The Wine Cellar by Newton Webb Horror Short Story A new life awaits the happy couple. But freedom comes with deadly consequences. 18th March, 1998, Yorkshire Peter Baker looked out at the crowd of people gathered around his front door, smiling and waving as he and Hattie prepared to relocate to Cornwall. His friend Martin offered him a beer. “Absolutely not, with his blood pressure? Peter will have a lemonade,” Hattie said, sternly waiting until Martin had retracted the offer. “Come now, Hattie, don’t harp on,” Peter said in a long-suffering tone. “If I didn’t give him his tablets every day he would be dead within the week. He has the memory of a goldfish.” “You are still harping on, dear.” “It is only because I worry about you, you silly old goat.” Hattie reached down and grabbed an oatcake with a miniscule piece of cheddar on it, grown sweaty from the sun. “Here, have one of these as a treat.” She patted him on the hand with a beneficent smile. Peter looked at it with disdain and turned away from her to talk to their guests instead. “It’s so wonderful to see everyone here,” he said, stepping out onto the porch and reaching out to shake hands with some of the well-wishers. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to say a proper goodbye to all of you, but we’ll definitely be thinking of you while we’re away.” Hattie, who had been standing behind Peter, embraced each of their friends in turn, hugging them tightly and bestowing kisses on their cheeks. “You’ll be sure to send us postcards when you arrive, won’t you?” one friend asked, clutching at Hattie’s hand. “Of course we will,” said Hattie, smiling. “You know us. We always keep in touch.” “And please don’t worry about the house. I’ve been planning on renting it out for a very long time,” added Peter. “Almost as long as he’s been promising to finish the wine cellar,” Hattie quipped. Gritting his teeth, Peter continued. “I’m sure the management company will care for the home just as much as we did.” “Better in fact. They might actually do some maintenance,” Hattie added, rolling her eyes to the laughter of their friends. After a few more hugs and goodbyes, the celebration ended and the guests departed. “Well then, time to load the car,” Hattie said. “I’ve made us a box of salad sandwiches for the trip and packed some bottles of water.” “Before we go, my dear,” Peter said. “I have something to show you. My secret project.” “You don’t mean to say you actually finished the wine cellar?” Hattie looked at him with concern. “In your condition? You silly goose.” “Now, now, don’t harp on,” Peter said, trying not to grit his teeth. “It was all worth it in the end.” “You are lucky your heart didn’t give out. Or your back.” Peter led Hattie into the house and down into the basement. The vinyl plank flooring had been rolled up and a large rectangular hole had been dug. “Well, you're in no danger of a heart attack from that tiddler. What do you hope to—” CRACK. “I said, ‘Don’t harp on,’ you insufferable b***h!” Peter watched as her unconscious form fell into the makeshift grave, pent up hatred flowing through his veins as his breathing turned ragged from released emotion. Once he had calmed himself, he pulled on a facemask and gave himself over to the most important part of his plan. He emptied a few buckets of lye over the body, shovelled the soil back into the hole, levelled it, added a thick layer of sand, then topped the whole thing with paving slabs. Finally, he covered the basement floor with vinyl planking. He took a step back and admired his work. “A perfect job. Go on. Now tell me I never finish a project.” The room was silent. “Exactly.” He strode upstairs, two steps at a time and went to the fridge, helping himself to his first beer of the year. Taking a serious pull at this long denied treat, he raised the glass. “Good riddance!
