Before we delve into the folklore - here's my version of the legendary skriker in my Victorian monster fantasy series (Book Four).
The red-eyed beast pushed itself clear of the bracken that had hidden it. Slobber dripped from the matted hair about its jaw.
Christ almighty, it was a massive thing. Silas suspected if it were to stand at full height, its ears would brush his chest. But it crouched low, coarse black hair hanging from its belly and brushing at the leaf litter. That strange eye pierced into him, its sheen the colour of a sun caught behind the glow of a grass fire. Its much smaller twin was a minuscule speck of crimson, as though the creature held the eye nearly shut.
Unlike the cloaked men, this creature held no shadow. As though Silas needed any reassurance of this beast’s otherworldliness.
He adjusted his hold on the shaft, all too aware of his precarious stance. He needed to get off his knees; this position was far too vulnerable. But as the scythe’s tune crept low, he listened. And what he thought he heard was a call to stillness. A note of warning to stay where he was.
Night-black lips peeled back from yellowed fangs. Menace rolled off the creature.
Christ, now would be a terrible time to have read the scythe wrong. Sweat coated his palms as the standoff dragged on. His fingers ached from his tight hold upon the wooden shaft. The beast lowered its broad snout, shoulders bunching as it crouched lower still. Silas’s stomach dropped, even as the melody fluttered about him.
‘Get out of here!’ The cry startled both man and beast. ‘Go on! Get out!’ A figure burst out of a clump of late-flowering brambles, charging forward with a flaming wooden torch. ‘Be gone. I’m not scared of you, mongrel! Get!’
Charlie. Good god, the woman had lost her mind.
She held the narrow piece of wood like a lance, poking the flames ahead as she edged towards the crimson-eyed beast.
‘Charlie stop!’
The beast growled, exposing fangs the length of Silas’s fingers. It sank low, pressing its belly to the leaf litter.
‘Go on with you!’ Charlie cried. ‘Last chance.’
She thrust the flaming torch into the beast’s face. Silas clambered to his feet, panic making the movement stilted and cumbersome. With the creature distracted, he might reach it in time to stop it before it pounced.
He took just one step, and something miraculous happened.
The animal backed away from Charlie’s flames.
‘That’s it, turn tail and run, you fleabag!’ Her eyes danced with flickers of radiant light. ‘Go on with you!’
Bloody hell, fear must have driven her to lunacy. Or was she truly enjoying this as much as it appeared? Whichever it was, her bold actions had the desired effect. The beast took a tentative step back, swinging its head towards Silas as though sizing up whether a meal was more readily available there. It twitched its tail, snapped its jaws, and did just as Charlie had demanded.
Turned tail and ran.
(This is a read-in-order series—start with Book 1 below.)
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The Skriker in folklore
There are many 'black dog' myths in Great Britain.
The legend of the skriker comes from the North West of England (Lancashire & Yorkshire) but there are others such as the Black Shuck of East Anglia, or Old Scratch(y) in parts of the North of England.
The skriker (or shrieker) is a fearsome beast with long black hair, huge paws and enormous eyes of red. If you hear his howl or shriek or scream, death is coming...for you, or someone close to you. This dog is a canine portend of death, in the same way as the Banshee, who screams for those whom death awaits.
The black dog is not always seen, sometimes only its dreadful screams will find you. Or you might hear the sound it makes as it walks; said to be like "old shoes walking in soft mud". In Lancashire this gives the Skriker another name - Trash, which is another word for trudge or slog.
The name Skriker is also derived from a dialect word for screech, which references its terrible sounds.
In The Diabolus Chronicles, the skriker is the namesake of Book Three. And there are interesting times ahead when this black dog meets Silas Mercer, an ankou; a deliverer of death. But he's also a man who could really use a faithful hound; even one that looks as monstrous as the Skriker, and whose screams could make the dead turn in their graves.
Ready to check out the skriker, and many other mythological creatures in my dark historical fantasy series?
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