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    Black Dog & Other Gothic Tales
    Black Dog & Other Gothic Tales
    Black Dog & Other Gothic Tales
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    Black Dog & Other Gothic Tales

    By Icy Sedgwick

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A clerk encounters Black Shuck while taking a shortcut. Young men vie to join a shadowy Order by hunting an ancient being through the streets of Venice. A young man accepts a bet to spend the night in a haunted tube station.

    Within these pages, encounter body-swapping mummies, Egyptian princess ghosts, lonely creatures hiding among us,  spectral doubles, and even Death himself.

    Let these stories be your guide to the weird, the fantastic, and the downright Gothic.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIcy Sedgwick
    Release dateDec 12, 2018
    ISBN9781386738930
    Black Dog & Other Gothic Tales
    Author

    Icy Sedgwick

    ICY SEDGWICK is part film academic, part writer and part trainee supervillain. Icy dreams of Dickensian London and the Old West. She writes primarily gothic fiction, although she does love a good Western. Find her ebooks, free weekly fiction and other shenanigans at Icy’s Cabinet of Curiosities.

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      Book preview

      Black Dog & Other Gothic Tales - Icy Sedgwick

      Icy Sedgwick

      Black Dog & Other Gothic Tales

      Copyright © 2018 by Icy Sedgwick

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      Icy Sedgwick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

      First edition

      This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

      Find out more at reedsy.com

      Contents

      Before We Get Started

      Black Dog

      A Woman of Disrepute

      Midnight Screams at Holborn

      The Cursed One

      Something Wicked This Way Slithered

      The Jar by the Door

      The Charterhouse Bullies

      The Dead-House

      Meeting Oneself

      Credits

      Post-Credits Scene

      Meet the Author

      Before We Get Started

      If you enjoy this book, please take the time to leave a short review at whatever retailer’s site you purchased it from. Reviews help other readers find good books!

      You can also get an exclusive short story collection from my website – but more on that at the end of the book.

      Buckle in, keep your arms inside the car at all times, and enjoy the ride!

      Black Dog

      My name is Samuel Phipps and I offer my position as a clerk within a firm of engineers as testament to my sanity. I can offer no other evidence as to the veracity of the events which I am about to relate, other than the testimony I shall lay before you.

      I was staying with my brother in a small Norfolk village; he has been recently married and I had promised to visit with him and his dear wife. On the night before I was due to take my leave, bound once more for London, I had been visiting another friend on the edge of the town. My brother could not make the visit due to illness, and I found myself in a position of having to leave my friend’s lodgings without arrangements for transportation being made.

      It is not so large a village that one feels compelled to travel by coach, or even horseback, and at that moment in my visit, both were extravagances which I could ill afford. I deemed it prudent to make the short journey on foot, and took my leave of my gracious host. Moments before I left, he offered the suggestion that I might shorten my return journey by some ten minutes or so by cutting through the graveyard, instead of following the meandering lane. I thanked him for his suggestion, and stepped out into the cold March air.

      I had not gone three paces when a small hand tugged on my arm. I am not accustomed to frights, or extended indulgence of my imagination, but the suddenness of the act startled me. I looked down and saw that the hand belonged to that of my friend’s maid. She had been returning to the house from the chicken coop when she heard my friend’s suggestion, and she begged me to ignore the advice, and take my intended route. I told her that I wished to return home and if my friend’s suggestion would allow me to do so all the quicker, then I would follow it. She told me that the graveyard was the haunt of the infamous ‘Black Shuck’, and she pleaded with me to take the longer route, all the better to avoid ‘im. The little maid seemed convinced that my soul would be lost should I encounter the beast, seen only in the graveyard on nights such as these, and I saw no way to placate her that would not involve a lie. I assured her that I would take the long walk instead, and left her clasping her hands in gratitude.

      I am not a man prone to such notions, but I regretted my choice the instant I set foot in the graveyard. A narrow gate admitted me in the rear wall, and a winding path cut a swathe between a host of stones. I normally find such places to be fascinating records of human experience, but with a cold wind at my back, and frost in the air, I found I had little time to read the stones. I fancied I heard footsteps, yet when I turned my head, I saw nothing in the moving shadows.

      Something howled in the darkness behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to discover its source. The path was empty. I heaved a sigh of relief and turned back to the path ahead.

      A large black dog blocked my way. Around three feet high, it stood perhaps seven yards away, with ragged fur and enormous paws. Red eyes burned in its impassive face, its features akin to those of a mastiff. It did not snarl, or bare its teeth as I feared it would. It regarded me with vague interest, but I sensed no real malice on its part. I recalled the fevered words of the maid and wondered if this was the Black Shuck of which she spoke. I found I could not move, bound to the spot as I was with fright.

      The dog walked along the path towards me, carrying itself with the dignity one more associates with cats than dogs. It regarded me all the while with its red eyes, and I could not even close my own to prevent my seeing its approach. Some nefarious agency kept my eyes wide open. The dog sniffed my hand in the manner of any normal hound, and lifted its gaze to meet my own. I saw nothing in its eyes, no danger or evil, nor wilful defiance of the Lord. The dog simply…was.

      With no warning, it stood on its hind legs, and pressed its paws against my chest. I would have started for I felt no weight behind the gesture, no sudden movement that may cause me to stumble backward. The dog gazed into my eyes, and let out a single bark. An instant later, my eyes closed and I regained control of my limbs. When I opened my eyes, the dog was gone, and I was alone in the graveyard.

      I hurried home, and arrived at the same moment that I surely would have done had I taken the longer route. I did not tell my brother or his wife of my ordeal, and I retired to bed, pleading a headache. I did not wake for two days, and when I finally did awake, my brother’s wife explained in halting terms that the coach I was to have taken overturned on the journey, killing its occupants.

      I returned to London a day later, somewhat fearful of the coach, and discovered that a fire destroyed my lodgings on the day I should have returned. A host of such tales played out before me, and soon my acquaintances congratulated me on my run of good fortune. I smiled and shook their hands, agreeing in turn, but I could not bring myself to speak of the events in the graveyard, nor tell of the two mysterious marks that had appeared on my chest, marks shaped like those of cloven hooves.

      A Woman of Disrepute

      I always made a point

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