Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

A Song Played in Reverse

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A dead cassette hums a familiar tune and the car park answers back. Noel thinks the night is ordinary until the speakers remember things the world has tried to forget and the backseat starts returning what it once held.

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Noel looks up into the sky. He takes a long, shaky drag on his cigarette, his other hand shoved deep in his worn pants, his flimsy backpack hanging from his shoulder, his hoodie draped across his tiny frame. He takes a breath, draws in another drag, then flicks it to the ground. It rolls off into the car park drains, tumbling from one level to the next before falling into a wet pile of garbage and leaves.

He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the dented door of his ninety-six-model Astra. He tosses his bag in first and steps in seconds after. He breathes warm air into his frozen hands, rubbing them together before gripping the green-handled screwdriver that sticks out of the steering column. He presses his foot down on the accelerator, pumping the pedal before twisting the screwdriver. The car lurches forward with a tired groan but fails to start. He hisses, curses under his breath, and tries again. The car answers with the same half-hearted effort.

He screams in frustration, punches the dashboard, roars, cries, and launches himself out of the car, howling into the night sky. He lights up another cigarette, punches the side of the car, then falls to the ground, laughing hysterically through the tears. He takes a drag, his fist glistening red. He hisses, closes his eyes, groans, and sucks in another drag before staggering to his feet. With one more grunt, he reefs open the door and slams it several times before climbing back in. He lets out a calm, stuttered sigh. He gently pumps the gas and turns the screwdriver, and the engine roars to life.

He sighs again, looks up into the rear-vision mirror, and sees a smiling man sitting in the back of his car. He spins around with a shriek, only to find no one there. He searches the back seat, his heart racing. He turns back to the front and chuckles nervously, trying to shake the image.

“You’re losing it, man, you’re losing it,” he mutters as he slowly heads downward. He zones out as he goes round and round, descending further with each turn, his mind lost from level to level, before his eyes widen and he slams both feet onto the brakes, bringing the car to a sudden stop. Standing in the middle of the road is a frail old woman, dressed only in a dirty white dressing gown that hangs from her bony shoulders. Her long, flowing white hair covers her face. She stands staring off into the car park. His eyes follow, but he doesn’t see anything. When he looks back, she’s gone.

He blinks and shakes his head in bewilderment. “Today’s been way too long, that’s all—that’s gotta be all,” he stammers.

The car stalls as its lights go out, as do the lights flooding the car park and all around. His heart races and sweat pours down his brow as the cassette player, which hasn’t worked for years, suddenly lights up, hissing and buzzing with static. Then, from the speakers, dirty, distorted guitars swing and sway to life, followed by a reverberation, then a voice—a woman’s—chanting in the background. The words Black Sheep, come home repeat over and over again, layered like a tunnel. The guitar swells, the drums pull life into it—a crescendo—his heart racing, the cassette refusing to eject, the doors locked from the outside. He thrusts himself against the glass, but he just bounces off. His seatbelt fused. Then the song ignites. The guitars strike—the bass, the drums.

He gasps. The man is sitting in the back again, and the strange old woman from before is in the passenger seat, her gaze still facing the other way. The man grips his shoulder.

“Hello again, friend of a friend,” he says as the woman turns, a wide, wicked smile—wider than any he has ever seen before—spreads across her wrinkled face.

“Black sheep,” she slurs.

“COME HOME!” he finds himself screaming as the car is bathed in darkness again, only for him to keep screaming until his voice runs dry. Then he gasps, his throat raw, lungs clawing for air. He stammers and stutters—time seems lost. He gasps again, the car’s engine roars to life, the lights flare back into existence—and standing in front of the car is him. Suddenly he’s shielding his eyes, staring back at himself behind the wheel, a wicked smile on his lips as the engine roars and the car lurches forward.

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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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