Turning Corners: A Short Horror Story
A young man finds himself trapped in a labyrinth where he not only grapples with obstacles and monsters, but also his own authenticity.
This is a short horror story, and it’s the first in a monthly series where I’ll share a previously published story.
This one carries a Lemurian thread I return to often, stop negotiating with fear and return to yourself. It was first published in the anthology, Heavenly Harmonies (Wingless Dreamer Publisher).
Content note: This story includes homophobia, family rejection, and scenes of physical and emotional abuse.
Turning Corners
by Merdhin Wylde
Torches in wrought iron sconces expose a few feet at a time along a path to somewhere—or nowhere. They flicker like fireflies bouncing off walls in a labyrinth of timelessness.
Fingers comb through my curly auburn hair, a trait inherited from my mother. I lost track of how much time has passed since finding myself navigating blind turns and hitting dead ends.
Two tunnels lie ahead, one leading left and the other right. I used to have a solid plan for five, even ten years ahead. The certainty was comforting. Now, I’m wondering where I’ll be five steps from here. Paths of hard packed earth stretch out before me, leaving behind a trail of footprints that I hope to forget.
How did I get here?
I use this cliché in desperation. Another is better suited for this predicament: The need for acceptance causes poor decisions.
My mother’s critical gaze swept over my fifteen-year-old, late-bloomer body as she glanced back at me with a furrowed brow. “Don’t forget who you are?” This was her go-to inspirational opening.
The speech to follow became the motivational factor in maintaining a successful, guilt-ridden life. “Imagine your father’s reaction if he finds out.” She clicked her tongue and resumed scraping grease off a frying pan into a dented coffee can. “Find yourself a lovely girl and stop this foolishness.”
I didn’t have the guts to explain how it would impact my boyfriend and how he would react.
Is this what life has become? Wandering through a pre-ordained path of misguided judgments and misfortunate choices as not to upset others?
Here I stand. Paralyzed. No guidance system to direct me. So, I return to the mantra ingrained since childhood: Turn right and go straight. I chuckle at the irony.
I continue down this new corridor that is identical to the others, except for one difference. A glow the color of an autumn sunrise, brighter than the torches, emerges around a corner. I increase my pace to a jog as my heart rises to my throat. An adrenaline rush spins my head and narrows my peripheral vision. The crackling of a bonfire guides my way to freedom. Within sight is my exit. Within grasp is my destiny.
SLAM!
I drop to my knees in agony and cover my ears as a steel portcullis crashes down from the ceiling, blocking my path. Instinct flings my arms over my head.
Who are you?
It feels as if my father’s six-foot-two and two hundred-fifty-pound frame is towering behind me, his glare boring holes in my neck.
I concentrate on controlling sporadic, shallow breathing. Stay low and ride it out. I know how this plays—or played. Time ceases when the past collides with the future.
“You’re no son of mine. My sons are men. Tough, fearless, solid.”
The palm of his calloused hand rattled my rib cage as I landed on my tailbone. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress my emotions and maintain a facade of masculinity.
“Are you gonna start crying again?” He walked away with a can of beer. “Why can’t ya be more like your brothers?”
This was my older brother’s cue to hold me down. With each slap and punch, he hurled degrading insults, reminding me of my inadequacies and inability to fit in.
I gulp in air, as if I had emerged from the deep end of a swimming pool. My body shivers as I clasp my fingers tightly around the rough, rusted bars and pull myself up. Retreating to the path of meandering uncertainty is not an option.
I focus ahead, beyond the cell. My face flushes with heat from a fire pit in the middle of a red earthen cavern.
The silhouette of a horned beast, standing eight feet tall, looms motionless in front of roaring flames. Hair undulates on the creature’s arms and shoulders in the currents of hot air. It may have gone unnoticed if it weren’t for the gleaming golden ring dangling from its face.
I call out for help. It does not respond. I bang my fists against the bars. The beast remains as still and silent as stone.
Frustration boils like molten lava rising to the surface. I hold the bars like a bully holds a victim’s lapels. My body flails and eyelids clinch as I attempt to break out.
Clang. Clang! CLANG!
The volume intensifies in direct proportion to my outrage. My eyes pop open. Light reflects off a drawbar that bounces in its cradle.
I command my white knuckles to peel away from the bars. My slender arms slide through to lift the hold. The weight of solid steel does not budge. My knees bend as I position my palms under it. After three long exhales, I push up with my legs. My face squeezes in on itself as I fight against muscle spasms that are begging me to quit. I let out a guttural cry. The steel bar gives way, crashing to the floor with a deafening thud.
I jerk to attention like a meerkat expecting an attack from the guard. The only reaction is the steady rise and fall of its chest and flaring of its nostrils.
Years, if not decades, of rust on the cell door resist my push. I bear down with exhausted muscles. Creaking hinges reverberate through the walls and fade into eternity. I inch my way through the narrow exit, sidestepping over the threshold.
My mind is silent, soaking in the fullness of open space. I stand in a domed hall with three doors at nine, six, and three o’clock on the circular wall.
The guard’s demeanor remains unchanged, showing no interest in my presence. I creep in an arc for better focus, thinking this monster could be an inanimate statue. Its dilated black pupils dispel my assumption by tracking my movements. Its gnarled fingers tighten their clutch on a battle-ax that bears the scars of combat.
Palms out, I back up to show deference. Dark images divert my eyes to the curved wall. One shadow wraps its arms around itself and hangs its head. Another shadow pumps its arms and legs, looking behind, yet going nowhere. A third lies static near the bottom of the wall, sitting in the fetal position.
I stumble and fall on my tailbone.
The shadows slide off the wall, attaching themselves to my feet. They claw over each other, piling on my hips. I sink fingers into the clay ground behind me, straining to pull back. Darkness overtakes me.
Is this how it ends? One wrong turn here. Another unfortunate choice there. More disappointments.
Enough!
Confidence washes over me. I pull myself from under the writhing pile. “I am not a product of poor decisions. I am not a mistake. I am me.”
The guard locks its gaze on me. Smoke wafts from its nostrils.
I wipe my nose and turn to a door. “You may not love me as me, but my friends sure as hell do. And my chosen family loves me.” The door opens with a click. “And so do I.”
You can read more of my stories on the Abundance Living Resource page.
I’d love to hear your thoughts about this story. What line stayed with you?
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The ending’s turn toward chosen family and self-acceptance feels hard‑won, not sentimental, which makes that final note of hope genuinely earned.