Contents

1. Til Death Do Us Part

2. Horror Story Compilations

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Contents

1. The Better Half

2. Horror Story Compilations

The Better Half

By Newton Webb

Gayle Ingold is at the end of her tether. Her husband of twelve years, Barny, is a classic slob. A man who leaves wet towels on the bed, toenail clippings in the shower, and is utterly blind to household mess.

Gayle’s frustration has reached a boiling point.

One Monday night, her life changed. She finds Barny obsessively cleaning the kitchen at 11 p.m., scrubbing pans with uncharacteristic fervour and offering unsolicited advice on cookware.

Something isn’t right in the Ingold household.

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The Better Half

By Newton Webb

Monday, 2 February 2026. Keyworth.

Barny’s lips pursed as he scoured the egg off the stainless steel pan. His shoulders rose and fell. He’d been cleaning the kitchen for two hours. First the skirting boards in the hallway, then the inside of the microwave, the cooker top, and now the washing.

Gayle watched nervously from the doorway with a glass of rosé. Normally, when she was stressed, she would clean. But Barny’s newfound enthusiasm was robbing her of even that relief.

This was not the Barny she’d married twelve years ago. Barny wasn’t a selfish man. Had he been, she’d never have married him. It was just that mess was invisible to him. He would happily leave wet towels on the bed and toenail clippings in the shower. He was a man who would step over a basket of laundry to get to the fridge for a Diet Coke.

“Erm, B? Everything okay?”

Barny flinched. His elbow knocked a bottle of olive oil, which wobbled before settling. He smiled at her, then a look of panic crossed his face as his eyes darted from her face to the floor to the clock on the wall.

“Sorry, love.” He dropped the pan back into the soapy water. “Didn’t hear you. I just got back from my walk and wanted to get this grime off. It builds up, doesn’t it?”

“Are you feeling okay?” She walked over to check his mug. It was empty. “Did you drink all your tea?”

“Yes, it was delicious, thank you.” Barny flexed. “Bit of heart burn while walking, but no dramas.”

“And you are sure that you are alright?” She felt his forehead. It was normal. “Right. Well, it’s eleven o’clock at night.” Gayle’s voice was wary. “You’ve work tomorrow.”

“Is it? God. Time flies.” He wiped his hands on a tea towel. “Good point. I’ll have a shower and join you. Quick note though.”

Gayle clenched the stem of her rosé glass. “Yes, dear?”

“Nonstick for eggs, stainless steel for bacon.” He kissed her cheek as he walked past her.

This is impossible.

“I know, I know. The nonstick was in the dishwasher.”

Barny called over his shoulder. “Nonstick isn’t dishwasher safe.”

Gayle downed her rosé, placing it next to the sparkling hob and the clean mug. She watched her husband disappear up the stairs with a sick feeling in her stomach.

Tuesday, 3 February 2026. Keyworth.

The next morning, Gayle dropped Leo and Sarah at the school gates. They hopped out of the car with their packed lunches. Barny had made ham and cheese sandwiches, cut them into stars, and included little handwritten notes.

Sarah showed her note to Gayle with delight. It read, ‘The universe is a sparkly blur of fast moving shapes jazzed up by deafening noises.’

Gayle bit her bottom lip. “That’s lovely.”

Is he on drugs?

After the school run, Gayle parked the Volvo in the multi storey and walked to her favourite coffee shop, Deja Brew, near the library. Tom was already there, wearing an ethically sourced jumper, sitting at a corner table, and knitting a protest scarf that looked like a rainbow had been violently sick.

“Darling!” Tom didn’t look up from his needles. “What happened? You look.” He looked up from his knitting to regard her through narrow, slitted eyes. “Irked.”

“Remember when I said I was fed up with B?” Gayle sat down and leaned in. “Well, since things came to a head last week after our little spat.”

“The one where you texted me saying, and I quote here, ‘I’m going to murder the lazy son of a bitch.’” Tom stopped knitting. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “What’s he done now? He isn’t voting Reform, is he?”

“Worse. He’s being considerate, Tom.”

“The horror.” Tom returned, unperturbed, to his knitting. One side of his attempt at a scarf was missing a few stitches, and now the whole thing was leaning to one side.

“I’m serious. He is attentive. He does chores. He puts down his books to play with the children.”

Tom picked up his herbal tea. He blew on the surface. “Okay. That is weird, but isn’t this what you wanted?” Tom mused as he sipped his tea. “Maybe he’s had a breakdown, panicking about the thought of being alone? You’ve been unhappy for a long time, love. But maybe, just maybe, he’s actually trying.”

“Mum thinks he’s having an affair.”

“Babs thinks everyone is having an affair because she watches Spanish soap operas.” Tom leaned in. “Look, just give it time. If he starts chanting in Latin or eating raw liver, call me. I have sage. We can smudge the house.”

Thursday, 5 February 2026. Keyworth.

Gayle was in the garden, hard pruning her dormant roses when the phone rang in her pocket. It was the museum where Barny worked.

“Mrs Ingold?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Hi, sorry to bother you. It’s Derek. I was just wondering if Barny is okay? We haven’t seen him since Tuesday. He hasn’t called in and we have the rest of the Egyptian artefacts to catalogue before the exhibit.”

Gayle froze. She gripped the secateurs tightly. “He hasn’t been in?”

“No. We thought maybe he was sick and just forgot to ring. Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Gayle forced her voice to be calm. “He’s had a bit of a stomach bug. He’s been sleeping it off. I’ll make sure he calls you tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. Thanks, Mrs Ingold. I hope he feels better. I’ll take over temporarily, but just while he is off. I know how territorial he gets.”

“Wonderful. I’m sure he’ll be grateful.”

Gayle hung up.

She looked at the house.

He left the house every morning at seven thirty in his suit. He returned at six in the evening.

She opened Google Maps on her phone. She tapped on Barny’s icon.

He was not at the industrial estate where his office was located.

The little blue dot sat stationary in the middle of Charnwood Forest, by the river.

Gayle felt a cold prickle at the base of her spine.

Barny didn’t do exercise. He said he walked, but all he did was shuffle around the estate listening to his audiobooks.

What is he doing in the woods?

She was sitting at the kitchen table when he came home.

The key turned in the lock. The door opened. Barny walked in looking tired. His tie was crooked.

“Evening, love.” He beamed at her. “Traffic was murder on the ring road.”

Gayle didn’t move. Her hands were clasped in front of her on the pine table. Next to her hand lay a heavy chef’s knife.

“Sit down, Barny.”

He paused, mid-step. A flash of confusion crossed his face. “Is something wrong?”

“Sit down.”

He sat, placing his briefcase on the floor.

“Your office called.”

“Oh.”

“They haven’t seen you in two days.” Gayle picked up her phone and slid it across the table. The screen showed the tracking data. “And you weren’t at the industrial estate. You were standing still in the middle of Charnwood Forest.”

Barny opened his mouth to speak, a stammered excuse forming on his lips.

“Don’t.” Gayle picked up the knife and admired the edge. “You aren’t Barny.”

There was a long silence.

Then Barny’s eyes hardened. “I’m keeping this body. I need it.”

“Why were you in the forest?”

“Grounding. It takes energy to knit a dead soul to a living world. The forest helped the bond solidify.” The creature narrowed its eyes at the knife. “That blade won’t work on me, Gayle. I’m already dead. Technically.”

“I know.”

The creature tilted its head. “You... know?”

“I know you’re dead.” Gayle stood up. She walked around the table, the knife dangling loosely in her grip. “Because Barny didn’t just have an accident on Monday night, did he?”

“He did. His heart stopped.” The creature watched her warily. “I was watching, I’ve been watching since he released me from my prison. I felt a sudden fire in his stomach, a burning failure of the system. He vacated the premises, so I moved in.”

Gayle poured a glass of rosé with a steady hand. “I’ve been married to Barny for twelve years.” Gayle’s voice dropped to a murmur. “He was lazy, selfish and I was tired.”

She leaned down, her lips brushing the tip of his ear.

“It wasn’t heartburn you felt when you took over, darling. It was the monkshood I put in his Earl Grey.”

The creature turned its head slowly to look at her. The alien detachment in its eyes was replaced by a very human flicker of shock.

Gayle smiled, and for the first time in years, it reached her eyes.

“You’re wonderful with the kids,” she stroked his lapel. “You listen to me. You clean. To be frank... if he had been more like you, I wouldn’t have had to kill him.”

She placed the knife gently back on the table.

“So,” she patted his cheek. “What would you like for dinner? I was thinking we could order in for once?”

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Shadows of Spring: 64 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Mind Games’.

The Dark Fiction Spring Sale: 50 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Contents

1. A Civic Duty

2. Horror Story Compilations

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Newt's Nightmares

1. News

2. FREE Horror Story Compilations

3. Recommended Horror Books

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

May. Gosh, that came around fast. It’s my birthday once again. That means scotch, a kleftiko, lashings of retsina, and of course, an ungodly amount of complimentary ouzo.

The government has been kind enough to provide a bank holiday, so while everyone is down the public houses in the UK hoovering up multiple ales, I’m working at home, writing newsletters and stories. The perils of being self-employed.

Speaking of which, I’ve just finished a crime thriller short story. My last crime thriller short was a piece of flash fiction called ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’. Suitably horrific, I assure you. That’s gone out to my beta readers today. They won’t get a chance to read it yet, though, as the gin-soaked old lushes are playing in the aforementioned public houses.

I haven’t watched any great movies this month, sadly. I have seen some absolutely dire ones, though. It doesn’t seem particularly fair to name and shame them.

What has everyone been up to over the May Day long weekend? Read any good books? Watched any good movies? Let me know in the comments.

Sweet Screams,

Newt xx

Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues

A Southern Gothic Horror Short Story: When young Jackson moves into the ‘Grand Dame’, an old boarding house in New Orleans, he becomes enamoured with the music emanating from his neighbour’s room.

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Barghest

A Contemporary Creature Feature Short Story: Charlie and his mother, Heidi, stranded in a remote Cumbrian snowstorm, must fight for their lives.

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Horror Story Promotions

Shadows of Spring: 64 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Mind Games’.

The Dark Fiction Spring Sale: 50 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Recommended Horror Books

I read six books in April, the best of them being:

• Eeny Meeny, by M.J. Arlidge. Action-packed, gory, with sexual content and a delightful twist. This is definitely my favourite of the crime thrillers I’ve read this month. I’ve been on a bit of a thriller binge, and it’s no surprise that my favourite read was the most horror-aligned.

• Perfect Remains, by Helen Fields. Paperback link, as it’s not on Kindle in the US, or there’s a glitch in the matrix. It’s always a pleasure to see a Scottish thriller. David Sodergren did a rather spectacular one with ‘Dead Girl Blues’. ‘Perfect Remains’ was an enjoyable ride, though I was a bit disappointed that you know almost immediately who the killer is. I like a bit more mystery.

• Sleepy Head, by Mark Billingham. A good twist, though it was telegraphed fairly early on. Also, a fantastic method of killing people, I really enjoyed this one. This month’s read have done a number on me and led me to want to write my own crime thriller. Perhaps involving a man lumbering around in a smoking jacket, with a pipe, solving crimes?

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Contents

1. Smoke in the Sewers

2. Horror Story Compilations

AVAILABLE FOR FREE FOR 24 HOURS ONLY

Smoke in the Sewers, a complete novella by Newton Webb

London in 1864 was a hotbed of corruption, plague, and civil unrest.

Despite their tender age, the Night Foxes, Mick and his sister Maud, are already veterans of survival in these turbulent times. Living in the sewers, they've been eking out a living under the violent leadership of Tregor.

But something new has emerged underground.

And it is hungry.

Get for FREE on Amazon

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Shadows of Spring: 18 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Green Man’ and ‘The Catfish Killer’.

Show me the books

The Dark Fiction Spring Sale: 32 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Show me the books

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Contents

1. Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues

2. Horror Story Compilations

Deep in the sweltering heart of 56’ New Orleans, Jackson Gray, a Xavier University student, becomes entwined in the nocturnal blues sessions of former music maestro Elliot Banks.

However, Banks has a dangerous secret.

Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues

By Newton Webb

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10th August, 1956, New Orleans

Beneath the moss-draped arms of ancient oaks, an old New Orleans boarding house stood, a relic of grander times, soaked in the melancholic blues of bygone days. Jackson Gray hauled his travel chest down the uneven sidewalk. The summer humidity seeped into his starched-collared shirt. He paused outside The Grand Dame, looking up at its sagging balconies and peeling paint, a new beginning for his final year at Xavier University.

The door to the boarding house creaked as he pushed it open. He stepped inside, out of the blistering sun into the cool, dimly lit foyer. The air was thick with the musk of old wood and stale tobacco smoke. Behind a long, scratched counter sat a woman, engrossed in a paperback novel, a smouldering cigarette balanced in an overflowing ashtray. Her greying hair was a haphazard beehive, and her glasses perched precariously on her nose.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” The delta drawl in Jackson’s voice hinting at his Southern upbringing. “I’m looking for a room to let.”

She gestured towards the “VACANCY” sign above the tariff board without looking up from her book.

Jackson hesitated.

“Room seven is free,” she said, finally peeling her eyes away from her book to size him up over the rim of her glasses. “But let’s get one thing straight, son. We run a tight ship here. Rent is due every Monday, no exceptions. You’re late, and my boys will toss your belongings onto the street faster than you can say ‘buttered biscuits.’ And no company! This ain’t no hoochie-coochie house.”

He nodded, meeting her icy stare. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good, and we’ll take two weeks’ rent as a deposit.” She watched as he pulled out crinkled bills from his wallet. Diligently, she counted them before withdrawing a ring with two tarnished keys from beneath the counter. She slid it across the worn wood towards him. “Welcome to the madhouse. Room number seven is up the stairs, third on the left. One key is for the room, the other for the front door. You have any problems, you just ask for Miss Cherie.”

“Yes, Miss Cherie.” As he picked up the key, the melancholic strumming of a blues guitar filtered through the ceiling.

“That’ll be old Elliot Banks,” the woman commented, a note of reverence creeping into her voice. “Best damn bluesman in the whole of Louisiana, they say. He can wring out a wailing lick from that old guitar like no one else. Lives right next door to you, likes to play at night. Don’t you go pestering him though, boy. He’s as cantankerous as a rattler with a toothache, but I love the man, bless me I do. You interrupt his playing and I’ll toss you onto the streets faster than you can say—“

“Buttered biscuits?” Jackson finished for her.

Miss Cherie smirked. “Well, what do you know? The boy catches on fast.”

Jackson ascended the rickety stairs, his travel case bumping on the threadbare carpet. The music from next door was now a haunting lament. The deep voice reminded him of John Lee Hooker. It carried an ancient and heartfelt sorrow.

Miss Cherie is on the beam.

He stood outside and listened, his saddle shoes tapping away to the rhythm, before entering his new crib. The room was modest and clean. A small carved desk sat in one corner. Jackson gave a grim nod. It was a far cry from home, but it was better than last year’s accommodation and had what he needed for his studies.

Jackson undid his sweat-soaked shirt as he made his way to the washbasin. He ran the tap and drank deep before washing the travel grime from his face. The water ran cold and clear, a small mercy on this sweltering day. A floral curtain, dotted with holes, segregated the toilet area from the bedroom.

Lying on the bed, he lit a cheroot and listened to Elliot’s blues as he watched the trail of smoke lazily ascend. It added a new layer to the large yellow stain on the ceiling. Like many others before him, he was stamping his mark on his new turf.

The morning light filtered through the worn slats of the window shutters as Jackson woke. Stretching, he waited for his mind to rise from the depths of sleep-induced torpor. Rising, he gave himself a flannel bath using the wash basin and chose fresh clothes from his chest. The shirt wasn’t as neatly ironed as it would have been at home, but it was clean. Jackson dressed, collected his copy of ‘The Pharmacological Basis of Therapeutics’, and set out to find food.

Opening his door, he saw an elderly black man shuffling down the hall, holding a paper bag in his arms. The man grunted at him, “Coming through, boy, coming through.”

Jackson waited until he passed. As he locked his door, he noticed the man was unlocking the neighbouring room. “Sir, you must be Mr Elliot. I’ve just moved in.”

“What’s it to you?” The man said in a surly manner as he opened his door.

“Man, you can really play. I haven’t heard blues that fine since Victoria Spivey came to the Preservation Hall. I’m Jackson.”

The man paused. “You’ve heard the Queen Vic?”

Jackson beamed. “I sure have. My parents got me tickets. Queen Victoria sang with a voice that cut straight to the soul.”

“Well son, that changes matters.” He shifted his grip on the bag to offer a hand. Jackson shook it gladly. “You’ve good taste, boy. Why, I even remember playing with her back in the day, though she wasn’t a queen then.” He laughed, a dry, crackly laugh that ended in a coughing spasm. “Where’s that accent from? It sounds familiar.”

“Clarksdale, Tennessee,” Jackson said proudly. “I played the saxophone for a spell, before I—“

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Clarksdale? Of course. I lived in Tennessee for a time.” His face grew sombre. “That was ages ago. I was a different man then.”

“Whereabouts?” Jackson asked, his eyes lighting up. “Did you perform there?”

Elliot waved dismissively. “Let a man unpack his groceries before you pepper him with questions. It was mighty fine meeting you, Jackson. Have a good day now.”

Jackson nodded. “The pleasure was all mine, Mr Elliot.”

But Elliot had already disappeared into his room.

Jackson descended the stairs to the front desk, a bounce in his stride after making a friend—or the closest thing to one—in New Orleans. He headed out into the searing heat once again, the humidity making his shirt cling to him. He strolled through the streets of the French Quarter, hunting for a shaded table where he could enjoy a café au lait.

By the time Jackson returned to his boarding-house, a jangling box in his arms, the woman in the foyer was back at the front desk. She looked up from her book, a different one from yesterday, and regarded him with a sour expression. A cigarette dangled from her lips.

Jackson leaned the box on the counter and retrieved a paper bag from within, offering her a sugary, deep-fried pastry. “A beignet, ma’am?”

She eyed the offering suspiciously before her face broke into a smile, lines deepening with her grin. “My dear boy, that’s most kind of you.” She puffed on her cigarette. “I think I just might, at that.” She accepted his gift and placed it next to a vibrantly coloured green drink.

After dropping the box off in his room, Jackson poured himself a glass of water, relishing the ceiling fan’s breeze and drinking deeply from the glass. Pulling out his book, he started to read, but the ceiling fan’s rhythmic sound and the oppressive heat soon lulled him to sleep.

He awoke to the sound of Elliot’s playing drifting through the walls. A powerful, deep-throated woman’s voice accompanied it. Jackson smiled, thinking of the old man entertaining guests, and closed his eyes to savour the music. The old man had a deep, growling voice that reminded Jackson of his pop’s Howlin’ Wolf vinyl. He retrieved a beer from the crate and delighted in the almost voyeuristic experience of a private performance. He still had time to study before his lecture the next day.

When Jackson returned from class, his mind was abuzz. The day had been exhaustive, filled with medication names, uses, dosages, and side effects. He looked at Elliot’s door and, on a whim, grabbed the crate of beers from his room. Knocking on the door, he waited.

It took a while, but eventually, the door opened to reveal a scowling Elliot.

“I brought a gift.” Jackson held up the box.

Elliot peered inside, licking his lips. “So you did, son. Dixie beers, no less.” He looked up at Jackson. “Well, you’d best come in then.”

Jackson followed him in, accepting an open beer from Elliot and taking a seat in a worn wooden chair. Elliot’s guitar lay at rest in the corner.

“I enjoyed your performance last night,” Jackson said.

“It was what it was,” Elliot grunted, finding himself a seat to settle down opposite Jackson. “It’s harder to play now, especially with these fingers.” He flexed his fingers, and Jackson noticed the swollen knuckles.

Jackson glanced at the arthritic knuckles. “Mind if I take a look?”

Elliot looked at him suspiciously, but offered his hand. “Do you have any medication?”

“Boy, I stopped all that nonsense years ago. All I have now is the blues and the odd beer. I don’t even do the hard liquor any more.” Elliot snatched his hand back.

“Aspirin or applying heat could help, Mr Elliot.”

Elliot shrugged. “Well, if it buys me some more years of playing, I’ll try it.”

“Who was the singer last night?” Jackson reached for another beer. He froze when he saw Elliot’s stormy expression.

“Now, why would you be asking questions like that?” he snapped. The sound of the fan was the only noise as they both fell silent.

“I...” Jackson faltered, gripping another beer, he passed it over. “I didn’t mean to cause offence, Sir. I just thought she could really blow, that gal.”

Elliot regarded him solemnly before leaning back in his chair, the ancient wood creaking. “I suppose you didn’t. Now, let’s not mention it again.”

Jackson flashed an awkward smile. “Right you are, Mr Elliot.”

They drank together in silence, their earlier harmony shattered by Elliot’s question.

“Well, I suppose, a young thing like you has things to be getting on with,” Elliot eventually said. “I’d best not be keeping you.”

Jackson took his cue and rose, collecting the depleted crate. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr Elliot.”

Elliot rose unsteadily onto his feet, stretching before extending a shaky hand. “You be taking care now, Jackson.”

Jackson left the old man’s apartment and returned to his studies until the sunset and the voice of the mystery woman rose up again in a duet with the deep, sonorous tones of Elliot Banks. He smiled at the unfamiliar warmth he felt in their voices. It was a far cry from the grumpy bluesman he’d been drinking with earlier. Lying back in his bed and staring at the ceiling, he lit a cheroot and took a long drag, imagining himself in the audience when Elliot was in his heyday.

When it came time for Jackson to leave for his first seminar of the day, he found himself loitering by the front desk of the Grand Dame. “Miss Cherie?”

She looked up, eyes still bleary from the morning rise, her steaming coffee cup untouched. “Yes, son?”

“Who is the woman who sings with Elliot--”

“Ain’t no dame been here. No dizzy skirts allowed. I told you that,” her voice cracked like a whip.

“But--”

“No buts, unless you are a married man, you don’t bring no women here, this ain’t no juke joint, are we understood?” She looked sternly at Jackson until he nodded.

“Yes, Miss Cherie.”

“Good.” She sniffed, picking up a worn paperback. When he remained loitering, she raised her eyes. “Something else?”

Jackson started. “No, I mean, I’m sorry, no ma’am.”

“Well, then.” She adjusted her glasses and sucked her teeth as she found her page.

Jackson nodded and left.

I guess it is an open secret of some kind. There is no way she couldn’t have heard the woman.

For weeks, Jackson listened to the old blues man play throughout the night, with his mysterious partner. He dropped in on Mr Elliot, bringing him a Dixie beer whenever he could, but he was always alone. The floorboards in the corridor creaked as the guests walked upon them, but whenever he opened the door, he never saw anyone except his neighbours and the familiar form of Mr Elliot with his daily groceries.

The mystery burned within him. He had tried talking to his other neighbours, but they were either casually indifferent or feigned ignorance. Having built a friendship with the old bluesman, he had tried to raise the topic a few times, only to be met with outright hostility.

Miss Cherie flat-out denied the existence of the woman.

If Jackson hadn’t heard the voice every night, he would doubt himself, but it was clear as a bell through the thin walls of the Grand Dame. Always in concert with Elliot, they mostly sang to the guitar, but, sometimes, Jackson would hear the shrill sound of a harmonica, wailing like a lonely train in the night.

It was a normal evening for Jackson, smoking a cheroot and listening to his once famous neighbour when the music stopped. It had never stopped before. The music had always flowed like the Mississippi River, deep, soulful, and never-ending.

The woman screamed.

Jackson leapt off his bed and ran to Elliot’s door. The sound of growling came through the ancient timbers as he pounded on the door. “Mr Elliot, Sir, are you okay? Mr Elliot?”

“Sing your song, Elliot, please, you gotta sing,” the woman pleaded. “Sing!”

Elliot’s scream rose as the growling increased in volume.

The door splintered open as Jackson rammed his shoulder against the worn timbers.

The room was steeped in a graveyard blue. Elliot was surrounded by black hounds whose gleaming, fiery red eyes glowed like embers as they circled him. The ghostly figure of a woman tried to shield Elliot from the demonic creatures. One of them lurched forwards and bit deep into Elliot’s arm, causing the elderly man to cry out again.

Jackson pressed himself against the wall, frozen in horror by the macabre scene.

With his free hand, Elliot pulled out his harmonica and started playing. The hounds retreated back into the shadows as the wraithlike woman joined him, her strong voice echoing with fear and sadness. Elliot looked up at him, the lines of his face etched with pain and exhaustion, and shook his head, nodding at Jackson to leave him be.

Jackson slid along the wall. He didn’t go back to his apartment. Instead, he sat by the Mississippi and stared into the muddy waters as they reflected the bright lights from the street. The echo of a distant trumpet gave rhythm as he worked through his last cheroots, sucking down the harsh tobacco smoke as he tried to make sense of it all. His mind struggled with the surreal scene. When the sun rose, he tried to pretend to himself that it was all a dream.

I shouldn’t have left him.

He pounded his thigh with his fist, gritting his teeth. Jackson knew he had committed the act of a coward, abandoning his friend.

He isn’t my friend. He is just my neighbour. I should leave and find another room in another boarding house.

Jackson grimaced. Elliot was his friend. There was no justification for leaving him. Whatever the hell-spawned mess had been, Jackson had left him alone to deal with it. He pulled out another cheroot, lighting it with his last match. Around him, people were rising, and the streets were filling with people getting ready for work. The hustle and bustle of everyday life made his memories of the previous night seem even more bizarre. Jackson tossed the butt of his cheroot and rubbed at his eyes. He had to see Elliot. He had to know what had happened to the old man. Jackson wandered slowly through the uncaring morning crowds as he prayed the old man had survived. The entrance to the Grand Dame took on a sinister, warped appearance as he approached.

The front desk was vacant. Jackson was glad. He didn’t want Cherie to see him shamed. Guilt lent strength to his steps as he strode towards Elliot’s room, each step faster than the last. If he slowed down, he might stop. He wanted to stop.

Silence came from the room as Jackson stood outside it. He knocked and then immediately stepped back, pressing against the wall. “You best come on in.” Elliot’s voice was weak, thin, and tired.

Jackson tentatively pushed the door open. It was still broken, held closed by a box of empty beer bottles. He saw Elliot was sitting in his favourite chair, the same one from last night, his arm was wrapped in a blood-soaked towel. Jackson immediately approached, gently unwrapping the towel to see the deep bite marks on his arm. “We gotta clean this. You got any of that iodine?”

Elliot motioned to the cabinet over his sink. “And boy, I could use a cold one right about now.”

“First, you can tell me what happened last night.” He went to the basin to fill a pot with water and grabbed a bar of soap along with the iodine. “Hold steady, old timer.” Elliot flinched as Jackson cleaned the wound.

“I ain’t got much to say. I made a pact at a crossroads to play for a demon at midnight every night. In return, he lets me see my Sweet Bea again.”

Jackson dressed the bite marks with a fresh towel, tying it tight. The old man sounded like he was spouting nonsense, but he’d seen the ghost, he’d seen the demonic dogs. “How do you mean you made a deal? You shook hands or something?”

“Son, I signed my life away with the devil’s own ink. I sing the blues every midnight. In return, he lets me see my Sweet Bea. But I’m old and I’m tired, my pipes are weak and my fingers arthritic. I won’t be able to uphold my end of the deal soon. I almost slipped up last night. His cursed hellhounds are always there waiting, eager to take my soul.” Elliot looked down at his swollen fingers. “And now, I’ve got a dickie arm to boot.”

Jackson went and got them both beers. He drank the first half of his in a giant pull and then sat regarding the wounded man. His mind was still reeling from the events of the night before. His logical mind wanted to reject it as the ravings of an old man, but he’d seen enough to believe it. “Do you still have this contract?”

“I’ve tried to throw it away, tried to burn it, but it always reappears.” Elliot motioned to a leathery scroll on the sideboard.

Tentatively, Jackson went over and pulled away the carved bone binder, revealing a contract written in exquisite penmanship. Two signatures were written in a faded dark brown ink at the bottom of the page. “What did you do?”

“What did I do?” Elliot chuckled. “Son, you have been on this earth for barely a gnat’s breath. I was grieving. My Sweet Bea, she was my melody, my tune. Every time I strummed my guitar or sang a line, I felt her spirit with me.” He looked down at his beer, letting the morning light play over the glass. “When I lost her, I would have done anything for just a few minutes with her again. My soul to see her again, every night for nearly forty years? Well now, that is just a bargain, worthy of an eternity in hell.”

Jackson was looking at the scroll closely. “So, if you can’t perform your part of the bargain, your soul is forfeit?”

“That’s right,” Elliot said, looking out of the window. “Damned to hell for all time.”

Jackson looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “How far would you go to get out of this contract?”

Elliot didn’t say anything for a while. He just watched as the shadows were slowly banished by the rising sun. “Son, when you’ve walked this Earth as long as I have and carried the weight of a promise made to a damned demon, there’s very little you wouldn’t consider.”

“I need to get some things. I have an idea, but it will be painful.”

“At my age, what isn’t?” Mr Elliot chuckled. “Tell me what you need. I know people.”

Jackson shook nervously as he lay in his bed, waiting. He could hear Elliot as he started playing.

Idiot, why did you think you could outwit a demon?

Only yesterday, he’d thought that demons were a myth, a religious superstition.

Why did you have to get involved?

His breath caught. Elliot had stopped playing. He was talking to someone. Jackson pressed his ear against the faded wallpaper and tried to make it out.

A guttural howl of primal fury made Jackson stumble backwards, his heart pounding a furious rhythm in his chest.

Then, the raw, soulful wails of genuine Delta blues filled the room.

Jackson raced round. Not bothering to knock, he flung open the broken door to see a smiling old man.

Mr Elliot sat, his eyes now empty sockets with fresh stitches, the surrounding skin raw and red. He was swaying under the effect of the morphine.

“Well boy, it turns out that the devil is in the details. As through no fault of my own, I couldn’t ‘see’ Sweet Bea, the contract was voided.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of a better way.”

With a trembling hand, Elliot gently touched the scarred hollows that had once been his eyes. “This here? Boy, this ain’t nothing but the blues.”

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Shadows of Spring: 18 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Green Man’ and ‘The Catfish Killer’.

The Dark Fiction Spring Sale: 32 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Contents

1. Barghest

2. Horror Story Compilations

On a dark January night, Charlie and his mother, Heidi, are driving through the winding backroads of Cumbria, determined to make their annual ‘second Christmas’ at his grandparents’ cottage. Despite a severe government weather warning for the approaching Storm Goretti, Heidi, a fiercely stubborn woman with a love of 80s rock, is determined not to miss the family gathering.

As the storm begins to brew, she pulls over for a brief stop before the weather turns.

But they are not alone. Something hungry lives in the snow, and it has their scent.

Barghest

By Newton Webb

Download ePub / PDF

The Barghest

By Newton Webb

9th January 2026, Cumbria

Charlie sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes glued lazily to the window, the heater baking him into a soft, drowsy haze. Darkness stretched across the Cumbrian landscape like a shroud. The throbbing rhythm of the streetlights flashing by held it at bay briefly until the town faded behind them.

His mother, Heidi, gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands. They’d already been driving for hours. She turned up the CD player to keep herself awake. Uriah Heep did his best to keep her mind alert. The government red weather warning on the radio had encouraged people to stay at home, but as she’d told Charlie that morning, she’d be damned before they missed the annual second Christmas at her parents’ cottage near Keswick. If all went well, they’d make it before Storm Goretti hit.

Charlie leaned in his seat and almost dozed off, his blinks getting longer and longer. He listened to the whirring sounds of the engine and his mother’s 80s rock classics CD.

A mild bump in the road shook him awake. They must have left the wider A roads to join the country lanes winding through fields and forests. With the loss of the streetlamps, they were left with the car’s high beams to lead the way against the encroaching storm.

It wasn’t long before the black farmers’ fields were replaced by dense forests on each side of the road. Glistening snow covered each branch and glittered in the dark night. A small makeshift parking bay appeared a little way up ahead. His mum pulled into it and put the car into park.

“I need the cold air on my face. I’m knackered.” She stretched, her big hair pressing against the headrest. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she wasn’t ready to accept that the 80s were over. Her only concession to modern times and parental responsibilities was swapping her bike for an automatic car, and her forty cigarettes a day habit for a vape pen.

“I’ll come with you, Mum.” They hadn’t had a break since they last stopped near Preston.

Their boots crunched through the virgin snow. They took a few steps into the woods and stretched, turning away from the wind. His mother turned and zipped Charlie’s puffer jacket higher, then patted his cheek. She must have been freezing, wearing only a leather jacket and a Mötley Crüe crop top, but she didn’t complain as she puffed away on her vape pen.

A brisk breeze shot through the trees and unsettled the snow in the branches above, it came pummelling down onto Charlie’s head and slipped in under his jacket hood. He squealed, then immediately giggled.

His mother tutted and pulled the wet hood up, pressing it onto his head.

Charlie bent down, forming a snowball, then raised it to splat it on her cheek, pausing as, with supernatural instinct, his mother turned, took a step back, and pointed her finger, with its cherry red painted nail, at him.

“Charlie Hopkins, you rat bag, don’t you dare!”

He froze. The combination of eyeliner and maternal fury making him reconsider.

She knocked the ball out of his hand and gave him a hug. “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to pelt your cousins soon with as many snowballs as you like.”

The snow, which had been gently dusting them, suddenly started coming down hard.

Storm Goretti had arrived.

“Right, back to the car. I knew we shouldn’t have stopped. The storm’s ahead of schedule.” His mother scanned the trees and the dark road beyond. “We’d better get a move on, before the road becomes impassable.”

Though the roads had been cleared a couple of days earlier, the heavy deluge of snow had turned it into a slippery mess with ice hidden underneath. Worse, the snow was settling.

“Right, Charlie, we need proper metal now. Find me the Pretty Maids album ‘Red, Hot and Heavy.’” She gnawed her lip. He could tell she was worried.

The wind picked up. It shot white specks of snow towards their windscreen and lowered their visibility to near zero. The car slowed down as his mother tried to keep the road in sight. Minutes passed and the path ahead quickly faded away into a white sheet. They were left with no choice but to slow down to a crawl. Even then, they hit the edge of the road and barely managed to swerve back onto the slippery asphalt.

“Should we stop for a bit?” Charlie looked at the snowstorm with concern.

“If we stop here, we won’t be able to get moving again.” His mother leaned forwards, peering into the snow, the wipers on maximum speed.

Before they could argue further about their predicament, they came to a jarring halt. The snow ahead had piled up to levels far exceeding what their hatchback could traverse. The wheels spun with a high pitched whine.

“Shit.” His mother slammed her hand on the steering wheel. “Sorry. I meant to say ‘Bother’.”

“Can we turn around?” Charlie looked worried.

“Nope, we are stuck.”

She pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket and turned it on in a futile effort to call for help. This far away from the nearest town, they were out of luck. There was not a single bar of signal to reach civilisation.

“What are we going to do?” Charlie asked.

“Well, we’ll listen to music and keep the engine on.” She kept her eyes on the dashboard. “Your grandparents know we’re coming. Once they realise, they’ll send someone, probably Uncle Pete in his Land Rover. That’ll be fine in the snow.”

They had little in the way of supplies, but his mother always kept several packets of Haribo in the glove box. Charlie dug through the luggage and the presents for his grandparents in the boot. He moved the heavy plastic box containing the breakdown kit to the footwell.

“Don’t worry. If we are still stuck here in the morning, I’ll walk to the nearest farm.” His mother helped herself to a sweet.

Charlie looked dubiously at her leather boots with their high heels.

“But we are going to be out of here soon.”

Charlie tried to sleep, but having slept for so long during the journey, he struggled now. His mother stayed awake, intermittently checking her phone in case a signal could get through. She pinged texts to Pete and Grampy so that when they found a signal again they would automatically send.

He must have slept for a bit, because Charlie woke to his mother opening the driver’s seat door to get outside. She turned to him with a plastic ice scraper in hand.

“Stay put. I am just going to clear the exhaust pipe,” she explained.

The door had only been open for seven seconds, but it had been enough to drastically drop the temperature inside. She held up a torch to assess their situation. Its beam was made visible by the incessant snowfall, though it was only able to penetrate the gloom for five feet.

She cleared the exhaust pipe, hands shaking, checking it twice before she climbed back in.

Once the job had been done, she got back into the car. Her hands shivered from the cold. “Get some sleep, Charlie.” She took a long toke on her vape pen.

Again, Charlie fell to slumber.

He was woken once more when his mother opened the door. Only an hour had passed this time, and again she needed to get out to clear the exhaust pipe and the car roof. It took more time than before due to exhaustion and worsening weather conditions.

Charlie prayed silently that Uncle Pete was on his way. The road ahead was now completely invisible under the snow. The howling wind had picked up. Apart from the scraping of his mother’s tool and the thumps of tossed snow, there was nothing else to be heard.

But then he heard something. The sound of snow crunching.

He contemplated opening his door to listen more closely, but before he could make that decision his mother jumped back into the car. She slammed the door and locked it immediately.

“What’s wrong?” Charlie peered around him.

“Just stay down. There’s a bloody great big dog out there and it doesn’t look friendly.”

Charlie looked out of the window. The snow was falling more softly now and visibility was improving. He could see the dark outlines of the drystone walls and the twisted shapes of the ancient oaks that lined the road.

Movement caught his eye. It was near the tree line. It was huge, but moved with a fluid grace. It looked like a giant wolf.

“That can’t be a dog.” Charlie leaned closer to the window. “It’s massive.”

“Don’t look at it, Charlie. If you ignore dogs, they go away.”

He didn’t look away. The creature stepped out of the tree line and onto the road. It had shaggy black fur that seemed to absorb the scant moonlight shining down upon it. Its paws were immense. But it was the eyes that caused Charlie’s blood to cool. They glowed red with an internal fire. They burned like hot coals in the centre of a furnace.

It stopped, lifted its massive head, and sniffed the air. It let out a low growl that vibrated through Charlie’s belly.

“It knows we are here.” Charlie pushed himself as far back into his seat as he could.

“Lock your door,” his mother ordered.

“It is already locked.”

“Lock it again!”

The beast prowled towards them.

“Get in the back,” his mother hissed.

They scrambled over the centre console into the rear seats. His mother grabbed the plastic breakdown kit and held it tight. She dug through it, tossing aside a high-visibility vest, an unread copy of the Highway Code, and a warning triangle.

“There has to be something sharp. A screwdriver or something.”

“What’s a screwdriver going to do?”

“There is a jack in the boot, under the spare tyre.” Charlie poked his head up to see if he could get into the boot. “I’ve seen Dad use it.”

The car rocked violently as the creature slammed its weight against the driver’s side door. The metal groaning in protest.

Charlie screamed. He clapped his hands over his mouth and dropped back down onto the back seat.

A massive black paw smashed against the window. The glass held, but a spiderweb of cracks instantly bloomed outward from the point of impact.

It rose on its hind legs, towering over the vehicle. Looking down through the sunroof, its burning eyes stared directly at them. Its mouth stretched open, jaws revealing rows of jagged yellow teeth slick with thick ropes of saliva. Ropes of spittle dripped from the corners of its mouth, leaving greasy trails that slid downward.

“That’s not a dog, that’s a monster,” Charlie sobbed. “Mum, it’s a bloody monster.”

“Don’t swear.” His mother gripped Charlie tightly. “This is England. We don’t have—Get down!” She pushed him onto the floor of the car behind the front seats. She threw her body over him as a shield.

The sunroof shattered.

Shards of safety glass rained down on them. Cold air rushed in, bringing the smell of wet fur and rotting meat.

A massive clawed paw swiped blindly through the opening. It caught the fabric of the seat and ripped it open like wet paper.

“Hey!” His mother yelled. She grabbed the first thing her hand touched from the breakdown kit. A can of de-icer spray.

She sprayed it up towards the opening. The chemical cloud hit the creature in the face.

The beast sneezed and shook its head. It sounded annoyed rather than hurt, but it dropped down from the roof. The car bounced on its suspension.

“It’s backing off.” His mother held the can tightly.

She looked out of the rear window. The rear lights briefly illuminated the beast standing ten feet away in a red glow. It shook its head and pawed at its snout.

It was angry now.

“We need a weapon.” His mother looked at the de-icer spray. “This spray is useless. It won’t stop that thing.”

“Fire scares animals.” Charlie looked out at the prowling creature. “We need alcohol, Dad said it burns.”

“Yes, well, your dad thinks alcohol solves all problems.” His mother looked at the can in her hand, then at the glove compartment. “My zippo lighter…” She pushed forward and tried to reach it from the back seat, her arms flailing.

“Let me through,” Charlie argued. “I can reach.”

Before his mother could stop him, he crawled between the front seats. The broken glass crunched under his knees. He reached for the glove box and grabbed the lighter.

The creature attacked again.

It rammed the front of the car, crashing against the bonnet and climbing up. The glass cracked as it butted its head against the windscreen, jaws snapping. Fractures raced across the car, the web spreading until it shattered. Charlie dropped the lighter as the car shook. The beast forced its head through the ruined windscreen, shoulders grinding against twisted metal. Its jaws snapped inches from Charlie’s face. He froze, his heart pumping, his breath hitched.

His mother lunged. She grabbed Charlie by the back of his coat and yanked him backward, just as the jaws closed on the space where his head had been.

“Get back!”

She raised the de-icer can, looking in panic for a way to light it. In desperation, she impotently sprayed its face.

A clawed paw smashed through the broken windscreen, shards spraying across the dash.

The blow caught his mother. There was a loud sound of fabric ripping as it sank its claws into her arm. She screamed in agony, and the can of de-icer flew from her hand and rolled under the driver’s seat.

“Mum!” Charlie reached out to her, breathing fast.

He saw a glint of metal on the front passenger seat. The lighter was lying where it had been dropped. He grabbed it and looked for the can.

It was out of reach.

They were out of time.

It was forcing its way in.

His mother clutched her arm. Blood soaked her sleeve. She kicked the snarling face with her boots, but its eyes were focused on Charlie. Her attacks didn’t even slow it.

Charlie looked around frantically. His mother’s handbag had spilled open on the floor. He saw a giant rainbow coloured can of hairspray, highly flammable hairspray.

Snatching it up, he flicked the lighter. Nothing happened. He desperately flicked the flint twice more. “Come on, come on.”

A small yellow flame sprang to life.

“Burn,” Charlie snarled. He sprayed through the flame. A whoosh filled the car as a jet of flame hit the creature directly in the eyes.

The creature roared. Its face twisted as the flame curled its fur and blistered the soft flesh of its nose. There was a horrific howl as the wounded beast thrashed backward, pulling itself out of the windscreen. It leapt around in panic, flailing as the flames burned the hair on it’s face.

His mother jammed the keys into Charlie’s shaking hand. Blood slicked the plastic. She sagged against the door, her breath shuddered, wet and thin, her teeth chattered. Her eyes drooped.

“Drive.”

“I can’t drive!”

His mother didn’t answer. Charlie climbed into the driver’s seat. He sat on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals. Charlie grabbed the gear stick and yanked it into ‘D’.

He stamped on the accelerator.

The wheels spun. The car whined. It did not move.

“We are stuck!” Charlie cried.

“Rock it.” His mother’s voice was growing faint. “Reverse. Drive. Reverse.”

Charlie looked at her, worried. His mother slumped sideways, her eyes shut.

He jerked the selector into ‘R’ and pumped the accelerator. The car lurched back inches. ‘D’. Forward. ‘R’. Back. ‘D’. Forward.

He did it again. Again.

Outside, the monster shook snow from its singed coat and lifted its head. As he looked in the rear-view mirror, those burning eyes found him.

Then it charged.

Charlie screamed as he floored the pedal.

The tyres bit into something solid beneath the slush. The car leapt forward. It smashed through the drift in front of them.

The beast lunged. Its jaws snapped shut on the rear bumper. It tried to drag the car back.

But the momentum was too great. The plastic bumper tore off with a loud snap. The car fishtailed onto the road.

Charlie struggled with the wheel. He kept his foot pinned to the floor. The car slewed sideways, but he corrected it. They were moving.

He looked in the rear-view mirror.

It stood in the middle of the road. It was illuminated by the red tail lights. It watched them go, throwing its head back and letting out a howl that chilled Charlie to the marrow.

Charlie drove through the night, the car making a worrying rattle.

“Mum?”

His mother didn’t answer. Her pale face rested slack against the window.

A hysterical laugh burbled from his throat as he saw lights ahead. Streetlamps. A village.

He leaned on the horn, refusing to let go as he skidded to a stop in the centre of the village square and put the car into park. Jumping out of the car, he ran to the nearest building, a pub with a light still on upstairs in the landlord’s flat, and pounded on the door.

“Help! My mum needs help! Help us!”

Lights flicked on. People emerged. They were confused and sleepy, but they moved with urgency when they saw the state of the car and the blood on the woman inside.

Charlie collapsed in the snow. He watched them pull his mother from the wrecked car. He saw the deep gouges in her arm and the bruises on her chest. He saw the claw marks on the roof.

A man in a dressing gown wrapped a blanket around him.

“It was a bear,” Charlie whispered, sticking to the only explanation that made sense to his child’s mind. “A big black bear.”

The man’s grip tightened on Charlie’s shoulder. He stared at the gouges, then with concern at the dark road beyond the square.

“There are no bears in England, lad.”

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Shadows of Spring: 18 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Green Man’ and ‘The Catfish Killer’.

The Dark Fiction Spring Sale: 32 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Newt's Nightmares

1. News

2. FREE Horror Story Compilations

3. Recommended Horror Books

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

Happy Easter!

Resurrection is a wonderfully inspiring theme, so I’d like to thank the original horror story, the Bible, for providing us with such fertile inspiration. I was watching a related movie the other day called ‘Frankenstein Creates Bikers’. Now I genuinely can’t decide if it’s the best movie I’ve ever seen or if I hate it and it is a cultural abomination, so I’d appreciate some advice. It’s currently free to watch on Filmzie.

To continue the Easter theme, here is a delightful Christian action short entitled ‘Fist of Jesus’. I currently have two bristlenose plecos, six bronze corydoras, twelve white cloud mountain minnows, and a ton of red cherry shrimp. But this video has inspired me to get a shoal of piranhas to add to the mix.

What has everyone been up to over the Easter long weekend? Read any good books? Watched any good movies? Let me know in the comments.

Sweet Screams,

Newt xx

Faster on the Way Down

A Contemporary Psychological Horror: A married couple celebrate an anniversary hike only to discover they have both been keeping secrets from each other.

Download

The Leprechaun

A Contemporary Folk Horror Short Story: After finding a leprechaun caught in a trap, three friends believe they’ve found the key to their fortune, only to discover that nothing in life is truly free.

Download

Buried

A Contemporary Body Horror Short Story: A desperate young doctor, sealed in a secure lab with his critically injured mentor, must resort to unspeakable surgical procedures to keep them both alive.

Download

The Thing in the Grain House

A Horror Short Story set in Antiquity: An exiled family survives by following rigid laws. The foremost rule... stay away from the grain house.

Download

The Cold Dead Sea

A World War II Occult Horror Short Story: A downed RAF pilot in Norway discovers a secret Nazi U-boat pen, only to find worse things than Germans inside.

The Taste of Sin

A Contemporary Urban Fantasy Horror Short Story: Eat the soul, steal the skin. Maeve thought she was the only fetch in London until a chance encounter revealed the truth.

Horror Story Promotions

Shadows of Spring: 18 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Green Man’ and ‘The Catfish Killer’.

The Dark Fiction Spring Sale: 32 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Recommended Horror Books

I read eight books in March, the best of them being:

• In Quiet Courts, by Jack Rollins. I have been a long time fan of Jack since the release of Dr. Blessing’s Curse. He is the undisputed king of gaslight Victorian horror. His stories have a phenomenal penny dreadful vibe and watching his characters do battle is a ton of fun.

• Junebug, by A.E. Soto. I mentioned reading Everyone Dies Famous in a Small Town by Wrath James White last month, which was also recommended by the SplatterChatter book group. Junebug is a delightful piece of extreme horror. Really a novella in two parts, it has a brilliant mix of gore, affection, and a tasty twist.

• Spawn 3: Monster Boy by Ash Ericmore. Ash has a unique storytelling voice that blends extreme horror with humour and empathy. Spawn deserves to be made into a plushy. He is delightfully cute, despite his homicidal ways.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Contents

1. A Taste of Sin

2. Horror Story Compilations

Read more

Contents

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Free eBook: The Thing in the Grain House

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Tales of Terror: 41 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Respect’, ‘Mind Games’, ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’

Midnight Whispers: 54 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

The Thing in the Grain House

By Newton Webb

An exiled family survives by following rigid laws. The foremost rule... stay away from the grain house.

Click the button below to download in either ePub or PDF format.

Download ePub / PDF

The Third Dynasty of Ur. 2052 BCE

The goose struck with the speed of a viper, forcing Enmer to jump backward to escape it’s serrated beak. He kicked out at the hateful creature. The white mass of feathers erupted into a frenzy of hisses and beating wings.

“Rot take you.” Enmer grabbed a handful of dried grain from his pouch. He scattered it at them.

The gaggle descended on the food. Their orange beaks stabbing at the dirt. Enmer watched them for a moment. The morning air reeked of river mud and wet reeds mixed with the sour stink of goat dung.

He heard cackling.

Enmer turned.

His brother Gil sat on a three legged stool beside the ewe pen. Gil pressed his forehead against the flank of a sheep and pretended he hadn’t seen the skirmish. His hands worked. The milk hit the clay pot with a steady rhythm. Splat. Splat.

“Very funny,” Enmer said.

He walked to the goat pen. The animals bleated at his approach. Their flat pupils stared at him with idiot malice.

Gil stopped milking. He wiped sweat from his brow. The heat pressed down on the flatlands between the Tigris and Euphrates.

“This one’s drying up,” Gil said.

Enmer unlatched the gate. He grabbed the nearest goat by its horns and forced it towards the trough. “Mother won’t be happy if she has to ask Father to help us.”

Gil pursed his lips.

Enmer followed Gil’s gaze. It travelled beyond the house. Beyond the low structure of mud brick lay the irrigation ditches and the date palms that lined the property. Past the mist that rolled off the Euphrates.

To the grain house.

The mud brick block stood at the far edge of their land. There were no windows to let in the light. Just a door carved from a single piece of stone. Neither the goats nor the geese would forage in its shadow.

The door to the main house opened.

Their mother Ninsun stepped out. Her hair fell in black waves over her shoulders. Her skin was a pale brown next to Enmer’s greyish tone. “The sun falls.” Her voice carried across the yard. “Inside. Now.”

Iltani followed her mother out carrying a basket of laundry.

“We were tending the animals, Mother,” Gil said. He stood up and hefted the clay pot.

Their mother walked towards them. She looked into the pot and her expression grew worried.

“You will have to clear the ditches tomorrow.” She glanced back at the windowless grain house. “You must not be outside when your father wakes.” She smiled at them. “Come inside. We will eat. Then you will all practise your cuneiform.”

Gil snorted and muttered, “I would rather shovel dung.”

#

When supplies ran low, their mother took the small reed boat and poled it downriver. She left in the grey dawn but always returned before dark. She brought back jars of oil and new linen but she clutched the clay tablets like gold. She carried them wrapped in wool and strained under their weight.

Enmer knew the city existed but he could never go there.

“We are exiles to them.” His mother set the jar down hard. “They would kill us if they knew.” She looked at the palms with disdain. “They fear you. Only I can enter because I used to live there.”

They followed her rules.

The most important rule was absolute. Never approach the grain house.

Father lived there.

Enmer and Gil stayed away during the day but curiosity has a terrible habit of eroding obedience.

They watched him while their mother slept. Spying on him as he left to hunt. Father left after the sun fell. He was a tall dark shadow striding out naked towards the hunting grounds of lions and boars. He would return long before they woke. Father kept the larder full of fresh meat and left small pouches of tradable jewellery by the front door.

Sometimes in the dead of night Enmer woke to the sound of the heavy door creaking. A gong sounded. Their mother would leave them and creep into the night. Soon after Enmer heard her. Soft cries echoed across the yard. Enmer covered his ears. Father remained silent.

Enmer once asked his mother why they lived in exile.

Ninsun glowered. Her knuckles whitened on the pestle.

“I was a girl in the court of the King of Uruk.” She pounded the stone into the grain. “The King was a cruel man. He took what he wanted. He wanted me.” She ground the barley harder. “My family had no choice. His guards seized me when I was younger than you. He would have used and discarded me.”

She stopped then. She looked out towards the windowless grain house.

“Your father came in the night. He moved silently. He took me from the palace. He carried me here. He carried me here. He gave me a home. He gave me children. For everything the world says about him remember this. He loves you. He has never raised a hand to any of us in anger. Never. That makes him more human than the animals in the city.”

#

Enmer had always wondered why his mother was darker skinned and slender yet Enmer and his siblings were grey and muscular. Her ears were rounded. Theirs were pointed. Unlike their mother none of the children grew hair on their bodies.

Even his sister Iltani had a smooth bald head. When she was not weaving with their mother she would play in the reeds. She would disappear for hours wading through the muck. She would return with waterfowl she had caught with her bare hands. Their necks were always snapped cleanly.

And Gil.

Gil was broad chested. His muscles were much larger than Enmer’s. He spent his days at the edge of the property lifting stones, smiling at the strain. Enmer remembered the day a bull had become stuck in the thick mud of the irrigation ditch. It thrashed and panicked as it sank deeper. Gil had waded in, grabbed the beast by the horns and hauled it out. He’d laughed then. The deep guttural sound made the other animals shrink away.

“Look at me,” Gil’s chest had heaved and mud slicked his skin. “I am stronger than the bull of heaven.”

Enmer was strong too. He could crush a clay brick into dust with one hand but he preferred to sit with his mother. He helped her carry the heavy tablets she brought from the city. He felt safe in her shadow even though he could have snapped her spine with a hug.

She would whisper as she stroked his bald head. “You have the soul of a scribe, Enmer.”

But beneath the quiet life their father waited.

#

Enmer remembered a night when he was fifteen. The heat was unbearable. The air sat heavy on the chest. It was wet and suffocating. Gil and Enmer were on the flat roof of the house looking at the stars.

“What is Father?” Enmer asked.

Gil did not look at him. He sharpened a piece of flint against a stone. “He’s a hunter. The greatest hunter.”

“Is he like us? Or like Mother?”

Gil stopped scraping. He looked at Enmer. “He must be like us. Look at us. We’re gods compared to Mother. He must be a king of gods.”

“Then why do we hide away from others? Do gods hide?”

Across the yard the stone door of the grain house creaked.

They were supposed to be inside. Mother insisted Father was a private man. But they had to know if he looked like them or like her. So they scrambled to the edge of the roof and peered down.

A figure emerged. His naked skin was grey in the silver light.

He stood by the door. He was perfectly still. Father did not look around. He inhaled. It was a long slow intake of breath as he tasted the air. He turned and smiled in their direction. It was a long, slow smile that crept across his face. Enmer flinched back, but he saw Iltani, who’d silently climbed onto the roof beside them, smile back at the figure in the darkness.

Then Father moved.

He had been standing by the door. A heartbeat later he was fifty paces away, disappearing into the palm grove.

“Did you see that?” Gil gripped the edge of the roof until the dried mud crumbled under his fingers. “He is fast. Faster than a leopard.”

Cold dread coiled in Enmer’s gut. He looked at his own hands. They were grey like the man below. He wished they were brown like their mother.

#

The seasons turned and the sickness came to their mother.

It started with a cough. It was a dry hacking sound that echoed in the small house. Then came the fatigue. She began to sit for longer periods. Her skin turned the colour of dried clay. Her eyes sank back into her skull.

Enmer took over the cooking. He cleaned the house. He sat by her feet as she shivered under piles of wool blankets even in the heat of the day.

“Do not worry, Enmer,” she wheezed. Her hand was cold in his. “It will pass. All things pass.”

“What if it does not?” Enmer asked. The fear made his voice thick. “What if you leave us?”

“Your father will provide,” she said. Her eyes slid away from his. “Gil is strong. Iltani is capable. You will be fine.”

“We do not know him.”

“He will come to you when it is time.” His mother squeezed his hand. Her grip felt weak. “He loves you. In his way.”

As she withered the house fell into disarray. Iltani and Gil spent less time indoors. They became wilder. They stopped washing the mud from their limbs. They ate the meat raw. They tore it from the bone with their teeth. Enmer cooked his portions. He clung to the rituals of the home and tried to maintain order.

The end came during the season of storms. The sky was a bruised purple and the wind whipped the palms into a frenzy.

His mother’s breathing slowed. Enmer listened to the rattle in her chest. She would not heal.

He fell to his knees beside her. He buried his face in her lap. He wept great heaving sobs that tore at his throat.

Gil stood by the door. He didn’t cry. His jaw set, his hands balled into white knuckled fists. He wouldn’t look at the bed.

Iltani stood and tilted her head.

The heavy door of the grain house groaned open.

“He’s coming.” Iltani’s eyes widened.

Enmer’s heart pounded in his chest. The man they had never met approached. Sweat slicked Enmer’s palms. He stood up and wiped the tears from his face. He placed himself between his mother’s body and the entrance to their home.

Their father entered the house.

Enmer saw him clearly in the light of the oil lamps for the first time. He stood as tall as Gil but lacked his brother’s heavy bulk. He was lean and wire thin. His face was angular yet handsome.

But it was his eyes. They were black from rim to rim. No white. Just void.

Father looked at his three children. He sniffed the air. He looked down at their mother and his expression softened. He stroked her hair.

She could not speak. Her eyes darted from her husband to Enmer.

Father’s finger ran down her cheek. “Now your mother gives you the greatest of gifts.”

It was the first time they had heard him speak. His voice was deep, almost hypnotic. He lifted her. She looked like a child in his arms.

“Come,” he commanded.

He turned and carried her out into the storm towards the grain house. Iltani followed immediately with a strange eagerness in her step. Gil hesitated and then followed. Enmer was left alone. Fear gripped him as he forced his legs to move, following them into the grain house.

The smell hit him first. Copper and rotting flesh.

It was a windowless tomb. The walls were high and lost in shadows above. The skeletons of gazelles and lions and boars lay in orderly piles. A pyramid of human skulls filled one corner.

His father laid his mother down onto a large stone slab in the centre of the room. He moved with practiced efficiency as he stripped her body of the linen dress.

Enmer stood transfixed by the tableau unfolding in front of him.

“She was the only one who gave me joy.” His father looked down at her. “She gave me three strong children. Now she gives you her final offering.”

He raised a finger. Extending from it was a long, wicked nail.

He dragged the nail down the vein on her neck. It sliced through the old flesh. Blood sprayed Enmer’s face.

A thick, metallic scent filled the grain house.

Pain tore through Enmer’s gums. He doubled over and clutched his mouth. It felt as if his teeth were shattering and pushing through the flesh. He groaned, tasting his own blood.

He looked up. Gil was on his knees. His head thrown back as he roared. His mouth was open and Enmer saw them. Two long white canines descended from his upper jaw.

Iltani’s face contorted and her jaw distended.

His father smiled, exposing his own fangs. They glistened in the lamplight.

“Drink.” He gestured towards her. “Absorb her body and soul. It is your birthright.”

Gil didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward and buried his face in the wound at their mother’s neck. The sound of his feeding filled the room. Wet slurping gulps. Iltani joined in. She tore at their mother’s arm and licked the blood that pooled on the stone slab.

His father watched them with pride. Then his eyes fell on Enmer.

“Enmer,” he said. “Do not deny your nature.”

Enmer was starving. A hunger like he had never known was clawing at his insides. A red haze demanded to be sated. His fangs ached to drink. The copper scent of the blood was intoxicating.

Enmer looked at his mother’s slackened face. Her eyes stared blindly at the ceiling. The woman who had taught him to read. The woman who had held him when he was afraid.

He looked at Gil. His face smeared with blood. The woman who had given them all life.

Enmer looked at his father.

“No.” Enmer backed away, shaking his head.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “Enmer. Her soul is in her blood. You’ll never truly know her unless you taste her.”

Enmer scrambled out of the grain house. He slipped on the wet mud and threw himself into the storm.

He didn’t look back.

October 31st, 1936. Berlin.

It takes a long time to learn how to live when you can’t die.

Millennia passed in a blur of hunger and hiding. Enmer had seen the Hanging Gardens rise. He had seen the legions of Rome march and fall. He learnt how to make people see him as human, clouding their minds with a glamour. He learnt how to drain blood without killing. He learnt how to identify other predators who would not be missed. After his fangs had emerged only human blood could sustain him.

But now he was in Berlin. The city pulsed with a manic energy, a new vigour. Banners of red and white and black hung from every building. They snapped in the autumn wind.

Enmer walked the streets with his collar turned up against the chill. The people were busily going about their work, but Enmer could smell the sour scent of fear upon them.

A rally was dispersing near a government building. Uniformed men poured into the street. Their black boots struck the cobblestones in unison. They wore skulls on their caps.

Enmer stopped. His heart gave a painful thud.

An officer stood by a black Mercedes. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His uniform was tailored to perfection. He was laughing with a younger soldier.

It was Gil.

He had not aged a day in four thousand years. His grey-skinned face looked back at Enmer. His cruel expression fit perfectly here. Perhaps the glamour did not work on Enmer. Or perhaps it was unnecessary with these humans.

Gil looked up as if he felt the gaze. His eyes were black as the pits of hell. They locked onto Enmer across the crowd.

Gil didn’t look surprised. He smiled and gave a small nod.

Enmer turned vanishing into the crowd. He left Germany that night.

Present Day. East Anglia, UK.

The cottage sat on the edge of the salt marshes where the land bled into the North Sea. It was quiet here. The wind howled and rattled the windowpanes. It reminded Enmer of the storms of his youth.

He had lived there for thirty years. To the locals he was known as Mr Emery. A recluse. An eccentric. He ordered his groceries online. He hung blackout curtains. He paid his taxes.

Enmer reclined in a leather chair watching the television. The news played a section on the upcoming election. A new party was gaining ground, already surpassing the two main parties that had previously led the nation.

A man stood on a podium in a coastal town not fifty miles away.

“We must not be afraid to do what is necessary,” the man said. “We must protect the people of our great nation from the perils of uncontrolled migration.”

The caption read: Sir William Kingston, MP.

The grey skin told a different story.

His brother, Gil, had appeared once more.

He had adapted and evolved. Modern monsters did not hide in grain houses. They wore suits. They got elected. They shaped the laws to ensure a constant underclass to feed upon.

“This nation.” Gil smiled. He stared down the camera lens and Enmer swore he was looking straight at him. “Is your birthright.”

Enmer sat back. The leather of the chair creaked under his weight.

He touched the tips of his canines with his tongue.

For four thousand years he had run. He had hidden in the mud and in the mountains and in the small cottages at the edge of the world. He had tried to be Ninsun’s son. The gentle scribe. The human.

He looked at the screen. He looked at the monster who shared his blood and remembered what had happened the last time he’d preached a similar gospel.

Enmer closed the laptop. He stood up. He felt the old strength flowing through his limbs. It was the power that could crush bricks and snap necks.

He went to the closet and pulled out a leather jacket. He put on his boots.

I am done running.

He retrieved his sword.

Enmer stepped out into the night and inhaled deeply.

The air smelled of salt and rain.

He would have words with his brother.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Contents

1. Buried by Newton Webb

2. Horror Story Compilations

Buried

By Newton Webb

A desperate young doctor, sealed in a secure lab with his critically injured mentor, must resort to unspeakable surgical procedures to keep them both alive.

Click the button below to download in either ePub or PDF format.

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Greetings, my wicked darlings!

Ah, cannibalism, or as it’s otherwise known, long pork. I’ve done a few cannibalism stories before, notably in Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1 (The Grimsdyke Ghouls and The Ghouls of New Bangalore). I clearly had a cannibalism bee in my bonnet back then, but I got through TotM 2–4 without the sweet taste of human flesh. Is that personal growth? If so, I’ve absolutely ruined it with my free short story Buried!

I blame Ash Ericmore for this one. His truly phenomenal Summer of Sin collection had two standout pieces: Pride and Gluttony. Both of them combined humour with gross-out violence. Gluttony was the cannibalism story that reignited my love of the trope. I recommend everyone reads his collection, and while we are at it, how good is that cover? I should also mention that Ash is an excellent cover artist.

Are you feeling hungry yet?

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Sweet screams,

Newt xx

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Tales of Terror: 41 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Respect’, ‘Mind Games’, ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’

Midnight Whispers: 54 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

Contents

1. The Cold Dead Sea

2. Horror Story Compilations

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Contents

1. Free eBook: The Leprechaun

2. Horror Story Compilations

The Leprechaun

By Newton Webb

Download ePub / PDF

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, my wicked darlings!

This particular tale was originally published for paid subscribers on 15 January. It was heavily inspired by some of the moralistic, gore laden episodes of Tales from the Crypt.

So raise a glass of Guinness or Guinness Zero with me and let’s toast St Paddy with The Leprechaun.

I’ve written a few stories about Ireland over the years, including a novel. It has breathtaking scenery and a vibrant, albeit very wet, beauty to it. The challenge of writing horror when surrounded by beauty is an interesting one. The Italians showcase the art of this with their blood soaked giallo films, so I enjoyed flexing my writing muscles to do the same thing, with a supernatural twist, in rural Ireland.

A similar story appears in Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2 with The Green Man. In that story the characters travel through the sun-dappled trees in Sherwood Forest before coming to their inevitable fate.

NOTE: My highest rated and reviewed anthology, Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2, is currently on sale for $0.99 / £0.99, so if you enjoyed this story, why not pick up Vol. 2?

Speaking of which, I’ll definitely be toasting St Paddy today, as Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2 has hit the number one spot in the US, UK, Canada, and Australia. Thank you all for your support.

Sweet Screams,

Newt xx

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Tales of Terror: 41 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Respect’, ‘Mind Games’, ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’

Midnight Whispers: 54 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

1. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2

2. Horror Story Compilations

Happy Friday the 13th, my wicked darlings,

To celebrate the occasion, Tales of the Macabre Vol. 2 is discounted to $0.99 / £0.99.

I’ve published seventeen books now, with TotM 5 currently in production, but this one will always hold a special place for me. Vol. 1 was my first collection. I barel…

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Contents

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Free eBook: Faster On The Way Down

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Contents

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Free eBook: Faster On The Way Down

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Newt's Nightmares

1. News

2. Coming up for paid members

3. FREE Horror Story Compilations

4. Recommended Horror Books

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1. Brides of Dracul

2. Free Horror Stories

3. The Macabre Codex

When a loutish biker ignores the fine print on a fetish profile, his dream Halloween hookup spirals into a deadly nightmare.

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1. Night of the Expo

2. Free Horror Stories

3. The Macabre Codex

During a rainy night in Birmingham, Arthur, a mild-mannered wargamer, finds his plan to transport his latest trophy home going awry after a chance encounter in a pub.

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1. The Better Half

2. Free Horror Stories

3. The Macabre Codex

Gayle Ingold is at the end of her tether. Her husband of twelve years, Barny, is a classic slob. A man who leaves wet towels on the bed, toenail clippings in the shower, and is utterly blind to household mess.

Gayle’s frustration has reached a boiling point.

One Monday night, her life changed. She finds Barny obsessively cleaning the kitchen at 11 p.m., scrubbing pans with uncharacteristic fervour and offering unsolicited advice on cookware.

Something isn’t right in the Ingold household.

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