Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Send What You Can’t and I’ll Show You His Name

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A polished preacher trades mercy for money until something older than faith tests his bargain. The air tightens, devotion mutates into violence, and what they call salvation becomes a spectacle the congregation can never unsee.

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He leans over the pulpit, staring out at his congregation. He eyes each and every one, then centres on the camera. He pokes out his bottom lip, nods slowly, draws in a breath, then closes his eyes. He runs a firm hand through slicked-back hair, adjusts his tie, and runs his tongue over his teeth—pausing at the golden crown, rubbing it gently, letting it glimmer. He smiles as he steps out from the pulpit, the microphone in hand.

“When He wept, He didn’t just weep for you and me—He wept for them. The non-believers. The ones He knew would never walk the path. He chose to care not just for His children, but for all children—saint or sinner,” he says, voice drenched in conviction, arms sweeping in perfect rhythm, each step choreographed, every breath planned. Everything rehearsed, designed, sold—his marketability, his money, the shape of the lie he lived. He was the centrepiece of the business—and the business was never salvation.

“I—I spoke to Him, and I asked ‘Why defend those who don’t deserve it?’ And do you know what He said?” he asks.

Murmurings ripple through the crowd. He smiles and nods.

“Yes, He did! Yes, He did!” he shouts, his voice cracking with a feverish kind of delight. “He said He was Father to all—and like any good father, He forgave His children. For in forgiveness, they could find hope!” he screams. As the crowd erupts in fevered agreement, he throws his arms wide as he collapses to his knees.

“Our Lord, He knows me, and He knows you, and He has a place at His table for all of us. So send me your donations, send me what you don’t need, and I will make sure those who cannot help themselves—those who cannot forgive themselves—are given the opportunity to sit with us at His side.”

“LIAR!” a voice calls out from the back. His smile wavers, and his lips quiver.

“W-What? W-Who dares challenge my convictions—my path!”

“I dare!” the voice calls out again. All eyes in the room fall to the back—onto an older man who stands in the doorway.

“A-A-And who, may I ask, are you?” he stammers, lips trembling as sweat pours down his glowing orange brow.

He smiles. “I am your god, so bow before me!” he commands. Hushed tones ripple through the crowd as many drop to their knees.

“S-S-S-STOP IT!” he calls out. “HE IS THE LIAR! HE IS THE SINNER! HE IS NOT OUR GOD! HE IS NOT OUR SAVIOUR! HE IS A HEATHEN!” he screams, pointing a thrusting finger toward the stranger, his face twisted and fierce.

The murmuring breaks out through the crowd again, louder, as many rise from their knees and scream, “Liar! Liar!” at the top of their voices. The evangelist’s smile wavers, and he dabs a handkerchief against his sweat-drenched brow.

“Are you a devil? Have you no shame?”

The stranger smiles and gestures calmly as the crowd parts, a clear path opening toward the minister.

“You have been a naughty boy, Derrick, taking these people’s money and twisting it into sin,” he says with a slow rise of his eyebrows.

Hushed tones spread through his congregation. His lips tremble, and he forces a nervous smile, dabbing his handkerchief harder.

“L-L-Liar! Y-Y-You will not sway my followers, you will not win them over with your tales! I am in His image, and like a weapon, I will be thrust against evil!”

His smile widens a fraction. “Then, Derrick, thrust away,” he snarls.

Derrick hurtles forward like a bullet and slams into the stranger’s chest—his body folding inwards with a sickening crunch. His ribs cave. His jaw shatters. Blood erupts from his mouth, shattered teeth scattering across the floor. He slides to the ground, twitching, gasping for each desperate breath that claws at his throat, as crimson spreads beneath his broken form.

“D-D-Devil,” Derrick stammers through bloody, broken lips. “Y-Y-Y-You will not have my soul, for I am—”

“You are a weapon, I remember,” the man says as he flicks his fingers around, and Derrick shoots up, hitting the ceiling with a wet slap, then drops in a bloody heap to the floor, his white suit drenched in red, bone shards tearing through the fabric.

“Are you done? Ready to concede? Ready to be mine—heart and soul?”

“I-I-I,” Derrick murmurs, as he wearily stumbles to his feet, blood flowing from his torn flesh. He looks around through swollen eyes at his congregation, their faces smeared with fear and disgust. He drags in a jagged breath and turns to the stranger. “WE will n-n-not fall to you, demon,” Derrick stammers.

“Oh, I think you will. All of you will,” he says as he lifts his hands. Then the room shifts—quick and violent—as a defiant call breaks from his followers and Derrick’s congregation erupts between them.

“For the glory of He who is our Saviour!” they scream as they rip into the stranger—snapping bones, clawing through flesh with frenzied purpose. They tear him apart piece by piece, and with a wet, sickening rip, they hoist his severed head high like a trophy—shrieking, singing, praising the lord they believe watches from above.

Derrick drops to his knees, a carved smile stretching across his lips as his tongue gently traces his golden crown. He forces himself upright and turns to the camera, clutching the microphone.

“Give me what you can, give me what you can’t. Give me some, give me it all, it doesn’t matter, just give—and if you give me your soul, well,” he proclaims, forcing a wide smile as his golden tooth flares like a bright shining star, blinding everyone for a moment. When their sight returns, he stands reborn—his suit brilliantly white, his wounds fully healed. “Salvation will be yours!”

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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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