When God Sends a Dog

In the year of our Lord 1577, the hamlets of Bungay and Blythburgh lay wrapped in a suffocating stillness, the air taut with the charge of a storm yet to break. In both villages, the faithful crowded into their sanctuaries—stone walls meant to shelter the soul but holding the weight of unspoken sins.

The Church of St. Mary in Bungay was thick with incense and whispers, the rasp of Reverend Harrow’s voice rising and falling like the tide. He was a man who cloaked himself in scripture, yet his eyes betrayed him: sharp, hungry, and cunning.

He held dominion over the villagers with velvet cruelty, their confessions twisted into levers of control. Tonight, as he preached about the strength of faith against worldly storms, a tremor ghosted through his tone as if feeling the storm’s claws scratching at the horizon.

In Blythburgh’s Holy Trinity Church, Reverend Blythe commanded his flock with a thunderous fervor. His sermons dripped with fire and judgment, his words sharp as knives wielded against those he deemed unworthy.

Behind his pulpit, however, Blythe was a creature of cowardice, his bluster a mask for his smallness. Outside the church, the storm growled low and close, its breath rattling the oaken doors. The congregation shuddered but stayed put, eyes fixed on Blythe and the apocalyptic warnings he spat like venom.

Among both congregations were souls steeped in their darknesses. Faces familiar but rotted hearts, like Margaret the midwife, her hands capable of mercy but practiced in betrayal, carried secrets of broken lives hidden behind her sweet-smelling herbs.

Eleanor, the widow whose tongue sharpened the guillotine of gossip, wove ruin into the fabric of every tale she spread. Edward, a farmer who wielded his power like a cudgel, ground his workers into dust beneath their unyielding fields.

Each was torn from life, exposed for what they were, by the Black Shuck.

The storm broke over Bungay with a ferocity that felt almost alive. Lightning tore across the sky, bathing the church interior in a skeletal glow.

The heavy iron bell swung wildly, clangs drowned by a guttural howl. The doors exploded open, and there it stood—the Black Shuck, its enormous frame outlined in the doorway. Its fur shimmered with wetness, its eyes burning like twin coals pulled from the fires of a forge.

Harrow stumbled mid-sentence, his booming cadence guttering into silence. A single whimper escaped from somewhere in the pews, swallowed immediately by the Black Shuck’s growl.

It stepped into the nave, claws clicking on the stone floor, leaving trails of steam where water hissed from its pelt. The beast’s gaze landed on Harrow, and in that instant, the world seemed to pause. Harrow gasped as if struck, his lips quivering with words that would not come.

“You,” the Shuck’s voice was not a voice but a pressure, a weight in the minds of all who heard it. “Judgment is here.”

Harrow fell to his knees, his righteous cloak tearing from him in invisible strips. In a single bound, the Shuck was upon him. The scream that followed was short, choked, and final.

In Blythburgh, the storm hit with the same savage rage. The air inside Holy Trinity Church felt charged, vibrating with something beyond the storm.

As Blythe paused to draw breath, the church doors splintered inward, the Black Shuck stalking in, rain pooling around its paws. Unlike in Bungay, there was no time for silence.

Screams filled the air, prayers tumbling from lips as Blythe shrieked, “Away, demon!” His hand grasped the heavy cross above the altar, but the Shuck’s gaze pinned him in place.

With a final, terrifying leap, the Shuck’s claws found Blythe’s chest. The blow sent him sprawling, the cross clattering from his hands. He lay unmoving, his sins bleeding into the floorboards as if the storm itself had claimed him.

By dawn, the storm had passed, but the scars left were not merely weathered wood and torn shingles. The villagers of Bungay and Blythburgh emerged to find their churches marked. The Black Shuck’s claw marks etched deep into the doors and walls served as a warning or perhaps a promise.

The tales spread quickly. In some mouths, the Shuck became an avenger, a force sent by heaven to strip away the disguises of the wicked. In others, it was a devil, a beast that had feasted on the flesh of holy men to sow fear. But as weeks turned to months, the stories diverged further.

Young Eliza, who had endured years of Harrow’s predation in Bungay, found her voice. She stood before her neighbors, her small frame unyielding as she told of his abuses. Her courage lit a flame in others, and for the first time in years, the village began to speak openly, unearthing what had long festered.

In Blythburgh, the Shuck’s mark was twisted into an emblem of fear as those with power and sin to hide sowed rumors, branding it as a servant of hell. Fear choked the air like smoke, stifling those who might have spoken out. The corrupt buried their guilt beneath layers of superstition, ensuring the Shuck became not a symbol of justice but a specter to keep villagers silent and subservient.

Yet, in the quiet spaces between whispers lingered the memory of its eyes. They burned not with malice but with the terrible clarity of truth. It was not the Shuck that sowed terror but the reflection of oneself in its gaze—a reflection none could turn away from without trembling.

And somewhere in the shadows, on storm-torn nights when the wind carries the scent of rain and wrath–the Black Shuck still walks.

In the quiet of his front porch, 447 years later, the world still felt small under the sprawling infinity of the night sky. For Jordan, life was simple, its rhythm unbroken by the larger mysteries of existence–until the stars betrayed him.

As Jordan stood on the edge of his porch, gazing up at the constellations he had known since childhood, they seemed to shimmer strangely, a trick of the eye as a shadow rushed him from the dark. Then they twisted, their pattern unraveling into grotesque, writhing shapes.

A chill crept through Jordan as the silence of the night deepened, thickening into something oppressive, like the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. He was suddenly lightheaded and on the verge of collapsing.

A sudden burst of light flooded the space around him, searing and blinding. It was brilliant, radiant, and yet offered no comfort. When it faded, it left him unable to see.

Out of the darkness, a shadow emerged: a massive black dog, its fur darker than the void between the stars. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural, iridescent light, their gaze piercing and unrelenting.

It stopped several paces away, staring at him. Jordan’s instinct was to run, but he couldn’t. His body was frozen, not by fear but by something worse—a force that rooted him to the spot.

St. Michael, the Archangel, descended from the heavens with a blazing sword. His presence felt alien, his perfection too vast and otherworldly to comprehend.

“Something ancient has stirred,” Michael said, his voice resonating as though it emanated from the stars. “A force that predates this world—and it hungers.”

His eyes met Jordan’s, and the weight of his gaze was unbearable. “The Black Shuck and I stand against it, but your fate intertwines with ours. You must help.”

The ground trembled, and above, the stars folded inward, collapsing into a singular, writhing point. A portal tore open in the fabric of reality.

From its gaping maw emerged the entity: an incomprehensible horror. Its writhing forms defied description, its geometries shifting in ways that made Jordan’s stomach churn. Colors that should not exist burned in his vision, and when its gaze fell upon him, his thoughts splintered, reforming into jagged, unrecognizable pieces.

“Look away!” Michael commanded, but Jordan couldn’t.

The Black Shuck growled, stepping closer to the portal, its luminous eyes blazing. Despite the terror, its presence steadied Jordan—just enough to move. But the dread remained, deep and primal, as though consuming his existence.

“Follow me,” Michael said, his sword raised, stepping into the portal. The Black Shuck followed without hesitation, glancing back at Jordan as if to say: You are part of this now.

With trembling resolve, Jordan stepped through.

On the other side of the portal lay a realm that defied all reason. The ground beneath Jordan’s feet pulsed, alive and unsettling, with veins that glowed faintly.

The air reeked of rot, sharp and metallic, while the sky churned with impossible colors that bled into one another. Shadows moved in the corners of Jordan’s vision, flickering and vanishing when he turned to look.

Scattered across the alien landscape were towering monoliths, each etched with symbols that seemed ancient and wrong. Jordan couldn’t understand them, but he felt their meaning—a warning, perhaps, or cries for help lost to time.

Venturing further, guided by Michael and Shuck, a narrative began to unfold. Fragments of forgotten lore hinted at beings older than creation, locked in an eternal, unknowable struggle. This entity was one of them—a prisoner now seeking release.

Reality bent and twisted the further Jordan went. The ground sometimes stretched into the sky, and his companions blurred, their forms flickering between the familiar and the grotesque.

Michael’s radiant light dimmed, faltering with each step, and for the first time, Jordan saw shadows pooling at the feet of the Archangel. The Black Shuck moved closer to him, its growls low and guttural, its form shifting in ways that made Jordan question whether it was an ally—or another extension of the darkness.

The whispers began softly, barely audible. But they grew louder as they pressed onward, filling Jordan’s ears with voices he recognized: the long-dead, the long-lost, all calling his name.

“This place is not real,” Michael said, his voice firm but lacking its earlier certainty. His eyes held something Jordan had not seen before–doubt.

At the center, the entity loomed—a vast, incomprehensible mass of writhing tendrils and endless voids. It stretched across the horizon, its presence suffocating.

Jordan felt it seeing him—not his form, but everything: his memories, fears, his failures. Its voice spoke, not in words but in emotions that crushed his mind with terror, despair, and the weight of eternity.

Michael raised his sword, his light blazing one final time, forcing the shadows back. The Black Shuck howled, launching itself at the tendrils, tearing through them with spectral jaws.

But the entity absorbed their attacks, its mass rippling as it pulled them into its endless void. “End it,” Michael cried, his voice breaking. “You must destroy the heart.”

Jordan looked for the heart, but there was none—only an infinite emptiness staring back at him.

Michael was gone. The Black Shuck lingered.

“Raining?” Jordan muttered. It seemed far too dry for that.

Jordan woke, lying on the porch on his back. The night sky was clear and serene, as though nothing had happened.

But he knew better. The stars had shifted. They no longer formed the patterns he had known—they watched, silent and patient.

Then he heard a snort, and his face grew wet again. Slowly, he realized it was not rainfall but the licking of a large dog–and constant.

“Menga,” he said, recognizing his neighbor Rich’s Rottweiler.

“You okay, Jordan?” Rich asked.

Jordan rolled halfway over on his left side and sat up. Menga continued to lap at his face.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jordan answered. “I just need to sit here for a second or two.”

Anna, Rich’s wife, asked, “Do you need help getting up?”

“I don’t think so,” he responded.

Rich suddenly hollered, “Menga, stop, sit!”

The dog backed away from Jordan and sat down, looking him in the face. Her tail thudded on the porch behind her.

“Come here, Menga,” Anna called. The dog obeyed and went to her.

Slowly, Jordan got to his knees, using one of the pillars holding the roof as support, gained to his feet. “I’m okay, I’m just a little confused about what happened.”

“Menga got out of the backyard, and she ran you over,” Rich said. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, accidents happen,” Jordan said. “And besides, she’s still a pup, so she doesn’t know her size or strength.”

“Do you need an ambulance?” Rich continued.

“Naw,” Jordan answered, “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Rich said. “Have a goodnight.”

“You, too,” Jordan said. “And go easy on the dog. She didn’t mean to knock me down.”

As the days passed, the world around Jordan seemed thinner and less substantial. Shadows in his room stretched toward him at night.

He was confused at first when the whispers came, speaking of hunger and the fragility of the barrier he had tried to seal. He had been sure that his experience was only in his mind while unconscious, but now he was uncertain.

The worst part was his reflection. It was not his anymore.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood remained blissfully unaware of the horrors beyond the stars. But Jordan knew they were coming.

He had seen their herald and had felt their gaze. And every time Jordan looked at the night sky, he felt the stars blink, one by one, as if they were counting down, and somewhere nearby, the Black Shock stood waiting.