Lucy Miller hurried along the lane, as darkness fell and the hedges on each side seemed to stretch and lean over. Cloud-rags were sweeping across the face of the moon, driven by the chill wind. She shuddered, not just from that wind but also at the thought of Lord Dacre coming up behind her while she helped the cook make gingerbread. With his foul insinuations and hands upon her body… she’d tried to squirm away as he grasped at her skirt and as a result had lost track of how much nutmeg she’d added to the mix. And Mrs Rusbridger always told her to be careful with that particular spice as too much could affect the heart. Still, if the cook hadn’t loudly bustled into the kitchen at that moment with the eggs, Lucy dreaded to think what might have happened.
Her body shook again as she came to the crossroads and before turning for home she looked up at the night sky in despair. Before she had been taken on as kitchen help she had heard rumours, of course. Her own mother had warned her not to give Lord Dacre any reason to take an interest in her. Not that any ‘reason’ was needed, it seemed. But Lucy also knew full well that if she left she’d have a hard time finding another placement. And she and her mum had had hard times enough these past few years, that was for certain. She shook her head sadly. Her tears wet the dirt by the side of the lane.
As she wiped her face a gap appeared in the clouds and moonlight spilled across the fields and hedges. It washed across the crossroads, revealing a huge beast, so black it seemed to carry the shadows with it. As it came padding towards her Lucy could see that it was a dog with eyes bigger than those of any she’d ever seen and which glowed a fiery red. She took a step back, hoping the creature would pass by, but instead it came up to her and stopped as if waiting for some command. Tentatively, she held out her hand as if it were one of the village dogs she often met on her way home. Its great head nuzzled against her palm, before it gently licked her fingers. Without thinking she threw her arms around the animal’s massive neck and sobbed into its fur. When she’d finished and had wiped her face once more, the dog stepped away and looked at her before turning and walking back towards the mansion she had just left. As the clouds passed over the moon again, the beast was soon swallowed up in the darkness, but before it disappeared beyond the curve in the road, it turned its head. For a moment Lucy could see its red eyes looking back at her.
Bursting through the front door, Lucy could barely get the words out to tell her mother what had happened.
“Sounds like you just met a barghest,” the older woman told her as she placed a bowl of stew on the table.
Lucy blanched and held onto a chair for support.
“Does that mean I’m to die soon, mum?” she whispered.
Her mother shook her head.
“It’s a harbinger of death, no doubt, but always of some local notable, not of the likes of you and me.”
The next day when Lucy arrived for work she found the other servants gathered outside and talking amongst themselves.
“Oh Lucy!” Mrs Rusbridger ran to her. “Have you heard? Lord Dacre’s been found dead in his bed. One of the chambermaids hear him ranting in the night, but she was too scared to go and see what was happening. When she went in with his morning tea, well, there he was, as cold and white as the sheets themselves …”
Then she leant in and whispered, “Good riddance, I say.”
Lucy swallowed nervously, then asked, “Do they know what killed him?”
Mrs Rusbridger pointed over to a portly man with large sideburns carrying a leather bag and who was talking to a distinguished looking gentleman. “Dr Brooks there thinks it was some kind of heart spasm, no doubt brought on by overindulgence.”
“But what’s to become of the house? And us? Lord Dacre had no heirs …” Lucy went on.
The cook laid her hand on the young girl’s arm.
“Don’t worry my dear. The magistrate who’s talking with the doctor there has told us there’s a niece a few towns over who’s been sent for. From what I’ve heard say, she’s a fair employer and I’m sure she’ll see us right.”
As Lucy shook her head with worry her eye caught a shape over by the side of the house, half hidden by the shadows cast across the path. Mrs Rusbridger followed her gaze.
“Old Pete the gardener told me there was a large black dog hanging about last night. Fierce it looked, apparently. He went to chase it off, he said, but then it turned and looked at him with these glowing red eyes like it was a demon sent by the devil himself.”
“I don’t think that was the demon, Mrs Rusbridger”, Lucy replied as the magistrate began to address the small crowd.
Steven French is a retired academic who lives in Leeds, West Yorkshire, U.K. He has had a number of short stories and pieces of flash fiction published in venues such as 365Tomorrows, Bewildering Stories, Idle Ink, Liquid Imagination, Literally Stories and elsewhere.
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