Strings Attached by Newton Webb

A Heavy Metal Body Horror Short Story: Fraser learns the hard way that unprotected sex can lead to deadly consequences.

Horror Story Compilations

Tales of Terror: 23 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Love. Sex. Death.’, ‘The Hunger’, ‘The Braemoor Incident’, ‘Dark Waters’, and ‘One More Turn’.

Midnight Whispers: 30 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.’

All Things Creepy: 48 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Love. Sex. Death.’, ‘The Hunger’, ‘The Braemoor Incident’, ‘Dark Waters’, and ‘One More Turn’.

Riveting Reads: 69 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3.’

Day One

Fraser wiped the grease from his hands with a rag, his attention drifting from the carburettor. A flash of wavy black hair caught his eye—a beautiful young woman strolled past the garage, her Ratt T-shirt hugging her curves.

"Watch and learn, mate." He nudged Chris with his elbow, tossing the oil-stained cloth aside.

Chris raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Good luck, mate."

"Trust me. I’m the king of banter. If I were a dinosaur, I’d be the Bantersaurus fucking Rex." Fraser ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his leather jacket, and sauntered toward her.

"Nice shirt." He fell into step beside her, puffing slightly. She was walking faster than he’d expected. "Warren DeMartini’s got the fattest guitar tone in the business."

Her lips curved into a smile. "You’re into Ratt?"

"Are you kidding? Those chunky riffs on Round and Round—pure gold. The way he dominates every track..." Fraser air-guitared a quick lick. "The way he bends those strings, makes them sing... it’s criminal more people don’t appreciate his technique. But I’m not just a member of the Ratt Pack. I’ve got some rare B-sides that’d blow your mind."

"Oh yeah?" She tucked a curl behind her ear. "Do you prefer him to, say, Eddie Van Halen?" Veronica raised an eyebrow.

"Different beast entirely. Eddie’s all flash and speed. DeMartini’s got this meaty, room-filling sound. When those licks hit, you feel it in your bones." Fraser grinned. "I can prove it to you. I’ll make you a mixtape—DeMartini’s best solos, along with Dio, Dokken, Danger Danger, some absolute classics." He leaned against a nearby wall. "By the time you’ve got to the end of the tape, you’ll be knackered and satisfied. Some might say I give too much D, but they’re just jealous."

Chris hovered by the garage, shaking his head.

She scoffed. "Does that line normally work?"

"First time I’ve had the opportunity to try it." Fraser shifted his weight, boots scuffing the pavement. "I could give you the tape at the Gorgeous Heroes gig tonight at the Flag."

Her eyes lit up. "The Heroes? I heard their new guitarist shreds."

"Well, nine times out of ten, he holds the guitar the right way round, and every now and then, he plays a note on time. When people say his guitar sounds like a bag of drowning cats, that’s barely accurate at all." He mimed a particularly awful guitar solo, drawing a laugh from her.

"Oi!" Chris raised his middle finger.

"And if you hadn’t figured it out, that spanner over there is him. S’pose I owe him a drink now."

She adjusted her leather jacket, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Can you pick me up?"

"Sure, I can swing by on my Yamaha. Have you ridden on the back of a bike before?" Seeing her expression, he rapidly continued. "Course you have. Right, I’ll bring a spare helmet, we’ll park up at mine, walk five minutes to the venue, and then I’ll get you a cab home."

She smiled, her eyes glittering. "That could work." She pulled out a biro and wrote her address on the back of his hand. “My name’s Veronica, see you there.”

"Pick you up at eight?"

"Make it nine. And don’t forget my tape."

Veronica turned and walked away, her curls bouncing with each step. Fraser watched her go, a grin spreading across his face. Behind him, Chris’s footsteps approached.

"You’re fucking off to record that tape right now, aren’t you?"

"Too right, mate. Got some serious curating to do." Fraser spun around, grabbing his bike helmet. "You’re okay handling the clean-up, right?"

Chris looked at the oil stains on the garage floor as Fraser mounted his bike. "Yeah. Yeah sure, mate."

#

Fraser burst through his flat door, kicking aside empty beer cans as he made his way to his prized stereo system. His fingers danced across his cassette collection, pulling out the essential albums.

"Right then, let’s show her how it’s done." He slipped a blank tape into Deck Two, positioning his albums for the perfect sequence.

The familiar click and whir of the recording deck filled the room. He started with Round and Round—an obvious choice, not very niche, but a decent foundation. His head bobbed as he laid down track after track, creating a metal masterpiece.

While the tape rolled, he ducked into the bathroom. The mirror revealed yesterday’s eyeliner smudged under his eyes. He scrubbed his face clean, then steadied his hand for a fresh application. The black pencil glided along his waterline, making his brown eyes pop.

"Bugger," he muttered, dabbing at a stray mark with his little finger.

Next came the nail varnish. Three coats of midnight black, each one applied with the precision of an engineer. He waved his hands in the air, willing the polish to dry faster.

His hair needed work. He grabbed the blow dryer, teasing out the waves until they framed his face in a proper metal-god mane. A generous blast of hairspray locked it in place.

Back in his bedroom, he shimmied into his tightest pair of jeans and his British Steel, Judas Priest t-shirt. He fastened his bullet belt, the metal catching the light as he moved. The spiked leather cuffs came next, followed by his prized possession—a beaten leather bike jacket covered in patches from every gig he’d survived.

The tape clicked to a stop. Perfect timing. He popped it out, scrawling Ratt Attack Medley across the label in his messy scrawl.

#

Fraser pulled up to the curb outside Veronica’s house, his Yamaha’s engine purring. It was concealed by massive gates, he whistled at them appreciatively. Her family must have a few bob. He pressed the buzzer.

“Hello?” Veronica’s voice squawked out of the intercom.

“Hey, it’s Fraser.”

“Coming right out.”

A few minutes later, she emerged from between the giant gates, closing them behind her. Her leather jacket and tartan mini-skirt hugged her frame, obsidian curls wild in the streetlight.

“Dude, those are some enormous walls.”

Veronica flashed him a smile. “Yeah, my mother is pretty big in fashion.”

“I picked the wrong job, maybe I should switch?”

“Maybe, though you might struggle to find silks with the same level of quality.” She climbed onto the back of his belt.

"Silk? Fuck that. Denim and leather forever." He passed her the spare helmet, their fingers brushing. "Safety first. Can’t have anything happening to that pretty face."

"You think I look pretty?" She flashed her lashes at him.

"Nah mate. I think you look gorgeous."

"That’s better." She kissed his cheek.

She slipped the helmet on and climbed behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist. The bike roared to life beneath them.

#

The Flag’s neon sign buzzed above the entrance. Inside, the air hung thick with cigarette smoke, stale urine, and cheap lager. A banner proclaimed, 2 for 1 on Carlsberg!

"Fancy a drink?" Fraser raised his voice over the opening band's sound check.

"Fuck yes." Veronica’s eyes sparkled.

He returned with four plastic pints, setting them on a sticky table. "Might as well take advantage of the deal."

The Heroes launched into their first song, a blistering cover of Communication Breakdown. Fraser grabbed Veronica’s hand, pulling her into the crowd. Their bodies moved together, caught in the crushing wave of metalheads.

The band shifted into Whole Lotta Love. Veronica pressed closer, her hands sliding up his chest. Fraser’s fingers tangled in her hair as their lips met. She tasted like Carlsberg and cherry lip gloss. Chris’s guitar solo wailed overhead as they lost themselves in the moment, the crowd surging around them.

The kiss broke as the song ended. Fraser’s heart hammered against his ribs, matching the pounding bass drum. Veronica’s lips curved into a wicked smile, and she pressed her forehead against his.

"Another drink?" Her breath tickled his ear.

"Read my mind." He squeezed through the crowd toward the bar, his boots sticking to the beer-soaked floor. The bartender slid him two more pints, foam sloshing over the rims.

Back at their spot, Veronica bobbed her head to the music. She fingered the cassette tape peeking from Fraser’s jacket pocket. "Can’t wait to hear what’s on there."

"Only the classics." He slipped an arm around her waist. "Speaking of which—"

The opening riff of Lay It Down cut through the air. Veronica squealed, grabbing his hand. "Dance with me!"

They crashed into the pit, bodies colliding. Fraser spun her, their leather jackets creaking. Her hair whipped across his face, carrying the scent of strawberry shampoo. The crowd pushed them together, chest to chest, hip to hip.

Between songs, she traced the patches on his jacket. "Motörhead, Priest, Maiden… proper metalhead, aren’t you?"

"Born and bred." He brushed a curl from her face. "Nothing better than cranking up the volume until your ears bleed."

"My mum hates metal." She rolled her eyes. "Threatens to burn my records every time I play them."

"She sounds like a proper bint." His fingers found hers, intertwining. "Metal is about freedom. Doing whatever the fuck you want."

"Like sneaking out to gigs with strange mechanics?" Her eyebrow arched.

"Exactly." He grinned. "But ‘mysterious,’ not ‘strange.’ I’m not a weirdo."

#

The final chord faded into feedback, leaving Fraser’s ears ringing. Veronica clung to his arm as they pushed through the sweaty crowd toward the exit. The cool night air hit their faces, a welcome relief from the stuffy venue.

"Starving." Veronica patted her stomach. "Need food."

"Maccas is round the corner." Fraser steadied her as she wobbled on the curb.

They staggered down the High Street, sharing cigarettes and stealing kisses. Golden arches beckoned through the darkness. Inside, fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across their faces.

"Big Mac and fries." Fraser fumbled with his wallet. "And a Coke. What’re you having?"

"Same." Veronica slumped against the counter. "Extra ketchup."

They claimed a plastic booth, unwrapping their burgers with clumsy fingers. Veronica dunked a fry in ketchup, missing her mouth. Red sauce smeared across her chin.

"Smooth." Fraser wiped it away with his thumb.

"Shut up." She kicked him under the table.

Between bites, Fraser watched her demolish her burger. Her makeup had smudged during the gig, eyeliner creating dark circles. Her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. She’d never looked more beautiful.

"My place isn’t far." He crumpled his wrapper. "You have to see my record collection. My apartment is a cathedral to metal."

"Lead the way." Veronica grabbed their empty cups, tossing them in the bin.

They wandered through empty streets, their footsteps echoing off brick walls. Veronica hummed under her breath, spinning in circles. Fraser caught her mid-twirl, pulling her close.

"Watch it." He steadied her. "Steps coming up."

The basement entrance loomed ahead, metal railings gleaming in the streetlight. Fraser fished his key from his pocket, missing the lock twice before getting it in.

Fraser’s room was a cluttered den of rock ‘n’ roll paraphernalia and mechanical oddments. Posters of Motörhead and Mötley Crüe shared wall space with calendars of scantily clad women.

Veronica skipped all of that, heading straight to the shelves dominated by stacks of well-thumbed LPs.

They tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and leather. Veronica’s hand snaked into the pocket of her jacket, retrieving a small, square packet. Her eyes, hazy with desire, were resolute as she held it up. "Safety first," she whispered.

Fraser looked at the condom with distaste. "Are you sure?"

"I always use protection." For the first time since he’d met her, she gave him a serious look. "It’s for both of our sakes."

"Yeah, yeah. Of course." He accepted the condom, fumbling with the wrapper, finally tearing it open as they kissed.

With the condom in place, they moved together. The springs of the old mattress squeaked in time with their passion. Veronica’s black hair spread across the pillow like snakes as she arched her back, a silent scream frozen on her lips.

Fraser flipped her onto all fours, a raw, animalistic urge filling him. The feel of her skin against his own was intoxicating. With a deftness born of a hundred clandestine fumbles, he slipped the condom off and flicked it away into the corner. He plunged back into her.

#

Afterward, they lay back, their chests rising and falling in sync. The scent of their lovemaking hung in the air, a heady mix of sweat and sex. Veronica reached for the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table, tapping one out and lighting it with a practiced flick of her wrist. The tip glowed red in the dimly lit room, casting an eerie glow on her face.

Fraser took the cigarette from her, their fingers lingering on the exchange. He drew deeply, the smoke curling around his head as he exhaled. They passed the cigarette back and forth in easy silence.

Veronica rolled onto her side, her piercing eyes locking onto his. She traced the line of his jaw with her index finger, a small smile playing on her lips. Fraser felt a twinge of guilt at what he’d done. But in the warmth of her gaze, it was easy to push that unease aside and revel in the afterglow—

Veronica bolted upright, squinting at the alarm clock.

"Shit! Three AM?" She scrambled out of bed, gathering her scattered clothes. "Mum’s fashion show rehearsal starts at nine. She’ll murder me if I’m not bright-eyed."

Fraser propped himself up on an elbow, admiring the curve of her back as she wrestled with her jeans. "Come on, stay. We’re only getting started." He patted the empty space beside him.

"No chance." She hopped on one foot, pulling on her boots. "Where’s your phone?"

"Kitchen wall." Fraser stretched, his muscles aching pleasantly. "But—"

"No buts." She darted out, returning moments later. "Taxi’s coming in five. Write your number down?"

Fraser scrawled his digits on a crumpled receipt. "Call me tomorrow?"

"Promise." She stuffed the paper in her pocket, leaning down for one last kiss. Her hair tickled his face.

The taxi horn blared outside. Veronica grabbed her jacket, blowing him a kiss from the doorway. "Sweet dreams."

Fraser listened to her footsteps fade up the metal stairs, followed by the slam of the taxi door. The engine revved as it pulled away.

He collapsed back onto the pillows, exhaustion washing over him. The sheets still smelled of her perfume. His last thought before drifting off was of black curls spread across his pillow.

Day Two

Fraser gunned his Yamaha into Chris's driveway, the engine's roar cutting through his throbbing headache. He swung his leg over, wincing as his groin protested. A grin spread across his face despite the discomfort.

“Oh my God, look what the cat dragged in,” he sang tunelessly. “Living his life, sin after sin, Night rolls up and I do it again–Mate, you won’t believe the night I had." Fraser hobbled toward Chris, who was tinkering with an amp in the garage. "Can barely walk straight."

"What happened to you?"

"Bruised my balls, didn’t I?" Fraser leaned against the workbench. "Going at it so hard they were smacking against her like Keith Moon on speed."

Chris grimaced. "Thanks for that, first thing in the morning."

"Oh shit, speaking of—" Fraser snapped his fingers. "Your gig last night. Those solos were proper mint. Getting better every show."

"Thanks, actually, I—"

"My head’s splitting, though. Any chance of beans on toast? And tea strong enough to stand a spoon in?"

Chris disappeared into the house, returning with a steaming mug and plate. Fraser fell on the food like a starving man.

"Listen, last night I—" Chris started.

"She’s something else, mate." Fraser talked through a mouthful of beans. "Not like the usual birds. We started discussing the evolution of thrash metal over burgers. She actually understands the technical side, the progression from early Anthrax to—"

"Fraser, would you shut up a minute? I’m trying to tell you I pulled last—"

"And she was talking about her record collection. She actually has—”

Chris sighed, giving up as Fraser launched into another rambling appreciation of Veronica’s musical knowledge.

Fraser gulped down his tea, the scalding liquid burning away the worst of his hangover. His mind drifted back to Veronica bouncing as she headbanged to Breaking the Law. The memory sparked a fresh ache in his groin.

"Pass us another cuppa, mate?" He stretched out on Chris’s ratty garage couch. "Need to get my head straight before work."

Chris banged around in the kitchen. "Some of us have already been working this morning."

"Yeah? Good for you. I had to hit the motorway, blow off some adrenaline on the straights." Fraser’s fingers traced the worn leather of his jacket, finding a fresh lipstick stain on the collar. "Veronica’s got this thing about Judas Priest. Reckons Rob Halford’s voice could shatter glass. We spent hours debating their best album."

"Fascinating," Chris said deadpan, returning with more tea.

"Should’ve seen her face light up when I mentioned seeing them live in ’84. Got right into the technical aspects of their dual-guitar attack—"

"Mate, you’ve been vagnotised." Chris put the mug down, shaking his head.

Fraser blinked, taken aback by his mate’s outburst. "Bullshit, bruv. I don’t care about no bint. If anything, she’s obsessed with me."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Oi!" Fraser growled. "I ain’t like that. You’re the one who gets obsessed with birds. I was just saying she’s pretty cool, that’s all. You know, for a bird."

"Very cool." Chris nodded. "So cool."

"Oh, fuck you, man." Fraser got up and gingerly remounted his bike. "I’ll see you down the pub tonight?"

"If your mistress can spare you, you mean?" Chris smirked.

Fraser extended his middle finger at Chris as he drove off.

Chris looked down at the dirty mugs and plate, shrugged, and carried them to the kitchen.

#

The summer heat turned Turner’s garage into an oven. Fraser’s hands ached from wrestling with lug nuts all morning. He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of grease across his forehead.

"Time for a brew." He grabbed his mug and shuffled outside, slumping against the brick wall. The tea scalded his tongue, but he needed the caffeine hit.

A line of black dots marched along the mortar between the bricks. Fraser squinted. Ants. Dozens of them, streaming in and out of a crack near ground level.

He licked his index finger, pressing it against the wall to trap one of the tiny creatures. He popped it in his mouth.

Nothing. No flavour at all. Fraser caught another ant, crushing it between his teeth. Still nothing. Third time’s the charm—he snagged two more.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Dave stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open. His coveralls were covered in oil stains, matching the horrified expression on his face.

Fraser shrugged, wiping his fingers on his jeans. "Hungover, ain’t I? Just trying something new. Don’t make it weird."

"Don’t make it—?" Dave looked at him in disgust. "You are frazzled, mate. Too much time in the fast lane. Get back to work." He wandered back into the garage, swearing to himself.

Pursing his lips, Fraser watched Dave return inside. Sighing, he finished his tea, then, with one last lingering look at the ants, ate a final one before walking inside.

#

Fraser winced as he lowered himself onto the pub stool next to Chris. The pain in his groin had spread, each step sending lightning bolts through his body. He took a long pull from his pint, avoiding Chris’s concerned stare.

"Mate, you need to see someone about those balls."

"No chance. I’m not having some bloke poking around down there. Not happening." Fraser shifted on the stool, suppressing another grimace. "Told you, it’s just bruised from excessive rocking."

Chris supped his lager. "Did you use a condom?"

"Fuck no." Fraser stared into his beer. "She needed the full Fraser experience, didn’t she? Besides, all women are on the pill these days."

"Christ." Chris ran a hand through his hair. "You’re mental.”

“Nah bruv, the Crüe were playing. I don’t think anyone in the history of rock has worn a condom while the Crüe perform. It’s a sin or something.”

Chris nodded. “I suppose that’s true.” He looked down at Fraser’s crotch. “Maybe it’s the clap?"

Fraser leaned forward, aggressively jabbing his finger at Chris’s face. "I ain’t got the fucking—” He looked around, then lowered his voice. "I ain’t got the clap, mate. Alright?" He leaned back. “And stop looking at my fucking balls.”

"My cousin Terry can get you some penicillin. Cash only, no questions."

"Nah, it’s fine. Proper bruised, is all." Fraser drained his glass, standing with exaggerated care. "Going to ring her, actually. Set up round two." He pointed at Chris. "And we’ll say no more about it. End of. Right?"

He limped to the payphone in the corner, fishing change from his pocket. The answering machine clicked on after four rings.

"Veronica? Fraser here. Had an amazing time last night. You are a quality bird. We should do it again, yeah? Give us a ring when you get this." He gave her his number and then hung up, the receiver clattering against the metal box.

He returned to the bar and found Chris guarding a pair of whiskies. "For the pain that you don’t have."

Fraser picked up the whisky and slugged it back in one. "Too right."

Day Three

Fraser’s eyes squinted open, his head thick with last night’s booze. But it wasn’t just that. Something wasn’t right.

His hand wandered beneath the sheets, finding his balls swollen—the pain had intensified.

"Bloody hell!" He yanked back the covers. His scrotum had ballooned overnight, tight and round as an apple. "No, no, no."

He stumbled to his wardrobe, rifling through his collection of denim. His prized skin-tight jeans mocked him from their hanger. No chance of squeezing into those today.

Lighting a cigarette, he staggered over to his LPs. Soon, the familiar opening riff of Cinderella’s Nobody’s Fool blasted through his speakers as he hobbled to the kitchen. The kettle whistled while he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, his mind racing.

It had to be an infection.

Fuck.

The answering machine’s red light remained unblinking. No word from Veronica.

"Come on, girl." He pressed play anyway, listening to the mechanical whir of an empty tape.

She could be ill too. Maybe she knew what this was? Maybe she knew the cure?

The clock on the wall read 08:32. Early enough for a beer, considering the circumstances. The can cracked open with a satisfying hiss as he dialled Chris’s number.

"Chris? Code red, mate. Remember that penicillin you mentioned? Think I might need some. Like, today." Fraser’s voice cracked. "And I need to borrow your car. No questions asked."

Chris arrived within thirty minutes. “Jesus Christ, you need the hospital, mate. No screwing around with the doctor—I’ve phoned my cousin. He’s going to sort you out. He didn’t appreciate the early morning call.”

"Oh, I’m so sorry my balls inconvenienced him. I—will you stop looking at my bloody balls?" Fraser glared at Chris.

Chris looked up. "Mate, I’m just surprised you even own tracksuit bottoms. Shit, they are not hiding anything."

"I can still batter you." Fraser grumbled. "I’m going to drive by Veronica’s, see if she’s alright. She might know what this is. Save me a trip to the hospital if I can have some of her medicine."

"Fraser… Go. To. The. Hospital."

Fraser stuck his finger in Chris’s face. "I said no. I don’t like doctors, and I definitely don’t want a man poking around down there."

Chris regarded him quietly.

"Fine, I’ll see Veronica first, then head straight to hospital if she doesn’t have the answers." Fraser swapped his motorbike keys for Chris’s car keys. "Don’t scratch my bike.” He glared at him. “I mean it."

"Sorry, who’s doing who the favour here?" Chris pocketed the keys. "Be careful and let me know what the hospital says."

"Shut up about the hospital." Fraser walked bow-legged to the car parked outside. "I’ll be fine."

#

It was a short drive to Veronica’s house. He parked at the gates and stabbed at the buzzer repeatedly.

"The Murray household." A disembodied female voice answered.

"Veronica, please." Fraser tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Veronica is unavailable right now. Can I take a message?"

Fraser turned the air blue with foul language, then pressed the button again. "It’s really important that I speak to her. Is she okay? Ill, perhaps? Because I think I caught something too."

There was a long pause.

"What kind of illness?" The woman’s voice was clipped, almost professional.

"Ah, it’s a swelling, painful—look, just tell Veronica that I need to—"

The gates opened.

Fraser looked up at the grandiose building. For once, words escaped him. He restarted the engine and drove Chris’s car along the gravel driveway to the front door.

The door opened. A beautiful older woman, dressed in silks, stood in the entrance.

Fraser got out of the car and approached her. "Ah, is Veronica home?"

The woman looked him up and down with an expression of mild annoyance. "Veronica, get down here this instant." She gave Fraser a cold smile. "I’m Ariadne, Veronica’s mother."

He extended his hand. "Fraser."

"Well, Fraser, you’d best come in." She motioned for him to enter. "We’ll get this sorted out for you."

"Thanks, it’s getting really fu—just really, really painful." Fraser limped over the threshold. “And I have a high tolerance for pain. I’ve been through bike accidents you wouldn’t believe,” he hastily added in case she thought he was weak. The hallway was ornate, with Grecian urns and marble statues lining a vast central staircase. "You have a really nice house." He looked around with admiration. “Proper sound.”

"Yes. Thank you. Fashion has graced our family with generosity throughout the years." She led Fraser to the dining room. Her eyes flicked to his crotch. "Oh my, it does look quite advanced, doesn’t it?"

Veronica appeared behind her.

"Oh, not again."

"I told you—always use protection!" Ariadne scowled at her daughter.

"We did!" Veronica pointed at Fraser. "Tell her."

"Er, yeah, we did.” Fraser looked sheepish. “For most of it anyway."

"For—you stupid bastard!" Veronica moved towards him, eyes flashing angrily.

Ariadne cleared the dining room table. "I need a closer look."

Fraser blinked. "Look, you are smoking hot, but I don’t—"

Veronica moved in and kissed him, her lips trailing towards his neck.

"Not in front of your mum—ow, bitch!"

She pulled away.

His hand went to his neck, fingers coming away with tiny pinpricks of blood. He suddenly felt lightheaded, woozy.

"Get him on the table." Ariadne’s voice sounded distant, like he was hearing her through water.

The women levered him onto the table. His limbs felt leaden. He couldn’t move.

His tracksuit bottoms were pulled away. Cool, delicate fingers probed his swollen balls. The pain had faded to a dull ache.

"He didn’t have long. They’re close to hatching. Get the workshop doors open."

Hatching? Hatching?!

"This is the last time you get a man pregnant, young lady, or we’ll have to move again."

Pregnant?

Fraser struggled to think.

"Just stroke it like this. It’ll encourage your babies to break free."

That’s… quite nice.

Blinding, searing pain erupted.

Darkness.

#

Fraser woke up in agony. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move. He was wrapped in something—some kind of bindings.

Through his blurred vision, he saw a terrifying hellscape. Looms filled the workshop, thousands of spiders spinning webs, the wooden machines turning the silk into fine, shimmering fabric.

Somewhere nearby, Veronica’s voice cooed softly.

"Come on, babies. Daddy’s here. Time for dinner."

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.