Death Hunt: Mortlake Series, #6

By David Longhorn and Scare Street

Bloodthirsty creatures stalk the English countryside…

Paranormal investigator Marcus Mortlake leads a busy life. Between battling the supernatural and dodging faculty review boards, the professor has little time for personal affairs. But when a man he met a long time ago mysteriously dies, it isn't long before a sinister turn of events drags Mortlake into the mist-shrouded moors beyond the city.

Something has been stalking England… Something not of this world. But for once, his team gets help from a powerful ally.

As Mortlake finds out, a secret department of Her Majesty's government has been assigned to investigate possible supernatural activity. Led by the foxy Desmond Drax, they too have a stake in these strange occurrences.

Forced to form an uneasy alliance with Drax, Mortlake soon finds himself fending off a pack savage beasts. These voracious creatures seem to phase in and out of our reality. And with each kill, the pack grows larger.

Can Mortlake and his allies stop these beasts' relentless hunt before it's too late?

Or will the pack continue to grow and devastate all of England?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224114092

David Longhorn

David Longhorn was born in North East England long before the internet, but fortunately they had plenty of books in those days! He enjoyed reading all sorts of fact and fiction in childhood and also became a huge fan of old horror movies and the BBC’s Ghost Stories for Christmas on television, despite losing a lot of sleep as a result.He went on to get a degree in English Studies, which somehow led him to a career in local government, which in turn took him into a recording studio where he provided voice-overs, read news, and did a lot of other audio stuff. It’s been that kind of life, really – a bit random but quite interesting. All the while he was reading and writing supernatural fiction, influenced by both the classic tales of writers like Ambrose Bierce, M.R. James, and Edgar Allan Poe, but also by modern masters such as Stephen King. He hopes to write a lot more about the world of the dead and undead, assuming they let him...

Book preview

Prologue

Old Black Shuck, he’s often seen on the roads around here of a night-time. Like a great big black dog, he is—but with these huge unearthly glowing red eyes! Eyes as big as saucers, some say!

The old man paused for effect.

Though, of course, you’ll find some folk ’round these parts do tend to exaggerate.

That got a chuckle from some of the other drinkers.

Jethro Larkin was holding fort in the bar of the King’s Head. He had a captive audience, as it was the only pub for miles around. But Jethro seldom, if ever, told his stories to the locals. No, it was always the visitors who got the benefit of his knowledge and wisdom. They were the ones who would—more often than not—buy him a drink.

Tonight, Jethro’s audience consisted of two young fair-haired foreigners. They were the typical Nordic backpacker type, clear of eye and strong of thigh, keen to see the English countryside firsthand. Jethro hadn’t asked if they were Danish, Swedish, or whatever, but their excellent English suggested Scandinavia or maybe the Netherlands. Naturally, the tourists had decided to stop at a quaint village pub for a sandwich and some warm beer. And that had brought them straight into Jethro’s lair. At seventy-nine, his eyes were not as sharp as they had been in his heyday as a poacher. But he could still spot a likely audience a mile off.

Around him, the regulars nodded and smiled to one another. Old Jethro with his yarns was a local attraction. TripAdvisor rated the King’s Head quite highly, in part because of the high chance of yarns being told at almost any time. Jethro wasn’t the only yarn spinner, of course, but he considered himself the best.

On this particular evening, he’d been regaling the blonde hikers with stories about the village and its environs for the best part of an hour. They were ghostly tales mostly, with a smattering of folklore and some actual history. He’d started with the Weeping Nun of Wandsley, who had allegedly been walled up alive for dallying with a priest. He’d moved onto the massacres of the Civil Wars, with severed heads fired out of cannons and such, then returned to mysteries like the marsh lights. He’d held his audience enthralled and when he’d tapped his empty pint glass and mentioned that his throat was a little dry, the amiable foreigners had happily bought him another beer.

You should be ashamed, Jethro, the barmaid had muttered as she’d served him. I could recite all that myself. I’ve heard it so many times.

He did not dignify her criticism with a reply. Jethro had long since come to see the odd free drink as a fair reward for sharing some authentic facts and fancies with tourists. After all, soon, this nice young couple would return to Amsterdam, or maybe Stockholm or Helsinki. They would tell relatives and friends about the charming old gentleman who’d regaled them with fascinating stories about East Anglia. And thus, he reasoned, the tourist trade would grow while Jethro’s bar tab would not.

It was, as the young folk said, a win-win situation.

This Black Shuck, said the female tourist when Jethro paused to take a pull at his beer. It is a bad dog, or a good dog?

Jethro smiled, glad to have been given an opening.

Ah, now that’s a good question, he began.

He went on to tell the tale of his maternal grandfather, who had encountered Black Shuck on the night of a new moon back in 1932. Or thereabouts. The man had been walking back—somewhat unsteadily—from a wake in a neighboring village when he’d sensed something keeping pace with him, close by the hedgerow that edged the country lanes.

Now, the sound he heard, Jethro explained, was like the pat-pat-pat of four feet on that old, unmade road, with the odd click of sharp claws now and again. And so my granddad naturally thought it was a dog, maybe one that had strayed from a farm, or mayhap some gypsy encampment. So he wasn’t too alarmed. You see…

And here Jethro held up a stout blackthorn stick he’d inherited from his grandpa. He had this. He carried it just in case of footpads, and he would soon see off any vicious mongrel by giving it a clout. But then he saw something that sent a chill to the pit of his belly.

The old man paused, for effect and to take another swallow.

It was Black Shuck which he saw, yes? asked the male tourist, killing the mood. That was the problem with foreigners, Jethro thought. Sometimes they thought in a literal kind of way. But he always made allowances, so long as the ale was flowing.

It was indeed, my young friend! he declared, setting down his glass with an emphatic thud. It was indeed!

The barmaid rolled her eyes and drifted to the other end of the bar to watch TV. With subtitles. She also made a point of tapping her wristwatch. Jethro was on a deadline. Nobody was ever so heartless as to interrupt a storytelling with the clamor for mere news or football. But there was an unspoken rule in the King’s Head. If there was a big sporting event on, or a popular show, Jethro should confine his activities to the buildup or the interval. On this particular night, there would be coverage of the cricket from New Zealand, twelve hours ahead. These time differences fuddled his mind but he knew he had to wind it up before ten. He had less than twenty minutes, which meant less pausing for effect than he’d like.

My granddad, he resumed, on that moonless night, suddenly saw two red eyes, like the rear lights of his old bicycle but not so bright, and a little higher above the ground. Eyes that glowed unnaturally and were too far apart to belong to any normal-sized dog. And that was when he knew he was being followed by Shuck, the old black dog of the byways.

A short pause, then he went on, in a lower voice.

Now, they do say Black Shuck is no danger to anyone if they are a man or woman of good conscience. It’s only evildoers whom he growls at when he dogs their heels. My granddad, now, he’d taken a few rabbits and the odd pheasant, and fished in streams where he didn’t have no license to. But he was a kindly man, attended chapel regularly, and was a good husband and father. So he wasn’t too worried. And—sure enough—old Shuck dogged his footsteps all the way to the edge of the village, just by the churchyard you passed before you crossed the green. And then, just as they got close enough to this tavern and the light was good enough to see by, the great black dog was gone.

Another pause, as Jethro waited for puzzlement and some disappointment to appear on his listeners’ handsome faces.

But then, as you can imagine, my old granddad, he ran across the green into this very bar like the devil himself was at his heels. And the landlord at the time and some others, they came out with lanterns to have a look-see. And when they got to the edge of the green, they saw a muddy puddle, and on the edge of it were these great paw-prints, as big as a man’s feet, where that huge hound had trod!

He finished his third pint and then moved on to the subject of prison hulks that were moored off the coast in the olden times. As he finished the tale of a particularly brutal murder committed by an escaped convict, he was rewarded with another drink. Then the nice young couple said they had to be going. After they’d left, the bar began to buzz with normal conversations and the barmaid turned up the TV.

Jethro left an hour later, at closing time. The cricket had been groan-making, with England collapsing at the wicket yet again. But the evening had been good, considered as a whole. Jethro had bought himself precisely one drink—if you could count adding it to his prodigious bar tab as buying. And it was, as it happened, a clear and moonless night. He looked up at the stars as he paused outside the King’s Head and took in a breath of fresh night air. It was early summer, and he was mildly inebriated. A gentle breeze was just discernible, blowing in off the sea a mile or so away. At home, he had a warm bed waiting, a bed more than half-filled by his plump, even-tempered wife.

It doesn’t get much better than this, lad, he mused. There are many in this sad old world who have it worse.

He set off across the green, past the churchyard, and up the lane toward his cottage. It was just far enough outside the village to give him a bracing ten-minute walk along the cliff-top path. Or perhaps fifteen, as he was weaving about a little. He slowed down, placing his feet more carefully, well aware of the steep drop just a few yards away to his left. The sound of the waves lashing the rocks was oddly comforting, though. The tide was ebbing, and soon would uncover the shingle beach. He’d played there as a boy. Where had the years gone?

Sentimental old fool—time passes, that’s all!

Jethro chuckled, wondering if he was going a bit gaga. Perhaps he was now too old to drink at least five pints a night? He turned over the thought, examining it with some interest. Then he dismissed the notion as absurd. Yes, he’d been told booze would ruin his health. But he felt sure that if he listened to doctors and cut down on the beer, he wouldn’t really live longer. It would just seem that way.

Jethro noticed the sound just as he got beyond the glow cast by the village’s handful of streetlamps. It was a very slight rhythmic noise, just barely audible above the waves. His ears were not so sharp as they once had been. But he’d done his fair share of poaching and knew it couldn’t be a sheep or a cow. He stopped to look around and saw, ahead and to the right, a dark form on the other side of the straggling hedge. It quickly moved out of sight.

The animal had looked as big as a fair-sized pony, maybe four feet high at the shoulder, or thereabouts. But it hadn’t been the right shape. Jethro felt a moment’s uncertainty, then chuckled. Of course, it might be Black Shuck. He’d never seen the phantom hound, but he had always half-believed in his grandfather’s story. And it would be apt if, having told the tale for the hundredth time, he was finally given his proof of the creature’s existence.

Jethro was no coward, and the beer dulled what apprehension he might have felt. Yet still, he shivered, just a little, as if cold fingers were running up his spine. He spoke out loud, to bolster his courage.

Well, old Shuck, if you’re going to see me home, that’s fine by me, he said firmly and walked on.

He veered to the middle of the path, a little nearer the cliff edge but not too close, and pondered the situation. Was he so drunk he’d mistaken a regular beast for the ghostly hound? That didn’t seem likely. He could still just make out the sound of movement on the other side of the hedgerow. Definitely more like a dog than anything else—and a very hefty one. And now he could hear what might be panting, the rasp of air being drawn in and out of huge lungs.

It really must be Black Shuck.

Jethro smiled to himself. This would be a splendid addition to his fund of anecdotes, the ideal way to round off a storytelling session. Worth an extra pint, at the very least. When he got to the cottage, he might even try to wake Mary up and get her to take a look out of the bedroom window. If she saw the dark shape…

Then it occurred to Jethro that there was one feature of the famous hound that he’d not seen. Those big, glowing eyes. It would be absurd for him to claim to have encountered the spectral beast and not have looked old Shuck in the eyes. Of course, he could just lie about it. But that was not really Jethro’s way—not in matters of folklore, at least.

Jethro pondered, then recalled that a gap in the hedgerow was coming up. Then all that would block his view would be the fence of Farmer Hobson’s field. If the mystery animal kept pace with him, it would come into view. Admittedly, the light was now very poor—he was a good two dozen yards from the village. But if there were red glowing eyes, he’d surely see them.

And he did. As Jethro walked slowly past the gap in the hedge, two points of fiery redness came into view. They were nearly as high as Jethro’s chest, and he stood a shade over six feet. That made him gulp nervously. Black Shuck was supposed to be large, certainly, but this barely-visible creature was enormous. No natural beast could be that size. He felt fear and exhilaration in roughly equal measure. He was not merely recounting a folk story now. He was living it.

Then the growling began.

The sound was so low-pitched that at first, Jethro mistook it for a vehicle passing nearby. But then he grasped the truth. The black hulking creature was angry, or at least displeased. This was new—and alarming. Jethro had never thought of himself as a bad man. Like his grandfather, his wrongdoings had been confined to taking a few of the local lord’s pheasants and trout for the larder.

Now then, he said, trying to sound confident, you don’t want to go bothering me, boy. I’ve done nobody any harm.

Part of Jethro still didn’t quite believe that it was the phantom of the byways. A small corner of his tipsy brain was still holding out for a rational explanation. It gave up when Shuck leaped the fence. Jethro reeled back as the huge beast proved itself to be a thing of solid sinew and bone. It knocked him reeling onto the dried mud of the path.

Buggery hell! He gasped. No, that’s not playing fair, now, old Shucky!

He still had his stout blackthorn stick. The beast, which had skidded to a halt by the cliff edge, was just visible as a moving blur. The glowing eyes now seemed fiendish, downright evil, as it snarled and gathered itself for another spring. Jethro hesitated for a fateful second, unsure of whether he could get to his feet in time. Then he lashed out with the walking stick and felt the jarring impact through his arm.

There was a crunching sound as huge jaws chewed the stick to splinters. Jethro let go and tried to get up, but the red eyes were rushing toward him far too fast. He was knocked onto his back and felt the stench of the thing’s breath in his face. He begged, words spilling out as he flung up his left arm to protect his face. With his other arm, he jabbed the broken stump of the stick into the beast’s neck.

It yelped, shaking its head. Jethro, with the desperate energy of panic, half-crawled away, again trying to stand. But he’d simply angered Shuck, not seriously hurt it. The hound grabbed his left arm and the great jaws closed on his flesh. He screamed, kicked out with one booted foot. Shuck let go and Jethro, off-balance, reeled backward. The ground he expected to fall onto was not there. He saw enormous red eyes vanishing above him, two evil stars amid the familiar constellations. Just before he hit the rocks, he thought of Mary, alone in bed, and wished he could have said goodbye to her.

Chapter 1

Professor Marcus Mortlake frowned. The book in front of him was almost unreadable, the print blurred and faded. It was an old book, of course. As a rule, in his studies of folklore and related areas, old books were the best. But this particular volume seemed to resist scrutiny, almost taunting him by simply revealing the odd word here and there.

He was almost grateful when the knock at the door came.

Yes, come in! he called.

His office at St. Ananias College was cramped and chaotic. It was less of a working space, more of a spare room into which he had dumped the overflow from his extensive personal library. Books were piled everywhere. Whenever a visitor appeared, he felt a slight twinge of embarrassment at the mess. But he never felt so keenly embarrassed that he actually tidied up.

The young man who entered the room was pale, thin, somewhat below average height. His expression was serious, and he had piercing deep-set brown eyes in a swarthy face. A mass of unruly black hair fell to the youth’s shoulders.

Must be a student, Mortlake thought. Can’t quite place the face, though, which is odd. He’s very memorable. Handsome, in a severe way.

Ah, welcome, welcome! Mortlake said, standing up and gesturing at the only other chair in the room. Just shove all that stuff onto the floor and take a pew!

The young man said nothing but gazed at Mortlake for a couple of seconds before looking down at the chair set aside for visitors. It was lower and less comfortable than Mortlake’s office chair—an idea he’d copied from his old friend Monty. But as the young man carefully removed a heap of academic journals and hardback books from the seat, Mortlake suddenly felt slightly ashamed of the ploy.

Why don’t I offer students a more comfortable seat than mine?

The young man looked up and smiled, and Mortlake had the unreasonable but intense conviction that his thought had been overheard. Unlikely, yes. But not by any means impossible, especially given all the weird things that had happened to him lately. Perhaps he had a telepathic student now. That would be quite a challenge. Especially in those early morning tutorials when nobody had anything to contribute and Mortlake started to dream of throwing custard pies at the silent faces around him.

Well, he said, trying to sound hearty and welcoming. What can I do for you?

The young man put the heap of books and journals on the floor and sat down. It was only then that Mortlake noticed his visitor’s clothes. They were remarkably old-fashioned, so much so that he wondered if the young man had come from some kind of costume party or historical reenactment. The youth wore a kind of leather jerkin, apparently without buttons or zipper, and pants of some rough-looking fabric that certainly wasn’t denim. He had heavy brown boots on his feet. Boots with laces not quite covering thick woolen socks.

Looks like he’s cosplaying Lord of the Rings or something.

So, what can I help you with? he asked, still trying to sound hearty.

The young man spoke for the first time. The syllables that emerged from his mouth reminded Mortlake of the book in front of him. He could not quite make out the sense of it, but here and there a word nearly made sense. The language was certainly not English, but it had a familiar lilt.

I’m sorry, he said, when the visitor stopped speaking, but I didn’t quite get that. Erm… are you one of my students, or are you looking for someone else?

It occurred to him that a foreign student or even a tourist might simply have wandered into the building by mistake. There were security measures, but mistakes had been made before. Then he wondered if the person sitting