Sliced and Diced: Sliced and Diced Collections, #1

Sliced and Diced

A collection of dark and twisted short stories

By

Joan De La Haye

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Joan De La Haye

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise).

www.joandelahaye.com

Cover art by Joan De La Haye

1st Edition June 2017

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Joan De La Haye

Black Shuck

Death Express

Death of a Parrot

Fat Werewolf in the City

Firelight

Impundulu

Jack's Lament

My Life as a Peeping Tom

Slice

The Bride

The English Soldier

The Forest

The Head of Anubis

The Reunion

The Trial

The Violin

Trapped

Be a Freaky Darling

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Fury

Requiem in E Sharp

Shadows

The Race

Burning

Oasis

Sliced and Diced 2

Sliced and Diced 3

Bound by Betrayal

Also by Joan De La Haye

Stand-Alone Books

Requiem in E Sharp

Fury

Oasis

Burning

The Diabolical Series

Shadows

The Veil

The Oubliette

The Race Series

The Race

Training Days

Besieged

Retribution

Consequence

The Patron

The Eternally Cursed Chronicles

Bound by Betrayal

Short Story Collections

Sliced and Diced 2

Sliced and Diced 3

Black Shuck

"And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,

And its wild bark thrilled around,

His eyes had the glow of the fires below,

Twas the form of the Spectre Hound."

- An old Norfolk saying

T

hat howl has haunted us for three nights in a row, and each time it fills us with dread and painful memories. It’s a death knell for some unfortunate creature, even if it isn’t always an immediate end, but it is always a bloody one. Last night was the end of Mr Brown’s existence. To be honest, he won’t be mourned. He was a notorious drunk, and nobody liked him. He reeked of whisky and never paid his bar tab. He was always trying to beg a drink from others in the pub, unsuccessfully I might add. Mr Brown’s throat was ripped out. He’d come across Black Shuck a year ago while stumbling around on the moor, he survived that encounter, but last night was his last call. The black bitch collected her dues. None of us can understand why he stumbled out onto the moor last night when he knew that she was out there, waiting for him. He knew that he’d had his year, that he’d had more time than others after seeing Black Shuck. Yet he still went out into the mist in a drunken stupor.

We live in a strange little village on the Norfolk coast. Our family has been here since, well…since the eleven hundreds, or at least that’s what Grandpa always claimed. That damn demon dog has probably been here even longer, perhaps since the Vikings invaded and every year the hell-hound claims another victim or two. Somewhere along the line, some smart-arse decided to name the bitch Black Shuck. The name stuck. I say, bitch, because, well, I’ve just always thought of it as being of the female persuasion. Others, including dear old dad, refer to it as a him, because males are just so much more fearsome. I say phish to all that. The female of the species is more dangerous than the rest. Plus, I just like calling it a bitch.

Anyway, some of the menfolk, after getting drunk in the pub, have decided to get all brave, grab their torches and pitchforks, and hunt the bitch down. They’ve forgotten their history. Our ancestors, over the centuries, have all tried to put an end to her stalking anyone dumb enough to wander out onto the moor after dark, when the mist comes up at this time of year, and all of those attempts have ended in tragic failure and not to mention many a death. Some of those deaths have been at Black Shuck's paws and fangs, while others have just been due to drunken stupidity and getting caught in a mire.

As I watch my husband, Thomas, my brother, Richard, and my father drink their whisky, pat each other on their backs, and get each other hyped-up to go hunting for a phantom dog, I want to slap them senseless. One of the other women in the village waves her husband a teary goodbye, like so many other women of the village have done over the centuries. But instead of giving my husband the tearful farewell he wants, I tell him he’s an idiot. He downs the last bit of his whisky gives me a wet kiss on the cheek and follows the rest of the men out of the pub and into the mist.

A hush descends over the pub as wives and mothers wait. I stand sentinel at the window, waiting for the first of the screams that will puncture the silence like it did the night my mother was killed by Black Shuck twenty years ago. My parents had argued that night and my mother stormed out and ran into the night and the mist. My brother and I sat by the window, waiting for her to come home, but all we heard were her screams.

And tonight is the anniversary of her death.

Ever since that night, I’ve hated waiting. Some would say that in many ways, I’m still waiting for her to come home. I’ve never been a particularly patient person, probably due to my abandonment issues. Thomas likes to tell me that I have those in spades. He’s an armchair psychologist who likes to analyse me. I’m just more of a doer. If I sit still for too long, I start to think things I really don’t want to be thinking about. Going out there is tantamount to committing suicide, but waiting for the screams is driving me crazy. I can’t simply wait here and do nothing. I grab my coat and flashlight and run out into the mist like a crazy woman because that’s exactly what I am. I know I’m being just as stupid as my mother was all those years ago, but I can’t help myself. Before she died, my mother said we had more guts than brains, and that would put us both in an early grave. But it was her own actions that put her in the ground, not mine.

Torches flicker in the mist, and I can hear voices as they head towards the moor. Thomas’ voice drifts on the cold breeze. The sound of his drunken laughter forms a cast-iron ball in my stomach. I want to shout at him and tell him that he’s a bloody fool, but the words freeze in my throat. I’m trying not to panic. Before my mother died, I was what some might have called a rational sceptic, but I gave up being rational about Black Shuck the moment the bitch took my mother. Now the rest of my family are dangling themselves at her gaping jaw, which is wide open and ready to snap shut around their necks, her fangs waiting to rip out their throats.

The church bells clang through the mist, courtesy of Father Michael who rings them for the brave fools heading to their death. The church was built on a Leyline, on the edge of the moor, on top of the cliff overlooking the beach. Father Michael has been the priest here since before I was born. It’s not the first time he’s rung the bell on a night like this for the men of the village hunting for Black Shuck. He believes they’re doing God’s work and encourages them every year to go on the hunt, just another reason I won’t set foot in his church. He’s clearly insane and has no respect for human life or any common sense for that matter.

I can feel the surface of the ground change beneath my feet. I’m no longer on the solid tar surface of the road, and the ringing of the bells sounds closer. The smell of the ocean is stronger, and the air seems to have a colder bite. I’m on the moor and in Black Shuck's territory. Mist swirls around my ankles and up my boots. My hair, damp from the fog, clings to my face. As I try to wipe the strands of hair off my cheeks, I realise that they’re wet, not from my hair or the mist, but from the tears I’m shedding. I’m crying and didn’t even realise it. Bloody ridiculous!

The shouts from the men seem nearer. I’m catching up to them. I hear Thomas talking to Richard. He’s telling some dirty joke, and Richard laughs uncomfortably. He’s never been very comfortable with bawdy jokes, probably because he isn’t comfortable with his own sexuality. I just wish he’d come out of the closet and admit who he truly is. Life would be so much easier if he were just honest about it. However, Dad would probably not take it well. If our mother had been alive, she would know how to handle the situation.

A scream erupts out of the dark. It seems to echo and reverberate. I don’t think its Thomas or Richard, but I can feel that ball in my stomach grow and tighten. I run in the direction I believe it’s coming from, but the sound is muffled, and I’m disorientated. I trip over a rock.

Richard is shouting. Torches flicker through the mist, converging from different directions to where the scream came from. The metallic smell of blood hangs in the damp air. An involuntary shiver creeps up my arms and legs as I approach the huddled group of men. The look on Thomas’ face makes me want to escape, but I keep walking towards the huddled group of men with their sympathetic, pitying, looks.

Don’t look, Thomas says as he tries to shield me.

I push past him. I know what I’ll see before I see it. That cast-iron ball shoots from my stomach up to my throat and my jaw clenches. My face is hot and cold at the same time. Shock settles into my bones. My father has joined my mother. His throat has been ripped out. Blood seeps into the ground, turning it red. Richards’s arms are around me, squeezing me, strangling me. I wait for the tears to stream down my face again, but I have no more tears to cry. I’m numb.

I watch from a distance as Thomas and Richard pick up his body. The men of the village have lost their will to hunt down the black bitch. With slumped shoulders, they follow the corpse and its bloody trail back to the pub and their wives and mothers. They’ll probably sip their beers and huddle by the fire and tell tall stories about my father’s life, stories I’ve heard so many times before. It’s the same way the hunt has always ended, with blood, and tears, and stories of the fallen.

I can’t seem to move my feet. I stand there, staring down at the puddle of my father’s blood. Richard and Thomas keep walking towards the village with my father’s corpse dangling between them and don’t notice that I’m not with them. Their voices and torches fade away. I’m alone with my grief.

Or at least that’s what I think until I hear