Soulmates by Newton Webb

A 1980s Occult Horror Short Story: Bottling up your emotions has never been so deadly.

Horror Story Compilations

Beneath The Shadow: 59 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Love. Sex. Death.’, ‘The Hunger’, ‘The Braemoor Incident’, ‘Dark Waters’, and ‘Strings Attached’.

Terrifying Tales: 54 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.’

Soulmates

1986, Tring

Jason hated school. Mostly, he hated feeling stupid. Numbers swam before his eyes like angry wasps, and words on the page seemed to rearrange themselves just to spite him. Tring School wasn’t exactly a hub of academic innovation. It was a mix of cheap construction and Portacabins converted into classrooms. Even by its standards, Jason was floundering.
Then he arrived.
Albert Barker joined mid-term, a quiet boy in Clarks shoes and grey trousers pulled a little too high. He did not smile. He did not frown. He just moved from classroom to classroom, radiating an unnerving stillness.
During English, Miss Morgan, an old woman with coffee breath, instructed the class to write a two-page essay on their favourite television programme, explaining what they like about it, and who their favourite characters are.
Albert raised his hand. "We do not have a television." The class sniggered.
"Right," Miss Morgan sighed, rubbing her temples. "Jason, you haven't got a desk partner. Albert, you sit with Jason. You can write an essay on… his favourite TV programme."
Jason groaned.
Great. Stuck with the weirdo.
"But Miss…"
"No buts, Jason. Perhaps some of Albert’s focus will rub off on you." She ignored Jason’s muttered complaints.
The boys chuckled and muttered "freak", "spaz", and “retard” as Albert relocated to Jason’s desk.
“That’s enough. The next person who uses foul language will get a lunchtime detention,” Miss Morgan shouted. “You could all do with a bit less television and a bit more focus.”
The first few days were excruciatingly awkward. Jason sat bored, doodling Autobot and Decepticon symbols on his exercise book while Albert watched the teacher attentively, completing worksheets with terrifying speed and precision.
At lunchtime, Jason would ramble about Transformers, his mouth full of deep-fried pizza, while Albert silently ate a cabbage sandwich and an apple.

The dynamic shifted unexpectedly during a maths lesson, as Jason wrestled miserably with long division. He was squinting as Mr Kaine drew out an example on the board. If Jennifer Yellow-Hat wanted to plant 4,824 daffodils equally in six fields, how many daffodils would be in each field?
Jason groaned and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed.
Albert whispered to him, "If the Autobots had to resupply Moonbase One, and they had only six shuttles to do it with, how many energon cubes would Optimus Prime have to load on each one?”
“I don’t know.” Jason uncrossed his arms.
“Okay, it is a big number. Even Perceptor would struggle with it, so we break it up. Six goes into forty-eight, eight times…” Albert’s voice was a flat monotone, devoid of inflection, yet the explanation was clearer than Mr Kaine's frantic chalk scrawls. Especially when Albert suggested that Jason draw the shuttles with his calculation. Jason scribbled on his pad and with some gentle prompting, and the occasional correction, got there.
Mr Kaine walked along, looked at the calculation, grunted approvingly, and moved off.
It worked.
Jason mumbled a grudging thanks.
During English, Jason looked at Mrs Morgan as if she were drunk or speaking another language as she tried to explain the Oxford comma.
Albert wrote on his page. ‘The Dinobots: Grimlock, Slag, Snarl, Swoop and Sludge walked down the mountainside.’ “It looks like Swoop and Sludge are the same transformer. Or that Sludge might not be a Dinobot.” He added an Oxford comma. “Now nobody can argue that Sludge isn’t a Dinobot.”
“Me Grimlock like.” Jason grinned.
Jason found Albert to be weird, unsettling even, but undeniably helpful. Jason thanked him each time, receiving only a slight, almost imperceptible nod in return.
They were walking to the car park. Albert's parents always waited in a spotless cherry red Ford Cortina. As they passed the bike sheds, Greg Baker and his cronies cornered Albert, mocking his emotionless face, and poking fun at his too-high trousers. "What's wrong with you, Barker? Did your mum forget to wind you up this morning?" Greg sneered. “Beep. Boop. I’ve got a battery up my arse.”
Jason felt an unexpected surge of irritation.
Albert tried to move around them, offering no reaction, but Greg matched his moves, blocking him.
Surprising himself, Jason stepped forward. "Leave him alone, Greg."
Greg turned, momentarily surprised. "What's it to you, Jarse-on? Found yourself another loser friend?"
"Just push off," Jason said, balling his fists, though his heart hammered against his ribs. Greg shrugged and wandered off with his gang, turning to yell back, “Jason’s bumming a robot! He is gonna get a rusty cock, rusty cock, rusty cock!”
Albert looked at Jason. “You did not need to do that. He never actually hits me."
Jason shrugged, feeling awkward again. "Yeah, well. He's a prick and I fucking hate bullies."
After that, Albert's quiet assistance became more regular, almost companionable in its own strange way. He would patiently point out Jason's errors, explaining concepts in his monotone voice that made education interesting. Jason’s grades started climbing. His mum, Helen, noticing the improvement, rewarded him with a coveted pack of Transformers Top Trumps cards.
"Look," Jason said, shuffling the cards during lunch break one day, the smell of desiccated sausage rolls, greasy chips, and overcooked peas hanging heavy in the air. "Optimus Prime. Strength: 10, Intelligence: 10, Speed: 7…"
Albert tilted his head. "Bumblebee should be faster. He does not have a trailer to carry."
Jason nodded enthusiastically. “He runs rings around everyone in the cartoons. Even Jazz and Hotrod.” He leaned in closer. “We should make our own Top Trumps.”
"Okay," Albert said, though his face showed no emotion. Some girls nearby giggled at them. Albert either did not notice or he did not care.

#

A week later, Albert approached Jason as they were unpacking their bags for their first lesson. "My parents would be agreeable to you staying at our residence for the evening on Friday. A 'sleepover'."
Jason was taken aback.
A sleepover? With Albert?
"Er, why?"
"My parents are aware of the assistance I have provided regarding your studies. They think it appropriate given your social behaviour towards me."
What, the Greg thing? Weird.
They are still calling me Rusty thanks to Greg. Better than the original insult, I guess.
Still, Jason felt a flicker of gratitude, maybe even curiosity. "Okay, yeah. Sure. Whatever. I’ll ask my mum."
“We could work on a new, more accurate Top Trumps system.”
Jason whooped. He punched Albert on the shoulder. “Yeah man!”
His mum, Helen readily agreed, pleased Jason was making a friend, even if he was, by Jason's description, 'a bit odd'.

#

Friday afternoon found Jason cycling up the steep hill towards Tring Park. The familiar suburban streets gave way to winding lanes flanked by dense woods. As he pushed his bike deeper into the park, the usual chatter of woodland birds seemed to fade, leaving an almost watchful quiet. The path climbed higher until he reached a plain wrought iron gate, he opened the latch and walked his bike through it, closing it behind him. Beyond, a long, winding driveway led to an old cottage, recently painted so it looked brand new. Perfectly planted rose bushes lined the path. The lawn was mown with flawless stripes.
Albert stood on the doorstep, flanked by his parents. They were like older, taller versions of him – the same blank expressions, the same drab clothing. The father, slender, with neat brown hair, stepped forward. "Jason. Welcome to the Barker household." He smoothly took Jason's bike. "I shall place this in the garage."
The mother, younger and blonde, gave a slight nod. "Do come inside, Jason. Albert." She held the door open.
Oh great, they are all weirdos.
Jason stepped over the threshold.
The strangeness intensified inside. The house was utterly spotless, sterile, even. No stray newspapers, no kicked-off shoes, no clutter whatsoever. The furniture was plain, functional, aggressively beige. The walls were all painted bright white. There was no television in the room that should have been the living room. Instead, it was a library, lined with bookshelves. The only sounds were the rhythmic tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the hallway and their own footsteps on the polished floorboards.
Mrs Barker led them into the library. "Please refrain from touching any items," she instructed, her voice as devoid of warmth as the room. Her gaze flickered towards an antique wooden cabinet tucked in a corner. It looked out of place amidst the functional starkness. "Especially the cabinet. Touching the cabinet is strictly forbidden." No reason was offered.
Mr Barker joined them, standing straight and tall. "Jason," he began, his voice calm and level. "Albert informs us you show aptitude, though previously undirected. What are your aspirations?"
Jason shifted uncomfortably. "Er… I don’t know yet. Maybe an engineer? Like, design stuff. Transformers, maybe."
Mr Barker nodded slowly. "A practical application of physics and mechanics. Admirable." He paused. "I was once an Egyptologist. A fascinating culture – their grasp of engineering principles was fascinating. This house used to be filled with artefacts, trinkets. But we have since found that a less cluttered environment promotes mental clarity. A tidy lifestyle is a tidy mind."
In the ensuing silence, broken only by the clock's ticking, Jason heard it – a faint sound, low and muffled, like someone crying softly, desperately. It seemed to come from within the room.
The fuck was that?
He glanced around. Just the four of them. But then his eyes met Mrs Barker's. She was staring at him, her gaze intense, unblinking. Jason quickly looked back at Mr Barker, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. Albert sat perfectly still, listening attentively.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour. "Ah," Mr Barker announced. "Time for outdoor recreation."
Outside, the lawn was indeed perfect. They played badminton, Mr and Mrs Barker watching impassively from the library window. Albert played with mechanical efficiency, no joy evident in his movements. Just as Jason felt he was getting the hang of the serve, a sharp tap-tap-tap came from the windowpane.
"Callisthenics," Albert stated flatly, gathering up Jason’s racquet and the shuttlecock to place them in an outdoor chest.
“Wait, mate. You said we were going to do Top Trumps.”
Albert looked at the window and then whispered, “We must do our exercise and then eat dinner. When we are sent to bed we can do it then.”
Jason looked at the mad boy as he started off. Shaking his head, he followed.
After thirty gruelling minutes of jogging in circles, around the immaculate lawn, Jason was sweating and exhausted.

Another tap-tap-tap sounded from the window.
"Dinner," Albert announced.
Inside, they did not go straight to the dining room. Instead, they stopped by a set of clinical-looking scales in the hallway. One by one, they weighed themselves, Mr Barker noting the numbers in a small ledger.
This is getting fucking freaky.
In the dining room, Mrs Barker served dinner. Bowls of greyish lentils, plain boiled rice, and limp cabbage. "Nutritionally complete," she declared, placing a bowl before each of them. Jason noticed, with a flicker of annoyance, that his portion was visibly smaller than Albert's, even though Jason was taller. He took a tentative bite. It tasted slightly earthy, a sludgy, mudlike paste. He pushed the bowl away slightly. "I am not very hungry, actually."
"Nonsense," Mr Barker said firmly. "Nutrition is vital for physical and mental growth. We do not leave the table until our allocated portion is fully consumed."
As they sat in silence, forcing down the grim meal, Jason heard the crying sound again, clearer this time, definitely emanating from the library. He glanced towards the library door. Mr Barker, noticing his glance, rose silently, walked to the library door, and firmly shut it, muffling the sound once more. Jason’s appetite vanished completely, replaced by a cold dread.
Jason decided enough was enough. He needed to get out. "My stomach hurts," he mumbled, clutching his stomach with mock pain. "Maybe my mum should come and get me."
Mr Barker regarded him with serious, unblinking eyes. "A phone is an unnecessary expense. We do not possess one. Perhaps your digestive system is used to a less controlled diet." He stood up. "Come."
He led Jason towards a previously unnoticed door.
It opened into a small room. It was stark, with white tiles on the floor and white painted walls. A metal cabinet stood against one wall, and in the centre was a narrow bed that looked disturbingly like an examination table. "Remove your clothes, Jason, and lie on the bed," Mr Barker instructed calmly.
Terror surged through Jason.
Hell no!
"No! I am okay!" he yelped, backing away. "Really! I feel much better now. I had a fart, it was brilliant, I feel better now."
Mr Barker paused, considering this. "Ah, yes. The emission of gas can relieve pressure on the gastric system. Your body has achieved equilibrium. Very good." He glanced at the clock. "It is now bedtime."
Bedtime? It is barely dark outside!
But Mr Barker was already ushering Jason and Albert towards the stairs. "Go to Albert’s bedroom. We will serve breakfast at six in the morning."

Albert's bedroom was as barren as the rest of the house: a queen-sized bed with a plain grey duvet, a small wooden cupboard, and a single wooden chair. No posters, no books, no toys.
Nothing.
They were expected to share the bed.
The lights were switched off before 9 pm. Lying stiffly beside Albert in the near-darkness, Jason whispered, "Albert? What is going on with your family? Are you aliens or something?”
Albert shifted slightly. "It is our way. It is… efficient."
"But what about that crying sound? From the library?"
"You should sleep," Albert replied, a defensive edge creeping into his monotone.
Jason changed tack. "Want to make our new Top Trumps? I still have the official pack here." He fumbled in his bag in the dark.
They argued quietly about the relative merits of Optimus Prime versus Megatron, then about who was faster, Starscream or Jetfire. The normalcy of the argument felt jarringly out of place. When Jason mentioned Sarah Jenkins, a girl who had called Albert a 'weirdo' that week, Albert went quiet.
"I know they think I am odd," Albert said finally, his voice barely audible.
"You are alright, Albert," Jason said, meaning it more than he expected. "You are just… different."
A moment of silence hung between them. Then Albert whispered, "Do you want to see why we are different, Jason?"
Intrigued, and wanting to appear brave despite the fear coiling in his gut, Jason nodded in the darkness. "Okay."
"We must wait until my parents are asleep," Albert cautioned. "Their sleep cycle is precisely regulated."
They lay in silence, listening to the unnervingly quiet house. Eventually, Albert slipped out of bed. "Now," he breathed.
Jason followed him stealthily out of the room and down the dark, moonlit hallway. As they approached the library door, the crying sound returned, louder now, more distinct – a desperate, heartbroken sobbing. Albert pushed the door open slowly.
"Do not worry," Albert whispered, his voice betraying no emotion. "It is perfectly safe." He walked directly to the antique wooden cabinet. Jason hung back, his heart pounding against his ribs. Albert opened the cabinet doors.
Inside were three large, cork stoppered, clear glass jars. They looked new, as if meticulously cleaned, not a smear or a hint of dust. Each swirled with a murky, smoke-like substance. As Jason stared, horrified, faces began to form within the smoke – distorted, anguished faces that looked terrifyingly like Albert, Mr Barker, and Mrs Barker. The crying was not muffled anymore. It was the raw sound of screaming grief emanating directly from the jars.
"That is where we put the bad thoughts," Albert explained, as if discussing storage for winter clothes. "Grief, Anger, Fear, and Sadness. It makes us better people."

Jason could not breathe.

The faces in the three jars pressed against the glass. Their mouths were open and screaming. Tears streamed down spectral cheeks. Jason stumbled backwards, seized by pure, undiluted terror.

Jason bolted for the library door. He crashed right into Mr Barker, who stood silently in the doorway, blocking his escape.
"Albert," Mr Barker said, his voice calm, eyes fixed on his son. "Explain your thought process, Albert. You know we do not discuss the Casket of Souls."
Albert did not flinch. "Jason is my friend," he stated. "He has negative thoughts. He has distress regarding scholastic performance. He has social anxieties. He has demonstrated protective behaviour towards me. I wished to reward him, make him like us."
Jason backed away, pressing himself into a corner of the room, eyes darting between the impassive father, the strange son, and the horrifying cabinet.
Mr Barker turned his gaze to Jason. "You need to understand, we experienced a tragedy some years ago." His grey eyes were impassive. "Our daughter, Charlotte, was lost in a car accident. The grief was debilitating, especially for my wife. She sought to end her life. I could not permit that." He gestured vaguely towards the house. "My studies in Egyptology offered perspective. The ancients understood the rudiments of soul partitioning: Ba, the personality. Ka, the life-force. Sheut, the shadow self. I realised that our souls were out of alignment. By exorcising the Sheut, I was able to contain the turmoil, leaving clarity." He indicated the cabinet. "A 'Casket of Souls' is perhaps overly dramatic. It simply contains the unwanted emotional spectra, using Sheut to trap the excess of Ba in our souls. Our grief, our fear, are all safely stored in these vessels. Now, we are free." He took a step towards Jason. "You too will be free."
"Fuck off!" Jason backed away to the corner. His eyes wide with fear.
Mr Barker's expression did not flicker. "I would rather have consent. But we cannot have you leave here knowing our secret." He began to advance slowly. His lips twisted into a half-remembered facsimile of a smile as if he was trying to comfort the boy. “We are going to save you, Jason.” He extended a hand towards him.
Panic gave Jason a desperate strength. He launched himself sideways, not at Mr Barker, but at the antique cabinet. With a grunt, he slammed his shoulder into the wood. The cabinet rocked violently. The three heavy jars wobbled on their shelf. They tipped, and crashed onto the polished floorboards, shattering instantly.

“No!” shouted Mr Barker.
The smoky substance erupted from the broken glass, swirling like freed genies. In seconds, the smoke whipped towards the three Barkers. It slammed into Albert first. He let out a piercing scream. His eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed onto the floor. His face was white. Instantly catatonic, a thin line of drool traced a path from his lips.
The second cloud hit Mr Barker. His impassive mask shattered. Raw terror contorted his features. He fell to the floor, clawing at his face, leaving red, bloody streaks down his cheeks as he screamed. He pulled his knees up tight to his chest, eyes wide with fear.
The third cloud shot out of the library.
Jason did not wait. He scrambled past Mr Barker. He sprinted down the hallway, past the dining room. He caught a glimpse of Mrs Barker standing stock-still in the kitchen. Tears streamed down from her face. There was a knife in her hands. He backed away in terror, but instead of attacking, she sliced up both her arms, along the veins. Blood gushed forth, spraying across the previously spotless floor tiles.

Backing away, Jason’s eyes were transfixed by the ghoulish scene.

Her shoulders shook with violent, racking sobs as her raw grief was finally unleashed. She wavered, then collapsed to the floor, her head hit the ceramic tiles with a terrible thunk as she fell.

Jason fumbled for the door Mr Barker had indicated earlier – the garage.
He wrenched it open, saw his bike leaning against the wall, grabbed it, and hauled it outside. Adrenaline surged through him. He threw his leg over the saddle and pedalled with all his might down the winding driveway, away from the house. Behind him, the screams and weeping echoed into the night air, chasing him through the suddenly noisy woods.

Jason did not look back.

He rode, faster and faster, the trees flashing past.

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.