Author: Matthew Tonks

The Sludge Beneath the Blood in the Bathtub 

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

His knees dig into the bathroom floor as laboured breaths escape his chest. He looks up at her, his face a bloody mess of torn flesh and missing teeth, blood spilling from his lips and splashing across the cracked tiles below, a sea of red spreading beneath him. 

Katherine stands above him, her fist clenched at the ready, broken teeth sticking out from her knuckles like trophies, glistening thick with crimson. She squeezes her fingers tight as pain shoots up her arm. She snarls down at him, fighting the urge to swing again. 

A wispy smile flutters across his lips. He closes his eyes and arches his back, euphoria washing over him as he braces for it. 

“Again. Again. Spill more of me,” he pleads through cut lips. 

Katherine hesitates. Her nose scrunches as she bares her teeth, her fist raised high and trembling, ready to fall. 

“Jardo… w-what happened to you? W-When did you become this?” 

His eyes open and meet her panicked stare with a whimsical, almost vacant gaze as his smile slowly spreads into a full ear-to-ear grin. 

“I’ve been like this forever. It just took you until this moment to finally see me for who I am… and what I’m truly capable of. Now punish me! Make me bleed!” 

He stretches his arms out wide, palms facing the heavens, his forearms washed in red almost to the elbows. 

Her eyes drift to the bathtub, its crimson water now perfectly still. No more bubbles. No more ripples. No more signs of life. Just the odd fleshy bone breaking through the murky depths here and there, and a mop of black hair floating just beneath the surface. 

She swallows a stuttered breath and looks back down at his broken face. 

Her lips quiver as she chews at them, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“W-Who’s in the b-bath?” 

His eyes widen, and his grin twists into something sharper, mocking both the moment and the question itself. 

“There’s no adventure in just tel…” 

His words are cut short as she hits him. 

Then, without losing a beat, she hits him again. 

And again. 

And again. 

She stumbles blindly backwards, her breaths exhausted and desperate. 

“W-Who’s in the bathtub, J-Jardo? W-Who?” she screams, her fist a bloody mess of torn flesh and dislocated fingers, with more teeth buried deep in her knuckles, wedged between joint and bone. 

He clumsily sits back up, his face an autobiography in pain. One eye sunken into its shattered socket while his nose lies broken and folded across his face in a smear of red, his jaw dislocated and hanging loose. 

He breathes bubbles of red while a haggard laugh trembles beneath it all. 

“What will it take for you to stay down?” she spits as she throws another punch, knocking him down again. 

He hits the floor with a wet, grotesque slap. 

Katherine barely has time to drag in a breath before he plants a hand against the tiles and pushes himself upright. 

A second later he’s on his feet and grabbing wildly at her head. 

Slippery fingers smear thick ribbons of congealed red across her face as he tries to force his thumbs into her eyes. 

She bites and pulls, claws and punches, but it’s the knee she drives into his groin that finally makes him fold with a guttural gasp. As he goes down, she drives another knee into his face. A crack tears through his skull and he drops to the floor before her. 

She staggers backwards, using what remains of her torn shirt to wipe blood from her face while hysterical cries spill from her lips, but her eyes widen as he starts getting up again. 

She screams and stomps his head into the tiles until it splits apart like an overripe watermelon, the bathroom floor washed in a sea of red, rotten grey matter and a writhing colony of maggots twisting through it all. 

For a moment, everything falls still. 

Then small hands curl around the rim of the bathtub, and her breath catches in her throat as she reels back in horror, tears streaming down her face. 

The shattered body drags itself from the crimson water and spills onto the floor. For a moment she lies silent before awkwardly climbing to her feet and turning to face her mother. 

“M-Mummy… w-why am I so cold?” she cries. 

“B-B-Beth?” Katherine whispers, her hand trembling as she fights the urge to reach for her. 

A twisted smile spreads across Beth’s pale, broken face before she rushes at her screaming. 

Katherine barely has time to react before Beth slams into her like a freight train and sends them both crashing into the wall with a grotesque wet thud. Stars burst behind Katherine’s eyes while white flashes tear across her vision as they collapse to the floor in a tangled heap. 

Screaming like a wild animal, Beth mounts her and bites deep into Katherine’s shoulder. A sea of red washes over her. 

Katherine screams in agony, clawing and shoving at Beth until she finally breaks free. She grabs her by the head and slams it against the wall again and again before throwing her across the room in a sprawling heap. 

She falls back against the wall, clutching at her shoulder as blood pours through her fingers. 

Before she can catch her breath, Beth is back on her feet and rushing at her again. 

Katherine swings desperate punches until one connects with a sickening crack, sending Beth crashing down once more. 

Katherine follows after her, throwing herself on top of Beth and pinning her to the floor. She bucks violently beneath her, teeth snapping at the air as she fights to break free. 

Tears stream down Katherine’s face as she drags in a sobbing breath. The world stutters and blurs around her while Beth’s screams fade into the background, washed over by a high-pitched ringing that severs her connection to everything around her as she drifts into her own world where the sun is shining and all three are playing happily in the park. 

Then a wet gurgle cuts through it, dragging her back to reality. 

She swallows as a spasm of cold quivers up her spine and turns her head to find Jardo awkwardly pulling himself back to his feet. Green sludge spills from the gaping hole where half his face used to be as he sways for several uncountable moments before clumsily starting towards them. 

Katherine gasps, a breath stuttering through her lips as her grip on Beth loosens and the world collapses into a myriad of blurry images. 

Before the moment even has time to become the next, Beth lunges up and buries her teeth deep in Katherine’s throat, showering herself in a warm gushing river of red. 

---

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Curdled Milk Cried Me to Sleep

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

The smoke bellows up into the night sky while fires burn beyond the city’s edges, his fingers pressing against the blinds, separating them just enough for his eyes to peer through. The humming of helicopters assaults the night air while their lights sweep across the desolate streets below, explosions and sirens crying out through the darkness as petrified screams are swallowed by the witching hour.

A stuttered breath slips from between his lips as the ache in his jaw returns tenfold. His nose scrunches and a scowl digs sharply into his brow as things shift within his swollen gums.

He lets out a sharp hiss as his teeth move again, the salty taste of blood running thick through his mouth. He stutters another breath, almost salivating from the pungent aroma given off by his own decay.

A spasm throws him backwards as a violent ringing tears through his skull, his vision swaying in and out of focus. He strains another breath, clenching his hands into tightly wound fists until his knuckles turn white. A river of sweat pours over his brow while the sound of his heart thundering in his chest drowns everything else out.

The world cries out around him and he applauds it. He feels a smile spreading across his face, then the lights shift and he hears her call out his name.

“Brian?” she repeats, finally dragging him back into awareness.

A grotesquely wet click echoes through his skull and his jaw drops, hanging loosely beneath his face. A strained grunt slips from his lips as he forces it back in place, his wild bloodshot eyes scouring the room for exits while broken capillaries spider around his nose in bright red bursts beneath the dim light.

His flesh throbs and his nostrils burn as though a sea of fire is trapped inside his face. Things worm their way through cartilage beneath his skin while high-pitched screams echo through his flesh and a thick river of saliva washes into his mouth.

He savours the soup for more moments than he should before swallowing the congealing pus. He forces a weak smile and drags a hand across his slimy lips as his breathing slowly stumbles back into some familiar rhythm while the thumping in his chest fades into silent ignorance.

“C-C-Cassie?” he stammers.

“You okay over there? It’s been a while since you said, like anything,” she asks.

“Y-Yeah, I’m okay, just lost in thought, y-you know, thinking,” he mutters blindly as his words taper off into unintelligible sounds while he looks back through the blinds.

The cock of a gun and the sharp pull of a chamber echo through the room.

“What are you thinking about, Brian?”

His smile broadens across his trembling lips until it stretches almost too wide.

“A gun? It’s a little early for the Spanish Inquisition, isn’t it? Don’t you trust me?”

“Trust isn’t anything anymore, you taught me that. It’s all about the truth and how easily it slips into fear and lies, because that’s what really matters now. So again I ask, what are you thinking about, Brian?”

He allows an affectionate laugh to quietly slip from between his lips, a warped sense of pride layered through it.

“So, no I love you, no anything, it’s just I don’t trust you, so bang bang, you’re dead?”

“I told you, it’s not about trust anymore, it’s about the truth, and we both know what you’d do if our roles were reversed. If I woke up looking like you did, you wouldn’t even give me a chance to explain myself before pulling the trigger. So stop being so melodramatic and turn around, let me see your eyes.”

“Ouch, that felt real, and rehearsed. You’ve been holding onto that one for quite a while, haven’t you? I bet you even practised it in the mirror, right!”

“STOP IT, BRIAN! STOP BEING THIS THING AND TURN AROUND! SHOW ME WHAT YOU REALLY ARE!”

“What I really am? I don’t think you’re ready for that, so run away, Cassie, go now, and I promise I won’t follow you,” he says as his trembling fingers force themselves between the blinds once again, his eyes nothing but pools of red staring out across the burning city.

“And where am I supposed to go? The city’s falling apart, and this, this is the only place where the rot is not. So why don’t you leave? Why don’t you go be with the others, be with your own kind?”

“My own kind? And here I thought it was just you and me, together to the end.”

“This is the end.”

His smile broadens into a grin, pulling at the edges of his lips.

“And what if I don’t want to go? What will you do then, dear Cassie?”

“I’ll put you down!”

“Put me down? Put me DOWN?” he snarls. “I’m not some wounded animal, so don’t stand there pretending you’re strong enough to stop me. I know who you really are. You’re the girl who can’t sleep when there’s out-of-date milk curdling in the fridge. You’re nothing. Just another frightened soul trying to convince itself it matters. So forgive me if I don’t take your threats seriously, because right now, they’re nothing but words!” he says as he turns towards her, the red spiderlike veins spreading across his entire face now.

“O-O-Oh god Brian, y-you,” she stammers as she holds the gun towards him in trembling hands.

“I gave you a chance, that’s what I did,” he spits as he rushes towards her.

She closes her eyes tightly, turns her head away, and squeezes the trigger. Two shots explode from the barrel and tear into his rotten flesh in violent splashes of red.

Then everything falls silent around her.

She opens her eyes and slowly turns towards him. For a moment, memories flash between them, fragments of sunshine and daisy chains.

Then his head bursts apart in a violent spray of red that paints the walls, the ceiling, and her face.

She gasps breath after breath as a sea of tiny parasites writhe across her face. Then, like the seed of man, they force themselves into her mouth and nose, flooding every warm, wet surface they can find as her eyes widen in horror.

---

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Water Wets the Needle’s Thread

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

The water spits and surges from the shower head, splashing across the tiled floor, its cold fingers clawing as it swirls towards the drain beside a gentle wash of red. 

The fluorescent lights blink with a dull click, buzzing weakly in the darkness before clicking again and flooding the bathroom with blinding light once more. A fly drifts through the stale air before landing on the stained mirror glass, cracks splintering through its surface while green mould creeps from the corners of the wooden frame, crudely pieced together with glue and nails, gouges in its flesh exposing swollen chipboard beneath layers of lead-laced paint. 

A pale arm lies lifeless at the water’s edge while fingernails drift gently across the skin, tracing scars stretching from wrist to elbow, dozens littering the limb in different stages of recovery and decay. Fresh wounds stitched together in crooked lines pull the flesh tight while loose threads hang uncut from the seams. 

A giggle dances around the room as she burrows her head into his side. 

His stomach is drowned in ink, satanic sigils, naked women, flayed bodies and burning pyres sprawled across the flesh. The tattoos crawl from beneath his belly button, up over his chest and around his throat. 

His wet goatee clings to him, his teeth bared as every breath drags from his lungs, strained and uneven. 

Her fingers trace the veins along his biceps before disappearing into his shoulders. She looks at him, amusement dancing across her lips as her eyes widen and she digs her fingernails into the space between muscle and sinew. 

A fresh stream of red squeezes free as she slowly pulls the exposed vein out through the torn flesh with her fingertips, like a worm dragged from wet earth. 

She holds it there as his body convulses, pinning the vein to the skin with a safety pin while tears run down his face and her grin softens as she kisses him. 

She grabs the back of his head by the hair, pressing their naked flesh together before slamming his head into the tiles with a wet crack. 

She sits cross-legged and threads a strand of her hair through the eye of a needle before carelessly sewing the flesh back together, keeping the vein perched outside the skin. 

He trembles. 

She slaps his face, grabs him by the lips and forces them together before placing a finger softly against her own, shushing him while a murky sea of red spreads beneath his head. 

Her eyes are empty voids swallowing the room around them. The lights flash, and the room collapses into darkness. A deafening beat tears through him like a scream. He blinks through the fevered madness and finds himself staring at a mirrored image of himself, a grotesque doppelganger standing across from where he lies, laughing with her. 

They both point at him, mocking him. 

Then they’re kissing, their bodies grinding together in front of him. 

He’s drowned in the musky smell of sweat and sex, his lips quivering as he grabs at himself, only to find a mound of sewn flesh instead. He looks down and gags, the lower half of his body severed and lying a few feet away in a congealed pool of crimson. 

He chokes on a breath, his eyes widening as he convulses violently, his head smacking against the floor with grotesque wet cracks as thick streams of red spill beneath him. 

He rocks as he feels her hands on him again while she purrs into his ear, then bites it gently. 

“It’s time now, David. Choose your fate.” 

“M-My fate?” he stammers. 

“Uh-huh,” she hums. 

“W-What d-do I have to choose?” he murmurs as she gently blows into his ear. 

“To stay here with me, forever, or,” she purrs. 

“O-Or?” he mutters. 

She pulls away from him and stares into his petrified eyes while the room hums softly around them. 

“Or you wake up.” 

---

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A Bitterness in Sweet Sugar

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

His frail, bony fingers wrap around the half-full glass, lifting it to his lips as he takes a sip of the whisky. He lets out a sharp hiss as he falls back in the seat, his exhausted body slowly becoming a prison. He stares wearily out over the city he has called home, with eyes blinded by age and a life lived far longer than it should’ve been. 

He swallows and clenches his aching jaw, letting out a grunt as he pushes a fist into his lips, muffling a cough that quickly spirals out of control. A thick wad of phlegm tears loose and chokes him. 

He gasps, his eyes widening, and for a moment his world goes blank. Then he starts coughing violently, forcing the phlegm up and out, spitting it across his open hand, its green mucus soaked in dark crimson. 

He breathes, each breath laboured and strained, his heartbeat thumping loudly in the back of his skull. 

Stars flicker before him, scattered patches of white, a symphony of colours. He drags in another breath and falls back again, his lips trembling as his eyes fall wearily to the floor. 

Her hand rests on his, holding it softly. 

He looks up at her, tears running down his cheeks. Her face is filled with sorrow. 

“I-I-I’m so sorry,” he mutters as his vision swims, his eyes falling back to the floor, a sea of sweat pouring down over his pale face. His mind floods with memories he can’t recall as his own, laughter from decades gone, mistakes that were once someone else’s, now his. 

He forces an uneasy gaze back to her. 

“Dear Salvador, what are you ever sorry for?” she asks. 

“T-The choices I made, even if I don’t remember them.” He stammers as he takes a breath, a faint, weary smile trembling across his lips. “They-they warn you about getting old, but they never tell you about this… how your memories disappear and slowly get replaced by someone else’s, that’s when it all becomes a nightmare.” 

She tightens her grip on his hand. 

“Like you, my choices were my own,” she says softly. “I knew who you were the moment I stepped into your world, and I knew what that would eventually make of me. Just like you do now, looking back through innocent eyes that can no longer remember the things your soul still carries.” 

He sobs, then coughs again. He hisses, swallows, the taste of his own blood on his tongue, and with a grimace, he downs the rest of his glass and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red across his cheek. He staggers a breath and shakes his head. 

“I-I-I should’ve been better, I c…” 

She gently squeezes his hand and offers a comforting smile. “There was no one else you could’ve been but you. Every step led you here.” 

“W-What’s here for an old bitter fool like me?” 

“The end, the last true gift anyone can be given.” 

“I don’t see death as a gift, it’s an insult, one I’m not ready for, nor do I want it!” 

“For something new to come, something old has to fall.” 

He stammers a broken breath, “I-I, I’m scared of what’s waiting for me on the other side, w-what punishments will be my fate.” 

“Fate doesn’t punish, humans do.” 

He laughs gruffly, reaching out and placing a hand on hers. 

“W-W-Will you stay with me, so I’m not alone?” 

“You’re never alone, Salvador. That’s why I’m here, so you know that,” she says. 

A smile trembles on his lips. “I-I-I don’t know how I can thank you… after everything I did.” 

Her smile falls, the shadows shift, and she pulls her hand away from his. 

“I’m not here to hold your hand while you die. I’m here to show you who you are.” 

“W-What, what do you mean, w-w…” he gasps, takes a desperate breath, and the world implodes with it. 

Then a million sets of eyes open up like a sea of screens before him, showing him glimpses into other worlds, where other versions of him are sitting in the same seat, at the same window, at the same time, their breaths all as one. 

“W-W-What is this? W-W-What’s happening?” 

“This is you not dying alone, for who better to die with than yourself, Salvador?” she says with a devilish grin, as the heartbeat that was thumping moments ago in the back of his skull beats its last beat. 

---

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A Knock Always Requires an Answer

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

The water soaks into his flesh, the bubbles popping rhythmically against him while he lies there, his eyes half-closed, the phone lazily in his hands, colours drifting aimlessly across its screen as he moves each one into its box, his mind running on autopilot, no real thought to any of it anymore. 

A laboured breath, a sigh. He shifts himself wearily, and the warm water splashes against him like cold fingers. He grumbles and grunts. 

“One more, and then I’m done,” he mumbles to himself as an ad begins to play across the screen. He grimaces. His teeth chatter as the temperature of the room suddenly begins to drop several degrees. He shivers. 

His eyes search the small room, the bathroom’s frosted glass door clearly visible in the reflection of one of the room’s many mirrors, still firmly closed. Something moves out in the hallway, past the door, its shadow large. A breath catches in his chest, “H-Hello?” he calls out. 

After several silent moments, he calls out again, but like before, no answer comes. 

He lets out a breath and furrows his brow as he slides deeper into the bathwater, submerging almost all of his upper body. He grimaces again as his toes clumsily try to grip the hot water tap while one of his hands blindly searches for the plug, the other holding his phone out of danger. 

As he looks up, stretched six ways to Sunday, he catches his own reflection faintly in the plexiglass skylight, now in the dark, a crude, otherworldly mirror. He gasps, scaring himself for a moment before nervously laughing to himself as his fingers finally find the plug. 

A knock comes from the door, not the bathroom door, but the one before it, across the hall, opening out to their small courtyard. 

“No one’s home,” he whispers with a grumble. 

The knock comes again. He pulls himself up out of the water into a sitting position, squinting his eyes tightly as he holds his breath and listens for movement, but nothing comes. His brow furrows deeper and he grumbles again. 

He jumps as another knock bangs on the door, louder this time. He hisses gruffly under his breath as he pulls up the security cameras on his phone. 

As the app opens, the signal lags for a few extra seconds before it finally connects and shows the courtyard empty, with no one at the door. He narrows his gaze, lips tightening as he checks the other cameras scattered around the outside of the house, but finds no one anywhere. 

With a laboured sigh, he clenches his jaw as he opens up the camera archive for the courtyard. 

The recordings show that the last footage flagged for movement was when he locked the door twenty minutes ago, before he climbed into the bath. He shakes his head and trawls through the footage, hoping whoever was knocking on the door just didn’t set off the sensors, but no matter how hard he looks, he finds no one there. 

He’s pulled away from his phone with a jump as the strange knocking starts again, this time on the bathroom door. 

He lets out a surprised cry as his eyes turn to the mirror, where the silhouette of a large figure stands on the other side of the door’s frosted glass. 

His eyes widen even more as it bangs on the glass again, this time the door shaking violently while the figure remains unmoving. 

He swallows, his lips trembling as he tries to call out, but the words catch in his throat and fall over themselves. 

The lights flicker and the door slides open with a bang. 

He lets out a hiss as the water burns his flesh, its temperature dropping to near freezing. 

He looks down and stares directly into a pair of empty, dead eyes staring up at him from a stain of blackness that infects the water. 

Something grips him, and before he can cry out, he’s dragged under. 

The water thrashes and spills over the sides as his fingers cling to the porcelain rim before disappearing into the water below. 

A few splashes follow, then the water falls calm and begins to drain from the otherwise empty bath. 

---

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A Foot on the Other Shoe

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

He takes a clumsy breath through his nose, dragging mucus and other bacteria back down into his throat like a vacuum cleaner over the carpet. He swallows uncomfortably, his throat tight, then he curls his lips and lets out a gasping cry, baring his teeth as if he were some rabid animal. 

He breathes out, spitting a wash of green saliva across the space before him. He stammers and stutters as it drips from his unkempt moustache. Another breath squeezes out of his infected chest while the cup hovers inches from his lips before he slobbers a sip of the dark coffee. He screws up his nose and gasps again. 

He grips his wrist as an uncontrollable spasm trembles through it, the murky coffee sloshing against the rim as he sets it onto the table. 

He sighs in frustration and collapses back into the seat, rubbing a dirty cloth across his face, dragging the infection dripping from his lips across broken skin, and hisses with a grunt as his flesh begins to burn and blister almost instantly. 

He gasps, then lets his eyes fall on the television. He lazily holds a single-button device out towards the television. It clicks loudly and the room is engulfed in a low, inhuman hum as the screen flickers to life, displaying a rolling test pattern that cuts through the darkness with its overly bright glow. 

He winces as a sharp high-pitched wail tears out from the speakers that are wired directly into the room’s walls. It’s quickly followed by splintering electrical sounds before the image goes black, then after a few moments a sea of blurry colours spreads through the darkness, and slowly a boy of roughly sixteen, dressed in a suit far more dignified than his age allows him, comes into focus. 

He smiles nervously as he shuffles his way through papers that sit in front of him before he looks up, then down through the camera’s lens, the smile becoming a wry, mocking grin instead of one meant to comfort anyone. 

“My people, we have the invaders on the run, taking back over a quarter that was lost only nights ago. This is a victory we cannot let slip by, for even though this small sliver means nothing in a larger picture scenario, in my regime’s plan this victory is the beginning we desperately required. The technology housed in this area is vital to my…” he stops as his lips tremble and he winces before letting out a breath. “To our continued survival, as this will ensure our rising rebellion can outlast the annals of time, and soon, we will take back everything else that was lost, and then we will start taking what our enemies have. Though our numbers are depleted, and many of our allies have fallen, left us, or in some instances have joined our enemies’ ranks, forming trusted trade alliances that will see them prosper while we, we who were once great, are now visibly left to die in our defeat. We will still be triumphant in the end, for many times have we been backed into a corner, many times have we faced extinction, but we are still here because we are unstoppable, we are undeniable, we are un…” 

His brow furrows, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward, pulling an uncomfortable face with his lips twisting sideways. 

“Is everything okay, sir?” a voice asks somewhere in the room. 

He points off to the left of the camera and waves his hand about. 

“T-The teleprompter thing stopped right in the middle of the speech, c-can you help me out? Can you get it back up? I-I’m looking like an idiot!” he mumbles nervously with a now painfully awkward smile on his lips. 

“W-We don’t h-have a teleprompter, s-sir, y-you have everything noted in front of you. I-in your hands,” he stammers. 

He looks down at the papers in his hands, laughs to himself, then looks up into the camera, a broad grin spreading across his glowing cheeks. 

“We are undeniable!” 

 The room falls silent as he stares into the camera with a glassy stare. 

“S-Sorry, sir, but you already said undeniable,” the voice from behind the camera says, only for his smile to grow wider. 

“Undeniable,” he repeats, as does the man sitting on the couch, his eyes burning, as the blisters continue to spread across his face, but beneath them, he forces a smile. 

---

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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 of…” 

“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.

I Dragged Your Arse Along, Because You Belong

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

He clears his throat and swallows a dry mouthful—gagging, as if forcing a bucket of razor blades down his throat. He grimaces. The rest of his lips curl into an almost-smile, then he closes his eyes and lets out a stuttered breath.

Debbie sits across from him. Her gaze cuts straight through him. He turns and looks behind himself, hoping to spy something unusual. But there’s nothing of significance to warrant such intense viewing.

He turns back to her and smiles. She sighs and looks away. His lips fall flat, curling the wrong way.

“You could say something,” he hisses through clenched teeth. His words vanish like a non-event—not even sparking in the dullest of suns. He thumps the table three times, reckless and final. The room’s chatter drowns into silence, cold and complete.

A sneer trembles across his lips. His eyes fall on every set staring at him, ending with her.

Her smile widens, and she laughs.

“Well?” she asks after a few silent moments, splaying her hands. “You’ve grabbed our attention. Obviously you have something to say—so say it. Bore us. Thrill us. But don’t waste our time and then present us with nothing.”

He swallows nervously as a sea of sweat breaks out across his brow.

“I-I-I,” he stammers, as panic once again drags silence upon him.

She shakes her head and sighs. “Take his plate away. Take it all. Show him his true position in this family. Show him where he truly belongs, in—”

Her words are cut short as he throws himself to his feet, sending his chair tumbling to the floor as he pounds the table—three times again. No more, no less.

Her smile grows, and she laughs.

“There you are,” she coos, staring into his void-filled eyes.

The room gasps. Several bodies collapse to the floor. Another two scramble away screaming. William wets himself and sobs. Sarah stiffens, her face twisting in a grotesque fashion as her body seizes with something resembling a stroke. Debbie sits opposite him, her smile growing.

“W-W-What’s happening? W-what did you d-do to me?” he stammers through distorted, disembodied lips.

“I did nothing but bring you home for Christmas, like I told you I would. Remember? No matter what,” she arrogantly scoffs.

“B-B-But it feels wrong. I-I-I, I feel wrong. W-What have you done?”

“Oh honey,” she says with a painted-on frown across her grinning lips. “I did nothing. But you—you did it all,” she says, as she pulls out a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket, unfolds it, and places it on the table. A trembling tear tumbles down his cheek, as he knows the words written on it—words in his own hand.

He falls back into his seat, his eyes transfixed on the piece of paper.

Its corners curl, worn from too many readings. But he doesn’t need to read it again. He knows every line—they’re already tattooed on the inside of his skull. He’d written them more times than he could count. They were carved into his flesh before they ever became words on paper.

At first, he thought of them as an apology. Later, as a list of regrets. But in their finality—his finality—they were just words, a plea, a cry, a demand to be left alone—something even now, in death, he cannot have.

“P-P-Please,” he stammers.

“I told you. I promised you—you’d never be alone, and not even death will break that promise. You’re mine, until I decide you can be free,” she purrs, a cruel smile curling across her lips. She holds out the bonbon and waits for him to take it.

---

Did this one sink its teeth into you?
Then feed it. Share it. Let it loose on someone else.

A Hole Not Even for One

A short horror by Matthew Tonks

A man sits in his truck at dawn with the country watching and a memory that will not stay buried. Guilt loosens the seams of the world until what he tried to hide becomes a harsh, hungry accusation.

---

The lights cut through the dark like a wet knife, soft and heavy all at once, the bushes and trees clawing at the beam as if trying to drag it back into the dark. The pickup’s engine hums low, each sudden rattle climbing from its depths like something trapped beneath the metal and desperate to escape. The early morning dew is suffocated under the truck’s foul, grimy exhaust as the engine breathes its stench across the earth. His empty, tired eyes stare outwards from the vehicle’s innards as if he’s afraid to blink. A gasp shudders out of him as a single tear drags its way down his face.

He tries to compose himself, chewing on his tongue as he runs it around the inside of his mouth, finding each gap left by the missing teeth, caressing the soft flesh of his cheeks. He draws back another breath, stuttered, tears now rolling down his broken face. The pickup trembles as a shudder vibrates its way through it, the lights flicker, gripped by oncoming morning, before he is left in silent darkness as the engine falls still.

“P-P-Please,” he whimpers as her piercing eyes cut into him from the passenger seat.

“Grow up!” she snaps. “What kind of monster are you?”

He clenches his jaw, drawing back a stuttered breath through his nose and snarls as his lips curl, trembling. “I-I-I.”

“You’re no monster!” she shoots back. “You’re nothing but a big baby who’s thrown a tantrum, and now mummy can’t kiss it better because she’s lying in a fucking hole, one that you couldn’t even dig properly!” She spits as the lights come back to life in an instant. The small mound of dirt is illuminated. He gasps, grabbing breaths desperately, finally catching one in the base of his chest as a frozen hand grabs his arm. He turns to her with wide, petrified eyes, his heart pounding in his chest.

He reaches, frantically tearing at the air as he screams for another breath, her widening smile feeding on his panic. She climbs over him, the sharp tang of copper and fresh dirt caressing his senses, teasing him with a memory he never wanted, but a chance still before him. She mounts him with unnatural ease and stares into his eyes, a wicked grin now adorning her bruised lips.

“What are you?” she purrs as she rubs her dead, dirty flesh against him, gently nibbling on his ear.

He gasps. She giggles, then bites down on his earlobe, tearing it from his head.

“What are you!” she screams as he forces her off him and tumbles out the truck’s door, slapping the earth with an awkward thud. The world spins for several moments before he scrambles to his feet, his eyes searching the pickup’s cab and the surrounding area, only to find her nowhere in sight. He clutches his ear, staring at his crimson hand as he pulls it back as if it belongs to someone else.

His face twists as he looks to the bushland, his eyes locked on the freshly turned mound of soil. His eyes widen and he gasps through ragged breaths as he reaches into the truck’s tray and drags out a dirty shovel, then stumbles wearily towards the mound of dirt.

“I’ll show you what I am!” he grunts, driving the shovel into the soft earth. “I’ll show you I’m a monster! I’ll show all of you fuckers!” he roars, casting a fevered glance around the clearing—hundreds of eyes staring back at him from the dark.

He gasps, flinging the shovel aside as he drops to his knees and wipes the dirt from her dead face. “I’ll make your death worth something. It won’t be in vain. It’ll be the crescendo in my story. You’ll be my making—and I’ll be your monster,” he mutters, fumbling with his belt. Her smile widens as she watches him from the pickup’s cab, knowing since the moment he split her open that this last filthy step was what she’d been starving for—the one that shows the world what she always knew he was hiding beneath that twisted smile of his.

---

💬 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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