More Hands Raised in a Storm
A short horror by Matthew Tonks
A stranger’s sermon peels the congregation like layered skin until the parish reveals the bargains it keeps. Mercy turns transactional and faces fall away to show what, in the dark, has been feeding.
“So far, the disease has cropped up in five towns. Towns like ours, blind as we are! But we, we can break the cycle, rise against the insanity that offers no warning!”
“Liar!” Carolyn Mendez calls from the back of the church, rising to her feet as her husband Tito grabs at her. “Stop it, you bloody old fool!” she spits. “Someone needs to tell the boy—and if his mother won’t, I damn well will!” she growls, eyes fixed on Henry, distrust and hate burning bright.
“Why, I remember when you used—”
“You are not him!” another woman snarls, jabbing a trembling finger toward him. “You’re a wendigo—a walker of skin—wearing his flesh like sin!”
A low murmur ripples through the pews.
He smiles—his flesh elastic and grey beneath make-up thick as clay. “Ladies, please,” he says, holding out a hand. “We are blind to who the true enemy is, for I am not here to fight—I am here to save.”
“You are a pendejo! The devil! A wearer of skin! We cannot trust what hides its face!” another woman cries, a grin splitting her lips so wide it threatens to tear her flesh.
He points, thrusting. “She is one! She is worse than what I could ever be!”
“Why?” she asks, as another five stand, their smiles as wide as hers. “We don’t devour—we divide, share what’s left. But you—where’s the man-child? What’s his fate?”
“His soul was given freely, unbound by fear. I never cohered—while you steal the living, feed from them, trap them. My body decays—dead already,” he says as he drags his hand across his face, wiping make-up from his face, revealing the putrid, dead flesh beneath.
Hushed tones break—gasps, murmurs, then more wide, smiling mouths, their skin immaculate, their smiles brilliant white, their hair perfect. Bodies like the ones in magazines. Soon, half of the congregation stand.
“What do you say now, demon? Who’s the minority? You’re as blind as the other towns—no fight, no dilemma. We will take this as we have every other, offering the perfect symbiotic relationship—one where no one loses.”
“It’s my turn to call you the liar now. How many hosts have you had? How many lives have you jumped from? You are a leech!”
Her smile falters for a moment. Her face pales, and a look of distrust aches across it before her smile rises again. Her cheeks are rosy once more, and the wicked glimmer in her eyes sparks as it did. “I see what you’re doing. I know the game you’re playing, and it won’t work. You may think I am here forcefully, but my host—she shares my dreams, my desires, my wants. And I, I too want hers. So crawl back under your stone. There is no weakness here. I am—”
Her words fade as something tugs at her innards. She looks at him—his dead lips curl into a smile before his body drops in a lifeless heap.
“H-H-He’s lying! He’s seeding your doubt, your distrust! W-We are one together!”
“Then answer his question,” Carolyn says, and her eyes widen as she finds herself a captive inside the body she controlled moments ago.
“T-This cannot be. I—I am more than this, more than him, m-m-more than you!” she whispers as her flesh peels away and she stands, a black, burnt shell of rotten meat. Broken wings hang dead from her back. She grips herself as coldness licks her dying flesh. She senses the presence behind her and turns to face Carolyn, her eyes deep wells of nothingness, a grin across her lips.
“H-H-How?” she stammers.
“She asked, and I granted—that’s how a deal is made,” she says, smiling a little too wide, thrusting a fist through her chest and pulling a glowing purple jewel from her heart. “That’s how dreams become nightmare.”
💬 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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