Goodreads asked R.B. Woodstone:

Can you tell us a two-sentence horror story?

R.B. Woodstone The concrete asylum floor is cold under my bare feet as the orderly leads me to the recreation room and seats me in front of the TV. I try to turn away, but I'm too late, and I see that face -- orange and angry and self-satisfied. He's scolding, insulting others, accusing them of committing the acts that he committed himself; and I am committed here for life, committed to seeing that face forever on that TV, which is never turned off.

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