A low mist clung to the dew-soaked salt-marsh as the woman left her cottage garden through the small wooden gate. She set off along the narrow path, as she did every morning, on the way to work at the village store. To her left the marsh stretched out, with its covering of samphire and sea lavender, to the distant sea, a few small boats scattered along the banks of the creeks. To her right an occasional flint cottage punctuated the thick shrubs that lined the path.

This morning there was a strange yellowish tint to the mist and she noticed an unusual smell – sulphurous and unsettling. She glanced at her watch and quickened her pace, despite having plenty of time. The air was absolutely still and the marsh eerily silent. Normally it would be ringing with the whistles of oyster catchers, cries of curlew, and distant rhythmic twanging from the rigging of the many sailing dinghies lying along the bank of the main creek. But today the thick mist seemed to have swallowed all sounds. Way above her head a skein of pink-footed geese headed out from their roost on The Wash to graze on the fields inland. But why were they not calling to each other as they usually did? Her thoughts momentarily wandered to her husband, still sleeping in their warm bed at home. Having recently taken early retirement from Powergen, his task for the day was to start the re-wiring of their ancient cottage. She hoped there wouldn't be a mess when she got home but at least it was saving them a lot of money, and she was getting a nice new cooker into the bargain.

Suddenly something intangible made her stop dead. The acrid smell was stronger, burning her nostrils, and ahead of her, where the path dipped slightly, the mist seemed to be swirling slowly despite the stillness of the air. Something must have disturbed it. Despite knowing every twist and turn of the path she felt strangely disorientated. She glanced back but saw nothing but the outlines of shrubs in the whiteness.  Above all she couldn’t understand why she felt so instinctively scared when she had seen nothing frightening. She just needed to get to the shop, see her colleagues and have a cup of tea.   It wasn’t far now; it would be just the start of another ordinary day. So why the lump in her throat and the gathering tears?

Fearing her legs had locked solid she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and stared intently at the patch of swirling mist. Could there be something there: an animal perhaps? She took a step forward, but again stopped when she saw a large black shape appear fleetingly in the mist. Too big for a dog, surely? Maybe it was one of the young black cattle, escaped from the field next to the marsh. But then her chest tightened as the mist in the hollow evaporated rapidly to reveal the beast. It was a dog, but larger than any she had seen before. As big as a calf, with a massive heavy head, huge blazing red eyes and a thick shaggy coat. The dog stared at her in complete silence. As the woman watched with ever-widening eyes her focus was drawn to the hound’s upper canines: long and yellowing, a string of saliva hanging from one of them.

She knew full well this was no ordinary dog but rather Black Shuck – the spectral hound that frequented the Norfolk coast – harbinger of death. As a child she had been told many tales of Shuck; tales to stop her from straying too far from home on the marshes, or simply as spooky entertainment in the long winter evenings, but to have him standing before her was terrifying. She opened her mouth but could not summon any sound. Every part of her body burned to retreat – to put distance between herself and the shaggy beast that could be upon her in a couple of bounds – yet she didn’t dare take her eyes from it. The stinging in her nostrils made her want to hold the tissue she was squeezing in her pocket to her face, but her hand would not move.

The dog’s head moved slightly, but its saucer-sized shining eyes never left hers, they seemed to bore into her very soul like red-hot drills. The woman’s body started to fail her, and, before she fainted, an overwhelming feeling of sadness blanketed her; emanating from the dog.

His work done, Shuck turned slowly and disappeared into the mist.

Almost as soon as he had gone, rays from the early sun lit the path and revived the woman who felt as if she were roused from a horrifying nightmare. She slowly stood and glanced jerkily around but knew in her heart that she would not see the hound again. There was no point in turning back now, in going home, so she heaved one wobbly leg forward, followed by the other, and was soon staggering on her way.   

Her colleagues in the shop sat the shaking woman down with a cup of hot sweet tea, gathered round and heard her story. They consoled her that Black Shuck was often seen with no consequence. As the day wore on she gradually perked up, comforted by the lively atmosphere of the shop and chatting with the friendly locals. Her encounter on the path started to feel like a bad dream. But on return home that evening the woman opened her door to the smell of cooking meat. Still smoking slightly, with blackened, claw-like hands gripping the old socket he had been removing, her husband’s body was deplete of any spark of life; his grey face twisted into a terrible, final grimace.