1. Introduction

2. Download The Lord’s Light

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1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Download Welcome to Paradise

3. Read Online

FREE Horror Story Compilations

26 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘The Scream’ and ‘The Black Fog’.

Download ePub / PDF

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Welcome to Paradise

The sound of birds woke David. He groaned and pushed back the thick duvet. Sunlight poured in through the windows as he snuggled deeper into the comfy mattress.

Where am I?

This wasn’t his bed. He had something important to ask someone, but he couldn’t remember who or what. He opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, triggering a splitting headache. His mind felt muddled.

A man in a pure white suit was sitting next to his bed, beaming with a beneficent grin. “Hello, David.”

“Who are you? Where am I?” David threw the sheets back. His heart was racing.

“It is okay, David. Your memory will return in time. You died and are now in Paradise. I am here to manage your onboarding process. A kind of spiritual liaison if you like.”

“Died? How?” David rubbed the side of his head. “I’m not dead.”

“You will remember in time. The important thing is to get you settled. My name is Azrobius, and I will be helping you with your eternity in Paradise.” The smile was constant, his teeth painfully white. “I will let you get dressed and wait for you on the veranda.”

David waited for him to leave and then rose, removing his soft, white pyjamas. He padded barefoot across the thick pile carpet and marvelled at the marble walls and floor tiles. Beautiful frescos adorned the walls. He admired a depiction of a group of angels feeding apples to the poor.

Opening the wardrobe, he pulled a face. No Iron Maiden in Paradise, apparently. He flicked through a selection of pastel colours that would make a geography teacher’s dress sense seem risqué. David pulled on some light blue jeans and a tight white vest.

Azrobius was waiting as promised with two glasses of champagne. They toasted as they overlooked the beautiful marble city. Children played in a nearby park, birds sang and-- Good lord! The hymns rose in a discordant mess to jar his ears. David couldn’t see how they could sing worse. Timing, tone and pitch were enthusiastic yet abominable.

“What is that ghastly noise?”

Azrobius winced. “Paradise is an all-inclusive place where we encourage everyone to join us in church and sing. This means we get every level of ability with all the associated issues that causes.” After the briefest of deliberation, Azrobius locked eyes with David. “We encourage it. It is a wondrous social activity. It really flexes the lungs.”

Pulling a face, David took a sip. “What now?”

“Now, you enjoy the little spot in Paradise you’ve earnt. There are some rules, though.” Azrobius put on his best stern face, managing to look like a wounded puppy. “This mansion is all yours, but you are responsible for maintenance. Paradise has limited space and lots of new guests, so we start people in mansions and then move them down housing grades if they cannot look after them. With all the newcomers, it is almost impossible to move back up a grade. Something to be wary of.” Waving at all the different beautiful buildings below them, Azrobius smiled. “We just want everyone to end up in the property that is right for them.”

His mind was niggling at him. Through the mental fog, he clutched at a thought. “I’ve a wife. Where is she?”

Whipping out a pristine, new notepad and flipping through it, Azrobius frowned. “Nothing here. David, I would wait until your memories return. I have been doing this for six thousand years, and we’ve not misplaced anyone yet.” Running his finger over the marble tabletop, he frowned, “Dust already. It never ceases to amaze me how fast it accumulates on marble.”

“What about money?”

Azrobius laughed, “Money? You are in Paradise, no mortgage, no bills, and the finest food and equipment automatically fill your pantry. We have Tuscan tomatoes, truffles from Florence, wines from France.” He looked at the glass critically. “Before climate change ruined the harvest, I might add.” He raised his glass. “Enjoy your afterlife.”

Smiling, David clinked his champagne flute in a toast. No work, everything for free. He exhaled, the stress rolling off his body like a maritime fog.

Azrobius stood and bowed, “With that, I fear I must leave you. Other clients and all that, no rest for the angelic! I shall return tomorrow to check in with you.”

Following Azrobius to the huge double doors downstairs and waving goodbye, he marvelled at his pillared front porch and extensive garden.

Heading back inside, he explored his wondrous new palace. Finding the stoppered bottle of champagne, he poured himself another glass. Contemplating breakfast, he opened the fridge. It was rammed. The scent of fresh herbs and vegetables was delightful. Ferreting around for the bacon and eggs, he was left disappointed. The contents were entirely vegan. Thinking about it, he realised that slaughterhouses weren’t really on brand for Paradise. Pulling out tofu, he scrambled it with fried garlic and chives. To finish, he grated fresh turmeric and black truffle over the top, seasoning with ground pepper.

Taking the dish to the veranda, he ate with gusto whilst planning his day. Seeing the line drawn in the dust by Azrobius, a sigh emerged. Day One in Paradise would have to involve a proper spring clean then! As he finished his breakfast, he hunted down the cleaning implements. The cast-iron pans were great to cook with, but he had to use steel wool to clean them as they had yet to be seasoned. Blitzing the house, he hoovered, mopped and dusted each room in turn until he had cleaned all the downstairs rooms to his satisfaction.

Lunch was toast with hummus, topped with sesame seeds and a slice of lemon. Cracked black pepper added texture and heat to his dish. There was no toaster in Paradise nor an electric kettle, but the bread and hummus were truly outstanding.

Gathering up his cleaning implements, he rose for his next challenge. Upstairs. Suddenly, rage filled him. Rust coloured mould was forming at the bottom of the stairs on his marble. He fell to his knees and scrubbed frantically until it was all gone, breathing heavily.

Sitting back on his haunches, he laughed.

What’s he talking about?

Mould?

Is he so precious that he couldn’t tolerate a blemish on his otherwise perfect house?

Taking the equipment upstairs, he carried on cleaning. Exhausted, it wasn’t until sunset that he finished and got to recline in an easy chair with a bottle of red. The evening dinner was a simple one. He cooked some fresh pasta, tossed through with olive oil, rock salt, diced tomato, basil leaves and fried garlic, devouring it heartily.

The wine was exceptional. As David drank it, a vague memory relating to his wife blossomed.

He was in the hills of Sicily, drinking red wine with his wife, Beth.

He raced downstairs for olives, and as he munched on them upstairs, more memories returned. He could see Beth now, beautiful auburn hair, thick curls and a smile that could pierce the coldest heart. Warmth flowed through him, and he leaned back in his chair, drank his wine and held the image of the love of his life in his mind.

A stabbing pain brought him back to Earth, or Paradise at any rate. Rubbing at his temple, he wandered around checking cupboards. After a while, he gave up and returned to his wine. Apparently, paracetamol wasn’t a thing in Paradise either. It made sense. Big Pharma was probably turned away at the door. Another question for Azrobius. As the night air cooled, he gently dozed and didn’t remember dragging himself off to bed.

The morning was heralded by bird song, off-key hymns and a truly horrendous hangover. Why would they have hangovers in Paradise? He jerked as he saw Azrobius looming over him. “Stop letting yourself into my house. Ring the bell like a normal person.” The angelic being’s brilliant white teeth accentuated the pounding headache.

“Of course, I will make a note of that, David.” Pulling out his notepad, he scribbled for a moment. “If I may say so, you appear quite discombobulated this morning.”

“It’s a hangover,” David confessed. “Why exactly would they exist in Paradise?”

Azrobius patted David’s shoulder sympathetically. “Free will, David. When you drank all that wine, you made the decision to have a hangover. We would never rob you of that. Free will is the greatest gift humanity ever received. We sadly do not have the same gift, existing only as servants of the All-mighty.”

“Well, you are welcome to have my hangover,” David muttered. “Wouldn’t want you feeling left out.”

“You are very funny, David. I enjoy my visits.”

Looking closely for sarcasm, David decided he was probably genuine. “Give me a minute, and I’ll see you on the veranda.” As Azrobius bowed politely and left, David fumbled around getting dressed. His headache was spectacular today.

David joined Azrobius later, dressed in his pastel clothes once more. He accepted a glass of champagne from him, hair of the dog, and sat down with a grunt. “Beth is my wife’s name. Any news? She would love this house.”

“David, that is wonderful news. Your memories are returning to you. I’m so pleased. You will be able to answer that question yourself soon. I have full faith that she is where she belongs.” Raising his glass, they both toasted her memory. “I am so happy that you are settling in so well. Have you gone out and socialised yet?”

“I haven’t had a chance. I deep cleaned the house yesterday.” The hymns started up again with a newfound fervour causing David to narrow his eyes.

“If you wake up in time, then I recommend the choir.”

David snorted, “Oh, no, not a chance.” He finished his drink. “Who is Ben?”

“Who?” Azrobius cocked an eyebrow.

Shrugging, David looked puzzled. “I don’t know, but I know it is important to me that I find out.”

Patting him on the shoulder, Azrobius stood. “You will get there soon. The transition takes time, that is all. Patience.” Pulling out an envelope, he handed it to David. “Your daily inspection, fairly good, except for a rather ugly patch of mould—”

Azrobius didn’t get to finish his review as David, swearing furiously, leapt up and tore down the stairs. The mould was back. This time it was more prominent. The rust coloured patch had reached the wall and was starting to creep up it. Racing into the kitchen, he wet the cloth and ran back to rub it clean. Vigorously scrubbing, he sat back panting after his exertions.

“Are you quite alright, David?” A concerned voice drifted down the stairs as Azrobius descended.

“I’m sorry, I overreacted. I just hate this mould. This house is perfect in every other way. It infuriates me. Perhaps it has a damp problem there?”

David saw him out and then prepared a breakfast of baked flat mushrooms in garlic, olive oil, fresh tomato and panko breadcrumbs.

Scrubbing the tray clean, he noticed dust on the work surfaces. He wiped them down, finding more dirt. David realised he hadn’t been as thorough as he had thought yesterday. Resigning himself, he got up and resumed cleaning.

Breaking for a light lunch of garlic bread and a tossed salad, he had a memory of himself. He was in a restaurant kitchen. In the memory, he was angry, shouting at the kitchen staff over some error when Beth arrived and took him outside. The memory came into crystal-like focus. She had kissed his hands and the rage had fled. As he stared into her eyes, he wondered how he had come to be so lucky. It was then that she told him she was pregnant. A tear fell down his cheek as he remembered the waves of emotion that had flowed over him. They had been so happy that they had danced in the street. They had wept unashamedly. Tears returned to him as he remembered shouting his news to the sky.

Was Ben his son? Who was he? The question kept rolling around in his brain. Who was Ben?

He had a glass of wine and then cleaned the upstairs of the mansion. It was late when he had finished, but every surface sparkled. He cooked a quick dinner of oven-roasted red peppers and fennel, then shallow fried aubergine slices coated in garlic and tomato puree before being dipped in panko breadcrumbs. He scrubbed the pans down and then oiled them. Now he could remember doing this in the kitchens on Earth David actually enjoyed the activity.

Taking his dinner upstairs to the veranda, he eagerly devoured it and then sat watching the sun dropdown. It was truly beautiful here in Paradise. The bottle of red wine he took with him slowly evaporated. He smiled at the God awful hymns. At least he got free wine.

“David.” The softly spoken word jerked him into consciousness.

“I said ‘knock!’ don’t just invade my house.” David’s head felt like someone had taken an ice pick to his right temple. He whimpered with pain and rubbed it with his knuckles.

“You did not answer David, I knocked for a very long time. I had to see you as I have bad news.”

He looked up to see the concern in Azrobius’s eyes. “What is it?” Sitting, David clutched at his temple. Of all the days to have to deal with this.

“I am afraid your maintenance is not up to scratch. I am here to give you your first warning.”

Rage blossomed in David’s heart and he threw back the sheets. Sitting up rapidly, he stopped only when his head erupted into fresh needles of pain. “What do you mean?”

“The mould David. You have a responsibility to--”

Leaping up, ignoring the pain, David raced downstairs. The mould had spread all across the footwell and was now spreading up the wall. Pulling off his nightshirt, he rubbed at the stain.

“David, you are not being very rational.”

Ignoring the angelic being at the top of the stairs, David ran to the kitchen, tossing the contents of the cupboard aside until he found the bleach spray. He raced to the foot of the stairs to furiously scrub at the mould. His eyes were red and wet with rage.

“I am very concerned for you, David. Let us talk.”

The mould was gone, for now, David lay back exhausted and in pain. “I don’t want a warning Az, I just want a different house. Help me, please.”

A hand rested on his shoulder, “Of course, David, come with me. I am here to see you get the Paradise you deserve.”

Azrobius took David by his hand and led him from the mansion. It was David’s first time outside, but he took nothing in. People stared at the shirtless man in his pyjama bottoms and he couldn’t blame them. He didn’t care anymore. Next door was a smaller but still beautiful house. A weak smile crossed his face. With relief, he reflected that it would be easier to look after.

Opening the front door, the staircase was different, the house was different, but when he looked over to the footwell, he saw the same mould, even bigger now. He screamed and fell to his knees, the pain of landing on marble eclipsed by his frustration and the searing agony in his head.

“David?”

He turned to Azrobius. He just felt numb now. “Paradise isn’t Heaven.”

Azrobius nodded, “Of course it is not David. Why would you end up there?”

David remembered. He remembered being home. He had been so angry. “Who is Ben?” he had shouted at his heavily pregnant wife. “Who the fuck is Ben?” Crack, his palm had smashed into her cheek. She had stumbled and he had watched in horror as she fell down the stairs. He’d followed and cradled her head as blood flowed across the footwell. She had been dead.

He’d walked numbly to the gun cabinet, arterial blood leaving red prints behind him. Pulling out his pistol, he’d pressed it against his temple and pulled the trigger.

The sound of birds woke David. He groaned and pushed back the thick duvet. Sunlight poured in through the windows as he snuggled deeper into the comfy mattress.

Where am I?

This wasn’t his bed. He had something important to ask someone, but he couldn’t remember who or what. He opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, triggering a splitting headache. His mind felt muddled.

A man in a pure white suit was sitting next to his bed, beaming with a beneficent grin. “Hello, David.”

THE END

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. 1-5 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

Read more

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Download Clarent

3. Read Online

FREE Horror Story Compilations

26 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘The Scream’ and ‘The Black Fog’.

Download ePub / PDF

The ePub file should work with most e-readers. For Kindle, use Send to Kindle and upload the ePub file here:

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/sendtokindle
US: https://www.amazon.com/sendtokindle

Clarent

By Newton Webb

1153, the Welsh Marches

The dead lay thick across the ridge.

English and Welsh lay twisted together in the mud. Crows moved among them with patient little hops, black heads dipping for eyes, tongues, and the soft meat beneath torn mail. Camp followers picked through the bodies, stripping the dead of their valuables and dignity.

Now and then one of the wounded cried out.

The cry never lasted long.

Lord Henry de Roux had won and Eudo was dead. The uncle who had taken Henry’s castle, stolen his inheritance, and named him bastard before bishop and sheriff alike now lay beneath his own trampled banner. His head, blackened with pitch, would hang above the gate at Chetten Keep before sunset.

Seven years of hunger, fighting, betrayal, and sleeping under wet branches had ended here.

Peace had returned to his house.

The thought sickened him.

Henry tightened his grip on the hilt at his side.

A crow landed near his boot and stabbed its beak into a dead man’s open mouth. Henry clapped at it. The bird looked up, unafraid, one white shred of flesh hanging from its beak.

“Go on,” Henry snarled.

The crow swallowed and returned to its work.

“My liege.” Martin, his page, held out a cup. “I bring wine.”

Henry ignored him. He’d promised peace to starving men, to dying boys whose hands clutched at his cloak. One more charge, one more winter, one more village burned, one more oath broken. Then they’d have peace.

He’d kept his promise, but no longer recognised himself as the man who had made it.

1146, the Forest of Dean

The young Henry de Roux hid beneath stacked wood in a charcoal burner’s shed, listening to the rain.

Rats moved in the dark beside him. One ran across his ankle and vanished into the straw. He did not cry out. Once, he’d been lord of Chetten Keep, heir to limestone walls, fishponds, deer parks, and a chapel where his family’s bones lay interred. His last retainer, Master Alain, was trying to gather support from the Marcher lords. Until he returned, Henry had nothing more than space in a shed, grudgingly rented from a charcoal burner for two silver pennies. The man would no doubt sell him out now Eudo’s men were close.

Eudo had taken the castle while Henry was away with his retinue, riding for Matilda. By the time Henry returned, the gates were barred, his servants had sworn new oaths, and the priest who’d baptised him had declared before the altar that God favoured Eudo’s stronger claim.

“Henry de Roux.” A woman spoke outside the shed.

He froze.

Her voice was low, the language shaped by Greek vowels. Henry eased his hand to the knife at his belt and pushed aside the wood.

She stood in the rain beyond the door in a cloak of undyed wool, carrying a long, thin object wrapped in altar cloth. Her dark hair was uncovered, curls falling around her face. No decent woman went bareheaded before a strange man, yet she watched him with the composure of an abbess.

Her cheekbones were sharp, her eyes black and steady. “So, this is where they drove you.”

Henry couldn’t place her accent. He rose slowly, his joints aching from the cold. “Who are you?”

“Theophania.”

He stepped from the shed into the mud. “How do you know me?”

“I know many men who have had their names stolen.”

Rain slid over her face. Her skin seemed untouched by the cold. Around one wrist hung bronze rings, inset with bone.

Henry made the sign of the cross.

Theophania watched him complete the gesture. “A Christian? And how much has your crucified god helped you?”

“Careful.” The knife felt pitiful beneath his hand. “I’ll not tolerate heresy.”

Theophania dismissed the knife with a glance. “Your uncle sits in your hall, drinking from your father’s cup. The priest says Mass beneath your roof and prays for Eudo de Roux as lawful lord.” Amusement warmed her black eyes. “I think… your crucified god favours him, not you.”

“Never!” Somewhere beyond the dripping leaves, Eudo’s men were coming. Any day now, his body could be dragged to Chetten Keep in a cart, headless. “What do you want with me?”

“To give you a weapon.”

“What kind of weapon?”

“A weapon that will let you return to your hall and see your uncle on his knees.”

Henry should have crossed himself again, but this time he hesitated.

“What price?”

Theophania came close enough for him to smell her. Beneath the delicate perfume of roses lay the sourness of sweat.

“A lesser man could pay me with a kiss.” She leaned in close.

Henry tried to look away and could not. “That’s all?”

“No, you’re not a normal man. Give me the seed of your house, and I will see you reclaim it.”

Thunder moved over the trees. Theophania let the cloak fall. Rain struck her olive coloured skin.

Henry meant to step back. Instead, his knife slipped from his hand. He fell back against the woodpile, his breath quickening as she undid his trews.

She kissed him, and the warmth of her mouth drove the cold from his bones. As she mounted him, he saw his uncle Eudo on his knees. He watched the priest who had betrayed him hanging from the chapel bell rope. His hands clenched around the wood as he imagined the sight of men scattering before him as he wore a crown of iron.

When she had what she wanted, she rose from him, leaving him panting on the wood.

Theophania reached down to where she had disrobed and reclaimed the parcel she’d been carrying. The cloth was stained brown with age. When she loosened it, a plain iron sword lay within, its blade the length of two forearms. Its metal was darkened by the rain. She reached between her thighs, gathered the wetness there, and drew it down the blade. The iron drank it. “Take it. Your seed has woken it.”

His heartbeat quickened at the sight of it. “This is poor iron. My own blade was better made.” He pulled up his trews.

“Pretty blades are made for courts. This is made for killing.” Her finger followed the edge without touching the iron. “It’ll neither break nor dull.” Theophania held out the sword.

A horn sounded in the distance.

Uncle’s men.

Henry swallowed. “You want me to renounce Christ?”

“You already have.”

He turned back, but she was gone, the blade left impaled in the mud. She’d vanished without a sign.

His hand closed around the hilt. Before he understood what he was doing, he had pulled it from the earth. Its blade was clean, free of the soil. He hefted it. The weight was perfect.

Heat moved up his arm. As the cold left him, so did his fear.

Clarent. The Sword of Peace.

Henry smiled for the first time in weeks. He held Clarent before him as he stepped from the shed and into the muddy track.

He found the first of Eudo’s knights dismounting in front of him. “Greetings, little lord.” The man looked at Henry’s face, streaked with mud, and laughed. “Come out of your hole at last?”

Henry raised the blade. He didn’t answer their jibes as he advanced through the rain towards the men sent to kill him.

The knight stopped laughing.

1153, the Welsh Marches

By noon, Henry’s men had gathered beneath the ruined banners.

Henry raised Clarent before his army. The exhausted cheer that answered him was ragged.

Blood ran down the blade, over the hilt, and across his mailed gauntlet. Whenever he held his sword, he knew every man who had stood against him deserved the blade. But at night, when his hand fell from the hilt, his certainty fled.

Once, he’d tried to lock his sword away in a reliquary chest lined with red cloth. Father Matthew had blessed it, believing it held a relic brought from Antioch.

Henry lasted three nights.

On the fourth, Alain found him barefoot in the chapel, the chest open before him.

After that, Clarent never left his side, not even for Mass.

Now, he slept with it beside him, fearing assassins in the night. The long blade gleamed on the coverlet, Henry’s hand clenched around the hilt as he dreamed of blood on the hills and screams beneath the wet forest canopy.

His wife had left his bed after three months, after waking one night with Clarent’s edge laid cold against her thigh. Now, they met only at feasts and Mass. It was no matter. His sword gave him all the comfort he wanted.

“Henry.”

He’d heard Master Alain approach, but ignored him, focusing on the soldiers in front of him.

The old man’s knees cracked as he bowed. He had been Henry’s tutor and steward since boyhood. In the dark years, when retainers slipped away one by one and even his cousins abandoned him, Alain had stayed. “My lord.”

Henry lowered his blade. His soldiers dispersed, leaving him watching the crows. He closed his eyes. “Yes, Alain?”

“The guards say you left the camp last night.”

“Nonsense, I slept soundly for once.”

“My lord, they are quite insistent.”

I dreamt of a village barring its gates to me, of flaming thatch and hands beating against doors. I dreamt of children crying while Clarent opened them from throat to belly.

Alain stood beside him.

Henry’s thumb traced the worn leather around Clarent’s hilt. “Oh, say what you came to say.”

“My lord, before the war, I taught you that repeated use moulds a man.”

“You taught me Latin, numbers, and history. I remember little about moulding.”

Alain glanced at the sword. “A man may bind himself by use, my lord. To a horse, a cup. Or a blade.”

Henry looked at him. “That’s not moulding. What’s a soldier without his horse? What’s a monk without his crozier?”

Alain clasped his shaking hands. “And the drunkard?”

“I tire of this. Speak plainly.”

“You’ve brought peace to the land. It is time to put down the sword.”

“Oh, God’s teeth.” His hand settled over Clarent before he realised what he was doing. “There are still many out there who would see me dead. You would have me sleep defenceless?”

“The war is done,” Alain said. “Your uncle is dead. Chetten Keep is yours. The Marches are quiet enough. Stephen and the Empress’s son will have their peace soon, and you have loyal guards. Please, let me return the sword to the chapel.”

Henry laughed. It was a bitter sound. “You would hang Clarent in a chapel? Not very Christian of you, Alain.”

“I would bury it, my lord. In consecrated ground.”

“Bury it? You mean you would steal it.” His voice rose to a thunderous roar.

Pain crossed the old man’s face. “My lord.”

“I see you looking at it. I know you thirst to own it.”

Alain shook his head. “My lord, I would rather gnaw off my own wrist than touch it.”

Henry drew the blade.

Alain stumbled back, slipped in mud, and fell among the trampled banners. Around them, soldiers lowered their voices, pretending not to see.

Henry stood over him. He visualised opening the old man’s throat, mounting his head on a spear, watching his tongue swell black and crows feast on his eyes. His breath quickened.

Henry took a deep breath and sheathed the blade. Reaching down, he helped the old man to his feet.

“My friend.” For a moment, Henry’s voice sounded like it had when he had been young. “Forgive me, it has been a long and bloody day.”

“Don’t apologise to me.” Alain’s expression softened. “Seven years of war would mark any Christian soul.”

Henry almost believed him.

“Tonight,” Alain said softly, “I beg of you, will you sleep without it?”

Behind them, crows lifted from the field in a black cloud.

“Leave me.”

Alain bowed his head. “I held you when you were born. Whatever you have done, you are still that child to me.”

Henry looked away. “Leave before I forget that.” He watched Alain cross the field, his thin shoulders bent against the wind.

He ate alone in his command tent with his sword laid across the table.

Father Matthew entered. The young priest had joined Henry’s household after the burning of Monmouth.

Henry looked up. “Master Alain sent you.”

“Sent?” Father Matthew clasped his hands. “Nay, Master Alain begged me, my lord.”

“Christ blind me. You as well?” Henry sipped from his wine cup. “About my soul?”

“Yes.”

Henry tore a piece of bread in half.

Father Matthew’s gaze dropped to Clarent. “Ave Maria, gratia plena.”

Henry went still. “I attend Mass, Father. You insult me.”

“Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus.” The priest continued, voice shaking. “Exsurgat Deus, et dissipentur inimici eius.”

Henry roared and swept the table aside. “Begone, crow!”

Cups, candles, and platters crashed around Father Matthew. He fled the tent on hands and knees.

Henry stood among overturned dishes, sword raised, heart hammering. He picked up his goblet and drank until the candles blurred and the tent swayed around him. He lay down fully clothed, with Clarent across his chest. He belched, the taste of wine sour in his mouth.

A steady rain began just after midnight, soft at first, then harder against the canvas.

It lulled him into a deep sleep. In his dreams, Eudo came for him.

“Nephew.” Eudo de Roux knelt in the chapel at Chetten Keep, his fat hands clasped together, his grey beard wet with tears. “Mercy.”

Henry walked between the pews.

The chapel was full of dead men. They sat shoulder to shoulder, faces hacked apart, eyes open, mouths moving in silent prayer. His mother hung from the rafters in her burial dress, hair trailing like black weed. His father hung next to her in his armour.

“Your father chose Matilda, Stephen’s men were coming. I saved the hall.” Eudo crawled towards him. “It wasn’t my fault she killed herself, I’d arranged a pardon for both of you.”

Henry raised Clarent.

“Mercy,” Eudo begged.

Henry smiled. “I renounced that a long time ago.”

His sword fell and Eudo’s head rolled across the chapel floor, leaving a red path between the tiles.

Beside the altar, Theophania stood. “There you are.” Her dark hair flowed over a robe of pale, seamed skin. Her pilgrim’s cross hung between her breasts, inverted. “I knew you were under there.”

Henry looked down at Eudo’s head.

It rolled onto one cheek. Alain’s face stared up at him.

Henry woke screaming.

Morning light filled the tent.

His skull ached. His mouth tasted sour with old wine. For one fragile moment, he believed he was safe in bed, imprisoned only by nightmare.

Then he looked at his hand gripping his sword.

The blade was wet. Blood ran from its tip and dripped onto the rushes.

Henry sat up.

His boots were caked in mud and his cloak was damp. Blood was caked beneath his nails and in the links of his mail.

He’d no memory of leaving the tent.

His page, Martin, stood near the entrance holding a bowl of water. The boy was white-faced. His lower lip trembled.

Henry stared at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Martin didn’t answer.

“Speak.”

The boy’s eyes flicked towards the tent flap.

Henry rose slowly. The sword felt heavy in his hand. For the first time since the forest, he wanted to drop it, but couldn’t. “Who died?”

Martin fled the tent.

Henry walked to the entrance and pushed aside the canvas.

The camp had gathered outside.

No one spoke or looked at him.

A spear had been driven into the mud before his tent. Master Alain’s head sat upon it, his remaining eye fixed on Henry. His mouth hung slack above a white beard clotted red.

Henry fell to his knees. His whole world narrowed to the old man’s face. “No.” He reached the spear and touched Alain’s cold cheek. The skin had already tightened. One eye was gone. A crow had been there before him.

Henry slammed his fist into the mud. “No!”

Beside the chapel cart, Father Matthew clutched a crucifix and a little book of prayers, his face wet with rain and tears.

Henry forced himself to stand. “Martin.”

The boy froze.

“Come here.”

Martin shook as he stepped forward.

Henry held out the sword.

The boy stared at it.

“Take it.”

“My lord?”

“Take it!”

Martin did. The moment the hilt left Henry’s hand, a sense of loss filled him. A hundred excuses for why he should take it back ran through his mind.

Instead, he seized Martin by the collar and pulled him close. “Listen to me.”

The boy went rigid in his grasp.

“Take a horse and money from my chest. Don’t tell me where you are going, north, west, I care not. Bury it where no man will ever find it.”

Martin shook his head. “Please, my lord.”

“I’m giving you an order.” Henry stared into his eyes. “Run as though you are hunted. Do you understand?”

The boy looked down at the sword.

Henry dragged him into the tent, opened his campaign chest, and forced a leather purse into his hands.

“Go!”

Martin wrapped Clarent in Henry’s cloak and ran.

Henry stood in the tent, swaying. The emptiness left by the sword was unbearable. Hooves struck the wet ground outside. With every yard between them, the hollow inside Henry widened, his stomach rolling and his arms itching.

Panic smashed through him.

Fool. Fool.

Henry staggered towards the entrance. His guards waited outside. One word would send them after Martin. He gripped the tent pole.

He tricked me, he wanted the sword the whole time.

Henry clawed at the wood.

He stumbled outside.

Martin was already beyond the camp, riding hard through the rain, Henry’s black cloak bundled beneath one arm.

Henry opened his mouth to order pursuit.

With every hoofbeat, Henry felt weaker. The warlord was being peeled away, leaving the little boy in the woodshed.

Henry sank to his knees before Alain’s head. “I am sorry, old friend.”

In the distance, faint as a thought, he heard Clarent calling.

He knew he could not live without the sword. Sooner or later, in some weak hour, he would hunt Martin down.

Only one answer remained, and with it came a dreadful calm.

Henry entered the tent. His knife lay among the wreckage, still bloody from the venison. He picked it up and placed the point against his chest. Even as he held the knife, he hungered for the blade.

With a deep breath, he drove the knife into his heart.

He fell to his knees, both hands locked around the knife’s hilt, forcing it deeper as blood filled his mouth. The tent darkened around him and the sound of rain faded.

Henry smiled.

THE END

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. 1-5 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

Read more

WARNING:

May cause motion sickness, blindness and / or an itching, burning sensation.

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1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Download Shadow Fox

3. Read Online

FREE Horror Story Compilations

26 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘The Scream’ and ‘The Black Fog’.

Download ePub / PDF

The ePub file should work with most e-readers. For Kindle, use Send to Kindle and upload the ePub file here:

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/sendtokindle
US: https://www.amazon.com/sendtokindle

Shadow Fox

by Newton Webb

28th April, 2022. Oxford.

Tim was miserable as he sat outside Frank and Frederick Simmons Accountancy in the drizzle, a limp, waterlogged bouquet of Tesco’s carnations in his icy grip.

Mentally, he rehearsed his lines. When Sharon emerged, he would fall at her feet. Flowers, a promise to buy Chinese food, and the sight of him looking drowned. It was an infallible romcom move. If that didn’t work, then all was lost.

The rain slackened as a shadow fell over him. The brief reprieve from the elements was blunted by the sight of a hulking brute looming over him. A buzz cut and scarred jaw accentuated a truly fearsome disposition.

“Wait inside, idiot.”

Gulping, Tim nodded and followed the giant. The lights were off, so they relied on the dim illumination from the street through shuttered windows. The office seemed empty as he gazed round for Sharon. Where the hell was she?

He was still following his minder when they emerged into a meeting room. A small table next to them held bone china teacups and a large teapot, along with the standard accoutrements of milk, sugar and a selection of biscuits. Despite these salubrious offerings, the four denizens of the room were drinking a mixed assortment of drinks, all alcoholic, all in cans.

Pulling out his phone, he went to text Sharon, but it was torn from his hands and tossed into a basket at the centre of the meeting room table.

“Hey!” His protest died in his mouth as he saw the hard eyes that fell upon him. Sitting down, he started to speak but was talked over by the old grey man at the head of the table.

“We’re late as it is. Time to begin. We have a new member of the Night Wolves. Everyone, please welcome Shadow Fox.”

Four pairs of eyes turned in his direction, boring into him. Tim nervously waved.

“Perhaps you would like to start, Shadow Fox?” the chairman ventured.

Tim glanced round. “Oh, no, I think you’ve made a huge mistake.”

“This is a circle of truth. It takes courage to meet up like this. Honesty is the only currency we value here.” Once more, the chairman gestured.

“Ah, well.” Tim looked round.

“Right then, I’ve endured a lot of temptation this year. But I’ve remained true to myself, and I’ve stuck to my… Erm, my goals. I’ve really tried to invest in, like, in me… you know?” Tim tapped his fingers on the desk as they looked at him, confused. “Look, I, ah, I think there has been a…”

The brute grunted at him. “You just said a whole load of nothing.”

“Now then, Golem, this is a safe space.” The chairman held his gaze until the hulk fell silent.

At this point, Tim remembered it was a bank holiday and Sharon wouldn’t be in the office. He blinked rapidly, almost missing what the chairman said next while he swore softly but creatively.

“Let us show Shadow Fox how it’s done.”

He gestured at the man with long hair, who gave a thin smile.

“Thank you, Great Wolf. I am the Jackal, and I am a hunter.”

Everyone applauded.

“Recently, I’ve decided to turn my hobby into a career. I can confirm that I have managed to sell eight women.”

A cough from the chairman caused him to apologise.

“Sorry, prey, to international clients. Of course, the best have always been reserved for my hunts, as is my right, but being free of a mortgage has its own rewards. I have successfully hunted 37 prey this year.”

Everyone clapped politely, including Tim, who was trying to figure out if this was an elaborate practical joke and what the punchline would be.

“That is excellent progress, Jackal. You are proving yourself to be a valuable addition to our little cabal.”

The Great Wolf then looked at the young woman, who tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“My name is Vixen, and I’m a hunter.”

Everyone round the table applauded. She waited for the noise to calm down.

“I’ve had thirteen prey this year. It isn’t much compared to the rest of you, but I like to spend a lot of time researching the target. I need to know they really deserve my indelicate affections. You can all understand that, right? Needless to say, none survived to bear witness.”

Round the table, the other hunters smiled in appreciation. Not Tim, though. He was starting to realise this wasn’t just an awkward situation. It was a potentially lethal one.

Warm sweat warred with cold damp on his shirt. He started tapping his foot and scratched at an invisible itch on the side of his head.

He jumped when the Golem next to him spoke, his voice like two granite boulders rubbing against each other.

“I’m the Golem, and I’m an apex hunter.”

A round of applause rippled round the table, accompanied by chuckles at his affectation.

“23 prey have fallen to my hands this year. I like to choke the prey. It is only as the light flees from their eyes that I feel truly alive.”

His fists, like hams, clenched together, and he stared at them as if reliving a favoured memory.

They all turned then to the Great Wolf. The old man gently teased his fingers through his cropped grey hair.

“Well then, I guess it is me. I am the Great Wolf. I’ve hunted 63 prey this year. Every one of them has died whimpering in terror. I’ve managed to draw out the experience for days, only killing them when they no longer stir my affections.”

The applause returned with gusto, then eyes locked onto Tim.

“Great, well, I actually need the bathroom.”

Tim wasn’t lying. He had a dry mouth and a full bladder. Of course, it probably had something to do with being in a circle of serial killers and abusers.

The Great Wolf shook his head as the Golem growled.

Tim took a deep breath. “Well, erm, yes! I’ve been a real bastard. Ask anyone. So many people. I actually don’t count them anymore. I mean, I lost count ages ago. I’m such a bastard, I…”

He trailed off at the stormy expressions and then did what he should have done at the beginning. He ran.

The Golem blocked the exit by the stairs. Turning, he ran through the cubicles to the other end of the office. To his horror, he found the fire exit padlocked. He pounded his fist against it and wailed, “This is a clear health code violation!”

A hand gripped him and threw him through a metal doorway into a server room. Whimpering, he looked up at the Vixen as she locked the door behind her. Finding an antistatic tissue, she wiped the blood off her knife.

“The Great Wolf is dead.”

Tim scooted back on his bottom to the corner of the room.

“I didn’t do it, I promise you. I am not…”

“Clearly. I can smell sin, and you are utterly scentless.”

Breathing deeply, Tim looked again at her. She had raven black hair, but more than anything, his gaze was drawn to a tattoo, a circle with an arrow through it.

“Did you?” His voice quavered.

“Yes,” she answered immediately.

“But…”

“Why? Because they were all serial killers of women, and I hunt people who hunt women.”

She looked over at the door, which shook under the impact of a tremendous blow.

“The Golem…” she said, looking at the door. “Go out of the window and climb down the drainpipe.”

“You what?” he spluttered, looking nervously at the window.

“Or die here. Your choice.”

Tim scrabbled for the window, opening it. Sure enough, he found a drainpipe. Looking out, he saw that the brackets would sort of work as a ladder. Clambering out, he rapidly realised that he was wearing completely the wrong kind of footwear for these shenanigans. The drizzle made everything ten times more slippery, but it also calmed him down. It felt like freedom. He made it to the next bracket.

“He’s getting away. He went out of that window,” Vixen shouted.

Tim shouted back up towards her. “Bitch, fucking bitch!” Then he sped up his descent.

Just above him, he looked into the dead, slate grey eyes of the Golem. Moaning, he nearly fell as his leather shoes struggled to grip the wet drainpipe.

“Hurry up, Fake Fox, I’m getting wet.”

Glancing down, he saw the Jackal standing, testing the sharpness of a large kitchen knife. Tim tried to climb back up the pipe, but it had finally had enough and came away from the wall. The impact forced the breath from his lungs, and the shock of the fall temporarily paralysed him.

Tim looked up to see the Jackal looming over him, his greasy hair gleaming in the rain. The Jackal sidestepped as Tim tried to kick him.

Suddenly, the Jackal was distracted and moved away.

“You look like you’ve taken a beating. Where is the Golem?”

“Dead,” the Vixen said.

Tim used his feet to shuffle back through the alley until he could slide up against a wall. He heard a series of thuds in the background and redoubled his efforts. Gasping, he looked up at the Vixen.

“Vixen!”

“Not my name,” she said, bruised and bleeding.

“What is your name?” He blew rain from his nose.

“Not your business. What were the carnations for?”

Tim tried to remember the event that had seemed so utterly world ending before this evening.

“I got drunk and embarrassed my girlfriend in front of her parents.”

It seems a bit ridiculous now.

“Carnations are worthless. Give a genuine apology and a thoughtful gift. You can’t have given more than a moment’s thought to those.”

She turned and walked away.

“Erm, thanks,” he called after her, but she was already gone.

THE END

Author’s Note:

A huge blast from the past. This story comes all the way from Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1. It’s part of a trilogy in that anthology featuring Elsie (Vixen) from Festival of the Damned, and The Tattoo.

I never liked the original titles, The Wrong Crowd or The Wait, and the cover looked like a RomCom, so it was time for a glow-up.

I also took the time to fix a few typos and re-edit.

The Original Covers:

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. 1-5 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

My portrait-filmed video seems to have been cropped to an extreme close-up.

I miss my recording studio at home.

The movies referenced in my waffle were:

Leviticus:

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt39143902/

Keeper:

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32332404/

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Get more from Newton Webb in the Substack app

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Newt's Nightmares

1. News

2. Free Subscriber Content

3. Horror Story Promotions

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

Well, release month is always a busy one. I’ve finalised the paperbacks and hardbacks for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 5 and ordered the copies for the launch party. It’s available for £/$0.99 if you pre-order now. Post launch it’ll rocket back up to its regular price.

If you fancy joining me for a signed copy of TotM 5 and a glass of prosecco, then we’ll be at Coffee and Wine in Hemel Hempstead on November 13th from 18:00.

I want to give a special thank you to all of you who volunteered to be an ARC reader. Your copies will be with you shortly.

I’m writing this at speed because I’m off to Crete today, but now all the editing shenanigans are over, I have been able to return to writing. I’m working on a novella at the moment, halfway through it, called F@66ot. Yep, Amazon is gonna love that title.

I might have to consider renaming…

Last month, I released short stories: The Last Hand (Read Online | Download ePub / PDF) and The Penitent Man (Read Online | Download ePub / PDF). Which was your favourite?

Next month, you can look forward to Shadow Fox and one other short story.

Sweet screams,

Newt xx

Missed September’s releases? You can read or download all three below.

The Last Hand

(Read Online | Download ePub / PDF)

Victorian Alpine Horror Short Story

When the frozen corpse of his former climbing partner is recovered ten years after a disastrous expedition, Richard must return to the ice.

The Penitent Man

(Read Online | Download ePub / PDF)

A Contemporary Christian Horror Short Story

A guilt-ridden priest is forced to confront his past when a mysterious penitent enters his confessional.

How to Use Your Downloads

The ePub file should work with most e-readers. For Kindle, use Send to Kindle and upload the ePub file here:

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/sendtokindle

US: https://www.amazon.com/sendtokindle

Horror Story Promotions

26 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘The Scream’ and ‘The Black 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

Read more

Many people have asked for me to be throttled.

Well, now I have.

New videos will be done in OBS with custom settings to keep the format under control.

Read more

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Fancy reading Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 5 early?

Hello, my wicked darlings,

Last week I opened pre-orders for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 5.

This week, I’m booting open the doors to welcome the ARC team.

If you’d like to read the collection before everyone else, sign up for a free advance ebook copy.

Many thanks to Tina for leaving the very first ARC review on its Goodreads page.

Your personal copy will be delivered through BookFunnel on 12 October 2026, giving you almost a month to get through the nightmares before publication on 9 November.

JOIN THE ARC TEAM

You don’t have to leave a review in exchange for receiving the book. If you do decide to review it, all I ask is that you give your honest opinion.

The collection contains fifteen new stories spanning psychological horror, supernatural terror, creatures, gothic nightmares and body horror.

If you, like me, are a fellow degenerate, and that sounds like your sort of thing, you know what to do.

CLAIM YOUR ARC PLACE

I look forward to scaring you witless!

Sweet screams,

Newt

Horror Story Promotions

Not-So-Comfortable September Reads: 127 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘The Scream’ and ‘The Coconut Killer’.

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 collected works of Newton Webb. The Tales of the Macabre books 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

Read more

Read more

The book doesn’t officially release until 9 November, so you’re getting it early as one of the benefits of supporting my work.

Of course, it pales into insignificance compared to my eternal gratitude.

But still, it’s definitely my favourite TotM, so I’m super excited to …

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Can you hear the thunder? Because Tales of the Macabre is coming!

Hello, my wicked darlings,

What a journey. And thank you so much for your support on this page. It’s your feedback that helps me decide what goes into the book, and what gets consigned to the mouldy archives.

Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 5: Fifteen Horror Stories is now available to pre-order, and it’s bigger than ever.

Yes, I’m aware I could have put fewer stories in it, but when you have a banging line-up like this, sometimes more is just… well, more.

Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 5 brings you fifteen new tales of psychological horror, supernatural terror, creatures, gothic nightmares and body horror.

The collection publishes on 9 November 2026.

If you’ve been following Tales of the Macabre from the beginning, then this is the next collection of ghastly adventures waiting for you.

PRE-ORDER TALES OF THE MACABRE, VOL. 5

For the first week, the ebook will be available at the launch price of £0.99 / $0.99 before moving to its normal price.

Next week I’ll also be opening signups for the advance review team for readers who would like to read Vol. 5 before publication.

For now, follow the shrieks, because the pre-order is live.

Sweet screams,

Newt

Horror Story Promotions

Not-So-Comfortable September Reads: 127 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘The Scream’ and ‘The Coconut Killer’.

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 collected works of Newton Webb. The Tales of the Macabre books 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

Read more