Imagine the North Norfolk coast at night in the grip of a terrifying storm.
Then picture, if you will, three men and a boy walking along the cliffs. They are dressed in simple sweaters and rough trousers. Suddenly one of them stops and points at something in the distance. His companions look and spot a dark shape some way off. As they try to see what it is, a dreadful howling is born along by the wind. A howling that cannot possibly come from the throat of any animal alive today. It chills their spines, they cannot move for the terror that runs through them. The boy starts to whimper, his hand clutches tightly around that of his father. Again that god-awful howl comes from the terror of the cliffs.
"What in God's name is it?"
"How should I know, let's get out of here!"
"Come on dad, let's go!"
The men and the boy turn and run, the father picking up his son in order to go faster. Behind they can hear the howling coming closer and closer. One man slows, struggling to avoid the urge to look back.
"Keep going!"
He can't hear the voices of his companions above the wind and the howling. The poor fool stops and turns round.
His companions cannot bring themselves to look as they hear his screams. The boy's whimpers become sobs as he guesses the fate of his uncle.
The next day, men and women from the coastal towns and villages set out in a fruitless search for the missing man. Eventually, however, it is assumed the poor soul is dead. The boy and his father keep quiet, wanting to avoid ridicule for their far-fetched tale.
However, the other man, a close friend of the boy's father, loses no time in selling his story to the local papers.
The interview runs something like this:
"Mr Henry Rolleston, you say that your friend's death was not an accident?"
"I do. We were walking along the cliffs last night when we heard something howling terribly. Don't know what it was to tell the truth, but it were awful big."
"You didn't see it up close?"
"No. But I tell you it weren't no ordinary beast I know of."
"Do you have any idea what it might have been?"
"No."
"What happened after you heard the howling, did you wait to confront this thing?"
"We're not daft round here; we took to our heels and didn't look back. ‘Course, Fred had to stop and see. That's why he's dead."
"And you won't venture a guess as to what killed him?"
"If someone can catch the beast, then I'll tell you if I had any ideas. There's many a strange tale round here and you'd do worse than to leave ‘em be."
Of course, the journalist, Albert Smyth, has had his curiosity piqued. He leaves the company of Henry Rolleston and sets out for the one place he knows he can find what he's after; the local pub.
Inside, all is quiet save for a small smattering of conversation. The few souls who sit on the bar stools and at the tables are the local fishermen who have yet to venture out onto the rough seas.
"A pint of bitter," Smyth orders.
He takes his pint and settles onto one of the bar stools. His feet barely reach the beer-stained floorboards. On the stool next to him sits an elderly fisherman in a worn fleece jacket. He takes a long pull from his own pint before taking out a weather-beaten pipe and lighting it. He puffs away slowly, methodically, his eye turning slightly to take in the young journalist sitting next to him. Smyth coughs politely before plucking up the courage to speak.
"Have you heard about what happened last night?" he asks pointedly.
"I have."
"Um, do you have any idea what happened to the poor man?"
"Black Shuck."
"I'm sorry?"
"Black Shuck."
"What does that mean?"
"It means nothing. It's His name."
"Whose?"
"The hell-hound."
Smyth cannot help laughing, "A hell-hound, in the twenty-first century?"
"He don't care what century it is."
"Could you tell me about him?"
"Ain't much to tell. He's been around here for as long as anyone knows; comes and goes as he pleases, leastways no-one's tried to stop him." The old man laughs at his own joke whilst Smyth remains silent, genuinely intrigued, "We're in the middle of his hunting ground here and I'd be the last out on a stormy night - that's when he's to be found out and about."
"Has anyone seen the dog recently?"
"Not for many a long year. Though he's been seen often enough through the ages. Now, you take this church in Suffolk - don't remember what it's called - about five hundred years ago; the congregation are all gathered to give their prayers when a storm comes up out o' nowhere. In the middle of this, with the wind howling and the lightening flashing, the doors burst open and in rushes Shuck himself.
"There's two people, a man and a boy, kneeling before the alter. Old Shuck, he runs up and kills ‘em both. Another man, he's shrivelled and burned just by seeing the beast and brushing his hand against his fur. Then, as the dog's running back out, the old bell tower collapses on top of the church. It's a miracle only the first two were killed. Anyway, you go to that church and you'll see old Black Shuck's marks on the door when he left."
Smyth, pleased with the information he has gleaned from the old fisherman, leaves the pub and goes in search of the father and son who also heard the beast's howl the previous night.
It's a small bungalow near the sea-front. The garden is over-grown and there is an abused hatch-back in the open garage. The paint is peeling from the front door and the bell doesn't work. After Smyth knocks a few times, the door is opened by a boy of about ten or eleven years.
"Hello, there," says Smyth in a patronising tone, "Is your dad in?"
The boy doesn't answer. A middle-aged man in a t-shirt and jeans comes jogging down the stairs and stands behind the boy.
"Mr Grimsdyke?" asks Smyth.
"Yes. Can I help you?"
"My name is Smyth, I was wondering if you could tell me about last night."
"Nothing to tell. My friend is missing and that's all we know."
"What about the monster, dad?"
"Monster?"
"My boy here swears it was a monster; don't pay any attention, it's just a childish fantasy."
"What makes you think it was a monster?" asks Smyth, kneeling down to be level with the boy.
"I heard it. We all did. Dad says I was imagining things, but I know I wasn't."
"What did you hear?"
"Howling, like a dog. I've never been so scared in all my life. But it can't have been a dog; no dog could have made that kind of noise."
"Look, Mr Smyth, I appreciate your trying to do your job and make a living, but I'd appreciate it if you'd kindly leave us alone."
"I understand Mr Grimsdyke. I'm sorry to have taken your time."
He leaves the father and son standing in the doorway. Smyth knows that there is more to this than meets the eye. There is, of course, nothing left to do but to visit the cliffs himself at night, since that is when, according to the local folklore, the dog is supposed to appear. However, with most of the afternoon left to him, Smyth takes it upon himself to find out about the events in the Suffolk church mentioned by the old fisherman. At his home near the outskirts of town, Smyth makes a quick search on the internet. It's so simple to find anything out these days with the advent of technology and it isn't long before Smyth has found what he wanted to know. The church is called Holy Trinity and is located in the village of Blythburgh near the border between the two counties. There are even photographs of the scorched door and, sure enough, they do have the appearance of claw marks. But if a dog made them, then it was bigger than any dog in existence. The smallest mark is at least an inch long and the biggest is around three inches. Certainly, there is proof that something did happen in that church, though of course it surely could not have been a hell-hound?
The night is bitterly cold but the sky is clear with the stars shining brightly. Smyth feels ridiculous spending the night outside on the cliffs when he could be comfortable at home in front of his computer.
"This is pointless!" he snaps at himself, wanting to go home but knowing he will never live with himself if he backs out now. The wind picks up a little, Smyth's coat billowing out behind him. He pulls it tight around his skinny frame; the sudden chill heightens his own feelings of insecurity. He remembers the old fisherman's words, "a stormy night - that's when he's supposed to be out and about."
"Well," Smyth says aloud, "There's no storm tonight at any rate."
The wind picks up even more. Smyth struggles to do up the buttons of his coat as the wind lays into him with renewed vigour. He takes out the small torch he has brought with him. The thin beam is barely enough to light up the ground directly in front, let alone pierce the growing darkness. Smyth feels in his pocket for the small thermos flask he made sure was to hand. Inside he hears the swishing of the black coffee he brewed before setting out. Out to the left, Smyth hears the sounds of the waves crashing against the base of the cliffs. To his right he can see the dim lights of villages further in land. He knows that, should he need to find shelter in a hurry, there will lie the nearest haven. The wind becomes stronger, lashing at Smyth's body one minute, tugging at him the next. He is unwittingly forced nearer to the edge of the cliffs and makes a great effort to stay on the path. Desperately, he holds onto the torch, though he knows it is almost useless. However, it brings comfort to his nervous mind as he wonders, alone, atop the cliffs. Smyth cannot see very far and is thinking of going back, realising what a futile effort he has made for nothing.
But, as he turns to retrace his steps, he hears a great, low, monstrous howl from further along the cliffs. He drops the torch in fright and the light goes out as the howl is repeated once more.
In their house not far from the town of Cromer, Harold and Louisa Fenchurch are sitting down beside the fire. Outside the wind is screeching round the house, rattling the window panes and setting the tiles on the roof to shaking with such a clatter that they must surely all come down in a great tumbling mass of slate.
"It's a rum night out there," Harold observes, turning in his chair to peer out through the window into the inky black outside.
"It'll rain soon, I shouldn't wonder," replies Louisa, "I hope Bert's come into the harbour safely; you know how he likes to stay out as long as possible."
"He'll be alright; the lad's a good fisherman, he knows his business."
"I know; I'll ring Hattie in the morning; she'll know if everything's alright."
"Rum night, like I said - sounds like..."
He stops, the sound of someone hammering on the door and crying out having broken his thought. Harold leaves his seat somewhat reluctantly, having become perfectly comfortable next to the merry blaze.
"Alright, alright!" he calls, becoming more and more irritable.
The face of the young man outside the door soon cools his blood, however. Such a look of abject terror as is etched into Smyth's countenance, Harold has never before seen in his life. He brings the young man, shuts the door and bolts it firmly.
"What on earth is it?" asks Louisa, seeing Smyth.
"I don't rightly know, dear; this poor lad seems mighty upset about something."
"I've seen it!" gasps Smyth, finally coming to his senses enough to speak, "I've seen the dog; it's real!"
"Don't be daft, there's no dogs round here; Louisa, fetch him a glass of brandy, would you."
Smyth, brandy in hand and sitting by the fire tells the elderly couple what has befallen him upon the cliffs.
"You've heard of the missing person from Cromer?"
"We have, though it's obvious the poor fellow fell over the cliff during the night."
"Well, there are some who reckoned he was killed by Black Shuck."
"Oh, what rot!" snaps Louisa, "Everyone knows that's just an old story to frighten children."
"It's not. I've seen Black Shuck this very night."
"Where?" asks Harold, possessing a keen interest in the supernatural.
"On the cliff-tops. I was walking along there with a torch and I heard something howling. It was terrible; froze my blood. I turned to run and I dropped my torch. Oh God, I'll never forget it as long as I live," he takes another sip of brandy and screws up his face at the overpowering taste, "I heard the dog coming behind me. I heard its paws on the ground, its breath panting as it ran. I couldn't stop myself, I had to look back and there it was behind me. It was enormous!"
"Now, lad," says Harold, "You've had a bit of a fright with the storm and everything; your mind's been playing tricks on you. I'll not be surprised if them tales you've heard set your brain to imagining more than is good for it."
"But I did see it! The eyes; oh god the eyes. They were like saucers, huge and flaming red. I'll see those eyes in my sleep, I know I will."
Harold shakes his head, "Well, you can't go back home tonight, the wind's picking up and you'll not find your way in the dark. Louisa, he'll have to stay here till the morning. Have we any blankets for him, I can't say as I'd like him to be shivering in nought but his shirt."
"I've some just finished drying, I'll fetch ‘em down."
"Now lad, you rest here and don't worry. That dog was nothing but your own imaginings; think nothing on it and you'll sleep till morning."
Smyth spends the night seated by the fire, watching the glowing embers in an effort to take his mind away from any thoughts of Black Shuck and the experiences of the night. Outside the wind is howling furiously, but there is something else, the howling of a dog.
The next morning, Smyth awakes from troubled dreams. The elderly couple are sitting at breakfast and are good enough to offer him some before he sets out for Cromer. In the garden of the house there are a number of tiles blown off the roof during the night. Two have shattered on hitting the ground, but one lies virtually whole. That is except for a massive burn in the centre in the shape of a dog's paw.
The cliffs are shrouded in mist and so Smyth takes to paths running over fields and down country lanes until, finally, he reaches the outskirts of Cromer. Understandably still shaken from his experiences the previous night, Smyth remains at home all day, leaving his computer well alone until he feels ready to add his own story to that of the missing man. There is no doubt in his own mind that the unfortunate soul ran afoul of Black Shuck and paid with his life. But, even though he has seen the dog for himself and knows that such a thing does indeed haunt the North Norfolk coast, Smyth cannot bring himself to write such a thing for his newspaper. That is, until he receives a phone call from a friend of his who takes photos for the same newspaper.
"Are you alright?" asks the voice on the other end of the phone, hearing Smyth's own shaky words.
"I'm fine, what can I do for you Jack?"
"I was hoping I could do something for you. I've finished over here and I was wondering if you needed someone to take snaps for whatever you're working on."
"I might. Listen, can you come over here for about lunchtime, I'll meet you in the pub down at the pier."
"O.K; are you sure you're alright? You don't sound that great."
"I'll tell you about when you get here."
At lunchtime, Smyth leaves his house and goes to the pub. Jack, a photographer for the same newspaper, is already sitting at the bar.
"Blimey, mate, you look terrible."
"I don't exactly feel great, to be honest. Can we grab a table?"
"O.K"
The table they choose is tucked away in a corner.
"So what's going on?"
"I doubt you'll believe me, but last night I had the biggest scare of my life."
"Right; what happened, you nearly drown or something?"
"Something even worse... I'm probably wasting my time."
"No, hang on a minute. Sorry, I'm all ears."
Smyth relaxes and recounts the events of the previous night.
"You're joking!"
"I'm not; that's exactly what happened."
"So where do I fit in?"
"I'm going out again and you're coming with me."
"Don't I get a say in the matter?"
"Nope. If this thing comes again, I need pictures that I can show people."
"You're out of your head! If this thing scared you so badly the first time, what makes you think you can face it again?"
"So you believe me?"
"Let's just say I'm keeping an open mind."
"But you will come?"
"Well, I've not got anything pressing to do. I'll pack some sandwiches; we might need them."
They order another drink each and set about planning how best to prepare for the coming night.
As the two men set out the wind is screaming through the town and the rain is lashing down. Jack has a cheap camera wrapped up in a plastic bag with the sandwiches. Smyth has bought a larger torch and has it thrust deep in his pocket. As they climb up the cliff path the two men tell each other they must be mad.
"The thing will never be out on a night like this!"
"Oh yes He will! I was told He always comes out during a storm!"
They carry on despite the raging tempest. Smyth takes the torch out of his pocket and switches it on. The light is barely strong enough to pierce the darkness. When they reach the top of the cliffs, Smyth looks round slowly to get his bearings. The rain begins to slacken, as does the wind.
"This is ludicrous!" snaps Jack, "If this dog's out tonight, it'll be frozen to death before we can find it."
"I've told you, it's not a living creature."
"Rubbish."
"Oh come on; and don't drop those sandwiches."
They press on.
Some way along the cliff, they come to where Smyth first heard the howling. He points out the ruined shell of the torch he dropped to Jack.
"Bad light for photos," the latter muses, "Even if I can take a picture, I doubt it'll come out very well."
They carry on passed, leaving the broken torch behind. The wind and rain have ceased, leaving a fresh scent in the air. Yet the atmosphere is tense. Jack, for all his bravado, is quivering in his boots. They walk slowly, talking in half-whispers, every step deliberately quiet. Jack holds the bag still to prevent it rustling. Smyth points the torch-beam down at the ground rather than see what lies ahead.
Behind there is a sudden flash of lightening, followed by a distant, hollow roll of thunder. Jack jumps at the sudden light, his nerves strung up to braking point. Again the flash of lightening, again the booming thunder. The sound is drawing nearer with each flash; the men know they have little time before the maelstrom is upon them.
"There! Do you see it Jack?"
"Mother of God!"
There, in the distance stands the very beast they have been searching for; Black Shuck.
The hound is massive beyond belief. His coat is jet black and shining brightly with each flash of lightening. His great head gazes out to sea, his ears forward, pricked up as if listening. A long tail lashes fiercely to and fro.
"Get a picture, quickly!"
"It's too far; you'd never make anything out."
"Then we have to get closer,"
"If you're so desperate, you take the picture!"
"Come on, we can't miss this."
"I said forget it!"
"Don't shout, he'll hear us."
But it is too late. Slowly, inexorably, the hound turns to look at the two men. His eyes are great round saucers, blazing with an unholy red flame. His mouth opens in a silent snarl, the teeth are gleaming white, long and sharp. He howls, a terrible sound that freezes the two men where they stand. They cannot move, they cannot speak for the terror that grips them like a vice.
In one long bound, the dog covers a quarter of the distance between it and the two men. But the movement has broken the spell and they, too, run for all they are worth. They see the house that Smyth went to that first night and head for it as fast as they can. Behind they hear the padding of the hound and the panting of its breath as it runs after them in long leaps and bounds. There are lights in the house, small pinpricks that shine weakly into the night. Jack turns to look back. The hound is only a short distance away, its teeth bared, its eyes brighter than ever, a hungry look in them. Jack drops the bag as he and Smyth jump a low fence. They hear the hound leap the same fence and land on the other side. Lightening flashes, thunder rolls and the heavens open. A great deluge that soaks the men to the skin, it swamps the fields, slowing them down as they struggle to escape.
The house is close now, so very close. Smyth and Jack cry out, desperate to alert the occupants to their plight. The curtains are pulled back, a vague shadow stands at the window looking out into the night. Smyth cries out for someone to open the door; surely the figure can see their pursuer; surely they can see how close he has come. Jack and Smyth plunge over the garden fence and beat furiously on the door.
"For God's sake let us in!"
"Help us!"
The door is opened, the two men falling in. Harold slams the door shut against the night and its unholy terror.