He lay pinned on his back beneath a heavy oak door, the world reduced to the rhythmic thud of the executioner’s stones. The first weight cracked his ribs with a crisp sound, forcing a spray of bloody froth from his lips. He tried to plea, but each stone added silenced him further, snapping his sternum and collapsing his lungs into useless empty balloons. The pressure became absolute, a mounting tide of iron-heavy agony. With a final, sickening pop, his eyes bulged from their sockets as his internal organs liquefied, turning his skin into a bursting bag of a ruddy slurry.
[Copyright © 2026 by B.R. Potter. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.]
If B.R. Potter's work has carved a place in your nightmares. You can fuel the architect’s horrid tales with a clinical tribute here: https://ko-fi.com/brpotterhorror/tip
I was enchanted.