Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Category: Short Horror Stories

  • Friend Group Soup – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Friend Group Soup – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Friend Group Soup

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A man’s faith in a single solution becomes a butcher’s logic and a machine feeds on friendship. This is a story about what remains when belief boils the people you love down to something obedient and smiling. Beware the face that comes back to hold your hand.

    “Don’t you see? That’s the whole problem.” Joel scoffs—his smile twisting across his lips as he drags a hand through his sweat-drenched mop of tangled hair. Sammy shakes his head in disbelief, straining against the bindings that trap him in the chair.

    “W-What? T-That we’re all different? That we don’t always agree with what someone else thinks is right? That’s your excuse? Well, I hate to break it to you, but welcome to the human fucking race, Joel! Our differences make us what we are—better apart, together—than some bland one-dimensional thing! Shit! If we were all the same—cookie-cutter facsimiles—there’d be no growth, no change, no nothing! I mean FUCK, look at you. Look at this! You’ve invented a FUCKING machine because of the diversity of your own FUCKING friend group—isn’t that something amazing? Isn’t that what everything’s about? Isn’t that humanity finding a way to survive!,” he spits through trembling lips, a frothy sea of saliva forming in the corners of his mouth.

    Joel shakes his head in an almost mocking manner before closing his eyes as he forces his hands into a pair of elbow-length black rubber gloves.

    “Invention shouldn’t be about purifying what we are—it should be about sharpening ourselves into something that lasts,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “When we spend more time on the wrong things, we suffer as a people, not as individuals. This change—this evolutionary step—will forecast a new front on the horizon of mankind and finally let us shape the world in a way where what is important rises to the top. Things like this—discussions, disagreements—will be things of the past. And we will move forward, unhindered.”

    “In your eyes, to your goals—but what about what I believe? What about what Stewart and Carlton believe? Where is our place in evolution? Where’s our stake?”

    Joel looks over to them with a dismissive roll of the eyes, while one hand grips a large lever.

    “You will believe. You will see. Your stake—will be my stake. Humanity, from this moment, will be forged by me—and whoever the fuck you become after this!” he says as he pulls the lever.

    Sammy throws a desperate glance over his shoulder as the machine rattles to life, and the chair jerks forward, dragged toward a vat of spiralling pink liquid. He casts panicked glances at the others as they kick, cry—scream and beg—pleading to be freed. Before he finally turns his desperation to Joel, who strides up the stairs and past him, marching around the rim of the primordial soup with something wild flickering behind his eyes.

    “JOEL! Stop it! You win, okay? You win! You’re right! You’re fucking right—you’re always fucking right! Now let us go!” he bellows.

    Joel laughs, lowering his safety glasses and flicking through the control panel—punching commands, overriding systems, feeding the machine with his desired calculations before taking a deep breath and turning his gaze back to Sammy.

    “I think we’re far from that now, Sammy. You’ve proven it time and time again—which is hilarious, because you’re the one I admire the most. Not for your opinions—but for your dedication to them. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I wanted that in the mix—then, along with Stewart’s ability to solve any problem, regardless of cost, was invaluable. It’s just a pity he doesn’t have the stomach to follow his choices through to meet those solutions, but we can manipulate that away. And as for Carlton—well, if he were a woman, I’d make him mine—but he’s not. So we’ve hit a crossroads. A crossroads the machine will soon erase,” he says, walking in front of Sammy. He thrusts a boot into the base of the chair—grinning as he sends him screaming into the spiralling waters of the soup.

    He goes under—and almost instantly his flesh peels away beneath the liquid’s touch. He forces himself up, gasping, before something claws at him, dragging him back under.

    He tries to scream, but boiling liquid floods his mouth—burning down his throat, searing him raw inside.

    He swings wildly, striking out—only to find Stewart’s hands clutching him. Their eyes lock. Stewart’s grip falters. He groans, gags—then slips away, melting into the soup like wax from a candle.

    Sammy’s eyes widen, and he lets out one final cry as he slips beneath the surface. He reaches out, his heart racing, his flesh burning, his mind twisting into spiralling knots while blotches of black and white explode around him.

    Voices call out. A hiss. A pop. The mixer’s engines scream back to life. The blade stings as it tears through soft flesh, mixing the soup with renewed vigour—dragging him deeper into its depths.

    Moments pass—countless, stretched like eons. A lifetime. Then three more. When the pain finally fades, something wicked and new rolls through him.

    Then, in an explosion of white, he finds himself on a slide, dropping fast—gaining speed with every passing moment. Blurred shapes shriek past.

    Wind in his hair. A stranger he knows—his face lost in the shadows—followed quickly by a wave of happiness that floods through him. He smiles, then laughs, before the emotion rolls away, and he’s left empty again.

    With a crash and bang, he shoots off the end of the slide, landing hard at Joel’s feet.

    “I—I,” Joel stammers, clearing his throat as he holds out his hand, the smile quivering. “I’m Joel, and you are?” he asks, helping him to his feet.

    “I’m Joel too,” the new one says with a smile on his face.

    “Is that Joel too, or Joel two?” Joel asks with a furrowed brow.

    New Joel shrugs his shoulders. “Both, I guess.”

    💬 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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  • Silence Instead of a Beat – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Silence Instead of a Beat – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Silence Instead of a Beat

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A smile hides something unholy, a laugh dances on the edge of ruin. In a corridor that becomes a field of fire and decay, Cassandra discovers that silence can lie louder than screams—and that trust is the quickest path to damnation.

    Her smile curls. She screws her nose up and holds her hands tightly behind her back. She puckers her lips as the lights fuse and die around her. Then, with a leap and a hop, she skips down the empty corridor. The world splits, cheers break out—bodies, waves of water, a crowded room, claps, insults heaved upon her—yet through it all her smile only grows wider. She gently tilts her head side to side as she skips. A demented void hums, a hymn both deep and gothic, swelling beneath the noise. She stops, presenting her left foot and then her right—a jig, a prance. She giggles, pressing a hand to her mouth as her cheeks glow red, her face painted like a marionette. Her arms hang at her sides, her head tilted, her knees knock.

    The hymns, the words, grow louder, the chanting now heavy with venom. Her head jolts upright, and she holds her palms beneath her chin, smiling stupidly. The hallway surges—a pull, a shift—now a room, then a hall, a stadium, and finally a field swallowed by darkness. She stands silent—the leaves, stalks, head-high grass swaying gently in the wind. Her brow falls, and she stammers, a tear slipping from her eye.

    “H-H-Hello?” she whispers.

    “H-Hello,” a voice whispers back.

    She squeals and grips her mouth, her chest heaving, blood boiling, breaths ragged. Minutes collapse around her as she trembles, tears spilling down her cheeks.

    “Are you there?” the voice whispers.

    She whimpers through her fingers and clutches her face tighter.

    “Ahhh, I get it. You’re in a strange place, and you don’t know who to trust, so the best thing to do is trust no one. It’s a good tactic—seen plenty try the same. Some manage a few hours, but no one lasts the whole day. No one makes it back.”

    She squeezes her eyes shut, scrunches her nose, and clenches her jaw before whispering, “W-Where are we?”

    “There you are,” the voice says. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

    “Where are we?” she asks again.

    “If you don’t know, I can’t say.”

    “W-What?”

    “I know, right? It’s kinda kooky, but if you don’t actually know you’re in Hell, I can’t tell you.”

    “B-B-But you just d-did,” she stammers.

    “So I did,” the voice says with a sudden hike in pitch. “But you know that only means you’re the liar, not me—because if you didn’t already know, then I wouldn’t be able to tell you!”

    “B-B-But how do I know y-you’re telling t-the truth?”

    “Are you the liar—now calling me a liar too?” she roars.

    Flames of red flicker in the distance—the night sky empty, a sea of arms reaching out, silent cries, desperate pleas. For a moment the field displays itself like a secret map in a game—then it is gone, and she stutters a breath.

    The woman’s voice laughs. Rows snap, and something moves toward her.

    “You’re a gutless whore, Cassandra. You don’t deserve my grace,” she barks.

    Cassandra stammers and gasps—a breath caught, a cough, a gag.

    “Having fun yet?” the demonic voice roars as a ball of fire hurtles through the field, lighting the world in a new shade of disgusting. The cane field lies broken and rotting, a sea of decay collapsing into grotesque ruin. Maggots writhe in diseased fruit as a blanket of flies descends, smothering the rot in their filthy touch. Cassandra dives to the ground, flames licking the back of her skull. She glances back in panic—and there stands a grotesquely pieced-together woman. Eyes bulge from folds of flesh, boils fester and burst, her face a pulped mess of rot. She balances on one leg longer than the other, seven arms reaching toward Cassandra, her stomach swollen heavy with child, dragging close to the earth.

    Cassandra turns to run—only to stop as the woman appears before her, blocking the path, a wide grin painted across her putrid face.

    “I see you!” she mocks, reaching out toward her.

    💬 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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  • Call It by Name and It Will Follow You – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Call It by Name and It Will Follow You – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Call It by Name and It Will Follow You

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    Rain and shadow braid into something that remembers your footsteps. A woman hurries through an elongating street and finds that naming what stalks her only tightens its hold — and the things that whisper through the dark will not let her go.

    Dark clouds crawl across the sky, claiming everything they touch, swallowing the afternoon light. She rushes—walking, almost jogging—clutching herself, her face screwed up, twisted, concerned. The darkness plays with the fingers of daylight as it tries to reach for her, but the grip is too strong for its trembling touch. She glances over her shoulder, her pace quickening. Her heart pounds, her breath ragged and desperate. Her flimsy, parachute-like track pants rub together, buzzing—sparks of static. She gasps, looks over her shoulder again—the streetlights flare to life, blaze brighter and brighter, then explode. She turns back—the street stretches, elongates before her like a hallucination’s wet dream—and at the end, standing in the shadows, is a figure. He laughs, his voice broken, grotesquely wet and dry at the same time, as if his mouth were filled with broken glass and nails.

    “What’s the rush, toots? Surely you know by now running from me ain’t an option. I ain’t there with you—you’re here with me,” he snarls, stepping off the street—then suddenly he’s behind her, his tongue in her ear. She screams, clawing free—pushing, punching, slapping. He laughs louder. She blinks—and the street is empty. She’s alone again. The roar of a car’s horn pierces the silence—she jumps, stumbles clumsily off the road, and crashes into a row of bins stacked along the kerb. She lies in the rubbish, her heart throbbing in her chest as she gasps desperately for air, a sea of sweat pouring down her brow.

    Her phone vibrates somewhere in the folds of her clothes and she jumps, squealing in fright. She fumbles through her hoodie pocket and pulls it free. The name ‘Deny’ is plastered across the screen. She grimaces, swallows—the taste of rot in her mouth—and stutters a breath as she nervously raises the phone to her ear.

    “Hi, De—” Her words cut off as his voice screams through the speaker, already shouting.

    “Shut the fuck up, Lola! Don’t talk, don’t offer me another stupid fucking excuse! Just listen and follow what I say—do that and maybe we get to talk about this another day,” he spits, his voice trembling with rage. “I want you to head back here and—”

    “I can’t, Deny, I c—”

    “I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LISTEN! Can’t is not in your vocabulary. All I want to hear is—Yes, Deny. Of course, Deny. Right away, Deny. Do you understand?”

    “But Den—”

    “DO YOU UNDERSTAND!” he roars.

    Silence weaves the world between them until, out of the corner of her eye, she sees the thing—balancing on a street sign by one finger, juggling what she can only make out as grotesquely malformed foetuses.

    “Go on—tell him. Tell him all about me and I’ll rip his fucking heart out!” it says with a maniacal grin.

    “DO YOU UNDERSTAND!” Deny roars again.

    “Y-Yes—Deny,” she whispers softly.

    “Right,” he says, calm at last. “Now, you’ve got to be honest, okay? Think you can do that?”

    She nods. “Y-Yeah,” she stammers, chewing her nails.

    “Good girl,” he says.

    She can tell by the way he says his words that he is smiling, and she breaks into a nervous smile.

    “Do you see anything unusual?”

    “U-Unusual?” she repeats, her eyes falling on the figure as he presses himself behind a streetlamp pole—his body too large, his shadow spilling out on both sides.

    “Yeah, like a cloud—a drop of water that shouldn’t be there—a shadow—”

    “A shadow?” she whispers.

    “Where are you going?” he asks.

    “W-W-What?”

    “I said, where are you going? Why did you want me to know you were leaving?”

    “I-I-I,” she says through trembling lips, then falls silent.

    “You what? You wanted me to know, even though you were leaving because of me?”

    “N-N-Not because of you,” she stammers, looking over at the figure as he opens and closes an umbrella—each time it snaps shut, his face grows more decayed, more deranged, more twisted—until his grin stretches wide across his face, tearing at the flesh, filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth, while his eyes sit hollow and empty.

    “Why then—did you see something? Did you see it? Did you see him?”

    “D-D-Do you know hi—”

    “STOP IT!” it roars. It grabs her by the throat and pulls the phone from her ear.

    “Lola! Are you listening—can you hear me? You need to understand—it’s the drug—the shit you stole on your way out the door, the stuff that was on the table where you left your letter. It’s called Stiltskin—you need to understand—what you’re seeing isn’t real. No one’s there.”

    “You aren’t real!” Stiltskin screams down the line.

    “L-L-Lola?” Deny stammers nervously.

    “Lola ain’t here anymore—all that’s left is me, your sweet little designer drug—and I’m coming to get you!” Lola screams into the phone, her voice distorted and deranged. She thrusts the phone to the ground. A grin cuts across her face—her tongue lashes at her lips. She rolls her head, cracking her neck. “Tinker, tailor, shadow, lie—I’m coming to kill you, prepare to die!” she sings—her flesh tearing at the edges of her grin as it grows even wider, her eyes burst—and she begins to giggle.

    💬 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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  • Where the Reel Really Stops – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Where the Reel Really Stops – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Where the Reel Really Stops

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    He learned how to rewind himself long before he learned how to stop the watching. The camera does not forgive mistakes and the darkness in the room prefers reruns to mercy.

    Static bleeds down the screen—the image writhes, colours spark with a hiss, voices chant, a prayer. The screen rolls again—the empty image replaced by a wall of haze—another sharp hiss—waves of red, blue, and green devour the screen. The image rotates—the camera is hoisted into the air—and he stares into the lens, his weary eyes streaked red, bloodshot, worn. He swallows, grimaces, and rests the camera on his shoulder, facing it to meet the mirror and his reflection. He adjusts the focus—winding it out, then in, then out again—cycling for long, dragging moments, each adjustment twisting into an endless ritual. After multiple resets and nervous false starts, he takes a stuttered breath, steadies the camera, and stares at his uneasy reflection.

    “We are the plight of our own existence, and if we are to survive, if we are to adapt, we must be able to die!” he says, holding a pistol to his head before pulling the trigger. The explosion tears through his skull—shards of bone, grey matter, flesh, and blood burst from the other side—and the camera dies as the bullet rips through it too.

    Then time stops—paused. A remote control hovers from the darkness, bony fingers resting on the pause button.

    “I want to watch again,” a voice hisses from the dark as the finger presses rewind—images roll backwards. The bullet draws back into the gun. He stares at his image, fiddles with the camera settings, sets the camera down again—static—colours distort, then images blur—an empty cry, eyeless eyes, folds of skin, splashes of red. The image sharpens into view. He bends down beyond the camera’s sight. A bloody hammer appears, then drops, dragging a sea of red with it—another reverse strike, and another, and another. Then he stands, chest heaving, hair and flesh hanging from the claws of the hammer. He thrusts it down and pulls a woman up, blood sucking into the wound on her head. He tears away the hammer. A snarl curls into a smile—she sucks in a scream, staring at him. Her head leaps up from the table—a pistol at her temple. He squeezes the trigger—click, click, click. A man stumbles up—the bullets are sucked from his reforming skull. He swings to the left—another man, another skull re-sewn as bullets refill the chamber. The pistol is shoved into the back of his pants, and a finger stretches forward—garbled words, spit draws back in, and anger dies. The finger presses pause again, and the thing in the shadows lets out a hiss of delight.

    “Yes—here, this is the moment, Jacob—this is where you earned your horns,” the voice says as Jacob stares up at the screen, his face pale, his eyes glazed and glassy. The finger presses play, and like a diver leaping from a high board, Jacob plunges back into the reel—dragged beneath its waters, immersed again under the weight of the film.

    “If we were meant to live forever, we already would. Don’t you think there’s a reason we die? How can we ever adapt, ever evolve, if we stop the clock? We’re not gods—we’re meant to be a speck, to flicker and vanish, not to last forever!” Jacob spits, thrusting his fingers at the others.

    “Oh FUCK!” one of them groans. “Had I realised you were a fucking ape lover, I’d have never let you come aboard this project.”

    Jacob pulls the pistol from where it’s stuffed in the back of his pants and thrusts it out towards them. “I am this project, Clive. Without my calculations, this would be just another crackpot theorem in line with quantum immortality and the flat-earthers!” he spits, squeezing the trigger. Bullets tear into Clive’s head, which explodes in magnificent shades of red with each impact. Quickly he brings his aim to the other man, emptying several rounds into him with the same bloody result. Then he brings it to rest on Michelle. She screams, and he smiles awkwardly before squeezing the trigger—click, click, click. She screams louder, and his eyes go wide. She launches at him and he grabs her by the hair, thrusting her head into the table. She bounces off, stars swirling around her. He grabs a hammer from a bench, grips it, spins it around in his hand, then drives the clawed end into her skull. Her face is quickly drenched in crimson as she drops to the floor. He pulls the hammer free before driving it down into her spasming form—a wet, grotesque squelch—then he drags the hammer back and slams it down again and again, each strike wetter, heavier. Finally, he staggers to his feet. He stands for a moment, swaying, before dropping the hammer and wearily collecting his discarded pistol. He rolls the chamber free, empties the used rounds, and pulls a hollowed-out bullet from his jacket pocket. He stares at it blankly, stutters a breath, slides it into the chamber, then peers into the camera with an awkward smile carved across his lips.

    💬 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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  • All Your Screams Are Prerecorded – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    All Your Screams Are Prerecorded – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    All Your Screams Are Prerecorded

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    The show never ends when the audience can’t leave.
    Inside a room wired with eyes and echoes, one woman’s fear becomes a prewritten performance—and somewhere beyond the static, a voice waits to press play again.

    He smiles at his reflection, tracing his fingers down each cheek before puckering his lips and winking at himself. He downs the glass of whisky, then slumps into a seat.

    Several monitors sit disorganised, stacked one atop another before him. The screens flicker hazily, revealing multiple angles of a room wallpapered in peeling floral patterns. The room is empty except for a single bed, its mattress caved, a map of stains marking years of misery. An unconscious woman lies on it.

    His lips curl. He plucks a cigarette from an ashtray, inhales deeply, then leans toward the microphone before him. He sneers, smirks, and stubs the cigarette out.

    Her world explodes in blind panic.

    She blinks as the room spins. She swallows what feels like razor blades, and with each buzzing breath beneath the silence, her panic grows. Clenching her teeth, she clumsily sits up, only to find herself shackled to the floor.

    Her heart skips a beat. She takes several panicked breaths, then grips the chain and pulls, grunting with the effort. She screams in frustration as she yanks harder, but it still doesn’t give. Her eyes dart desperately around the room, her heart pounding like she has just run a marathon.

    That’s when she spots the first camera, then another.

    She drops the chain and looks up at one of them, frantically waving her hands.

    “H-H-Hello?” she calls out. “I-I-Is anyone there?”

    Her only answer is silence.

    “H-H-Hello!” she screams, her voice cracking. Tears streak down her cheeks.

    A TV screen mounted behind a sheet of Perspex in the wall switches on. A grainy image, a silhouetted figure flickers into view.

    “W-W-Who are you? W-Why am I here?” she cries.

    “Firstly—so you know—this is a recording. No back and forth. If you’re screaming, shut the fuck up. What I’m about to say, you need to hear it. Because if you don’t, you’re gonna die,” the figure says, his voice cracking as static pulses at the edges of the screen, his outline bleeding pixels.

    “Over the next few weeks, you and I, yeah, we’re gonna get close. Real close. Because you? You belong to me now. You’re mine. My bitch. And I’ll use you how I want, when I want, and it’s gonna hurt. So scream. Cry. Fight. It fucking doesn’t matter. That door? It doesn’t open, and that chain? It won’t break.”

    The video stutters, frames skip, before continuing.

    “You do what I say, you live. But if you don’t? If you push too far, if you try something stupid—especially anything that risks exposing who I am—I’ll kill you. I’ll chop you up into little pieces and flush you down the fucking drain.”

    The image warps sideways, the static cutting through flashes of horror—a woman screaming, a fly twitching on cracked paint, a cow’s head boiling in a pot. Then the screen shudders back to his silhouette.

    “When this video ends, you’ll get your chance. You can beg. You can plead. But don’t waste your breath. Everyone begs, everyone pleads, everyone screams, but no one leaves. Not before I’m done.”

    The TV screen clicks off, plunging her back into silence.

    “N-No, t-this isn’t real. T-this can’t be real!” she whispers, tears spilling down her cheeks as she shakes her head and claws at the shackle around her throat, gagging and choking.

    “W-WHY?” she screams, her voice cracking beneath the weight of her sobs. “WHY ME? WHAT DID I DO?”

    He sits perched over the microphone, a twitching smile on his face, sweat clinging to his upper lip.

    He shifts in his seat, his pants tightening as his excitement swells. A laugh slips from his lips along with a trail of saliva. He takes a deep, stuttered breath, pours another whisky, and swallows. He sneers and hisses sharply.

    His fingers twitch over the big green button at the base of the microphone as he stares at the screens, watching her look around, desperate and screaming. She pulls at the bed, tossing the mattress against the wall. The stains beneath are old and dark, but the fresh red ones drive her into a deeper frenzy.

    He closes his eyes and lets out another stuttered breath, then presses the button. A static hiss slithers through the room, curling around her like cold fingers. She freezes, gasping, as his voice cuts through the silence, speaking as if he were right behind her.

    “Save some of those tears for me.”

    💬 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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  • In the End Five Minutes Is Too Long – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    In the End Five Minutes Is Too Long – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    In the End Five Minutes Is Too Long

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A ritual of public vengeance braces for certainty but finds only a widening fault line—time slips and the watchers become the accused. Five minutes stretches and the ceremony peels back into something older and hungrier.

    The room hums with energy—surging, zapping—the smell of burnt flesh drifting as smoke curls from his skull. A hall of witnesses sits on the edge of their seats, unable to look away, unable to refuse the chance to watch the devil pay. One by one, they stand—gleeful—smiles twisting across their depraved lips.

    Polanski stands rigid beside the control panel—buttons, knobs, gauges, and the single large lever. A sharp snap cuts through the hum—Polanski jumps, heart hammering. He curses beneath his breath as the lever slams shut.

    Fumbling, he snatches the phone from the wall. Sweat drips beneath the brim of his hat, his lip slick with salt. “T-The time is three twenty-three and fifty-seven seconds, and stage three has now been completed,” he stammers. “A-Again,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder as a cold shiver slithers down his spine.

    “And the prisoner? What do you see?”

    “Smoke, sir—his hair caught fire for a moment.”

    “I don’t care if the bastard caught fire, is he moving or not?” the commander barks.

    “A-At this time,” Polanski says, peering toward the prisoner—his smoking head drooping forward, lifeless. “N-No movement, sir—h-he seems expired. D-Do you want us to continue the cooling down process, or should I l-let the doctors confirm?”

    Only static answers him—his lips tremble.

    “C-Commander?”

    “No—don’t deviate. Deviation opens new circumstances. Proceed, then have the doctors check him again. Nothing until the cooling period has elapsed. Wait—and pray.”

    “Of course, sir,” he mutters, glancing at his watch. “It’s now three twenty-five and thirty-two seconds, with three minutes remaining of the cooling down process.”

    “The witnesses—are they still watching? We can’t afford a problem. Jacobs was a respected man, and this bastard must die before them. They need to feel avenged. Do you understand?”

    “T-They’re all, t-the—” Polanski’s words falter as his lips quiver and his eyes widen.

    “Polanski? They’re all what?”

    “A-All the witnesses are standing now, sir. They’re all staring—s-staring at me, like they’re w-waiting for something,” he whispers, until the corner of his eye catches the prisoner—also standing, staring. “S-S-Sir, t-the prisoner, h-he’s standing as well—”

    “What do you mean? You said he was dead—strapped down. How can he be standing if he’s dead?” the commander snaps. “Polanski? For god’s sake, answer me!”

    “H-He’s standing, commander—he’s standing, and—o-oh my god, h-h-his eyes—”

    The prisoner steps forward—eyes black, sunken pits of charred flesh—lips burned away—teeth yellow—gums a sickly white. He raises a crooked finger at Polanski—and the witnesses mimic the gesture.

    “Polanski, what’s happening? I’m sending a team for you!”

    Polanski’s watch beeps. His breaths rattle, tears streak his ashen face. Instinct lifts the receiver back to his ear. “The time is three twenty-nine and three seconds, the cooling down process has lapsed, a-and, the prisoner is still alive,” he gasps before dropping the phone. It swings on its cord as the prisoner stands before him.

    “N-N-Now it’s y-your turn, t-to see if g-g-god w-w-wants you to live,” the prisoner whispers.

    Polanski drops to his knees. “P-Please,” he sobs.

    The prisoner smiles. “Get in the chair,” he hisses. The witnesses chant the same words. Polanski glances at the two doctors and the priest—wild-eyed, chanting. Even the commander’s voice, once frantic with concern, now chants for him to get in the chair.

    “P-Please,” Polanski begs. The prisoner rips off his hat and tries to strap the cap to his skull. Polanski shoves him away frantically, but the prisoner drives his thumbs into his eyes, pushing them deep. Blood gushes. Polanski shrieks, his hands are caught and snapped—bones tearing through skin, spraying crimson in wet slaps.

    He writhes as the prisoner forces the cap down, its teeth grinding into his scalp while a river of red spreads beneath him.

    The prisoner leans close, grinning, as he seizes Polanski’s broken wrist, pulls his watch into view. “The time is three thirty-two and fifteen seconds, and stage three is about to commence,” he hisses, yanking the lever down.

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

    —
    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • A Curve Is Still a Straight Line – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Curve Is Still a Straight Line – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Curve Is Still a Straight Line

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A man’s love twists into something monstrous, where obsession is mistaken for devotion and the blade becomes the only truth left. In the dirt and in the dark, what’s buried isn’t always dead—and what rises doesn’t always learn.

    She squeezes her fist tightly as her jaw clenches, and a single tear slips down her cheek.

    With a tremble, her body shakes, and she drops to her knees. Her soiled nightie, torn and bloody, hangs loosely from her near-naked frame.

    His smile widens as his head tilts to the side, and he crouches before her. The bloody knife rests in his grasp. A thick river of crimson drips from the blade’s tip and sinks slowly into the dirt below. His filthy fingers drag strands of hair from her face, and the grin crawling across his lips splits wider than it should.

    “Don’t worry—you’ll be with him soon. And all this,” he says as he looks up into the sky, taking a deep breath in.

    “It has a reason for everything. The ending never dictates the aftermath. Everything—everyone, space and time, and the things in between—they all get new beginnings. Even me.”

    He brings his gaze back to her. His grin now wilts into a fragile smile etched across dry, cracked lips.

    He scratches the rash on his cheek with nails digging deep.

    He grimaces as bloody pus leaks from his face. He pulls his hand away and stares at his fingernails, laughing softly.

    “I wonder if they’ll think I struggled with someone? If I wasn’t the killer, and they start chasing down the DNA that’s underneath my fingernails, I wonder what story that will bring with it?” he says as he looks up at her.

    Another tear slips down her cheek.

    “W-Why?” her trembling voice asks.

    His grin twists once more, and he grabs her by the back of the head and brings hers to his.

    “Because you’re mine, not his, not theirs, not anyone else’s—mine. You always have been, and you always will be,” he says with a cruel laugh as he thrusts the blade into her stomach. “The curve of a blade is just a straight line aching for your soul.”

    She gasps, spitting a veil of red across his face.

    He blinks, grimaces, and wipes his face with the back of his hand—clutching her throat with the other.

    She convulses—choking, clawing, kicking—her every breath desperate. He stares into her defiant eyes as a sea of red surges from her stomach and spills into the dirt beneath them.

    Finally, her gaze falls still, and her body goes silent.

    He takes a stuttered breath and lets her drop to the ground.

    He swallows and looks back to the sky, shaking his head as tears cascade down his cheeks.

    He staggers to his feet and grabs her clumsily by the leg, then drags her to the shallow hole dug in the earth a few feet away.

    His gaze meets the dead eyes of his boy who stares up silently from the hole. He takes a breath before tossing her body in over their child.

    With trembling fingers, he pulls a half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear.

    He grips it between his teeth. Then—without warning—a light flares to life, and its flame licks the cigarette’s blackened end. An elegantly dressed man with a whisper-thin moustache stands in its glow. Smoke curls from the seams of his coat, and a second mouth—stitched shut—grins across his neck, whispering words through unmoving lips.

    He takes a long, exhausted drag, then closes his eyes and climbs into the hole, lying down beside his wife and child.

    Another trembling breath.

    A final drag of the cigarette.

    And with a torturous curl of his lips, he slices the blade across his throat.

    Cheers. Cries. Light. Dark. Blinds open—then close. Voices. A heartbeat. A river of red.

    Then nothing.

    Silence.

    He takes what he thinks is a breath as a match strikes the floor, and the devilish imp stands before him once more—smiling like a circus clown. But this time, the stitches sew the other mouth shut. Rows of teeth crowd its rotten gums, and a tongue snakes out—thick, globulous strands of saliva dripping like venom.

    The match burns out, and he giggles—dragging another one to life. This time, it ignites inches from the man’s face. He giggles again.

    “Maybe this time, you’ll follow the straight line and not the curve,” he snarls as the light flickers out and the world is washed away in a violent sea of red.

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

    —
    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • It Wasn’t Real Until I Dragged It From My Dream – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    It Wasn’t Real Until I Dragged It From My Dream – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    It Wasn’t Real Until I Dragged It From My Dream

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    Andrew wakes drowning in sweat, clutching sheets that feel more like a shroud than a comfort. But when the voice from his dream follows him into waking life, he realises escape is no longer possible—and reality itself may be the cruelest trick.

    Andrew’s eyes shoot open, sweat pouring off him in rivers, the sheets sucking in the salty stench like starving mouths pressed to skin. His hands grip the sheets tightly as he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. 

    He gasps, each breath flooding his lungs like he’s drowning in air. 

    The world swims around him, and his hands shake as they tighten their grasp on the sheets. 

    He gasps, swallows, then gasps again. 

    Sweat soaks into the sheets, tracing the outline of his body in a growing puddle. 

    He groans, a stammering breath escaping his lips as he releases the sheets, a spasm twisting through his spine and snapping at the base of his skull. 

    He arches upward, then drops back to the wet sheets. 

    The ceiling throbs above him, aching as if alive. His eyes widen, and he swallows. 

    “It’s something remarkable, isn’t it?” a voice whispers, the weight of another body beside him, elbow propping him up. 

    Andrew scrambles off the bed and tumbles over the side, crashing to the floor in a heap. 

    “A bit overdramatic, even for you, Andrew,” the man says. 

    “Y-Y-You can’t be here, y-y-you can’t be real!” Andrew stammers as he clumsily gets to his feet, looking at the man with eyes filled with terror, his face pale. 

    “Yet here we are—just as real as each other,” he says as he gracefully rolls off the bed and sits on its edge, a broad smile across his bright red lips. 

    “H-H-How?” 

    He shrugs, scrunching up his face. “If I knew, I’d know. But I thought it was you.” 

    “W-W-Why the fuck would I bring you, of all my dream characters, into the real world?” 

    His brow furrows, a playful frown twisting his lips. 

    “I am utterly taken aback by your hurtful comments. You know, I have feelings too—especially now that I’m real, like you,” he says, a smile snaking across his lips. 

    His eyes, black with paint, narrow—and he winks playfully. 

    “Y-Y-You’re not real, I-I-I’m just having an episode, or something, o-o-or—” 

    “Or maybe you’re just still asleep?” 

    “Y-Y-Yeah, yeah, that’s it, I’m still asleep. T-This is all another one of your stupid fucking games, like always.” 

    He nods, and the smile broadens into a menacing grin. 

    “Well then, there is only one way for you to open up that door,” he says as he gets to his feet and produces a colourfully painted sledgehammer. 

    He spins it around playfully in his hand. 

    Andrew’s brow furrows. 

    “W-W-Wait, i-i-is this real? A-A-Are you just trying to trick me into k-killing myself?” 

    He takes a stunned step back, face flickering between sarcasm and shock. 

    “I-I-I don’t know how to take that—h-h-how you could think I would try and trick you into killing yourself. I-I-I mean it would be basically committing suicide, right?” 

    Andrew stares for a few moments. His face slackens, his lip trembles, and he raises a wary eyebrow. 

    “Y-Y-Yeah, I-I guess.” 

    He laughs as he swings the sledgehammer, smashing Andrew in the shoulder and sending him crashing to the floor. 

    He raises the sledgehammer again and brings it down on Andrew’s twisted form, smashing bones and tearing flesh. 

    Andrew screams, throwing up a hand to shield himself. 

    The man brings the sledgehammer down on the hand, breaking fingers. 

    Andrew screams in agony while the man laughs. 

    “W-W-Why?” Andrew screams. “W-Why?” 

    The man smiles as he raises the sledgehammer. 

    “Because I wanna know what’ll happen!” he snarls, bringing the sledgehammer down—and again Andrew’s eyes shoot open—his body awash in a cold sea of salty sweat. His face pales as the world vibrates around him, like it’s rewinding back into place. 

    His hands grip the sheets tightly as he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. 

    “O-O-Oh, t-thank God, t-thank God!” Andrew gasps through stuttered breaths. 

    “Oh, I don’t know,” the man says as he lies next to Andrew, still holding the blood-drenched sledgehammer, covered in thick sprays of red—smeared and sickly sweet. 

    He smiles broadly, gives Andrew another playful wink, then leaps to his feet and raises the sledgehammer, ready to strike. 

    “I wouldn’t be thanking anyone yet,” he roars as he brings the sledgehammer down on Andrew’s skull once more. 

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

    —
    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • Through a Glowing Hole My Screen Screamed – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Through a Glowing Hole My Screen Screamed – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Through a Glowing Hole My Screen Screamed

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A screen’s glow becomes a doorway, but what slips through isn’t light. Catherine discovers that some signals don’t fade to static—they pull you inside, tear you apart, and feed on what’s left.

    The screen screamed, its jagged shriek splitting Catherine’s skull before collapsing into grey static. 

    A string of harmonies dances behind it like backup singers, adding weight and layers to the chaotic mess, until the image sucks into itself, leaving only a single glowing dot in the centre of the screen. 

    Catherine finally lets the breath go—shaking, trembling—falling outside herself, the room tilts—walls breathe, stretching and shuddering as the floor melts beneath her knees. 

    She reaches out towards the screen. The room glows. The image grows—pulsates. She clutches herself and stumbles back, the room plunging into darkness again. 

    She gasps and pulls a stuttered breath in through her quivering lips. 

    Another breath slips free, and she leans back, digging her palms into the sheepskin carpet, propping herself up on her elbows. 

    Sweat pours from her in grotesque, salty waves. She drowns in her filth as it washes her from the inside out. 

    She shakes her head, pulls her hair from her face with a trembling hand—and falls to the side, barely catching herself on one elbow. 

    Her hands tremble like a puppet with severed strings, each twitch a spasm of dying nerves. 

    “W-W-Why?” she screams as tears stream down her face. 

    A distorted voice whispers words, and Catherine clenches her teeth, her brow furrows as a groan wails from deep within her stomach. 

    She convulses and crashes forward, her face smashing into the wooden floor—her features swallowed by pain as her nose flattens across her cheeks and a sea of red floods from her broken face. 

    She gurgles, limbs twitching as if underwater, lifting herself clumsily, cupping her face as the crimson tide flows without letting up. 

    Her stomach swims again—her brow furrows—as her eyes lock onto the pulsing screen once more. 

    Something pokes out of the glowing hole, a wiry thread twists its way towards her, like the twig of a tree, growing—slowly turning, twisting, curling. 

    Her eyes widen as its trance draws her in—hypnotised by the grotesque movements of its dance, each jerk, each sway, every impossible bend, pulling her deeper under its spell. 

    She takes a stuttered breath as it stops a metre or so from her, quivering before her like a finger beckoning her forward. 

    With a trembling hand, she reaches out and touches the cold twig. 

    The room pulsates, a wave rippling from the hole—and the thread shudders, then splits open with a violent, sickening, wet pop. 

    The glowing hole tears wider as countless tendrils rip free, forcing themselves inside with the hunger of something born only to consume. 

    She thrashes, her spine arches violently as blood sprays across the walls—the tendrils swim down into her stomach—twisting, tearing—filling every hollow space with things never meant to be born. Her stomach churns as the tendrils burrow deeper, ripping through her gut like shards of broken glass. She gags, then vomits—a spray of bile and blood explodes from her mouth—as her body fights to expel the invasion. 

    She tries to scream—but the things keep coming—pouring into her, swelling her insides until her skin threatens to split open. 

    Her nails snap—teeth crack—as she claws at herself—gouging her nails deep into her skin—ripping savage gashes in a blind panic as she tries to tear the tendrils free—until she feels her stomach scream back in the form of a horrible ripping sound—before she bursts like an overfilled balloon. 

    The room is awash in a warm sea of crimson. The tendrils slither back into the glowing hole, leaving the screen cold, and the room marked in blood. 

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

    —
    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • Room to Wait as Time Slides – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Room to Wait as Time Slides – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    Room to Wait as Time Slides

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    Time bends and breaks in a quiet room, where a jingle repeats endlessly and shadows stare with hollow eyes. When the doorway opens, what waits beyond is worse than silence.

    The tune crackles through the outdated, worn speakers—a simple jingle, a cover of a song he’s sure he liked growing up.

    He tries to hum along. The words sit just on the tip of his tongue—but the closer they come, the further they vanish into the awful jingle.

    He caresses his forehead and grunts as the clock hands spin, the music groans, and time—time unending—as he sits within the room’s view.

    He sighs and shakes his head. He glances at the watch on his wrist, then up at the clock on the wall.

    He squints, grimaces, then holds it to his ear. It ticks and tocks—too loud, and out of step, its rhythm wrong, like time itself had forgotten how it worked—his brow furrows as his mind begins to separate, and he wonders if he is part of the room.

    Has he always been here?

    Is this who he’s always been?

    He stutters a breath—strained, trembling, almost unnatural.

    He closes his eyes—just for a moment—and when he opens them again, he’s sitting in darkness. The jingle is gone. The room is strangled by a silence that grips everything.

    He gasps—the breath stings—as his fingers grip the chair’s cushioned armrests.

    Then he notices the shadow—standing there, watching him. His stomach turns, and his teeth ache. He clutches at his face. A throbbing erupts in his mouth as if something were pulling the teeth from his head, then comes the taste—vile, salty, as if he had a mouthful of blood he doesn’t remember swallowing.

    And just as quickly, it’s gone. So is the pain.

    But the thing, the thing still stands there, watching.

    “H-Hello?” he asks through trembling lips.

    The thing doesn’t acknowledge his question.

    It just stares—silent, still.

    His heart skips a beat, and he feels cold hands grip him from behind.

    He jumps, spins around, but finds nothing there. He turns again, coming face to face with whatever it is—its cold eyes staring deep into his.

    Its mouth opens, and a sound—like a thousand voices, singing a thousand songs, echoing a thousand cries—floods the room.

    The room flickers—then in a blink, it comes alive in a wash of vibrant colour. The lights glow, and the tune hums back into his ears—now even more familiar than before—playing in the background, gently swaying the room into its hold.

    He gasps. His heart races. His fingers tightly wrap around the armrests.

    “It’s a long wait, I know,” says a woman now sitting beside him.

    He scrambles from his seat, screaming—while she remains unmoving, a warm, full smile etched into her wrinkled lips.

    “What the fuck is going on?” he bellows.

    “Oh hush now, child. Your crying’s gonna wake the dead—and we don’t need them bothering us. Not yet anyway,” she says, thumbing playfully toward a doorway he hadn’t noticed before.

    His bottom lip quivers—as a sea of cold sweat runs down his brow.

    “W-W-Who are you?”

    “Who do you want me to be?”

    “T-That’s not an answer.”

    “It’s the only answer you’re going to get to that question—so accept it—and worry more about the questions you’re not paying attention to!” she snaps back, matter-of-factly.

    He swallows, gripping the chair as if it were a lifeboat and he was lost at sea. He claws his way around the chair, then crawls into it—huddling in a ball.

    “A-Am I dead?”

    Her smile widens—and her wrinkles deepen. “Do you remember dying, Jerry?”

    He stares, then blinks, before he jerks back, with wide distressed eyes. “N-N-No,” he stammers.

    “Well then, you ain’t dead, are you!” she says with a jovial laugh. “Not yet, anyway,” she adds smugly.

    “What’s that supposed to—”

    His words trail off as he finds himself alone again.

    The tune—so familiar—plays through warped layers, as if underwater.

    He feels the coldness grip him once more, and slowly he peers over his shoulder—and like before, nothing.

    He closes his eyes, swallows, and lets out a laboured breath.

    “Get a grip, Jerry. It’s all in your head,” he whispers, then opens his eyes—and stares into the piercing, hollow eyes of the thing.

    It stares at him, silently, tilting its head from side to side.

    He stutters a breath and tries to crawl further into his seat.

    “W-What are you?” he sobs.

    Like a marionette yanked by unseen strings, it rises abruptly, looks away, and points to the doorway.

    It turns back toward him, almost smiling, as a thousand cries scream out for him to run, for him to flee.

    Then the doorway flies open, and the thing drags him inside.

    He barely has time to scream before the door slams shut behind him.

    Slowly, the distortion in the music unravels, its upbeat tempo returning as the fluorescent lights warm every corner of the room—while on the other side of the wall, Jerry’s corpse lies curled in a broken ball of flesh and bone, his mouth wide, his eyes panicked, his final scream forever trapped in his throat.

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

    —
    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • A Few Minutes to Spend While the End Descends – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Few Minutes to Spend While the End Descends – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Few Minutes to Spend While the End Descends

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    Time folds, snaps, and rewinds in David’s world—where mirrors reveal more than reflections and truth bleeds faster than lies. When the clock strikes, will it end, or simply begin again?

    He grips his head with both hands, pushing against the throbbing, clenching his teeth—spitting a sea of saliva with every desperate breath. He squeezes his eyes shut, then screams as he rips them open—his face flushed red, veins throbbing at his temple. 

    Her trembling hand grips his arm, and she smiles nervously as a quiver ripples over her bottom lip. 

    “I-I-It’s okay, David. Y-Y-You’re safe. S-See? The world is still here—and so am I,” she says. A calmness flickers, hidden beneath her worried tones. 

    He pulls away and looks at her with wild eyes as a sea of sweat pours down his brow. 

    “T-T-This isn’t it—this isn’t right!” he stammers through desperate lips. His eyes search the room, blinking in frantic succession. “T-T-This isn’t right. I-I-It’s never done this before—never,” he adds. 

    “M-Maybe it’s because it never really happened in the first place. Maybe—finally—we’re making p-progress?” she says, fumbling her words at the end. 

    An eyebrow rises. He sniffs the air like a wild animal, and a smile snakes across his lips. 

    “You were so desperate, weren’t you? But I didn’t think you’d be the one to lie to me—not like this. Not now,” he says. 

    “I-I-I—” she stammers. 

    He slaps the desk and snarls like a madman. 

    “I wasn’t talking to you!” he spits, turning to the mirrored wall. “I was talking to my dear brother.” 

    The lights fall low, and the mirror fades, revealing three figures on the other side—each dressed in laboratory coats. 

    “Thank you, Rosa. You may go now,” one of them says. 

    But David grabs her arm and pulls her to him. 

    “David, you don’t want to—” 

    “The time, Charlie!” he roars. “Show me the time—the real time. Not this pathetic melodrama you’ve built around me. Then she can go!” 

    “That will not happen, David. Let Rosa go, and allow her to leave the room. Do that—show me you can still rationalise the truth—” 

    He doesn’t get to finish, as David twists Rosa’s neck with a suffering snap. She drops limply to the floor. 

    Charlie’s head dips forward. He stares at the floor, brow furrowed. 

    The other two doctors stand bewildered, before one of them goes to punch the alarm—only for Charlie to put a bullet in his head. He turns to the other and fires a second shot into his skull, then turns back to David. 

    He presses a few buttons on a keyboard, and a clock appears in the corner of the glass. 

    “T-T-That’s the real time?” 

    Charlie nods. “Exactly.” 

    “T-Then it’s already begun,” he whispers softly, staring into his brother’s tear-filled eyes—his chin quivering as the tears run down his cheeks. 

    “Y-Y-You better be right—otherwise I’ve just thrown everything away for you. For nothing,” Charlie stammers through trembling lips, then raises the revolver to his head and fires. 

    A cold shiver rides down David’s back, and a tear tumbles down his cheek. 

    He drops to his knees as his eyes fix on the time glowing in the corner—a circular bar curling around it, quickly filling with each second before it ticks up to the next minute. 

    His breath catches in his throat as it ticks closer to three fifteen. 

    The air in the room turns stagnant and stale. 

    He stutters a breath—laboured, tight. 

    The seconds continue to count, and the room gently ebbs as time begins to unwind. The seconds slip back and forth before everything around him is torn asunder. 

    He grips his head as chimes gong relentlessly inside his skull. 

    He screams as everything is ripped away. 

    And then—he feels her hand gently grip his arm. 

    “I-I-It’s okay, David. Y-Y-You’re safe. S-See? The world is still here—and so am I,” she says. A calmness flickers—buried in words she doesn’t realise she’s said before, as the clock strikes three thirteen and the world finishes rebooting. 

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

    —
    Written by Matthew Tonks
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  • One More Padlock to Be Safe – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    One More Padlock to Be Safe – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    One More Padlock to Be Safe

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    Grief leaves Duncan clutching at ghosts, but padlocks can’t hold back the inevitable. In the shadows of his shed, memory and madness entwine—until the chains rattle with something no funeral could bury.

    Duncan grips the glass to his chest and lets out a long, exhausted sigh. 

    Jenny catches his eye, offering a soft smile before sinking back into her conversation. 

    He shifts on his heels, wets his lips, and takes a sip of beer. 

    “She would’ve loved it—even the bullshit Paulie was spitting out,” Jeff says, gripping Duncan’s shoulder tightly. 

    “No, she wouldn’t have,” Duncan scoffs, laughing dryly before falling silent. 

    “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?” Jeff asks. 

    “To do?” 

    “Yeah, with the house. It’s too big for you. Emma w—” 

    “Too big?” Duncan’s brow furrows. 

    He takes an awkward step back and sizes Jeff up with a quick, sharp glance. 

    “What the fuck does the size of the house have to do with anything?” 

    Jeff swallows nervously as the room falls silent. 

    Everyone turns to stare. 

    “Look, Dunc, I wasn’t implying anything, I wa—” 

    “Bullshit,” Duncan growls. “You were implying a fuckload.” 

    He shakes his head, downs the beer, and slaps the empty glass on the bar. 

    “For all you nosey parkers,” he bellows, “I’m not thinking about selling the house.” 

    “Dunc, Dad—please—” Jeff says. 

    Duncan puffs out his chest and steps forward, forcing Jeff to shrink away. 

    “NO! Don’t! I’ll have my say—and I’ll have it now,” he snarls, turning back to the others, staring fiercely into the eyes of neighbours, friends, and family—faces he’s known too long, trusted too much, and now struggles to face. 

    His lip quivers. His nose scrunches. 

    “I’m not selling the house. I’m not packing up her clothes, or tossing out her collections—the things she spent her whole bloody life building. And the flower shop—it’ll stay closed as long as I fucking want it to,” he says as he grips the bar, sucking in a stuttered breath, as he fights back the tears that threaten to come. 

    “The love of my life—the woman I toiled with side by side for forty years, in the trenches of this shitstorm we call life—was just buried a stone’s throw from where she was born, where she died, and where we raised our kids—not to add the fact that I couldn’t even bring her home for everyone to see one last time, and instead I was given a box of ashes! So yeah—if you all don’t mind, I feel like I’m allowed to be just a little bit on the grumpy side of things!” he spits, as he looks around the room, before his gaze falls back on Jeff, who stands frozen in front of him. 

    Duncan grips him by the shoulder, drags him in for a hug, and smiles softly. 

    “You always had more of your mother in you than me. I love you, son—but please, let me be. I’m okay,” he says as he looks back around the room. 

    “Now go look after your sister—she needs help with Auntie Morag,” he says, guiding his son towards Jenny. 

    The trembling smile falls—and he slips out of the room. 

    He grabs his coat, heads outside, and looks up into the sky, squinting until his eyes become narrow slits. 

    “The rain’s going to be coming soon,” he grunts to himself as he strides across the muddy yard. 

    He looks over his shoulder and meets the gaze of his concerned children as they watch from the decking. 

    “The rain’s coming—I need to make sure Old Bess is locked away safely.” 

    “I can come help!” Jeff calls out. 

    “I may be old and lost without your mother, but I ain’t useless.” He waves him off. “I’ll be in soon—go remind everyone about the time your mother nearly killed the cousins in that rust bucket of a Fiat—when the door fell off while she was coasting down the Badlands without any petrol in the bloody thing!” he calls out as he fiddles with the padlock on the shed door. 

    He rushes inside and takes a few quick steps into the black before flicking the light on. 

    The room is washed in harsh light. 

    He blinks, squints, grumbles under his breath, and picks up something wrapped in old newspaper. 

    He shuffles forward, pulls another set of keys from his pocket, and unlocks another padlock leading to a set of stairs. 

    He looks over his shoulder, chews his bottom lip, then closes the door behind him and padlocks it shut, before heading down the stairs. 

    At the bottom—another door. Another padlock. 

    He pulls another key from his pocket, takes a few short breaths, and unlocks it. 

    His fingers tremble. 

    He closes his eyes, swallows, then mutters, “One more padlock to be safe.” 

    He opens the door. 

    She screams—wild, broken—and he rushes into the room, slamming the door behind him and padlocking it shut. 

    In the middle of the room, shackled by several heavy chains, a woman sits. 

    Her face is haggard, her flesh rotting—fresh green goo sprays from her lips. 

    She groans, cries, and thrashes against the chains that cut into her. 

    Duncan smiles nervously. 

    With trembling hands, he neatens up his hair and takes a seat a few feet from her, the wrapped newspaper sitting on his lap. 

    She lunges again, snarling—her teeth bared, her fingers clawing at the space between them—but the chains don’t budge, and neither does he. 

    He swallows again and gently unwraps the item in his lap—a freshly cut leg of meat. 

    The woman screams incessantly, the green goo spraying from her mouth. 

    Duncan smiles again as he looks up into her eyes, no longer blue like the ocean they once resembled, but dull and empty, as if no one’s left behind them. 

    “Sorry I took longer than I said I would,” he says softly. “We had your funeral today. The kids are here—and I didn’t want them to know. Not yet. Not until I can prove you’re still in there,” he says, holding the leg of meat out towards her. 

    Her fingers stretch, her face contorts, and for a fleeting second their eyes lock. His heart skips. There she is—the woman he loves, peering out from whatever’s left. 

    Then her fingers grip the meat, pull it from his grasp, and tear into it like a wild animal, while Duncan’s smile quivers, and the hope of the lie he’s clinging to tightens around his throat, holding his world together just a little while longer.  

    💬 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 Humming Breath Calls to the Dead – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Humming Breath Calls to the Dead – A Short Horror Story by Matthew Tonks

    A Humming Breath Calls to the Dead

    A short horror by Matthew Tonks

    A tune drifts where no sound should belong, twisting into flesh and bone until breath itself becomes a dirge. In a room where humming never stops, dread wears a human face—until it doesn’t.

    Jackie sits with his mouth hanging open as his eyes dart between the others, and gently—ever so slowly—he begins to hum. 

    The others turn to him, and he smiles nervously. He shrugs his shoulders, humming all the while. 

    “A-Are you q-quite all right?” Bridgette asks. 

    He shrugs again, still humming, his smile stretching into a broad grin. “I-I don’t know,” he stammers, then hums a little more. 

    “Oh god,” she cries, clutching herself as she takes a frantic step back. “H-He’s, he’s infected!” 

    Jackie laughs, shaking his head and rolling his eyes even as the humming continues. “N-No, I-I’m not infected.” 

    “That’s what someone infected would say,” Claude says as he steps beside Bridgette. 

    He shakes his head and grits his teeth as he inexplicably continues to hum. “I-I’m saying that because I’m not infected. S-Since when do the infected hum?” 

    Claude nods, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow. “That’s a good point. I don’t think any of the infected have hummed before,” he says as he steps to stand with Jackie. 

    “But look at him!” Bridgette says as she gestures to Jackie—his eyes bloodshot, black veins protruding across his brow, up his neck, and down his chest. Thick, globulous green drool slips from his lips as he continues to hum. 

    Claude’s eyes widen, and before he can step away, Jackie grabs him by the face—sticking his fingers through his eye sockets and his thumb through his nose—holding his head like a bowling ball. 

    He screams, convulses, jerks—pulling, tearing, trying to free himself. 

    Jackie tears his fingers free, ripping flesh and cartilage from Claude’s face. 

    Claude collapses to the ground in a heap, his disfigured flesh spurting waves of red. He gargles, chokes, and then goes silent. 

    Bridgette stumbles backward into the wall, her breath catching in her chest. 

    Jackie’s head turns slowly, like a puppet, as if soaking in the air of the room. 

    Through it all, his humming never stops—not for breath, not for anything. 

    If anything, the humming grows deeper, and the song more layered, more tangled—like thoughts tightening around a scream. 

    She presses herself against the wall. “S-Stay away f-from me.” 

    The pulsating black veins pump their poison through his flesh. His eyes swell with blackness, swallowing his pupils like hungry children. 

    The whites. The colours. Gone. Just black—as if something else, someone else had swallowed him from the inside and was now wearing him like a suit. 

    “You’re not J-Jackie anymore—are you?” she whispers. 

    His head falls to the side, and for the first time, his humming falters. He stares at her with his emptiness, and then reaches out slowly. 

    She screams, pressing herself even further against the wall. It’s then, as he steps toward her, she notices something moving behind him—something on the floor. Her screams melt into sobs as Claude raises his hand—like a marionette on strings. 

    “No, no,” she cries, shaking her head as a sea of tears cascades down her cheeks. “No, no, no—” 

    Slowly, he stands—wobbling like a child who’s just learned to stand. Then he too begins to hum—gently at first, but once the two are in sync, in unison, they grow louder, and the room begins to shake. 

    Bridgette screams again and charges forward, pushing her way past them. She bursts out into the hallway. An explosion rips through the ceiling as lights flicker—then burst behind her. 

    But the farther she gets, the louder the humming becomes—spilling into the corridor, chasing her around the corners, snapping at her heels. No footsteps. No bodies. No voices. Just the vibration. Just the humming. 

    She bursts through the doorway and out into the street. 

    A hundred eyes fall upon her—black, blank, and endless. The hum grows louder. A sea of them. 

    She falls to her knees as her heart pounds with panic. 

    Each breath falters, every gasp catches. She grips at her throat—her hands awash in a growing sea of pulsating black veins—and then, as she catches her last breath, she feels it in the back of her eyes, and realises—all too late—that she is humming herself. 

    💬 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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