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I was so fixated on murdering Romans that I sent out last month’s compilations like an absolute dunce.

Here are the CORRECT links. I apologise once more. These haggard veins need more coffee in them.

Horror Story Compilations

: 24 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 31 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

Complementary Terror

To make things right, here is a FREE link to the original, most popular download: , featured in the international, best-selling compilation .

Horror Story Compilations

: 24 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 31 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

The Wild Hunt

9 AD, Teutoburg Forest, Germania

Flavius gasped, sucking in the putrid stench of stale blood and voided bowels. Darkness pressed close, heavy and suffocating. It took a moment for his swimming senses to register the texture against his face–rough wool, cold skin, tangled wet hair.

He was buried under his dead comrades.

Panic, hot and sharp, clawed its way up his throat. He tried to shift, and agony exploded in his right thigh. A spear wound. He remembered the blinding pain, the impact that threw him from the collapsing formation. He forced the memory down.

Got to get out.

Using his elbows and hands, ignoring the slick, yielding surfaces beneath him, he clambered upwards, wrestling through the corpses.

Rain, the miserable, endless drizzle common to these northern forests, found its way through the mound, plastering his hair to his skull, chilling him to the bone. It mixed with the gore, turning the pile into a treacherous, sucking slurry.

With a final, agonised heave, he broke through the surface, gulping the damp, cold air. It smelled only marginally better up here–wet earth, crushed pine needles, and the overwhelming metallic reek of spilled blood and exposed intestines. He lay half-sprawled atop a grotesque heap of legionaries, their limbs entangled in death's final, awkward embrace. Under his armour, his tunic was stiff with drying blood. To his relief, it was mostly not his own. Relentless pain throbbed in his leg, a sickening pulse against the frantic beat of his heart.

It was dusk. Or perhaps it had been dusk for days under the oppressive canopy of the Teutoburg Forest. Time bled together. Around him, stretching as far as his blurred vision could make out, lay the ruin of three legions. Seventeenth. Eighteenth. Nineteenth.

Gone.

Utterly destroyed.

Their familiar faces were pale masks, eyes staring sightlessly at the dripping leaves above, mouths open in final, silent screams. Amongst them, sometimes fused by drying blood, lay the victors, long-haired warriors of the Cherusci, Chatti, Marsi. At least they’d taken some of the bastards with them.

A groan sounded nearby. Flavius twisted, ignoring the fire in his thigh. Just yards away, another figure struggled weakly amidst the carnage. A Roman. Flavius recognised the man, despite the filth caking his face.

Decius.

That arrogant peacock.

Never his friend, always seeking favour, but now the sight of another survivor, any survivor, sparked a desperate joy. Decius was trying to pull his left arm free from beneath a dead Cherusci warrior.

The arm hung at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

Flavius pushed himself off the mound, sliding and landing awkwardly, his injured leg buckling. He stifled a cry and crawled the short distance. "Decius?" he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

Decius looked up, eyes sunken with pain and exhaustion. Recognition, then relief, flickered across his face. "Flavius. By the gods, you live."

"Quiet," Flavius hissed. "They could still be near." He offered Decius his hand. "We have to..."

Harsh laughter echoed through the trees, closer now. The guttural sounds of a Germanic tongue. Flavius gripped Decius’s good arm and pulled. Decius groaned with pain but scrambled up. "Quiet!" Flavius hissed again.

Peering through the tangle of corpses and ferns, they saw them. Three tribesmen, moving methodically through the dead, stripping armour, pulling rings from stiff fingers, occasionally dispatching a groaning Roman survivor with brutal efficiency. One warrior paused, scanning the area near them. Flavius froze, pressing himself flat against the cold earth.

Jupiter preserve us. Just keep walking.

A sudden cry sounded further off as another survivor was discovered. The warrior who had paused hefted his axe and loped towards the sound.

"Now," Flavius breathed. "Crawl. Stay low."

They moved like wounded animals, dragging themselves away from the main body of the slaughter, deeper into the tangled undergrowth. Every movement sent waves of fire through Flavius's thigh. Decius panted with the effort, cradling his shattered arm uselessly against his chest. The sounds of the looters faded behind them, replaced by the drip of rainwater and the sighing wind.

They found a small hollow, screened by thick bushes, and collapsed, shivering.

"Utter annihilation," Decius whispered, his gaze sweeping over the shadowed woods. "Varus... the eagles... They took the eagles." His voice cracked, heavy with the unspeakable shame.

"So what now? Head south in disgrace to Roman territory?" Flavius muttered, the words tasting like bile. "Wait for them to find us? Or for the cold to finish the job?"

"They’ll kill us for losing the standards. Decimation of any survivors, if we're fortunate. More likely execution of the pair of us." Decius shifted, grimacing. "No. We go south. Through the woods. Try to slip past the Rhine forts. Disappear."

"That's desertion, Decius."

"We are 'stragglers'," Decius said, the word a necessary lie. "Separated in the chaos. Making our way back to Roman lines. Who can prove otherwise, if we make it?"

Stragglers.

The word hung in the fetid air. Flavius stared into the encroaching darkness, feeling the last vestiges of legionary discipline, of belonging, leach away into the mud. Thirst clawed at his throat. Pain screamed from his leg. Death waited patiently in the shadows. He spat. "Fine. Stragglers it is. Better than waiting here for the crows."

They pushed on as true darkness fell, Flavius leaning heavily on a sturdy branch Decius found for him. The forest was an endless, suffocating maze. Roots snagged their feet, low branches whipped at their faces. At least the ceaseless rain meant finding puddles to drink from wasn’t difficult.

Just a little further. Then rest.

Hours later, near collapse, they heard a twig snap ahead. Both froze, hearts hammering. A figure emerged from the gloom between two massive oaks. Roman. Upright. Tall. A centurion. His armour dented and stained.

Flavius almost cried out in relief.

Tertius! From the Eighteenth! He survived!

"Centurion!" Flavius called, hobbling forward, Decius close behind. "Thank the gods! We thought..."

Tertius turned towards them slowly. His face was strangely blank in the dim light filtering through the canopy, his eyes unfocused. There was a dark stain matting the hair above his temple where his helmet was dented inwards, but he seemed otherwise unharmed, remarkably composed amidst the surrounding devastation. He did not react with surprise or relief. He simply watched them approach, his stillness unnerving.

"Centurion," Decius panted, clutching his broken arm. "The tribesmen are still about. We were heading south. Trying to reach the Rhine. Can you lead us? Do you know the way?"

Tertius remained silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, as if listening to something far away, something only he could hear. The wind sighed through the high branches. Then, his lips barely moving, his voice flat, devoid of inflection, he spoke a single word. A Germanic name only whispered among the auxiliaries, a god of frenzy, death, and dark knowledge.

"Wodanaz."

Flavius stared.

What?

Confusion warred with a rising unease.

Shock? Head injury?

"Centurion," Flavius tried again, urgency sharpening his tone. "We need to leave. Now. Before they find us."

Tertius said nothing more. He simply turned and began to walk. Not south, but deeper into the woods, north-east, further into the heart of the wilderness. His pace steady, unhurried, disciplined.

Flavius exchanged a bewildered look with Decius.

What is wrong with him?

"Centurion, wait!" Flavius called.

Tertius did not slow. He kept walking.

"We cannot stay here," Decius muttered, glancing nervously back into the darkness. "He's a Centurion. Maybe he knows a safer route." His desperation was plain.

Hesitantly, driven by the slim hope Tertius represented, they followed. Tertius walked ahead, a solid, disciplined figure seemingly oblivious to their presence. They struggled to keep up, Flavius's leg a constant agony, Decius hampered by his arm. The forest grew denser, the trees older, their branches interwoven like skeletal fingers against the bruised sky.

After a while, Flavius risked a glance back. No sign of pursuit. He looked ahead.

Tertius was perhaps thirty paces ahead, moving at that same deliberate walk. They pushed themselves, trying to close the distance, wanting the reassurance of a senior officer, despite his strange silence and that single, unsettling word. Flavius stumbled on a root, recovered, forced himself onward.

He looked up again. Tertius was still thirty paces ahead. Still walking the same, unhurried pace.

A cold knot tightened in Flavius's stomach. He forced more speed, ignoring the jolts in his thigh, half-hopping, half-dragging his leg. Decius kept pace beside him, breathing hard. They were practically jogging now, crashing through the undergrowth with reckless haste. Flavius dared another look forward.

Tertius was still there. Thirty paces ahead. Walking. Calmly. Deliberately. He had not sped up. Yet the distance remained exactly the same.

No. Impossible.

Terror, cold and primal, prickled Flavius's skin. This was wrong. Deeply wrong. He stopped, gasping for breath, leaning heavily on his makeshift crutch. Decius stopped beside him, his face pale and slick with rain and sweat.

"Why can't we reach him?" Decius’s voice trembled. "It's like... like running in a nightmare."

Flavius shook his head wordlessly, his throat tight. He looked ahead. Tertius continued his steady walk, moving deeper into the black woods, never varying his pace, never looking back. He seemed less like a man leading them, their frantic attempts to follow seemed irrelevant to him.

"Forget him," Flavius whispered, the words catching in his throat. "He's not right. That head wound... it’s driven him mad. We go south. Now. While we still can."

"No," Decius pleaded, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure. "We stay with the Centurion. He's our best chance. Think, Flavius! His word carries weight. If we're found with him, no one questions stragglers led by an officer. Alone? We look like deserters for sure."

Gods, he's desperate. Clinging to rank even now.

Flavius hesitated. Decius was right about how it would look, but every instinct screamed that something was wrong. Yet, turning back alone into that darkness felt equally perilous.

Tertius had stopped, still thirty paces ahead, waiting. Seeing them falter, he waited until they reluctantly began moving again, then turned and resumed his inexorable pace.

They pushed through the tangled darkness, following the walking Centurion. The forest seemed to watch them, ancient and aware. Eventually, utterly spent, they found themselves on the edge of a shallow granite ravine choked with the gnarled, ancient roots of unseen trees.

Exhaustion overwhelmed them. Decius, taking a step near the edge, simply pitched forward into the darkness without a cry. Flavius heard a dull thud, a rustle of disturbed roots far below. Panic flared anew.

No, not him too.

He lowered himself painfully into the ravine, sliding the last few feet, landing heavily beside his companion. Decius groaned, stirring.

Alive.

Relief washed over Flavius, he almost laughed with relief. He collapsed beside Decius, the last of his strength gone. He looked up. Tertius stood near a narrow fissure in the rock face, just wide enough for a man to slide through. He was standing ramrod straight almost at attention.

As Flavius watched, the Centurion turned his head fractionally towards the opening and grated, "Wodanaz."

A cave? He found shelter?

Hope, fragile but persistent, flickered again. "Decius! A cave!" Flavius levered himself up on protesting limbs and peered into the crack. It seemed to lead into darkness. He squeezed through the crevice.

Inside, the space opened into a surprisingly large cavern. As his eyes adjusted, he saw bronze braziers standing cold around the perimeter. At the back of the cave, a rough-hewn stone altar stood before a section of rock face engraved with a complex symbol, three interconnected triangles.

Decius slithered in behind him, collapsing near the entrance. "Shelter," he mumbled, shivering. "Dry shelter." Within moments, he was asleep, his breathing shallow.

Mars give me strength.

Flavius walked the perimeter of the cave, blade held ready. He found a place near the entrance where he could watch the fissure and the ravine outside. "Tertius?" he called softly. "Are you coming in–Tertius!" His voice echoed slightly. He strained his ears but heard only the drip of water somewhere deeper in the cave and Decius's breathing. The Centurion remained outside, a silent, still sentinel. Flavius sank down, leaning against the cold rock, fighting to stay awake.

Sleep dragged him under, but it wasn't restful. It was a feverish descent into nightmare, perhaps fuelled by the growing heat from his wounded leg. He felt the chill of the stone beneath him, yet dreamt of suffocating heat. He saw an immense, ancient tree dominating a landscape of mist and shadow. Not an oak or pine of the forest outside, but something older, vaster, its roots plunging into an earth that seemed to weep blood, its highest branches scraping a bruised sky boiling with storm clouds.

Impaled upon its trunk, hanging like a grim sacrifice, was a figure cloaked in grey. A spear pierced his side. Flavius saw with horror that one eye socket was empty, a void of utter blackness, while the other eye burned with a single point of piercing, blue-white light, a winter star.

Two great black ravens perched on the branches near the figure's head, their obsidian eyes gleaming, watching him.

Runes, angular and forbidding, seemed to carve themselves into the living bark around the hanging god, glowing with faint, cold energy. Flavius did not know the name of this deity, but he felt the crushing weight of its presence. An ancient, alien power, thriving on sacrifice and unimaginable pain, quite unlike the sunlit gods of Rome.

He felt the gaze of that single, burning eye fix upon him, cold and assessing.

The figure's lips moved, and a voice like the grinding of glaciers filled the dream. "Are you hunter, or are you prey?" It gestured towards the cave entrance.

Flavius looked back the way he had come in the dream, and saw the altar from the cave, stark against the swirling mist.

The voice repeated, resonating in his bones. "Are you hunter, or are you prey?"

"Who are you?" Flavius stammered, gripping his dream-sword. "By Jupiter, I serve Rome! I kneel to no barbarian god!"

The figure's lips curled into something that might have been a smile. "Prey, then..."

He woke with a gasp, shivering violently despite the enclosed space. Grey dawn filtered weakly through the cave entrance.

Just a dream. Fever from the wound.

But his heart hammered against his ribs. The vision clung to him, vivid and terrifying. He peered outside. The ravine was filled with damp mist, the struggling sunlight painting it in shades of ash.

Tertius remained standing where he had been, guarding the entrance, impossibly still.

Flavius looked up towards the lip of the ravine.

Perched on a thick, exposed root, a large raven watched him intently. Its head was cocked, its black eye glittering with unsettling intelligence. As their eyes met, it let out a single, harsh caw that echoed in the still air. Then, with a powerful beat of its wings, it launched itself upwards and vanished into the grey sky above the trees.

A shiver traced its way down Flavius’s spine, unrelated to the cold. He shifted, pain flaring in his leg. He needed to check the wound, clean it if he could. He looked at Tertius. "Centurion, you should rest. You stood guard all night."

Tertius ignored him. Flavius cautiously approached the entrance. "Tertius? Are you alright?"

The Centurion turned his head slowly, mechanically. "Wodanaz."

Flavius recoiled slightly.

Still fixated on that.

He turned to check on Decius. His companion was already awake, sitting upright, staring intently towards the altar. His face was pale, but his eyes held a strange light.

"I had a dream, Flavius," Decius said, his voice hushed, reverent. "A vision."

Flavius felt his blood run cold. "A nightmare," he corrected grimly. "I dreamt of a... a hanging god. A barbarian thing."

"Yes!" Decius's face grew animated. "Nailed to a great tree, with a spear in his side! He spoke to me, Flavius. He showed me... power."

"He asked if you were a hunter or prey?" Flavius finished, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror.

He saw it too?

"He did! It's a sign, don't you see?" Decius scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain from his arm. "The old gods are waking in this forest. They offer strength. Survival!" He gestured towards the altar. "This place... it's a gift."

"It's a curse," Flavius spat. "It's pagan filth. We need to leave. Now." He started towards the cave entrance, but Tertius shifted, blocking his path.

"Wodanaz."

Flavius looked closely at the Centurion in the thin morning light. He could see now, where the helmet was dented near the temple, the bone beneath was fractured, revealing a dark, glistening mass beneath. Gore caked his dented breastplate, dark, almost black, and congealed, despite the damp air. Where blood should have been weeping from the head wound and other minor cuts, there was only a dark, viscous ichor that seemed to glitter faintly with frost-like particles.

Yet, Tertius stood. Impossibly straight. His eyes, milky white like a cataract victim's, were wide open and fixed upon Flavius. He blinked, slow and deliberate, an awful parody of life.

Flavius stepped backwards, his good leg bumping into the cave wall. "Tertius... what in Pluto's name happened to you?"

Tertius's lips peeled back from his teeth. With a grating sound, like rocks grinding together, the word Flavius now dreaded escaped. "Wodanaz."

"A sign! He's blessed!" Decius breathed, his voice tight with a terrible awe. "The god protects his own."

Blessed? He looks like he crawled from a tomb!

"Decius, look at him! He's dead, or worse!"

Decius ignored him, approaching Tertius with a mixture of fear and reverence. "What do you want from us, Centurion? What does the god require?"

Tertius's jaw creaked open again. A wave of unnatural cold washed through the cave, carrying the scent of damp earth and the grave. Flavius gagged, pulling his cloak tighter. The dead Centurion's eyes shifted, focusing on the altar, then back to the two living men.

Then he spoke, his voice a dry rustle, echoing the words from the dream. Words that chilled Flavius far more than the Germanic morning air. "Hunter. Or prey."

Decius froze. His awe warred visibly with naked fear. He swallowed hard, then nodded slowly, as if accepting a dreadful, inevitable truth. "Hunter," he repeated softly. "Hunter."

Flavius heard the scrape of metal. He turned to see Decius lunging towards him, his sword drawn, wielded with his uninjured arm, desperation burning in his eyes. Flavius reacted instinctively, batting the blade aside with his forearm, the impact jarring him. His fist lashed out, connecting solidly with Decius’s jaw. "Have you lost your mind?" He scrambled back, drawing his own sword.

"Hunter," Decius spat blood onto the cave floor, "or prey. I'm sorry, Flavius. This is the only way. He offers power! A way out!"

"You fool! It's madness! Fever! Look at him!" Flavius parried a wild thrust. "You cannot turn your back on Rome, on our gods!"

"Our gods left us to die!" Decius snarled, attacking with renewed frenzy. The confined space filled with the clash of steel. Decius, despite his broken arm, fought with the strength of desperation. He hooked Flavius’s good leg, sending him stumbling back against the cave wall. Flavius stabbed desperately, forcing Decius back momentarily while he tried to regain his footing, his injured leg screaming.

He never got the chance. Decius surged forward again, his blade glinting. When Flavius’s wounded leg buckled under him, Decius’s sword point slid past his guard and sank into his shoulder. Pain seared through him. With a roar, Flavius gripped Decius’s armour and slammed his forehead into Decius’s nose, feeling cartilage crunch. As Decius staggered back, momentarily stunned, Flavius thrust upwards with all his might. The blade slid between Decius’s ribs and pierced his heart.

He ripped the blade free, gasping. "You stupid... foolish..."

Decius swayed, looked down at the fatal wound, then up at Flavius. Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.

Flavius stood panting, leaning against the wall, sword dripping. The silence in the cave was profound. He looked at Tertius, who hadn't moved, his milky eyes fixed on the scene.

Then, horribly, Decius stirred. He pushed himself up, slowly, stiffly. The gaping wound in his chest wasn't bleeding freely. Instead, the edges seemed dark, congealed, dusted with the same faint frost Flavius had seen on Tertius.

Flavius raised his blade warily, horror crawling up his spine.

"Wodanaz," Decius rasped, his voice distorted, empty. He retrieved his fallen sword, and walked with stiff, unnatural steps towards the cave entrance. Tertius moved aside, allowing him to pass. The two dead soldiers flanked the fissure, silent sentinels.

Flavius watched them, numb with shock and terror. He followed cautiously, keeping his distance, sword held ready. He squeezed through the narrow opening back into the ravine. Tertius and Decius stood there, waiting, their dead eyes fixed on him.

With immense effort, Flavius climbed out of the ravine, hauling his protesting leg after him.

South. I have to go south. Get away from them.

He glanced back. The two dead soldiers pulled themselves out of the ravine with unnatural ease, their movements stiff but certain. They fell into step behind him, their gait perfectly synchronised.

He whirled, pointing his sword at them. "Stay back! Don't follow me!"

They ignored him, simply stopping a few paces away, waiting.

"I mean it! Stay back, or I'll..." He looked at the ghastly wound in Decius’s chest, the milky eyes of Tertius.

Or you'll what? Kill them again?

Panic tightened its grip.

What do I do? What in Hades do I do?

He paced nervously before them. "Why are you following me?"

They both spoke in perfect, chilling unison, their voices devoid of inflection. "Hunter."

"³Û´Ç³Ü’r±ð the hunter? Or... or am I?" Flavius asked, dread pooling in his gut.

"Hunter," they both replied.

Great.

That clarified nothing and everything. He was marked. Linked to them. Leading them? Or being led by them?

He turned, finding the weak sun through the oppressive grey sky, oriented himself south as best he could, and began to walk, leaning heavily on his branch. Flavius kept glancing nervously towards the canopy. No sign of German war parties, but a pair of large black birds, ravens, circled silently overhead, keeping pace. He muttered prayers under his breath.

Mercury, guide my steps. Mars, lend me strength. Jupiter, protect me.

The words felt hollow, useless in this ancient, brooding forest. His gods seemed very far away.

He heard the sound of running water and pushed towards it. A narrow stream, its water clear and achingly cold, gurgled through the trees. Flavius fell to his knees, drinking deeply, splashing water on his face. As he drank, he looked up. Tertius and Decius stood patiently on the bank a few paces away. They showed no sign of thirst, no needs of the living, waiting with the patience of the grave. The ravens continued their silent vigil overhead.

As dusk began to gather again, casting long, distorted shadows through the trees, Flavius found a shallow hollow sheltered beneath the sprawling roots of an ancient, gnarled oak. It offered minimal protection, but he was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to go further. Pain from his leg, now hot and swollen, radiated up his thigh.

Infection.

He collapsed into the hollow, his makeshift crutch falling beside him. Sleep claimed him quickly, a black, dreamless void this time, born of pure exhaustion.

He was jolted awake sometime later by a sound. A soft, rhythmic crunching. Footsteps on the damp leaf litter. Many footsteps. A sound that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He opened his eyes to near darkness, the moon hidden by thick clouds. Then he heard it again, closer. Thump... thump... thump... The sound of disciplined marching.

Flavius pushed himself up, peering out from the hollow, his heart pounding. Tertius and Decius weren't alone. Standing sentinel in a loose perimeter around his resting place were three more Roman corpses. He squinted, recognising the dented helmets, the torn segments of armour gleaming dully where faint starlight caught them. Dead men from the slaughtered legions, their faces slack, their eyes empty sockets or staring with the same unseeing intensity as Tertius's. They stood unnaturally still, weapons held loosely at their sides. One was missing an arm below the elbow, but held his shield strap gripped in his remaining hand, the stump raised slightly as if still expecting to hold a sword.

They found more.

Or perhaps... they were drawn here. To me.

A shout echoed through the night. Germanic voices, alert and hostile. A hunting party, drawn by noise or misfortune.

Instantly, the five dead legionaries moved. With terrifying speed and silence, they formed a tight shield line facing the direction of the shouts, Tertius instinctively taking the centre. It was a mocking parody of Roman discipline, executed by things that should be rotting in the earth.

The barbarians, maybe six or seven of them, burst through the trees, axes and spears ready. They crashed against the dead soldiers' shield wall with guttural war cries. The formation didn't budge an inch. Silent as the grave, the dead legionaries responded. Blades licked out, finding gaps in armour, puncturing flesh, tearing throats. The barbarians' screams of pain and terror contrasted starkly with the chilling silence of their opponents.

Flavius watched, frozen in the hollow, a new kind of fear gripping him. He should have felt relief at being saved, but watching the methodical, emotionless slaughter filled him only with horror.

I'm on the wrong side.

A giant warrior, with a wolfskin helmet, roaring in fury, swung a huge two-handed axe in a devastating arc, taking the head clean off one of the dead legionaries. The headless corpse didn't even falter. It stabbed forward blindly, impaling the giant through the neck. The headless legionary remained standing, sword held ready, until the fighting stopped.

Gods, they don't even need their heads.

Flavius felt sick. He had fought beside men like these, bled with them. Now... they were abominations. And they were his abominations, somehow.

As the last German died, gurgling on the forest floor, the dead Romans reformed their silent guard around Flavius's resting place. The headless one remained standing, eerily vigilant. Flavius stared at the butchered corpses of the tribesmen, then back at his unholy escort. He scrambled back further into the hollow.

Jupiter's teeth!

The German corpses were twitching. A faint, chilling blue mist seemed to rise from their wounds, coalescing in the gloom. The mist swirled, taking on vague, shifting shapes like great hounds, silent and menacing.

What was that? More magic?

Flavius shivered uncontrollably.

Madness. It must be madness.

Exhaustion, terror, grief, the fever from his leg. It was all conspiring to conjure phantoms. Decius lay dead in the cave. Tertius rotted somewhere behind him. These figures, the marching, the fight were tricks of the light, fever-dreams, survivor's guilt given form.

Yes. That must be it. I am mad.

He almost laughed, a hysterical giggle bubbling in his throat. Time seemed to warp. Had a whole day passed since the cave? Another night? The forest remained unchanging, a claustrophobic prison of towering trees and perpetual twilight. He tried to ignore the presence behind him as he forced himself to walk again, heading south once more. But it was impossible. It was the sound. The single, unified sound of their footfalls.

Thump� thump� thump�

Five sets of sandaled feet, hitting the damp earth at precisely the same instant. A relentless, perfectly synchronised rhythm that drilled into his skull. They moved in a grotesque parody of legionary discipline. Only when a thick tree trunk or an impassable boulder blocked their path did the formation momentarily break. Individuals flowed around the obstacle with eerie fluidity, immediately reforming their rank on the other side without pause, without command.

He found himself on a low, wooded ridge. Below lay another clearing, smaller than the first, another place where the fighting must have been fierce. Broken weapons, discarded shields, and the dark shapes of more corpses littered the ground both Roman and German alike. As Flavius watched in numb horror, three more Roman bodies stirred, pushed themselves upright with jerky movements, and shambled towards his silent escort, falling into rank. The German dead remained still. His escort now numbered eight. Eight dead men following him south.

He thought he saw the flicker of distant campfires through the trees on the far side of the ridge. A small encampment. Perhaps tribesmen lingering, guarding captured supplies, or simply resting. Driven by a desperate, irrational need for warmth, for life, he started down the slope towards it.

His escort moved with him. As they neared the camp, they surged forward, moving with that terrifying, silent speed. Screams erupted from the camp as surprise turning quickly to agony. The sickening sounds of slaughter drifted back up the ridge. Flavius closed his eyes, leaning heavily on his spear, but he couldn't shut out the noises. When silence fell again, his escort formed around him. He stumbled into the now-silent camp. Three dead Germans lay sprawled near a sputtering fire. A haunch of venison roasted on a makeshift spit above it. Ignoring the bodies, Flavius limped to the fire, drew his dagger, and hacked off chunks of the hot, greasy meat. He devoured it like a starving wolf, the warmth spreading through him, a fleeting comfort in the nightmare. He found a waterskin, nearly full, and drank deeply. Then he squatted by the fire, amidst the dead, letting the heat soak into his chilled bones, strangely content for a brief moment, the horror momentarily pushed back by primal needs.

Flavius woke stiff and cold beside the dead fire, surrounded by buzzing black flies feasting on the German corpses. He stretched aching limbs. His leg was worse, throbbing, the skin around the wound tight and angry red.

I need a medicus. Soon.

Or he would lose the leg, if he didn't lose his life to the spreading poison first.

He started walking south again, discarding his branch, he used a salvaged spear as a crutch. He made poor time, his fever rising, the world occasionally swimming before his eyes. Twice more they encountered small groups of Germans. Flavius barely registered them, stumbling onward in a haze of pain and fatigue. He heard the sounds of brief, one-sided combat behind him, the chilling silence of his escort's work. He didn't look back. If the Germans had food or water, his escort seemed to leave it untouched, and he helped himself numbly after they had passed. He found skins of rough barley beer at one site and drank heavily, seeking oblivion in the harsh brew.

His forehead burned. He stumbled drunkenly through the endless trees, the silent ranks of the dead marching inexorably behind him. How many were there now? Ten? Twelve? He’d lost count.

As evening approached again, the forest began to thin slightly. Through a gap in the trees, he saw smoke rising. Not a campfire this time, but the ordered smoke of chimneys. A settlement. He squinted. Wooden palisades, tiled roofs visible here and there. A Roman village, or perhaps a fortified farmstead, on the edge of the dark wood.

Hope, fierce and desperate, surged through him. Civilisation! Safety! A proper medicus! He could escape this nightmare, heal his wounds, the dead would finally leave him be�

As if sensing his intention, the majority of his undead legionaries moved. Without pause, without command, they moved into a compact formation, shields interlocked, and advanced purposefully towards the settlement. Only Tertius, Decius, and three others remained flanking Flavius.

"No!" Flavius cried, his voice raw. "No, stop! They're Romans! Civilians!"

He tried to push past his guards, to run ahead, to warn the village. But they moved with him, matching his pace effortlessly. He realised with horrifying clarity that his own desperate urge to reach safety was leading them straight to it. He stopped fighting it, watching in despair as the testudo reached the palisade. There was no attempt to parley, no demand for entry. They simply hacked methodically at the wooden gate with their swords, relentless and untiring. Faint, ghostly hound-shapes seemed to flicker around them, phasing through the wood, their passage marked by sudden screams from within.

The screams of the dying started properly then. Men, women, children. Roman screams.

It isn't madness. It's real. And I'm doing this. I'm leading them.

The realisation hit him with the force of a physical blow. He sank to his knees, weeping into his filthy hands.

"Why?" he screamed at Tertius, who stood impassively beside him. "Why are you doing this? Stop them!"

The dead Centurion didn't turn. His ruined voice rasped the same chilling word. "Hunter."

Hunter.

They followed the hunter. They obeyed the hunter. Or perhaps... they guarded the hunter? Why keep him alive? Why protect him? Unless...

It was a flicker, a desperate gamble born of utter despair.

Unless they need me alive.

Hope, twisted and terrible, perhaps? Or just pure, final instinct.

If I die... maybe they stop.

His hand flew to the hilt of his sword. The blade rasped from its sheath. With a strangled cry that was half prayer, half curse, he reversed the grip and plunged the familiar weight of Roman steel deep into his own chest, below the ribs, angling upwards.

Agony, white-hot and absolute, ripped through him. His vision blurred. Through a red haze, he saw the dead soldiers, all of them, those guarding him, those attacking the gate stop. They turned their heads, their blank eyes or empty sockets fixing on him as one.

Tertius took a step towards him. "Hunt�" he began, the sound grating, unfinished.

Then, something changed. The unnatural coldness that clung to them seemed to recede, like a tide going out. Tertius shuddered violently. His jaw dropped open, then detached entirely, clattering to the leaf litter. His flesh seemed to darken, wither, collapse inwards with impossible speed. Green shoots erupted from the ground beneath him, thorny vines wrapping around his legs, pulling him down. The earth itself seemed to ripple. Fissures opened, dark and hungry, swallowing the dead legionaries. Nature itself, ancient and implacable, reclaiming the unholy things that had defied its laws, pulling the animated corpses back into the soil they had wrongly left. Within moments, they were gone, leaving only disturbed earth and the lingering scent of decay.

Flavius lay on the damp ground, the sounds of the distant, dying village fading. His blood pooled beneath him, warm against the cold earth. He looked up at the oppressive canopy, the first weak light of true dawn filtering through the leaves.

Jupiter... I kept the faith...

The thought formed weakly, a final plea.

Let Ovid be wrong... Let there be fields... Elysium...

His breath hitched. His vision tunnelled. The ancient forest watched, silent and uncaring, as the last survivor of the Wild Hunt finally found his peace.

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on , as , , or .

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

Available to order on .

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

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

I hope my UK readers enjoyed the bank holiday and the hangovers weren’t too ghastly. What is this glorious sunshine about? Come on, how am I supposed to write Gothic horror without at least a hint of drizzle?

May is a glorious month for horror. Not only is it my birthday (27 May 1982) but also Vincent Price’s (27 May 1911), Christopher Lee’s (27 May 1922), Peter Cushing’s (26 May 1913). I’m honoured to have been born within 48 hours of these titans of terror.

I’ve always been a huge fan of Dame Daphne du Maurier, who was also born in May (13 May 1907).

Let’s light a candle and raise a glass for our fallen brethren (not me, I’m still kicking around. Like a fart in a frock, I’m not dissipating anytime soon).

I’ve a busy month coming up for you in May, you’ve got two free short stories: The Wild Hunt (fear the Teutoburg Forest) and The Spinster (be careful which old ladies you plan to burgle). I am also doing an audio narration of One More Turn (a ‘cracking� story).

Last Month’s ReleasesFree Horror Fiction:

—Templars, Hashashin, and something ancient in the Holy Land

�1980s occult horror with a lethal emotional payload

Free Audiobooks:

—A diver meets a deadly adversary in the depths

—A Victorian recluse seeks etiquette help from Hell

Horror Story Compilations

: 24 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 31 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

What I’ve Been Reading:

Six horror books this month. My top three being:

What I’ve Been Watching:

I reviewed two movies this month:

Shutter Island (2010) -

The Evil Dead (1981) -

Thanks for reading Newton’s Free Horror! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

If you enjoyed this email, then please consider . My first collected works on Amazon containing sixteen short stories and novellas by Newton Webb.

Newton Webb BibliographyAvailable on Amazon

Collected Works

Contemporary

2022 � , Novella

2018 � , Novella

2017 � , Novel

2013 � , Novella

2012 � , Novella

Historical

1958 � , Short Story

1864 � , Novella

1832 � , Novella

1818 � , Novella

1194 � , Short Story

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Written and Narrated by Newton Webb.

You can read the story for free, .

Horror Story Compilations

: 59 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 54 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

Farewell, my Wicked Darlings!

Play safe, you never know who is watching.

Written and Narrated by Newton Webb.

You can read the story for free, .

Horror Story Compilations

: 59 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 54 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

Farewell, my Wicked Darlings!

Play safe, you never know who is watching.

Horror Story Compilations

: 59 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 54 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

Soulmates1986, 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 »å´Ç²Ô’t know.â€� 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. "Erâ€� I »å´Ç²Ô’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

If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on , as , , or .

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

Available to order on .

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

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

March was—well, "slow" isn't quite right, because I've been prolific in terms of word count, if not in actually publishable stories. I currently have eight first drafts—a mix of short stories and novellas—that I am working on at the moment, which is far too many. My excuse, or at least my attempt at the vaguest veneer of justification, is that I am spending a lot of time nursing my ill mother. Every time I move between my house and hers, I pick up another project and drop the previous one.

As a semi-disreputable author, I can confirm that doing so is not a productive work habit, but rather a signature blend of my lack of discipline and scatty mindset.

Nevertheless, I have a few achievements to note from March:

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

Many thanks to Owen Palmer from for being the hand model on the front cover—I owe you a Jägermeister.

The story itself is a tribute to two people who feature prominently in my life:

Fraser, a disreputable scumbag biker whom I've known for over twenty years, who taught me 90% of the fruity language I use (and how to change a car tyre).

, who, as a co-founder (alongside the equally majestic ) of SplatterChatter, introduced me to some of the darkest and most deviant splatterpunk books in existence. SplatterChatter helped my writing become darker and more visceral, particularly in Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3. It constantly challenges me to stretch myself, and I have so much to thank these wonderful women for.

: I've been chosen to co-chair the Horror Writers Association UK Chapter alongside Bronte Rowen. You can expect to see and hear a great deal from us soon, especially from our social media manager, Terri. We have a Discord server—you don't have to be an HWA member to join, but membership unlocks access to some premium channels.

HWA

:

:

:

And, well, I'd best get back to writing. Are were-hyenas in the Holy Land a good concept? I certainly hope so, because that's the next story you'll be getting from me. Deus Vult!

Sweet screams,

Newt

Horror Story Compilations

: 59 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 54 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

Thanks for reading Newton’s Free Horror! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

If you enjoyed this email, then please consider . My first collected works on Amazon containing sixteen short stories and novellas by Newton Webb.

Newton Webb BibliographyAvailable on Amazon

Collected Works

Contemporary

2022 � , Novella

2018 � , Novella

2017 � , Novel

2013 � , Novella

2012 � , Novella

Historical

1958 � , Short Story

1864 � , Novella

1832 � , Novella

1818 � , Novella

1194 � , Short Story

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Horror Story Compilations

: 23 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 30 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

: 48 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 69 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �.�

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. "³Û´Ç³Ü’r±ð 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 »å´Ç²Ô’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 »å´Ç²Ô’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.

"³Û´Ç³Ü’r±ð 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. "³Û´Ç³Ü’r±ð 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 »å´Ç²Ô’t care about no bint. If anything, she’s obsessed with me."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Oi!" Fraser growled. "I ain’t like that. ³Û´Ç³Ü’r±ð 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. "³Û´Ç³Ü’r±ð mental.â€�

“Nah bruv, the Crüe were playing. I »å´Ç²Ô’t think anyone in the history of rock has worn a condom while the Crüe perform. It’s a sin or something.â€�

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 »å´Ç²Ô’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 »å´Ç²Ô’t like doctors, and I definitely »å´Ç²Ô’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 »å´Ç²Ô’tâ€�"

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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Greetings, my wicked darlings!

I hope you all had a wonderful Valentine’s Day last month. To commemorate this most romantic of occasions, I released Ocean Lotus (which I later renamed —the original title never sat right with me). My own Valentine’s Day was a wicked mix of overeating, vicious sniping, and . I know opinions on it have been a bit marmite in the community, but I loved it. It’s a slow burn, but the cinematography was stunning, the sound design atmospheric, and the acting magnificent.

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1846, Liverpool

Chapter 1

Parker pulled his threadbare coat tighter as the winter fog rolled off the Mersey River, thick enough to slice. He smothered another cough, picking his way through Liverpool’s maze of streets with his new friend from the ship, Austin. Their cracked and splitting boots splashed through puddles, slipping on the treacherous cobblestones in the dark.

"Mind the step." Despite the muffling fog, Austin’s voice came through clear. The boy moved like a shadow, flitting through the mist. Though the light was poor, he never stumbled, walking with a catlike grace.

A door slammed somewhere ahead. Parker froze, pressing himself against a wet brick wall as heavy footsteps approached.

The beam of a bull's-eye lantern sliced through the mist.

"You there! Stop where you are!"

"This way." Austin tugged Parker’s sleeve, leading him down a narrow alley barely wide enough for their shoulders. Behind them, the police boots thundered on the stones.

They emerged onto a wider street. Parker's lungs, already battered by the cold and damp, burned. Each breath felt like a knife between his ribs. He doubled over, unable to hold back a wracking cough. When he rose, there was blood on the back of his hand.

He caught Austin watching him as he wiped it on his trousers.

“It’s just a cold, that’s all.� Struggling to regain his breath, he brought his coughing under control.

Austin led them deeper into the side streets. Neither of them knew Liverpool, but this wasn’t their first time evading the English constabulary. "Quiet now." Austin's hand rested on Parker’s back, his clammy fingers cool through the wool. Finally, he smirked. "The bluebottles have gone the wrong way."

Parker straightened, wiping his lips with a grimy sleeve. "We need to find work soon. Can't keep sleeping in doorways."

"The shipyards might take on men tomorrow."

"The dockers »å´Ç²Ô’t much like the Irish. I heard there are jobs going in Leeds, on the railways."

A woman's voice rang out from an upper window. "Dirty Paddies! Go back where you came from!"

Something splattered near Parker's feet—a chamber pot’s contents splashing his boots. He stumbled back, bile rising in his throat.

"Come on." Austin's smile was sharp in the gloom. "I know somewhere we can shelter till morning."

Parker followed, too exhausted to question how a boy so young navigated the hostile streets with such confidence—especially as this was supposedly his first time in Liverpool. They had agreed to travel at night until they were somewhere where the police were less likely to lock them up in a workhouse.

They had discussed the workhouses on the ship. Both knew someone lost to the supposedly beneficent system. Free food or not, the workhouses were a death sentence—cramped work conditions, rampant disease, and poor food meant anyone committed wouldn’t last long.

Cautiously, they followed the streets back towards the Mersey.

The fog swallowed them whole—two more ghosts in a city that hated them.

The towpath stretched ahead like a wound through the frost-bitten landscape. Parker's boots crunched along the gravel paths. The canal ran black and silent beside them, its surface glossed with ice near the banks.

Occasionally, they saw other paupers trudging along the path—gaunt figures wrapped in whatever scraps they had salvaged. Parker’s heart ached as he watched a woman singing to a child in her arms. It was too still to be sleeping.

An old man pushed a handcart loaded with what must have been everything he owned in the world.

His chest tightened. He turned away from Austin, coughing into his sleeve until spots danced before his eyes. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

A barge pilot eyed them with naked hostility.

Unlike Parker, who wearily ignored the man, Austin glared back, his expression furious as he focused on the barge, its engine sputtering as it propelled it toward whatever profit awaited.

The wind cut across the water, carrying the smell of wet stone and rotting vegetation. Parker watched a family huddled under a bridge ahead, sharing what might have been bread between them. His own stomach had cramped with hunger days ago.

"Leeds might be different," Parker managed between breaths. "More mills there. More work."

"More people wanting work." Austin kicked a stone into the canal. It skidded across the ice.

They passed another group of travellers heading east, faces hollow with desperation. One man clutched a shovel like a weapon. Parker noticed how Austin watched them, head tilted slightly.

"Something the matter?"

Austin studied them for a few more seconds before they moved on.

The towpath wound on, an endless ribbon of mud and misery. Parker's legs shook with each step, but stopping meant freezing. It meant giving up.

He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the muttered curses of those they passed, the suspicious glances, the way people drew their children closer.

Through the bare trees, Parker spotted the flicker of campfires. Smoke rose in thin ribbons against the grey sky. As they drew closer, he saw the shelters—a haphazard mix of canvas tents and wooden lean-tos, tucked into a natural hollow beside the canal.

Strange bundles of twigs and branches, some fashioned like crude dolls, some with circular designs, hung from ropes around the shelters, swaying in the winter wind. More dangled from the surrounding trees, clicking against each other like wind chimes made of bone.

Austin hissed at the sight of them, tugging at Parker’s sleeve. "Let’s go," he muttered, despite the rising sun.

A man emerged from between the shelters, his wild white hair tangled, his beard unkempt. Piercing blue eyes fixed on them with immediate suspicion.

"Keep walking," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "No room here."

Parker’s legs threatened to give way. "Please. We've been walking since Liverpool."

"Harrison," a woman called from one of the shelters. "They're Irish, like us."

"I don't care where they’re from." Harrison's hands worked at his sides, dirt crusted under his nails. "We've too many mouths to feed as it is. I won’t risk the camp by welcoming in a child and his half-dead friend."

"I'm fine. We can work," Parker insisted, fighting to hold back another cough. "Let us help with whatever needs doing."

Harrison snorted. "This is your last warning. Keep moving."

Austin tugged at Parker’s sleeve. "Please, mister, we aren’t welcome here."

"You heard him." Harrison backed away, his hand drifting toward the knife at his belt. He turned to Parker, expression cold. "Take your friend and go. Find shelter elsewhere."

The wind picked up, rattling the twig bundles. Parker watched as Harrison disappeared between the shelters, vanishing into the gloom where other paupers peered out with haunted faces.

Parker’s lungs burned as they trudged through the darkening woods. Each breath sent daggers through his chest, forcing another bout of coughing, but he pressed on. The canal’s black water flowed beside them, silent and indifferent.

Through the bare branches, a hulking shape emerged—an old barn, its weathered boards silver in the fading light. The roof sagged in places, but the walls still stood firm against the wind.

"It’s shelter, at least." Parker pushed against the warped door. It dragged along the dirt floor, resisting, but with enough pressure, it gave way, releasing a musty breath of old hay and decay.

Austin slipped past him into the darkness. "Home sweet home."

Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the roof, casting strange, shifting shadows across the barn’s interior. Rotting hay carpeted the floor, and cobwebs stretched between the ancient beams overhead. In one corner, a pile of mouldering sacks offered some protection from the draught.

Parker sank into the hay, his legs finally giving out. Another violent cough tore through him, and he muffled it in his sleeve, now stained dark with blood.

"You should rest," Austin murmured from the shadows. "I’ll keep watch."

"No need. We’re alone out here."

"Are we?" Austin’s soft laugh echoed off the wooden walls.

Parker arranged the sacks into a makeshift bed, trying to ignore the boy’s words. The hay poked through his thin coat, but exhaustion weighed heavier than discomfort.

"Sleep, Austin," Parker muttered, eyes already closing. "It's been a long day."

The boy settled nearby. Parker listened to the wind whistling through the barn’s countless cracks. Despite the cold, despite the fire in his lungs and the ache in his bones, sleep pulled him under.

Chapter 2

Parker drifted in the darkness. The world shifted, blurred—and suddenly, he was standing among the sleeping bodies in the Irish camp. His boots sank into the mud as he moved between the huddled forms, past dying fires and makeshift shelters.

Moonlight bathed the scene in silver. His hands reached out, independent of his will, toward the strange formations of twigs and stones at the camp’s edge.

His fingers closed around a branch. The wood burned cold against his skin, but he could not stop. One by one, he dismantled the wards, scattering them into the shadows.

Something watched from the darkness beyond the camp—something vast, hungry, and patient.

Parker’s hands moved faster, tearing apart the protective circles. Sweat froze on his brow. He wanted to scream, to warn the sleeping paupers, but his voice no longer belonged to him. It belonged to the thing in the dark.

The last ward crumbled.

In the distance, the thing stirred, and Parker saw�

He woke with a violent coughing fit, hay scratching against his face. The barn creaked around him. Outside, the wind howled through the bare branches.

His hands trembled as he touched his face, searching for mud, for any sign that he had moved. The hay beneath him was undisturbed.

Yet his boots were damp.

Something dark clung to his fingernails.

Parker fell back into uneasy sleep.

The barn dissolved into mist, and he found himself standing in the centre of the refugee camp once more.

Moonlight cast long shadows across the ground, twisting familiar shapes into grotesque forms.

The first body lay sprawled beside a dead fire. An old woman, her throat a red ruin, fingers still clutching a worn rosary. Beyond her, more corpses littered the ground like fallen leaves. Some had tried to run—their bodies pointed toward the canal. Others had died where they slept, caught unaware.

Harrison slumped against a tree, his blue eyes wide and unseeing. Blood stained his beard, his clothes, the protective symbols carved into the bark behind him. His knife lay useless beside his outstretched hand.

Parker jolted awake, his heart hammering against his ribs. The barn’s wooden beams loomed overhead, their edges softened by the pre-dawn gloom. His clothes clung to his skin, damp with sweat despite the winter chill.

Something scratched against his palm. He raised his trembling hands—dirt caked his fingers, dark crescents beneath each nail. Fragments of twigs and leaves scattered across his chest as he sat up.

"Austin?" His voice cracked.

The barn remained silent.

Austin’s belongings were gone. No trace of him remained except for the lingering impression in the hay where he had slept.

A breeze whistled through the gaps in the walls, carrying a stomach-turning stench. Parker pressed his sleeve against his nose, but the foul rot seeped through the fabric.

It smelled like the mass graves outside Belfast.

He stumbled to his feet, hay falling from his clothes. His boots were caked in fresh mud—impossible in the dry barn. The dirt matched what was ground into his skin, still wet despite the hours that had passed since� since�

The memories slipped away like water through his fingers.

He remembered the dream—the pale figures, the carnage. But everything after lying down to sleep was a void.

His legs shook as he staggered to the barn door. The eastern sky had begun to lighten, turning the canal’s surface to dull pewter. In the distance, where the refugee camp should have been, a thick mist clung to the ground.

The stench grew stronger.

Chapter 3

Parker trudged down the muddy towpath, each step an effort against the morning frost. The mist parted before him, revealing the clearing where the camp had stood.

His breath caught in his throat.

The shelters lay in tatters, canvas torn and poles scattered like broken bones. Cold ashes marked where fires had once burned. No bodies. No blood. Only emptiness and decay.

"Oi! You there!"

Heavy boots crunched through frozen grass. Three constables emerged from the fog, led by a broad-shouldered man with a greying beard. His hand gripped his truncheon as he approached.

"Name?" The constable’s eyes narrowed beneath his thick brow.

Parker’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Parker Lobb, sir."

"Constable Matson." The man surveyed the wreckage. "Another lot of your kind tried settling here last week. Came to move them on. Seems they beat us to it." He sniffed the air. "Filthy lot, they are, look at this mess."

Parker blinked.

The paupers had been here yesterday—he had spoken to Harrison O’Toole, seen the strange symbols�

"You folk keep trying to settle here, sponging off hard-working Englishmen like us, but you normally have the sense to clear out before we can chase them off." Matson’s lips curled beneath his beard. "Either follow their lead, lad, or come with us. We’ll find you a workhouse where you can contribute to society."

Parker glanced down at his hands, still dirt-stained.

Fragments of memory swam in his mind—dreams, or something worse.

Where are the bodies?

Had he done something? Something his mind refused to remember?

Matson tapped his truncheon against his palm. "Well?"

The other constables watched, their expressions unreadable.

"Are you moving on, or coming with us?"

Chapter 4

Parker stumbled away from the constables, his boots slipping on the frozen towpath. Each breath was a deep, rattling ache. The canal stretched west, a grey ribbon cutting through the bleak countryside.

He looked at his sleeve. He’d seen this before—in the workhouses, in the cramped ship holds during the crossing. The wasting disease. Consumption.

His fingers traced his hollow cheeks, counted the prominent ribs beneath his shirt. He’d blamed hunger, the endless walking, the cold nights without shelter. But the night sweats, the fever dreams...

A barge drifted past, laden with coal. The bargeman eyed him warily.

"Water?" Parker’s voice cracked. "Please."

The man shook his head. Everyone feared the curse of the Irish—the diseases they carried, the famine they’d supposedly brought upon themselves. Parker watched the barge disappear into the mist.

His legs gave way. He slumped against a gnarled oak, its bare branches clawing at the winter sky. The bark scraped his back as he slid down, leaving him huddled at its roots.

Another cough tore through him. More blood stained his hands.

Memories of the camp swam before him—Harrison’s warnings, the torn bodies. Real or fever dream? His mind fractured like ice on the canal, still refusing to reveal the truth.

He pressed his forehead against his knees, trying to still the world’s spinning. The disease was eating him alive, turning his own body against him. Each breath came shorter than the last.

A shadow fell across his face.

Parker opened his eyes to find Austin perched on a tree branch above him. The sun had fallen—he’d slept through the day.

"³Û´Ç³Ü’r±ð dying," Austin said, his voice carrying the same melodic lilt that had once brought comfort. "I could help you."

Parker’s laugh dissolved into wet coughs. "Help me? Why would you do that?"

"Because you helped me," Austin said simply. "You kept me company, looked after me, when no-one else would."

"And you used me to kill those people."

Austin sighed. "I had to. They used old magic." He traced invisible patterns in the air. "But you broke their wards for me. I honestly regret making you do that."

The truth crashed over Parker like ice water. The dreams, the dirt under his fingernails, the torn bodies—all real. He had been Austin’s puppet.

"I can make you like me," Austin murmured, leaning closer, green eyes gleaming. "No more pain."

"No, I reckon I know what you are, boy." Parker was growing weaker. "I »å´Ç²Ô’t blame you for the deaths, plenty of monsters in the world. ‘Sides, I reckon I know enough about starvation to have some understanding. But I couldn’t–wouldn’t feed on others."

"You’d rather die?"

"Die a human."

“You eat animals, what’s the difference?�

Parker was silent for a moment before looking up at the boy. “You asking that question is the difference. I »å´Ç²Ô’t see humans as animals.â€�

Austin’s face twisted. "I »å´Ç²Ô’t need your permission. I can turn you anyway."

Parker smiled at the threat through blood-stained teeth. "Then I’ll greet the sunrise one last time. Better to burn on my own terms."

Silence stretched between them.

Austin studied him for a long moment. Then he exhaled, almost mournfully. "Fool."

He dropped down from the branch and vanished into the darkness.

Parker laughed then, before a hacking cough overcame him.

Ain’t nothing more human than being a fool.

THE END

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