The Blighted Child by Newton Webb

A 1980s Short Story: An abandoned daughter’s search for her roots leads her to a terrible truth.

Contents:

1. Horror Compilations

2. The Blighted Child

Horror Story Compilations

Summer of Horror: 37 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’ and ‘The Scream’.

Beneath the Shadow: 14 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Braemoor Incident’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Soulmates’, ‘Deus Vult’, and ‘The Scream’.

Terrifying Tales: 12 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned’ and ‘The Morrígan’.

The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza!: 82 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Wild Hunt’ and ‘The Spinster’.

The Blighted Child, by Newton Webb

King’s Road, London, 1962

Lightning crashed on the King’s Road as Holland House partied. Thunder clashed with Bobby Vee’s Rubber Ball, echoing through the building. The mirror ball sent spears of coloured light through the glass, piercing the stormy night.

Inside, the air buzzed with laughter and the clink of glasses as the crowd danced to the vibrant music. Lizabet Holland, surrounded by her entourage, sat in a comfortable chair with a gimlet in her hand.

“Darling, you are so courageous hosting a party this soon after giving birth. I was in bed for weeks. David was rushed off his feet bringing me treats.” Esme sipped her Manhattan. “I only emerged when he cheekily gave me a voucher for John Donald.” She tapped the golden necklace on the neckline of her shift dress.

Lizabet smiled. “I told Jackyboy that I needed gaiety in my life, and that I could sit just as well in a chair as in bed.” She put down her gimlet and adjusted her posture. “Either he invited a few friends round here, or I would get up and go to them. The dear relented. He is ever so well trained.”

Her friend Tilly looked around. “Where is the baby? I thought you’d be all cock-a-hoop to show her off.”

Lizabet snorted. “Oh, I think not. She is merely the arrow, and I am the bow. The nurse assures me I will feel utter devotion for her in time, but as far as I’m concerned, she was nothing but a nine-month millstone.” Lighting a cigarette in a white ceramic holder, she took a puff.

“Oh Lizabet, that is dreadful. This is your daughter you are talking about.”

Lizabet waved a hand at the offended Tilly. “She is out back with a nursemaid who is paid to love her. She is fine.”

“Don’t be a sourpuss, Tilly.” Esme took her aside. “It is Lizabet’s party, and we are here to support her. Now, let’s get another champers, shall we?”

Lizabet felt an intense wave of dizziness, followed by a sharp pain tearing through her abdomen. Her vision blurred and the room tilted dangerously. She blinked, her gimlet slipping from her fingers and shattering on the polished wood floor. The dancing ceased, replaced by gasps of shock as she crumpled to the ground, clutching her stomach.

“Lizabet!” Jack left the boys and raced to her side, a look of panic crossing his face as she gasped for breath, her face twisted in agony. “What’s wrong?” When she didn’t answer, he called to the others. “Help me with her.” He lifted her as gently as he could. “Someone call an ambulance.”

“Jack, the child…” Lizabet gasped. “Bring her to me, quick.”

Jack carried her to her bed. “Rest now.”

“No, listen to me.” Lizabet looked at him angrily. “Bring her to me. I need her. She can—” She slumped back, unconscious.

Jack stroked her hand and watched as his pale wife’s breathing slowed. “No, my dear. It’s done enough damage to you.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I said we didn’t need kids.”

He sniffed, rose to his feet, and squared his shoulders before marching to the bedroom door.

“Where is that ambulance?” He strode into the kitchen, where Esme was on the phone.

“Twenty minutes, Jack.”

“Good.” Jack nervously tapped the floor. “This is good.”

Kevin brought him a whisky. “She’ll be all right, Jack. It’s probably just hysteria. Giving birth does odd things to women.”

Jack nodded.

Tilly emerged from the bedroom. “Jack, she has stopped breathing.”

“No, no, Lizabet, no!” He raced into the room. “Somebody do something.”

Jack knelt at the side of his wife. He frantically tried to perform mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions from half-remembered scenes on the television. “Where is that damned ambulance?” He slumped down, holding onto her hand. “I warned her she needed to rest.”

Tilly reappeared with Minnie in her arms. “Jack, I thought it was best to—”

He turned, slowly.

“She needs a doctor.” His voice was flat. “Not that thing.”

Tilly stared at him.

“Get it out.”

Silence fell.

He refused to meet her eyes. “Get that thing out of my house.”

Tilly flinched. “Jack, she is just a baby.”

“I will not lose my wife and then let the thing that killed her sleep under my roof.” He took a step forward. “Get it out of here.”

Smash.

Jack’s fist connected with the wall beside the doorframe, cracking the plaster. “I said, ‘Get it out.’ I never want to see it again.”

He sank against the wall, his body trembling with violent sobs, his eyes fixed on the bed where Lizabet had taken her last, shuddering breath.

Tilly looked at him with horror, but obediently took Minnie outside and looked for a cab. Looking down at the baby, she hugged her close and kissed the top of her head. She rocked her gently as she waited for a black cab to appear on the road.

Kings Road, London, 1989

Minnie looked around nervously.

This is a mistake.

The air was muggy, the slate-grey clouds promising rain. She bit her top lip and tapped her thighs anxiously.

Fuck it.

She knocked on the door of Holland House. The townhouse had aged poorly. Its white-painted front was stained by roadside pollution, and the paint on the black wooden door was flaking.

There was no response.

Minnie considered turning and walking away, but she had travelled all the way from the south coast.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
She knocked again, harder.

This time she heard movement.

An old man answered the door. Jack’s once sharp features had softened into a bloated, sagging face. His bloodshot eyes glared out from beneath bushy brows.
“Whatever you're selling, I don’t want it.”

“I–”

He cut her off. “You’re about to say, ‘It’ll only take a minute of your time,’ but how about you get lost and save me those precious seconds? Lord knows, I don’t have many left.”

She stared at him in shock. “You’re dying?”

“Aren’t we all? So if you don’t mind–”

“Dad!”

He froze before the anger returned. “Are you simple? Are you trying to scam me?”

“It’s me. Minnie.” She looked down. “I know you wanted nothing to do with me, but I had to meet you.”

“Minnie? Minnie…” His voice trailed off as his mind travelled back to the last time he had seen her. His eyes softened before he snarled.
“Come to finish me off, like you did your mother?”

He tried to slam the door.

She slammed her palm against it. “I’m not here to fight. Just fifteen minutes and a cup of tea. Then I’ll go. That’s all.”

“Why would you want a drink with me?” He looked at her suspiciously.

“You have no idea, do you?” She stifled a nervous laugh, before anger took its place. “But then, how could you? You grew up loved. I’ve gone my entire life without knowing where I came from. Believe me, I wish my dad was someone else. Someone who cared. But he isn’t. He is you.”

Jack stared at her for a moment, his bleary mind slowly piecing her words together. With his lip curling in disdain, he stepped back, allowing her inside.

She entered, her eyes sweeping over the dismal state of the house. Dust-covered furniture, peeling wallpaper, and the stench of stale liquor filled the air.

“I don’t have any money,” he snapped as he led her in.

She raised an eyebrow and walked into the hallway. The house, once grand, was filthy. Dust coated every surface. Cobwebs clung to every corner.
“All I need from you is a cup of tea and a conversation. Fifteen minutes should do us, I reckon.”

He shuffled behind her. “Kitchen is that way.”

“Dad, do you–”

“Call me Jack. I am not your dad,” he said, his jaw jutting out stubbornly as he led her across the stained hallway carpet to the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dishes, and the scent of rotting food was almost unbearable. Flies clustered on the plates.

“Oh my God, you’ll get rats!” Minnie looked at the kitchen in disgust.

“I lay traps,” he said sullenly.

“Go and sit down. We aren’t having our cup of tea until this kitchen is clean.”

With a grimace, she emptied the sink to make space to clean. As she tipped away the mould-topped water, she recoiled at the worsening stench.

Jack waved as if unbothered, grumbled to himself, grabbed a bottle of whisky, and shuffled into the living room.

It took Minnie two hours to clean the kitchen. She had only intended to do the washing up, but once she had started, she couldn’t stop.

She began with the dishes, then tackled the black mould on the window frames and the encrusted food on the floor tiles.

When she finished, she looked at the art deco kitchen with approval. It was worn, but she could see the expensive, fashionable fittings. She tried to imagine what it had been like with her mum in the sixties. Had she been much of a cook? Minnie knew nothing about her. All she knew was that her dad had kicked her out when she was born, blaming her for her mum’s death.

Boiling the kettle, she took two freshly cleaned and unchipped mugs and made tea. The fridge, now sparkling clean, thankfully had some reasonably fresh milk in it.

When she took the tea into the living room, her dad was snoozing in an armchair. She looked at the thick dust on the carpet and resolved to clean this room next. Placing the cup down beside Jack, she gingerly sat in an adjacent chair, trying not to think about the dust collecting on her jeans.

Jack woke and studied the cup for a long moment.
“I shouldn’t have kicked you out of the house.”

Minnie waited. She had hoped for a tearful apology for so long but had never truly expected it.

“It was unseemly of me,” Jack continued.

When he left it at that and picked up his tea, Minnie gave a tight smile.
“Thank you... Jack. I do appreciate you saying that.”

He put down his tea. “I hated you for years, you know.”

“I... I was told.” Minnie watched him closely.

“I tried to get on with my life. But it was never the same without your mother. She had a vibrant energy that filled the house.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “She was an orphan too.”

“I’m not an orphan, Jack. I have a dad,” Minnie said calmly.

“Look.” He glanced at her, annoyed, stirring his tea and spilling a few drops. “I shouldn’t have kicked you out.”

She sipped her tea.

“That’s it, really.” He slumped in his chair, looking old and worn. “You look like her, you know. Same cheekbones.”

Minnie rose and walked to the mantelpiece. She picked up a photo and, wiping off the dust, looked at her parents.

“Would you like to know what my life was like?”

“Were you happy?”

“With my foster parents?” Minnie ran her thumb along the edge of the photo frame. “Not for a long time. I felt... displaced. Like I’d been dropped into someone else’s life and expected to be grateful.”

She glanced up, but Jack wasn’t looking at her.

“I scraped through school. University was supposed to fix things, you know?” She gave a brittle laugh. “But mostly, I drank. And dated awful men. The kind who–” She stopped, her voice catching. “The kind who knew I didn’t know what love looked like.”

A long silence stretched between them.

She reached into her bag. “Then I met Tim.” She passed him a photo. He gave it a cursory glance.

“That’s why I came to see you, really, Jack. I wanted closure. I wanted to say goodbye.”

“What do you mean?”

“In a week’s time, you’ll finally have what you wanted all those years ago. I’m not going to be a Holland any more, Jack. Not that I ever really was.”

Minnie took the photo back.

“The wedding is next week. I’ll be Minnie Donovan. Our last connection will be severed. You’ll finally be free of me, just as you wanted all those years ago.”

Jack looked worried. “You don’t want me to walk you–”

“Ha. God, no.” She snorted. “All I wanted was to meet my dad for the first time. To make peace, if I could, and to say goodbye properly.”

Jack looked around nervously. “I don’t have any money for the ceremony. I quit work after your mother’s death.”

“I wouldn’t accept your money if it were offered. But perhaps you could offer your blessing?”

Jack huffed, a look of nervous panic in his eyes.
“I’m glad you’re getting married. I mean that. I hope he’s a better husband than I was a father.” Jack looked down at the cup of tea.

“Perhaps you could do something for me.”

Jack looked up, suspicious. “What?”

“I’ve had repeated dreams. Dreams of my mother. She calls to me.” Minnie clenched her fists. “I thought that maybe if I said goodbye to her at her gravestone, I’d get closure and could move on.”

“Fine. That I can do.” He looked around for something to write on. Finding a paper with a half-completed crossword, he tore off a sheet and scribbled some words with a cheap pen. Handing it to her, he gave a quick, thin-lipped smile.

“You’ve said goodbye to me. You should say goodbye to your mother.”

Minnie took the address gratefully.
“I tried to find where she was buried. I looked everywhere.”

“She was buried in the old family vault. You’d have to go back quite a few generations to find the name.”

“She wasn’t English?”

Jack scowled. “Of course she was. Her ancestors came here centuries ago.” A faint sneer crossed his face. “Hungarian.”

“Why keep it so... secret?”

Jack didn’t meet her eye. “It’s just... tradition. Her side of the family were old. Proper old blood. They had ways of doing things.” He glanced at the whisky bottle. “Superstitious, you’d say.”

Minnie frowned. “What sort of superstitions?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s all nonsense.”

Minnie looked at the paper and quietly mouthed the unfamiliar name. Her family name, passed down through the maternal line.

“Báthory.”

#

The Cemetery: 1989

The wind whipped through the yew trees as Minnie pulled her coat tight around her and read the names on the ancient tombs. Her steps were slow and measured on the uneven ground as she cursed her choice of footwear. The chill of the late autumn air cut through her thin coat. It was still early, and the morning fog shrouded the weathered headstones.

She could feel it before she saw it. A wave of exhaustion rolled over her as she looked up. The ancient stone was worn. It looked hundreds of years old, though someone—Jack, she assumed—had been keeping it clean. A polished bronze plaque bore the family name: Báthory. Minnie sniffed as she looked at it, a reaction brought on by both the cold and a rising sense of unease.

“Báthory...” Minnie ran her fingers over the stone. “It’s beautiful. So old. It—” She clutched at her head. She hadn’t drunk since university, yet she suddenly felt as if she were suffering from a severe hangover. She pulled out a bronze key and fitted it into the lock. The metal door swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a marble sarcophagus.

She knelt before it. “I don’t know if you can hear me,” Minnie whispered. “I feel like I’ve been looking for you all my life. I miss you, Mum. I never met you, and yet I miss you so much.” She rubbed her temple, wincing at the migraine that assailed her. “I saw Jack.”

She placed a hand on the tomb.

“He’s still angry.” She paused in thought. “Was he like this when you met him? I can’t imagine anyone falling in love with him. If you could talk to me... I get the sense that he died along with you. Christ.”

Minnie slumped to the floor as a sharp pain lanced through her skull. She looked with horror at her hand. It was withered and papery. Liver spots marred her previously flawless skin.

“What’s wrong with me?” Minnie’s voice rasped as her throat dried. She felt faint. Her head lolled back. Sunken eyes looked up at the marble sarcophagus. She was barely breathing. Her skin sagged against her bones.

A moan slipped from her lips as the air turned heavy, old, and coppery. The tomb’s marble lid slid open without a sound.

Something stirred inside. Pale fingers, smooth as alabaster, gripped the edge.

Lizabet rose, radiant and terrible. Her skin was flushed with youth. She stepped over Minnie’s collapsed form, brushing her fingers over Minnie’s face—now gaunt, hollow-eyed, her lips dry and grey.

“Jackyboy, you fool,” she said, her voice low and thick with anger. “How long have you kept me waiting?”

THE END

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Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.