Contents

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Til Death Do Us Part

Reader Survey

I’m running a quick one-question poll to better understand my readers and help me reach more people who enjoy my books.

Premium subscribers get early access to new stories, but those stories will always make their way to free subscribers later. Feedback from all readers is vitally important to me, especially when deciding which stories should be included in future collections.

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Summer Screams: 47 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 41 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’.

Til Death Do Us Part

By Newton Webb

Download ePub / PDF

14 May 1598, Suffolk, England

The last of the sun faded, and with it any hope that the wedding would be called off. Elizabeth sat on the edge of her bed, wearing her best dress, a blue gown inherited from her mother and taken in to fit her slighter frame.

Her aunts had been buzzing around her all day, adjusting her gown, plying her with broth and small beer to keep her strength up. The male members of the family were sleeping at her uncle’s tonight. Only women remained in the house. She had not been alone once.

The door opened without knocking.

Nobody was knocking today.

“Eliza?” Her mother, Joan, sat down next to her on the edge of the bed. She did not make eye contact.

“Yes, mother?”

“You are to be a wife. You know what is required.” Her mother spoke in a clipped, awkward tone.

“I am to obey.”

Her mother coughed. “You will lie with him and give him children. God wills it.”

“I understand.”

“No, you do not. No girl does.” She paused. “The first time will hurt. It will sting, and you will be sore. It is so for all wives. It does not last. Do not lie still as stone. Let him know you are a maiden. He must see you are untouched.”

Tears pricked at Elizabeth’s eyes. “Mumma, I do not want to marry Edward.”

Her mother slapped her cheek. She locked eyes with Elizabeth for the first time, her face hardening. “You selfish child.” She looked down at the floor as her daughter wept. “This is about your family. Our sheep and their looms will raise the family from our shame.”

“I am sorry.” Elizabeth sniffed.

“If you would have a child, go to him after your courses. You are clean then. Strong alcohol or ale will help him. When he is done, lie still. Raise your hips. Keep his seed in you.”

She felt sick at the thought of him over her, taking her. He had had his eye on her for as long as she could remember, but her family had waited until she was fourteen to arrange the marriage.

“You must rest. Nobody will trouble you further tonight.” Her mother rose and left the room.

Elizabeth knew she would not sleep. When the door closed, the tears began again.

It was still dark, the candles guttering in the early breeze. Eliza had not moved from her position on the bed.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She jerked upright and stifled a scream.

A man in a fine red coat with a neatly trimmed beard sat in the corner watching her. A fiddle rested against the chair. He pulled out a pipe and tamped down the tobacco.

“You must leave. Nobody can know you were here.”

Pulling out a taper, he lit it from a candle and drew on his pipe until a plume of smoke emerged.

“They will smell it and know!” Elizabeth hissed.

“Most would ask, ‘Who are you?’ first. But let me reassure you. Nobody will know I have been here. Nobody will smell the smoke. All are in such a sleep that cattle could pass through the house and not wake them.” He inhaled a deep draw of smoke and then released it, blowing a perfect smoke ring.

Elizabeth ran to the door. It was stuck.

“So many doubts. Come then, why do you not shout for your mother and see what happens?”

“Mother, please. Mother!” Elizabeth screamed.

“Joan, oh Joan! I am disturbing the sanctity of your daughter!” the man shouted. “Joan, hurry, I think she takes kindly to it.”

They were greeted by silence.

“Then we are agreed. Now the question. What would you do to escape marrying dear old Eddy?”

Elizabeth turned, her back to the door, and looked at the man.

“Who are you?”

“There we go!” The man smiled. “I am Nick. I come where I am called.”

“I did not call you.”

“Not with your voice, you did not.” He raised his fiddle.

“You must not. The fiddle is forbidden.”

Nick smiled. “So many things are, but have you ever asked why? Will the world descend into hell if you play an instrument?” He started with a cheery tune, drawing the bow across the strings, standing to dance. “Will the rivers rise if you wear fur? Will the earth break if you cast dice?”

Stopping, he winced and looked around. “I might be wrong, but the world seems to be fine.” He continued, the music filling the room.

Elizabeth smiled despite herself, watching the strange, cavorting man. It was the first smile she had experienced in weeks.

“Here is another question. If the rivers flooded and the ground erupted, would it be worse than wedding our dear Eddie?” He raised his eyebrows and shifted his hips in a foolish dance.

She looked down, the smile fading.

“My family needs this.”

The music stopped abruptly.

“It does rather, does it not? A knot indeed.” Nick placed the fiddle down, leaning it against the chair. “What to do, what to do.” He tapped his cheek, took a deep breath, and then turned to Elizabeth, beaming. “I have it. I shall marry him in your stead.”

She stared at him. “You jest.”

“What? Am I not as fair as you, my dear?” He struck a dramatic pose.

“You are a man.”

“Why, thank you.”

“You are a man,” she repeated, louder.

“Repetitive, but yes. Thank you again.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You cannot say such things.”

“I just did. Should I say it again?” He pulled out a scroll of parchment. “Let us make a bargain. You shall not suffer as his wife. You shall have your freedom, and Edward shall have his marriage, and his heir. Ask not how. I heard Joan try to explain earlier, and she is a deeply confused woman.”

“You are moonstruck.”

“Hmm, possibly. But do let me continue. Lend me your flesh for ten years, and all that is Edward’s shall be yours.” He winked at her, then showed her the parchment.

She read the parchment. “I dare not hope.”

Nick shrugged. “What is there without hope? What do you really have to lose?” He looked out at the sky. “Dawn approaches, and you have a wedding to consummate. All I need is your mark.”

She looked into his eyes.

He gave a warm smile and took her hand into his.

“Lord preserve me, I will do it.”

She gasped as a sharp pain lanced through her thumb. He pricked her thumb with a quill and slipped it back into his coat.

“Now, press your thumb against the parchment.”

Her heart pounding in her chest, she left her mark on the page.

15 May 1598, Suffolk, England

Elizabeth woke feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. The sun filtered through the slats as she lay tucked beneath the covers.

Her mother stood over her with a small jug of small beer, bread, and some cheese. “You did well, child. I could not sleep the day of my wedding.”

With that, the realisation returned that she was to be wed. A thick cloud of despair weighed down upon her. The dream that had seemed so real last night faded away.

“Eat up. I waited as long as I could to let you rest. But we must prepare now for the church.”

Her stomach clenching, Elizabeth took a sip of small beer and pushed aside the plate.

Her mother nodded. Her face was dispassionate, but Elizabeth thought she could see a glimmer of understanding behind the stony expression.

The church was austere, with whitewashed walls and wrought iron candlesticks for light. The narrow window slits let in precious little natural light.

Elizabeth stood. Her family sat nearby, waiting for the groom. Her heart sank. She heard him before she saw him. He was laughing with his friends and witnesses before a hacking cough interrupted him.

Disgusted, she tried to keep the tears from her eyes. She would not shame herself in front of her family.

The vicar, having extolled the virtues of marriage as being ordained by God, a bulwark against sin, a means of procreation, and the very foundation of household order, proceeded to guide them through the vows.

Edward’s eyes roamed hungrily over her as he promised to love, to cherish, and to keep. When she promised to love, to cherish, and to obey, his mouth stretched open into a grin.

Her father passed her hand into Edward’s sweaty palm, and he gripped her tight as if fearing she would flee. He gave his vow, winking at her as he said, “I will.”

The vicar took a deep breath. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?”

“I will,” said Elizabeth. “I, Elizabeth, take thee, Edward, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my troth.”

The room spun.

Edward’s damp hand tightened around hers.

A ringing began deep inside her skull. At first, she thought it was the church bells, but the sound grew sharper, thinner, until it drowned the vicar’s voice entirely. The whitewashed walls seemed suddenly far away, as though she stood at the end of a long tunnel.

The words reached her, strangely stretched and warped.

Edward leaned closer, his grin wavering. “You look pale, wife.”

Wife.

Elizabeth tried to answer, but her tongue felt thick.

For one impossible instant, she felt her heart beating somewhere higher in her chest, heavier and slower than before.

Her vision doubled.

The church split into two overlapping images. Candles burned beside themselves. Faces drifted apart and rejoined.

The smell hit next.

Sweat.

Wet wool.

Ale.

Rotting teeth.

Elizabeth coughed violently as pain lanced through her chest. Her limbs grew heavy.

Gasps erupted through the congregation.

The ringing vanished all at once as sound crashed back into the church. Hands took her by the arms and raised her. Her arms were broader, coarser with a sleeve of dark cloth, she recognised Edward’s coat. A silver ring gleamed upon a thickened hand dusted with dark hair.

There was movement before her.

Her breath caught.

No, no, no.

The world tilted sickeningly. A young woman was weeping nearby.

The sound froze her blood, it was her own voice.

“My poor husband.”

Elizabeth looked up.

A girl in a blue gown knelt before her.

That’s my gown.

She wore Elizabeth’s face, and tears fell from her eyes.

The figure wearing her flesh pressed a hand against her own mouth in false concern. The thing wearing her face turned towards the vicar with perfect composure.

“My husband requires rest. I shall tend him at home.”

The vicar nodded uncertainly.

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

It was not a dream.

Elizabeth tried to speak, but what emerged was a ragged male cough.

Blood flecked the lips she now wore.

Panic surged through her. She staggered backwards as unfamiliar weight shifted beneath her. Her legs felt wrong.

The church seemed smaller somehow.

Because she was taller.

The congregation had gathered in frightened clusters now. Her mother stood frozen near the pews, white-faced and clutching her prayer book.

Edward’s friends moved towards her.

Towards Edward.

Hands grabbed beneath her shoulders. Elizabeth recoiled instinctively, but the movement sent another burst of agony through her chest. A hacking cough bent her double.

Elizabeth stared at herself. Delicate hands folded neatly at the waist. Smooth, unblemished skin.

Her own face smiled back at her.

Then she crossed the distance between them and took Edward’s trembling hand inside her own. The fingers tightening around hers did not belong to a frightened girl.

They belonged to Nick.

He leaned close enough for only her to hear. “Careful now,” he murmured in her own sweet voice. “All eyes are upon us.”

Elizabeth tried to wrench away.

Another coughing fit seized her before she could move.

The church spun around her.

The congregation blurred into pale smears.

Nick turned to the others.

“Help me bring my husband to the carriage.”

The carriage lurched forward, wheels grinding against the muddy road.

Elizabeth sat pressed against the cushions, though each breath rattled thickly in his ruined lungs. Heat burned beneath her ribs while her fingers remained cold and numb.

Across from her sat herself.

The blue wedding gown spread neatly across the seat. Small, pale hands rested in her lap. Nick had even adopted her posture, knees pressed modestly together, chin lowered as though painted into a prayer book.

Outside, rain began softly tapping against the carriage roof.

Elizabeth swallowed against the foul taste coating Edward’s mouth. “Give it back.”

Her own voice answered gently. “Hush, husband. You shall worsen your cough.”

“What did you do to my husband?” A violent spasm seized her lungs. She bent double, hacking wetly into her sleeve.

Blood spotted the dark cloth.

Nick watched with open fascination. “Nothing.” He tilted Elizabeth’s head slightly. “Consumption is the term you mortals use for it.”

Elizabeth stared at him in horror.

Nick noticed and smiled faintly. “Oh, do not look so wounded. There is always a price.”

“You lied.”

“No.” Golden candlelight from the carriage lantern illuminated Elizabeth’s stolen face. Anger marred it. “I never lie. Never. I said you would not suffer as Edward’s wife.”

He leaned forward slightly. “And you shall not.”

“You devil.”

“Such an ugly name, and woefully incorrect.” He brushed imaginary dust from the skirts of the gown. “I prefer Nick.”

The carriage rocked through a rut.

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut as dizziness swept through her again. Edward’s heartbeat stumbled arrhythmically beneath her ribs.

When she opened her eyes, Nick was watching her with a sickly tenderness. “You need not be frightened.”

“You have damned me.”

Nick considered that. “No, Elizabeth.” He smiled sadly. “You were damned from birth. Edward had inclinations that you would not have survived. He mistook cruelty for appetite.”

The carriage slowed. Outside, Edward’s manor emerged through the rain and mist. Great dark beams. Narrow windows glowing amber against the dusk.

“If you can endure ten years. Then all this becomes yours.”

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Summer Screams: 47 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 41 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. Introduction

2. Download A Bunker Too Far

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

Good morning, my wicked darlings,

Today’s paid subscriber story is A Bunker Too Far, a WW2 horror novella set during the truly tragic events of Operation Market Garden, where British paratroopers are cut off from the main army and find that Nazis aren’t the only threat in th…

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Contents

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. A Civic Duty

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Summer Screams: 47 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 41 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’.

Reader Survey

I’m running a quick one-question poll to better understand my readers and help me reach more people who enjoy my books.

A Civic Duty

By Newton Webb

Download ePub / PDF

3rd May 2011, Wigginton, England

Len sat at his usual table by the window, where he could watch the high street. His faded blazer hung over the back of the seat, his shirt stretched tight over his paunch.

“Double espresso and a detox fruit cup.”

He lifted his copy of New Scientist to allow the waiter to put his breakfast on the polished wood. “Ah, thank you, Jeremy. That’s most kind.”

Poking at his fruit cup, he returned to reading the latest article on climate change.

The bell above the café door dinged as a flustered young man came in. His hair was damp at the temples, his jacket had a grease mark on the lapel. He looked around once, twice, then fixed on Len. “Leonard Williams?”

Len took a deep breath, closed his copy of New Scientist, and put it down next to the local property pages. “Yus. And you are?”

“Marcus Johnson. Hey, erm, I’m sorry, I saw a post on Facebook about you and hoped you could help me.”

Len grimaced, smoothing down his shirt as it rose around his ample stomach. “Fecking Facebook? Well, can’t be helped, I suppose. Everyone has a bloody digital footprint these days, even me. And what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s a bit of a sensitive matter, I’m afraid.” Marcus’s finger tapped his thigh as he spoke.

“Ah, well, they do tend to be. Perhaps you’d like a coffee while you tell me about it.” Len motioned to Jeremy, who obediently left the counter and sauntered over. “They are very good here, much better than the previous owners. Lazy feckers never opened up until well after nine am. To be honest, I’m glad Mr and Mrs Harris disappeared.”

“You drink here every morning, don’t you?” Marcus said.

Len looked up from his fruit cup. “Do I?”

Marcus held his gaze for a moment before smiling and turning to order a latte, then took a seat opposite Len. “I can pay you.”

“I should hope so.” Len stabbed a cube of apple. “I’m a private detective, not a charity. Go on then. What’ve you done?”

“Well, it isn’t really me.”

“Isn’t it?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I was burgled!”

“Oh dear, that sounds to me like a matter for the police.” Len clucked as he waited patiently while Marcus nervously shifted. “Now’s the part where you tell me why you can’t go to the police.”

“They took my laptop.”

Len tapped one finger against the table and waited.

Marcus looked around, then leaned forward. “It’s a work laptop. I wasn’t supposed to take it home, but I had a lot to do and wanted to leave on time. I thought I’d finish off my proposal over the weekend.”

Len raised his eyebrows. “Ah well, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“I’m an accountant. It has our client data. Full records. If anyone gets into it, that’s a reportable breach. I’ll lose my job.”

“It isn’t password protected?”

Marcus froze. “Well, no. No, it isn’t. If anyone gets into it, that’s a reportable breach. I’ll lose my job.”

“Ah well, that changes matters. I can see how that might be career limiting. You can’t feck about with confidentiality.” Len polished off the last chunk in his fruit cup. “They really should have a better security policy.”

The café door dinged again.

“Len, thank God.” Another man in his mid-twenties rushed over to Len’s table. “Roger needs you right away.”

“Götterdämmerung! What now?” Len shook his head and finished his espresso.

“I can’t say. It’s best that he tells you.”

“Ah, well Ben, let me guess. Our esteemed local MP, Roger McNair’s son didn’t come home last night?” Len ventured. “Usual fee, as always, cash.”

“Amazing, how do you do it?”

Len raised his eyebrows. “Marcus, I suggest we take my car. We can pick up dear Thomas and drop him back to his father. Polling day is rapidly approaching, and he won’t want his son’s indiscretions to hit the news.” He pushed back his chair. “Then you can guide me to your house, and we’ll see about your laptop.”

Marcus stood at once. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Nonsense, I am afraid, I insist, I have a civic duty.” Len dropped a tenner on the table and waved at Jeremy.

“No, we... Dammit.” Marcus nervously bit his lip, then, taking a deep breath, followed as the three of them left the café. Len gave a perfunctory wave to Ben, who scuttled off to inform Roger.

“Ah, the day I’ve had.” Len strode towards his car, a dusty Skoda Fabia 1.2. “It’s the TSI,” he said proudly.

“It’s very nice.” Marcus looked at it dubiously, letting himself into the passenger seat.

Len parked up on the road. The council house sat behind a dishevelled lawn, its grass grown ankle-high around a child’s scooter and three black bin bags. The upstairs curtains were still drawn. “You stay here if you like, Marcus. I’ll deal with the errant heir.” He levered his large frame out of the car. “Good lord.” He cracked his back and brushed his shirt straight.

“No, no. I’ll come with you if you don’t mind.”

“Ha, you are my muscle, are you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but...”

“Of course you aren’t. My muscle? Come on.” Len led them up the driveway and knocked on the door. “Look at you, you are all string and bones.”

A large woman in a dressing gown opened the door, a cigarette drooping from her mouth. “What are you doing ‘ere?”

“Out of the way, Chrissie. I’m having a rather busy day.” He walked past her. “I think we’d both like to keep this unofficial.”

“Well, I never.” Chrissie pursed her lips, backing away.

“Best call him down, don’t you think?”

She looked at him nervously, then bellowed upstairs. “Alice!” She looked back at Len. “I knew he was trouble, he said his father would see me evicted if I didn’t let him in.” She turned again. “Alice!”

“What?” Alice appeared at the top of the stairs. Beside her, Thomas McNair wore an olive Sunspel tracksuit that probably cost more than Chrissie’s washing machine.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Thomas scowled at Len.

“Hello, Thomas. Your father is looking for you. I figured I’d come and find you before the press.” Len planted one hand on his hip and waved the other vaguely at the stairs.

“You can tell him to sod off. I’ve had enough. I told him, I’m not coming back.”

“Ah well, see, there is a problem there. Alice here isn’t quite sixteen, are you, love?”

Alice shrank back. Thomas raised his fist. “You dare—”

Len ignored the posturing young man. “You are twenty-one, Thomas. Alice here is fifteen. Which means I won’t be phoning your father to explain that you are having a spot of rebellion. I will be phoning the police to say that the son of our local MP is, in fact, a paedophile.”

Thomas lurched down the stairs. His eyes were bloodshot with hangover. “I’m not a fucking paedo!”

“Well, that is a relief. Then the police will let you go after a little chat, won’t they?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Thomas raised his fist. “Don’t you know who my father is?”

Marcus nervously stepped forwards but was waved back by Len.

“Good lord. Here we go. I suppose you could add assault to the list of charges if you want. Imagine what your dear father would think of that. It’s really up to you. The other option is you go home and everyone pretends this never happened.”

Thomas glared at Len, then barged past, knocking him to one side.

“Oh.” Len rubbed his shoulder. “Well, that was unpleasant.”

Chrissie was still there, lurking in the hallway.

“Perhaps it would be best if you kept a better eye on your daughter, Chrissie. I don’t think your beau would appreciate the law paying closer attention to this particular house.”

Chrissie sniffed. “All right. Look, I’ll make sure he doesn’t come back.”

“Mum!”

“Alice, you get back upstairs. I’ll have words with you later!”

“Quite right. Thank you for being understanding, Chrissie.” Len led Marcus back to the car.
Marcus looked at him. “How did you know?”

Len smiled faintly and pointed at the expensive BMW parked outside. “People are very careless when they think nobody important is watching. Bad apple, that one.”

The Skoda drove slowly through the woodland road. Oak, ash and birch arched over the road, their new leaves turning the light green. Bluebells carpeted the woods on either side.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a phone or a TomTom.” Marcus had Google Maps loaded on his phone and was handling navigation. “And next turning, off Upper Icknield Way, down St Leonard’s.”

“What a wonderful name. Dedicated to St Leonard of Noblac, not me, not yet. My good deeds have yet to be formally recognised.” Len turned on the indicators. “I’ve an A to Z in the back if needed. Can’t be fecking around with all these gadgets and their subscription costs.”

“Here. On the left. Oxbury Farm.” A stone gateway sat back from the road, half-swallowed by cow parsley. Beyond it, the gravel drive curved towards a handsome brick farmhouse with fresh paint on the window frames.

Len dutifully drove in. “A very nice place, and this is yours?”

“A recent acquisition.” Marcus smiled.

“Ah, wonderful. What a lovely environment. Peaceful and secluded.”

“I play a lot of music, so it’s nice not to have to worry about upsetting the neighbours.”

“Quite right.” The Skoda crunched across the gravel. “Accountancy pays quite well, I see.”

Marcus undid the seat belt. “If only. No, I inherited. My father was a property developer in his day.”

“Was he now?” Len approached the farmhouse, looking at the broken glass pane on the front door. “Ah, and this was how the burglars gained access?”

Marcus gingerly opened the door. “Yes, I assume so anyway.”

“Why else would they smash a glass pane?”

“Er, yes, sure. Sorry.” He led Len into the living room. “The laptop was on that table. I was working from the sofa.”

Len harrumphed as he walked around the crime scene. His eyes scanned the surfaces. He peered at the mantelpiece, looking at the sun-faded family photographs. A pizza box was in the corner, the receipt taped to its lid. A basket of folded throws with dust on the top.

“If you will follow me, I found a trail of footsteps leading into the woods.” Marcus gestured to the front door.

“I don’t think so.” Len glowered at him. “I’ve just arrived, and you haven’t even offered me a fecking cup of coffee.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed before he smiled. “Of course.”

“Black, please.”

As Marcus left to find coffee, Len ambled around. He looked at the faded family photos on the wall. In the corner of the room, he found a stack of double glazing adverts, food menus and other junk mail. He flicked through them, sucking on his teeth.

“Ah, yes.” He found a half-drunk bottle of whisky. It was Bell’s, but needs must.

Marcus emerged with two mugs of coffee.

“Ah, very good. Very good. If you would be so kind, I could use a glass too. I just found your lovely whisky.” Len waved the bottle.

Putting down the coffee cups, Marcus disappeared into the kitchen once more.

Len pulled out a battered tin of mints, humming to himself.

Marcus returned with two glasses.

Len poured a finger’s worth of whisky into each one and raised his glass. “To solving your case.”

They clinked and slugged their whiskies.

“Oh, gosh.” Len blinked rapidly before smiling. “Ah, all better now. Right. I’ve had a little look around the crime scene. A few questions, then we’ll both finish our coffees and then you can show me the exit route.”

“They didn’t leave much evidence.” Marcus sat down on the sofa.

“That in itself is evidence.” Len peered over his coffee cup. “Nescafé?”

“Gold Blend. I don’t have a coffee maker.”

“You don’t need machines to do everything for you, Marcus. A simple cafetière, or French press if you want to go all American, will do.” Len blew over the coffee. “So, your parents. You mentioned your father was a property developer. Perhaps you could sate an old man’s curiosity and tell me more.”

“Well, my mother was a philanthropist. She did a lot of fundraisers for Africa.”

“Oh, very good. But, no other siblings?”

“None. Just me.”

“Well, siblings are overrated. I had a ghastly brother. He joined the police and spent his entire life poking his nose into where it wasn’t wanted, until he died in a car crash.” Len looked around the room. “I’m much more discreet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t kill him.” Len laughed putting down his empty mug.

“Aren’t you going to ask me questions about the case?”

Len narrowed his eyes. “Who says I wasn’t? But fair enough, when did you notice the theft and were you in the house at the time?”

“No, it was while I nipped out at seven to get a McMuffin. I returned half an hour later.”

“Hmm, poor performance. Ruining a man’s breakfast.” Len pursed his lips. “They must have been waiting for you to leave, if they committed the crime in thirty minutes. Yet they left the charger cable?” He pointed to the corner of the room, where a cable was plugged in.

“That’s a spare.”

“Oh, good to be prepared, that’s what I always say. They should have taken a better look around.” Len nodded at the TV. “I wonder why they didn’t take the TV. It’s not particularly valuable, but it’s still easy money.”

Marcus waved a hand. “Who can say?”

“Now, finish your coffee and let’s go for a walk.”

“I’m okay. I’ve had enough coffee, really.”

“Okay? Nonsense. Don’t waste your coffee. My parents were in the war. The problem with your generation is you don’t know how good you’ve got it.” Len pointed at the mug. “Go on, down it. We aren’t going out until you do.”

Marcus sighed, downed his coffee and put the mug down. “As you insist. Now, let’s go.” He stood up and wobbled slightly.

“Orthostatic hypotension. Gravity is denying blood to your noggin’.” Len stood more slowly. “Unusual in a man of your age. Perhaps you had a little too much whisky last night?”

“I’m just a bit stressed. This way.” Marcus led Len out.

Len stepped over the shattered glass, then walked down a beautiful, sun-dappled woodland path. “This is lovely. You mentioned footsteps?”

“Further on down.” Marcus stopped and motioned with his hand. “After you.”

He tutted as the path narrowed, brambles tugging at his trousers. “Most kind, but you know the way. I’m just following.”

“I said, after you.” Marcus pulled out a large chef’s knife from inside his jacket.

Len rolled his eyes but took a cautious step back. “Oh, Jimmy. The inevitable betrayal.”

“What?” He stepped forward, before angrily waving the knife at Len. “My name is Marcus.”

“Oh, I think we’ve moved past that little lie.” Len started walking along the path, the knife at his back. “Gig’s up, mate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah well, you did a pretty good job, but the devil is in the details. If you are going to lie, then you really want to mix as much truth into the lie as possible.” Len strode forwards.

“How did you guess my name?” Jimmy’s voice lashed out from behind Len.

“Well, this house isn’t yours for a start. It’s a private rental. I saw the listing in the property pages. But even if I hadn’t, the fact that you aren’t in any of the family photos on the wall is a bit of a giveaway.” Len paused to admire a particularly sturdy oak before continuing to walk. “How long is it until we reach your kill site?”

“I asked how you knew my name?”

“Fine.” Len scoffed. “The pizza box had a receipt on it for J. Warner. I remember your father, Henry Warner. I also remember that the odious toad had a son he called Jimmy.”

“He was a good man!”

“He was planning to build a hotel on the greenbelt in Tring Park. Couldn’t have that.”

“That was why you forced him to flee the country?” Jimmy’s voice rose an octave.

“No, no. I didn’t do that.” Len sped up his pace. “I just put a few naughty files on his computer and informed the police.”

“You framed him? That is why he fled? That is why I grew up without a father?” Jimmy was mumbling now.

“Götterdämmerung. Please tell me we are close?” Len risked a look back. Jimmy was stumbling, the knife wavering. “Not fecking close enough, apparently. That’s inconvenient.”

“My father didn’t flee, did he?”

“No.” Len stopped walking. “He didn’t. See, a neighbourhood must have standards, and someone has to enforce that. Mr Harris’s replacement opens his café on time, a vast improvement.” Len sucked at his teeth. “And our greenbelt has no hotel built on it.”

“You killed my dad? My mother told everyone he abandoned us. She died believing it.”

“That’s a shame.” Len jumped back, stumbling before regaining his balance as Jimmy lurched forward to slash at him awkwardly. “Oh. Stop that.”

“What have you done to me?” The knife slipped from his numb fingers.

Pulling out the mint box, Len rattled them. “Quaaludes. Never leave the house without them. Terribly unfashionable now, but all the rage in the seventies. You almost ruined things by leaving half the mug.” Len grinned. “Then you definitely fecked it up by setting up your kill site so far away from your rental.”

Jimmy collapsed onto the ground. “I’ll kill yer,” he mumbled, his numb tongue mangling his words.

“Oh, the day I’ve had.” Len knelt above his erstwhile murderer, his knees popping, then pulled on a pair of gloves and took out Jimmy’s phone. “A quick text to your landlord cancelling the rental, a message to your boss saying you’re moving to Thailand, and I think we’re sorted.” He pulled out a set of zip ties from the unconscious man’s jacket pocket. “Oh, better prepared than I thought. Good for you. Safety first.” He quickly cable-tied Jimmy’s hands and feet.

He walked further down the path. A good two minutes later, he saw the dug grave. It waited in a small clearing where the bluebells had been trampled flat. The soil lay heaped beside it, black and wet underneath the dry crust. A shovel had been thrust into the mound. “Six foot deep. Mmm, very well done, Jimmy. Room for two, I’d say.” Walking back, he looked at Jimmy’s slumbering form. “Though I thought we’d at least make it to the fecking kill site before you passed out. I’m not thirty any more.” He dragged the unconscious form of Jimmy along the path, grunting as he did so. Halfway through, he cracked his back, shook his head and continued. Pulling Jimmy so his head dangled over the edge, he pulled a clasp knife from his pocket and, clicking the blade open, slashed his throat, then dumped his body into the grave.

Len looked at the shovel.

“Hmm, not just yet. Room for a nonce in there too. But, for safety’s sake, I’d best leave it a week or so, wouldn’t you say?”

Tales of the Macabre

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1. The Taste of Sin

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The Taste of Sin

By Newton Webb

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Thursday, 14 November 2019, London

Maeve took a delicate bite of a truffle arancini. She watched her date, Rupert, preen. He had spent the last twenty minutes detailing the latest renovations to his townhouse in South Kensington.

She twitched in her chair, taking another sip of her dry martini. It was proving difficult to look attentive when faced with the man’s droning voice. Her stomach groaned under her sleek black dress. The food in front of her did nothing for her. It was true, Rupert possessed a certain aristocratic flair, especially with his flawlessly tailored light blue suit, but her interest in him had been piqued when she smelt his thoughts seeping out of him. He had an old, colonial stink that ignited a potent thirst in her.

Rupert leaned forward. He placed his broad hand over hers on the cool marble table. “The terrace looks directly over the private gardens.” His grip tightened just enough to trap her fingers.

She tasted the dark, oily seep of his thoughts. His honeyed words clashed with the rot that hung around him.

“I had the contractors install a fire pit.” Rupert had a predatory look to him that she couldn’t help admiring. “A man needs a place to unwind after managing those absolute vultures in the City.”

Maeve slipped her hand free, picking up her glass as he leaned in closer. As his scent grew stronger, she could detect words in it.

I can’t wait to ruin that absolute tramp.

“That sounds lovely.” Maeve sipped her drink, tilting her head coyly.

She’ll be pliant enough once she’s had another drink.

She had already opened Hinge, lining up more barristers and tech boys for the week ahead.

A firm hand and she’ll learn proper manners.

She finished her drink, a false smile on her face.

Corner her properly and she won’t have anywhere to bolt.

Maeve snapped her attention back to his face. “Pardon?” she asked.

Rupert tapped his gold signet ring against the tabletop. He blinked his pale eyes. “I said we simply must go hiking in the Scottish Highlands. There is something about the crisp air and the gorse that clears the mind beautifully. You’ll adore my cabin. Well, it’s more of a hunting lodge really.”

Eyes losing focus. Mouth slack as she bleeds across the floorboards.

“Well, of course, that sounds lovely.” Maeve’s pulse hammered against her temples. The rush flushed her cheeks bright red.

The body will stay warm and pliant for another four hours.

A waiter in a crisp black waistcoat stepped to their table. He offered fresh martinis and a heavy leather dessert menu. Maeve waved him away with a flick of her fingers.

“The evening has been wonderful.” Maeve leaned across the table and pressed her lips to Rupert’s cheek. “But I have a different kind of dessert in mind.”

I’ll open her up from collar to stomach. Like gutting a pheasant.

Maeve had never eaten pheasant, but she was suggesting skipping dessert, so maybe she deserved it.

“Perhaps we should have it at my place?” Rupert paid the sizeable bill without flinching. A wide grin split his face. His scent was overpowering.

She is gagging for it.

“You look pleased.” Maeve played with her hair, regarding him with cool eyes. She hoisted her oversized handbag over her shoulder.

“Oh, my day has been improved immeasurably by you.” Rupert stood as the waiter brought him his jacket. “Why shouldn’t I be pleased?”

Of course, Rupert had a private parking space off Wardour Street. No black cabs or Ubers for them. Rupert had a matte black Range Rover with tinted windows. As Maeve slipped inside, the absolute stench of his soul filled the car. It made her woozy. She almost purred as her hunger peaked. Rupert steered the massive vehicle through the dense West End traffic, heading towards his South Kensington townhouse. Her body started to itch. She bit her lip. She had left it too long between meals. As they approached the dimly lit streets of Chelsea, Maeve saw a narrow, cobbled mews.

“Can you pull over, please? Just for a moment.”

She hid her hand, where her skin was starting to wrinkle, and stilled her body as her shoulder twitched.

Is the bitch tweaking?

Annoyance tightened Rupert’s jaw. He parked the Range Rover beside a brick wall. Maeve ran her fingers down his Egyptian cotton shirt. She didn’t need to smell his words. She could see his thirst. He pressed down on the door lock, and the child safety system kicked in, locking all the doors in the Range Rover. “Ask me nicely.”

Maeve hesitated before undoing her seat belt.

“How would you like me to ask you?”

He relaxed into his seat. “Well, I think it would be appropriate to—”

She launched herself at him. Her fingers dug violently into his tailored jacket. She locked her arms around his neck and bit down hard on his mouth. Rupert tried to shout. She swallowed the sound and forced her long, leathery tongue past his teeth as she felt herself reverting to her true form. His mouth had the putrid flavour of rotting flesh. She could feel his memories, his brother’s neck in his hands, and the look on his sister’s face as he told her that her fiancé wouldn’t be coming home again.

His hands beat weakly against her shoulders, then lost all rhythm, fingers slipping something clattered from them, falling into the footwell. Rupert’s large body shuddered as she took him in. Pitiful, mewling noises escaped his nose. His skin tightened first, drawing hard across his face, lips peeling back from his teeth. Fine cracks split along his cheeks and throat, darkening as they spread. The flesh beneath collapsed inward, loosening from the bone. His skin dried in seconds, turning transparent, shrinking, then flaking. His eyes sank, clouded, then slid out.

She clung on and ran her hands over his suit as it emptied.

The final threads of him slipped down her throat as his body went limp. Maeve’s limbs elongated. Her muscles thickened with unnatural speed. The figure-hugging black dress tightened dangerously across her expanding rib cage. She needed to work quickly. She stripped off her clothes with practised efficiency.

She dragged Rupert’s corpse sideways across the driver’s seat. The jacket bunched at the shoulders, pinned by the wheel. She swore under her breath, yanked harder, felt the seam strain before it gave a fraction. One arm came free with a dry knock against the door.

The shirt clung to his ribcage, one of the buttonholes caught on the sharp bone beneath.

She hooked her fingers through the eye sockets and lifted. The spine unspooled in a loose chain, vertebrae ticking softly against each other as it cleared the seat. Taking out a marker pen, she wrote ‘Rupert’ on the top of his skull, ripped it clear of the spinal bones before bundling it up with her dress and underwear into her handbag. She slung the bag into the back seat.

The trousers were worse. The belt had cinched tight. She worked the belt buckle with stiffening fingers, missed once, then forced it. She hauled the waistband down over the hips, the pelvis catching, then sliding. The femurs dragged, knocking the console, leaving a pale dust across the gear stick.

Maeve’s jaw cracked. Bone shifted with a grinding spread, broader, heavier. Her spine arched. Her collarbone snapped with a wet crack as her shoulders spread.

Her fingers spasmed. Nails split, then flattened. Skin pulled tight, ridges smoothing, reforming under the strain.

Rupert’s shirt hung loose for a moment, then settled as her frame forced itself into his shape.

Her teeth clicked into place.

She swallowed. His taste still coated her throat.

Maeve, now in the form of Rupert, tossed the remaining bones into the rear footwell. Something glinted, she reached in and found a steel flick-knife. Flicking it open and then shut, she smiled.

Oh Rupert, didn’t do you much good, did it.

A group of lads loitered near the parked Range Rover, watching as she emerged to brush the worst of the dust off her newly acquired suit. “Spilt your Charlie mate? Look at him, he ain’t got the words.”

She levelled an arrogant, dead-eyed stare at them.

The boys shut their gobby mouths and scattered down the pavement.

The Range Rover purred beneath her. She abandoned the massive vehicle in a brutalist concrete car park in Hackney. She parked on the top level, taking her bag with her, despite it clashing with her new body.

Unlocking his phone, she used her absorbed memories to access his keysafe. Even Rupert couldn’t remember all of his PINs. Walking to a cash point, she made sure to extract cash from as many of Rupert’s cards as possible.

She stuffed the cash into her handbag. Seeing the camera watching the cash point, she decided to make the most of her time in Rupert’s body. Walking to the nearest pub, she ordered a gin and tonic and relaxed in an armchair, watching the other people mill around.

I could get used to this body.

She sighed.

But then she wouldn’t get to live with Clara.

She smiled. Checking to see if there were security cameras in the pub, she went into the disabled toilet. Getting undressed, she reached into her handbag, pulling a skull with ‘Maeve’ written on it in permanent marker. Her limbs retracted, her spine snapped and reshaped itself.

It took a few minutes to settle back into her own skin, to return to the form she had been born with. She pulled her dress back on, slipped her feet into her heels, and combed her tangled hair with her fingers. It took her a few minutes to hastily reapply her makeup. The barman barely glanced at her as she walked out. She sniffed as she walked past him. He had a bland scent that wouldn’t satisfy her appetites. Little in the way of sin or purity. The thoughts she caught from him were mundane obsessions with a VW camper van. Leaving the pub, she caught the Night Tube back to her flat in Camberwell.

Friday, 15 November 2019

She pushed open the front door.

Clara stood at the cramped kitchen counter. “You made it back.”

Maeve’s eyes were wide. Strains of the viciousness Rupert harboured lingered in her veins and kept her blood running hot.

“Well yeah, you said we’d have cheesecake and watch a movie.” Clara wore a short tartan miniskirt and leather jacket over a Judas Priest crop top. Her short curls caught the harsh kitchen light. Despite her aggressive attire, her soul smelt of sunshine. “Did you forget?”

“No,” Maeve lied, kicking off her shoes. “I would never do that to you, my darling. Have you been waiting long?”

“An hour or so. I let myself in and started on the wine, that’s in the fridge. I’ll pour you a cheeky pinot grigio.”

Maeve felt a flutter in her chest. It was a sensation she never experienced during a hunt. She only fed on those who smelt of evil.

“I assume the date was ghastly. You don’t normally come home if they go well.”

“You could say that.” Maeve accepted a glass of wine.

“I’ve picked the movie. It’s set up on the telly.”

Maeve looked at her suspiciously. “It’s something good, right? Not a trashy horror?”

“Of course. It looked fun.”

Poking her head round the corner, Maeve looked at the TV. Paused, it showed the movie as ‘Frankenstein Created Bikers.’

God dammit.

“I’m not sure we have enough wine for this.” Maeve edged past her to load another bottle in the fridge, avoiding physical contact. Clara assumed Maeve possessed boundaries around touch.

The reality was far worse. Clara smelt of sweetness and warmth.

“He should have put you in a cab, that’s what a gentleman would do.” Placing two plates of cheesecake on the coffee table, Clara took her place on the sofa, curling her legs up underneath her. Maeve joined her, keeping a slight distance between them. “It’s the polite thing to do. Not that polite men seem to live in London.”

Maeve selected her targets with extreme care. That was how she survived. But until now, nobody had tasted quite as rich or as hideously depraved as Rupert.

I’ll open her up from collar to stomach. Like a slaughtered pheasant.

“I guess that attracting scumbags is my superpower.” Maeve ignored Rupert’s echoed thoughts as they bellowed in her mind.

“Well, as superpowers go, it’s not exactly laser eyes, is it? You be careful.”

“Oh, shut up, I’m alright.” Maeve pulled out her phone to check her notifications.

“No, stop that. Put the phone away, Maeve. I’m not being phubbed again.” Clara put her wine down and reached for the cheesecake. “That reminds me. Your mum rang while you were out. She was moaning that you never visit her.”

Maeve let out a sharp laugh, her good mood vanishing. “Can you blame me? Stratford is a dump.”

“Maeve, she is getting older.” Clara gave her a reproachful look. “She is all alone in that place. You’ll miss her when she is gone.”

“It’s her age. All her mates from the pub are dead.” Maeve pictured the bleak council flat in Stratford. Her mother huddled by a portable heater with the curtains drawn tight against the damp. Empty bottles covered every available surface amidst the nicotine stains and hoarded rubbish.

Clara sighed. She leaned back against Maeve.

For once, Maeve did not pull away. Every muscle in her body locked tight as she inhaled the comforting scent of Clara’s soul. Hunger flared up within her, even though she had just eaten.

“Could you at least try to be kind to her?”

Maeve thought about her father. She had been seven years old when her mother had drained his soul. “Are you seriously asking me to go there?”

Clara stayed silent for a moment. “I know you have beef with your mother, and I’ve never asked you what or why,” she said softly. “But if you don’t patch things up with her before she dies, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Slice her throat, watch her as the light fades from her eyes.

Maeve could still taste Rupert’s upper middle class malice on the back of her tongue. The thick, bitter soul sat within her. “Fine, but I want you to know I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”

Clara winked at her. “I wouldn’t nag you if I didn’t care.”

Maeve smiled back at her. Deep in the back of her mind, she could feel Rupert stirring, and she forced him back into her subconscious with her other victims.

As he was buried, he whispered in her mind.

You don’t waste something like that.

The Stratford council flat brought the memories rushing back. Her mother was a notorious hoarder, and if anything, her habits had worsened since Maeve had left home.

Stacks of the Guardian and cheap plastic bags made it difficult to push the front door open. The stench of damp and stale nicotine made Maeve cough. The hoard reached her shoulders. Maeve picked her way through the narrow paths. The constant drone of daytime TV bled past the rubbish.

Shelves honeycombed the walls beneath the rot. Like Maeve, her mother kept the skulls of her old lovers like trophies.

Her mother huddled in the cramped kitchen with a cup of green tea. The laptop screen cast a sickly blue glow across her face. She was sat in her true form, her skin drawn thin and yellowed over sharp bone, eyes clouded to milk, lips peeled back just enough to show the dark seams where they had split and healed. Maeve looked at her with disdain. “I see you’ve not been eating.”

“I eat every now and then.”

“Clara said you wanted to see me.” Maeve looked for an unoccupied chair. She should have known better. Instead, she loomed over her mother, who looked up at her with milky eyes.

“Is it a crime for a mother to want to see her daughter?” Her mother glowered at her.

“Fine, I knew this was a mistake.” Maeve turned to leave.

“Wait.” Her mother’s gruff voice turned plaintive. “Don’t go.” She looked down at her hands. “I’ve never been able to forgive myself, but I hoped that one day you might.”

Hell no.

“Eat or don’t eat. I don’t care, but if you think twenty years is long enough to forgive what you did, you’ve another thing coming.” Maeve pulled a mock smile. “This was so lovely. I’ll see you in another decade.” She ignored her mother’s cries as she left the apartment. At the front door, she turned. “Eat something, mother.”

“Something you ate has turned you mean,” her mother called after her. “You think you’re the apex predator out there? You have no idea what’s waiting out there.”

Maeve closed the door behind her without saying goodbye and strode off down the street.

I’ll never forgive you.

The scent of Stratford clung to Maeve’s skin. She wanted to scrub it off immediately. She boarded the Jubilee line and opened Hinge. The train rattled through the dark tunnels. She angrily scrubbed tears away as her vision blurred. Her mother wasn’t worth the moisture.

She looked at the notifications on the glowing screen.

Eleanor had long dark hair and slim black rimmed glasses. Her smile held a sharp, commanding edge. Maeve scanned the profile. She needed a distraction from her mother. Eleanor looked relatively young, but there was something about her that caused Maeve’s heartbeat to quicken.

In the right light, she looked a bit like Clara.

Eleanor messaged back quickly. They flirted until the words popped up on the screen.
“I’m free tonight if you would like dinner? My treat.”

Maeve made a quick stop at home. Her heart hammered as she boarded a train bound for Central London. Her red lipstick was immaculate.

Eleanor watched Maeve eat. Her pale eyes flickered from Maeve’s mouth to her throat. Eleanor smiled. “I adore places like this.” Eleanor gesticulated with her fork. “It only seats ten people a night. The waiting list is three months long, for most people anyway. Have you dined at the Rookery before?”

“I can’t say that I have.” Maeve’s fingers fumbled with the heavy silver fork. Tremors clicked the tines against the porcelain plate. It made picking up the seared venison difficult. God, Eleanor smelled delectable. Maeve had never encountered a mind so twisted and rich.

Maeve could already taste the woman on her tongue. It would be the greatest meal she’d ever had. Her hand quivered with anticipation.

“You are in for a treat.” Eleanor looked up as a waiter stepped out of the shadows. He poured another measure of deep red wine into their crystal glasses. He was the only staff member visible in the oak-panelled room. “This dining club actually started as an illegal gambling den back in the eighteenth century.”

“I bet the walls positively reek of sin.” Maeve’s eyes flashed at Eleanor.

“Oh, that they do. They even managed to keep the original floorboards. I bet they could tell a few stories.”

Eleanor’s kind eyes masked the scent of her ancient and ugly thoughts.

Maeve sniffed as discreetly as she could, but despite the overpowering odour, her thoughts were just noise. She couldn’t detect any recognisable words.

Maeve spent the evening sweating through her crisp trench coat. She nearly dropped her fork twice. She breathed in the scent of her date as hunger tore at her. It took every ounce of Maeve’s willpower not to attack Eleanor right there and then. She wanted to drain her soul and rip her aristocratic mind completely clean.

Eleanor smiled across the table. “Not hungry? You look hungry.”

Maeve glanced down at her plate. She had barely managed two bites of the rich meat. “I am on a diet.”

“I understand completely.”

The waiter finally disappeared into the kitchens. Maeve couldn’t stop herself. She leaned forward to kiss Eleanor across the table. Eleanor made a startled noise. A gentle pink flush spread across her cheeks. She did not pull away. Maeve rested her elbow on the table.

Maeve opened her mouth to take the first bite.

“So, I am quite curious.” Eleanor leaned back. Her breath brushed Maeve’s lips. “Who is Clara?”

Maeve snapped her eyes open.

Eleanor maintained her smile. Her voice sounded warm and tender. All her edges turned completely dark. “She seems rather delectable.”

Maeve backed up rapidly. She knocked over her wine glass. The dark red liquid spilled across the white cloth. Eleanor didn’t flinch. She just kept smiling that kind and gentle smile.

“What’s stopping you? Is it because your mother ate your father?”

What?

Maeve was starving. But she felt a pang of terror as she realised exactly what sat opposite her.

“You are a fetch?” Maeve shook her head. “You—Get out of my head!”

“I’m not in your head. Your thoughts are spilling out everywhere around you, it’s a bit embarrassing to be honest.” She waved around her. “All of us can smell them.” Eleanor leaned in, propping her chin on her hand and smiling faintly.

“You mean, everyone here is a fetch?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, it’s not often that we find a stray.” Eleanor tapped her fingernails on the table. The waiter reappeared instantly. He brought a reinforced wooden trolley with a naked, gagged man strapped to it. The diners at the other tables didn’t pay much attention to it. “I suppose, I’d best show you how to shield your thoughts. It just takes a little practice and discipline.”

The man thrashed weakly against the straps, eyes rolling, spit soaking through the gag. Maeve caught the scent as it broke open in the air. His memories spilled out along with his thoughts. She caught a child’s voice, hoarse from crying.

Maeve’s stomach clenched. The smell thickened, and a memory of a locked door wafted towards her.

Eleanor inhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. “There it is,” she murmured. “That particular vintage is my favourite.”

“Compliments of the house, Madam,” the waiter murmured. He turned and disappeared again.

Eleanor rose and, stretching her jaw open, latched onto the man’s mouth.

Maeve moaned with envy as she watched the man’s skin desiccate.

Eleanor glanced up at Maeve from behind her glasses. “You can have the rest. I’ll grab something on the way home.” Eleanor returned to her seat, her voice deepened, her eyes changed colour. Her shoulders widened. “This conversation has turned a touch one directional. Are you going to say something, or should I let your mind answer for you?”

The heady and rotten perfume from the dying man made Maeve’s head spin with ravenous hunger.

“You really believed you were the only fetch?”

Maeve’s head snapped up.

Eleanor’s expression didn’t change. “That’s what she told you, isn’t it?” She paused, then, with a quieter voice, said, “You should have questioned that.”

“I need to go.” Maeve staggered to her feet.

“I think your true form is beautiful, but I doubt Joe Public will agree.” The smile fell from Eleanor’s face. “Best eat first.”

Maeve leapt at the man. He moaned slightly as she crunched on his soul.

“My, my. You are a hungry girl.” Eleanor’s smile had returned.

Maeve gasped. Her body started to warp. She stripped off, not caring who saw. She could hear laughter from the other tables. It was wrong immediately.

The taste was bitter and unfulfilling, like biting into unripe fruit. Maeve swallowed anyway, dragging what remained of him down, forcing the change.

Her bones lurched.

Her spine tried to lengthen, caught, then snapped forward in jagged increments. She screamed through clenched teeth as her ribs spread unevenly, one side rising higher than the other. Skin slid across her frame, then stalled, hanging loose in places, stretched tight in others.

Her hands reshaped last. Fingers fused halfway. The nails came in thick, too big for her proportions.

She staggered upright.

The body didn’t fit.

It sagged at the jaw, one eye sitting lower than the other. When she inhaled, the chest expanded unevenly, a hitch in the rhythm like something inside hadn’t formed properly.

Maeve touched her face. “What did you do to me?”

Eleanor watched, amused. “Half a meal,” she said softly. “Half a body. Either snack on your prey or eat a whole one. There really is no middle ground.”

Eleanor leaned across the table. Her lips pressed hard onto Maeve’s mouth. Eleanor tugged gently with her teeth on Maeve’s lip. The tingle of cruel euphoria lingered in Maeve’s chest as she tried in vain not to feed on Eleanor’s soul.

“Oh no. You can’t have mine.” Eleanor pushed Maeve away. “Besides, I don’t think you could handle my soul. It’s too rich for a novice. Perhaps when you have a little more experience, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t stop.”

“We’ve all been there, my dear. You mustn’t fret.”

“Let me introduce you to the rest of us. We like to think we provide a public service.”

The waiter stepped forward and removed the skeleton.

Eleanor stood up and offered her hand. Maeve hesitated for a moment, then took it.

“I can’t be seen like this.” Maeve reached for her skull in her handbag to transform back.

“Is that marker pen?” Eleanor frowned. “That won’t do at all. Although I suppose it might have some kind of gothic appeal. I’m going to have to introduce you to my scrimshander.” She reached up to her bone amulet and her body returned to its original form.

Maeve got dressed, ignoring the muttering around her as she used her skull to shape back.

They left the restaurant and stepped onto the pavement. Eleanor pressed her lips to Maeve’s forehead.

“Come, let’s see what else London has to offer.” Eleanor released her ancient stink. She hailed a black cab from the fleet circling the Mayfair streets. They climbed inside together.

Monday, 9 December 2019

Maeve lay naked on her bed with Rupert’s skull next to her on the bedside table. Touching it, she assumed his form. She played with his flick knife, the blade flicking out and in as she savoured the taste of his memories.

Her groin twitched as she remembered the tech bros and junior barristers that Eleanor had introduced her to in the Shoreditch rooftop bars. Old Street and Hoxton were new hunting grounds, where they found wealthy men masquerading as poor to boost their social media credentials. When they hunted for vulnerable women to exploit, they found Maeve and Eleanor instead. Their ink-black essences slipped down her throat like wine.

She scraped them hollow and left their empty forms behind, keeping only the skulls.

She ran her fingers over her masculine chest, tweaking a nipple and then scraping short, cropped nails across her pectoral muscles.

There was a knock on the door.

Maeve bit her lip, it could only be Clara. She was finding it harder and harder to be around Clara, it felt like the stronger her love for her grew, the more beautiful the scent radiated from her body.

“Wait! I’m naked.”

Maeve reached over to stroke the skull marked ‘Maeve’ and transformed back into the form Clara knew and loved, throwing on a dressing gown.

Clara was waiting patiently outside, politely not using her key. “You needn’t have got dressed on my behalf.” She blew a kiss at Maeve that made her heart lurch and her stomach rumble. She waggled a DVD. “Look what I brought.”

Maeve saw the rubber suited man on the front and gave a faint smile. It took all of her willpower not to devour the girl in front of her. “Look, I think we need to get some space, I really care for you. But I have a new girlfriend, and she is the jealous type.”

“You have a girlfriend?” Clara’s face dropped, before anger rose behind her eyes. “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I meant to, but—”

“I’m your best friend.” Clara took a step back. “She is jealous? Sorry, where did she even come from?”

“We’ve been together for about two weeks, we met—”

“No, I’ve changed my mind.” She turned to the door. “I hope you are very happy with your mental, controlling girlfriend. I wish you all the best.”

Eyes losing focus. Mouth slack as she bleeds across the floorboards.

Rupert’s thought’s cannoned into her mind as Clara left.

“I’m sorry,” she said as the door closed. “But, I’d only ruin you too.”

Saturday, 18 January 2020

Maeve ran into Clara two months later outside the Camberwell flat. Maeve carried the final cardboard box of her belongings out of the front door. Clara looked pointedly at the box. She carried a canvas bag stuffed with old heavy metal records.

“You’re moving then?” Clara asked.

Maeve shrugged. She stared over Clara’s head avoiding eye contact. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” Clara swallowed hard. She shifted the bag higher on her hip. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad it’s all working out so well for you.” Her smile looked incredibly shaky. “She must be feeding you properly. You look healthier. I mean, look. I’m sorry I stormed out. You just caught me by surprise.”

“It’s fine, I should have spoken to you earlier, I did kinda spring it on it.” Why had her confidence vanished? How did Clara still have this power over her? She tried to avoid breathing in Clara’s scent.

“What is she like then?” Clara asked.

“Older. Bit posh. Shorter than me. She enjoys fine dining.” Maeve edged past her towards the pavement. “Look, I’m sorry. This box is heavy. The removal van is waiting. I really must go.”

“Wait,” Clara said. She grabbed Maeve’s arm. “Your mother keeps ringing me. She is worried about you, and I haven’t seen you in ages. You’re just going to pretend that our friendship is over?”

“I’m sure I will see you around.” Maeve shrugged off the grip. “I just need some time to adjust.”

“Let us get dinner sometime,” Clara said.

“Sure, sure,” Maeve lied, already dumping her box in the back of the van. “I’ll text you if I have time.”

Saturday, 7 March 2020

Caterers flitted like crows through the Mayfair townhouse. They wore neatly pressed dark uniforms. The party spanned three floors. Well-dressed aristocrats and politicians flocked together in the drawing rooms and the library upstairs.

“You’re wonderful.” Maeve knelt on the massive four-poster bed and kissed Eleanor’s cheek.

Eleanor adjusted Maeve’s hair. She was wearing a sleek midnight-blue gown.

Maeve had already met several of the guests. They were a mix of politicians, influencers, and high-ranking clergy, the kind usually found in ancient families or exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. “I will go check on the guests,” Maeve said.

Eleanor brushed her thumb over Maeve’s cheek. “Whatever you please, darling.”

Maeve escaped into the corridor. She murmured polite greetings to the lords and ladies she passed. Their hideous thoughts lurked in their musk. The townhouse reeked of sin. The shapes glimmered and snatched at Maeve as she slipped past.

Something made her look twice. A leather jacket. She walked closer. It looked just like… Her breath hitched. The scratches on it, the wear and tear, the studs.

Clara.

Maeve turned abruptly. She sprinted for the main staircase.

Does she know what I am?

She shouldered her way through the wealthy crowd.

What is she doing here?

Maeve kicked the heavy oak bedroom door open. Clara was looking into an ivory cabinet. She didn’t seem surprised to see Maeve.

“Maeve, darling. I hope you do not mind. Ever since I felt this little snack in your thoughts, I knew I had to have it.” Eleanor smiled from within Clara’s body.

“Take her skin off,” Maeve hissed.

“No, I don’t think so.” Eleanor rose gracefully, stroking her bone amulet.

Maeve’s eyes widened at the sight of her best friend being reduced to jewellery.

“It’s nice, knowing how she felt about you. I know your little friend better than you ever did.” The sounds of the string quartet drifted into the room as Eleanor’s eyes twinkled.

Maeve shut the door. She locked the heavy brass bolt.

Eleanor laughed. “I can smell your grief. It’s intoxicating. She loved you, you know? Even now, I can feel her terror fluttering against my ribs as she watches us. Don’t fret, darling. You’ll be resting right beside her soon enough.”

Maeve recoiled against the wood panels.

Eleanor kissed Maeve’s neck. Her teeth scraped violently against the throat. The scent of her ancient, malevolent power was so intoxicating that Maeve’s knees buckled despite her rage.

She wormed free, wriggling to the side before pouncing forwards, her hand outstretched to grab Eleanor by the throat.

“Child.” Eleanor took hold of Maeve’s wrist, pivoting on her hip to flip Maeve onto the floor. “That’s enough.”

Scooting back across the floor on her backside, rubbing her wrist, Maeve glared as Eleanor stalked closer.

“Soon, you and all the souls you’ve absorbed will be just another meal for me.” Eleanor lashed out with her foot, cracking two of Maeve’s ribs with a Jimmy Choo. She reached down, gripping Maeve around the throat and squeezing tight as she lifted her up. “Hmmm, you smell like perfection.” She opened her mouth to feed.

Maeve headbutted her, straight on the nose.

Eleanor threw her across the room, Maeve’s body smashed into a drink’s cabinet, the glass shattering and slashing her skin. She collapsed to the floor winded, pain exploding across her back.

“Clara, please.” Maeve staggered to her feet.

“Even an amateur like you must know that isn’t how this works?” Eleanor touched the bone amulet and her broken nose, clicked back into position as Clara’s body returned.

“Clara, I need your help. Please.” Maeve rushed towards Eleanor who caught her by the throat.

“Now then, were—”

Maeve pulled Rupert’s flick-knife from her pocket, stabbing it into Eleanor’s side. At the same time, her other hand grasped at Eleanor.

Eleanor gasped, a wet sound. “Cold iron? How delightfully provincial.” Rage replaced her smug expression. “It’s a myth you know.” She reached up for the amulet, her hand patting around her neck.

“Looking for something?” Maeve held up the amulet with her other hand, before shoving it into her pocket. Holding the knife in front of her, she charged.

Eleanor moved with supernatural speed, snarling with fury, but suddenly froze. “Quick,” she gasped, her voice entirely Clara’s. Then she blinked, shaking her head as Eleanor violently reasserted control.

It was the opening Maeve needed. She tackled the fetch to the floor, locked her jaw over Eleanor’s mouth, and inhaled. Her body rippled and tore as the collected souls flooded into her. She felt like she was being torn apart from the inside. Hundreds, thousands of victims pouring into her, all screaming their memories, until a warm, comforting sensation filled her. It was Clara, her memories, her heart. Maeve focused on Clara, she reached into her pocket, the amulet, carved from Clara’s bones caused her to shift to her body. She focused on Clara’s love and let the other memories wash over her. The pain reduced and she breathed. The hatred and bile that she’d fed on for so long balanced by the echoed emotions of a woman who had genuinely cared for her.

For the first time in her life, Maeve understood her mother. Why she had given up feeding, why she had succumbed to feeding on her father. Maeve fell to the floor, tears erupting from her eyes as the emotions overwhelmed her.

Eleanor’s heavy diamond bracelets clattered to the floorboards, followed by her bones. The empty blue gown collapsed in a cloud of desiccated skin.

It hurt to consume that many souls at once. Maeve’s stomach cramped violently. Her body shifted from one form to another as hideous, ancient thoughts pounded in her skull.

A sharp knock at the door jolted Maeve upright. “Madam,” a voice called. Maeve recognised the head caterer. “The first of the main courses is ready. Lord Ashford wishes to know if you will come down and deliver a toast.”

Panic flared. Maeve snatched Eleanor’s skull from the pile of bones on the floor and focused. “I will—” Maeve glanced at the gilded mirror above the fireplace. Her body had stabilised into the form of Eleanor. “I’ll be right down.” Maeve dressed herself in the discarded blue gown and left the room.

Her heart pounded violently against her ribs.

Maeve walked Eleanor’s shape down the grand staircase into the dining room. The guests milled about with crystal glasses in hand. Maeve smiled Eleanor’s perfectly measured smile.

The diners gave her a knowing smile. Maeve returned it with a confident look. She recognised each of them from Eleanor’s memories.

A waiter handed her a glass of vintage champagne.

Fifty pairs of eyes locked onto her. The caterers’ eyes glittered coldly from the shadows. Did any of them know? Could the lords and politicians tell the difference?

“To your continued health and to a fabulous dinner.” Maeve raised her crystal glass.

As one, they drank.

FREE Horror Story Compilations

Summer Screams: 47 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 41 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

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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.

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Contents

1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. The Cold Dead Sea

Reader Survey

I’m doing a quick one-question poll to understand what readers enjoy most in my stories, so I can lean into the parts that work best.

Horror Story Compilations

Summer Screams: 47 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 41 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 Cold Dead Sea

By Newton Webb

The ePub file should work on Kindle and most other e-readers. The PDF is there if you prefer reading on a tablet, computer, or phone.

Download ePub / PDF

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Chapter One

Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. North Sea. 5 June 1942.

The North Atlantic stretched below the Short Sutherland aircraft in long ridges of slate water and broken foam. The sea slid beneath the wings as the plane hugged the rugged Norwegian coastline. Ten hours into the patrol, the drone of the Pegasus engines had become a steady pressure inside Ignatius Barnes’s skull.

Wind hammered the plane. Their patrol sector south of Norway had shown nothing all day.

“Anything, Barnes?” the pilot asked over the intercom.

“Nothing, mate.” Barnes cracked his neck. He reached for a locket around his neck. In it was a lock of hair, and a small photo of his wife Natasha. “Same as the last eight hours.”

Six months with RAF Coastal Command had removed any romance from the job. Six months of ten-hour patrols, numb hands, and nothing to show but the empty, roiling sea.

Their orders were simple. Guard the convoys. Find the submarines before the submarines found them.

Movement.

A dark line broke the water two miles ahead. The swell swallowed the outline whenever it lifted. Barnes leaned closer to the Perspex and wiped condensation away with his glove.

The shape rose again.

“Possible contact. Descend two hundred feet.”

The plane descended towards the water.

“What have you spotted, Barnes?” the pilot asked.

“A submarine.”

It rode low in the sea, the deck awash between waves.

Surfacing in daylight during a vicious summer squall made no sense. Any escort vessel or patrol aircraft could see it.

Barnes raised his binoculars.

The conning tower turned slightly in the swell. A wolf’s head was painted on the steel.

A Type VII U-boat.

“Pilot,” Barnes said into the intercom. “Contact. U-boat. Type VII sighted. Bearing three four zero relative. Range two miles. No identification markings visible.”

The deck was empty. No lookout stood on the conning tower. No officer faced the wind, watching for the Navy.

It was uncanny.

“It looks abandoned, but I’m not seeing any damage.”

The pilot banked the Sunderland to begin an attack run.

“Time to get a new stencil for Old Bess.”

“Depth charges set,” the bomb aimer said.

The aircraft rolled left. Spray streaked across the windscreen.

“Depth charge racks ready,” the pilot announced.

“Steady. Steady,” the bomb aimer murmured.

Barnes braced his boots against the fuselage.

Keep her steady.

“Release!”

The flying boat lurched as four heavy depth charges dropped from the racks. The pilot hauled back on the control column. The massive aircraft clawed upward as the Pegasus engines roared.

Barnes twisted in his seat to watch through the Perspex blister.

Seconds later, the sea erupted.

Four towering columns of white water blasted upward around the submarine. Shockwaves rippled across the grey surface in expanding rings.

The U-boat vanished beneath the spray.

“Good pattern!” Barnes shouted.

“Banking right,” the pilot said. The Pegasus engines groaned as the aircraft banked right. “Keep your eyes peeled. Watch for survivors.”

The Sunderland circled back through the gale.

The submarine wallowed, stern dropping lower with each wave. The deck tilted sharply as water flooded through unseen ruptures below the surface.

For a moment, the conning tower remained visible, rolling helplessly between the swells.

Then the bow dipped.

The boat slipped slowly beneath the North Atlantic.

Only a widening slick of diesel oil and scattered debris marked where it had been.

“She’s going down,” Barnes said quietly.

God save the poor bastards.

Oil spread across the waves in a dark, shimmering film.

The engines coughed, then began to die. One propeller slowed. Then another.

He stared out into the howling storm, for a moment, he swore he could see a face, the flickering of a white dress. Then it was gone.

The lights flickered. Instruments died across the panel.

“What the hell?”

The wind howled around the aircraft as the pilot fought the controls.

“I’ve lost power!”

The Sunderland sagged towards the raging sea before hitting it like a hammer.

The impact threw Barnes against the bulkhead. Metal screamed. The hull shuddered violently as the flying boat skipped once across the surface and slammed down again. Freezing water burst through the ruptured fuselage.

“Out! Out!” someone shouted.

The cabin lights were dead. Only grey daylight filtered through the fractured Perspex. Water poured in faster than Barnes could think.

He tore at the harness buckles with numb fingers. Around him men shouted, cursed, prayed. Something tore loose from the wing with a crack, and the aircraft lurched and rolled onto its side.

Barnes dragged himself along the tilted floor. His boots slipped on fuel and seawater. Someone grabbed his arm.

Sergeant Tim Jones, the wireless operator, eyes wide with shock.

“The door’s jammed!”

Barnes kicked at the emergency hatch. Once. Twice.

The metal frame bent under the third blow, and cold ocean water exploded through the gap.

The water closed over their heads and drove them under. Barnes swam clear of the plane and surfaced among wreckage and spreading oil slicks. Waves rolled through the debris field, tossing broken fragments of aircraft across the grey water.

Nearby, bubbles and diesel marked where the U-boat had gone down.

The Sunderland was following it. One wing jutted briefly above the water like the fin of a dying whale before sliding beneath the oil-streaked surface.

Men screamed somewhere in the storm. Another wave pulled them under, and they did not surface.

Barnes bobbed in the water, his life vest inflated, gasping, the wind tearing at his soaked flight suit. Tim surfaced nearby, coughing seawater.

“Barnes!” Tim shouted through the gale.

He dragged himself towards him.

“Hold onto something!”

Another wave slammed into them, spinning them through the freezing water. The wreckage scattered across the rising swells.

The pilot rose from the water, reaching for them, but he was too far away. He sank beneath the waves and did not reappear.

Barnes’s fingers stopped closing. The crate slipped twice before he felt it again. Barnes could barely feel his hands anymore. His muscles refused to obey him. He tried to kick and felt nothing below the knee.

“Land!” Tim croaked suddenly.

He forced his eyes open.

Through the sleet and spray, cliffs rose ahead, black stone sheer above the surf. The current dragged them towards it.

“Swim,” Barnes rasped.

The next wave hurled them forward like driftwood.

Barnes slammed into rock. Pain burst through his ribs. He clawed desperately at barnacle-covered stone as another surge tried to drag him back into the sea.

His fingers found a ledge.

Tim hauled himself beside him, coughing violently.

Together, they dragged their half-frozen bodies onto a narrow strip of shingle beneath the cliffs. Wind hammered the cliff face above them. The North Sea pounded the rocks only yards away.

For several minutes, neither man moved.

At last, Barnes rolled onto his back, staring up at the iron sky.

“Where are the others?”

Three bodies lay broken against the stones. He raced to check each one, finding them dead. Looking out over the waves, he tried to spot any more survivors.

“We have to move, Barnes.” Tim grabbed his jacket with stiff fingers.

“Wait, we don’t know what’s happened to the rest of the crew.”

Tim jerked him towards the cliff face.

“They are dead, Barnes, and we’ll be joining them if we don’t find shelter soon,” Tim muttered.

Barnes pushed himself upright. His grip on the rock face failed without warning, and he slipped before catching himself. As he righted himself, something caught his eye along the base of the cliff.

A dark gap in the rock.

A sea cave.

The tide surged in and out of the opening, as if it was breathing.

Barnes staggered towards it, boots slipping across the slick stones. The cave widened quickly. Darkness swallowed the fading daylight behind them.

The air smelled wrong. He could smell the strong scent of salt and seaweed, but there was another smell pushing through it.

Diesel.

Barnes stopped.

Far ahead, deep within the cavern, a dull yellow glow flickered against the rock walls.

Electric light.

Dread filled him.

“What is it, Barnes?” Tim asked through chattering teeth. “Barnes! What... Oh hell—”

On the back wall of the sea cave hung a black swastika on a red flag.

It was a Nazi U-boat pen.

Chapter Two

Sergeant Tim Jones. Norway. 5 June 1942.

Tim shivered violently. Seawater soaked into his heavy RAF flight suit. Beside him, Barnes hugged his own ribs. His teeth chattered loudly enough to echo off the damp rock.

They moved deeper into the cavern. The pen was crude. Scaffolding clung to the rock walls. A single U-boat could fit in the docking trench. The dark water currently lay empty. Stacks of torpedoes rested on wooden chocks near a line of rusted diesel drums.

“Tim,” Barnes whispered. “Over there.”

A cast iron workshop heater glowed cherry red in a hollowed alcove.

Tim nodded. He had to look at his hands to make them move.

If we don’t get warm, we’re dead.

They hurried to the alcove. The heat hit them in a physical wave. Barnes clawed at the frozen buckles of his flight gear. Throwing off his sheepskin jacket, he dragged the heavy canvas over his shoulders and dropped it to the concrete floor. Tim did the same. They stripped down to their pale, shivering skin. There was no shame in their nudity as the two men let the heat soak into their bones.

Barnes opened a row of grey metal lockers against the wall. He pulled out thick woollen sweaters and heavy canvas trousers bearing the naval eagle.

“Put these on.” Barnes threw a bundle to the sergeant.

Tim caught the clothes and shoved his legs into the trousers. “Yes, sir.” He pulled the heavy navy blue sweater over his head. The coarse wool scratched against his skin. He checked the remaining lockers, finding a heavy iron wrench and a hip flask amongst the personal effects. He sniffed at the hip flask before taking a long swig and passing it to Barnes. “Schnapps, sir.”

Barnes took it gratefully. “We need to find the radio room.” Barnes rubbed his hands together over the iron stove. “A base this size will have a transmitter. We can signal Coastal Command, and then we find a way out of here.” Barnes looked at the dark tunnel leading deeper into the cliff. “Where is Jerry hiding? This place should be crawling with Nazis.”

“Keep your voice down, sir.” Tim gripped the iron wrench tightly in his right hand. “Reckon you’d best stay behind me, sir.”

The tunnel walls wept cold water. Bare incandescent bulbs hung from the hewn rock ceiling every forty feet. The steady thrum of a diesel generator vibrated through the rock floor.

Then a scream tore through the cavern.

It was a high, tearing sound. A man in absolute agony.

Tim stopped dead. “Jesus wept.”

Barnes pressed himself against the rough stone wall.

The scream cut off abruptly into a wet gargle. Silence flooded the tunnel again.

“We need to move, sir,” Tim whispered.

Footsteps slapped against the concrete ahead.

Someone was running.

Fast.

Tim raised the heavy wrench. He pressed tight against the rock beside a side tunnel entrance.

A young German sailor burst from the corridor, his bare feet slapping on the floor. His thick woollen jumper was torn. Blood smeared his face and hands.

The boy collided with Barnes. Both men fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

“Hilf mir!” the sailor screamed. He clawed at Barnes’s sweater. “Sie ist wach. Der Teufel ist wach!”

“Shut him up!” Tim hissed.

Barnes clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth. The sailor bit down hard. Barnes yelped and jerked his hand away.

“Sie sind alle tot!” the German yelled. He scrambled backwards across the floor. His eyes were wide with primal terror.

Tim stepped forward. He swung the iron wrench down. The heavy metal crushed the sailor’s skull with a sickening crack. The boy slumped against the rock and lay still. Dark blood pooled around his head.

Barnes stared at the corpse. He breathed in ragged gasps. “You killed him.”

“He was compromising our position, sir.” Tim wiped the wrench on the dead boy’s tunic. “Come on, sir. Let’s move. If anyone’s here, they’ll have heard that.”

Barnes nodded slowly, his eyes still on the dead sailor.

“First priority should be to contact Command.” Tim pointed down the corridor. “We should split up, sir. I’ll take this corridor. Find a transmitter and call our position. Quick and quiet.”

Barnes snorted. “Stay out of trouble? You’d better believe I will.” He crept down the narrow side passage, disappearing from view.

Tim took the other corridor. The smell of diesel and salt faded, though the pervasive damp remained. He pushed open a heavy wooden door, entering what appeared to be an officer’s quarters. A neat cot sat against one wall, while a mahogany desk faced the other. A thick leather bound book lay open on the blotter.

Tim leaned closer. The pages were thick and fibrous, like treated hide. Intricate charcoal drawings depicted grotesque figures and geometric symbols. He didn’t recognise the language, but its runic script clearly wasn’t German. He turned a page. A drawing of a woman with hollow eyes, sagging breasts, and a gaping mouth stared back at him.

Christ.

The temperature in the room was icy cold. The bulb overhead flickered before stabilising.

He looked up at the bulb, shaking his head.

So much for German efficiency.

A wet tearing sound came from outside the door.

Tim gripped his wrench tightly as he slowly approached the door. Standing by it, he waited, poised to strike.

Three.

Two.

He reached for the handle.

One!

Savagely pulling open the door, he leapt out into an empty corridor.

Looking up and down, he shook his head.

I’m jumping at shadows.

A faint breath touched the back of his neck. Tim spun round, lashing out with the wrench, but his wrist was grabbed. Cold fingers closed around his windpipe. He gurgled with desperation.

Chapter Three

Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.

Barnes found empty desks and half-finished cups of black coffee in the administration block. He sniffed one of them. They only drank tea back at base. The last time he’d had coffee was in his previous life as a schoolteacher.

He checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed.

Where the hell is he?

He crept back to the junction. The dead sailor lay where he had fallen. Barnes shook his head. Before the war, the boy was young enough to have been one of Barnes’s students.

He headed down the corridor Tim had taken and saw a door standing wide open.

The stench hit him first. An overpowering smell of rent flesh and voided bowels.

Gritting his teeth, Barnes stepped into the room.

Tim was slumped forward over the mahogany desk, his face pressed into the scattered papers. The heavy wool of the German sweater suit had been sheared cleanly down the centre of his back.

Barnes took a step closer, his breath catching in his throat as his mind struggled to process the grotesque architecture of his crewmate’s corpse.

Tim’s spine was exposed, the flesh filleted open. His ribs had been brutally severed from the backbone and bent outward by unnatural strength. The pale, blood-slicked bones jutted from his ruined back like a pair of macabre, skeletal wings.

Draped carefully over these protruding bones were the dark, deflated sacks of Tim’s lungs.

Barnes backed away, his boots sliding in the thick pool of crimson that dripped from the desk. His hands began to shake.

Christ... Tim.

Barnes took a step back, shaking his head.

No, no.

A floorboard creaked behind him.

Barnes spun around.

A pistol hilt smashed into his temple. White light burst across his vision.

His knees buckled and hit the floor hard.

A pair of black leather boots stepped into his fading line of sight.

Then the darkness took him.

#

Barnes woke to the smell of stale cigarette smoke. His head throbbed in time with his pulse. His vision swam. He tried to lift his hands, but they refused to move. Thick ropes bound his wrists to the wooden arms of a heavy chair.

He blinked against the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb.

A German naval officer sat behind a steel desk. He wore the dark uniform of a Korvettenkapitän. Silver braid caught the light on his shoulders. An Iron Cross rested at his throat. He observed Barnes over a steaming mug.

“You are awake,” the officer said in perfect English with a clipped accent. “I am Korvettenkapitän Felix. Name and unit.”

Barnes tested the ropes. They held firm.

“Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Royal Air Force.”

Felix set his mug down. “And what are you doing so far from home? Are there others?”

“Name, rank, and serial number.” Barnes stared flatly at the German. “That’s all you get.”

“I do not have time for this, Flying Officer. My men are dead. This facility is compromised. I need to know if you transmitted our coordinates to your command.”

“Go to hell.”

Felix snorted. “And what, Englishman, makes you think we haven’t already?” He walked around the desk.

A woman screamed. The jagged shriek echoed through the tunnels.

Barnes flinched. “Who is that?”

Felix hesitated. His jaw tightened. “It does not concern you.” He wiped a hand across his pale forehead. His gaze moved from Barnes to the door and back again. His fingers tapped on his holstered Luger. “I will return shortly. Think about your situation, Englishman.”

The German walked out of the room, locking the heavy iron door behind him.

The footsteps faded.

Barnes twisted his wrists against the coarse rope. The friction burned his skin. He leaned his weight to the right. The heavy chair tilted.

He threw his weight left. The chair slammed into the concrete and one side of the chair snapped, the wooden arm breaking free. Wriggling clear of the broken chair, Barnes pulled his wrists under his body and up to his face. He used his free hand to work the knot loose. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his bleeding wrists.

Nausea overwhelmed him. He vomited onto the floor. He rubbed his bruised head, wincing. As his balance started to return, he grabbed the broken chair leg and tried the door handle.

Locked.

The hinges were on the inside. Barnes wedged the broken wood under the latch mechanism. He threw his shoulder against the iron panel. The old lock groaned. He hit it again. The metal latch gave way.

The corridor stood empty.

Another scream echoed from deeper within the cavern complex.

He stepped into the corridor and followed the sound.

Chapter Four

Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.

The air grew colder as the tunnels narrowed, winding further down into the depths of the earth. Electric light faded, replaced by candles set into the rock.
Footsteps echoed ahead.
Barnes gripped his makeshift club. He travelled down a series of winding passages. The scent of diesel faded, replaced by the sickly sweet tang of blood and rot as he descended deeper into the earth.
The tunnel opened into a massive natural chamber.
A large chalk symbol resembling three interlocking triangles had been inscribed on the floor and dark red runes that looked like the letter F covered the walls. Six bodies had been arranged at the points, all of them with their ribs torn open.

Barnes recognised one of them as Tim and charged forward.

Ahead of him, the few remaining bulbs flickered. One of them pinged and then went dark, their feeble light supplemented by dozens of candles.

Felix stood near the centre of the room, his hands on his hips.
A woman knelt in the centre, shrouded by shadows, her pale dress hanging loose, dark hair falling over her shoulders. She lowered her hands and looked up with a familiar set of green eyes.
His breath caught.
Natasha.
Her green eyes fixed on him. Her familiar face held a look of profound sorrow.
“Ignatius,” she whispered. “You came for me.”
He dropped the piece of wood in shock. “Natasha. What are you doing here?”
Felix turned sharply and drew the Luger from his leather holster.
“No!” Barnes lunged forward.
The pistol barked.
Heat tore through Barnes’s left shoulder. He crashed hard onto the cavern floor. Pain radiated down his arm and across his chest.
He pressed his right hand against the wound. Hot blood spilled through his fingers.
Felix walked towards him. The Luger remained levelled at his chest.
“You should have stayed in the room, Barnes.”
“What have you done to my wife?” Barnes gasped.
Felix let out a harsh laugh. “Your wife? Is that what you see?” The German gestured to the woman. “No, Englishman. This is no woman. She is older than your Empire and mine. We found her bound beneath a church near Tromsø and broke the seals.”
Natasha watched them. “He’s trapped me, Iggs.” She reached out to him. “Please, break the circle and set me free.”
“Let her go!” Barnes struggled to sit up.
“Or you’ll do what?” Felix scoffed. “Watch, Englishman.” Felix walked to a metal bucket near the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a severed human arm. A torn Kriegsmarine sleeve clung to the dead flesh.
Felix threw the limb onto the floor in front of the woman.
The glamour collapsed. The beautiful face melted away into grey, leathery skin stretched tight over a gaunt skull. Sunken black eyes stared with predatory hunger. Too many teeth crowded a lipless mouth. Long claws extended from her pale fingers.
The thing fell upon the severed arm. She tore into it, ripping flesh and crunching bone. Blood splashed across the chalked circles.
The pain in his shoulder dulled against the shock as he watched.
Felix watched the creature feed, a grim smile spreading across his face. He lowered the pistol slightly.
Barnes drove forward, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and slammed into Felix’s midsection. The German grunted as they crashed to the stone floor. The Luger clattered away into the shadows.
Felix clawed at his throat. Barnes pinned the officer’s arm with his knee. He grabbed a heavy stone from the cavern floor.
“Wait!”
Barnes paused.
“Kill me and she walks free. Do not be a fool. I am the only thing keeping her contained.”
“If you can restrain her, then what happened to your men?” He raised the stone higher. “To my sergeant?”
Felix waited, as if gathering his thoughts. “We didn’t have enough bodies to power the runic prison. Now we do, we can control her.”
“You used my sergeant to perform your little ritual?”
“What choice did I have? Most of my men tried to flee on our U-boat, until she killed the power in it.”
“That’s not control.” A desperate urge to drive the stone into the side of Felix’s head filled him.
Felix’s voice faltered, his earlier arrogance fading. “I just need more time, don’t you see? Unless I complete the ritual, she’ll open a bridge to her world. Her people will consume the glorious Reich and the British Empire.”
Hatred filled his gaze. He hesitated.
“I was going to complete the ritual with my aide.” He began to plead. “But you killed him. Perhaps together we could...”
A desperate urge to crush his skull surged through him. He sucked at his teeth, holding eye contact with Felix as he considered his options.
Then he brought the rock down.
The Korvettenkapitän went limp. Dark blood welled from a deep gash above his ear.
“I don’t know if I need you, but I certainly don’t need you awake right now.” Barnes rose.
“Don’t leave me, Iggs!” the witch cried.
“And you. Your games are only going to make matters worse for you.”
Barnes dragged himself into the side passage, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

#

Barnes found a small storage alcove out of sight from the main chamber. He slumped against the wall and breathed heavily.
The bullet remained lodged in his muscle. He had to get it out.
He searched through the cabinets, ignoring the plates, dishclothes, cans of tinned rations and boxes of biscuits, and found a small blunt knife in one of the drawers. He stripped off his heavy sweater. The cold air bit at his skin.
Barnes placed the blade into the flame of a nearby wall candle. He held it there, then, biting down hard on the heavy woollen fabric of the sweater, drove the hot blade into his flesh.
Agony flared through his entire body. He twisted the knife, probing the wound. The metal scraped against the lead bullet. He gritted his teeth and dug upwards.
The deformed slug popped free. It hit the floor with a dull clink. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.
Barnes spat out the wool. He tore a long strip of fabric from a dishcloth and bound it tightly over the bleeding hole. His grip slipped twice before the knot held, as he tied it with one hand and his teeth.
He picked up the Luger from where it had fallen near the entrance. He ejected the magazine. Five rounds, six including the one in the chamber. He slammed it back into place.
He approached Felix. The officer still lay unconscious, bleeding heavily from the head wound.
Barnes’s left arm hung useless at his side as he searched the German’s uniform. He found a small leather pouch hanging from a cord around Felix’s neck. He pulled it free and opened the flap.
Inside sat a small runic icon, carved from what looked like bone, he hefted its weight, thinking.
Felix groaned and shifted on the cold floor. He opened his eyes, blinking blood away from his vision. He looked at the pouch in Barnes’s hand.
“Give that back.” Felix coughed weakly. “I need it.”
Barnes aimed the Luger at the German’s face. “Start talking.”
Felix pressed a hand to his bleeding head. He leaned against the rock wall, breathing hard.
“Orders from High Command,” he said. “An occult weapon to shatter your armies.”
A wet tearing sound echoed from the chamber. Bone cracked. Something chewed slowly in the dark.
Barnes flinched despite himself. He kept the Luger steady. “You brought that thing here.”
Felix nodded once. “Yes, I did. I was chosen to lead the Ahnenerbe expedition. We found the book first. Then we had to hunt until we found her prison beneath a church near Tromsø.”
Barnes’s jaw tightened. “You should have left her there.”
“We tried to move her.” Felix wiped blood from his eye with the back of his hand. “Berlin wanted her. But she can’t cross running water. We brought her into this cave to contain her for now.”
A dull thud came from the chamber floor.
Barnes shifted his stance. “Contain? She butchered your men.”
Felix’s mouth twitched. “Jah, she slaughtered them. Tore them apart when the wards failed.” He glanced towards the chamber. “She cannot touch me, though.”
Barnes narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”
Felix glared at him. “Because I translated the contents of the grimoire. I know her secret.”
“And if we leave her?”
Felix’s gaze hardened. “Then the prison fails. She opens the bridge to Vanaheimr, her world, and she brings her people through to feed.”
Barnes tightened his grip on the pistol. “And you think you can stop that?”
Felix looked at him with a grim smile.
“I do.”

Chapter Five

Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.

Felix leaned heavily against the damp rock wall. Blood crusted along his hairline. The Luger remained trained on the German.

“Take me to the radio transmitter,” Barnes ordered.

“Give me the pouch first,” Felix said, extending a shaking hand. “She will kill me if I step near the threshold without it.”

“I don’t think so. What’ll stop her from killing me first?”

Felix pursed his lips. “I can protect you, but only if you give me my amulet.”

“You’ll be quick. Radio first.”

Felix considered him with narrowed eyes before he turned and limped down the narrow corridor. Barnes followed close behind. Pain throbbed in his left shoulder with every step.

They reached a heavy steel door. Felix pushed it open.

The naval radio room was small and smelled of ozone. A Telefunken transmitter dominated the wooden desk. Valve tubes glowed a faint amber in the gloom.

He gestured with the pistol. “Step back into the corner.”

Felix moved away from the desk.

Barnes slid into the operator’s chair. He kept his eyes on Felix while his right hand found the telegraph key. He tapped out on the Coastal Command frequency. Static hissed as he sent the emergency broadcast. “Sunderland downed. German submarine refuelling base discovered. Grid reference zero four niner. Survivors one. Require immediate extraction.”

He repeated the message twice. He shut off the power switch. The amber lights faded into darkness.

“They will not arrive in time to save us,” Felix said.

“They will.” Barnes stood up and tossed the small leather bag onto the stone floor. “They have to.”

Felix snatched it up and hung it around his neck. The German tucked the pouch beneath his uniform shirt.

“Now we finish this. How do we send her back to Vanaheimr?”

“I need the grimoire. And my pouch.” Felix walked towards the open door. “And we need to speak the reversal incantation together.”

They walked back through the twisting tunnels. The temperature plummeted the closer they got to the main chamber. Frost coated the stone walls.

The witch waited in the centre of the chalk circles. She wore Natasha’s face again. Her green eyes tracked their movement. The severed arm was gone. Only a smear of dark blood remained on the floor.

“Get rid of my wife’s face. It doesn’t belong to you.”

She hissed, reverting to her true form. Pale grey skin and hollow black eyes replaced the beautiful illusion.

Felix walked to a wooden lectern near the edge of the runic boundary. The thick leather book sat open on the slanted top. “One with water. One with fire.” The German traced his fingers over the charcoal symbols in the grimoire.

“Hold the bowl of sea water.” Felix passed a metal bowl to Barnes, who reluctantly took it. “And read this section from the grimoire after I read mine.”

He moved to the lectern. He kept his distance from the chalk line. The foreign text looked like chaotic scratches, but as he stared at the page, the shapes seemed to twist into phonetic sounds in his mind.

This is wrong.

“Begin.” The German, holding a bowl of burning oil, chanted in a guttural language. He stopped, nodding at Barnes.

He read aloud his section as the witch watched him, the grin still stretched across her face, her eyes wide with excitement.

The candle flames flickered and turned a sickly blue.

Felix slammed the heavy book shut.

He stepped back, raising the Luger. “Careful.”

“Feeling jittery?” Felix gestured towards the circle. “Now we end it. We both step inside at the same time.”

“Are you insane? She’ll murder us.” Barnes took a step back.

“You English lack Prussian courage.” Felix stepped toward the circle. “She is bound. Now we drive her back to her world. We must do it at exactly the same time.”

“Absolutely not.”

Felix sneered. “So, a German can do what an Englishman cannot? Predictable. Now, step into the circle, Englishman!”

Shifting his weight from one side to the other, Barnes scratched his head, his heart pounding in his chest. The creature stood quietly watching them both.

This is madness...

“Do it!” Felix shouted. “Do it, you coward.” He raised a boot in preparation to cross.

Barnes took a deep breath. His left arm hung uselessly. He stepped over the chalk lines. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His skin prickled as if static electricity coursed through him.

Felix stepped in at the same time. “Verzehre ihn.” He smiled at the witch.

“What are you doing?” Barnes pointed the Luger at the German.

The witch moved between them, blocking his line of fire and turning to face him.

He froze as he replayed the German’s words in his mind. Then gritted his teeth. “Nein, verzehre ihn.” Barnes locked eyes with Felix, then added. “He is all yours.”

“You speak German?” Felix stepped back as the witch turned back to face him.

He gave a smile of grim satisfaction. “I taught it before the war.”

The monster approached Felix, her nails outstretched.

Felix swore, holding up his pouch. When she continued to approach, he stared at Barnes with panic, emptying the pouch into his hand. A blood-soaked spent bullet fell into his palm.

Locking eyes with the German officer, Barnes pulled out the runic icon from his pocket and waved it at him.

The witch recoiled and looked over her shoulder at Barnes. She snarled at him, before turning back to Felix.

“Nein!” he screamed as she rushed him. “Stand down. Stoppen!” Her elongated claws sank into Felix’s shoulders. The German shrieked as she lifted him off the floor. She unhinged her jaw. Row upon row of jagged teeth sank into his neck.

Felix thrashed wildly. Blood cascaded over the chalk lines. The witch tore his throat out with a violent jerk of her head. She dropped his twitching body to the floor and began to open his chest cavity.

His screams died as she tore through his uniform and ripped open his rib cage. Plucking out his heart, her teeth tore the flesh, blood pouring down her chin as his lifeless carcass fell to the floor.

Barnes stumbled back as she feasted.

“The bodies do something to keep you trapped here, don’t they?”

She ignored him, feeding with a sucking sound that made him feel sick.

He looked at Tim’s body, the man who he’d flown with for nearly a year. The only other survivor of the crash.

I’m sorry mate, I can’t bring your body back to England with me.

The Witch looked up at him, a long black tongue playing across her teeth and chin, lapping up the blood on her face. Stepping towards him, she stopped at the chalk outline and hissed at him.

Barnes, grabbing the grimoire from the lectern, turned his back on the chamber and walked into the dark tunnel. At the top, he looked back once at the chamber. Then turned for the torpedo racks.

I’ll bury this place. And her with it.

Grabbing a tool kit from the maintenance lockers, he opened the warhead on one of them, twisted off the safety cap and exposed the detonator.

Chapter Six

Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.

The cold morning air stung Barnes’s face. He stumbled out of the sea cave and moved stiffly along the shore, his left side dragging as he walked. Behind him, the warhead detonated with an explosive roar, triggering the other torpedoes and collapsing the cave entrance, burying the U-boat pen and the base. The blast blew him onto the frozen shingle. Rolling flames from ignited diesel lit the gloomy morning, and a wave of heat washed over him as he lay on the ground.

The storm had broken during the night. A dense grey fog drifted across the North Atlantic, masking the horizon. The tide washed gently against the rocks.

Barnes sat in the damp sand. His injured left arm throbbed. He set the grimoire down beside him, he’d no doubt Command would want to see it. Pulling out the hip flask of schnapps, he took a drink to fend off the chill. He reached for his locket with his right hand. Opening it, Natasha smiled back at him, as he remembered her.

Barnes pulled a crushed cigarette from his pocket, placing it between his lips. Striking a match against a rough stone, he cupped the flame, inhaled the harsh smoke, and let it out in a long sigh.

A grey silhouette pierced the mist. The sleek bow of a Royal Navy high speed launch cut through the dark water. The vessel moved cautiously towards the coastline. Barnes read the painted letters of its parent ship on the hull.

HMS Foxglove.

He took another drag as the ship drew closer through the fog.

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. Introduction

2. Download Outpost U-819 Must Die!

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

Good morning, my wicked darlings,

Today’s paid subscriber release is Outpost U-819 Must Die!, a sci-fi body horror novella set on a desolate ice planet where something very old, very hungry, and very wrong is waiting beneath the surface.

No, it’s not me.

But it is some…

Read more

Newt's Nightmares

1. News

2. FREE Horror Story Compilations

3. Recommended Horror Books

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

Egads, I could use a week off to recover from my birthday. Thank you, everyone for the birthday wishes, I’m currently regenerating by consuming my bodyweight in pizza and watching Spider Noir (if you haven’t had the pleasure, then EVERYONE should watch it, Nicolas Cage is perfectly cast and cameo from Andrew Robinson of Hellraiser fame was a delight).

I have also finally finished the novella I first wrote in 2021. Called The Menace Within, it was a confused mess back then, and rewriting it eight times didn’t fix it. So I opted to leave it for a few years while I worked on other projects. I came back to 2026 and rewrote everything from scratch, introducing a completely new plot, an a new villain, but keeping the same characters who had haunted me for years.

It’s with my beta readers now, and will be with my paid subscribers in a few days.

Sweet Screams,

Newt xx

Brides of Dracul

A Contemporary Horror Comedy Short Story

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

Download ePub / PDF

Night of the Expo

A Contemporary Psychological Horror Short Story

During a rainy night in Birmingham, Arthur, a mild-mannered hobbyist, finds his plan to transport his latest trophy home going awry.

Download ePub / PDF

The Better Half

A Contemporary Psychological Horror Short Story

When a disillusioned housewife’s slovenly husband, Barny, transforms overnight into a domestic god, her initial relief rapidly turns to dread.

Download ePub / PDF

Horror Story Promotions

Summer Screams: 47 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Leprechaun’ and ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 41 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 May. It’s been an excellent month, but really, the highlights were all Ash Ericmore:

• Sick F*ck V, VI and VII by Ash Ericmore: The highlights of a phenomenal series. Alex Cole is a psychopathic serial killer who somehow, mostly accidentally, saves the world. It’s dark, it’s funny, it’s gory, it’s thoroughly blood-filled, and it features a surprising amount of cum. It’s also the first time I’ve encountered Ash’s trademark grammatical signature, the one-sentence chapter, which is always hilarious whenever it occurs.

• Pop Goes The Weasel, by M. J. Arlidge: You know, I think this might be even better than the prequel Eeny Meeny. It’s darker, it’s more compelling, the plot drives forward relentlessly, and we can move on from the origin stories to focus on a new serial killer.

• The Mermaid’s Singing, by Val McDermid: This book was recommended to me by possibly the most terrifying entity I know: my mother. The serial killer features one of my least favourite tropes, but the characters and plot around it more than make up for it. Also, I can't give it a bad review, or she'll treat me to a taste of the slipper.

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. Festival of the Damned

2. Horror Story Compilations

AVAILABLE FOR FREE FOR 24 HOURS ONLY

It’s my birthday, and to celebrate, I’m giving away Festival of the Damned, a complete novella, for free.

This was the first, and longest, novella that I published. Judging by the reviews, I’d say it has held up well. I’m immensely proud of it. After its release, I made the decision to become a full-time author.

Get for FREE on Amazon

There is something sinister in the woods tonight.

Four troubled teenagers find themselves a job at a village fête.

But the beautiful village of Huddersford is not all that it seems. Behind every benevolent smile, every cheery wave and every welcoming gesture lies a dark and terrifying secret.

Reader Reviews:
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Well, that was seriously creepy. What a sick, twisted town and festival."
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "This is my first read from Newton, and I absolutely loved it!!"
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "What a fun, creepy, short horror story."
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "What an amazing book!"

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. Brides of Dracul

2. Horror Story Compilations

Brides of Dracul

By Newton Webb

Download PDF / ePub

Thursday, 25 October 2007
Trev hunched over his keyboard, cigarette burning down between two nicotine stained fingers. He scrolled through the profiles on FetLife, nodding along to Helloween’s album Walls of Jericho and drummed ash into an empty Megadeth mug.

He stopped scrolling.

Brides_Of_Dracul_PLS_READ_PROFILE.

The profile picture showed two women, both pale and in corsets. The cleavage was scaled to Kaiju proportions.

“Jesus Christ.”

Epic. Mega. Breasts.

What he saw of the bio was a generic slab of goth nonsense. He scrolled past it to the rest of the photos. The girls had red eyes in every single one. He winced.

Bloody Goths and their filter obsession. I bet they’re into The Cure.

He clicked on the private message icon, cracked his knuckles, and typed.

[Trev_Biker: Hey dudes, saw your profile and thought you looked real cool.]

Grinning, he sat back and took a contented puff on his cigarette.

They were offline, so he waited two songs’ worth just in case, then when his cigarette had burned down to the filter, disconnected. With a grumble, he disappeared into the kitchen to microwave a burger and a box of chips.

Friday, 26 October 2007
Closing the door behind him, Trev pulled off his bike jacket, revealing his crumpled work, white polyester shirt underneath and a tie that probably, at some point in the day, had been straight. Removing his boots, he hung up his equipment and pressed the power button on the sun faded beige PC. It creaked with age, and he went to the fridge to find a beer while it ran through its boot-up sequence.

Logging on to FetLife, Trev found a message waiting for him. He fist-pumped the air when he saw who it was from, causing his beer to froth. He sucked it down before it spilled.

[Brides_Of_Dracul: Did you read and understand our profile?]

He stared at it.

That’s it? Mega lame, man.

And the timestamp was 03:17, on a Friday.

Well, they don’t have a job then.

Noting they were online, he lit a cigarette and typed back.

[Trev_Biker: Yeah man, I said. Really cool profile.]

Puffing on his cigarette, Trev decided to up the ante. He attached a photo of his penis. He was particularly proud of this one. Trev had brought two Polaroids into work one Friday, then waited for everyone to go home so he could use the office photocopier to scan it. He’d deliberately chosen a Friday so he wouldn’t have to wait as long.

Then he’d cut out a picture of his snakeskin cowboy hat and glued it to the Polaroid of his proudly erect member nestled between his lion’s mane of pubic hair.

[Trev_Biker: This is my Fireblade, you are welcome to ride it. Any time ;)]

Then, just in case they didn’t get his double entendre, he attached 29 photos of his motorbike, a Honda Fireblade CBR900RR.

He clicked ‘Send’.

They replied almost immediately. He scowled.

There is no way they looked at all the pictures of my bike in that time.

[Brides_Of_Dracul: Your vehicle is impressive. If you agree, truly agree, with the conditions on our profile, we would like to meet.]

Trev took a deep drink from his beer. [Cool man, let me know where and when.]

[Brides_Of_Dracul: Thursday? On the 31^st of October? St Mary’s Church has been consecrated by the order for our use. Old town, Hemel Hempstead. One hour before midnight.]

What the fuck?

[Trev_Biker: Church? Are you kidding me? I’m not going to church, that’s mental.]

[Brides_Of_Dracul: It’ll be just us. Did you read our profile?]

Trev winced.

Church orgy. Mega lame. They better put out.

Thursday, 31 October 2007

The Flame by W.A.S.P boomed through Trev’s speakers as he wet shaved. A few squirts of Hugo Boss followed. He flexed his jaw and posed in front of the mirror, practicing his most aggressive grimace.

Banging.

He still had a few hours until his date. He banged his head as he ran through his wardrobe, looking at his collection of cowboy boots, choosing the crocodile ones, to go with his snakeskin hat. Leather jacket. KISS boxer shorts and a Poison t-shirt. Picking up the landline, he dialled his local taxi firm for a lift.

Trev waited by the road for his taxi with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand.

The driver looked surprised as he clambered into the front passenger seat rather than the rear seat.

“16 Sunshine Drive, please, mate.” Trev turned off the car radio, silencing Amy Winehouse.

There was a drawn-out pause.

Trev turned to the driver, who was watching him. “Quickest route is Adeyfield Road, Windmill Road, Lower Yott.”

“Sure.”

Trev took a swig from the bottle as they moved off. “I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t drink and drive. Got hit by a drunk driver once on my bike.”

“That’s fine. I don’t drink.”

“Don’t drink?” Trev screwed up his eyes. “Why? Are you Muslim?”

“No, I just don’t drink.”

Trev took another swig. “Fair enough.”

They travelled in mutual silence until they arrived outside Owen’s house. Trev passed a tenner to the driver and clambered out. “Look, mate, you’re solid. Can you return in an hour? I have to go to some church thing in the old town.”

“One hour, so ten fiftyish?”

“Yeah, mate. That’s about right.”

“Okay, sir. I’ll see you then.”

Trev closed the door, slapped the car roof, and waved the driver off.

Striding down the carefully curated path, he knocked on the front door.

Mrs Palmer, Owen’s mother, answered. Her hair was in a classic pixie cut. “Trevor, it’s so good to see you looking so healthy.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mrs Palmer. Very nice to see you. Is Owen here?”

She ushered him in. “He’s upstairs listening to his tunes. Here, let me take your jacket.”

“No, no. I’m fine with the jacket, thanks.” Trev shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Very well. Do you want a drink?”

“Ah, a Pepsi would be great, thanks. I’ve got my Jack here.” He raised the bottle.

She tutted. “You’d better be careful with that, Trevor. Strong liquor can send people funny.”

Trev glanced at the stairs, eyeing up his escape. “It’s okay, Mrs Palmer. I’m the legend of the real hardcore. It doesn’t affect me.”

She patted him on the arm. “Well, that’s lovely. You’re a good boy. You’d best go see Owen then. I’ll bring up your fizzy drink in a minute.”

As she turned to walk to the kitchen, Trev made a break for it up the stairs to Owen’s bedroom, easily identified by the sound of Emperor booming through the door.

Opening the door and quickly closing it behind him, Trev shook his head at Owen. “Dude. You have got to move out. You are thirty years old. You are far too old to live with your mother.”

Owen sat in an armchair, strumming his guitar. “Hey, Trev, good to see you too.”

“I mean it, man, this is epic mega not brütal.”

Owen played a swift riff. “Yeah, yeah, man. I’m moving out this year. My new band is really taking off. We’ve got some gigs booked already. Would have moved out last year, but Andy, our drummer, quit and became an accountant.”

Trev sat down on the single bed. It lurched under the weight of the combined leather and man. There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Owen called out.

His mother entered with two glasses of Pepsi and a plate of chocolate biscuits. “I’ll just put that on the side.”

“Thank you, Mrs Palmer.” Trev took the glass and a biscuit.

“You boys just call if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Mrs Palmer.” Trev flashed an annoyed look at Owen.

When the door shut, he munched angrily on his biscuit. “This is not the legend of the real hardcore.” He took a swig of Pepsi, refilling it with Jack Daniel’s. “I came here to get an hour of banter in before my orgy not to chill out with your mum.” He tapped his jacket pocket. “I can’t even smoke in here, man.”

Owen looked up, stopping the strings with his hand. “You’re going to an orgy?”

“Yeah, man, at the church.”

“A church orgy?”

“Yeah, they are like foreign goth women or something. But really cool birds.” Trev sipped his drink defensively. “Anyway, you got any blow?”

Owen walked over to the side table and, using a razor blade, racked up two lines of cocaine on a mirror under the supervision of a large poster of Slash. Rolling up a ten-pound note, he snorted the first line, then passed it to Trev.

Pulling his money clip out of his jacket, Trev peeled off a tenner, rolled it up, and snorted the remaining line.

“Heavy metal hardcore!” The two of them flicked the horns at each other and performed an emergency headbang. The moment was undermined when they both helped themselves to a chocolate biscuit.

“So where did you meet the birds?” Owen started racking up another two lines.

“FetLife, mate. Lots of talent on there. Just remember to skip any girl with purple hair. They are always mental.”

Owen nodded at the sage advice, hoovering up a line.

Trev retrieved two skull-shaped shot glasses from the drawer under the side table and poured two shots of Jack Daniel’s. Quickly snorting his line, he raised a glass to Owen. “Jack attack!”

They clinked and downed the whiskey.

Owen put the guitar down as the drinking began in earnest.

“Shit.” Trev glanced at his watch. It was five to eleven. “Gotta go, man. The taxi will be outside.”

“Quick Mandy before you go?”

“Super mega quick.” Trev gestured for Owen to hurry. “Go, go, go.”

Owen rapidly cut up two lines of MDMA. They picked up their respective ten-pound notes and started to snort until the notes touched each other.

“What the hell?” Trev raised his head, glaring at Owen. “Don’t snort my line, that’s like super gay, man.”

“It was my line.” Owen glowered back at Trev. “It was the one closest to me.”

“Yeah, but it was the biggest line, and I’m the guest. Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to go to church.”

Trev barrelled out of Owen’s bedroom, leaving his empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s behind.

“Leaving so soon, Trevor?” Mrs Palmer emerged as he opened the front door.

“Yes, Mrs Palmer.” He waved politely at her as he walked towards the waiting taxi. “Thank you for having me, Mrs Palmer.”

Emerging from the taxi, Trev rubbed his hands together with glee as he strutted down the steps into the churchyard.

“Oh my God, look what the Trev dragged in,” he muttered musically. “Livin’ his life, sin after sin.”

He circled the church, puffing on a pre-orgy cigarette. He could see the lights were on, but none of the doors were open. With a huff, he stubbed out his ciggy and banged on the atrium door.

It was opened by the largest pair of breasts he had ever seen, held together in a vintage whalebone and silk corset. “You are late.”

“Nah, man, it’s about the right time.”

It was at this point that he noticed that the music playing was, as he had feared, The Cure.

Another pair of breasts appeared next to him, wearing a purple and black corset. “Do you come to us pure as promised?”

“Yeah, yeah. Mega pure.” He flipped the horns at her.

The church had a medical bed set up facing the altar.

“That’s not very comfy.” Trev walked towards the bed. “We’re really going to do it on this?”

“It is adequate to our needs.” The breasts seemed to glide rather than walk next to him. “You will divest yourself of all garments. Flesh must taste the air.”

“Bit nippy in the church, isn’t it? I’ll keep the jacket on.” He laboured to remove his boots. One of the ladies assisted him with the second one, pulling it off with a savage tug. “Dude! Careful, those are from America!”

“False, you must be fully exposed.” The girls assisted him in stripping.

“Aren’t you going to strip?” His gaze moved from one pair to another.

“Do our outfits not please you?”

“Yeah, man, they are proper cool.” Trev was now completely naked. “Right, okay, black corset, you get on the bed, then purple—”

“You must lie on the bed.” The woman in the black corset gestured.

Fine.

Trev clambered onto the gurney, which rattled under his weight. “I’m not sure how this is going to work, physically. One of you should—Hey!”

A pair of handcuffs clipped him to the gurney.

He pulled his hand away as the woman in the purple corset clipped it around his other wrist. “Don’t we need safe words?”

The women looked at each other.

“Safe words?” the one in black asked.

“Yeah, dude. I’ve done loads of this BDSM shit.” Trev tugged on his restrained arm. “You have to have a safe word.”

“Do you have a safe word?”

“Yeah, Nelson.” Trev grimaced.

“Nelson?”

“Yeah, I hate Nelson. They’re a joke. I would never, ever say Nelson in conversation.” Trev leaned back, making himself comfortable.

“The admiral offends you?” Purple corset asked.

“The band! Admiral Nelson was a total dude.” Trev held out his other hand to get cuffed.

Fully restrained now, Trev started to tap his fingers on the gurney, trying to block out the sound of Robert Smith’s vocals in The Cure. As the track changed, it flicked onto another Cure song.

Fuuuuuck. It’s a full album. Kill me now.

Annoyed, he looked around to see black corset bringing over an empty blood bag on a rig.

“Kindly remain still.”

“No, no! That’s enough. I absolutely draw the line at blood play.” Trev pulled at the handcuffs. “Don’t make me use the safe word. I really hate that word.”

Black corset stroked his brow. “We require but a small draught and our gratitude will be eternal. You read this, surely, on our profile?”

“Well, yeah, of course I read your profile. I read all of it, mostly.” Trev’s eyes fixated on her chest. “Okay, you can have a little bit. Don’t take loads.”

“We are most pleased by your compliance.” She slid in the valve and started to extract blood through a tube into a blood bag. “Your blood will complete the covenant.” She turned to her partner. “The hour draws close. We must make haste, Cici.”

Cici? Oh, purple corset.

It was then that he noticed Cici had purple hair.

This is not going to end well.

“So should we get on with it then?” Trev was lying prone on the gurney, the cold air gusting across his chest. He noted happily that he was fully erect. He swayed his penis suggestively.

From the other end of the church, he heard chanting. They were out of sight now. Anger coursed through him, and his previously erect penis collapsed into a flaccid sack of flesh. He didn’t recognise the language, but assumed it was Latin. Goth’s love Latin.

Looking at his wrist, he saw the time was four minutes to midnight.

He had been in this church for nearly half an hour and still had not so much as touched a breast. Silently, Trev stewed, waiting for them to stop their gothic faffing and get on with the threesome.

A bestial howl echoed from the bottom of the church.

Those girls can really wail.

He mulled over the thought of introducing them to Owen as guest vocalists when the screaming started.

What now?

Cici ran over to Trev’s gurney. “Something is wrong, the Master, he is not himself.” Tears ran down her face. “He’s murdered Sorina. I don’t understand.”

“He? Is there another dude here?” Trev scowled. “Not cool, purple corset.”

“You are pure? You are sure?” Cici persisted.

“Yeah dude. Pure metal.” Trev did his utmost to flash the horns while still cuffed.

“Oh no… the Master. He has consumed tainted blood.” She curled her hands into fists. “What have you done?”

“What? How is this my fault.”

“We explained in our profile.”

“Yeah, but it was mega long.” Another bellow sounded. The deep noise vibrated in Trev’s stomach. The sound of a beast eating echoed through the eaves. “Look, if he is being a spanner, just uncuff me and I’ll boot him out.” What sounded like the splintering of pews reached his ears.

“You can stop the dark lord?”

“Yeah man, I’ll batter him. Just uncuff me.”

Cici looked sceptically at Trev.

“What? Just bloody uncuff me, before he comes over here.”

Cici glanced behind Trev in horror and then reluctantly uncuffed him. “You will need this.” She gave him a short carved wooden stake and retreated into the chancel. “You are most courageous. You will be remembered by the Order.”

The hell is this? Do they want me to set up a small picket fence?

Trev ignored the stake, rubbed his wrists, and hopped down off the gurney. “Oi mate, hide your shame.” He turned to face the rear of the church and saw a statue of a giant, winged demon.

“Someone ate black corset, that’s—”

He had to look upwards to lock eyes with it. It must have been twelve feet tall. As it stomped forwards, the ancient stone slabs shook under its implacable advance. The rolling coppery scent of the demon hit his nostrils.

It was not a statue.

Shit.

Trev turned to the side and ran, leapt up onto a table, then spun to present his back to the window and exploded through the stained glass, extending both his middle fingers at the dark lord.

“Fuck yo—” He landed on the stone slabs outside, glass shards slicing into his back. “Motherfucker!” In great pain he rolled over and raced up the churchyard steps.

Behind him, the 11th-century church roof exploded as the dark lord flew straight up into the night sky.

Friday, 1 November 2007

“And you’re sticking to that story?”

“Yeah man. Big fucking demon. Why else would I jump through a window?” Trev was handcuffed again, this time not by a chesty woman in a corset, but by PC Anderson, a dour, middle-aged, bald man. He was stuck in an interview room. The hangover was kicking in and he was thirsty, so very thirsty.

The police officer looked up from his notebook. “The problem, Trevor, is that we have multiple witnesses who all have the same story and it doesn’t involve corsets, demons, or consumed women.”

“Yeah, well they are lying. Look, can I get a cuppa tea or something? I’m parched.”

“So, I’ll tell you what we have so far.” PC Anderson levelled his stony gaze at Trev. “There was an explosion at the church, then you were found running naked, with shards of glass in your back, down the old town high street. Upon being arrested you were taken for medical treatment and your blood was found to contain dangerous levels of cocaine, MDMA, and alcohol.” He slapped his notebook down on the table. “So help me here, because if you are lying in your statement, then we will find out the truth and then you will find the law to be very unsympathetic.”

Trev scowled. “Dude. I told you everything. It isn’t my fault that you didn’t find any evidence. How could nobody see a massive demon? This is a cover up.”

PC Anderson stood up in disgust, turning to go.

“And why was I taken to Hatfield Police Station, instead of Hemel?” Trev shouted at PC Anderson’s retreating back. “It’s going to cost a bomb getting a taxi home.”

He growled in frustration.

“And I want my clothes!”

As he was left alone, stewing in his police clothing, he contemplated that he had left one part of the story out. His neck itched under the gauze from the bite.

As he looked down at his hands, he saw his nails lengthen.

Cool, won’t need a plectrum ever again.

His senses deepened. He could hear the heartbeats of the people in the room next to him. With one hand on the table, Trev pulled at the handcuffs. The chain distorted before snapping.

Dude! Awesome.

Trev walked to the door, finding it locked. He lashed out with his foot at the lock. The door exploded outwards. He smirked as he stalked down the corridor. A policeman came out of a doorway and he backhanded him. Something thudded into his back, but failed to slow him down. He booted through another door, entering the reception area. Someone tried to get him in a chokehold from behind. They dangled from his back as he marched inexorably to the main door, pushing it open and walking into the morning sunlight.

Argh man, that’s bright.

Trev’s head pounded as the sunlight sliced into his eyes. The worst hangover he’d ever had hit him like a hammer.

Oh fu—

Then he erupted into flame.

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. Night of the Expo

2. Horror Story Compilations

Night of the Expo

By Newton Webb

Download PDF / ePub

Saturday, 3 June 2023

The weather in Birmingham was grim. Oppressive rain hammered down on the streets. Arthur checked his phone. He saw the list of ‘Train Cancelled’ announcements on the Trainline app. He grunted with annoyance.

He needed to get home immediately.

Arthur adjusted the collar of his jacket and pulled on a pair of brown leather gloves before pushing through the revolving doors of the Hilton Birmingham Metropole and stepping out into the deluge.

It was barely nine in the evening, but Arthur was already knackered. He checked his watch.

Damned trains.

He checked his watch again, exhaling with frustration. The UK Games Expo was busier each year. Arthur had little taste for crowds.

He would have to find a quiet place to wait for the trains to sort themselves out. The hotel bar was out of the question. The convention attendees had descended upon Birmingham like a plague of locusts in Warhammer T-shirts. They had commandeered the lounge, the lobby, and the lifts. The air inside the Hilton smelled of bodily odour, cheap lager, and the saccharine tang of energy drinks.

Arthur walked down the main thoroughfare, head down against the wind. The city was heaving. Every pub window he passed revealed a mass of laughing drinkers, men with swollen red faces spilling out onto the pavements with vape pens in hand. Many of them clutched the distinctive hard-shell cases that housed their armies. Thousands of hours of painting time were protected by identical Games Workshop plastic cases.

Arthur clutched a heavy case of his own in his right hand. He had considered dropping it at the luggage storage at New Street Station, but decided not to risk it. He needed to keep an eye on it.

He turned off the main drag, navigating the narrow, darker side streets toward the Jewellery Quarter. Here, the streetlamps were fewer, casting long, fractured shadows against the Victorian brickwork. The roar of the convention crowd faded, replaced by the rhythmic drumming of rain on the pavement and the distant roar of traffic.

He found the Kings Arms down a service alley that smelled of wet cardboard and stale urine. It was a dimly lit old man’s boozer, miraculously untouched by the gentrification sweeping the city.

The landlord stood at the far end, watching the cricket on a flat-screen TV.

Arthur took a stool near the door, far from the few other patrons huddled in the booths. He placed his heavy black case on the empty stool beside him.

“Pint of mild, please.” He looked at the top shelf, scanning the labels. “And a whisky chaser. Laphroaig, please.”

The landlord nodded, glancing briefly at the black case and pursing his lips with a look of disparagement. “Single or double?”

“Single, please.”

“Ice?”

“No, thanks.”

Arthur flexed his stiff fingers. He took a sip of the mild. It was nutty, cool, and perfect. He closed his eyes, letting the tension of the convention and the stress of being around so many people bleed out of his shoulders. He pulled a battered copy of Daemonslayer from his jacket pocket and continued reading.

That delightful peace lasted just under four beautiful minutes.

The door swung open with a crash, admitting a gust of wind and a man who seemed to occupy twice the space his physical frame should allow.

“Double Scotch. Neat. And keep ’em coming, big man!”

The newcomer was a thickset man in his forties, with a high, flushed forehead damp with rain and sweat. He wore a faded T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Bolt Thrower, an 80s death metal band, stretched tight over a paunch.

In his hand, gripped with white-knuckled intensity, was a black Games Workshop carry case. It was identical to Arthur’s, the same scuffed plastic, the same retractable handle, the same black plastic latches.

The stranger scanned the room, his eyes darting with a frantic, restless energy, ignoring all the many empty tables and instead choosing to occupy an empty stool near Arthur.

He marched over and gently placed his case down on the stool next to Arthur’s case. “Urgh, that’s better. I swear we end up carrying more rulebooks than miniatures these days with all the expansions. They weigh a ton.” The stranger threw a twenty-pound note onto the bar.

Arthur sighed, putting a bookmark into his book with exaggerated care before nodding politely, hoping the gesture would be enough to dismiss the man. “Indeed.”

The stranger swallowed his whisky in one motion. He slammed the glass down. “Another. And a pint of Stella. Need to wash the taste of that hall out of my mouth.”

He turned to Arthur, his eyes dropping to the case on the stool, then back to Arthur’s face. A grin split his face, a conspiratorial expression that Arthur knew well. He had found a member of the tribe in the wild.

“You play, then?” The stranger gestured to Arthur’s case with his chin.

Arthur hesitated. “I dabble. Mostly painting these days. I haven’t played the tournament scene since the sixth edition, and don’t get me started on that Age of Sigmar nonsense.”

“I hear that.” The stranger grinned. “I’m Rob. Just finished the Grand Tournament. Five games in two days. Absolute grinder.”

“Arthur,” he replied. “And how did you fare?”

Rob grimaced, wiping foam from his lip as he started on the lager. “Placed top twenty. Should have been top ten, but I got screwed in the final round. Played against a Dwarf gunline. Cowardly way to play, if you ask me. Sitting in a corner rolling dice. No honour in it.”

Arthur took a slow sip of his mild. “I collect Empire. Faith, steel and gunpowder. I have always appreciated the aesthetic of the disciplined rank and file. I didn’t join the tourney, but I did enter the Golden Demon painting competition.”

“Empire, eh? How did you do?” Rob looked at Arthur with a new assessment. “Lot of painting, that. Hundreds of little men.”

“Second place,” Arthur said bitterly. “One of the judges was talking to me afterwards. Jessica had the cheek to say that my armour detailing was the best she’d seen, but my head detailing was sloppy.”
“Respect. I haven’t got the patience for the fiddly bits. I play Khorne. Chaos Warriors mostly. I prefer mortals to daemons.”

Arthur smiled thinly. “Khorne worshippers.”

“Too right,” Rob beamed. “Blood for the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne. That’s my motto. I like an army that gets stuck in. None of this shooting from across the board. I want to be in your face, axes swinging, taking heads.”

Arthur weighed up his words, then nodded. “There is a certain honesty to melee, I suppose. Up close and personal.”

“Exactly!” Rob shifted on his stool, leaning closer. This was clearly not his first pint of the evening. “It’s about the release, isn’t it? That’s why we do it. You spend all week in a cubicle taking rubbish from a boss who knows bugger all except how to make PowerPoint presentations, and then the weekend comes...” He slapped the top of his black case lovingly. “And you get to be a god of war.”

“A release.” Arthur chewed his top lip and sucked in the air through his teeth. “Yes. I suppose so. Anyway, I really should go.”

“Nonsense.” Rob signalled the landlord for another round, ignoring the half-full pint in front of him. “You know, people think it’s just toys. ‘Toy soldiers,’ my ex-wife used to call them. It’s a game of skill, forget the dice gods, it’s about getting the perfect list, mentally measuring distances to the millimetre and then dominating your opponent. When you nail a perfect charge from your Khorne Bloodcrushers. You’re rolling handfuls of dice, removing models by the handful. It’s a slaughter.” He cackled.

Arthur watched the man. Rob’s knee was vibrating, his foot tapping the bar. “Yep. Khorne is definitely your army.”

Rob laughed again, leaning in so close Arthur could smell the chemical tang of his breath. “I collect the skulls, mate. Literally. On the bases of my minis. I paint them up real nice. Bone white, little wash of Agrax Earthshade over Wraithbone to make them look old and rotted. Every time I wipe a character in a tournament, I glue another skull to my warlord’s base. He’s standing on a mountain of them now. A mountain of trophies.”

Arthur felt a cold prickle of amusement at the base of his spine. “I collect trophies too.”

“Bang on.” Rob tapped his nose. “You get it. Even if you are an Empire player.”

Rob looked around the empty pub, then lowered his voice. He tapped the pocket of his leather jacket. “You look like you’re flagging, Arthur.” Rob gave him a conspiratorial look. “Long weekend, yeah? You want a sharpener? Toot of nose candy? Or I’ve got ephedrine. Keeps the reaction times up. Half the top tables are on it. Can’t hold your concentration without it.”

Arthur recoiled slightly, though he kept his expression neutral. “I think I will stick to the mild, thank you. The only stimulation I need is an imperial pint of tea per hour, with one sugar.”

“Suit yourself.” Rob took a long pull of his pint with a jittery hand. “More for me. Gotta stay sharp. I’ve got a long drive back to Leeds tonight.”

“You’re driving? In this state?”

“I’m fine,” Rob snapped, his mood swinging instantly from camaraderie to defensiveness. “I drive better when I’m buzzed. Focused. Besides...” He looked at the door, a look of anger crossing his face. “I’ve had enough of Birmingham. There was a... disagreement at the venue. Some admins getting pushy about ‘recaster’ allegations. Bunch of fascists.”

“Counterfeit models?” Arthur asked.

“3D printed, none of that YoyMart nonsense. Perfect replicas. But Games Workshop doesn’t like it when you undercut their bottom line. And they really don’t like it when you sell them in the trade hall.” Rob wiped sweat from his forehead. “I made a killing this weekend, Arthur. Cash in hand. But someone blabbed to security and now I’m banned from the Expo.”

“I imagine your pharmaceutical adventures were of more concern than your 3D printing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe.” Rob grabbed his fresh whisky. His hand was shaking. As he lifted the glass, the whoop whoop of police sirens sounded. A squad car could be seen pulling up outside the pub through the frosted windows. His elbow jerked, clipping the edge of his Stella pint.

The tall glass tipped.

“Shit!” Rob yelled.

The golden liquid surged across the polished mahogany, heading straight for the two open stools where the cases sat.

Arthur moved with a speed that belied his age. He snatched both black cases by their handles, hauling them into the air just as a wave of lager cascaded over the edge. The heavy plastic boxes clacked together in his grip, swinging wildly as he twisted his body to shield them.

“Watch it!” Arthur snapped.

“Sorry! Sorry, mate!” Rob was on his feet, grabbing napkins, dabbing uselessly at his jeans.

The landlord was there in an instant with a rag, scowling deeply. “That’s your last whisky, mate.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Rob stammered. He looked disoriented, his eyes wide and dilated.

Arthur stood holding the two nearly identical cases, then set them down on the dry section of the bar.

“You’re lucky.” Arthur’s voice was calm. “I kept them dry.”

He pushed the case on the left towards Rob.

Rob breathed out, a sigh of chemically induced relief. “Cheers, Arthur. You’re a lifesaver.”

The door opened, two police officers entering. Rob froze. The blood drained from his face, leaving it a sickly, pasty white.

“Shit.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at Rob. “There’s a fire exit at the back.”

Rob didn’t wait. He spun on his heel, clutching the heavy black case to his chest like a rugby ball. Rob bolted. He hit the fire doors at full speed, the crash echoing through the bar.

The front door opened, and a Sergeant, soaked in rain, stepped in. He looked tired, scanning the room, until the sound of the crashing fire door alerted him.

“Oi!” the Sergeant shouted, his instincts kicking in. “You there! Stop!”

The landlord pointed a weary finger. “He went out the back.”

The Sergeant didn’t hesitate, speaking into his radio. “Suspect fleeing rear of Kings Arms, heading for the canal.” He gave chase, his boots thudding heavily on the floorboards.

Arthur sat back down on his stool, taking a sip of his mild.

“Bloody idiot.” The landlord wiped the last of the Stella from the bar. “Hope they catch him.”

Ten minutes passed. Arthur finished his mild. He was considering the whisky chaser when the Sergeant returned.

The Sergeant was wet, muddy, and grim faced. He was accompanied by a young Constable who looked green around the gills.

The Sergeant walked straight to Arthur.

“You were sitting with him.” The Sergeant pulled out his notebook.

“Briefly.” Arthur leaned back on his stool. “He bought me a drink. Talked about wargaming. Then he saw your lights and ran.”

“Did he say why?”

“Not explicitly. He hinted it could be for copyright infringement, but then again he did try and sell me drugs.”

The Sergeant blinked, then let out a short, incredulous huff of air. “Copyright infringement? He didn’t run into the A38 for that.”

Arthur paused. “He ran into the road?”

“Oh yes, vaulted the barrier,” the Constable piped up, his voice shaking. “Straight into the path of a National Express coach. Didn’t stand a chance.”

“Dead?” Arthur asked.

“Instant,” the Sergeant said. “Messy.”

Arthur shook his head slowly. “A tragedy.”

“We recovered his property,” the Sergeant said. He gestured to the Constable, who held up a black Citadel case. It was cracked down one side, the plastic split from the impact, but the latches had held. “This is yours, isn’t it? Or his?”

“That was his,” Arthur said firmly. “I have my own right here.” He patted the case next to him.

The Sergeant looked at the cracked case in the Constable’s hand. “Heavy,” the Constable muttered. “Feels heavier than plastic figures.”

“Classic models were cast in white metal.” Arthur sipped at his pint. “People often magnetise the bottom of their bases too, to help them adhere to the movement trays.”

The Sergeant looked at the case. For a second, Arthur wondered if he would open it.

“Bag it,” the Sergeant said to the Constable. “We’ll inventory it at the station. It’s evidence of the deceased’s movements.”

The Constable nodded, pulling a large evidence bag from his belt and awkwardly wrestling the cracked case into it. He sealed it with a strip of yellow tape.

“I’ll need your details, sir,” the Sergeant said to Arthur. “In case we have further questions.”

“Of course.” Arthur gave a fake name, Thomas Halloway, and an address in London that belonged to a bakery he visited occasionally. He recited the conversation about the drugs and the counterfeiting as closely as he remembered.

“Right. Sorry, do you mind if we have a look in your case? We are looking for a middle aged man with a black Games Workshop carry case.”

Arthur blinked, a chill running down his spine. “You’ll find plenty of them in Birmingham. What is this about?”

“Nevertheless, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur hesitated. His face was pale. “I’d rather not, they are very delicate.”

The Sergeant narrowed his eyes. “You can open it here, or down the station. Your choice.”

He had been careful. So careful. And now, his spree was going to end in a damp pub because of a drunk and a spilled pint.

Game over.

Reluctantly, he flicked the black plastic clips.

Click. Click.

The lid swung back.

Arthur blinked.

He looked up at the Sergeant, forcing his face into a mask of annoyance rather than the relief that was flooding his system. “As I said. Delicate.”

The Sergeant peered down at the rows of Chaos Warriors standing in foam trays and rulebooks, then flipped shut his notebook. “You’re free to go, Mr Halloway. Sorry to ruin your evening.”

“Not at all.”

Arthur stood up, resisting the urge to laugh hysterically. He closed the case, clipping it locked. He gripped the handle of his black case.

Blood for the Blood God.

“Goodnight, Sergeant.” Arthur waved.

He walked out of the Kings Arms and back into the rain.

The cold air bit at his cheeks, refreshing him. He turned left, away from the flashing lights and the crash scene, heading towards New Street Station.

He walked nervously, praying the police wouldn’t call him back at any moment. He felt light headed from his stroke of luck.

Somewhere in a police evidence locker, in a few hours or perhaps a few days, a constable would cut the seal on Roy’s bag. They would pry open the cracked plastic latches, expecting to find counterfeit Warhammer miniatures. Instead, they would find something a lot more human.

I hope they appreciate the fine detailing on Jessica’s head.

Arthur smirked as he looked back at the pub, the police lights fading. His heart was still hammering from the adrenaline rush.

He checked his phone.

The trains were running again.

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. Til Death Do Us Part

2. Horror Story Compilations

Read more

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

Read more

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

Read more

Contents

1. Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues

2. Horror Story Compilations

Read more

Contents

1. Barghest

2. Horror Story Compilations

Read more

Newt's Nightmares

1. News

2. FREE Horror Story Compilations

3. Recommended Horror Books

Read more

Contents

1. A Taste of Sin

2. Horror Story Compilations

Read more