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A disgraced detective meets a journalist claiming to know the identity of a brutal serial killer. Some truths are far worse when they finally stare back at you.
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Ten years after first posting One Love, Matthew Tonks reflects on the story that unknowingly shaped the kind of horror he would spend the next decade writing. What began as a raw zombie tragedy slowly became something far more personal about grief, obsession, and emotional ruin.
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A man refuses to let go of the woman he loves, even after death tears through everything around them. Some love stories rot long before they end.
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A man wakes inside a nightmare of flesh, obsession, and distorted desire while something wearing love slowly tears him apart. Some horrors do not ask whether you want to wake up—they ask whether you deserve to.
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An old man faces the end of his life while memories that do not belong to him begin flooding into his mind. Some horrors are not about dying alone—but discovering how many versions of you already exist.
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A quiet moment alone turns into something that refuses to stay outside. Some knocks don’t wait for you to answer—they find their own way in.
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A broadcast breaks open in the dark as a young leader pushes through a speech he can no longer control, and the room begins to expose the rot beneath the performance.
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A machine that lets you hear everyone else’s secrets demands one thing in return—your own.
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At a family Christmas, a man realises his apologies became a chain that will not loosen—past confessions bind him to a fate he cannot escape.
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A private doubt becomes a widening shadow and a camera’s unblinking eye keeps score—grief that never belonged to the speaker turns to ash and circuitry, until yesterday’s ghost finally shows its face.
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Painted smiles disinfect the memory but scar the body—redemption is sold on cracked stones and the stories we tell become the things that come back for us.
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Time collapses inward and memory answers like tide—each return bends the self until the speaker stands folded inside a call that knows how to drown them.
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A failing mind rattles with small detonations, old comforts turning to fractures until identity bursts and only grey eyes and echoes remain.
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A looping sorrow tightens the throat as time folds back on itself—tired eyes watch patterns unravel and the body remembers the cost long after the mind has stopped counting.
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A self peels away under watchful eyes—portraits and bodies frame a once life while the speaker begs for sight and release, and needles promise a final forgetting that reveals what the pictures would not.
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At dawn a man sits in his truck with soil on his hands and a memory that refuses to stay buried as a voice and the bushland keep tally of what he has done.
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A wish that wandered beyond mercy becomes a mirror for the things we dread—what comes back keeps the shape but not the soul, and an empty face answers where a self once stood.
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Masks that steal the shadow of reflection turn memory into appetite—look long enough and the mirror keeps more than truth, answering with what you thought you left behind.
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A ruined dollhouse becomes the architecture of endless time—broken windows and fallen toys stretch a single moment across a million years until happiness sits like a sharpened doubt and memory itself becomes the thing that will not be eased.
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A tender prayer becomes a binding memory—this verse traces a grief that repeats itself like a cradle and shows how the past holds the present with a quiet, unrelenting gravity.