Bark at the Moon
An urban fantasy short story set in the Mythocide universe [2800 words]. Even Mal is surprised when a spooky, ancient legend comes to life in rural Suffolk.
“What’s over there?” I ask my guide James, pointing at a white plastic tent covering part of the rear of the churchyard. He’s an internet acquaintance of several years. We converse frequently on the subject of cryptids on some forums on the dark web. He has an encyclopaedic knowledge of mythical beasts and local legends despite having had none of my hands-on experience with the creatures.
“That’s why I brought you here,” he says. “They found the foundations of an old Roman temple while they were putting up the scaffolding to stabilise the steeple. They called in some archaeologists and they made an even more surprising discovery.”
“What was it?” I feign interest. Clouds are gathering overhead and I’d rather be in the pub sampling the local beers before the inevitable rain hits.
“I think it’s best if you see for yourself.” His normal academic reserve is replaced by a growing excitement, he can hardly contain himself.
We walk up to the tent. A plump old woman in a headscarf is seated behind a picnic table in front of the entrance.
“Five pounds,” she says, holding out her hand.
“It’s for a good cause," James says. “They need the money to repair the church spire. Besides, this is going to be right up your alley.”
I fish a ten pound note out of my wallet and hand it to the woman. “For the pair of us,” I say.
Inside, I can hear the East Anglian rain start to tip-tap on the plastic roof. Once I get used to the glare of the arc lights, I see some trenches, each a few feet deep with stones showing in the walls and on the floor.
“Fascinating,” I say, not trying too hard to cover my disappointment.
“Over here,” James says, grabbing my arm and pulling me to the far end. “What do you think of that?”
On the floor of a wider, deeper trench is a skeleton of a large quadruped, half-covered in earth. Parts of its peat-mummified flesh still remain. “What’s that?” I ask him. “A horse?”
“Look at the skull. It’s a canine.”
“A seven-foot dog? Unlikely,” I say.
“It’s a barghest!” he announces with joy. “This proves it, doesn’t it? It’s all true!”
“That’s a bit of an assumption.” I don’t mention that I’ve hunted a barghest before and it was a lot bigger. Some people sleep better not knowing the truth. “What does the science say?”
“They are analysing samples at the university - carbon-dating and if we’re lucky, they might even find some DNA.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, James,” I say. “It’s probably just a wolf. The British Isles used to be overrun with them.”
“Don’t you see? It’s Black Shuck. It all fits, the location, the strata. Don’t you want to believe?” I shrug. Belief can be dangerous in my business.
It seems that the whole town has gone Black Shuck crazy. James forces me to visit an exhibition in the local library. Did I mention that I’d rather be in the pub?
Much to my surprise, the exhibition is very well done. There are paintings of contemporary re-imaginings of the devil dog hanging on the walls, along with summaries of the local legends. Different manifestations of a huge, shaggy black dog with enormous, burning red eyes stare at me from around the walls. It’s incredible how accurately tales can describe the creatures from Beyond the Veil. Precise word-of-mouth retellings of the creatures that used to share our earth which now only exist in our imaginations (and the occasional stray that crosses over: but that’s my job to try and get them home).
I have to admit that it’s interesting but it doesn’t prove that the skeleton is anything more than a large dog or wolf. You can’t blame them though. Reviving a local legend might help bring in the tourists, especially with Halloween just around the corner.
I take the opportunity to learn all about Big Shuck’s history, from his first sighting at Peterborough Abbey around 1127 as part of the wild hunt up to its starring role at the church here, in 1577 where, according to the thrilling witnesses’ accounts, it mauled two worshippers to death during a storm and caused the church’s spire to collapse. Its scratch marks are still visible to this day but even James’ enthusiasm can’t convince me that they are anything more than a few scorch marks on the ancient wood of the doors.
I thank James for the visit and offer to buy him a pint. He suggests the Green Dragon.
"There's only one Dragon in Bungay, and that's Green," he jokes. Why am I not surprised that he’s a Tolkien nerd?
The afternoon session turns into evening drinking as James recounts tale after tale of cryptids and conspiracies and secret tunnel networks, linking them back to mythology and psychology in fascinating detail. He’s a great talker after a few beers and a lot of what he says ties in with my own research (although I make sure never to mention that I have practical experience with a lot of what he’s talking about. Believe me, it gets hard not to boast about hunting mythical beasts once you’re in your cups).
There’s a humongous clash of thunder and the darkness outside is spilt by lightning. I take that as a sign to depart. I use my phone to find a hotel just around the corner and book a night. I offer to pay for a room for James too, he’s in no state to drive home tonight. He gratefully accepts. My crypto funds might have taken a beating recently but I got in early enough to still be generous. It is kind of my fault he’s in that state after all.
I’m woken up by sirens (police, not the singing nautical spirits that lure sailors to their doom - you have to be precise in my line of work). I dress and go down to breakfast where I join James who is already tucking into a full English.
“What’s all the fuss about?” I ask him as more emergency vehicles pass close by with sirens blaring.
“No idea. I’m trying to eat myself out of this hangover,” he says, wincing at the noise. “We can go and see if you want.”
There’s quite a crowd gathered around the church and several police cars and an ambulance have their lights flashing across the walls of the church.
“What happened?” James asks one of the bystanders.
“Mrs Abbot is dead,” they reply.
“Who’s Mrs Abbot?” I ask.
“The woman who was on the door to the archaeological dig,” James reminds me.
“Let me through, official business,” I say as I stride through the crowd towards the tent at the back of the churchyard. Nobody questions me: blagging is my superpower. “Come on,” I say to James. He follows, mumbling apologies to the crowd as he passes.
“What happened?” I ask one of the ambulance staff who has the old woman’s body on a wheeled stretcher.
“Hard to tell,” he replies, without questioning my right to be there. “No signs of external trauma, I’m guessing it was a heart attack but we’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”
“Thank you,” I say and walk into the tent.
“Where are you going?” James hisses, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.
“I’ve got a theory,” I say. “I’m going to test it.”
“But you can’t just go in there,” he insists, “it’s a crime scene.”
“I’ll donate another fiver to the church restoration fund if it bothers you so much.” Still, he follows me in despite his reservations. His curiosity has overridden his need to follow the rules.
The dog’s corpse is gone. To be honest, I’m not at all surprised. The amount of belief in the legend that the town has been generating would be enough to revive the beast, with or without an actual body for it to focus on. It’s how mythics work, I think.
“I’m guessing the psychic energy from the recalling of the legend revived the corpse. Poor Mrs Abbot saw it when she came to open up and the shock of seeing a hell-hound gave her a heart attack. Case closed.”
James stares at me in disbelief. “The…the legend is true?” he stutters.
“It’s not as simple as that,” I try to explain. “Sometimes, the fact that people believe in something is enough to make it real.”
“Like archetypes?” he says.
“Yeah, a bit like archetypes but representing real entities that exist in a different dimension to us. Our belief empowers them and helps them manifest in our reality.” I’m confusing myself trying to explain it.
“Like in American Gods?”
“A bit like that, but this has been going on long before that.”
“So, finding the dog’s body made the locals believe in Black Shuck and that made it real?”
“That’s enough exposition,” I say. “If Black Shuck has manifested, we have to find it before it does any more harm.”
“You want to hunt a mythical devil dog?” James asks, surprised.
“It’s kind of what I do.” He looks impressed.
“We’re going to need weapons,” I say. I’m totally unprepared, this was just supposed to be a social call. I’ve no contacts in this backwater and it will take too long to order stuff off the dark web.
“I’ve got my grandfather’s shotgun at home, he used to hunt,” James says, clearly excited by the prospect.
“I guess that will have to do. Go get it and we’ll meet up later.”
So, how do I find a giant black dog in a strange town? If it was anywhere obvious, someone would have seen it and I’d have heard about it. I don’t have any of my usual tracking gear with me so I have to go by instinct.
I know that mythics generally shun built-up areas. They live in the liminal places: the twilight zones between the real and the imaginary or ancient sites of wonder.
There’s an old Norman castle in town; that might attract it. I decide to start there, although I’m not sure that I want to find it while I’m unarmed.
The castle is surrounded by modern buildings, I’m not sure that the mythic would be able to overlook the modernity but I might as well take a look while I’m here. I don’t have any better ideas.
I walk through the ruined drum towers into the grass-covered courtyard, sensing traces of a ley line. Dark clouds roll in and cover what was left of the autumnal sun and thunder rolls through the air. I pop my collar against the rain that starts lashing down.
A dark shadow flashes in my peripheral vision. I turn quickly but whatever it was has gone. A crow in the middle of the courtyard turns to watch me. Is that an eyeball in its beak? It flies up to the battlements with its grisly snack which it shares with a second bird which is already up there. Then I see the head and the decapitated corpse a few feet away from it in the courtyard.
I call the police.
The police arrive after a few minutes. Two unexplained deaths on the same day have them spooked. They ask me to come to the station and give a statement. I agree: I’ve got nothing to hide.
While I’m waiting at the police station reception, a couple comes in and the man starts banging on the desk. They look distraught.
The desk sergeant arrives and the woman breaks down in tears.
“Our daughter, Jessica, she’s disappeared. We haven’t seen her since last night. She’s only sixteen,” she says between sobs.
The desk sergeant asks her to calm down. I listen intently as she gives her statement. Her daughter had been babysitting for a neighbour, they came back at eleven and Jessica had left to go home but she had never arrived. They had thought that she might have gone to her boyfriend’s but he hadn’t seen her either. They were beside themselves.
The body in the castle was male so at least it wasn’t Jessica but that didn’t preclude that Black Shuck had taken another victim. I wish I had a gun.
James returns; I sush him as he tells me that he’s got the shotgun in his car. A police station isn’t the best place to talk about such things.
“Don’t worry,” the sergeant says, “we’ll organise a search. She’s probably just wandered off somewhere and got lost. We’ll find her.”
The police quickly organise a meeting in the town square. Most of the townspeople were already out, wondering what had happened at the church. Not much usually happens around here, evidently.
The police call out for volunteers over their loud hailer and soon, a hundred or more people are ready to take part in the search.
Most of the locals head off East, into the marshes. It makes sense, it’s treacherous terrain. If she had headed out there for whatever reason, she could have easily gotten lost.
“I think we should go West,” I tell James. “Nobody else is going that way.” He agrees. He takes me to the boot of his Rover car and passes me a heavy guitar case and a box of shotgun cartridges which I quickly hide in my tactical bag.
“Cheers, this will be a great help.”
We spend the afternoon searching the moors, occasionally calling out, “Jessica!” but we find nothing.
The sun sets and ominous storm clouds appear on the horizon.
“Maybe we should go back?” James suggests as the rain turns heavier.
“Let’s give it a bit more,” I say. “We don’t want to leave her out in this weather if we can help it.”
The ground becomes pitted with circular holes, like a grass-covered lunar landscape.
“What’s this,” I ask James?
“Neolithic mines,” he replies. “They used to mine for chalk or flint here.”
I spot a low entrance to what looks like a cave.
“What’s that?” James shrugs.
We approach the dark entrance. The torch from my phone doesn’t breach the shadows inside. It’s pitch black as storm clouds roll overhead and far off lightning illuminates the horizon in front of us: Stormbringer coming, I think.
I hear sobbing so I crouch down and go inside. A young girl is huddled in the far corner of the low-ceilinged cave. James comes in after me and walks over to the girl.
“Jessica?” he asks.
“It won’t let me leave,” she sobs.
“It’s OK, we’ll take you home.”
“He won’t let you!”
I hear a ferocious growl from the cave entrance behind me. I turn to see a giant, black snout drooling in front of me. Blazing red eyes the size of dinner plates illuminate the entrance.
“Black Shuck, I presume,” I say as I load the shotgun.
“Don’t!” Jessica says, putting her hand on my arm. “He saved me. That guy was trying to hurt me in the castle and he killed him. He brought me here to protect me.”
I lower the gun. “So are you going to let us go, Black Shuck?” I ask as I walk towards the exit. The hound snarls and snaps its jaws at me. “I guess not then.” and I raise the barrels level to its gaping maw and put my finger on the trigger.
A horn rings out and the beast’s ears prick up. A second sounding and it scrambles away from the cave entrance. I quickly crawl out behind it and encourage James and Jessica to follow.
Outside, the rain is like a wall and I can barely see a few feet in front of me. What I can see is like a shadow of a giant hound and a host of horsemen.
The full moon, a hunter’s moon, briefly breaks through the clouds. It silhouettes maybe twenty indistinct figures on horseback or some other kind of mount. It’s hard to tell through the rain and mist.
One of the horsemen speaks. “Gers, we have missed you.” Through the gloom, he appears to be wearing an antler-horned helm. The hound seems cowed. It circles the entrance, ears lying flat, whining pitifully.
A second hound, twin to the first, scampers out of the host. It sniffs the first one and lets out a howl that seems like a welcome. They leap at each other, black tails wagging as they wrestle with each other in a playful fight.
“Your brother Frec has missed you too. Come home,” the horned horseman seems to say through the rushing rain. A shadow in the form of a black bird lands on his shoulder. It seems untouched by the rain.
Both dogs run off to join the ethereal host which disappears into the darkness.
“What the hell was that?” James says. He comes crawling out of the cave, sheltering Jessica under his arm, just in time to see the host departing.
“That was the Wild Hunt,” I tell him.
“Wow! That’s fantastic!” he exclaims, clearly overwhelmed by the realisation.
“The Wild Hunt showing up is anything but fantastic,” I say under my breath. God knows what’s coming next.
“Let’s get Jessica home.”
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Fricking awesome Lumi!!!