Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Riding the Red Dead Ruby with a Back Door Ejector Seat

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A glittering temptation at the roadside turns a petty dare into a theatre of sudden, hungry violence. Choices unspool fast and bloody—one gem decides who lives, who dies, and who will laugh last in the red light.

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His arm punches through the glass, tearing flesh and muscle from bone as a river of red floods down its surface.

His lips curl and he screams with unholy fury before tearing himself free, raising the jade ruby high—his arm a bloody wet mess of bone and shredded flesh.

Crimson rivers wash down his body as the world pulses with violent vibrancy, flashes exploding at the edges of his vision.

He drops to his knees, cold sweat clinging to his brow.

He draws a stuttering breath, forces a smile, then crashes to the earth—his eyes rolling back in his head.

The jewel tumbles from his empty grasp.

Carolyne gasps, clutching herself, while Fabio snatches the ruby and laughs.

“Those who fall lose—while those who wait prosper!” he snarls before the flesh on his arm tears away in ribbons, invisible razors slicing through muscle.

He screams in agony, drops to his knees, and clutches his mutilated arm.

“Those who move without checking for some damned curse are the real losers!” Hargrave spits, prying Fabio’s hand open—his own wounds already knitting as Fabio’s arm tears apart.

He feels the cold touch of steel against the back of his head and smirks.

“I was wondering when you’d show your true self,” he hisses.

“Our true selves are always on display. Some people just look the other way—until it’s too late. Now hand over the ruby, or I remove your head.”

He laughs softly. “We both know you won’t do that—not while I’m holding the ruby. So don’t play me for a fool. I know how this works, and you aren’t stupid enough to—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

A bullet screams from the chamber and rips through his skull, punching out the back of his head in a shower of bone, brains, and a pirouetting geyser of crimson that paints the air like the Fourth of July.

He drops like a wet sack of meat, slapping the ground in a growing lake of red that stretches like tendrils, hungrily chasing the scent of living flesh.

Her lips curl into a wicked grin as a playful laugh slips free.

“You were right to assume I wasn’t that stupid,” she says, turning the pistol toward one of the guides.

“Pick up the rock from his hand.”

The guide’s eyes widen, sweat beading across his brow as he shakes his head.

She doesn’t give him time to explain—she just pulls the trigger.

His head erupts in a vibrant bouquet of crimson and bone.

Wet chunks of brain matter and flesh slap against the trees behind him.

She doesn’t wait for the body to drop. Her arm swings sideways, the pistol barrel finding another.

Before she can speak, she jerks the barrel off course and fires—one of the guides makes a run for it.

The shot tears through the runner’s throat, a ballooning burst of red spraying high—blood arcs through the air like it’s trying to fly away.

He collapses in a tumbling heap, a sea of red spilling quickly from his silent form.

She pivots to the next.

“Pick it up,” she says—flat, emotionless, like she’s ordering coffee.

He swallows, trembling.

She fires.

His face erupts in a dazzling display of blood and pulverised bone. His skull spins with the force, snapping his neck.

His body hits the dirt—already cold.

She swings the pistol to the final man and grits her teeth.

“How about you—fancy your luck?”

He holds up his hands, gently kneeling down. His eyes never leave her.

His fingers fumble, prying the ruby free of Hargrave’s hand.

As he does, his head is torn apart and his skull erupts like a volcano, showering them in a blanket of red.

She crouches and picks up the ruby.

“Smarter than the average—” The words barely leave her lips before the revolver’s muzzle digs into her skull.

“Bear?” Hargrave grunts, pulling the trigger—his wicked smile widening across a face that refuses to stay dead.

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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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