze back to her.
“Are you sure? Double sure? A pick like this, a choice indeed, could befall you in trouble—or triple,” he jokes, the rhyme rolling off his tongue like a car salesman desperate to seal the deal before the day ends—or be the one paying for all the wasted fuel.
“W-W-Will it work? Will it do what you say?” she asks.
His grin grows wickedly wide. He shakes the bag sharply, holds it to his face, and opens one eye wide—examining the contents like a jeweller verifying a diamond’s cut. His grin flickers. He looks down at her, a frown curling across his lips. He sticks his bottom lip out, turns dramatically, and presses a hand to his forehead like a dying poet mid-monologue.
“Oh dear, oh no,” he sighs, then pauses—grinning at his reflection in the mirror.
The woman stays silent behind him as he peers into the well-positioned glass, studying her movements and eyes.
“I-I-Is there something wrong?” she stammers nervously.
His hidden smile widens into a lunatic grin, then he spins around, sprinkling a sea of glitter over her
“Everything and nothing—plus a little bit more!” he roars as the glitter slowly rises into the night sky, lighting it with a magical glow. Gasps and cries, laughter and pointed fingers—wonder, amazement. She twirls in a circle, laughing with widening eyes, until she comes back to meet his.
“W-What do you want? I-I don’t have much,” she says as she pulls open her purse and starts searching through it, only for him to place a hand on hers—his face brooding, his brow furrowed.
“Money won’t buy what’s inside this bag. It will line my pockets, it will feed my aches—but it cannot give you what must be earned.”
“B-B-But you have it there, in your hands, and I have money—thousands, if it must be that, or more! If your treatment works—if it can turn back the clock—then I’ll pay what I must to get back what I’ve lost!” she cries out.
His grin returns—he gestures toward the curtain.
“Through there, through the door. Let us make our deal in private—pay the price—and turn back the hands of time by fifty!”
She hesitates, looking from the curtain to his nervous smile. She swallows and clutches her trembling hands together tightly. Around them, for a fleeting moment, the market hums—a reminder from the world that it still exists outside their bargain.
“How do I know these things will work?” she stammers.
His smile broadens as he nods his head gently, opens the sachet, and takes one of the small crystals from the bag.
“Open your mouth—and poke out your tongue,” he quips quickly.
“What?”
“You want proof? Poke out your tongue, and let me show you.”
She stands there for a few moments before reluctantly opening her mouth and poking it out.
He places the crystal clumsily on her tongue, and she stares at him, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, mouth still open.
More seconds pass before he sighs loudly and shakes his head in disbelief.
“Now swallow!” he snaps, the twinkle in his eye shining as he grips her by the shoulders and caresses her fiercely. She slowly pulls her tongue back in and swallows, pulling an awkward face as the jagged little crystal drags its way down her throat.
His smile quivers as he grabs a mirror and holds it up for her to see. At first—nothing. But as the seconds tick toward the minute, the yellow tinges slowly fade, and wrinkles pull taut.
She gasps, rips the mirror from his hands, and inspects her face with stuttered breaths of wonder.
“H-H-How long will it last?” she asks, noticing the firmness in her arse cheeks and the proudness of her breasts—like they’d marched back into place on command.
“The small sample? A few hours—maybe a day. Depends on how your metabolism handles it.”
“W-What do you want? Name it! Name it and I’ll make it yours!” she cries as tears of joy run down her flushed, sculpted cheeks.
His smile grows into a grin, and he leans in close.
“Ten thousand dollars—and two cups of joy,” he says.
Her perfect brow furrows as she stares at him in confusion.
“T-Two cups of joy?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says, holding up two test tubes. “Your tears. Fill these up—to the brim, no less—and a bag of youth will be yours. A bag full. A month or more. A pretty face. The perfect arse. Bouncy breasts that sit proud without support. Think of it! The joy. The things you could do with it—and the things they’d do to you because you have it.”
With trembling hands, she begins to catch the tears, a smile quivering at the corners of her lips. She stares at her youthful reflection, and laughter erupts from her chest in uncontrollable waves, sending more tears spilling down her cheeks, quickly filling the vials as he watches—his wicked grin widening with every drop.
💬 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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