‘“Have you found any treasure there?” I asked, laughingly.
‘“Bless you no sir,” he replied; “it must have been plaguey damp though, judging by the way it fills with water nowadays. It’s quite ruined the panelling.”
‘“The panelling?” I asked in surprise. “Is your cellar panelled then?”
‘“Aye, it is; or was, because most of it is rotted now.”
‘“Could I see it, do you think?”
‘Wheezingly, he got a hurricane lamp, which he pumped up to renewed vigour, and then led the way behind the deal-topped table that served as a counter, and through a solid wooden door in the wall. A flight of steps led downwards, whence arose a dank, salty smell. The lantern threw fantastic shadows on the crumbling stone walls as we descended. The cellar was simply a big hole, currently somewhat awash with dirty saline water. Crystals that winked in encrustation lines, like tidemarks around the walls, showed the extent of previous floods. Tatty, rotten panels of once-superb oak covered part of the walls, clearly at one with another of the church pews; and there was a pile of rubbish, nets and baskets, in one corner. Mine host indicated a carving on the seat end, all but worn away by many years of handling.
‘“That was said to be Old Shuck, carved on there,” he said.
‘“Is he taken seriously?” I asked. “Do people see him?”
‘“That they do, sir; but folks don’t welcome the sight, that’s for sure. He brings death or bad luck, does Shuck, and that’s the fact of the matter. Why, I remember my old Grandad (who had this pub before my Dad and me) telling me how ‘Toby the Jack’, the last highwayman in these parts, saw Old Shuck one night and vanished from mortal ken, as the saying is. His father—my great-grandad—was innkeeper at the time and, by all accounts, knew a lot of the secrets of the rogues in these parts.”
‘“Have you seen the dog?” I asked amusedly.
‘“No sir, and glad of it too; but I’ve heard him all right, in the night. Many times.”
‘“Calling up the storm, you mean?’
‘“Yessir, and often lying a-bed of a night I hear him come running up the road and knock over the wall outside.”
‘“Knock it over?” I cried, amazed. “What—actually destroy it, do you mean?”
‘“Oh no sir, he never does any damage as I can see, but I hear the stones fall, all the same, so he does knock it down, for all that.”
‘“Amazing,” I said. “When does this happen?”
‘“Why, often of a night, but always when it’s stormy. Don’t you go getting ideas though, young man. It’s bad luck to meet the old dog.”
‘I said no more, but you can guess the tenor of my thoughts, as we climbed back to the parlour. Houses and inns in Suffolk were never locked at this period and I knew I could slip out anytime I wanted. We parted early for bed. I had no trouble in keeping awake—the wind took care of that. The mournful wailing and buffeting certainly sounded just like the howl of a dog and, as I lay there, another verse from the Psalms (59 vs 14) slipped into my thoughts: “And in the evening they will return, grin like a dog and go about through the city.” My uncontrolled mirth when first encountering this verse under the stern tuition of the Christian Brothers had earned me a stiff poena; in the present circumstances I found it even less funny and began to think of abandoning my scheme.
‘It was scorn of my own temerity that really forced me to dress at about ten to twelve. I lit my lamp and crept downstairs, boots in hand. It was difficult to proceed quietly on the old boards, but the raging of the storm and the sonorous snores of the landlord along the passage blanketed the creaks and decrepitation of my progress, and I let myself out of the parlour door.
‘I had formed no conception of the real fury of the storm; luckily I had put on my cycling waterproof. I stood shivering in the doorway, blaming my unpriestly pride and my curiosity for this ridiculous vigil, as the rain squalled into my face, ran off my cape and down into my boots. Visibility was clearly nil, and I was about to give up, when there came through a lull in the wind, an odd reverberation—seemingly from within the house—as of falling masonry, quite audible above the storm. Then a huge black shape rushed past at furious speed towards the sea wall. I had a momentary glimpse of two dull red lamps and a lumbering outline, galumphing along, shaking the ground. A flash of lightning split the sky and I saw . . . nothing; just the empty beach below, lit up by the blue-white glare; but there came a long howl of agony, a snarling yell almost, promptly drowned by a monstrous clap of thunder and sound of a thunderbolt.
‘“Thor, of course,” I muttered hysterically, thinking suddenly of that long-haired figure on the font and the staff that must surely be a hammer, “come for his hound.”
‘I turned back into the house, hanging my waterproof up to drip on the back of the door. I was about to cross the parlour to the stairs when—again—I heard the sound of masonry shifting; seemingly from the cellar below. The cellar door was open, and peering down I saw undulating light cast on the wall by a lamp, rising as someone climbed out of the basement. Here was an enigma indeed! Do sleepwalkers need a lantern to light their way? For it was the landlord and he certainly appeared to be asleep. His feet were leaving wet impressions and the hem of his nightshirt was soaked; clearly the cold water in the cellar had not woken him. He came past me and on, up to the bedroom. What had he been doing? In a moment my reprehensible curiosity had me descending to the cellar.
‘Down there the storm’s noise was less apparent, though water dripped drearily somewhere close at hand. I stopped at the foot of the steps—or, rather, at the water’s edge—holding my lamp up high. Nothing seemed disturbed save for wet splotches on that old oak pew in the corner. Well, I had my boots on, and the water was only a foot or so deep . . .
‘I was about to cross to the corner, when I realized that the light was failing. My Tilley lamp burned as fiercely as ever, but the light seemed to be absorbed—sucked in almost—into the fabric of the cellar; faster in fact than the flame could emit; resulting in a growing darkness all around. From behind that oak settle, a shape was growing—dimly at first. Its outline strengthened and grew sharper as the lamplight waned; just as if the absorbed energy was building up the phantasm.
‘I stared hard as the shape defined, not liking what I saw. It was just as if a painter were limning-in the detail, pigment by pigment. That the painter would have been a Goya became readily apparent; for the integrated picture became more grotesque with each passing moment.
Drawing by David Lloyd
‘It was clearly the skeleton of a man in rotted clothing, bent double and contorted into an evil, humped caricature of an animal on all-fours. The curvature of the spine stood out with terrible clarity through the rags of a coat. It crawled sluggishly towards me, and a hoarse cry seemed to ring inside my ears, though I cannot be sure I actually heard; for it seemed more like the snapping of something in my brain. Its passage did not disturb the water on the cellar floor, as though to impress on me its intangible nature, but now I saw clearly that the visage was simply shreds of fungus-like skin adhering to the mildewed skull. It came right up to the foot of the stairs (where I stood petrified), and seemed to mow about to one side; slowly pawing as if in search of some object. As I watched the horrible vision, it became clouded, then translucent and—like a misty window clearing—dissolved abruptly into the water at my feet, while the lamplight grew brighter again.