Love. Sex. Death. by Newton Webb
A Folk Horror Short Story: When Simon and Lucy arrive in Grimsdyke for a summer of carefree living, they're drawn into a mysterious beach party promising free alcohol and dancing.
Horror Story Compilations
Things That Go Bump In The Night: 62 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Braemoor Incident’, ‘The Tattoo’, ‘Dark Waters’, ‘Of Politeness and Protocol’ and ‘One More Turn’.
Dark Reads: 63 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,’ ‘The Morrígan,’ ‘The Horror at Hargrave Hall,’ ‘The Blood Eagle.’
July 1967, Grimsdyke
Chapter One
The tinny sound of The Kinks echoed out of Bedders, Simon’s beat-up van, as it wheezed its way along the coastal road, its faded turquoise paint catching the late afternoon sun like weathered sea glass. Inside, Lucy's bare feet rested on the dashboard, her toenails painted different colours like a row of tropical sweets. She was rolling another joint, her fingers sticky with resin, while Simon, in his favourite brown woollen turtleneck, steered with one hand and drummed the other against the sun-cracked steering wheel. He drove the van at a leisurely pace—the only pace his Bedford could manage—through the narrow roads toward Grimsdyke.
The sea appeared and disappeared between the hills, a slate-grey expanse winking at them through gaps in the hedgerows. Salt-laden wind rushed through the van's rusted window frame, carrying the sharp cry of gulls and the distant echo of waves breaking against chalk cliffs. Lucy's dark curls hung about her face as she lit the joint, tossing her head to the music, the smoke mingling with the mechanical scent of oil that permeated the vehicle.
"There it is," Simon said, nodding toward a weather-beaten sign that read Welcome to Grimsdyke in fading gilt letters. Below it, someone had spray-painted Where Dreams Go to Retire. Simon downshifted, the van’s engine groaning in protest as they drove down the steep hill into town, past rows of Victorian houses painted white or in pastel shades.
The Golden Gull Hotel emerged around the final bend, a once-grand establishment that had seen better days. It squatted on the promenade, overlooking a pebble beach where a handful of elderly couples shuffled along with ice creams, determinedly pretending it was warmer than it was.
"Home sweet home," Lucy murmured, passing the joint to Simon. She smiled, revealing the slight gap between her front teeth—the one he’d fallen in love with somewhere between London and their first festival together. "Think they'll regret hiring us?"
Simon took a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs as he guided the van into the hotel's back lot. The engine sputtered before finally collapsing into silence as he turned the key.
"Darling," he exhaled, "they’ll never know what hit them."
Hopping out of Bedders, Simon gave a loving pat to his long-suffering steed. Lucy joined him, tying her hair back with a colourful scarf. She almost looked professional—until she undid another button on her short-sleeved shirt, much to Simon’s approval.
“God, it reeks.” She wrinkled her nose.
“You don’t like the scent of rotting seaweed and decomposing fish?” Simon gestured toward the beach.
“I suppose I can get used to it.” Lucy glanced at the busy promenade. “I bet it’s fun. Though we might be the youngest people here.”
“Well, in that case, it’s our responsibility to make it fun.” Simon winked, pulling her toward him by the waist. He kissed her gently, his fingers brushing through her hair. “Best not let them down, eh?”
The entrance to the Golden Gull Hotel was framed with hanging baskets of geraniums. Simon eyed the sign cynically. The heroic image of a seagull illuminated by the morning sun stood in stark contrast to his childhood memory of them as aggressive criminals. He’d never quite forgiven one for stealing an entire pasty from his hands. Looking up, he saw them watching him now, daring him to pull out food. Taking a final drag of his spliff, he extended his middle finger to the heartless bastards before dropping the butt onto the ground and extinguishing it with a stamp and twist of his brown brogues.
“Come along, dear,” he said. “Time to meet our new overlords.”
The hotel lobby was tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern. A small counter faced the door, while a staircase with faded red carpet led upstairs. A doorway off to the side opened into the dining room. Behind the counter stood a stout, middle-aged woman who eyed them suspiciously, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.
Simon put on his best smile, brushing his hand through his curls. “Hello, I’m looking for Mrs Lewis.”
The woman studied him for a moment. “Oh yes? And you might be?”
“Simon Brooks and Lucy Wilkinson. We’re here for the housekeeping positions.”
She grinned, stamping out her cigarette into a well-used ashtray.
“Well, in that case.” She extended her hand. “Hattie Lewis. But everyone calls me Hattie, so you better had as well. Welcome to Grimsdyke.”
As evening cooled the air, the pair flopped onto Simon’s single bed. In contrast to the more salubrious guest rooms, the employees’ quarters were considerably more spartan, tucked at the back of the hotel with windows overlooking the loading area.
“I could get used to your new uniform,” Simon teased.
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “The skirt goes down past my knees, it’s stiff, and the lace makes me look like an oversized doily.”
“True. But maybe I’m into doilies.” He shuffled up against the headboard, grinning. “I like my jacket. With a bit more braid, I could pass as Sgt. Pepper. Plus, it has wonderfully huge pockets.” With a theatrical flourish, he pulled a bottle of wine from inside his jacket.
“Ooooh.” Lucy beamed at the alcohol before schooling her expression into a stern one, her glimmering eyes betraying her amusement. “Be careful—we don’t want to get sacked too fast. We’ve only just arrived.”
Simon placed a hand over his heart in mock pain. “I’m a professional. I take my nefarious ways very seriously.” He kissed the top of her head. “Now! We… ah.”
“No corkscrew?” She laughed.
He sighed and pulled out his penknife, extending the blade. “This might take a while.”
Lucy leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t bother. Let’s get dressed and hit the town—we can drink the wine on the beach. You can grab a corkscrew from Bedders.”
“Fair. Wine without dancing is the real crime.”
They bounced up from the cramped bed.
They reunited in the lobby. Hattie was finishing up and eyed them sceptically as they emerged, ready to play. Simon had shaved off his five o’clock stubble, sticking to his time-honoured and well-worn turtleneck and jeans, while Lucy descended the stairs with her hair in a messy bun, wisps framing her face.
“That’s your going-out wear, is it?” Hattie asked, eyeing them curiously.
“Casual and relaxed. Smart is for work.” Lucy flashed her an impish grin. “Tonight, we’re out to play.”
“So you are.” Hattie paused. “There’s a party tomorrow, down at the beach. After work, you should consider going. It’s a big event—free alcohol, dancing. It’s a traditional gathering for the residents, but we sometimes allow guests.”
“Free alcohol?” Simon smirked. “We’ll be there.”
Linking arms, the two strutted down the promenade, cigarettes glowing as they checked out the local drinking establishments. Mostly old-man pubs, but a few cafés overlooking the beach had a drink licence. The greasy aroma of fish and chips mingled with the salty tang of the sea.
“You know, I could settle somewhere like this,” Lucy mused, tilting her head back to release a plume of smoke.
Simon grunted. “You couldn’t settle anywhere. You said you’d settle in London, remember?”
“You know where we should go once we’ve finished with the coastal towns? Liverpool. I liked Liverpool.”
“It’s cold.”
Lucy sniffed. “The music’s good.”
“It’s cold,” Simon repeated.
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Then dance more. That’ll warm you up. Besides, you have an all-weather turtleneck. I’m the one who has to endure the elements. Unless, of course, you think I should get a turtleneck too?”
Simon frowned. “Darling, this is my look. You’ve got your own.”
“Well, in that case, let me worry about the temperature.”
As they reached the end of the promenade, the acrid scent of tar reached Simon’s nostrils. He led Lucy toward the boats. The crash and hiss of waves breaking on the pebbles surrounded them as they crunched through the stones toward a group of fishermen grilling fresh herrings.
“Don’t suppose you’ve a fish to spare, have you?” Simon asked, stepping aside as the wind shifted and smoke from the grill blew his way. “We’ve just moved to the area.”
The fishermen remained silent, looking at them.
Simon waited, his grin frozen in place.
“Wonderful. Well, in that case, I guess we’ll just fuck off.”
They turned and walked back toward the promenade.
Simon waved at the fishermen, who had returned to their time-honoured pastime of grumbling and grilling. “What lovely people. We must remember to send them a card at Christmas. It’s so good to make friends.”
Lucy erupted into giggles.
“I can see we’re going to have an absolute blast at the beach party. I hope everyone’s as friendly as them. I’d hate for it to be full of squares.” His face brightened as he caught the sound of the Rolling Stones coming from a beachside pub. “Quick pint, then we’ll go down to the beach and drink this wine. I’m getting tired of lugging it around.”
It never took much convincing to get Lucy into a pub, and within moments they were propped up at the bar—Simon with a lager, Lucy sipping a rum and black.
Simon immediately started chatting with Evan, one of the local barflies.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the fishermen,” Evan said. “They’re their own thing here in town. Just leave them be—that’s what we do. They even have their own pubs. You’re lucky you joined us here.”
Simon pointed at the speaker with his cigarette hand. “Blame Mick. We heard the Stones and immediately came in.” He took a long gulp of lager. “Is it really that tribal here?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ve lived here twelve years, but I’m still regarded as an outsider. Hence why I’m drinking in a tourist pub.”
Lucy pouted. “Well, they’re missing out. We’re a hoot.”
“Our boss is doing her best—Hattie from the Golden Gull. She’s invited us to some beach party tomorrow.”
Evan choked on his drink. “What the hell? The renewal? I’m not even invited to that. How did you swing it?”
“Natural charm and charisma, I guess,” Simon smirked. “It’s a big thing, then?”
“It’s every ten years. They hold it in a secluded bay. The caves here stretch back pretty far. The old-timers get absolutely shit-faced, set up grills on the beach, kegs in the caves. Then, apparently, they give thanks to the sea.” Evan scoffed. “I tried to go last time, but they had bouncers on the approaches. One asked me for my invite and turned me away—I didn’t see anyone else being asked for one.”
“Thank you, Queen Hattie, for sorting us out, then.” Lucy drained her glass. “Benefits of working for an old-timer.”
Simon sculled his pint and turned for the door.
“No, no. I want to dance. It’s happening in here,” Lucy pleaded.
The weight of the wine bottle on his mind, Simon glanced around at the old men nursing their pints. “The music’s good, but you’re the one dancing.”
“Do you really want to watch anyone else?” Lucy moved into an empty space and started swaying, gesturing for him to join her.
“Wait, wait. Let me get another pint first. My dancing shoes need refuelling.”
Reluctantly, he turned to the barman and counted out some of their meagre funds. He caught Evan watching Lucy dance and scowled.
Chapter Two
Simon found himself enjoying the work at the Golden Gull. There wasn’t too much of it—mostly smoking cigarettes with the kitchen staff between bouts of the occasional fetch-and-carry.
Easy money.
He waited for Lucy to join him after her shift ended. Hattie watched him with a knowing smile. Given the special event, he’d gone to all the effort of ironing a shirt for the beach party. Lucy descended the stairs in a black-and-white striped shift dress. He maintained his look of admiration despite her grumpy expression.
“You look like a million dollars.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“I deserve a million dollars after today.” She looked him up and down, then nodded in approval as she walked toward the door.
“Wait,” Hattie called out. They turned to see her holding two garlands of shells. “It’s tradition. We pay tribute to the sea for keeping us safe from the black fog every year.”
Lucy’s eyes widened with glee at the ritualistic element. She quickly donned the garland with a flair. “I love it. Thank you, Hattie.” She beamed at their boss.
Simon nodded politely, and the pair left.
Lucy’s smile dropped as soon as they were out of earshot. “I had to clean every room and change all the linens. Do you have any idea how disgusting the pigs who stay here are? I found all sorts in those sheets.”
Simon grimaced. “That’s lovely, but let’s get into the party mood, shall we?” He pulled a roll-up from behind his ear. “How about a cheeky spliff to smooth us out?”
Lucy gratefully accepted, holding it in her lips until he lit it for her. She took a deep drag, then visibly relaxed, turning to him. “You know where we’re going, then?”
“Yep, I have directions. It’s not far, about a mile out.” He glanced down at her feet, relieved to see she was in sandals.
She caught his look. “I’m not going to wear heels to the beach, am I? I’d sink into the pebbles.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I heard the gears squeaking in that head of yours.” She pulled a pair of cat-eye sunglasses from her handbag, despite the setting sun.
Simon changed the subject. “I hope there isn’t a limit to the free alcohol. I’ve built up a thirst. Must be the salty air.”
“We shouldn’t have gone to the beach and drunk that wine after the pub. We could’ve saved it for the walk to the party.”
Simon smirked. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t have given up last night for anything.”
She flashed him a cheeky grin. “We did have fun. Work aside, it’s not so bad here.”
“I hope they have enough food. Maybe we should grab fish and chips first?” Simon looked back at the receding promenade. “What if it’s just finger food?”
“It’ll be fine. We’ve started walking now—let’s not go back.” Lucy quickened her pace, adding a determined strut to her step.
The path to the secluded bay wound between weathered chalk cliffs. At the top, two grizzled men stood watch. They glanced at the garlands around Simon and Lucy’s necks and wordlessly stepped aside.
Twilight descended in layers of muted lavender and slate, the sky bleeding into the distant horizon where it met the sea.
They heard the music first—drums, a steady beat, joined by the hum of guitars. Voices punctuated by bursts of laughter wove through the melody. As they rounded a final rocky outcrop, they saw the gathering.
Smoking grills lined the shoreline, the scent of charred fish thick in the cool air. A giant bonfire blazed at the entrance to the caves, its flames releasing embers like fireflies into the darkening sky.
Lucy squealed and ran to slide her hand along one of the ornate benches carved from driftwood. They’d been arranged in a loose circle around the bonfire. Locals stood in clusters, talking and drinking.
A woman approached them, handing over tin tankards of warmed cider.
“Welcome to the Renewal.”
In the caves, kegs stretched back as far as the eye could see into the chalk-white cliffs.
“Well,” Lucy murmured, lowering her sunglasses, “this is better than expected.”
The crowd was older than Simon had anticipated—not elderly, precisely, but weathered. These were men and women who had spent decades under the sun and exposed to the ocean spray. He recognised some of the same faces that had been silent at the grill that morning. But here, they were jovial. Whether it was the music or the alcohol—likely the latter—they seemed almost friendly.
Simon wandered over to one of the grills. The man running it buttered two slices of toast and slapped dab in between them, handing the sandwich to him. Simon bit down on the slightly smoky bread, relishing the sweetness of the fish’s flesh.
Standing to one side, he watched as Lucy joined the dancing around the bonfire. The cider was delicious, but you had to drink it quickly before the coastal wind chilled it, the pewter tankard doing little to keep it warm.
As the sun slid into the sea and darkness covered the beach in its shroud, the cider continued to flow. The dancers moved like silhouettes around the bonfire. Occasionally, Simon spotted Lucy when she stepped close to the flames. He smiled as he heard a peal of her laughter rise over the raucous sounds of the party.
Fuelled by cider, he found her by the fire and joined her in the dance.
“Well, you two sure look like you’re having fun.”
Simon turned, his eyes hooded from alcohol. “Oh, hey, Hattie. This party sure is cool.”
Hattie wore a long shift dress, dyed in soft blues and greys, the colours of the ocean at dawn. She looked almost like a sea nymph as she passed them shots of a black-coloured liquid. Around them, trays of the same dark shots were being doled out to the revellers.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she said, smiling.
Simon sniffed the shot and recoiled. It had a metallic, salty scent, but beneath it, the unmistakable burn of alcohol.
“What is it?” Simon asked, swaying slightly to the music.
“A drug. A mild psychedelic and mood booster.”
He downed it in one.
“That’s the spirit,” Hattie said approvingly. “It’s called Ocean Lotus. The beach people make it for us.” She ran a finger down his chest. “Everyone remembers their first time.”
The dancers pulsed with an ancient, tribal energy. Simon pulled Lucy close, his tongue finding hers. The sea whispered against the pebbled shore, and in the gathering darkness, they clutched at each other. Their bodies felt warm. No—hot. Scorching.
Around them, revellers started shedding their tops. Simon didn’t hesitate. He yanked off the carefully ironed shirt he’d put on earlier and flung it into the fire.
Lucy cackled.
The dancers were naked now, their bodies melding together, the music hammering in time with his heart. Someone passed him another cider. He drained it, the heat and the dancing turning his mouth into a desert.
Bushels of herbs were hurled onto the bonfire. The scent had an overpowering iron tang. Smoke, or something darker—thicker—rolled through the air, a black fog obscuring the edges of the crowd. The naked bodies around him gleamed with sweat, pressing against him, shifting, merging. Only by the fire could he make out distinct shapes.
Above them, the stars winked out.
Someone was behind Lucy, hands on her breasts, moving in rhythm with her body. Simon watched, his own movements instinctual, hypnotic, in a state of pure euphoria. He hadn’t even noticed when he lost his trousers. His shoes were long gone.
A hand slid over his stomach from behind.
The only clue to their gender was when they entered him.
Simon pushed back, engulfed in sensation, though it didn’t feel like sex. It was more than that—primal, an all-consuming merging of flesh and heat. His body softened, melted, joined with the others.
He lost track of how many people he was with. Sometimes one. Sometimes more.
The night spun around him.
He collapsed onto the stony beach, head rolling side to side in time with the drums. Through the blur, he saw Lucy, tangled in a shifting mass of limbs, her hair unmistakable, her sounds lost in the delirium. He couldn’t tell who—or what—was writhing over her.
Smoke thickened, curling around them like fingers.
“Come on, love.”
A firm grip dragged him from the beach, towards the cave. Hattie.
She was naked, her sagging flesh glistening in the firelight.
The slick moisture of the cave walls cooled his feverish body.
He murmured something unintelligible, stroking her hand.
“There we go.” Her voice was soothing. She gently removed his fingers. “You just rest now.”
Simon smiled, satisfaction aching in every muscle.
His mind sank into black velvet.
Chapter Three
The euphoria was gone.
Replaced by a dry mouth, a pounding skull, and a stomach that felt like it was being torn apart.
“Fuck me.”
Simon groaned and rolled onto his side, pressing his face and stomach against the cool stones.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Simon?”
He blearily turned his head. Lucy was the only other person left in the cave.
The kegs were gone. The beach looked undisturbed, returned to nature. The only evidence of last night was the blackened pit of the bonfire.
“Are you alright, my darling?”
He crawled toward her and stroked her face. Her makeup had smeared into ghostly shadows. Her hair was bedraggled, crusted with sand.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve never had a hangover like this in my life.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “It hurts.”
“I’m sorry, dear.” Simon winced as another sharp cramp twisted through him. “Let’s try to sleep it off. Then we’ll get back to Bedders. Have some painkillers, a spliff—that’ll take the edge off.”
A stabbing pain lanced through his gut.
“Ah, fuck.” He grimaced. “I need to take a shit something chronic. My guts are screwed.” He tried to laugh but only managed a weak smile. “I tell you what, though—I wouldn’t mind taking some of that Ocean Lotus with us when we leave.”
Lucy turned to him, face pale, eyes hollow. “I’m never drinking that again.”
Simon patted her knee, then pushed himself up onto all fours. His vision swam.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he groaned. “I need to shit. So much pain.”
He dragged himself toward the cave entrance.
“Don’t leave me,” Lucy whimpered.
Her voice was fading. He glanced back. She was curled on the stone floor, eyes shut, drool leaking from the corner of her mouth.
Good. Sleep it off.
His stomach clenched again, tighter, harder. He rolled into the foetal position, pressing his hand against his belly.
Something moved.
Simon’s breath hitched.
His skin—something was shifting beneath his skin.
He pressed harder, and something writhed under his fingers.
His stomach bulged.
A wet, slithering sound echoed through the cave.
His eyes darted forward. A clutch of wriggling shapes—eel-like, translucent—slipped past him, their tiny bodies slick with mucus.
Hell-bent on reaching the sea.
Simon’s breath quickened. His chest heaved.
He twisted toward Lucy.
His scream tore through the morning silence.
Her torso—her stomach—was a gaping, raw cavity.
More of the wriggling things were slithering free from inside her, their newborn bodies streaked in blood, glistening in the weak dawn light.
Simon’s entire body seized with agony.
Another scream ripped from his throat as his stomach split open.
His vision darkened, pain swallowing him whole.
Through the blinding white-hot horror, he saw the first slick, writhing shapes tear their way free of his flesh—his offspring—before slithering toward the ocean’s embrace.
THE END
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