Black Shuck

Long before candles flickered in Norfolk’s churches and fishermen’s lanterns bobbed on the briny creeks, there prowled a creature of living nightmare: Black Shuck, the hell hound of the Fens, whose ember‑bright eyes burn through fog and bone alike. To hear his pad‑pad‑pad on a moonless night is to taste the cold iron of an unfinished requiem on your lips; to glimpse those furnace‑lit orbs is to confront the promise of fate unbound by prayer or sanctuary. Now, as thunder cracks across centuries and the boundary between the living and the lost thins like mist at dawn, we beckon you to step into his domain, if you dare, because once you cross that threshold, you may never walk alone again.