Newton's Macabre Tales New episodes of "Newton's Macabre Tales" are released every month, featuring tales of terror, death, madness, and the paranormal.

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!

Dark Horror Flash Fiction
The contents of an Anglo-Saxon museum incur an investigation with deadly consequences.
Museum curator Jarvis Collins stood at the front of the room, beaming with pride as he surveyed his assembled guests.
“Welcome to my collection of Anglo-Saxon antiquities and skeletons,” he said, gesturing broadly at the array of items on display. “We dedicate this room to the era when England was under the control of Germanic invaders. They ruled the country for several centuries. These relics are a beautiful testament to that bygone age.”
The guests, gathered in the room, gazed at the artefacts in rapt silence, marvelling at the intricate details of the weaponry, jewellery, and other objects.
“Look closely at this sword, or seax, as they were called,” Jarvis continued, pointing to a particularly elaborate-looking blade. “It was probably forged by a skilled artisan, and it would have been passed down from generation to generation in the hands of an elite warrior, or huscarl. It would have been a symbol of power and status, as well as a tool for combat.”
The guests continued to listen attentively as Jarvis moved to a group of ornate necklaces.
“And here we see some beautiful examples of Anglo-Saxon jewellery,” he said. “High-status women undoubtedly wore these pieces, using them to highlight their wealth and status. The Anglo-Saxons were famed for their metalwork, their intricate designs and fine craftsmanship. These prized artefacts are truly a sight to behold.”
As Jarvis spoke, the guests continued to gaze in awe at the relics before them. The richness and diversity of the collection was truly astounding, and it was clear that Jarvis had spent countless hours curating it.
“Thank you all for coming,” Jarvis said finally, as he brought the tour to a close. “I hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into the world of Anglo-Saxon England, and I hope you’ll return soon to see more of my collection.”
Jarvis turned to go, but he quickly stopped as a man approached him.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me?” the man asked. “My name is Quentin Blythe.”
Jarvis smiled. “I will see what I can do, Quentin. How may I help?”
“I’m a professor from King’s College and I am rather interested in your collection of skeletons.” Quentin walked among them. “I would really like the opportunity to perform a DNA test on them.”
Jarvis nodded. “That’s certainly possible,” he said. “I’ll need to take your contact information and get back to you. Can you give me your telephone number?”
Quentin nodded and gave Jarvis his contact information.
“I’ll call my boss now,” Jarvis said. “In the meantime, please explore the rest of the museum.”
The man thanked Jarvis and wandered off to examine the other artefacts in the room.
Jarvis returned to find Quentin examining one of the skeletons in its glass display case. “Ah yes, that is the skeleton of what we assume to be an ancient warrior. You can see from his skull that he died from blunt force trauma.”
“What a startling observation.” Quentin walked around the display case, peering at it from all angles. “You are clearly an expert in your field. Are you an osteobiographer?”
“An amateur at best,” Jarvis said, bowing his head obsequiously.
“And are you familiar with the external occipital protuberance?” Quentin turned to face Jarvis, who was smiling even wider, his eyes glittering.
“I believe the modern vernacular would refer to it as ‘text neck’,” Jarvis reached into his pocket. “Tell me, how did you learn about osteobiography?”
Quentin adjusted his glasses. “Oh, I studied—”
“Not at King’s College.” Jarvis pulled an ancient iron blade from his pocket. “I just phoned them and they don’t have the foggiest notion who Quentin Blythe is.”
Quentin lunged forwards, knocking the ceremonial dagger to one side and cracking his fist into Jarvis’s chin. Jarvis fell to the floor, kickin

A Dark Horror Short Story

A text message arrives, triggering a terrifying countdown.
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A Dark Horror Short StoryLove and suspicion make dangerous bedfellows.Dining in an exquisite French bistro in Soho, Susan and Gerry's romantic date night unravels into an unexpected, heart-stopping climax.


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A Supernatural Horror Short Story

Paradise isn't all it's cracked up to be.
David awoke to find himself in Paradise. A beautiful mansion, a friendly angelic guide, and all the food and drink he could ask for.

Soon, he'll discover the truth with soul-destroying consequences.

To read the full text click here:
https://www.newtonwebb.com/post/welcome-to-paradise-by-newton-webb
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