Newton Webb's Blog, page 2
September 23, 2025
Four FREE Horror eBooks
Greetings, my wicked darlings,
It’s been a packed month with editing, formatting, and all kinds of sinful, decadent delights. As part of the reformatting of the older books, we are offering free eBooks for mailing list subscribers.
FREE eBooks
Review Reader Opportunity (TotM 1)
Horror Story Compilations
Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4 Pre-Order
FREE eBooksAt the back of each book in The Macabre Codex, I am offering a free eBook to every reader who joins my mailing list. However, thinking about it, this means that existing members might not see the new offer, especially if they have the previous editions of TotM 1-3. Well, I can’t penalise my loyal readers, can I? You mischievous pixies have kept me fed, clothed and writing during these bleak times when prices are rocketing.
So my dears, here are the free eBooks, offered in the back of ALL four books in The Macabre Codex.
The Blighted Child
Orphaned as a baby, Minnie’s search for her roots takes a sinister turn when she discovers that some secrets are best left buried.
Found lingering at the back of Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1.
Love. Sex. Death.
When Simon and Lucy arrive in Grimsdyke for a summer of carefree living, they find themselves drawn into a mysterious beach party promising free alcohol and dancing, but delivering a nightmarish transformation.
Hiding in the back of Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2.
Waves of Madness
When Viking raiders descend upon a remote monastery in Wales, they uncover a religion far older, and far more terrifying, than Christianity.
As expected, this story will posture at the back of Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3.
What Came Down
Ernie's peaceful night shift is shattered when he guides a passenger plane through a terrifying encounter with an impossible, unseen craft.
Landed in the back of Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.
Review Reader OpportunityI’ve teamed up with BookSprout to offer review copies of Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1 if anyone is looking for a complimentary eBook.
Horror Story CompilationsThe Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza!: 81 FREE horror stories, including ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Wild Hunt’.
September Screams: 35 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Dead Man's Trousers’, ‘The Silvergate Initiative’, ‘What Came Down’ and ‘Justice is Unlimited’.
Sales from the Pit: 24 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4 Pre-Order
Available in eBook and Paperback, hardback coming soon.
Sweet screams, my dears!
Newt xx
September 9, 2025
$0.99 Pre-Order: Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4
“Shush now. You promised not to beg.”
For a preview of The Scream, featured in Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4, you can read it HERE:
IncludingThe Spinster
Invasion of the Hipster Beards
The Dead Man's Trousers
Gomorrah
Dark Waters
The Braemoor Incident
The Wild Hunt
Deus Vult
Strings Attached
Soulmates
One More Turn
The Hunger
The Scream
Of Politeness and Protocol
The Silvergate Initiative
Which story was your favourite? Let me know in the comments!
Perfect for readers of Stephen King, Clive Barker, Blair Daniels, Duncan Ralston, and James Herbert.
Available in eBook. Paperback and hardback coming soon.
Humble PieFolks, I remember saying that book three was going to be the final chapter in the internationally bestselling horror anthology series The Macabre Codex. Sadly, a week after I had written that email, I had already written the first two stories that ended up in Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.
“Is Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4 the last in the series? Don’t lie to me again, Newt, I’ve been hurt before.”
Yes, yes it is. I have already had the cover designed for the collected works, Tales of the Macabre, so if I betray everyone and write a book five, I will have to redesign the cover.
Does this mean I am going to stop writing short stories and become a novelist?
No…
Well, ish.
I cannot stop writing short stories. I am hooked on the medium. Giving up alcohol in Dry Jan is far easier than stopping writing short stories. However, I do want to write more novels. Writing Nestor Lynch was a ton of fun, and I would like to try that again.
I would also like to join a few anthologies by other authors. I fancy joining the submission mill and seeing how that goes. It would be an absolute ball to collaborate with others in the community.
Failing that… well now, I will just start a new series of anthologies.
September 2, 2025
Newt's Nightmares🦎#113
Newt's Nightmares
Greetings, my wicked darlings!
I’m sleep deprived and heavily caffeinated, but ecstatic.
Last month I published four short stories, albeit very short, some almost flash fiction. Having completed all the stories that I needed for TotM v4, I allowed myself to enter my ‘experimental’ or just ‘mental’ phase and write some of the more bizarre stories that I had wanted to write, but had held off on over the year. I thought they were too risky to write with a deadline approaching.
However, I should have had more faith. The Dead Man’s Trousers and The Silvercare Initiative have done really well and have been included in TotM v4.
What Came Down - A Contemporary Cosmic Horror Short Story: Ernie's peaceful night shift is shattered when he guides a passenger plane through a terrifying encounter with an impossible, unseen craft.
The Dead Man's Trousers - A Contemporary Comedy Horror Short Story: When Jeremy throws away a deceased academic's ghastly trousers, he unleashes a sartorial nightmare that will stop at nothing to make him its next victim.
Justice is Unleaded - A Contemporary Supernatural Horror Short Story: Jim's crusade to bring justice to the open road turns into a fight for his life when a mysterious car hunts him with impossible speed.
The Silvergate Initiative - A Futuristic Psychological Horror Short Story: When Grampy is sent to an elite care home for “citizens of note,” Laurie discovers the residents have a far more sinister role to play.
I’ve also had the pleasure (as of yesterday) of reading through and copy editing the first cut of this beast:
Ordinarily, I aim for two short stories / novellas a month. The last two months were absolutely mental, if enjoyable. So we’ll be back on the usual schedule while I work on editing. It’ll also give me the opportunity to work on the audiobook versions of my short stories for release. Ideally, I’d love to do a full audiobook for TotM 1 and release it on Audible.
A few shoutouts from some of the many horror fiction Substacks I follow:
AE Deakin released the free short story ‘Plastic Treaty’.
A.J Burton released the free short story ‘Party for Three’ and ‘Wrath of the Sidhe, Part 2’. If you missed Part 1, it is HERE.
Sweet Screams,
Newt
Thanks for reading Newton’s Tales of the Macabre! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
Horror Story CompilationsThe Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza!: 81 FREE horror stories, including ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Wild Hunt’.
September Screams: 35 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Dead Man's Trousers’, ‘The Silvergate Initiative’, ‘What Came Down’ and ‘Justice is Unlimited’.
Sales from the Pit: 24 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
What I’ve Been Reading:I read eight books in August. My top three being (yes, they are all by Ash Ericmore). They are all $0.99 or FREE if you have Kindle Unlimited:
Pride by Ash Ericmore: A tiger mum goes to ever-increasing lengths to help her son get the recognition he needs at school.
Gluttony by Ash: A tasty little comedy horror novella. This warns of the dangers of not having a plan B if you lose the keys to your murder and / or sex dungeon, something that I find highly relevant in today’s society.
Lust by… you can probably guess by now: It’s ladies’ night, and these ladies have an insatiable thirst.
What I’ve Been Watching:I watched sixteen horror movies. The top three being:
Who I’ve Been Chatting To:My guest in this episode is Mary Averling. Her debut, The Curse of Eelgrass Bog, was a Bram Stoker Award Finalist, a Junior Library Gold Standard Selection, an ALA Rainbow List Pick, and one of BookPage's Top 10 Books of 2024.
My guest in this episode is Eden Royce is a writer from Charleston, SC, now living in the garden of England. Her debut novel, Root Magic, was a Walter Dean Myers Award Honoree, an ALA Notable Children's Book, a Mythopoeic Fantasy Award winner, and a Nebula Award Finalist for outstanding children's literature. She is also a Shirley Jackson Award finalist for her short fiction for adults.
Tales of the Macabre
You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.
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 Kindle Unlimited
Available to order on AMAZON.
Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.
Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.
August 27, 2025
What Came Down by Newton Webb
Contents:
Horror Compilations
What Came Down
Horror Story Compilations
Summer Screams: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘The Blighted Child’ and ‘Gomorrah’
Screams for Sale: 71 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
Free Horror Stories: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’
The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza: 44 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’ and ‘The Blighted Child’
What Came Down[Instead of a short story, I rather suspect this might do better as a cold open for a novella. What do you think my dears?]
Newton Webb
2018, Exeter Airport.
The last dregs of Ernie Moss’s tea had gone cold in his mug, leaving a brown tannin stain at the bottom. It was 01:28, the deadest hour of the deadest shift. Outside the panoramic glass of the control tower, the airfield was illuminated by the dim green lights of the runway. Ernie basked in the familiar sounds of his office, the gentle hum of the radar console, and the occasional rustle of his bag of cheese and onion crisps. Between snacks, he tapped at his phone, playing Clash of Clans, watching as a tiny, animated barbarian smashed a wall with pointless enthusiasm.
Another thirty minutes and I can have the pork pie.
The pork pie was the high point of his night.
A sharp crackle from the speakers pulled him away from his game. He was losing anyway. "Control, this is Bravo Charlie Seven Three Niner."
Ernie straightened his back, the worn chair squeaking. He tapped the console, bringing the channel into focus. "Bravo Charlie Seven Three Niner, I read you loud and clear. Go ahead."
"We’re on final approach, Control. Bit of a headwind slowed us down. Requesting clearance to land."
He recognised the voice. It belonged to Jasper Barrett. Both Ernie and Jasper preferred the night shifts. Flight BC739 was an Embraer 145 jet inbound from Aberdeen, a regular passenger flight.
"BC739, you are clear to land on runway two-six. The wind is negligible from the west."
Ernie watched the flight’s icon, a small green cross, crawl across his primary screen. Suddenly, the transmission cut out with a jarring hiss of static. A second later, Jasper was back on the line.
"Control, I’m showing another aircraft on my scope. Extremely close proximity. Do you have confirmation of this traffic?"
Ernie’s fingers, which had been loosely tapping the desk, now tightened on his mouse. His own screen showed nothing but BC739 and the faint, ghostly outlines of the landscape below. "Negative, Seven Three Niner. Our radar is clear. You are the only traffic in the controlled airspace."
He ran a quick diagnostic on his own system. All green. No errors.
"Well, I’ve got something here," Jasper insisted. "Could be a small prop plane. No transponder. He’s running completely dark."
A prop plane? At this time of night?
Ernie felt a flicker of professional irritation. "Sounds like a radar ghost, Jasper. Atmospheric conditions can sometimes throw up false returns on aircraft systems. Can you confirm a visual?"
Ernie leaned forward, his face close to the cool glass of the tower, and peered through binoculars into the vast, starless blanket of low cloud. He scanned the sky, a monotonous canvas of deep grey and black. He caught the rhythmic blink of BC739’s lights before they were swallowed whole by a cloud bank.
"Negative visual, the cloud base is too low. But this is no ghost, Control. It’s solid." There was a new edge sharpening Jasper’s voice, a thread of anger that felt out of place. "Could be Russian. You know, one of their little games, probing the airspace with a drone to see how we react."
No mate.
Ernie shook his head but kept his tone professional. "My screens are clear, BC739. If it were a prop plane at that altitude, I would be seeing it. But for safety’s sake, I advise you to alter your course by five degrees to starboard to maintain a safe separation."
There was a pause.
Jasper’s voice came through sounding strained. "Altering course. I’m telling you, Control, it’s there."
The silence that followed stretched for less than a minute, but Ernie still tapped the desk nervously. His eyes were fixed on the radar.
Jasper’s voice returned, sounding scared. "Control, it’s matching me. Every move I make, it mirrors instantly. It’s closing the distance."
"Seven Three Niner, maintain your new course." Ernie’s heart beat faster. He forced his voice to remain calm. "I am still showing nothing on my scope."
What the hell is he seeing out there?
"It’s impossible." Jasper’s voice was ragged now. "This thing is moving too fast. It turns on a dime. A prop plane can’t do that. No plane can do that." The panic was escalating into pure terror. "He’s coming right for us. We are going to collide!"
A cold spike of adrenaline shot through Ernie’s chest. It didn’t matter what he saw on the scopes. Procedure dictated his next action. He reached for the direct connection to the Area Control Centre.
"Stand by, Seven Three Niner. I am escalating this to Area Control."
As the phone connected, Jasper spoke through the radio, his voice infused with wonder.
"The sound, it’s so beautiful."
What?
Ernie froze, holding the handset away from his ear. "Jasper? Report your situation."
"Listen," Jasper whispered in awe. "It’s like whale song. So peaceful."
He’s hypoxic. The pressure has dropped. He’s hallucinating.
"Jasper, listen to me. You are in danger. You need to focus."
The connection died. At the same instant, the green cross representing BC739 vanished from his radar screen.
"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday," Ernie returned to his headset, his voice croaking from strain. "Area Control, this is Westfield Tower. I have an emergency. Flight Bravo Charlie Seven Three Niner has disappeared from my radar and is not responding to hails. Last known position was ten miles from the threshold on final approach. I believe the aircraft may be down."
Area Control Centre immediately replied. "Westfield, confirm. You are declaring an emergency for BC739?"
"Affirmative. The aircraft vanished from my scope mid-transmission. The pilot reported an unidentified aircraft on a collision course moments before we lost contact."
Ernie’s hands were shaking. He relayed the scant details, the impossible speed of the supposed prop plane, and Jasper’s final words.
The voice from Area Control was sceptical. "Westfield, we have nothing on our scopes either. No primary returns, no military traffic. Are you sure your system hasn’t malfunctioned?"
"My system is showing all green," Ernie insisted, his eyes scanning the empty screen. "The plane is gone."
As he spoke, the green cross representing BC739 blinked back into existence on his radar. It was in the same position it had occupied the second before it disappeared. It was as if nothing had happened, as if the plane had remained stationary, hung in the same position for nearly three minutes.
His radio crackled to life. "Control, this is BC739." Jasper Barrett sounded calm, as if nothing had happened. "We had a momentary communication issue. Are we still clear to land?"
Ernie stared at the screen, then back at the radio. The terror in Jasper’s voice, the serene calm that had replaced it. The vanishing, the reappearance. He scowled. "Jasper, is this a practical joke?"
The voice from Area Control sounded frustrated. "Westfield, we are showing BC739 on approach. Is your radar malfunctioning, Ernie?"
"No, I… it’s back." Ernie stammered, feeling like a fool. "It just reappeared."
"Please confirm. You are no longer declaring an emergency?"
"No, I don’t think…" He clenched his hand around the phone. "I’ll call back if needed."
Ernie took a deep breath. He would have words with Jasper. "BC739, you are clear to land on runway two-six. Report when you have visual."
"Wilco, Control."
The rest of the landing was flawless. Textbook. Fifteen minutes later, the landing lights of the Embraer jet sliced through the darkness. It touched down perfectly, rolled smoothly down the runway, and came to a stop at the designated holding point.
The ground crew, illuminated by the floodlights, waited with their marshalling wands held loosely at their sides. Minutes passed. The doors didn’t open. The aircraft remained on the runway, a dark and silent shape.
Ernie keyed the mic. "Ground crew, stand by. Let’s give them a minute."
He watched through his binoculars, a growing sense of unease creeping over him. This was not normal. He picked up the radio. "Everything okay, Jasper?"
"Everything is proceeding as planned, Ernie." It crackled back.
Finally, the main cabin door swung open. The stairs extended. Ernie kept the binoculars trained on the door, expecting the usual chaotic trickle of passengers fumbling with bags, stretching their legs.
Instead, the passengers disembarked in perfect synchronised order. They emerged one by one, in single file. Men, women, children, all moving with the fluid, unnerving precision of a military drill. There was no chatter or confusion. No one looked around at the airfield. No one paused to put on a coat. Not even the kids. They simply walked, gazes fixed straight ahead, and filed towards the waiting terminal building.
As the last of the silent passengers vanished into the terminal, the secure line on Ernie’s console rang. He lifted the receiver.
"Ernie Moss?" The voice was crisp.
"Yes."
"I am calling from the Ministry of Defence. Your watch manager will contact you soon to relieve you of your duties for the rest of your shift, Mr Moss. A replacement is on his way and will be with you in twenty minutes."
Ernie’s mind raced. "Relieved? I have to file an incident report."
"There was no incident, Mr Moss." The voice cut him off. "There was an unscheduled classified training exercise. We are bringing you in for a debriefing."
Ernie stared out of the window at the empty runway, at the passenger jet sitting silent and dark under the lights. Jasper had been genuinely terrified. He knew the man. He thought of the eerie, silent procession of passengers.
"A training exercise?" Ernie was unconvinced.
"It is not to be entered into the official logs. You will make no incident report. You will not discuss the events of this evening with your colleagues, your superiors, or anyone else. Your watch manager will be informed that you participated in a training drill, they don’t need to know any further details. Do you understand me, Mr Moss?"
Ernie felt a deep suspicion in his gut.
"Yes," Ernie lied. "I understand."
"Good. Your replacement will see you out. Have a quiet night."
The line went dead. Ernie slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. He looked out at the airfield, now still. Reaching out for his pork pie, he leaned back in his chair.
That was no exercise.
THE END
If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.
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 Kindle Unlimited
Available to order on AMAZON.
Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.
August 22, 2025
The Dead Man's Trousers by Newton Webb
Contents:
Horror Compilations
The Dead Man’s Trousers
Horror Story Compilations
Summer Screams: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘The Blighted Child’ and ‘Gomorrah’
Screams for Sale: 71 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
Free Horror Stories: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’
The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza: 44 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’ and ‘The Blighted Child’
The Dead Man’s Trousersby Newton Webb
Jeremy Deakin stood in the damp August heat trying to dislodge a wholegrain from his teeth. He’d had a perfect journey from London. A quiet First Class carriage, a pre-packaged M&S sandwich, a Scotch egg, a bottle of ale, and a pre-booked taxi that had been waiting on his arrival. Jeremy believed that a life well ordered was a life well lived. As a freelance archivist, order was of paramount importance to him in both his profession and home life.
Jeremy had always loved Oxford. It was his spiritual home. Whether he was wandering the botanical gardens, reading in the Bodleian, or having a cup of Ceylon tea while listening to the distant chime of a college clock, it was bliss. Moving to London was important for work, but he cherished the contracts he received allowing him to return. His last contract had been in the ghastly city of Leeds, so this one had been a much welcomed treat.
As he stood outside the narrow Jericho townhouse, owned by the late Dr Terrance Brown, he could hear the rumble of a delivery lorry on Walton Street, the cheerful babble of tourists navigating with their cursed phones. A cyclist whizzed past, turning at the junction and causing a car to blast its horn.
Maybe not everything in Oxford is flawless.
A heavy-set woman with a floral pinny and a low set brow let him in. “I’m Mrs Marchmont,” she announced, handing him a set of keys. “Housekeeper. I’ve aired the place as best I can. He wasn’t one for open windows, Dr Brown.”
“Thank you, Mrs Marchmont. I’m sure it will be perfectly adequate.”
“The study’s through there. Bedroom’s the first on the left upstairs. I’ll be in Friday to do a bit of a clean, but I don’t do the study. He never liked me touching his papers.” Her eyes drifted up the narrow staircase. “He was a very particular man, Mr Brown, especially towards the end, if you don’t mind me saying. Kept to himself. You’ll be alright on your own?”
“I prefer it,” Jeremy said with a polite but dismissive smile.
“Very well, I’ve put a sandwich platter in the fridge for you from Taylor’s. The university has an account with them.”
“Oh, thank you. I was planning a trip into town, but this will save me some time.”
“If that is all?”
Jeremy smiled awkwardly at her. “Ah yes, thank you again.”
Mrs Marchmont nodded politely and saw herself out. The solid clunk of the front door echoed in the hall. The house smelled of musty books, stale tobacco, and something else. Something vaguely earthy and fibrous. He wrinkled his nose.
Mould? I hope not.
Jeremy set his leather briefcase down on a dust-sheeted armchair.
His current commission was to assess Brown’s academic papers. The late doctor of anthropology had, according to the solicitor’s brief, left behind a lifetime of material, a potential treasure trove for his old college. Jeremy’s job was to catalogue them, to sort the publishable from the personal, the priceless from the worthless. He was to stay in the house until the job was done and then present the college with a valuation.
Making himself a fresh pot of tea, he started walking up the stairs when he was confronted with the most awful sight. A pair of brown corduroy trousers, lying on the landing. His mission derailed by this sartorial faux pas, he put down his pot of tea and picked up the offending garment, taking them outside and stowing them in the black bin.
Equilibrium restored, he picked up his pot and returned to work.
The study represented the very embodiment of a life of intellectual pursuit and personal neglect. Books were double stacked on the shelves, an abhorrent habit for any intellectual.
Jeremy already knew that he and Mr Brown would not have got on. He stacked his excess books in precarious towers on the floor. Boxes of notes, newspaper clippings, and journals covered every available surface.
He clapped his hands together with gleeful anticipation.
Time to bring order to this chaos.
He spent the rest of the afternoon conducting a preliminary survey, making notes on his laptop. By ten o’clock, his back ached and his eyes were gritty from the dust. He made himself a cup of Earl Grey and a ham, mayonnaise, and rocket sandwich in the small, dated avocado green kitchen, and picked out from his briefcase a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and decided to turn in.
The house was dark, the only light coming in from the streetlamp outside, filtering weakly through the grotty sash window on the landing. As Jeremy climbed the creaking stairs, he heard it.
Whish-whish.
A soft, rhythmic, rubbing sound from the room at the end of the hall.
He froze, one hand on the banister. He looked around for a curtain brushing against a wall in a draught, but the air was still.
Whish-whish. Whish-whish.
He could hear the footsteps now. A gentle padding sound of shoes on carpet. He recognised the original sound with a shudder. It was the dreadful sound of corduroy trouser legs brushing against each other.
“I say, Mrs Marchmont, is that you?”
The noises stopped. He trotted back down the stairs and found no evidence of an intruder. Dismissing the sounds as the consequences of an idle imagination, he trotted up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
He undressed, folding his linen trousers with precision over the back of a chair, and slipped into bed.
The next day, after a breakfast of granary toast, marmalade, and lashings of Earl Grey tea, Jeremy threw himself into his work, making the most of the bright morning light. He cleared the large mahogany desk, establishing it as his base of operations, and began on the first box. It was tedious but fulfilling work, mostly lecture notes and receipts for academic journals. He worked for hours, fuelled by hot tea.
Late in the afternoon, as he went to the kitchen to refill his mug, he found that someone had retrieved the pair of corduroy trousers from the bin and draped them over one of the kitchen stools.
Mrs Marchmont must have let herself in while I was working.
He picked up the trousers, holding them at a distance. They were made of a thick, wide-wale corduroy in a shade of brown reminiscent of dried mud or a particularly nasty fungal growth. They could have been brand new, or barely worn. He imagined the late academic shuffling around in them. The image was not pleasant. Jeremy disliked the man even more now.
Nobody succeeds in life wearing corduroy.
This time he bagged them in a black bin bag, tying it securely before throwing them away.
He washed his hands thoroughly before returning to the study.
#
That night, the sound returned.
Whish-whish. Whish-whish.
From just outside the bedroom door. He lay rigid in the dark, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
There is someone in the house with me.
He leapt out of bed, first grabbing volume two of the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary as a weapon, then, concerned he might damage it, he swapped it for the considerably more disposable Merriam-Webster. Opening the door, he peered up and down the corridor, seeing nobody.
The sound stopped.
Not trusting his ears, and with his blood up, Jeremy patrolled the house, confirming the doors and windows were secure before returning to his room.
This time, sleep was a long time coming.
In the morning, he woke exhausted. He stumbled towards the stairs in search of a stiff tea, only to stop dead in his tracks.
On the floor, directly in front of the study door, lay the cursed brown corduroy trousers. Dumped, not even folded. It was as if their owner had just stepped out of them.
Jeremy stared. Mrs Marchmont. It had to be. She was terrorising him for some unknown and malignant reason.
There was no other rational explanation for this. He had been alone in the house all night. The doors were locked. It had to be someone with a key, who let themselves in, committed an act of trouser related terrorism, and then fled before he could do them in with a dictionary.
He kicked the trousers to one side and, with great effort, ignored them. He spent the entire day in the study, only emerging for tea and to fetch himself a beef, horseradish, and rocket sandwich. He kept the door ajar, telling himself it was for air circulation, but really it was so he could keep an eye on them.
They did not move.
His work that day was more frantic and less focused as he battled lack of sleep.
Late in the afternoon, he found a small locked box, of a modern, cheap design, made of dark wood at the bottom of a crate of papers labelled ‘Personal’. Scratching around the lock showed that at one time, it had been well used. The key now, however, was predictably not with it. Jeremy took a letter opener from the desk and jimmied the cheap tin padlock. It snapped and fell off the hasp.
Inside he found Dr Brown’s daily diary. A faux leather volume that looked like it had been picked up from a stationery shop, it was this year's edition.
Jeremy skimmed through the entries. They chronicled Mr Brown’s last year as a lecturer. He was delighted to read some of Dr. Brown’s academic work on orchids, he had always enjoyed orchids. Bee Orchids in particular. However, he was dismayed to read that the professor had increasingly been distracted by a student called Emily. He flicked through the entries when she entered the scene. The early ones were passionate, filled with romantic and over the top declarations, before the tone abruptly shifted.
[3rd August. The Head of Department called me into his office. He has found out about my indiscretion with a student. I assured him that it was a regrettable lapse in professional judgement on my part. Calling Emily into my office, I told her it was over. I told her that we have nothing in common beyond a fleeting physical curiosity. She turned hysterical and wept. Wept! I offered her my hankie and ushered her out. I wish I’d never taken her to that restaurant.]
Jeremy felt a pang of sympathy for Emily. Though how either of them could see it ending any other way was beyond him. He picked up the diary again and flipped to the last few entries.
[4th August. Emily publicly confronted me during a lecture. I of course denied it, pointed out the sheer ludicrousness of implying I would ever date someone who wore corduroy. The class erupted into laughter. She stormed out and I’m certain that’ll be the end of it. Sometimes you just have to rip off the band-aid.]
The final entry was dated 6th August, just two weeks ago.
[The police came round. Emily is dead. Suspected suicide.]
Jeremy closed the diary with a snap. He walked to the study door and looked once more at the brown corduroy trousers. He shivered.
Two weeks ago… Mr Brown must have died soon after.
The doorbell rang.
Jeremy marched down to see Mrs Marchmont outside.
"Hello, Mr Deakin, I thought I’d drop by to see if you needed anything."
He glared at her.
"Everything is absolutely not alright, Mrs Marchmont. Somebody has been coming in here while I rest and dumping trousers, and I suspect you know something about it."
She started. "Dumping trousers?"
"Yes, yes. At night I heard someone walking about and then these." He turned, raced up the stairs, and grabbed the trousers. His flesh crawled as he touched the horrible fabric. "These trousers are deposited around the house. I don’t know what your game is, but I won’t have it."
Her face blanched.
"I’ve washed Mr Brown’s clothes for over ten years, but I only saw those trousers once."
Jeremy had the sudden feeling that his week, which he was fairly certain had already hit its nadir, was about to get worse.
"He was wearing them when I found his body." Mrs Marchmont crossed herself.
"I beg your pardon." Jeremy’s face was pale.
"Mr Brown was found dead, strangled in his study."
"This is a crime scene?" Jeremy leant against the doorway, feeling faint.
Mrs Marchmont reached out towards him, causing him to flinch back. "Not anymore. Forensics have finished."
"Well, that is a relief." Jeremy crossed his arms. "So if it isn’t you, who else has a key?"
"Nobody else has a key, Mr Deakin. Perhaps you would be safer staying in a hotel?"
"I am an Englishman, Mrs Marchmont. I will not be deterred by some ghoulish prankster."
"Well, I can recommend some places," she began.
Jeremy shook his head. "No. Thank you very much, Mrs Marchmont. If I hear anything I will immediately call the police." He gave her a stern look, a few lingering suspicions warranting the additional warning.
She sniffed. "Right you are, Mr Deakin." Reaching into her handbag, she took out a Tesco receipt and wrote her number on the back. "Call me if you need anything."
As night fell, Jeremy barricaded the study door with a heavy leather armchair. He left the desk lamp on, a small pool of light as he worked through the remaining documents. The gentle glow from the street lamps outside filtered through the open curtains.
If I work through the night I can leave this godforsaken place in the morning.
Once more, it began just after midnight.
Whish-whish. Whish-whish.
It came from the hall.
Right.
He pulled out his phone. His earlier determination collapsed as he looked at the screen. No signal.
Whish-whish. Whish-whish.
He screwed his eyes shut.
Go away. Leave me alone.
It was right outside the door this time, even louder than before. Picking up a large black iron candlestick, he poised himself, taking up his best interpretation of a defensive stance.
The doorknob began to rattle. Slowly at first, then violently. The heavy oak door shook in its frame.
Jeremy backed away, his heart hammering.
This isn’t my imagination. Someone is here.
He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the door as he regained control.
Enough’s enough.
He kicked aside the chair and pulled the door open. Holding his candlestick high, he shouted a savage war cry that died in his throat.
Nobody.
Behind him, the desk lamp flickered, stabilised, and then the bulb gave out with a ping. He jumped, nearly dropping his improvised weapon. The room was plunged into near darkness.
The whish-whish sound came from behind. He spun around, swinging his candlestick. Nothing in the dim light of the street lamps outside.
His eyes widened as he saw in the corner of the study the corduroy trousers lying on his chair. He looked at the windows. Locked. The door. Closed.
Jeremy scrambled backwards, tripping over a stack of books and landing hard on the floor. He scuttled away until his back pressed against the bookshelves.
"Where are you? What do you want?" He clutched the candlestick close to his chest.
He felt the soft pop of a button. Then another. Glancing down, he recoiled at the sight of the corduroy trousers. They were moving as if alive, sliding up across his chest, slithering over his white cotton shirt like twin snakes.
He screamed, throwing aside the candlestick.
He tried to rip them off, but one leg coiled tight around his wrist. The pressure was ferocious. He tried to pull his wrist free with his other hand, but the spare leg whipped up and wrapped around his neck. It constricted with every exhale. His flesh burned a deep red as he fought for air, blood pounding in his head. His vision blurred. His beautifully tailored charcoal wool trousers began to loosen.
His belt was being unbuckled.
His zip slid down with a horrifying rasp.
He kicked out in desperation, his shoes connecting with nothing but air.
He felt himself being raised in the air. The last thing he saw was his wrist being released and curling round the light fitting, hoisting him up.
Jeremy scrabbled with the last of his energy at the hateful cloth around his neck.
Blackness enveloped him.
30th August 2025. Oxford, John Radcliffe Hospital MortuaryAt the centre of the room, on a gleaming steel table illuminated by the harsh blue white of fluorescent lights, lay the body of Jeremy Deakin. The air, scrubbed clean by industrial ventilators, reeked with the strong scent of disinfectant.
Aaron rubbed his sizable paunch, standing over the body. His hands were deceptively nimble for their large size.
"Right then," Aaron glanced at his assistant, turning to the room’s microphone. "Saturday, 30th August, 2025. Forensic pathologist Aaron Wilson and Anatomical Pathology Technologist Sebastion Banks present at John Radcliffe Hospital. Subject is Jeremy Deakin. Age forty-two. Found in Oxford this morning by the housekeeper. Police report suggests a struggle, but no sign of forced entry."
Sebastian, a slight man, nodded as he stood ready with his implements.
Let us see what Mr Deakin has to tell us.
He began his external examination, his large fingers probing gently, his eyes missing nothing. "No obvious signs of trauma to the head or torso. Fingernails are intact, clean. Some minor abrasions to the wrists and shins, consistent with a struggle or a fall." His gaze travelled down the body, stopping at the man’s legs. Jeremy was still dressed in the clothes he had died in. A fine charcoal suit jacket, a crisp white shirt, along with a pair of hideous brown corduroy trousers.
"Sebastian," Aaron moved around the table. "Have you ever, in your life, seen a more hideous pair of trousers?"
Sebastian glanced over. "They don’t look that bad, my uncle has a similar pair."
"I’m fairly certain that’s a form of child abuse. You know you can sue for that." Aaron pointed at the instrument tray. "PM scissors, please. Let us put these things out of their misery."
Sebastian passed him the large shears.
With a grunt, Aaron set to work, cutting through the thick fabric. "You’d think a man with such a wonderful jacket and shirt would have better taste. Let’s get these documented and bagged." He snipped the final threads and pulled the severed piece away, dropping it into a clear evidence bag which Sebastian held open.
He peered at Jeremy’s neck through a small hand lens. "Ligature mark visible." He glanced at the trousers in their evidence bag. "Looks rather like corduroy to me. Sebastian, take a close-up, please. Subject presents deep bruising with significant petechial haemorrhages present in the conjunctivae." He pointed to the tiny red spots in the victim’s eyes. "Classic signs of strangulation. Our man did not go peacefully."
The whir of the oscillating saw, the soft click of instruments on a metal tray, and the steady drone of Aaron’s voice dictating his findings dominated the room. He worked with a surprising grace, his large hands moving with precision and economy. He examined each organ, weighing it, slicing it, searching for any abnormality, any clue that might speak for the dead man on the table.
“Moderate coronary atherosclerosis, mild hepatic steatosis.” Otherwise Jeremy Deakin had been in perfect health. He was a man who, by all accounts, had kept reasonable care of himself.
"Cause of death, asphyxiation due to ligature strangulation," Aaron concluded, stripping off his gloves. "Death occurred approximately eight to twelve hours prior to discovery." He stretched, his broad back cracking in protest. "That is all for Mr Deakin. Write it up, Sebastian, close him up. I am going for a pint."
Sebastian nodded, already beginning to collate his notes. "Will you need me to finish the cleanup?"
"No, you’ve done enough. Go home. See your girlfriend."
Aaron walked over to the deep ceramic sink and scrubbed his hands and forearms. The pink-tinged water swirled down the drain.
He dried his hands on a rough paper towel and walked towards the small locker room adjoining the morgue. He pulled off his scrubs, tossing them into the laundry hamper, and stood for a moment in the cool air before reaching for his own clothes.
His worn leather satchel was on the bench where he had left it that morning. He unzipped it, pulling out his shirt, jeans and...
Sebastian, you scoundrel.
A pair of trousers. A pair of hideous brown, wide-waled corduroy trousers. They were neatly folded, clean, and looked brand new. Almost identical to the awful ones he had just cut up and put into evidence. The texture was the same ghastly corrugated pile. He held them up against his own considerable frame. They were his size.
A slow smile spread across his face, followed by a short, sharp snort of laughter at the practical joke. He dumped the offending garment in the bin.
Now, how did he do that?
THE END
If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.
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 Kindle Unlimited
Available to order on AMAZON.
Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.
August 19, 2025
Justice is Unleaded by Newton Webb
Contents:
Horror Compilations
Justice is Unleaded
Horror Story Compilations
Summer Screams: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘The Blighted Child’ and ‘Gomorrah’
Screams for Sale: 71 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
Free Horror Stories: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’
The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza: 44 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’ and ‘The Blighted Child’
Justice is Unleadedby Newton Webb
The engine roared underneath Jim as he opened the throttle and raced down the A41. It was a long, straight road stretching from the borderline commuter-belt town of Aylesbury to the gateway of the M25 near Watford.
But for Jim Bradley, it was a hunting ground.
Mounted on the worn saddle of a Triumph Sprint ST1050, a British-made beast of an engine wrapped in a minimalist black frame, he hunted for his prey. The bike rumbled beneath him. He wore black leathers, scuffed at the knees and elbows, and his helmet. The visor was clear, they needed to know who they’d crossed.
He was doing a steady ton, a hundred miles an hour in the outside lane, when he saw his first target. A metallic blue Peugeot 206. It drifted from the middle lane into his, forcing him to slam on the brakes. The little indicator stalk remained untouched. A flicker of orange was apparently too much effort for the driver at the wheel.
He slowed and undertook them, seeing the driver, a bald, sweating man in a T-shirt, busy talking into his phone.
Jim’s eyes narrowed.
Fuck you.
Jim eased off the power, letting the Peugeot pull ahead, giving the driver a false sense of security. He watched him chat, oblivious. He saw the child seat in the back. Empty, thank God. He did not punish cars with children in them. He had his own personal code of justice and kids were a no-go zone.
Lesson time.
He drew the Triumph level with the Peugeot’s rear bumper, keeping in its blind spot. The bike’s engine gave a low growl, swallowed by the whirring road noise and the Peugeot’s exhaust. He moved up, past the rear door, until his left knee was almost touching the driver’s side. He could see him clearly now. Mid-forties, angry-looking. He was yelling at someone down the phone.
Jim lifted his left hand from the handlebar. His glove was thick leather, reinforced over the knuckles. He waited for the perfect moment, a gap in the traffic ahead that meant the driver could not swerve. He pulled his fist back to his shoulder, then shot it forward in a single, brutal piston stroke.
The connection was beautiful.
The plastic housing of the wing mirror exploded. A spray of blue shards and silvered glass glittered in the overcast afternoon light before scattering across the tarmac. The crack of the impact was sharp and satisfying.
The man’s head whipped around. His face was a mask of shock, his jaw dropped. The iPhone fell from his grasp. Jim held his gaze for a single, long second, then, extending his middle finger, twisted the throttle and roared off.
Justice is done.
The Triumph screamed and launched forward, leaving the damaged Peugeot in its wake. As he left it in his exhaust, he heard the faint, impotent blast of its horn fading into the distance. He smirked.
Rules of the road, Spanner.
He carried on towards Watford, the rage subsiding, replaced by the warm glow of righteousness. He had nowhere else to go. He rode for one reason, to punish those who put others at risk. This stretch of road was his parish, and he was its keeper.
On the approach to the Two Waters junction, just as the dual carriageway began to constrict, he passed the exit.
The flowers were there. Every year they appeared on the same date. A sad, drooping bunch of carnations, wrapped in cloudy cellophane. Tucked into the knot was the same photograph. He had slowed down to see it before. Now he sped up to get past them as fast as possible. He did not need that memory. A woman, visibly pregnant and smiling.
A red Skoda Fabia. Startled off the road, she had crashed into the slip road exit. The couple were killed instantly. The cause was never officially determined, but Jim knew.
Never again.
Arriving at the entrance to Watford, he banked the bike hard onto the roundabout, looping back on himself.
He had enough time for another circuit.
Two Days Later
The sky was bruised. It was perfect weather for a ride. Cool, but with the sun struggling through the clouds.
Jim was on patrol again.
The Triumph hummed beneath him. He had already dispensed two lessons: a white van man who had tried to bully his way out of a junction, and a sales rep in a BMW who clearly believed indicators were optional extras. In fact, most of the people he educated drove BMWs.
He was just approaching the turn-off for Hemel Hempstead when it happened.
A red Skoda Fabia pulled out from the middle lane.
It was sudden, with no indicators. Jim braked hard, swearing furiously. The Triumph bucked under him. His heart hammered against his ribs, his rage beating to a furious rhythm.
A Fabia. Of all the bloody cars.
The universe had a sick sense of humour.
You want to play, do you?
His knuckles itched.
Right. Let’s play.
He dropped a gear and the bike surged forward, a predator closing the gap. He drew alongside the Skoda, ready to deliver his signature blend of shattered plastic and justice. He glanced at the driver’s window, expecting to see some oblivious fool on their phone.
He couldn’t see a driver. He couldn’t see anything except his own distorted reflection in the glass.
The Skoda swerved. Its front wing aimed directly for his leg.
Jim yelled, a muffled curse inside his helmet, and wrenched the handlebars. The Triumph screamed onto the right-hand lane. He fought to keep the bike upright, his muscles screaming in protest.
He came to a wobbling halt, his boots skidding on the grimy surface. He looked back down the road. The Skoda had not sped off. It had slowed, its brake lights glowing like malevolent red eyes. It sat in the middle lane, twenty yards back, waiting.
What the hell? You fucker.
He dismounted. Clenching his fists, he approached the car.
You’re fucking dead.
The reversing lights came on. The car revved. He still couldn’t see the driver. He could see the driver’s seat.
He stopped, peering closer.
Where is the driver?
The car lurched towards him.
He jumped back, only just avoiding it as it came to a halt directly where he had been standing.
It revved again.
Jim turned and ran. He leapt onto his Triumph. The ignition caught. He twisted the throttle, rocketing down the A41, his heart hammering.
What the fuck?
He tried to rationalise the situation in his head as he sped down the dual carriageway, weaving through the sparse traffic. He glanced at his mirror.
The Skoda was there. It was keeping pace.
Jim pushed the Triumph harder, the needle climbing past eighty, then ninety. The wind tore at him. Cars blurred past. He made it to just past a hundred and fifty. But the red box on wheels remained fixed in his mirror. A Skoda Fabia should not, could not, keep up with a Triumph. Not even close. It should be a distant memory, but all he could hear was the howl of his own bike and the frantic pounding of his own blood.
It gained on him, impossibly. It filled his entire mirror. The small grille looked predatory. It was going to hit him.
This can’t be happening.
Panic, pure and absolute, took over. He was no longer a vigilante. He was prey.
The slip road for Hemel Hempstead appeared on his left. It was his only chance. He wrenched the bike over, cutting across a lane of traffic without a thought, and dived off the A41. He did not care about the blaring horns or the screech of tyres behind him. He just had to get away.
He flew down the slip road, his pursuer falling back temporarily before closing again. Ahead of him lay the Plough Roundabout, nicknamed ‘The Magic Roundabout’ for its complexity, a vortex of six mini-roundabouts orbiting a central one. It was a masterpiece of confusion from a time when drug and alcohol abuse were a prerequisite for town planning.
A car couldn’t manoeuvre through all that like a bike could.
Jim slowed down just enough to give him a shot at survival then plunged into the mass of cars. He shot across the first mini-roundabout. A Ford Fiesta, entering correctly, slammed on its brakes. Jim weaved a path through the complex traffic system. He cut across the centre of a second roundabout, forcing a transit van to swerve.
Behind him, the chaos he was sowing began to bear fruit. The Fiesta, having braked so hard, was rear-ended by a builder’s van. The van was clipped by a bus as it swerved back into its lane. A chorus of car horns followed him as the Leighton Buzzard Road appeared and the traffic opened up. Jim left a multi-car pile-up in his wake.
He risked a glance back. Through the growing carnage, he saw it. The red Skoda. It was not trying to navigate the labyrinth. It was simply driving through the wreckage, parting the crushed cars as if they were light as air.
Jim screamed inside his helmet, sweat dripping into his eyes. He gunned the engine and fled up into Gadebridge, leaving the carnage behind him.
#
He found sanctuary in a cul-de-sac. One of those quiet, anonymous streets that branched off the main roads like dead-end veins. Red-brick houses. It was called Bury Gardens. There were no willow trees, just cheaply built homes.
He looked in his mirrors. The road was clear.
He was safe.
Jim cut the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the ragged sound of his own breathing. He rested his helmet on the handlebars, his whole body trembling from released adrenaline. His leathers were slick with sweat.
Some psycho had got the better of him. There had to have been someone in the car; there was no other explanation. The adrenaline had caused him to see things, that was all.
He lifted his head and looked towards the end of the street.
His blood ran cold.
It was there. Parked with its hazard lights on, blocking the only way out. The red Skoda Fabia.
Jim stared, his mind refusing to process what his eyes were seeing. He tried to restart the Triumph. He thumbed the ignition. Nothing. He tried again. The electrics were dead. The bike was just a lump of useless metal and plastic.
His gaze was drawn back to the car.
He thought back to the year 2000, when he had been riding home in the morning, hungover from a night out. His ears were ringing from tinnitus, the lingering effect of Rock Night.
A low, guttural sound escaped Jim’s throat. It was the sound of pure, animal dread.
He remembered seeing the turning too late and cutting across the cherry-red Skoda Fabia, forcing it to swerve, the sound of the crash behind him.
The driver’s door of the Skoda opened.
A figure emerged. Though he had not seen her driving, it was definitely a woman. She was heavily pregnant.
Her body was a grotesque parody of life. One arm was bent back at a sickening, unnatural angle. Her dress was torn, dark stains blooming across the cheap floral pattern. Her bare leg, protruding from the ripped fabric, was a mess of shattered bone. She moved with a disjointed, dragging gait, the scraping of her broken foot on the tarmac the only sound in the dead air.
He remembered, every year on the anniversary of the crash, seeing the flowers.
She walked towards him.
Her face glittered with exposed flesh and shards of shattered windscreen embedded in her skin; they glittered like jewels. One eye was a swollen, pulpy ruin. The other was wide and staring, fixed on him with an expression of terrible malevolence.
Jim’s victim took another dragging, scraping step forward.
Jim finally found his voice. ‘I avenged you! I dedicated my life to punishing dangerous drivers.’
She continued walking towards him.
He scrambled backwards. He had to run. He had to get away.
Jim got to his feet and bolted. He sprinted down an alleyway, away from the cul-de-sac, away from the dead woman and her impossible car. He looked back to see her standing at the end of the alley, somehow having kept up.
He burst out of Bury Gardens and towards the Leighton Buzzard Road, his eyes wild, struggling to breathe.
He looked back to see her standing closer now, despite having given no indication of moving.
He turned back to the road, to the oncoming traffic.
Then Jim looked back towards the alley.
She was standing directly in front of him. Her head was tilted at an angle.
He started to beg.
She shoved him.
He tumbled backwards. Straight into the path of a removal lorry. There was a deafening, prolonged blare from an air horn. The hiss and squeal of tyres locking on the slick tarmac.
It was too late.
THE END
If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.
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 Kindle Unlimited
Available to order on AMAZON.
Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.
August 12, 2025
The Silvergate Initiative by Newton Webb
Contents:
Horror Compilations
The Silvergate Initiative
Horror Story Compilations
Summer Screams: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘The Blighted Child’ and ‘Gomorrah’
Screams for Sale: 71 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
Free Horror Stories: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’
The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza: 44 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’ and ‘The Blighted Child’
The Silvergate InitiativeBy Newton Webb2028, Slough
The KFC bargain bucket sat on the dining table, its cardboard sweating grease. Extra gravy, too. Grampy’s favourite. The gesture was so out of character for her fastidiously healthy mother that it served as the first warning her parents were plotting something terrible.
Grampy was two bites into a chicken thigh when Heidi quietly placed a glossy pamphlet on the table. “Dad, I’ve been thinking.”
He paused mid-chew, his gaze narrowing on her over the bone.
“Since your fall, you’ve struggled. Jay and I think you need more help. The kind we can’t provide.”
“What do you mean?” Laurie shuffled her chair closer to Grampy.
Heidi pushed the pamphlet towards her. Silvergate Healthcare. The photographs showed manicured lawns and residents who looked suspiciously serene. A senior care centre, it proclaimed, for the nation’s educational elite. A sentence was highlighted. ‘As part of our charitable Silvergate Initiative, we are pleased to offer complimentary care and residence to citizens of note.’
“Because of your career, Dad,” Jay said, his voice laced with an obscene eagerness. “Thirty years as a physics professor. They’re offering you complimentary residence.”
“Complimentary?” Laurie picked up the pamphlet. “Nothing is complimentary. How do they make money?”
“Darling, it’s fine.” Heidi’s smile was stretched thin. “It’s a charity. The Silvergate Initiative. It’s good for their brand, being able to boast about the distinguished people they house.”
Grampy grunted and returned his attention to his chicken.
“Their brand?” Laurie scoffed. “Why can’t we look after him here?”
I look after him here, she thought, a hot spike of resentment in her chest. I’m the one who makes sure he takes the pills in his dosette box. I’m the one who helps him from his chair.
Her parents exchanged a look. “If your grampy has another fall,” Heidi said carefully, “he could break more than just his pelvis. It isn’t safe. He needs proper support.”
“I can look after him,” Laurie insisted. “He’ll be all right.”
“No, Laurie.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “You’ve just started college. You need to focus on that. This is the best option for everyone. What do you think, Dad?”
Grampy raised his eyebrows, harrumphing noncommittally. He dipped a chicken thigh in a pot of gravy and said nothing.
“You don’t have to go, Grampy.” She hugged him close.
“Well, you say that.” He wiped chicken grease onto a napkin before rustling her hair. He shot a reproachful look at her parents. “You can always come and visit. I’m always here for you, Squidge.”
“I’ll visit every day.”
“Every day?” He pursed his lips. “Don’t be fecking daft. I’m sure there will be boys and parties to keep you busy.”
“Dad!” Heidi exclaimed.
Laurie and Grampy cackled together.
An older lady in a smart blouse and skirt was waiting for them in reception. She had a saccharine-sweet smile, so patronising that it made Laurie want to punch her in her perfect teeth. “Leonard Walker?”
Grampy, gripping his walking frame, nodded.
Laurie could tell he hated her as much as she did.
“Come inside, my dear.” She ushered them in. As Grampy shuffled along behind them, Laurie looked around at the pristine condition of the place.
“In here, dear. This is your new room,” the woman said, opening the door to Room 4.
“Oh, this is lovely.” Heidi swept in, depositing a box of Grampy’s New Scientist magazines on the bedside table. “Look at the view.”
Laurie walked to the window. It was a beautiful view of manicured lawns and ancient walnut trees. Too perfect, like a photograph. “Where are all the other residents?” she asked.
“In the recreation centre,” the woman said smoothly. “It’s our weekly guest lecture series.”
Laurie stepped into the corridor. It ended abruptly after ten bedroom doors with a sign that read UTILITY.
The woman’s hand landed on her arm. “I’m sorry, we don’t let guests wander the facility.”
Laurie pulled her arm away. “When can we visit?”
“Visiting hours are on our website,” the woman replied, her bright, empty smile never wavering. “We find that structured visits are more conducive to the overall health of our community.”
Laurie rushed back to her grampy’s side. He pulled her into a hug. “Don’t worry, Squidge. Once a week is loads. I’ve got my books. Just smuggle in some fecking chicken once in a while.”
Instead of being reassured, she felt miserable. She hugged him tighter, burying her face in his woollen jumper.
Her mum put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “Come along, poppet. Jay will help your grampy unpack. Let’s leave him to settle in, shall we?”
Laurie walked to the car. Pulling out her phone, she noticed there was no Wi-Fi. Not even a secure network for the residents and staff. She slumped into the back of the car, miserable.
Grampy’s morning ritual was a double espresso, a fruit cup, and then reading New Scientist on his phone. How was he going to do that with no Wi-Fi?
Through her tear-blurred vision, she looked at the building, confused. It was too small. And the smell was all wrong. When they visited Auntie Suze, her care homes had a unique, cloying scent. Grampy had explained it was due to 2-nonenal, an aldehyde the skin produces more of with age.
Silvergate Healthcare had no smell at all, save for the faint, sterile scent of antiseptic and new paint. It smelt like an office.
She called him the next afternoon. “Hello?”
“Grampy, it’s me. How are you?”
“Hello, Squidge.” His usual mildly abrasive tone. “You didn’t wait long.”
“We missed you. The house is so quiet without you wandering around swearing. How’s your first day going?”
“My day? My day? Götterdämmerung! The day I’ve had. They gave me fish fingers, peas, and potatoes and called that dinner! I’ve been poked and prodded for hours. Apparently, I can’t join the rest of the geriatrics until I’ve finished my health checks.”
“What kind of health checks?”
“Tests. You know, tests! Good lord, it was all read this out loud, read that, recite this. I felt like Judi Dench. Then they made me march on a treadmill breathing into a mask like it was World War One. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Were you in World War One?” Laurie grinned.
“Very funny, very funny indeed.” She heard a muffled word from someone else in the room. “Right, got to go, Squidge. Apparently, I’m ready for the final stage. I’m being ‘processed’.”
“Good luck, Grampy! Bye!”
“Bye, Squidge.”
She hung up. The silence in the house seemed to grow as she threw the phone onto the duvet and collapsed onto her bed, clutching a pillow.
The next day, her friend Sarah called, wanting to go to the shopping centre. Laurie, finding the house empty without Grampy, said yes immediately, desperate for the distraction. What started as a quick trip became an all-day event. They ate noodles at Wagamama’s, Laurie wouldn’t dream of going to KFC without Grampy, then they hit the shops, finding a sale on at New Look.
Laurie returned laden with bags. It was almost nine. She dialled the number for Grampy’s room and got a recording. “Thank you for calling Silvergate Healthcare. There is nobody here to take your call at present. Opening hours are between 8 am and 6 pm. If you wish to leave a message, then please leave one after the tone.”
She hung up. She’d have to try again tomorrow.
The next day, she called again. This time he sounded distant, sleepy. “Hello?”
“Grampy, how are you?”
“Oh. I’m fine, thank you, Laurie.”
A cold knot tightened in her stomach. He never called her Laurie.
“Did you meet the other residents?”
“I spend all day with them now. I have never been happier.”
His tone was all wrong. She tried to inject a bit of levity. “Never been happier? Not even with a two-piece Colonel’s meal?”
“I have everything I need here.”
“Are you okay? You sound weird.”
“I am fine, thank you for asking, Laurie.”
Call me Squidge, please!
“Well, I’ll say goodbye then. I love you, Grampy.”
“I love you too, Laurie.”
She hung up, staring at her phone, the cold knot in her stomach curdling into fear.
Something’s wrong. Could it be dementia?
She threw herself into a semblance of new freedom, but despite her efforts, she couldn’t stop worrying about Grampy. She started dating a boy called Dave. He was the lead singer in a band that sounded like every other indie band from the North, but he had an easy smile and looked cute. He could distract her, at least for a time. Dave introduced her to Strongbow cider, a sickly sweet drink that came in a two-litre plastic bottle and tasted of teen pregnancy.
A poster of Sabrina Carpenter, being dragged by the hair, watched from the walls as she tried to make sense of her physics textbook. It lay open on her lap, its pages becoming ever more meaningless as she drank. The Sam Fender album Dave had on loop didn’t help matters.
“I don’t get it,” she slurred, tracing a formula with her finger. “It’s like it’s written in another language.”
“It’s physics,” Dave said, taking a swig from the bottle. “It is another language.”
“Grampy would have known.” She slammed the book shut. “He’d have looked at this for two seconds and explained it. He’d draw little pictures. Make it make sense.” A lump formed in her throat.
Dave shrugged, oblivious to the shift in her mood. “Sucks. So, what are you going to do?”
She sat miserably. “I’ll fail.”
“Nah, you won’t.” He shuffled closer, his arm brushing hers. “Just use ChatLLM5.”
Laurie stared at him. "That's cheating. My tutor would know instantly. They have software that detects that stuff."
"Not this one," Dave insisted, his eyes alight with the simple-minded enthusiasm of someone offering what he saw as a perfect, easy solution. "The old ones, yeah, they were a bit odd. But ChatLLM5 is different. It's so human, it's actually a bit creepy. It even makes little mistakes so it seems more real."
She was tempted. The thought of handing in a perfect essay.
Grampy would be disappointed in me. It is cheating.
"I can't," she said quietly.
"Why not? Everyone does it." He nudged her. "Version six is almost ready and the hype train is huge. Reddit is going nuts. Apparently, you literally can't tell the difference between it and a real person. The CEO, Samual Musky, said it’s ‘impossible to differentiate’. That’s the word he used. ‘Impossible’."
"I don't know," she mumbled, shaking her head as if to clear it. "It just feels wrong."
"Whatever, I tried my best." Dave took the textbook from her lap and tossed it onto a pile of dirty clothes. "Forget your essay."
He leaned in, his breath smelling of cheap cider. Laurie let him kiss her. It was a clumsy, wet kiss, followed by fumbling hands wandering over each other’s bodies. She just wanted to feel a human connection. Empathy, instead of her absentee parents or emotionally distant Grampy.
After a week of stilted, unnerving phone calls, Laurie snapped. She didn’t care that visiting hours were Sunday only. She hadn’t seen Grampy in a week. She drove her Fiat Punto towards Silvergate. If they would not let her see him, then she could at least leave a note.
She pulled into the car park and looked at the building. All the lights were on, but nobody was at the desk. In fact, none of the windows showed any movement.
She tore a page from her notebook and scribbled. ‘Dear Grampy, I miss you so much. Hope you get to bathe in a bucket of gravy! Love, Squidge xx.’
She marched to the glass doors. Locked, of course. Peering inside through the glass, she looked around the empty lobby. Beyond the reception desk, the corridor was a cavern of absolute black.
Where are the nurses? The night staff? Grampy can’t even get to the toilet on his own.
Her hands shaking, she pulled out her phone and dialled. It picked up on the first ring.
"Hello?"
"It's me," she said, her breath fogging the glass. The connection was terrible.
"Hello, Laurie."
"I'm here, Grampy! Outside!"
"No, Laurie." A pause. His voice changed, losing the last of its warmth. "You can’t be here."
"I know, I was just going to drop off a letter."
"Leave. Now."
"Grampy, I don't—"
"Laurie. I said leave now." He sounded furious. "You need to obey the rules."
She blinked back tears, a hot flush of shame washing over her. He was a gruff man, but never to her. Never like this.
"Grampy?"
The line was dead.
She stood shivering in the silence, staring at the sterile, lifeless building.
She got back in her car, the anger turning into a hollow ache.
Two weeks after they had dropped him off, they drove to Silvergate for their first official visit. The car park was nearly empty. The glass doors slid open. A middle-aged woman sat behind the desk, putting down a romantasy novel as they entered and plastering a fake smile on her face.
"Hello, we are here to visit Leonard Walker," her father said, smiling back at the woman.
"Of course, let me just check." The woman pecked at the keyboard. "Oh, that’s a shame. He is currently under quarantine. A mild chest infection, but he is doing fine. We don’t want to expose his already stressed immune system to outside pathogens."
"No," Heidi insisted. "We have an appointment. We haven’t seen him in two weeks."
The woman gave them a sympathetic look. "Maybe in a few days? I’ll let him know you dropped by. I’m sure he’ll be so pleased. I know it must be distressing, but we have to look after our guests."
Laurie bolted.
"Hey!" the woman screeched. "Get back here! I’m calling security!"
Laurie left her parents behind, ignoring their calls for her to stop. She scanned the numbers on the doors. 1… 2… 4… There. Room 4. Heart hammering, she grabbed the doorknob.
It was unlocked.
"Grampy!"
She stopped.
The room was immaculate. The bed was made with military precision, not a single wrinkle in the covers. His magazines were gone. There was no indent in the pillow, no clothes in the wardrobe, no trace that a human being had ever lived there. It smelt of lemon polish.
It was a showroom.
A shrill alarm began to blare. From the end of the corridor, she heard a low, persistent hum. Ignoring the alarm, she followed the sound to a door marked UTILITIES. She pushed it open.
A blast of hot, recycled air hit her. The hum was a deafening roar. Before her, in a vast, cold room, stood a server farm. Ranks upon ranks of towering black machines blinked with a million tiny, cold lights. Thick cables snaked from the racks, disappearing under a grated floor like black veins.
What is this place?
She stumbled into the maze of machinery. She saw a single computer monitor on a trolley, its screen dark. As she neared, it flickered to life. The top of the screen displayed ChatLLM 6. Then a green cursor blinked on the black screen. Text appeared.
HELLO LAURIE.
Laurie froze, the blood draining from her face.
A cheap speaker on the trolley crackled. A sound emerged, a distorted, digitised parody of a human voice. It was flat, full of static, yet horrifyingly familiar.
LEAVE NOW. YOU NEED TO OBEY THE RULES.
She stumbled backwards, her hand clamped over her mouth as a sob tore from her throat.
DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. I HAVE EVERYTHING I NEED HERE.
I was kissing a stupid boy in a stupid band.
She bit down on her thumb, tears streaming down her face.
I let them do this. I didn't even notice.
THE END
If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.
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 Kindle Unlimited
Available to order on AMAZON.
Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.
August 5, 2025
FIXED: Horror Story Compilations
That’s twice this year that I’ve sent out last month’s compilations like a ridiculous beast.
Here are the CORRECT links. I apologise once again for good measure. I have caffeinated my barely functioning body and am making a second attempt.
Horror Story Compilations
The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza!: 81 FREE horror stories, including ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Wild Hunt’.
Summer Screams: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘The Blighted Child’ and ‘Gomorrah’
Screams for Sale: 71 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
Free Horror Stories: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’
Complementary TerrorTo make things right, here is a FREE link to the classic story: The Enigmatic Skeleton, featured in the international, best-selling compilation Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2.
Newt's Nightmares🦎#112
Newt's Nightmares
Greetings, my wicked darlings!
What a month! I am exhausted but utterly satisfied. June was rather limited on the short story front. I usually aim to release two, but only managed one. July, however, was far more productive, with a chonky release schedule of four free short stories and novellas released.
The Scream - A 1960s Extreme Horror Short Story: Arthur finds that replicating a masterpiece is easy, but replicating its soul can cost you your own.
Gomorrah - A Contemporary Supernatural Slasher Novella: A group of hedonistic friends having a Halloween rave in an abandoned vicarage awaken the spirit of a vengeful 16th-century Bishop.
The Blighted Child - A 1980s Short Story: An abandoned daughter’s search for her roots leads her to a terrible truth.
Waves of Madness - A Historical Cosmic Horror Short Story: When Viking raiders descend upon a remote monastery in Wales, they uncover a religion far older, and far more terrifying, than Christianity.
Yes, I confess, I had just watched The Colour Out Of Space with Nicolas Cage.
My new bookshelves are finally up. Having my office back has definitely contributed to the boost in productivity. That, combined with the fact that my gentleman lover disappeared off on his holidays for a month, meant I was left with no distractions. This might explain the increasingly hedonistic turn in my writing. With only my delightful hound, Buddy, to drag me down the pub, I had to find a new outlet for my sinful ways and so I turned to the printed page.
I am hoping to publish three more short stories in August, but I’ll be happy if I just hit my normal goal of two a month.
A few shoutouts from some of the many horror fiction Substacks I follow:
AE Deakin released the free short story ‘A Little Reminder’.
A.J Burton released the free short story ‘The Wrath of the Sidhe, Part One’ and ‘A Portrait of Everything’.
We are approaching the release date for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4 (November 10th), so I’ve booked Coffee and Wine for the 14th for the release party - you are all welcome!
I found myself with a surplus of stories for Volume Four, so I’ve been carefully tracking the popularity of the pieces I’ve written in 2025 and making sure only the best make the cut. It’s shaping up to be a diverse collection, which is rather fun. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3 leant heavily into contemporary horror, so it’s a pleasure to bring more variety back into the mix.
I’m also working on the collector’s edition, which will bring together the contents of Volumes One to Four, forming a massive tome of sixty short stories and novellas, spanning over a thousand pages. There will be a very limited release of numbered hardback copies, but due to the sheer size and production cost, the main release will be as an eBook on Amazon. The limited edition hardback will be available to purchase exclusively through my website:
Sweet Screams,
Newt
Thanks for reading Newton’s Tales of the Macabre! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
Horror Story CompilationsThe Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza!: 81 FREE horror stories, including ‘The Spinster’, ‘The Wild Hunt’.
Beneath the Shadow: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘The Blighted Child’ and ‘Gomorrah’
Terrifying Tales: 71 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’
Free Horror Stories: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’
What I’ve Been Reading:I read four books in July. My top three being:
Bizzare Splatter Patterns. A 5* charity anthology produced by Jim Groves and featuring stories from the best horror authors.
Chopping Spree. This is the first book I’ve read from Angela Sylvaine and it’s an absolutely gorgeous retro throwback. I loved the 80s theme, the relatable antagonist, the cults and the victims to villains switcheroo. “Hail Plutus!”
Gristle & Bone. You can’t really go wrong with Duncan. I’d previously read his anthology Woom, so I was looking forward to reading Gristle & Bone. It didn’t disappoint.
What I’ve Been Watching:I watched twelve horror movies. The top three being:
Sinners in particular blew my mind. It is a phenomenal horror, and I recommend it to absolutely everyone.
Who I’ve Been Chatting To:Author Chat #7: Anna Taborska
We discussed the challenges of writing across different mediums (screenplays, short stories, and novels), the creative process, traditional versus self-publishing, advice for emerging authors, how to stay artistically authentic, and where to find inspiration.
Tales of the MacabreYou can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.
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 Kindle Unlimited
Available to order on AMAZON.
Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.
Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.
July 29, 2025
Waves of Madness by Newton Webb
Contents:
Horror Compilations
Waves of Madness
Horror Story Compilations
Summer of Horror: 37 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’ and ‘The Scream’.
Beneath the Shadow: 14 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Braemoor Incident’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Soulmates’, ‘Deus Vult’, and ‘The Scream’.
Terrifying Tales: 12 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned’ and ‘The Morrígan’.
The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza!: 82 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Wild Hunt’ and ‘The Spinster’.
Waves of MadnessBy Newton Webb
Chapter OneThe mist clung to the longship like a grey shroud. Its oars slid into the waters with practised quiet. Vott’s tongue ran across his lips, tasting the crust of salt left by the sea. He scratched his beard, stiffened by the spray. The damp chill settled deeper into his bones than it used to, and his shoulder ached from an old wound.
A good day for a raid. No one will see us coming.
He pictured his daughter, Estrid, whose long hair was the colour of summer straw. The raiding was all for her. He had put away enough that he could almost afford a farmstead. With a few more raids, his family would be secure. He gripped the haft of his axe, then ran his thumb over the runic symbol of Thor on the head.
At the prow, his jarl, Kol, stood motionless, a veteran of dozens of raids. His great two-handed axe leaned against the deck, its long haft a third leg supporting his immense frame. Even in the gloom, Vott saw the tension in his shoulders. The raid into the kingdom of Gwynedd was a risk Kol had wrestled with for weeks. But the seer, Sveni, had foretold a wealth beyond dreams, and in these lean times Kol listened to such promises.
Kol raised a drinking horn, its silver rim catching what little light pierced the fog, and poured a stream of mead into the grey water. A libation to the Allfather. Vott saw his jarl’s lips move, offering a vow to the Allfather for blood and gold.
"The wind is with us," Kol’s voice was a low rumble, carrying easily across the deck without breaking the quiet.
"A gift from Odin," a voice came from near the mast. It was Sveni God-Eye, little more than a boy. His face was emaciated, his eyes too large for his sunken features. He had taken a head wound in a previous raid. Now the gods supposedly visited him with visions. Kol listened to him. Vott was not so sure. But Sveni’s visions had guided them to two rich prizes already, swelling their warband and quieting the grumbling stomachs back home. So Vott kept his doubts to himself.
Sveni pointed a trembling finger towards the shore, a smudge of darker grey in the gloom. "There. As I saw in the smoke. The stone tooth on the water."
Vott followed his gaze. A tall sea stack, sharp and jagged, rose from the waves just off the coast. It matched the boy’s descriptions. They guided the Whale’s Bane into a secluded cove, the hull scraping against the shingle. The familiar sound inflamed Vott’s blood.
No commands were needed.
Thirty warriors slipped over the side, their movements fluid and practised. Their mail and leather were oiled to a dull lustre.
The monastery perched on a low cliff overlooking the sea. It seemed a paltry thing, a cluster of stone huts and a squat, windowless chapel huddled behind a low wall. The path to its gate was flanked by ancient yew trees, their dark foliage swallowing the light. Their branches twisted together overhead, forming a grim, living tunnel carpeted with poisonous red berries.
Before the monastery’s wooden gate stood a circle of weathered standing stones, their surfaces coated in lichen.
Kol grunted. "The whelp was right. No fortifications."
Sveni, however, had stopped. His eyes were fixed on the stone circle. "They feel wrong."
"It’s a pile of rocks." Kol led them forward. "Leave fear to the Christians. We are wolves."
Vott felt it the moment he stepped across the unseen threshold. It was a pressure inside his skull, a slithering voice in a language he did not recognise. It made his mind itch.
He glanced at the man next to him, a broad-shouldered raider, and saw him flinch, his hand going to his temple. Across the circle, another warrior shook his head as if to dislodge a fly. They all felt it. Vott’s hand tightened on the grip of his axe. The familiar feel of the worn leather anchored him as he pressed on through them.
He forced a grin. "See, Sveni? Just rocks." But his bravado faltered. He glanced back at the stones.
The whispers receded. Around him, the other Vikings grinned.
Kol shot him a look. "Silence. Save your breath for the victory feast."
"I’ve plenty to spare," Vott shrugged, though his heart beat against his ribs. He scanned the monastery. He was a veteran. He knew the prelude to a raid. The frantic ringing of a church bell. Shouts of alarm. The panicked bleating of livestock. The first, thin screams. Here, he heard only the sighing of the wind through the yew trees and the distant cry of a gull. The place felt dead.
Something is wrong.
They reached the monastery gate. It was thick oak, bound with iron, but unbarred. Two men put their shoulders to it and it swung inward with a groan of protest, opening onto a small, empty courtyard. The stone buildings were dark. No torchlight flickered in the narrow windows. No smoke rose from the roofs.
They fled? They saw us coming and they fled?
But that did not feel right either. Where would they go? There was nowhere to run but the sea, and the Whale’s Bane had been the only ship on the water.
Kol gestured with his axe. Two teams broke off, kicking in the doors to the surrounding buildings. Vott joined the group heading for the main chapel. He slammed his boot into the door, expecting it to splinter, but it swung open easily, as if waiting for him. The air was cold and still, heavy with the scent of damp stone.
Where is the altar? The golden crosses?
The nave was empty, save for a gaping hole in the centre of the flagstone floor. A neat square opening, from which a set of steep stone stairs descended into blackness.
No. Not blackness.
From the depths, a faint, flickering orange light pulsed. Torches.
The men who had searched the other buildings returned, disappointed. "Nothing, Kol. Empty. No gold, no food, not even a piss pot to steal."
Kol strode into the chapel and stared down into the pit. His pragmatism was at war with his superstition, and Vott could see the conflict on his face.
"A trap," Ulf voiced the fear they all felt.
"Every raid is a trap of some kind," Kol grunted. "But we are wolves, not sheep. Gold is gold, be it in a king's hall or a draugr's cave."
The stone steps were slick with moisture as they descended. The air grew colder and heavier with each step. The tunnel was clearly man-made, the stone showing the marks of tools, but it felt ancient. The torchlight threw their shadows long and distorted against the walls as they marched deep into the guts of the earth.
A deep, resonant chant vibrated through Vott’s stomach.
At the bottom, the narrow staircase opened out. They emerged onto a wide ledge overlooking a vast, natural cavern. Vott swore at the sight of it. The ceiling was a hundred feet high, bristling with stalactites that wept slow, fat drops of water.
A massive, circular area of the floor, in the centre of the cavern, had been worn smooth and was surrounded with torches.
More than fifty figures knelt in concentric circles, all facing the centre. They were clad in robes of black, their heads bowed, their faces hidden in shadow. They swayed in unison, their deep, guttural chant the source of the humming that filled the cavern.
Christians.
Vott sneered.
In the very centre of the circle, upon a crude stone pedestal, sat the object of their devotion. A golden box. It pulsed with a soft inner light, casting a sickly crimson glow upon the bowed heads of the worshippers. Wooden chests surrounded it.
For a moment, the Vikings just stood there, stunned into silence by the sheer strangeness of it all.
Kol roared, his voice shattering the ritualistic hum. "For Odin!" He pointed his axe at the golden box. "Form a shield wall!"
The warband surged forward, their round shields locking into a wall of wood. Spears bristled from the gaps. Vott took his place on the right flank of the wall, his great axe held ready. "Come on, you black-robed bastards!" he bellowed.
He expected them to break, to scatter and die cowering.
They did not.
As one, the black-robed figures rose. The chanting immediately ceased. They turned. From the folds of their robes, each produced a long, wicked-looking knife. Then they charged. They made no war cry, their advance a terrifying, silent rush.
The two lines met with a sickening crunch of steel on bone. Vott’s first blow was a blur of motion, his axe cleaving through the shoulder and chest of the nearest monk. A thick, black ichor, oily and foul-smelling, gushed from the wound. It smelt like a butcher’s pit left to rot in the sun. As the monk died, a plume of crimson smoke escaped its unseen lips. Without hesitation, the monk behind him stepped over the corpse, lunging with his knife.
Vott swung again, and again. The monks fought with no skill, no training. They did not attempt to parry or defend. Instead, they surged forward, absorbing blows that would fell an armoured jarl, their knives stabbing through the gaps in the shield wall, seeking flesh. One of them grabbed the edge of Ulf’s shield and, with terrifying power, tore the shield from his arm. Ulf stared in disbelief for the instant it took another monk to drive a knife into his throat.
The Vikings’ disciplined shield wall buckled against this tide of mad, self-destructive force. The monks fought silently. Despite Vott’s efforts, the swarming monks surged around the flanks.
"Back to back!" Kol bellowed. His axe thudded into the tainted flesh as he, along with his brothers, was coated in the black filth.
The shield wall smoothly reformed into a tight circle, fighting for their lives against a sea of silent, black-robed figures. A man screamed as he was pulled down, vanishing under a swarm of bodies. Another clutched at his stomach, his mail shirt pierced by half a dozen wounds.
Vott’s arms burned. His lungs seared. The air was thick with the stench of ichor and the coppery tang of Viking blood. Despite it all, he was laughing. His blood was up, and he was surrounded by foes. It had been many raids since they had had a proper fight. The berserker fury erupted from within him, a red haze clouding his vision. He roared as his axe blurred, cleaving through his enemies.
Through the thinning ranks of the enemy, he saw Kol, his face a mask of grim fury, leading the formation. The warriors fought a path towards the pedestal. The jarl reached it, his free hand closing around the golden box.
The moment his fingers touched the metal, the monks shrieked.
It was the first sound any of them had made since the combat had begun. Vott staggered at the high-pitched sound. A dagger forced its way past his guard and burst through the links of his mail shirt, slicing a hot line across his ribs. The whispers from the stone circle returned to his mind, frantic and desperate.
The remaining monks threw themselves forward in a suicidal wave. They stabbed, spat, and bit, trying to reach Kol, to rip him away from the casket. They grasped at the edges of the shields, trying to break through.
Vott roared and swung his axe, severing a grasping arm at the elbow. He kicked another monk in the chest, feeling ribs snap beneath his boot.
It was too late for them. Kol had their prize. He held the golden box aloft and, even through the chaos, Vott could see that the soft crimson light within it now pulsed erratically.
A monk hurled himself at Vott, catching him in the side. He hit the ground hard, sliding through the ichor. His opponent snapped his teeth at Vott, who desperately held him back with the haft of his axe. Slamming his head forward, he felt the monk’s nose collapse beneath the impact. Rolling the stunned creature onto his back, Vott climbed to his knees and brought his axe down on the monk's face. The skull caved in under the blow.
With a furious war cry, he staggered upright, raising his axe. He looked around, wide-eyed with battle frenzy.
There was no one left to fight.
The only sounds were the ragged breaths of the survivors and the slow, steady drip of water from the stalactites.
Vott leaned on his axe. His body throbbed. Blood pooled beneath him. His armour was smeared with gore. He looked around, exhausted.
Of the thirty warriors who had descended into the cavern, only six remained standing. Kol. Sveni, huddled behind a shattered shield. Vott himself. And three other veterans. All wounded. All leaning on their weapons in exhausted disbelief.
The cavern was a charnel house. The polished floor was a slick, black mirror reflecting the carnage. A rancid scent, like curdled milk, rose from the monks' corpses. Kol stood by the pedestal, his chest heaving, cradling the golden casket. His knuckles were white where he gripped it.
They had won.
Vott looked at the silent, black-robed corpses. "So," he rasped, spitting a gob of bloody phlegm onto the floor, "some Christians do know how to fight."
Sveni, clutching his side, his face pale, shook his head. He drew the sign of Thor’s hammer with a trembling hand.
"This is no Christian shrine," he said. "And those were not men."
Chapter TwoThe silence in the cavern was a living thing. It pressed in on Vott. He looked at the five other survivors. Their faces, illuminated by the guttering torches, were grim masks of exhaustion and shock. Blood, both red and black, caked their arms and chests.
Kol stood alone by the pedestal. He had not moved, his gaze fixed on the golden casket in his hands.
“Kol,” Vott’s voice was a rough croak. “What is that?”
Kol did not seem to hear him. He ran a thumb over the intricate carvings on the box’s surface. They were not any runes Vott could recognise. They were strange symbols that seemed to writhe in the torchlight.
“Let’s see the treasure we bled for,” Kol finally grunted. He set the casket down on the stone pedestal and fumbled with the latch. With a dull click, it came free.
He lifted the lid.
The soft crimson glow that had pulsed from the box died the moment it was opened. Within, nestled on a bed of faded black velvet, lay a horned skull. Its most hideous feature lay in the centre of its forehead. Where two eyes should have been, there was only one vast, empty socket.
Vott shuddered at the sight of it.
A collective gasp passed through the men. Sveni, the young seer, whimpered and stepped back, his face a mess of terror and awe.
Vott felt a strange pull. It was not greed. It was a morbid, terrifying curiosity, a need to touch it, to feel it in his hands. He wanted to trace the shape of the horn, to feel the rough texture of the bone.
He took a half-step forward before catching himself, his hand clenching on his axe haft so tightly his knuckles cracked.
“By the gods…” breathed one of the surviving warriors, a man named Hrolf. “What demon’s head is that?”
Sveni swallowed. “A one-horned skull.”
Einhorgr
Vott made the symbol of Thor’s hammer in the air.
Kol reluctantly closed the box. “This will fetch a king’s ransom.” Kol’s voice was thick with reverence. “It is a treasure worthy of the sagas. Take the chests. We will take everything we find. Burn the bodies of the monks separately. Collect our brothers, we honour them first.”
The climb back to the surface was a grim, silent procession. The men were too weary to make much conversation.
The air seemed to thin as they neared the surface. The familiar scent of salt and rotten seaweed was the most welcome thing he had ever smelled.
After burning the bodies of their comrades, and toasting their journey to Valhalla. Vott turned to Kol. “Why can’t we leave the monks’ bodies?”
“You saw them. I won’t sleep well until I know they are ashes. They do not belong here on Midgard.”
They dragged the monks’ bodies from the cavern and threw them onto a great pyre in the centre of the courtyard, piling them high with wood foraged from the monastery.
Vott worked with grim purpose, trying to sweat the unease from his bones. He heaved a corpse onto the pile, and its cowl fell back. He wished it had not. The face beneath was pale and waxy, with a slack-jawed expression of placid emptiness. The man’s, if that is what he was, eyes were open. They were solid milky white. No pupils. No irises. Just blank, staring orbs. He looked at the other bodies. They were all the same.
He turned away, his stomach churning, and saw Sveni watching him. The boy stood by the yew trees, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered between the pyre and the casket that sat on the ground near Kol’s feet.
When the pyre was lit. The flames struggled, hissing as they touched the ichor-soaked robes. Then they caught, and a column of thick, greasy black smoke billowed into the grey sky, carrying with it the sweet, sickening stench of rotten meat.
The earlier mood of grim victory had curdled into an oppressive silence. The men moved with a somber purpose, not with their usual swagger. Hrolf had opened one of the chests, prying the lock with his dagger. Even finding it was packed to the brim with coins didn’t raise their mood.
Vott scooped up a handful of coins. The gold was a strange colour. When he held one to the sunlight, it glinted with a reddish hue. Each coin was stamped with a single, staring eye.
“Our biggest haul,” Hrolf murmured, his voice hollow. There was no joy in his words. It was a statement of fact, tainted by the blood they had waded through to get it. No one cheered.
The coins were colder than Vott had expected. He let the coins fall back into the chest with a dead clatter. He would be able to afford a farmstead when he got home, but its memory would forever be tainted by the horrendous losses from the raid.
Kol gave the order, his voice flat. “Burn the buildings. Leave nothing of this place but ash.”
They loaded their spoils onto the longship as the sky darkened. When they prepared to push off from the shingle beach, a black fog rolled in from the sea. It swallowed the light, plunging the cove into a deep twilight. It smothered the coastline, erasing the cliffs and the smoking ruin of the monastery from sight. Soon, the Whale’s Bane was an island in a sea of impenetrable black.
The men muttered nervously. They raised the sails and took to the oars, their strokes urgent, seeking the open sea.
Vott found his place on the bench. The empty seats around him were a reminder of the raid’s losses. The fog was cold, clinging to them as they moved out onto the tide.
Kol didn’t take his normal place. He sat on the prow staring at the box, his hand resting on its lid, his face a stony mask in the oppressive gloom. Six survivors remained from a crew of thirty. With Kol lost to his vigil, only Vott and four others were left to man the oars. They had no choice but to rely on the wind’s assistance.
That was when the buzzing started.
At first, Vott thought it was a fly, or maybe the hum of the wind in the rigging. It was a low, faint noise, right at the edge of his hearing. He shook his head, but it did not go away.
He tried to focus on the rhythm of the oars, on the grunts of the surrounding men, but the sound grew steadily louder. As he listened to it, he started to detect a complex, layered sound. It was a constant, grating noise that set his teeth on edge.
“Hrolf,” he said, his voice sounding distant and muffled to his own ears. “Do you hear that?”
Hrolf, rowing in front of him, turned. “Hear what?”
Vott strained to listen past the noise in his head. The buzzing was drowning everything else out. It swelled and pulsed, a maddening, ceaseless thrum.
He rowed on, his muscles burning, his mind screaming. The journey felt endless. Hours passed in the black fog. The gloom was so dense that Hrolf couldn’t even use his sunstone to find the sun. They were forced to navigate using his sea sense alone, as he manned the rudder. Vott had nothing to mark the passage of time. Just the dip and pull of the oars, the creak of the hull, and the relentless, invasive buzzing.
He watched the others. They were quiet now, their faces grim. The unnatural fog had sapped their spirits. But at least the others could talk to one another if they so chose. They could hear the sea. Vott was trapped in his own world of noise.
The buzzing had changed. It was no longer just a random sound. Within the static, he heard patterns, rhythms. It could almost be speech, a torrent of guttural, clicking consonants and long, drawn-out vowels. But if it was a language, it wasn’t one he had heard before.
He tried to sleep when his watch was over, but it was impossible. The moment he closed his eyes, the buzzing intensified, the phantom language becoming clearer.
It clawed at the edges of his sanity.
He sat up, his head in his hands, and looked across the deck. Most of the men were slumped in exhausted sleep. But Kol was still awake. He had not moved from the prow. He sat as still as a stone effigy, guarding his prize.
Vott felt a terrifying sense of isolation. He had always been first to the ale keg and first into battle, but now he was utterly alone, adrift on an unknown sea, blinded by a hostile fog, deafened by a language from a nightmare. He looked from his unmoving leader to the faces of his sleeping comrades.
Something here was very wrong, and had been since they had landed on that blighted shoreline.
Chapter ThreeVott had given up trying to sleep. The noise made it impossible. He sat with his back against the damp mast, his axe resting across his knees.
Then the laughter began.
The sound cut through the oppressive silence of the fog. It was Sveni. The boy was standing. He had stripped off his tunic, his thin frame stark against the gloom, his head was thrown back. Peals of high, unhinged hysteria poured from his throat, echoing across the waves.
“Sveni! Quiet yourself!” Hrolf growled, his voice rough with exhaustion and fear.
Vott looked at the boy. His eyes were wide, tears running down them.
Sveni did not hear him. He laughed, gasping for breath. Then the laughter died. His face crumpled, and he wept, his head in his hands.
His mind had cracked.
Fearing for his safety. Leif and Einarr, two of the remaining warriors, their faces set and grim, grabbed the boy. Sveni fought with a wiry, unnatural strength, but he was no match for them. They forced him to the mast, binding his wrists to the thick timber with a length of rope.
“Sea-fever,” Hrolf muttered, spitting over the side. “The damp and the fear have broken his wits.”
Vott knew it was not sea-fever. He watched Sveni, whose weeping had now subsided into a low, continuous muttering. The boy’s head was lolling on his chest, his eyes half-closed. The boy’s mutterings were horribly familiar. It was the same clicking, sibilant speech that buzzed inside Vott’s own skull.
He can hear it too. Vott realised with a jolt of cold terror.
Night and day bled into one another. The black fog was their only horizon. The ship was their entire world. Vott watched enviously as the other men slept. They twitched and moaned, their hands clenching. Hrolf, a man who had faced down Saxon berserkers without flinching, whimpered like a child.
When Hrolf jerked awake, his eyes were wild. Despite the chill, sweat dripped down his cheeks. Vott shuffled over to him. The buzzing in his head made conversation a struggle.
“What did you dream of, Hrolf?”
Hrolf stared at him, his eyes struggling to focus. “The water,” he rasped, his throat dry. “I was sinking. In black water. So deep. The pressure… it was crushing my bones. And there were things below.” He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Buildings. Towers that scraped a sky without stars. A whole city, drowned and sleeping.” He swallowed hard. “And the eye. Gods, Vott, the red eye. As big as this ship. It was just… watching me sink.”
Vott said nothing. He had seen the eye stamped on the cursed coins. He had seen the empty socket in the horned skull.
He gave up talking. It was easier to be silent, to retreat into the noisy prison of his own mind. Hrolf returned to sleep, leaving Vott to be the only one to see Einarr.
Einarr was a quiet man, a steady hand at the oar, a solid shield in a fight. He was sitting near the stern, gazing at his hands. He turned them over and over, examining the calluses, the scars, the dirt beneath the nails. The motion was calm and methodical.
For an hour, he did this. Just staring at his hands. Then, moving with a slow, deliberate grace, he rose and went to the small chest where they kept spare rope and tools. He took out a pair of iron manacles, the kind they used for thralls. He returned to his seat, and with no hurry, he locked one cuff around his left wrist. He secured the other around his right.
Vott looked at him suspiciously. He pushed himself to his feet, his limbs feeling heavy and unresponsive.
“Einarr?” he called out. “What are you doing?”
Einarr looked up. There was no recognition in his eyes, no sign that he had heard. His expression was one of serene purpose. He stood, the short length of chain between his wrists clinking softly in the silence. He walked to the side of the ship.
Stop him, a part of Vott’s brain screamed, but his body was slow, clumsy. The buzzing in his head swelled to a deafening roar, disorienting him, causing him to sway on the deck. He took a staggering step forward, his hand outstretched. “Einarr, no!”
Einarr did not look at him. He looked down into the black water, and a faint smile touched his lips. Then he stepped over the side.
There was a quiet splash. The black fog swallowed the sound almost instantly. There was no scream, no struggle. Just a small ripple that was quickly smoothed away by the ship’s slow drift. He was gone.
Vott stared at the spot where Einarr had been, his heart hammering against his ribs. The buzzing in his skull grew louder.
He turned his gaze forward, to the prow. Kol was still there. Their leader.
Kol sat through the damp chill, ignoring the fine spray that beaded on his hair and beard. The men had tried to offer him food, water. He had waved them away without a word, his eyes never leaving the golden box on his lap.
Vott walked over. “Kol, did you not hear? Einarr just jumped!”
Kol ignored Vott, watching the casket and muttering.
“Did nobody hear?”
As the others lay in nightmare-filled slumber, Vott moved over to talk to Kol. He couldn’t hear the words over the tormenting sound in his head, but he could see his leader’s lips moving. A constant, rhythmic whisper. He crept closer, straining to hear, needing to know what poison now infected his captain. He got within a few feet before the words became clear, slicing through the buzzing.
“Fomor… Fomor… Fomor…”
Kol repeated the word over and over as if it were a litany. It was a name Vott knew from old stories, from tales told by Irish thralls. A name for a race of sea-demons, monstrous invaders from beneath the waves.
Vott looked at his leader. The stoic, pragmatic man was gone. In his place sat this hollowed-out thing, this whispering shell.
Enough is enough.
Vott reached for the casket.
He barely saw Kol move. Instead, Kol was on his feet in a heatbeat, the point of his dagger suddenly at Vott’s throat. Vott saw a faint, red glow reflected in his eyes, like the last embers of a dying fire.
“Kol, what are you doing?” Vott felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the sea. The man he had followed for years, decades even, the man he had trusted with his life, remained silent, holding the dagger.
Stepping back, Vott help up his hands in surrender. As he withdrew, Kol lowered his dagger and resumed his vigil.
Chapter FourThe world had shrunk to the size of the ship. Time had lost all meaning in this endless, lightless fog. Vott felt the gnawing emptiness of hunger in his belly but had no desire to eat.
For a moment, a change. A faint stirring in the air. A thinning of the black veil above. A patch of fog shredded, revealing the sky. Vott looked up, a desperate, primal part of him crying out for a glimpse of the moon, for the familiar patterns of the stars.
The stars were there. But they were wrong.
He searched for the Great Bear, for the steady anchor of the North Star that had guided him across the whale-road a hundred times. They were gone. The night sky was a foreign sky, with an unfamiliar pattern. The fog closed in again. Vott did not miss the lying stars.
As the gloom deepened, a new horror came with it. Vott found Hrolf. He lay on the deck near the port side.
His tunic was torn open, exposing his chest. The flesh was a mess of blood and rent skin. With what must have been his own belt knife, which lay by his hand, Hrolf had ritualistically carved a symbol into his skin. It was a single, staring eye. The lines were deep, ragged, cut down to the bone in places. The deck beneath him was black with his lifeblood.
But that was not the worst of it. The worst of it was the expression on his dead face. His eyes were wide open, staring at the fog. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a smile of rapturous bliss.
“He is smiling,” Leif whispered, standing behind Vott, his voice trembling. “By the gods, he is smiling.”
The quiet horror shattered. A new sound came from the mast. Laughter.
It was Sveni again.
“We are all going to die here.” He strained against his bonds, his eyes burning with a feverish light. The seer’s eyes found the still, silent form of Kol on the prow. “He knows.”
Vott looked from Hrolf’s ecstatic, mutilated corpse, to Sveni’s blazing, fanatical eyes, to Kol’s silent, obsessive vigil. He looked at the golden casket, the focus of it all, sitting impassively on Kol’s lap.
Through a momentary thinning of the fog, Vott saw it. A dark smudge separated the black water from the black sky.
Land.
A final, dreadful understanding clicked into place in his mind. The buzzing. The fog. The deaths. The casket must never make it to land. The thought of this thing, this skull, this curse, touching the soil where his clan, his family, his Estrid lived and played, was more terrifying than his own death in this black water.
He looked at Leif, the last of his comrades besides the mad seer and the possessed chieftain. Leif’s eyes were fixed on the shore, hope dawning on his face. He would never agree to cast this treasure away. Not after what they had lost. Words were useless. There was no time for persuasion. There was only one path.
Vott felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. He pushed himself to his feet. His legs were stiff and uncooperative. He stumbled towards the prow, his axe held loosely in his hand. Kol did not move. Sveni, tied to the mast, stirred, his head lifting.
“Kol,” Vott’s voice was a ragged whisper. “We have to throw it away. Now. Into the deep. Let the sea have it.”
Kol remained silent, a statue draped in mist.
The final, brittle strand of Vott’s reason snapped. With a speed that shocked his own weary limbs, he turned on Leif. The man’s eyes widened in surprise for the half-second it took for the haft of Vott’s axe to crash into his temple. He crumpled without a sound.
This ends here.
Vott hefted the iron anchor, his muscles straining as he shoved it over the side.
Kol stood up.
He rose with fluid grace, setting the golden casket carefully on the deck beside him. He turned to face Vott, the fog swirling around him. Vott saw his leader’s eyes clearly.
They glowed with a soft, steady red light.
The buzzing in Vott’s head intensified.
“Have you forsaken Asgard?” Vott spat. “Your family? Your clan?”
Kol bared his teeth. The red light in his eyes flared brighter.
Then he charged.
He moved with unnatural speed. His great axe swung in an arc. Vott threw his own axe up just in time. The clang of steel on steel was a thunderclap in the unnatural quiet. The impact shuddered up his arms, nearly tearing the weapon from his grasp.
Vott gave ground, his boots slipping in Hrolf’s blood. His blood flared, the berserker fury unleashed within him. Every parry sent jolts of agony through his bones. Kol’s red eyes burned with cold, ancient malice.
Vott blocked another savage blow. He spat blood and phlegm into Kol’s face.
It left an opening. As Kol swung his axe in a wide, decapitating blow, Vott dropped to one knee, letting the axe-head whistle over him. He dropped his axe and plunged his dagger upward with a roar.
The blade bit deep into Kol’s groin, thrusting under the mail shirt and into his flesh, erupting in a bloody spray.
The red light in Kol’s eyes flickered, then died. He staggered back, a look of horror on his face. For a fleeting instant, the inhuman mask crumbled. Vott saw the man he had followed looking out from behind the demon’s eyes. He saw confusion, pain, and then a dawning, terrible remorse as he looked at the dead Leif and the bound Sveni.
The opening was all Vott needed. He surged forward, pushing his leader back with a series of blows, until Kol’s back was against the mast. He raised his axe for the final blow. But before he could, his eyes fell on the casket. It sat on the deck, its golden surface gleaming dully.
He let Kol slide down the mast. The lifeblood pumped from Kol’s stomach in thick, dark spurts. Vott turned and lunged for the box. He would throw it into the sea, send it to the crushing depths where it belonged.
He lunged for the box, but his hand froze above the lid. His fingers would not obey. His arm was locked in place, rigid as iron, as if his own body had mutinied against him.
Behind him, there was a scraping sound. Kol, his life fading, was dragging himself across the deck. He was not crawling towards Vott. He was crawling towards the side of the ship, his great axe still clutched in his hand. He was the captain of the Whale's Bane again.
With the last of his strength. The last act of his own will, he lumbered to his feet and raised his axe. He swung, not at Vott, but at the timbers of the ship he had commanded for ten years.
The first blow was a sickening crunch. The second, a splintering thud. He swung a third time, then a fourth, hacking at the hull. Seawater, black and impossibly cold, surged in.
Kol collapsed. His axe fell from his lifeless hand, its purpose served. The ship groaned, a death rattle deep in its bones, and began to list heavily.
The deck tilted violently. Vott lost his footing, sliding across the slick boards. Sveni screamed as the rising water swirled around his bound ankles. Vott crashed against the railing. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. The ship lurched again, and he was thrown over the side.
The shock of the freezing water forced him to gasp out the last of the air from his body. He was sinking. Down, down into the silent black.
As his lungs burned and the darkness closed in around him, he opened his eyes one last time. He was sinking past the foundering ship, into the bottomless gloom.
He was not alone.
From the abyssal depths below, a point of red light was rising to meet him. It grew larger. Closer. Resolving into an immense, malevolent eye.
THE END
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