The Confession Engine
A short horror by Matthew Tonks
His sweaty palms loosely grip the table’s edges, his nails clawing at the wood’s flesh. A pair of black headphones rests folded on top of a slip of paper lying flat before him. A simple pen rests beside it.
Across from him, the smiling man sits perfectly still, his grin spreading slowly. He licks his top lip nervously, his eyes fixed on the smiling man.
The man gestures again at the headphones, his lips thinning, his brilliantly white teeth on display.
“Is there something you do not understand about the process, or are you simply unsure this is what you want to share?”
“I—I—It sounds so—”
“Impossible?” the man says with a raised eyebrow.
“No, not impossible, a—and that’s the thing that worries me the most. It sounds insane that I’m even considering what it is at all!” he sighs.
“Insanity is just another form of entertainment, and there is nothing more entertaining than a clear thought process. It’s something everyone wishes to have. And this, this gives you that opportunity, and much more.”
He looks at the paper and his hand creeps up to grab the pen, only for the man to place his hand over his.
He looks up.
The man shakes his head with a pouty smile.
“You must listen to the sequence. You must peer into its continuity. Then, once you have stepped into its threshold, you may be invited to pass one of your own into the engine.”
“O—Only one?” he stammers as a fresh stream of sweat runs down his brow.
The strange man’s smile stretches into a wide, devilish grin.
“I’m afraid that is a rule, and rules, though they say, are made to be broken.”
His grin falls. His face drops into a stony gaze.
“These rules can never be.”
“H—How long does it take?”
“Minutes,” he says, his smile returning.
He takes a breath and picks up the headphones.
The man’s grin grows even wider and he nods.
“Yes, yes,” he purrs.
“H—How do I start it?”
“You put them on, and the machine will play.”
He swallows and slides the headphones over his ears.
Silence descends upon his world, his heartbeat the only sound he can hear.
Then—beneath it all—something else slowly claws its way through the emptiness of silence.
A low drone. Not loud. Not yet. Just there. Teetering at the edge, like something preparing itself.
The room feels heavy. Wet. The air thickens around him.
Then it begins.
At the edge of his left ear, a voice slips in.
“I still think of—”
It does not finish.
More words worm into his right ear. They do not interrupt. They sit over the first. Louder. Clearer. The first continues beneath, still speaking, still confessing.
“I knew exactly—”
The drone rises.
Then another voice pushes through.
And another.
Each new sentence arrives at the forefront while the others continue underneath—none stopping, none fading. They layer. They build. They run together, out of rhythm, out of order, each confession continuing in full while the next begins over it, again and again.
The voices begin to multiply.
“I still think—”
“I knew exactly—”
“I should have—”
“If I had just—”
They do not replace one another. They stack. The newest confession sits sharp and loud at the surface while the earlier ones blur beneath, still speaking, still finishing their thoughts. The drone hums under it all, steady, rising, pressing into his skull.
Soon there is no single sentence to follow. Only a constant noise. A wall of looping words running and confessing over themselves. A churn of admission without pause. An engine.
The newest confession is always at the surface, exposed. The others continue beneath it, unbroken.
Then—as quickly as they built—the top layer drops away.
The voice beneath rises.
It continues for a breath.
Then it falls too.
One by one, the layers peel away. Each confession finishes and disappears while the drone eases and the pressure falls. The room lightens. The walls stop pressing inward.
Until only one voice remains.
It completes its sentence.
It drops.
The drone teeters and shrinks back into the edges of his hearing.
Then there is nothing.
He sits, his mouth drawn open, his eyes wide and drained.
He removes the headphones with trembling hands as the grinning man holds out a pen towards him.
For some moments they sit in silence, the man’s grin quivering on his lips as he nods to the paper that sits before him.
“Go on, take it, it’s your turn now,” the man says. “Write your confession and free yourself from whatever it is you have never said aloud. Write it down, and let your darkest secret become one with the engine, where it’s always longed to be.”
More seconds pass as the two sit in the deafening silence until eventually, with a stuttered breath, he reaches out, takes the pen, and begins to write.
Are you like this?
Do you have a confession hidden that you want to release?
Then follow the link, hear the engine purr, and set yourself free.
Let your confession join the next iteration.
Did this one sink its teeth into you?
Then feed it. Share it. Let it loose on someone else.
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