Night of the Expo by Newton Webb
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.
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Night of the Expo
By Newton Webb
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.
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