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Greetings, my wicked darlings!

It's become a Newt Webb trope: stories about tortured artists. I assure you all that I'm rather fabulous and happily writing away in my new country home. In fact, productivity has never been higher (citation needed)! Last month, I released and for free download or to read online. Audio versions will be released this month, including a special version of for . This will be my first live performance for quite some time, so it's time to clear the cobwebs out of the desicated pipes and unleash my baritone. I’m looking forward to it! are doing their own version too, so it’ll be interesting to compare the ratings #VoteNewt.

This month, along with the audiobooks for , , , and , I have The Catfish Killer being released as an eBook. I wanted to release The Butcher of Bath, a new story I’ve just finished writing, but in discussion with my beta readers, we agreed that the second act just isn’t up to scratch and needs rewriting. I am currently working on The Winter Wraith. This is a project that I’ve been dabbling in for a few months now.

When not writing, I have been renovating the house. With the assistance of my sister Emma, we've repainted the living room and stairwell. Outside, I have tortoise-proofed the garden and added a water feature (two galvanised steel pond buckets and a bog bucket). I'm now working on a more attractive, but equally secure, wooden border to keep the garden tortoise-proofed and beautiful. I am also having the kitchen completely torn out and replaced. I’ve been assured that black marble is for more than just gravestones!

Anyway, I hope all is well for you. As I write this, I am heading off to church—no, no, I have not reformed; they are hosting a Beer Festival. If you don't hear from me again, then it is my sad duty to inform you I erupted into flame upon entry.

Sweet screams,

Newt

Coming up this month, I have some ghoulish treats in store for you with three free audiobooks.

9th August 2024 - The Black Shuck (Audiobook)
Confronted by her own demons, Tina embarks on a harrowing journey, navigating through guilt, fear, and the restless spirits of the wronged.

16th August 2024 - Lassitude (Audiobook)
Trapped by sleepless nights and despair, Jeff finds solace in a mysterious therapist's free offer, but the deeper he delves, the darker the cost.

21st August 2024 - The Catfish Killer (eBook)
In the chilling depths of online dating, Jedd's predatory pursuit of vulnerable women traps him in a nightmare when he matches with more than he expected.

23rd August 2024 - The Croydon Ripper (Audiobook)
The Croydon Ripper's reign of terror casts a shadow over Sheila's life, transforming her daily walk home from the library into a journey fraught with suspicion.

28th August 2024 - A Portrait of Sin (Audiobook)
The sunlit alleys of sixteenth-century Florence hide a dark and tragic struggle as a brilliant painter battles a devastating creative block.

In case you missed them, last month, we released the following:

24th July 2024 -
The sunlit alleys of sixteenth-century Florence hide a dark and tragic struggle as a brilliant painter battles a devastating creative block.

31th July 2024 -
Trapped by sleepless nights and despair, Jeff finds solace in a mysterious therapist's treatment, but the deeper he delves, the darker the cost.

: 60 FREE horror stories, including ‘A Portrait of Sin��, ‘Lassitude��, ‘Mind Games��, ‘Darius the Dazzler��, ‘The Girl in the Glass��

: 36 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1��, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2��

Little Bone Lodge (🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎)

Two criminal brothers take a family captive when they seek shelter during a storm, but soon realise their house itself holds dark secrets.

Watch the my review on or .

Watch the movie on , .

 by C. M. Forest

In the guts of a nameless city, career criminal Owen fights for his sanity and his life. After stealing a morbid piece of artwork at the behest of his boss, Owen discovers the original owners of the grotesque painting are part of a twisted cult known as The Family—and they’ll stop at nothing to get it back.

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.

2022 �� , Novella

2018 �� , Novella

2017 �� , Novel

2013 �� , Novella

2012 �� , Novella

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.

The wren hopped down onto the birdbath, cautiously looking around before jumping into the water and splashing around. Jeff watched enviously, sipping his coffee through hooded eyes. When his watch chirped, he reluctantly left his vigil and returned to the sofa, opening his laptop on the coffee table and loading Zoom. Taking another sip, he waited for the call to come in.

Right on cue, the screen flashed up with an incoming call notification from his new therapist, Dr. Andrea Coleburn, PhD. He tapped on ‘Join Call�� and smiled as an attractive redhead filled the screen—or at least her enormous hair and large glasses did. A scar creeping out towards her forehead did nothing to diminish her beauty. In fact, you might almost say that it accentuated it.

“Hello.�� Jeff beamed at the lady, who responded with the restrained smile of a professional therapist.

“Thank you for accepting my call. Do you mind if I call you Jeff?"

“Not at all, go ahead.��

She nodded her acceptance. “From your email, it sounds as though you’ve been going through a difficult time.��

Jeff flinched, then gave a more subdued smile. “It’s been difficult since the accident. The sleeping mostly. I really appreciate you responding to my post. I’ve been off work, so with you waiving your fee, it makes a huge difference.�� He looked down. “Dad paid for the legal fees, but we haven’t really spoken since the court case. I think he is embarrassed by me. My mum just pretends that nothing ever happened. If I try to discuss it with her, she tells me not to be daft, and that the past is past.��

Andrea maintained eye contact with him. “That sounds incredibly challenging, Jeff. How does that make you feel?��

Jeff’s eyes clouded. “It hurts. I feel like I’ve let them down.��

Andrea nodded. “I can see how that would be painful for you. We can definitely work on that as we move forward. For now, let’s focus on helping you with your sleep. How does that sound?��

“That would be�� I can’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep.�� He stopped to consider. “Well, actually, I can. It was before the accident. I was lucky. If Dad didn’t have such a good lawyer, it could have meant jail time.��

For a moment, an expression almost broke through Andrea’s marble-like professional demeanour before she restored the coolly sympathetic mask of a therapist. She adjusted her pose to mirror his body language. “That must have been a very distressing time for you. Today, I’d like to start with some breathing exercises, guided meditation, and exposure therapy. Have you tried these techniques before?��

Jeff looked sharply at the laptop. “Exposure therapy?��

“We’ll be using our meditation to return to the scene of the accident in a controlled manner to help you process your post-traumatic stress disorder.��

“Okay, it sounds terrifying, but I’d like to try. I’ll try anything. I’m desperate. I just want one good night’s sleep.��

“I want to assure you that these are just techniques that have shown a lot of success with people in similar situations before. Our aim will be to ensure that your sleepless nights are over.�� She pulled out an antique metronome. “Have you seen one of these before?��

Jeff shrugged, nonplussed. “My grandmother had one on her piano. It allows you to improve your rhythm.��

Andrea nodded. “Exactly. We’ll be using it for the same reason when I guide you through meditation.�� She started it going, its soft tick-tock sounding as she spoke. “Are you in a place where you can comfortably lie down, as I requested in my emails?��

Jeff lay back on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling as the metronome continued its slow, gentle beat.

“Good, now, if you can close your eyes, I want you to focus on the sound of the metronome. Listen to the sound: tick—breathe in, tock—hold your breath, tick—breathe out, tock—hold your breath.�� Her soft, melodious voice merged with the metronome, and Jeff felt a bone-deep sense of relaxation begin to flow through his body.

Tick Tock

Andrea once more slowed the metronome, and his heart rate slowed along with his breathing. His body felt heavy as it pressed into the sofa’s firm cushions. After a few minutes, how many Jeff couldn’t say, Andrea said, “The sun has fallen.The moon is rising. You are in your car. The rhythmic sound of the engine is purring.��

Jeff felt a moment of consternation. Did she just increase the metronome speed?

“The bushes and trees flash by you as you hurtle down the country lanes at breakneck speed without a care in the world.��

Jeff tried to speak, to correct her, but he was in such a deep torpor that he couldn’t. He was going over the speed limit, true, but everyone did on those lanes.

“You are happy, confident. You are smiling as you drive. Your music is on loud. Can you taste the alcohol on your breath?��

Tick Tock

Anger flared in Jeff’s mind, and he tried to open his eyes, but it was as though he was in a dream. He hadn’t told her about the drinking. She was making assumptions. He could taste the wine now. Jeff was trying to give up alcohol. Now that stupid woman was giving him a thirst.

“The flavour rolls around your mouth, your breath is tinged with a decadent odour, as you fearlessly hurtle around the blind corners.��

He tried to move his limbs, but they remained motionless. A sense of panic started to creep into his mind. Why couldn’t he wake up? What had this bitch done to him?

Tick Tock

Jeff listened to the sound of the metronome. He was certain it was going faster now. He tried to turn his head, and, with horror, he found he no longer had control of his own body. He was a prisoner, forced to listen to this judgemental bint’s fantasy.

“The creatures of the night—the owl, the fox, and the bat—all go about their business, but you’re oblivious as you continue inexorably on your journey to your adventure's conclusion. The only thing on your mind is yourself.��

He knew now the metronome was definitely going faster. He was beginning to sweat as his heart pulsed in rhythm to the now rapidly ticking device. How could he warn her? He wanted to stop. Why hadn’t they discussed safe words? That is what people do in these situations, right?

Tick Tock

Please stop, he silently begged as the therapist narrated the tale of that hateful night.

“A crossroads is coming up, but you bear it no heed. Why would you? You are young, drunk, and high on life. You are immortal.��

It wasn’t my fault!

“The lights are red, but you don’t see them, do you?�� The therapist's voice developed a harsh tang of anger, her earlier dispassion giving way to an audible bitterness.

How do you know this?

Tick Tock

The metronome clicked faster. Jeff’s mouth was dry as he hyperventilated. His lungs burned.

“Do you see it, Jeff?��

Please stop, please!

“A blue Vauxhall Corsa. Can you see the driver?��

Of course, I couldn’t see the fucking driver. It was all too quick��

But as the scene was recreated in his mind to the rapid sound of the metronome, he did see the driver. Pains lanced through his chest as he saw the enormous bush of hair. As he saw Andrea and—no!

Tick Tock

“And in the back of the car, what do you see?��

He felt tears roll down his cheeks as he saw the image he’d tried so hard to block out. He saw what had haunted him in the depths of the night. What had led him to stare at the ceiling in wide wakefulness. The image he’d told nobody about.

The baby carrier.

Tick Tock

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! It was an accident for fuck’s sake.

“The driver will end up in hospital for a week with a fractured skull before being released. Her son, however, died quickly. I suppose that is a mercy in a way. He is spared the memories, the seething hatred, the scorching fury, the—the emptiness.�� She faltered before resuming her rhythmic speaking.

Tick Tock

The pain in Jeff’s heart grew, spreading like liquid fire as he felt himself drifting away.

“The driver will be in therapy for months for depression, but it turns out that you are the cure. When she finds the man who tore her life away has posted an advert online asking for recommendations for a ‘cheap but good therapist��, she leaps at the chance.��

Tick Tock

“She happily waived her fee for a chance to meet her son’s killer. Can you smell it Jeff? The brimstone, the acrid scent.��

Jeff could smell it. He could feel the fires burning his flesh as he slipped away from life and towards his deserved fate.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

TickTock

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

Giovanni sat patiently on a bench outside Bishop Lorenzo's office. The imposing oak frame held a sturdy door, reinforced with iron studs. This far into the interior, the great cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, looked more like a fortress than a temple.

Standing on either side of the door and staring straight ahead were the soldiers of God. Dressed in immaculate doublets and hose, their sumptuous clothing must have cost more than Giovanni could earn in a year. He glanced at the enormous halberds held to attention. The oversized axe heads seemed incongruous in such a religious establishment. Tapping his knee nervously, Giovanni hummed to the music echoing from the nave, only to have both guards turn and glare at him in unison. He instantly fell silent.

Just when the combination of nerves and inaction was on the cusp of driving him insane, a small bell sounded, and the guards opened the double doors in front of him, revealing a huge wooden desk on a raised dais with Bishop Lorenzo sitting behind it. Despite his seated posture, the elevation of the desk made him loom over Giovanni, who bowed immediately, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Bishop Lorenzo regarded him for a long moment, taking a sip of wine. "You painted that?" 

He glanced up to follow the bishop's finger. "Yes, your Excellency." His heart pounded at the sight of one of his works being owned by such a renowned and revered figure.

The Bishop leaned forward, his eyes shrewd. "It's very good."

"Thank you, your Excellency."

"Not many people know about you yet. That is useful to me. I think you have great talent. Wine?" The bishop pointed to a decanter.

Giovanni shook his head, his eyes remaining respectfully on the floor. "No thank you, your Excellency."

"The Pope is visiting Florence; it behoves us to present him with favours of the highest stature. His Excellency Bishop Guido has commissioned Piero di Cosimo, and the most Reverend and Illustrious Lord Giulio de' Medici has commissioned Andrea del Sarto." The Bishop's expression grew sour. "I had commissioned Fra Bartolomeo to paint me a picture of the Virgin Mary. But, the Lord had a greater need of him, and courtesy of the fever, he will no longer be able to complete his commission, or any further commissions."

"I'm sorry for your loss. I've seen many of his works. He was a master," Giovanni mumbled.

"Yes, well, I'm expecting even more from you. I will pay you two hundred florins, but it must be your best work, and it must be delivered here, in my office, no later than the 22nd of November."

Two HUNDRED florins?

Giovanni was struck dumb by the amount, even as his heart swelled with praise. He struggled to earn thirty florins in a year. Furthermore, if word got out that the Pope owned one of his paintings...

"If you are late, or the painting isn't up to scratch, I risk being humiliated. That won't bode well for you. In fact��" Bishop Lorenzo paused to make sure Giovanni was paying attention, "It will be construed as blasphemous. I will have you excommunicated, and your heresy will be punished in jail. Do you understand?"

Giovanni nodded excitedly. "Yes, your Excellency. I won't let you down."

The bishop sucked air through his blackened teeth. "See that you don't." He popped a honeyed almond into his mouth and crunched loudly on it. "You have just over three weeks. I suggest you get started."

Rising, Giovanni nodded and bowed, backing out of the office, almost tripping over his feet as he did so.

"Thank you, your Excellency. Thank you so much."

The bishop didn't answer him, simply waving a dismissive hand.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A growl of frustration rolled up from deep within his throat as he rose to open the door. But all his irritation vanished as he opened it and looked into the smiling face of his love.

"Hello." She kissed him on the lips and danced into his studio. She turned her nose up at the mess as she searched for a spare surface on which to place one of her father's loaves. "You've been busy."

The studio was surrounded by sketches. Whenever Giovanni ran low on paper, he'd turn to drawing on the walls with charcoal. Paper was a terrible price, particularly quality art paper.

He nodded at her and shrugged. "I can't quite find the right concept. I can see the Virgin Mary in my mind, but it isn't focused, and I haven't found the pose or the expression. I keep experimenting, but it's just a torrent of��" he tailed off and looked at the floor glumly. "Well, shit, really."

Isabella punched him on the shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous. Pick one." She turned to one of his sketches. "This one looks good."

"It's not that easy," Giovanni tore the sheet from her hands. "I can't just give the bishop any old painting. It has to be perfect."

"You are being silly. This is just a crisis of faith. God shines through all your works, Vanni." She kissed his cheek.

He shook her off. "It really isn't that easy, Bella." Giovanni sniffed angrily. "I told you this painting is for the Pope. What I didn't tell you was that if he didn't like it, I'll be excommunicated. I could be imprisoned or worse for heresy."

There was silence. Isabella stared at him in horror.

"Well? Say something, say��"

"Why, Vanni? Why in God's name would you agree to such terms?" Isabella was furious, but the fear in her eyes contrasted with the anger in her posture. "You stupid oaf!"

"What do you mean, why? Are you simple?" Vanni backed away from her. "Your father won't let us get married until I've made something of myself. I did this for you!"

"Don't put this on me! This was pride. This was greed." Tears fell from her eyes. "You idiot. You stupid, pig-headed fool."

"Enough. I've never had a problem like this before. I thought I'd have the picture painted within a week."

"And you didn't stop to consider what would happen if you didn't?" Isabella asked. Her anger fell to despair. "We must leave the city."

"Leave? Oh, your father would love that, wouldn't he?" Giovanni snorted. "It would prove to him that I'm the failure he always thought I was. As if being a baker��"

"A master baker, Vanni, titled by the city itself." She walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" he called after her.

"Home, to where my baker parents have a measure of civility."

Desperation clung to his voice. "You are leaving me?"

She turned, her eyes red. "How can I leave? You’ve already pushed me away. Find me when you’re ready to apologise."

Giovanni couldn’t sleep. For over two weeks now, he’d battled with his commission. Isabella hadn't returned. He knew he should go to her, but despair shrouded his thoughts. He didn’t want to approach her as a failure. His studio was lined with a thousand ideas, but nothing he could use.

Ten days.

More than enough time to paint the Virgin Mary if he found a splash of direction. He needed inspiration, he needed a muse! Charcoal sketches littered his studio from where he’d started drafting and then rejected idea after idea. Two weeks ago, he'd seen florins in his future. Now, he saw bars.

Or the hangman's noose, he thought morosely.

He had blown most of his saved coin on paper and canvas and reused it so much that it had all turned a grubby dark grey. He needed more.

His imagination had always been vivid, his mind a jewelled swarm of innovation. Before it had almost been a hobby, he made just enough for rent, and when times were lean, he could always rely on Isabella’s father for free bread, much as he hated accepting his charity. It was given willingly enough, but Giovanni knew what her father really thought in private and he felt desperately unworthy.

His work had never had consequences before. Fantastical riches or death in prison, those were the two paths stretching in front of him. This should motivate him to unparalleled heights, but a crippling fear of failure instead paralysed him.

The days and sleepless nights had bled into one another. He was a useless wreck.

At one point, he'd risen, inspiration lighting up his mind, only to realise that the ground-breaking idea which had sparked his fervour was in fact a recollection of Botticelli’s ‘Madonna of the Book��. He swore, cursing the people he once saw as heroes. In order to make his name, Giovanni had to create a masterpiece that eclipsed them all.

When dawn came, Giovanni stood naked in the morning light in front of his easel. The blank canvas mocked him. His charcoal stick twitched nervously in his grip. He paced up and down, scratching his chin. His normally smooth face was marred with a patchy beard. This painting had to be perfect. It would define him as a person. He’d lost track of the date. The bishop was no longer on his mind.The only thing that mattered was his masterpiece. Giovanni picked up his cup of water and drained it. He wished it was wine. Taking a deep breath, he strode up to the canvas and held aloft his charcoal. He stood in front of it for several moments before deflating in an explosive gasp and retreating to an old battered wooden chair in the corner.

I’m a fraud.

He glanced at the canvas. The walls surrounding it were covered in his previous works. They all seemed tawdry and derivative. Unlike its usual state of order, his studio was in a formless, chaotic condition. It was never as clean as his beloved would like, but now the room had grown to resemble his state of mind. Both were unkempt, filthy, and hideous. He’d been a fool to think he could make a masterpiece to outshine the painters that had come before him.

Think, think, think!

Throwing the charcoal on the floor, he collapsed onto a wooden crate, his hands covering his face. Who was he to even attempt to stand tall alongside such giants as Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, or Botticelli?

I’m finished.

He couldn’t even look at the canvas anymore.

I’m going insane.

Standing up, he grabbed his jacket.

He slammed the door shut, locking it behind him as he blinked in the sudden bright sunlight. Taking a deep breath, he ignored the foetid stink around him and set off down the cobbled streets. He knew he should go and see Isabella, but shame led him instead towards his local tavern, The Gallo Nero. It was tucked away in the backstreets of the Oltrarno district, surrounded by tall, haphazardly built tenements which always seemed to be on the cusp of collapse.

A change of perspective will do me good.

Giovanni hadn’t left the studio in a week. The sound of jeering greeted him from the windows; it was as if they knew he was arriving. Poking his head in through the doorway, he was grateful to find it was due to the performance of one of the local poets. Giovanni listened to him as he recited a rather ill-thought-out piece criticising a popular local politician.

Buying the cheapest cup of wine he could find, Giovanni found himself a seat at the back, and nursed his wine, illuminated by the warm glow of the candlelight. He watched with admiration as the poet endured a barrage of hatred. The man continued his set, ignorant of the turbulent crowd.

When the poet had finished, he accepted a cup of wine from the barmaid and escaped to one of the rear tables.

Giovanni rose and approached him. The poet looked at him warily. Smiling, Giovanni motioned to the seat. “That was a brave set,�� he said gingerly. “Did you expect the audience to react that way?��

The poet laughed nervously. “Nobody threw a jug at me this time. That was a huge and most welcome ��������DZ��𳾱�Գ�.��

“So you knew that your poetry was going to be ridiculed?�� Giovanni pressed. “How do you endure it?��

The poet paused, taking a long lingering drink of his wine. He considered the matter for a moment. “An artist's job is to find truth and portray it through art. I am reciting my truth, not theirs. It doesn’t matter if they don’t believe me. In fact, if they believed me, I would be talking to the wrong crowd. I wouldn’t have any minds to change.��

“You must have incredibly thick skin.��

The poet's eyes locked onto Giovanni with a fanatical fervour. “No, no. It’s not that. It just feels like something I have to do. Imagine a man was going to drown, but didn’t realise it.�� Speckles of spittle erupted from his mouth as he ranted. He hastily wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Do you let nature take its course, or do you do everything you can to save him?��

“I�� I am not sure. I would like to think that I’d save him. I’d make the effort at least.�� He changed tack and introduced himself, clasping forearms with the man. “Giovanni, I’m an artist.��

The poet gave a look of relief as if that explained Giovanni’s bedraggled appearance. “Well met, I’m Angelo, a martyr to truth.�� He waved for a jug of wine.

Giovanni shook his head. “I couldn’t afford to buy you one back. I only came here for one. I don’t even know if I can afford the rent this month. My latest project is—��

“This is my father’s money. He is rich, powerful, and greatly embarrassed by my works.�� A cheeky grin crossed Angelo’s face. “Help me shame him a little more by spending his coin.��

“Well, as it is for such a noble cause, I’d be honoured.��

The wine arrived, along with a small loaf of bread. Giovanni chewed the bread carefully, checking for pieces of millstone. They were halfway through the jug before Angelo asked him about his latest project.

Giovanni screwed up his eyes in frustration. “Please, I can’t even think about it. I can’t sleep. I’m stressed.�� He opened his eyes, his expression one of desperation. “I fled the studio. I fear I’ve lost my talent. No, not just that, my mind also. Before this month, the paint always seemed to flow through me. I was offered the biggest commission of my life and all of a sudden, it just dried up.Now my mind is as blank as the canvas. It should be simple, a picture of the Virgin Mary, but do I have her holding a child? A lamb? Does she wear an expression of serenity or is she warm and welcoming?�� He accepted a top-up from the wine jug. “This painting should be the making of me, but instead, it is my undoing. If I don’t complete it, my life is over and I face jail.��

“Forget about the consequences,�� Angelo said, placing his hand on Giovanni’s. “It sounds to me that instead of a creative block, you are struggling to find exactly what truth you wish the painting to convey.��

“The truth?�� Giovanni muttered. “I need something a little more substantial than that.��

“Truth is the most powerful force in all creation.�� Angelo raised his cup.

“Maybe. If truth can get me started on my painting, then I’ll drink to that.��

“My friend, another jug and we’ll see what truths reveal themselves tonight.�� Angelo waved the empty jug to the barmaid. “Love is truth, passion is truth. Find it and your painting will paint itself. Put your body, your heart, your soul into it. Your painting of the Virgin Mary will be an expression of you.��

“That’s pig shit,�� Giovanni laughed.

“See, you’ve uncovered the truth already. You are a natural!��

They clashed their cups together, sloshing wine onto the roughly hewn wooden table. For the first time since the commission had been issued, Giovanni laughed, even if it was tinged with mania and nervous exhaustion, it felt good.

Giovanni lay on the stuffed mattress in the corner of the studio, his mouth dry and his stomach turbulent. Giovanni liked wine, but he could count the number of times he had drunk to excess on the fingers of his hands.

He tried to return to sleep, but the sound of chatter rose up from the alley below his window and tormented him, joining the endless pealing of the bells. Levering himself up with a groan, Giovanni tried to focus his vision. At least the wine had knocked him out, even if it was only for a few precious hours. He levered himself up and��

A sketched outline of the Virgin Mary lay before him on the canvas; the charcoal showed her with her arms outstretched as if to embrace the viewer. Her expression was one of placid divinity. His hangover paled in significance as a broad grin spread across Giovanni’s face.

He had no memory of getting home, let alone of starting on the painting, but it didn’t matter; inspiration had struck. What now? He looked at his collection of pigments. None of them seemed appropriate. Then his eyes locked on the nearly empty jug of wine. He must have brought it home last night. It was nearly all sediment, scarcely worth drinking. He emptied the wine into a dirty cup and drained off the liquid into his mouth, leaving behind the solids. His stomach roiled in protest, but the noises in his head quietened a little.

He looked at the thick layer of sediment settling below the remaining wine then reached for his pestle and mortar to grind the gritty solids into a usable powder. No, it was still too liquid. He ground rust flakes into it and watched as the colour turned into a beautiful, dark red. He added linseed oil to bind it and returned to his canvas. The red gave gravitas to the Virgin Mary’s gown as the paint slid across the sketched outline. As the contents of his cup ran dry, he hastily gathered together the meagre coins he had left, and raced to the nearest wine seller. Such was his haste that the majestic spires and domes of Florence might as well not have existed. He had to have more wine; he might even be able to finish his masterpiece, his magnum opus, in time for the bishop.

He returned with two large wax-stoppered, earthenware jugs of wine. Breaking the seal and swilling a large measure into his cleanest dirty cup, he took a swig. The foul vinegary taste turned his stomach; the wine might as well be posca, but it loosened his inhibitions and freed him from his more earthly concerns. Giovanni used a more delicately measured portion to mix more paint, using the resulting deep red to block out sections of the canvas.

The painting occupied his mind so much that he almost didn’t hear the knocking on the door. It had blended into nothingness, like the rest of the background noise. It was only when it escalated to a thumping that Giovanni was shaken of his trance-like state.

He looked at the door, confused, then turned back to the painting in a moment of indecision before another barrage of pounding drove him to throw open the door, revealing the furious face of his landlord, Bartolomeo.

“I could hear you in there! Don’t think you can hide from me.�� He looked Giovanni up and down and sniffed with disgust at the artist's unwashed stench. “You were supposed to pay me my rent yesterday.��

“The rent?�� Giovanni murmured before suddenly becoming animated. “The rent, yes. I’ve almost finished this painting, then I’ll be paid by the bishop. When I’m paid, I can give you six months rent in advance! I just need a little more time.��

“More time? Who do you think I am? The money, all six months worth, will either be on my table by tomorrow evening, or I’ll be turfing your disgusting hide out onto the street.�� The landlord shook his head, his expression filled with revulsion. “It’ll be good riddance.Look at my walls, you animal. When I come for the rent, these walls had better be immaculate. And what’s more, you stink!��

Giovanni looked down at his painting shirt and realised it had been three days since he had bathed or washed. His anxious face cracked in a nervous smile. “Yes, Signor Bartolomeo.�� He bobbed his head, his hands shaking with a desperate need to return to his work. “Of course, Signor, you can trust me.��

Turning away, Bartolomeo muttered angrily under his breath, leaving Giovanni to slam the door shut and race back to his painting. Two more days to complete his project. This morning he’d woken up gazing into the eyes of Death, but now, now he was painting. He was alive once more, and for the first time since he’d started, he felt confident that there was every chance that he would remain that way. Giovanni paced back and forth as he regarded the blocked out areas, the sketched image, and wondered how he would follow it.

Howling in frustration, he picked up his cup and hurled it at the wall when he realised that his puffed-up landlord, Bartolomeo Gallo, had derailed his train of thought. The cheap clay shattered on the floor, coating the wall with red wine. The liquid ran down, leaving the impression of a blood stain.

Gold? A gold-coloured halo?

He laughed hysterically at the thought, falling to his knees. A tear fell from one eye. Perhaps sleep would help? No, his turbulent mind wouldn’t let him sleep.

Giovanni considered the painting. He had to finish it. It had to be a masterpiece or the Bishop’s wrath would fall upon him.

Maybe Isabella would run away with me?

He angrily dismissed the thought. Even if she’d abandon her family, the bishop’s men would just stop them at the gate.

Giovanni gnawed at his knuckle. The skin was already torn from his nervous habit, his nails had been reduced to the quick. He picked up a cup of water and gulped it down desperately, before lying back and covering his eyes with his arm.

Once again Giovanni paced up and down the studio. He was dressed only in his nightshirt as he padded across the floorboards. “It just needs some changes, something to set it apart, something special to make it shine,�� he mumbled to himself, scratching the side of his head. He’d made no progress since he’d blocked out the image with red. It was still just a glorified sketch. Giovanni hadn't slept for over two days now. His hands shook. He felt nauseous from exhaustion. He had tried to sleep, but fear and anxiety kept his brain spinning like a loom. 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He contemplated ignoring it, but curiosity and frustration at his work overwhelmed him, and he went to the door. Opening it, he saw the furious face of his landlord and, panicking, immediately tried to shut it again.

“Try to close the door on me, would you?�� The landlord clouted him on the side of his head. “Look at the state of you.��

“I’m sorry, I, I just—I’m so close to finishing.�� Giovanni rubbed his bruised temple as he backed away, scattering broken pottery with his stumbling gait.

The landlord advanced on him, his eyes fiery. “Close?�� He looked at the painting and sneered. “I might not be an artist, but it looks to me as though you’ve barely started.��

Giovanni tapped him politely on his shoulder. “Please, one more day. Just one.�� He held his hands up, pleading.

“One more day? It’s taken you nearly a month to make this—this waste of canvas.�� The landlord shook off Giovanni. “No, you are getting out right now. You and all this horse dung, starting with that—�� He marched up to the painting with his arms outstretched.

“—No!�� Giovanni leapt onto the landlord's back.

“You dare?�� The landlord tossed Giovanni’s weak, sleep-deprived form back into the table. His jars crashed to the floor and shattered. His expensive pigments ran into one another, becoming unusable. He turned to look down at Giovanni. “Who do you think you—�� But blood burbled out of the man’s mouth.

“Oh God. Oh, saints preserve me.�� Giovanni looked down at the knife in his hand; he had no recollection of grabbing it. As he pulled it clear from under the landlord's ribs, the man’s corpse slumped down onto him, bleeding out onto the floor with a rich, lurid flow of crimson. He was transfixed, briefly, by the sight. “No, no, wait!�� Giovanni searched around for an intact bowl, his eyes wide at the sight of the beautiful colours pouring from his oppressor's chest. Realising this wasn’t working, he tore off his nightshirt and held it over the knife wound, then slit the man’s wrist. The red flow efficiently filled the bowl. It was a fitting substitute for the pigments the man had ruined.

He barely recognised his new status as a murderer. He was too busy looking at the painting with fresh eyes. Taking a large measure of blood, he smoothed it over a flat tablet, then watched as it matured into a dark ruddy brown. Scraping off the dry flakes, he ground them into a thick paste. It took repeated efforts to get enough of the dry powder, until he saw the blood in the bowl was thickening too in the sweltering summer heat. He left the bowl to season as he worked with his new pigments, mixing them with linseed oil and then applying them to the canvas. The picture seemed to grow with a new sense of life as he feverishly worked on it, rescuing what pigments he could from the floor. As the landlord died of blood loss, Giovanni heard the corpse's bowels loosen.

More pigments.

He looked up at the painting. The Virgin Mary was smiling down at him. 

Did I paint her smiling?

He couldn’t remember, he no longer cared about details. Giovanni’s exhausted frame was filled with nervous energy as his brush played across the canvas, detailing the Virgin Mary. Her eyes looked back at him, beseeching him to finish his work. He obeyed lovingly as he stood naked before her. His hands, though shaking, seemed to paint with a precision he’d never known before. As the painting began to flesh out, he could hear the unmistakable sound of hymns from somewhere outside. Or was it inside? Pausing for a moment, he tried to listen to the words, but while sounding familiar, they remained incomprehensible, their meaning always just on the edge of understanding. He capered around his studio, laughing with ecstatic joy at the sheer clarity that drove him. When his ears itched, he returned to painting, letting the hauntingly beautiful music flow through him.

The image itself seemed to shimmer and move, responding to his brush strokes as if they were the touch of a lover. Sweat ran down his forehead as he brushed it out of his eyes with his grubby arm. The painting, under the illumination of his remaining candles, approached fruition. His brush was down to the highlighting now. The canvas seemed to shift under his fevered touch.

The dawn sun rose, flooding his studio with sunlight. An exhausted Giovanni lay sleeping on top of his bed blankets. His sleep was so deep that when he woke, his back was in agony from remaining so long in the same coma-like position. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he felt exhaustion running deep through his bones.

I've done it. I did it!

A broad smile crossed his face as he stretched. Looking at the window, he could see that the sun was almost at its peak. With just hours to go, he’d managed to complete the Pope’s commission. He had a future now. He would have wealth! No more thoughts of prison and he could marry his beloved with her father’s blessing.

I must apologise to Isabella. She’ll understand.

With a grunt, he realised that the Bishop would be expecting him to bring the painting to him immediately.

He sat up with an urgent start. 

His eyes instinctively sought out his magnum opus.

Staggering out of bed, he crashed to the floor as his legs took a while to wake up. 

Rising, he took in the image of his painting, and saw it for what it really was for the very first time. In the sober light of day, he looked aghast at his monstrous creation.

"What have I done..."

“Whatever have I done?��

His hands fumbled for the knife, still stained with the remnants of his murderous crime.

He continued to stare at the painting, tears running down his cheeks.

Forgive me, Isabella.

The knife quivered in his hand before he gritted his teeth and drew it deep across his throat. Blood sprayed from his artery. He knelt on the floor praying for salvation as life fled from his cursed body.

"Hurry," the Bishop urged his bearers as they manoeuvred his carriage through the Oltrarno district. He had no interest in the sun-bleached, terracotta buildings, nor the towering spires. Instead, he held an ornately stitched bag of dried herbs to his nose and rapped out his orders"Just make all speed, so that I can get out of this uncomfortable contraption and return to my palace."

A thump preceded a man's scream as one of his guards employed the butt of his spear on an unsuspecting member of the crowd. Bishop Lorenzo smiled cruelly as the carriage sped up once more.

He cursed the artist for making him come out to find him. He'd been ready to just send out his guards when a nagging suspicion crossed his mind.

What if another Bishop had poached him?

He'd be damned before he'd let someone else take the credit for the effort he'd personally deployed in finding an artist of Giovanni's talent.

The carriage drew to a halt. He disembarked without a word to his exhausted bearers, instead calling to his guards, "Surround the building. Nobody leaves." He gestured to his majordomo. "Alessandro, lead on."

The older man bobbed a bow and led the Bishop through the battered tenement building. The stairs creaked under their footsteps, filling the Bishop with fear that they wouldn't be able to hold his magnificent presence. He sniffed deeply at his herbal bag and hurried up the stairs, gasping at the unaccustomed exercise. A thrill ran down his spine in anticipation of seeing the painting. A grim smile crossed his face as he imagined what he'd do if Giovanni had failed him or betrayed him in any way. He would make that wretch scream��

—Majordomo Alessandro beat him to it. A scream of horror was followed by him backing out of what the Bishop assumed was Giovanni's apartment.

"Get out of my way," he huffed. He pushed past him only to pause as he surveyed the carnage. Black flies clustered all over the bodies. A constant buzzing filled the room. Before he could back out, he saw the painting and gasped. He approached it reverently with his arms outspread.

"Tell me, Alessandro, have you ever surveyed such beauty?" His eyes drank in the image of the Virgin Mary. The detailing was exquisite. She seemed almost alive.

"Beauty Monsignor? Surely you jest.This isn’t the Virgin Mary. It is the most vile, most heretical��"

"Silence!" With a solemnity that surpassed even the most theatrical of his sermons, he approached closer and drowned in the strong colours, the depth of its creative passion, the beauty of those seductive eyes. Those eyes... They almost seemed to follow him around as he paced. "The Pope will be delighted when I give him this; he'll summon me back to Rome for sure."

Had the Virgin Mary been smiling when he entered? 

She must have been. He shook his head and looked closer. Yes, a broad smile crossed her face. Her beauty was unparalleled.

His servant looked at him with unabashed horror. Before Alessandro could say anything, Bishop Lorenzo raised a hand. "When the oil dries, I want you to get some men and bring this masterpiece to my palace. If anyone scratches or smudges it, then I'll flay them alive." He looked around as if noticing the horrifying scene of ghoulish slaughter for the very first time, before raising his herb bag to his nose and leaving. “I must go choose a frame that will do it justice.��

"When you are done, torch the place. No-one must ever know what happened here."

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

The scotch swirled in Alfie’s glass, the single ice cube clinked from side to side as it slowly melted. 

“You know ice kills the aroma?�� A gentleman dressed in a vibrant white suit slid through the heaving crowds and sat down beside him. 

“It’s only house scotch.�� Alfie’s eyes never left his glass. “It’s a house scotch kind of day.�� His expression was at odds with the upbeat pop music blasting through the speakers in the cramped Soho bar. 

The man’s eyes widened theatrically. “I see�� and do house scotch days happen often?”��

“Every day, or so it seems, lately.”��

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. If you don’t mind my inquiring, what causes these ‘house scotch�� days? Love, money, or fear?�� He peered at Alfie through the red lenses of a pair of round spectacles. 

Alfie put down his glass and scratched his ear thoughtfully. “Lassitude. Endless waves of lassitude. The medication only makes it worse.”��

The man looked pointedly at the scotch. “I can see that. What is it you are avoiding doing?��

“I’m a writer. Four years now.�� Alfie leaned back, cracking his spine and sniffing. 

“Oh? I meet a lot of writers. Might I have read any of your work?”��

Alfie scoffed. “Fat chance of that. I am still working on my debut.”��

The man frowned. “For four years? What draft are you on?”��

“Chapter six, first draft. The bills are mounting, my savings dwindle, yet I cannot for the life of me find the inspiration to write.�� Alfie gave a grim smile. “So I play computer games instead. I don’t even like the games. It’s a slow, grey death.”��

They sat in silence. Alfie finished his scotch. 

The man sat pensively, his hands steepled together. 

“Anyway,�� Alfie said. “It’s been a pleasure.�� He waved at the barman, who was mixing a mojito. “Thank you!�� The barman waved back. 

The man smiled at him. “I do hope you choose life and find your way. You are, after all, on this earth for such a short time.”��

Alfie snorted. ��We are, don’t you mean? What do you do, by the way? I never asked.”��

The man rose, gathering up a black cane topped with a silver skull. “I talk to people. It has been a pleasure, Alfie. I wish you all the best.�� He slipped through the crowds of people clamouring to get to the bar for a drink. 

Home? Or another drink. 

It was dark outside, but the lights of Soho illuminated the heaving mass of people all preparing for the clubs to open. Seeking a quieter bar, Alfie slipped into what he thought was Frith Street. He looked with confusion at the dead street. It was pitch black. The shops and bars were all boarded up. Alfie glanced back at Old Compton Street, from where the vibrant lights and sounds still spilled out. 

I’ve walked every inch of Soho. How come I’ve never seen this street before? 

Alfie looked down to the end, where it veered to the right. 

That must lead out into Frith Street, or Soho Square. 

The unnerving darkness provided a sense of peace. As dangerous as it felt, Alfie was grateful to escape the crowds, if only for a moment. He strode down the street, sidestepping to avoid an abandoned bottle. 

All these bins and they still drop their rubbish, he thought angrily, though not angrily enough to actually pick up the bottle and put it in a bin. 

The sounds of Old Compton Street were dying away as he approached the turning. He sped up. The novelty of the quietness had worn off and now the silence and the dead stillness only left him with a panicky sense of foreboding. He took a sharp intake of breath and felt a chill run down his spine as he rushed round the corner to find—��

Where the hell am I? 

He saw another dead street stretching out in front of him. The blackness was only broken by the light of the pale sliver of moon above him. He looked for landmarks, the Centrepoint tower, anything, but all he saw was the hollow dregs of a dead city and darkness surrounding him. 

Confused, he backpedalled a step, then spun round as he heard a sound behind him, a clinking, rasping sound. Alfie jumped. It might as well be a clarion bell in this desolate urban wasteland. He looked over his shoulder. Three short figures in hoodies and tracksuits were approaching him from down the street. One of them was dragging a chain along the concrete road. The one in the centre was swinging a baseball bat back and forth. The last of them pulled out a kitchen knife. As the moonlight played over its surface, it glittered menacingly. 

Alfie’s heart pounded in his chest. He strode forwards, trying not to look as though he was panicking. As he moved ever deeper into the derelict cityscape he glanced back. The figures were maintaining their distance but they still followed him with a predatory gait. His breath fogged in the cold night air. There was a loud, metallic bang as the knife-wielding figure leapt with unexpected athleticism onto a large bin, his trainers slamming down onto the heavy lid. He sat, silently, on his haunches, regarding Alfie, his head tilted at an angle. 

That was enough for Alfie. He burst into a sprint. He aimed for the T-junction ahead of him. Soho was tiny. He was bound to emerge into the safety of the crowds soon enough. It didn’t take long for his breath to turn ragged as great gouts of steam erupted from his lungs. Too much time at his desk had reduced his once healthy physique to that of a broken, sedentary creature. Alfie didn’t dare look behind him. He focused on the street ahead. It wasn’t far. He could see his goal. He veered right. He knew he had entered from Old Compton Street so he had to be running parallel to it. 

Coughing and spluttering, he turned the corner, to see... to see more of this urban hellscape stretching forwards. He stumbled onwards, but his energy was spent and despair gripped him. His beleaguered breath tasted of copper. He glanced behind him to see the menacing figures the same distance away, but still moving forwards, approaching him calmly, confident that he would never escape. 

Alfie rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out his wallet, keys, phone, even a used tissue. Everything he had he laid out on the street in front of him. “There, just take it. I don’t want any trouble.”��

The figures continued to approach him with deadly intent and Alfie continued to back away , all the time watching them closely, his hands shaking with fear. 

The central figure casually kicked Alfie’s offering into the kerb as the three thugs maintained their slow and threatening gait. 

Tears pricked Alfie’s eyes. “What the fuck do you want?”��

The figure with the knife mimicked slicing his throat. They were only metres away now. 

There was a clatter behind him as the retreating figure of Alfie managed to kick over an empty bottle in his haste. He spun round and snatched it up, shattering the flat end on the kerb. “Just fuck off,�� he shouted. “Just fuck off. I want to live.�� He advanced towards them as they spread out around him. “I want to live!”��

I want to live…��

A hand rested on his shoulder. Archie jumped in terror, then turned to find himself looking straight into the eyes of the man from the bar. 

He was looking through his spectacles at the figures in front of them. Under his inscrutable gaze, the three hooded forms fell back and melted away into the darkness. “I think you are going to be all right now.�� He gestured with the silver skull on the end of his cane. Alfie’s eyes followed the skull and felt relief wash over him as he saw the brightly lit entrance to Old Compton Street and heard the commotion of the crowds once again. 

How did I miss that? 

“Run along now. You don’t belong here. You never did.”��

Alfie didn’t hesitate. He raced towards the music and the hectic pulse of Soho, immersing himself in the beating heart of the city. He spurned the bars and headed straight for the underground, seeking the safety of home.

His laptop sat in front of him. The blank page that had proved to be such an imposing obstacle to him had gone and the words ‘Chapter Seven�� had appeared. The keyboard clattered as his fingers struggled to keep up with his mind.

Alfie lived.

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider . Available to buy or on . It contains sixteen short stories and novellas of spine chilling terror by Newton Webb.

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

What is this? A new format? Strange, exotic fonts? BRANDING?

Don't panic, I've not boiled my brain. As mentioned in my hundredth newsletter, I have spent some time working on the look and feel of Newt's Nightmares to bring it into the same colour scheme as Tales of the Macabre and my new .

The eagle-eyed might also notice that I've moved my email provider to Klaviyo. This is part of a gradual migration away from Substack towards Shopify and Klaviyo. It's expensive, but it allows me to produce my own books directly, giving me more control over the production and sales aspect. It also lets me create my own discounts and bundles. I've two up at the moment!

$17.58 $21.98

$14.97 $19.96

Right, now that I've shown off my new online store (created using a fantastic direct sales training course from the excellent , I can move on.

I wanted to give better news on my progress, but it's a crypt load of excuses from me this month. I have been writing every day, but I've been picking up and dropping projects with the attention span of a gnat (my least favourite biting creature). I've been packing up my house ready for the move to the suburbs, and it is taking up far more time than I'd expected.

Fish tanks. They are a wonderful way to display the skulls of your enemies but a nightmare to move from one property to another. Gotta do the best for my shrimpies and bronze corydoras, though! The adorable little aquatic fiends...

I've also been renegotiating my mortgages, which require far more paperwork and far more contact with solicitors than I'm comfortable with (and they call me a bloodsucker!)

Anyway, wish me luck! Either I'll start churning out a library's worth of new free stories from the 16th (after I move), or my creative writing will entail yet more detailed excuses.

Your ole' pal,

Newt

Coming up this month, I have some ghoulish treats in store for you with two free audiobooks and a new novella available in eBook and paperback form!

10th April 2024 - The Blood Eagle (Available on Amazon)
When construction workers unwittingly unleash an ancient evil from its crypt, unsuspecting friends Jack and Carla find themselves at the epicentre of a grim battle.

17th April 2024 - The Power Within (Audiobook)
A tale of family, retribution and murderous dachshunds.

24th April 2024 - The Black Shuck (Audiobook)
Confronted by her own demons, Tina embarks on a harrowing journey, navigating through guilt, fear, and the restless spirits of the wronged.

In case you missed them, in March, we released the following:

Toby is haunted his entire life by the spectral appearance of a woman in his reflection, who inches closer with time, threatening his sanity and his soul.

Magic, morality, and marriage intertwine in this dark tale of a magician's rise and fall in the seductive shadows of the Jazz Age.

In the distant future, a freighter captain picks up a most unusual cargo.

: 12 FREE horror stories, including ‘A Chemical Connection��, ‘The Girl in the Glass��, ‘The Croydon Ripper��

: 13 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1��, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2��

by Joseph J Dowling
Snarky English goth Erin arrives at Saratoga High, quickly catching the attention of three arcade-obsessed juniors, but is she really interested in any of them? When they're not busy trying to win Erin's heart, Brandon and Raj jostle for high-scores at the local arcade, owned by creepy outsider Martin's father. When Martin announces a video games tournament with a mind-blowing prize, the rivalry grows even fiercer.

by Jacob Marsh

A scientist's moral foundations are brought to question as he studies the effects of a seemingly supernatural radio. Its signals seem to affect living beings, manipulate them, and drive them to commit unspeakable acts. He knows he can prove the stories are true, but will his methods go too far? Is knowledge worth the sacrifice it requires? Is he even in control anymore?

by Troy Young

Old Montreal, 1928. A mysterious package from Louisiana arrives at the Customs House. Workers start hearing voices, and tensions spill over. Someone decides to open the package... This leads to an investigation, an attempted murder, and the discovery of things better left in the shadows.

 by Mark Tullius

Are you ready to face the ultimate challenge?
In the Try Not to Die series, you'll be taken on a journey through a wide range of genres, from fantasy to suspense, action and adventure, westerns, and ghosts. But no matter the genre, you'll get plenty of horror with over two dozen deaths in each book.

by John Grover
Let’s get ready to crumble��
In a dark future, climate change has ravaged the Earth. But the worst is yet to come. Rising from the depths, clawing beneath the ground, and soaring through the burning skies, a trio of giant monsters emerges with only one thing in mind�� Destruction.

by Sara Ennis

Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil �� or pay the consequences.

Twenty years ago, Stasia King’s 14-year-old sister was abducted, raped and viciously murdered. Now, on the anniversary of her disappearance, another young girl has gone missing, from the same exclusive country club. The cases can’t possibly be connected since the murderer has been dead nearly twenty years �� or can they? Is it coincidence or something more sinister?

by Candace Nola
Have you ever been in love? Truly, madly, deeply?
Only to lose it? Your tether suddenly snapped.
How broken can you become?
And how can you ever hope to piece yourself back together?
This is a love story.

by Joseph J Dowling

Detective Craig Cornell is called to a triple-murder at an isolated house near Exeter, New Hampshire, the latest in a sequence of gruesome deaths which stems back 300 years. A White Oak at the rear of the property may hold the key. According to local legend, a woman was accused of witchcraft and hanged from it.

As the bodies pile up, Cornell is haunted by horrific visions. Is it his past catching up with him, or does the tree really hold an ancient, evil spirit?

by R.A Goli

A bird succubus that comes in a storm; a bed-and-breakfast from Hell; secret histories from before fairy tales and myths; an asylum from beyond your darkest nightmares��

This is a collection not for the squeamish or faint hearted - be prepared to have your spine tingled: this is not a book to be read alone, at night.

by Claudine Marcin

Some creatures are better left to the darkness ��

From the moment he saw his first shade, Jimmy Hobart knew he was different. Special—that’s what his mother called him. He didn’t feel special, carrying a secret he couldn’t share with anyone else. Burdened would be more accurate. But it was his gift that eventually led him to Roni and showed him she was the one. He thought he could trust her with his secret. He thought he could tell her anything �� He wished he had.

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.

2022 �� , Novella

2018 �� , Novella

2017 �� , Novel

2013 �� , Novella

2012 �� , Novella

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.

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider or its sequel .

If you like page-turning frights, haunting revelations, and feeling your blood run cold, then you’ll love Newton Webb’s baleful phantasmagoria.

Sweet screams!

: 37 FREE horror stories, including ‘��, ‘��, ‘��, ‘��

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

Praise for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1
"This book was full of nail-biting moments. The book was full of variety that kept you engaged and wanting to read the next story"
"Newton Webb never disappoints. His debut collection includes most of his best stories, spanning a huge amount of time and going through a great variety of settings. Some are novelettes, others more of a typical short story length, always well written, with a fantastic use of the English language"
"These 16 scary stories are really, really good! My absolute favorites of the bunch were Festival of the Damned and The Heir Apparent (man, what a twist I was NOT expecting!)"
"This was a very enjoyable collection of eerily prophetic stories, full of variety and encompassing a world of demonic entities, cannibalism, ghouls, murder, ancient curses and deviant sex addiction. From folk horror to supernatural sci-fi tales, what more could you wish for? Each story slowly unfolds with a sense of unease and menace, complimented by many unexpected twists and turns. The moral theme of these stories would appear to be, 'be careful of what you wish for'. Highly recommended"

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider or its sequel .

If you like page-turning frights, haunting revelations, and feeling your blood run cold, then you’ll love Newton Webb’s baleful phantasmagoria.

Sweet screams!

: 37 FREE horror stories, including ‘��, ‘��, ‘��, ‘��

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

Praise for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1
"This book was full of nail-biting moments. The book was full of variety that kept you engaged and wanting to read the next story"
"Newton Webb never disappoints. His debut collection includes most of his best stories, spanning a huge amount of time and going through a great variety of settings. Some are novelettes, others more of a typical short story length, always well written, with a fantastic use of the English language"
"These 16 scary stories are really, really good! My absolute favorites of the bunch were Festival of the Damned and The Heir Apparent (man, what a twist I was NOT expecting!)"
"This was a very enjoyable collection of eerily prophetic stories, full of variety and encompassing a world of demonic entities, cannibalism, ghouls, murder, ancient curses and deviant sex addiction. From folk horror to supernatural sci-fi tales, what more could you wish for? Each story slowly unfolds with a sense of unease and menace, complimented by many unexpected twists and turns. The moral theme of these stories would appear to be, 'be careful of what you wish for'. Highly recommended"

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider or its sequel .

If you like page-turning frights, haunting revelations, and feeling your blood run cold, then you’ll love Newton Webb’s baleful phantasmagoria.

Sweet screams!

: 37 FREE horror stories, including ‘��, ‘��, ‘��, ‘��

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

Praise for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1
"This book was full of nail-biting moments. The book was full of variety that kept you engaged and wanting to read the next story"
"Newton Webb never disappoints. His debut collection includes most of his best stories, spanning a huge amount of time and going through a great variety of settings. Some are novelettes, others more of a typical short story length, always well written, with a fantastic use of the English language"
"These 16 scary stories are really, really good! My absolute favorites of the bunch were Festival of the Damned and The Heir Apparent (man, what a twist I was NOT expecting!)"
"This was a very enjoyable collection of eerily prophetic stories, full of variety and encompassing a world of demonic entities, cannibalism, ghouls, murder, ancient curses and deviant sex addiction. From folk horror to supernatural sci-fi tales, what more could you wish for? Each story slowly unfolds with a sense of unease and menace, complimented by many unexpected twists and turns. The moral theme of these stories would appear to be, 'be careful of what you wish for'. Highly recommended"

Greetings, my wicked darlings!

To those concerned about my copy editor, she is as tough as old boots and has recovered. Her eye has now returned to a normal mortal size, and she is back on the job, so expect many more tales coming your way.

But first! One hundred issues of Newt’s Nightmares! Good lord. It seems like only yesterday that I quit my gruelling day job as a Development Team Manager (Gruelling? That’s hardly mining cobalt, is it?) and ventured into writing for the first time. I released my first free short story called 'The Tattoo', on the first of February and had twelve readers (over 4k now) in my newsletter. 'The Tattoo', along with my first novella, also featuring the same killer and titled '', ended up being the first short story in the collected works ''.

To celebrate, '' is currently available for just $0.99.

I also have a series of announcements to make (well, three).

'Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3' has been given a release date! 6 November 2024! Brace yourselves for a smorgasbord of blood-curdling tales. Not only is it the latest and most terrifying instalment, but it represents the concluding part of 'Tales of the Macabre' (until the bank calls and tells me to write the next trilogy).

'Tales of the Macabre', the BIG BOOK. An ominous omnibus, an anthology containing ALL the stories from all three volumes of 'Tales of the Macabre'. That’s nearly a thousand pages of spine-chilling night terrors to plague your dreams, all in chronological order. Travel through the complete history of the Newtverse. To accompany, there will be an appendix (also available on the website) which will give more information on the locations, characters, and inspirations for the stories.

The new website. I have created a new store which will allow me to sell directly in conjunction with Amazon. This means I can sell a larger variety of products, including paperback novellas in the classic pocketbook size, for which I have a guilty pleasure. I can also sell bookmarks and signed books. This is coming soon - I just have to make sure the print quality of the books is up to scratch.

And a little extra one - so make that three and a bit announcements. I have a ! The audio quality is awful, but the stories sort of, hopefully, maybe make up for that.

Your ole�� pal, Newt.

New Releases

Free Horror Stories

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Coming up this month, I have some ghoulish treats in store for you with three free audiobooks!

13th March 2024 - The Girl in the Glass (Audiobook)
Toby is haunted his entire life by the spectral appearance of a woman in his reflection, who inches closer with time, threatening his sanity and his soul.

16th February 2024 - Darius the Dazzler (Audiobook)
Magic, morality, and marriage intertwine in this dark tale of a magician's rise and fall in the seductive shadows of the Jazz Age.

23rd February 2024 - The Illusive Passenger (Audiobook)
In the distant future, a freighter captain picks up a most unusual cargo.

In case you missed them, in January, we released the following:

Giovanni strives to save his wife's soul from Hell by any means necessary.

When construction workers unwittingly unleash an ancient evil from its crypt, unsuspecting friends Jack and Carla find themselves at the epicentre of a grim battle.

In 15th-century Scotland, a land enshrouded in mystery and drenched in blood-soaked legends, Duncan's life is irrevocably altered by a sinister encounter.

: 37 FREE horror stories, including ‘��, ‘��, ‘��, ‘��

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

, by Mark Tullius, FREE download.

With these sories you will find yourself:

An overweight father ignored by his family.

A gang member breaking into a neighborhood church.

A cameraman who finds himself in a hopeless situation.

An aging author who’s paying the price for a reckless past, doing all he can to repair his brain.

These shocking stories will leave you wanting more.

, by R.A. Goli, FREE to download.

With the help of her editor, journalist Emily Thatcher commits herself to the Shady Glen Asylum to investigate rumours of the staff mistreating patients.

Crude treatments, patients being beaten or being tied to beds, others ignored and left to wear soiled clothing, all pale in comparison to the unnatural things Emily witnesses during the nights at Shady Glen Hospital for the Insane.

, by Joseph J Dowling, FREE download.

Mud. It got everywhere. Clung to their possessions and sneaked into places Suzie never realized mud could reach. She remembered a time when she’d thought sand was a pain in the ass, but never again in her miserable existence would she complain about a little beach-crotch. It’d been so different when they’d arrived on the godforsaken plot, full of excitement and hope, long before the earth spat out those old bones. It seemed like yesterday and forever ago.

, by Susan Draper, FREE sample.

A collection of frightening tales that take place in the past, present, and future. From the depths of hell to the unknown threats of the universe, to human atrocities, these stories will scare you. Keep the lights on and lock the damn doors.

, by R W Duder, FREE download.

“It’s only a dream. It’s not real.��

But is that true? Mentors Rob and Damien aren’t so sure anymore. When they take six aspiring writers to Veritas Mountain for a writer’s retreat, their foundations of reality are shaken. After all, it’s not their fault the visitors have such creative dreams�� or is it? Veritas Mountain has a secret, it’s a place where imagination becomes reality, but what happens when you imagine horrors as a profession?

, by Joseph J Dowling, available to purchase.

A captivating and adrenaline-fueled cross-country thriller!

Welcome to a gritty, dystopian future with plummeting birth rates and a fractured United Kingdom. In response, the corrupt government has mandated that all young women must submit to fertility checks at the age of thirteen. For those found able to conceive, a cruel and servile existence inside the government’s birthing schools beckons. An even worse fate awaits if the rich and powerful get them first.

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.

2022 �� , Novella

2018 �� , Novella

2017 �� , Novel

2013 �� , Novella

2012 �� , Novella

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.

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider or its sequel .

If you like page-turning frights, haunting revelations, and feeling your blood run cold, then you’ll love Newton Webb’s baleful phantasmagoria.

Sweet screams!

: 58 FREE horror stories, including ‘��, ‘��, ‘��, ‘��, ‘��

: 63 horror stories, including ‘��, ‘��

: 55 horror stories, including ‘��, ‘��

Praise for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1
"This book was full of nail-biting moments. The book was full of variety that kept you engaged and wanting to read the next story"
"Newton Webb never disappoints. His debut collection includes most of his best stories, spanning a huge amount of time and going through a great variety of settings. Some are novelettes, others more of a typical short story length, always well written, with a fantastic use of the English language"
"These 16 scary stories are really, really good! My absolute favorites of the bunch were Festival of the Damned and The Heir Apparent (man, what a twist I was NOT expecting!)"
"This was a very enjoyable collection of eerily prophetic stories, full of variety and encompassing a world of demonic entities, cannibalism, ghouls, murder, ancient curses and deviant sex addiction. From folk horror to supernatural sci-fi tales, what more could you wish for? Each story slowly unfolds with a sense of unease and menace, complimented by many unexpected twists and turns. The moral theme of these stories would appear to be, 'be careful of what you wish for'. Highly recommended"