Category: Short Horror Stories

  • The Sludge Beneath the Blood in the Bathtub – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    The Sludge Beneath the Blood in the Bathtub – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by 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 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Curdled Milk Cried Me to Sleep – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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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  • A Cold Cup of Coffee – The Complete Cut – 10 Years Later – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Cold Cup of Coffee – The Complete Cut – 10 Years Later – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Cold Cup of Coffee

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    He sits there, staring into the now cold cup of coffee, lost in a million different thoughts all at once. So lost, in fact, that he doesn’t notice the man entering the café until he’s standing right in front of him. 

    “Hello? Is anyone in there?” the man says. 

    Detective Inspector Frank Clifford slowly looks up from the cup. His face relaxes, but his eyes tighten. 

    “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” 

    “In a roundabout way, although I know more about you than you do about me,” the man says with a grin. 

    “I’m not following. Who are you again?” 

    “Kevin Stafford,” he says as he holds out his hand. 

    “Stafford? You mean the same piece of slime from the papers?” 

    “The very same. I was…” 

    He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Frank is on his feet with his hands wrapped around Kevin’s throat. He slams him violently up against the café wall and drives a punch into his stomach. The girl behind the counter stops in her tracks and stares in shock, as do the three customers scattered throughout the café. 

    “What the fuck are you playing at, you piece of shit? You write all that drivel about me in your little fucking column, run me into the ground, and now you have the gall to show up here and what? Expect me to answer your fucking questions?” he says as he shakes Stafford violently, slamming him against the wall several more times. 

    “T-T-That’s no-not why I-I’m here,” Stafford stammers. 

    “Well then, whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested,” Frank says as he throws Stafford to the floor. “Now fuck off before I give you what you really deserve, you little shit.” 

    “T-T-Two minutes, that’s all I want,” Stafford says as he slowly gets to his feet. “P-P-Please, two minutes and I’m gone, you have my word.” 

    “You want two minutes? Well, here’s your two minutes,” Frank says as he grabs his crotch and squeezes. “Now, fuck off.” 

    “I know who the Skinner is,” Stafford says quickly. 

    “Bullshit! Why come to me with this when you could publish it in your piece of shit paper? Aren’t you all about sales and shit?” 

    “Because he knows I know. I’m afraid, and you’re the only one who can help me.” 

    “Why the fuck should I care? You called me, and I’m quoting your words here, ‘an ineffective tool in the shed that should be thrown in the bin and replaced with a newer model, with sharper blades and all its bits and pieces in working order.’ Those were your words, dipshit, so tell me again, why should I help you?” 

    “Look, I’m under the pump just like you. My editor wants fear in the headlines, outrage on the front page, monsters in every bloody corner. Whatever gets people scared enough to buy the paper that week is what we run with, and whether I like it or not, I still need the job,” Stafford says. “But you need to know this. You need to stop him. Only you can do it. So come on, how long has he been out there now? Eight months? And what, seventy victims have found themselves beneath his blade? I can help you. I can give you everything, and you can stop it all.” 

    “There are blokes on the force younger than me who could do this job just as well, maybe even better. Christ, if I’m honest, I can’t even argue with half the things you wrote. I’m tired, Stafford. I’m running on fumes, and every time I think I’m catching up to this bastard, he’s already moved three steps ahead of me.” 

    “Then fucking let me talk instead of wasting time.” 

    “Two minutes is all you get. After that, you leave me the fuck alone to finish my coffee in peace, okay?” 

    “Deal,” Stafford says as they both sit back down at the table. Stafford pulls a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, places it on the table, and slides it over to Frank. 

    “Everything you want to know is on that piece of paper. The name of your killer, why he’s doing it, and when he’ll strike next.” 

    “Bullshit,” Frank says as he grabs the paper. 

    Stafford places his hand on Frank’s, holding the paper down. 

    “Once you read it, once you know, you can’t go back. Do you understand?” 

    “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank says as he wrestles his hand free and opens the folded piece of paper. He flips it over, and then flips it again. “Is this some kind of joke?” Frank says as he looks up from the blank piece of paper into the empty chair across from him. 

    “What the fuck does that mean?” he says as he slams a fist down onto the table. His cup jumps into the air, crashing back onto the saucer and spilling half its contents. “Now look what you made me do. Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT!” he yells. 

    Silence follows as he takes another sip of his cold cup of coffee. The blood covering his hands has dried, and the scratch marks running down his face have started to heal, while the bodies of his victims lie scattered throughout the small café, growing colder. 

    The sounds of sirens scream from outside as the walls begin to close in on the Skinner and his final victims. But he just sits there, lost in a million different thoughts all at once, lost within his own mind. 


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  • One Love – The Complete Cut – 10 Years Later – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    One Love – The Complete Cut – 10 Years Later – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    One Love

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

     He swings the shovel wildly towards the two men, sending blood and dirt spraying from the blade and splashing into the rain-soaked ground. 

    “I told you to go! I won’t tell you AGAIN!” he yells. 

    “Samuel! For fuck’s sake, son, she’s gone, and what’s left ain’t her ANYMORE! You have to let us do what must be done. Can’t you see you’re endangering everyone with this madness?” his father yells back, narrowly avoiding the edge of the shovel as Samuel swings it violently towards him again. 

    “You’re WRONG! You’re all wrong! She’s still in there, I can see it! Just leave us ALONE!” 

    “We can’t do that. This is for the best, little brother. I hope someday you’ll understand why we had to do this!” his brother yells as he launches himself forward, tackling him into the mud. 

    They both go crashing into the soaked earth with a splash. His father makes a mad dash for the door as the two struggle in the mud. Samuel fights frantically against his brother, but as he screams in terror, two deafening shots ring out from inside the house, followed quickly by silence. 

    The two brothers come to a stop, both staring towards the doorway. Samuel forces his brother off him, scrambles to his feet, and rushes frantically towards the door before a scream erupts from inside, freezing him in place. His mind explodes with panic, fear, desperation, and finally hope as he realises the scream was not hers, but that of his father. His brother slowly makes his way to his side, and they trade a nervous glance before a sea of red bursts from the doorway, drenching them both. 

    They stand there in silence for a few moments, frozen in fear. Then his brother lets out a cry of anger and rushes into the house. Samuel stands there as he hears his brother’s cries grow louder, shifting from anger to pain, and then into something deeper, something more primal. How long he stood there he can’t remember, but it was well after the screaming had stopped and the chewing began. 

    He looks up into the bleak night sky and lets the rain swallow him whole, masking the tears that stream down his face as he collapses to his knees. 

    Looking towards the doorway, peering into the darkness of the house, he hears it again, the wet tearing of flesh, the snapping of bone. 

    Slowly he gets to his feet and reaches into the doorway, pulling a control pole from the darkness beside it. He swallows a dry mouthful of air before uneasily making his way into the place he calls home. 

    “It’s okay, honey, time to go back to bed, you’re still not looking the best,” he says to her. She looks at him, her face covered in blood, her once soft blue eyes now a cloud of grey with only a hint of the colour they once were. She growls at him, then rushes forward, but he manages to hook the noose of the control pole over her head and quickly tighten it down, forcing her back against the wall. 

    “Now come on, honey, you know I need to clean this mess up. We don’t want either of them coming back to cause us problems like the last ones did.” 

    She grunts furiously at him as he forces her towards a stairway leading up to the next level of the house. She fights him the whole way, hissing, spitting, and growling at him, but he keeps his eyes locked on hers, smiling all the while. 

    “I know, honey, it’s okay. I know I promised you we would, I just need to get it all ready,” he says as he calmly guides her down a dimly lit hallway towards a room at its end. “You just get some rest, and when you wake, I’ll have it all ready. I promise.” 

    She stops fighting him and stands there staring at him, her head tilting to its side as if for a second she understands his words. 

    Slowly her mouth opens as if she is preparing to say something, then she lunges forward again aggressively. 

    He shoves her into the room, where an open cage sits in its centre. 

    Wildly she flails about trying to break free, but after a few tense moments, he gives her one last almighty push, and she goes tumbling backwards into the cage. 

    Quickly he releases the noose from around her neck and slams the door shut behind her. 

    She lunges forward, trying to grab at him, banging ferociously on the cage while he locks several padlocks in place. 

    Once done, he throws a blanket over the cage and collapses against the opposing wall. 

    He sits there for a few minutes or more, fighting back the tears, muttering words of prayer, of hope, of forgiveness. 

    But the sound of movement from downstairs brings him back to reality. He forces himself to his feet and tightly grips the handle of the control pole as he rushes downstairs. Before he reaches the bottom step, he spots his father, blood dripping from his torn face, his jaw hanging from his skull, held in place by fatty tissue and flesh. His father gargles, letting out a low growl. Samuel drives the control pole down into his head viciously, knocking him to the floor.  

    Quickly he leaps over the reanimated corpse of his father and makes a mad dash for the shovel that still leans up against the doorway. In one fluid movement, he spins around as his father tries to get to his feet and buries the shovel into his skull over and over until it’s nothing but a mushy pile of blood, flesh, and bone. He feels something brush against his leg as his brother begins to violently spasm on the floor. Samuel doesn’t let himself think about what he’s doing, or what he’s already done, and drives the shovel down into his brother’s skull. As he does, he screams incessantly, demanding answers, pleading for reasons, but there is only silence in response. 


    The candles burn brightly throughout the room, the blood washed from his hands, the bodies buried with the others. He slides the cassette tape into the player and presses play. An upbeat soft rock song begins and muffles the sound of the rain striking violently against the roof. He places a hand on the blanket before quickly pulling it away. She lets out a ferocious scream, violently shaking the cage, but he simply sits in front of it and smiles at her. 

    “Remember this song?” he says as he removes one of the padlocks from the cage door. “God, it feels like a lifetime ago now, all the crazy shit that happened when we first met. I mean seriously, can you remember it? Your dad hated me the moment I walked in the door, your mum tried to hit on me, and so did your brother,” he says with a laugh as he removes another of the padlocks. 

    He stops for a moment, his lips trembling, as he stammers in a breath. “T-They’re never going to let us be alone, they’re never going to back off, and I’m tired, honey. I can’t keep this fight up anymore. God, I’ve killed so many people, people we loved, and I’ve done it all for you,” he says as tears run down his cheeks while he removes the final padlock and the door swings open. “I just want to live life together like we planned,” he says as he holds out his arm towards her, turning his head away in preparation. 

    Softly and slowly she takes hold of his hand, allowing moments to bleed into minutes. After what feels like an eternity, he uneasily turns back to face her. They sit there in silence, staring into each other’s eyes as their song plays its final fading chords. 


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  • Water Wets the Needle’s Thread – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Water Wets the Needle’s Thread – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Bitterness in Sweet Sugar – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Knock Always Requires an Answer – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Foot on the Other Shoe – A Short 2020SUX Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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 Story by Matthew Tonks

    The Confession Engine – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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.


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    Then feed it. Share it. Let it loose on someone else.

  • I Dragged Your Arse Along, Because You Belong – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    I Dragged Your Arse Along, Because You Belong – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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.


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  • A Hole Not Even for One – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Hole Not Even for One – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    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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    #ShortHorror #Creepypasta #MatthewTonks #TwistedRoads #IndieAuthor #HorrorFiction #FlashFiction #PsychologicalHorror #BodyHorror #LiminalHorror

  • Send What You Can’t and I’ll Show You His Name – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Send What You Can’t and I’ll Show You His Name – A Short Horror Story 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.


    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!”


    💬 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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  • A Lesson Never Learnt – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Lesson Never Learnt – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Lesson Never Learnt

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    He has come back with memory and hunger tangled together. Tonight he watches, bargaining with a reflection that knows the price of mercy and the ease of feeding.


    He stands in the darkness of the shadows watching her as she sleeps. His lips part and a breath, old and stale, creeps gently from his throat as a quiver trembles across his lips, while his dead heart beats once before falling silent again. His eyes glimmer for a moment as the black rotting liquid briefly pumps through his dried-up veins. He gasps as he looks across the room, and for the first time in what seems like eons he catches his reflection in the mirror—its face curling into the same snarl that has followed him through death and back—and he takes another gasped breath.

    “Look at you,” his reflection hisses at him. “Hiding in the shadows like the monster they write you out to be, but how the lies have painted you, how pathetic you truly are.”

    “Stop, I—I’m the monster and more. I’ve applauded their stories, celebrated them.”

    “LIAR!” he barks, his lips quivering against his ear. “You are no monster, you are a love-struck child, punished to live in the darkness forever, undeserving of your happy ending.”

    “I—I,” he stammers through trembling lips.

    “You’re nothing,” he spits. “Less than one whole thing. Too long have you stood lost on the sidelines, refusing to commit, reciting the same coward’s prayer you’ve whispered for centuries. No longer can you be one and then the other, for that’s not how damnation works. You are either the monster or the man.”

    He draws another breath as their gazes fall upon the sleeping woman, her beauty calling to each in a different way.

    “C-Can’t I just have this moment, can’t I tell her, show her our past, who she truly is, who I am, and how long I have lived waiting for her?”

    “Then what? You live together happily ever after in perfect harmony? It does not happen, it does not exist, not for us, not for you.”

    His chest heaves, his lungs fill, and his blackened heart beats once more.

    “But what if it is? What if she has been brought to us, w-we have been brought here, these moments, these circumstances are his way of forgiving us, rewarding us f—”

    “For what? For being a monster? For feeding on his children exactly as he damned us to do? You poor fool—he wanted us to resist, to crawl through the hunger, to choke on our thirst, to starve ourselves clean. And when the end finally came, he might have granted us rest, granted us forgiveness to die. But we fed. We fed because we were weak. We fed because it was easier. We fed because it felt like winning. We spat in his punishment and called it freedom. And now you dare to think this is forgiveness? No. This is another test—and you are already failing.”

    “N-No, h-he’s giving her to us, h-he’s rewarding us for our love, h-he’s giving us a partner to spend the rest of eternity with.”

    “Eternity is no more a lie than this conversation,” he snarls, a smirk curling across his lips as he draws back into the darkness. He tastes the saltiness on his tongue, and his eyes widen as he stares into her hollow empty shell while a river of crimson washes over her. He gasps, takes a stuttered breath, and a tear tumbles down his cheek as his hand hesitates above her face for a heartbeat before he cups her cold flesh, the thick red warmth that once brought life now slipping through his starving fingertips.

    “How long I have waited for thee, mon amie,” he whispers through trembling lips as he buries himself once more into the neck of her throat and continues to feed while the grinning thing watches from the shadows.


    💬 Did this one echo?
    Tell me—before it forgets your name.


    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • Awake Too Long – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Awake Too Long – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Awake Too Long

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    Julian wakes on a ruined street where machines and memory have merged into something that will not let him be. As strangers circle and a winged beast watches, sleep is no longer refuge and violence becomes the measure of mercy. Stay with him as the world fractures and answers are ripped from living throats.


    He gasps for breath, his throat dry, the world swimming around him in a blur of out-of-focus colours. Bloodshot eyes widen as a sea of tentacles surges toward his iris like sharks to a bloodbath. Around him the machine groans, clunking each murderous cog into the next, dragging flesh across flesh. Wet, grotesque straps of leathered hide slap against one another as the merry-go-round spins in its endless circle.

    The chimes call, and with clumsy hands he pushes himself upright, gasping at the sky. The sun slices the darkness with its burning touch. Julian shields his eyes and collapses to the ground in a mess of sagged skin and marrowless bones.

    He takes a breath, a gulp of air, tasting it. His lips dryly smack together with laboured exhaustion. He closes his tired eyes and mumbles words meant for someone else’s ears, not ours.

    The light is cast out and four figures perch among the ruined buildings, watching as the light dies. Wings of a beast beat—hurricanes rise, tsunamis crash, the earth quakes and cracks. His eyes open and he rises to his feet as if a lever had been pulled and the board beneath him snapped upright.

    He takes another laboured breath, a weak smile twitching across his lips, thick grey liquid seeping from the corners of his mouth and a trickle running from his nose. He drags the back of his hand across it and spits into the decaying world before him.

    “All this, for me?” Julian whispers, as his eyes search the buildings, their presence now raw and true.

    “You were given a chance!” one of them calls.

    “You could’ve gone back into your hole!” another bellows.

    “You should’ve proved to the sheep that your words were lies!” a third adds.

    “Why?” he gasps, his smile growing wider with each moment.

    “Because that’s what he asked! Why do you think you’re falling apart!” the last screams, his eyes, pools of emptiness.

    The smile swims across Julian’s broken face, and his head falls back like a rag doll. He whispers words, lost on an endless road his mind traces like a pencil finding what’s hidden beneath.

    “Did he say that?” one calls out, as the four are quickly upon him.

    “Tell me, dog—what did you say?” he roars, as he thrusts him high into the air, all four surrounding him.

    His grin spreads as he gasps, “I said, is that what Father told you?”

    The four find themselves torn away, thrown to the wind, throats gush in rivers as they are torn open, while limbs are ripped from their sockets.

    Veins that had feasted upon the lives of others for eons now scream in agony, pirouetting rivers of red that paint the decaying shells as they wash over them.

    The whirlwind leaves their bodies strewn across the rubble, while the winged beast crouches at Julian’s feet, a snarl curling his lips.

    “N-No!” one of them calls.

    He casts his ancient eyes over his children as his snarl softens. He tilts his head to the side.

    “Forever is too long, have we not suffered enough?” he says, as Julian bites down upon his throat.

    A gushing sea of red spews forth, washing them in a river of crimson.

    Cries soon turn to screams as decaying flesh degrades to dust, and the river that was once lifeblood spirals into the air before leaving nothing but memories lost, forgotten, as they are.


    💬 Did this one echo?
    Tell me—before it forgets your name.


    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • Everyone Wants to Sell You Immortality – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Everyone Wants to Sell You Immortality – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Everyone Wants to Sell You Immortality

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A late knock promises a second chance, but the offer smells of rot and commerce. He is tempted by a boxed solution that promises to make him whole again — and the price may be what he already is.


    The door hangs open wide, a cool breeze crawling inside. His breath stumbles in his chest as he stands frozen in the doorway. The figure before him smiles a rotten grin, the stench of decay wafting from his flesh. Martin stares, drowning in the ebbing tide of nothing. A globule of drool clings to the corner of his mouth. He swallows, shaking his head.

    “G-G-Grant?” he says through trembling lips.

    The grin broadens as clumps of dirt and writhing worms slip from Grant’s cheeks. He reaches out and grabs Martin’s shoulder, squeezing.

    “I knew it,” he roars and barges into the house, dragging mud and rot across the lounge and through Martin’s plush lambskin rug.

    Martin cringes, stares out the door for a moment, then turns with a pointed finger.
    “W-W-What the fuck? H-How are you here? I-I—I only just talked to you. D-Did you finally contact that guy? S-So it’s real?”

    Grant turns, shaking his head. “That ain’t a thing, Marty. Once you’re dead—you’re dead,” he says, his smile gone. “Me included. There ain’t no superficial artificial existence. When the lights go out, they go out. There ain’t a goddamn thing after.”

    Martin’s face tightens into a grimace.
    “Then what—or who—are you, if you’re dead? Who the hell have I been talking to, if that’s not you, since you died?”

    Grant groans and slumps onto the couch. A sea of dirt, worms, and rotting flesh spills from within him, maggots writhing as they flood the cushions.

    “Beats me. An echo, maybe. Piss and wind rattling through a decaying puppet? More guess than fact though, mind you. But the superficial construct,” he says, motioning toward the glowing console, “that’s nothing but trigger points—an advertising stream. Big market, big dollars. And you all buy in—moment to moment, lie to lie. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I escaped—whatever it was. To warn you. Maybe save you.”

    “S-Save me? F-From what?”

    “From them. From the bastards who want you to believe there’s a step—an evolutionary step—from their backend systems back into the flesh. They want to own you. Monthly subscriptions. Weekly updates. Money here, there, and everywhere. Draining you. Corralling you. Owning you. And in the end, you don’t even realise you’re competing—chasing the dragon, chasing evolution—when it’s already here. Waiting.”

    He holds out a small box, then sets it on the table.

    “W-W-What is it?”

    Grant smiles. “Open it, and find out.”

    Martin stares at the box, then at Grant, before catching sight of a small blinking device embedded in the back of Grant’s neck. His brow furrows. His lips pucker. He takes a breath, then picks up the box.
    The lid slides off with a soft click. Inside, nestled in black foam, is a device—small, curved, metallic—almost identical to the one in Grant’s neck.

    “A chip?”

    “It’s not just a chip. It’s the next step. The real one. Not code. Not simulation. It’s flesh. It’s spit. It’s serum. You want out? You want to be yours again? Plug it in and show them they never owned you. Show them you’ll always be you—then raise your middle finger high, let it shine, and tell them yours is mightier than theirs!” he says, sticking his finger in the air, while poking out his rancid tongue.

    Martin screws up his lips, narrows his eyes, then gently lifts the chip from the box.
    “S-So, w-what do I do? How does it work?”

    Grant grins. “Stick it in, follow the prompts. Immortality starts the second your card clears.”


    💬 Did this one echo?
    Tell me—before it forgets your name.


    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • Ink Has No Weight in the Crimson – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Ink Has No Weight in the Crimson – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Ink Has No Weight in the Crimson

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A man signs to lift his life from the ordinary and into promise. He believes the ink will buy him everything he has lost, but the reflection keeps its own ledgers and demands payment in ways the living never expected.


    “We’ve got nothing left to hold each other accountable for,” he says with a warped grin, staring into the mirror. “We both know I’m better at being you than you ever could be. Your family’s grown closer. Your mother said she could see the little boy in your eyes again—the one who used to care, not the thing you were turning into. We all cried—even you—back there in my skull, just out of reach. And you’ve achieved things in your work life you never even dared to dream. So why care? Why break the rhythm? Let it play out. Let me grow bored. Then you can have it all back—wealth, love, respect, everything I’ll earn for you. Just like we agreed,” he says with a wide smile.

    “You never said it would be like this! You never said you’d possess my flesh!” he spits, lurking behind him—visible only in the corners of his eyes, but never in the reflection.

    “You didn’t care then, but you care now—why? Because your family loves me more than they ever loved you?” he purrs.

    “You tricked me—you lied!”

    He laughs, his smile stretching wide enough for his decaying flesh to show beneath the skin suit that used to be Conner. “I never lied. I never do. I promised riches. I vowed dreams never dreamt, and your family to be whole. I can’t just snap my fingers and make them so. That’s not how this works—he, up there,” he says, nodding upward, “he’s got rules we can’t break—rules that cover far greater plans than yours and mine. So we manipulate the likes—we play inside the square we’re given. Sometimes he gets his goat, changes the rules, tightens the trap, and kills a few thousand of us. Some get reborn as slugs, worms, or other low-bearing fruit, while the rest are repurposed for his celestial orgies. But whatever the case may be, we are bound. And you took the deal. Now I do the work—and, like I said, as it reads,” he says, rolling out a copy of the contract signed by them both, “I leave the ride once the agreement has been honoured and all terms have been upheld for more than two or three years, to ensure they stay in place.”

    “T-Two or three years?” he cries, clawing at himself. “You can’t be serious! I—I—I can’t let you do that to my family. I won’t! They’ll work it out! They’ll see you for what you are, and then—”

    “And then what, Conner? What will you do?” his wife asks, standing in the doorway behind them, her arms folded across the old rugby shirt that hangs to her knees, her hair messy, more grey than black.

    “S-S-Samantha? Y-You—you can hear me?”

    “Have you forgotten who brought in the mail that morning when you received his offer?” she asks, as an image plays of her placing the three envelopes on his desk. His lip trembles, and he takes a stuttered breath.

    “Y-You did this? You tricked me?”

    She laughs. “I didn’t trick you. I just gave you an opportunity. One you dove at like a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat buffet!”

    He laughs. “Like a fat kid,” he says, turning to her with a palm raised.

    She looks at him with a curious expression.

    He slaps his hand and winks. “Give me some skin—let me pay you for the burn!” he scoffs.

    “S-S-Stop it! Stop it!” Conner screams from somewhere inside, as Samantha slaps his hand.

    “S-S-Stop it,” she mocks, right before he pulls her close.

    “You first,” he growls, and when he kisses her, it’s angry and clumsy, a car crash, desperate, more of an argument than affection—while Conner’s screams spill through the cracks as he drops to what his tortured mind thinks are his knees.

    “I hope you’ve got your eyes closed for this one, Conner,” Samantha says playfully—just as Conner suddenly finds himself strapped to a cross, his eyes pinned open and his mouth wired shut.

    Nails tear through his flesh. Barbed wire coils around his limbs. Tears flood his face—he can only cry as he sees a look in his wife’s eyes he’d only ever seen once—in a photo from before they ever met.


    💬 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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  • Sweets from the Darkness – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Sweets from the Darkness – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Sweets from the Darkness

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A warped lullaby rolls through a sleeping street and the world answers. What arrives on wheels promises candy and comfort but tastes of something older and crueler—this is a story about the small, private violence of grief and the way the night collects what it is owed.


    As the hand strikes three a.m., something stirs from the darkness—spewed from hell itself. A warped, disembodied tune announces the arrival of a spectre cut straight from nightmares. Its lights slice softly through the thickness of night, washing the street in a colourful sea—a false promise of sweets and ice creams in its call. The world, a silent landscape—its wheels peel their way from one reality to another. A dog barks streets away and others join in, answering its cry, then slowly the sounds fade away as the swaying music jingles and dances its way down the street.

    The van, a black, charred atrocity, moves through the world like a raised middle finger stabbing at the God-fearing cattle who sleep tightly in their beds. Its windows flash with shifting, multicoloured fluorescent lights—changing with every off-key chime of its song. Pictures of clowns, chocolates and ice creams are painted across its rusted, burnt flesh. Behind the wheel, the driver’s eyes—empty and unblinking—peer through a filthy, rotting clown mask. He sits naked in the driver’s seat, his flesh scarred and cut—each wound a roadmap carved by pain once lived.

    The van, like a shark, glides through the streets—directionless, without urgency—the darkness its shield.

    A pyjama-clad man stands in the middle of the road, a dressing gown clumsily wrapped around him and a shotgun hoisted on his shoulder.

    “My name is Gerald Lewis. Three nights ago, you took my little girl, Annie. I want her back,” he screams through tear-filled eyes as he pumps the fore-end of the shotgun, his finger trembling on the trigger. “I want all the children back!” he sobs. The van continues to roll toward him, the driver’s gaze unbroken.

    A sound—a noise—a growl almost—echoes from the darkness around him. He spins toward the bushes that line the street. An animal-like creature leaps at him. He fires. The bullet tears into the thing and sends it flying back into the undergrowth—a sea of crimson painting a path to where it lies. He exhales sharply—a breath, then another. He pumps the shotgun again. The empty cartridge tumbles to the ground, and he forces another shell into the chamber as he steps forward.

    The van’s warped melody drifts as it rolls along the road. He takes another trembling stride toward the body, holds his breath, glances to the approaching van, then back to the bush. He gasps—a breath piled upon another—the body is gone. He raises the shotgun, his breaths desperate as sweat pours down his brow. The night tightens its hold upon him—his chest cramps, his vision blurs, the world shrinks around him. He steps back toward the oncoming van, then another. His eyes never stray from the place where the body had been.

    A rustle—a movement to the left of the bush—he turns and fires. He quickly discards the used cartridge and pumps the fore-end, nervous fingers loading another shell. The bushes across the street tremble and he fires again. He loads another shell as all the bushes shake. He gasps, his eyes widen.

    “W-W-What the fuck is going on?” he stammers, as a door silently slides open behind him. The back of the van is a sea of darkness. Thirty or more hands grab him and drag his screaming form inside—the door slams shut and his cries stop dead. Then only the music plays as the van rolls on, down the silent street. Tiny feet scurry through the shadows—whispers, growls—a swarm of empty vessels following the engine as it collects more playthings to join them.


    💬 Did this one echo?
    Tell me—before it forgets your name.


    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • A Sick Sin Is Paid from Within – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Sick Sin Is Paid from Within – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Sick Sin Is Paid from Within

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A man unravels in a private rite while a patient witness smiles and guides him deeper. Pain becomes language and the night offers an invitation that is tender and monstrous all at once.


    He digs his fingers into his flesh, tearing deep crevices into his skin—then rips strips from his body as crimson floods beneath him, forming a river of red. His lips quiver, teeth clenched as he seethes like a wild animal—spit flying from his mouth as he trembles. His eyes go wide as his fingers dig in again and tear another layer free—he muffles his cries as a sea of sweat washes down his brow.

    She smiles, sitting cross-legged across from him. Her head tilts, her eyes blink. She runs a finger through the wet, sticky river and holds it to her lips. Her tongue slithers out, wrapping her finger in a slippery embrace—she gasps, and her smile grows.

    “Oh, the pain—how exquisite,” she purrs as she crawls toward him on all fours, bathing herself in his blood. “I didn’t think you had such depravities left in you—but here, in your true self, we have found the hidden child.”

    He stares at her—eyes wide—as his fingers dig in again, tearing more flesh from his frame. “F-Fuck you!” he hisses as he spits a wad of salty red at her. It slaps her cheek with a wet groan—and her smile widens.

    She grabs him by the throat, her smile curling at its edges. She leans in and licks the side of his face, then presses her lips to his ear.

    “You can either entertain me or fight me—I care little which,” she purrs as she pulls away and stares into his petrified eyes. “Either way, I will consume you. How you leave this plane is no care of mine—it changes nothing, but imagine the journey if you joined in? Imagine the sea of red, the depths of depravities shared could take us both? Imagine and spread yourself wide with your fingers in flesh! Let me come inside you and birth a new version of who you truly are!” she spits as she releases her hold and backs away, sitting cross-legged before him once more.

    Her smile twists as her face rotates inside her flesh, eyes, nose, and mouth sliding into an upside-down grin. Her skull, as ever, still sits atop her shoulders.

    She giggles, and everything slowly rotates back into place—he screams in terror as his fingers tear another strip of flesh from his body. His teeth grind, and his jaw locks. His eyes pulsate, and his body twists—he falls forward. His head hangs low. A river of red cascades down his face, dripping from his jaw. He gasps, grips handfuls of earth, and spews forth a sea of black from his lungs. He chokes and wheezes—he groans through each ragged gasp.

    “P-Please,” he whispers, “s-show me.”

    She giggles again and, like an elongated spider, she twists and turns then circles him, dragging her fingers across his torn flesh, tracing symbols—relics of a world long gone—into his sinew with the tip of her nail.

    “I want to show you so much more. I want your pain to shape your next stage,” she whispers. “Do you want it? Do you want to change? I want to give you the truth—show you what devotion rewards, what sights pain reveals. Do you?” she purrs as he trembles before her—for the first time this night, he doesn’t tremble in fear, but in the clarity the pain brings.

    From the dark beyond the circle, chains shoot out and coil around his flesh. She sings in agony—then quivers in rapture.

    “Don’t pretend you haven’t always wanted this,” she purrs, slipping her fingers into the torn grotesque gashes that adorn his flesh. “You were never truly free, were you? You were never truly alive. Not until you came here—came to me—did you, pet. You were just waiting for someone to show you the ritual.”

    A stuttered breath escapes his haggard lips—he gasps, feels his flesh burn—and instead of screaming, he finds himself grinning.

    And somewhere within, the thing buried in him draws its first trembling breath.


    💬 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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  • A Song Played in Reverse – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Song Played in Reverse – A Short Horror Story 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.


    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.


    💬 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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    #ShortHorror #Creepypasta #MatthewTonks #TwistedRoads #IndieAuthor #HorrorFiction #FlashFiction #PsychologicalHorror #BodyHorror #LiminalHorror

  • Riding the Red Dead Ruby with a Back Door Ejector Seat – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Riding the Red Dead Ruby with a Back Door Ejector Seat – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Riding the Red Dead Ruby with a Back Door Ejector Seat

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A glittering temptation at the roadside turns a petty dare into a theatre of sudden, hungry violence. Choices unspool fast and bloody—one gem decides who lives, who dies, and who will laugh last in the red light.


    His arm punches through the glass, tearing flesh and muscle from bone as a river of red floods down its surface.

    His lips curl and he screams with unholy fury before tearing himself free, raising the jade ruby high—his arm a bloody wet mess of bone and shredded flesh.

    Crimson rivers wash down his body as the world pulses with violent vibrancy, flashes exploding at the edges of his vision.

    He drops to his knees, cold sweat clinging to his brow.

    He draws a stuttering breath, forces a smile, then crashes to the earth—his eyes rolling back in his head.

    The jewel tumbles from his empty grasp.

    Carolyne gasps, clutching herself, while Fabio snatches the ruby and laughs.

    “Those who fall lose—while those who wait prosper!” he snarls before the flesh on his arm tears away in ribbons, invisible razors slicing through muscle.

    He screams in agony, drops to his knees, and clutches his mutilated arm.

    “Those who move without checking for some damned curse are the real losers!” Hargrave spits, prying Fabio’s hand open—his own wounds already knitting as Fabio’s arm tears apart.

    He feels the cold touch of steel against the back of his head and smirks.

    “I was wondering when you’d show your true self,” he hisses.

    “Our true selves are always on display. Some people just look the other way—until it’s too late. Now hand over the ruby, or I remove your head.”

    He laughs softly. “We both know you won’t do that—not while I’m holding the ruby. So don’t play me for a fool. I know how this works, and you aren’t stupid enough to—”

    He doesn’t get to finish.

    A bullet screams from the chamber and rips through his skull, punching out the back of his head in a shower of bone, brains, and a pirouetting geyser of crimson that paints the air like the Fourth of July.

    He drops like a wet sack of meat, slapping the ground in a growing lake of red that stretches like tendrils, hungrily chasing the scent of living flesh.

    Her lips curl into a wicked grin as a playful laugh slips free.

    “You were right to assume I wasn’t that stupid,” she says, turning the pistol toward one of the guides.

    “Pick up the rock from his hand.”

    The guide’s eyes widen, sweat beading across his brow as he shakes his head.

    She doesn’t give him time to explain—she just pulls the trigger.

    His head erupts in a vibrant bouquet of crimson and bone.

    Wet chunks of brain matter and flesh slap against the trees behind him.

    She doesn’t wait for the body to drop. Her arm swings sideways, the pistol barrel finding another.

    Before she can speak, she jerks the barrel off course and fires—one of the guides makes a run for it.

    The shot tears through the runner’s throat, a ballooning burst of red spraying high—blood arcs through the air like it’s trying to fly away.

    He collapses in a tumbling heap, a sea of red spilling quickly from his silent form.

    She pivots to the next.

    “Pick it up,” she says—flat, emotionless, like she’s ordering coffee.

    He swallows, trembling.

    She fires.

    His face erupts in a dazzling display of blood and pulverised bone. His skull spins with the force, snapping his neck.

    His body hits the dirt—already cold.

    She swings the pistol to the final man and grits her teeth.

    “How about you—fancy your luck?”

    He holds up his hands, gently kneeling down. His eyes never leave her.

    His fingers fumble, prying the ruby free of Hargrave’s hand.

    As he does, his head is torn apart and his skull erupts like a volcano, showering them in a blanket of red.

    She crouches and picks up the ruby.

    “Smarter than the average—” The words barely leave her lips before the revolver’s muzzle digs into her skull.

    “Bear?” Hargrave grunts, pulling the trigger—his wicked smile widening across a face that refuses to stay dead.


    💬 Did this one echo?
    Tell me—before it forgets your name.


    Written by Matthew Tonks
    → Read more nightmares at mtonks.com

    Like what bled out here?
    Share it. Scream it. Feed it to a friend.

    #ShortHorror #Creepypasta #MatthewTonks #TwistedRoads #IndieAuthor #HorrorFiction #FlashFiction #PsychologicalHorror #BodyHorror #LiminalHorror