Shuckstack #38
June 2026
A Letter from Ada Nemesis
My most patient readers,
Summer advances upon Norfolk with all the confidence of a thing that knows perfectly well it cannot be stopped. The fields are stirring, the days are lengthening and somewhere beyond the edge of a hedgerow something ancient has opened one eye, observed the tourists arriving and immediately regretted it.
The wheel turns, the seasons change and, I regret to inform you, I have acquired a nephew.
Not in the ordinary sense, you understand. He was not purchased from a suspicious antiquarian, nor discovered beneath a fairy mound, nor delivered by a spectral black dog carrying administrative paperwork. He has simply been deposited upon me by relations who appear to have mistaken “writer” for “person with spare time.”
The child, I am told, requires work experience.
This strikes me as unfortunate for both of us.
Nevertheless, having spent many years complaining about the decline of editorial standards, I felt it only proper to contribute personally to their further erosion.
Accordingly, I have entrusted much of this month’s newsletter to him, him being my nephew, Percival Nemesis.
Some editors would hesitate before handing their publication over to an inexperienced youth whose chief qualifications include enthusiasm and an alarming capacity for consuming biscuits.
I am not one of those editors.
Besides, many of you are reading this newsletter entirely free of charge. Under such circumstances, I feel experimentation is not only acceptable but practically encouraged.
The boy has therefore been dispatched into the archives and instructed to report upon the strange, the unexplained and the mildly ridiculous.
He has returned with accounts of a public house in Great Yarmouth where a beef steak achieved independent flight; another encounter with Norfolk’s most persistent canine celebrity, Black Shuck, who continues to appear in lonely places despite having been dead, supernatural, legendary or some combination of all three for several centuries; and a report concerning mysterious lights above a field at Hemblington.
Why Hemblington, specifically, remains something of a mystery.
The lights themselves seem a plausible explanation until one learns that the boy has recently developed a keen and otherwise inexplicable interest in the village and its immediate surroundings.
As an editor, I naturally refrain from speculation.
As an aunt, I am considerably less restrained and therefore invite readers to draw their own conclusions.
Whether my assistant has improved these stories or merely rearranged them remains to be seen.
I shall reserve judgement until I have read them myself.
As for the magazine, I am aware that certain individuals continue to enquire after the progress of Shuck Eight. Such enquiries have become increasingly frequent and, I must say, increasingly pointed.
The matter is in hand, the matter has always been in hand. Whether it remains in hand for a sensible length of time is, naturally, a different question altogether.
You will find a further update from my temporary assistant later in this newsletter. He appears to have formed opinions on the subject.
This was not part of his brief.
Until next month, keep to the paths where possible, avoid making bargains with anything older than Christianity and if you happen to encounter a flying steak, a luminous sky or a gigantic spectral dog, do try to take notes, it saves an enormous amount of time later.
I now hand you over to my temporary assistant, whose enthusiasm remains intact despite prolonged exposure to the publishing industry. Dreadful place.
Ever yours, in delegation and plausible deniability,
Ada Nemesis
I am Percival Nemesis, currently undertaking a period of work experience under the supervision of my aunt. The supervision has thus far consisted primarily of being handed increasingly large piles of books and told to “look useful”. I hope you enjoy my work.
Extraordinary disturbance at a Great Yarmouth hostelry
By Percival Nemesis, Acting Public House Correspondent, Investigator of Paranormal Catering Incidents and Defender of Proper Meat Handling
Residents of Great Yarmouth will be interested, and perhaps somewhat alarmed, to learn of a singular occurrence said to have taken place within the kitchens of the White Horse Public House, Northgate Street.
The affair concerns a respected member of the culinary staff who, whilst engaged in his ordinary duties, was startled by the appearance of what h2e described as “a dark shape” standing silently within the room.
The figure, according to reports, possessed no clear features, but appeared sufficiently human in outline to inspire considerable unease.
Believing himself to be alone, the chef is said to have frozen in terror.
What followed has become the subject of much local discussion.
Without warning, a large beef steak reportedly left its place upon a nearby preparation table and flew through the air with great force, narrowly missing the unfortunate cook.
The missile struck the far side of the kitchen, causing a considerable commotion and prompting the immediate retreat of several members of staff.
No explanation has ever been satisfactorily offered as to how the meat became airborne.
The steak itself, having served its mysterious purpose, declined to make any further statement.
The incident, which happened in the early 2000s, has revived older rumours concerning the White Horse, which was converted into three town houses in 2004.
Patrons had long spoken of shadowy figures glimpsed in corners and reflected in mirrors, particularly after nightfall. One investigator of ghostly phenomena even claimed to have captured images of distorted faces appearing behind the public bar.
Whether these reports arise from supernatural agency, overactive imaginations, or the regrettable effects of strong ale remains uncertain.
Yet one question continues to trouble local minds.
If a spirit truly wished to make its presence known, why choose a beef steak? The answer, perhaps, lies beyond the veil, or simply confusion between a steak and a stake and a ghost and a vampire.
A report on the progress of Shuck Eight
By Percival Nemesis, Temporary Assistant Editor, Acting Deadline Observer and Unpaid Apprentice
Readers may be reassured to learn that Shuck Eight has neither vanished into the realm of Faerie, been carried away by spectral hounds, nor become trapped in one of those Norfolk lanes which appears on no map, possesses no signposts and nevertheless turns out to be exactly where you’re supposed to be.
It exists, I have seen it on several occasions.
Indeed, I have been shown pages, illustrations, notes, drafts, proofs and what I can only describe as alarming quantities of research. The magazine is therefore not imaginary, although there have been moments when its publication schedule has appeared to be.
The forthcoming edition concerns itself with faeries, though I feel obliged to repeat my aunt’s warning that these are not the decorative creatures commonly found adorning greetings cards, garden ornaments and the more regrettable corners of gift shops.
These are the older sort, the sort who remember promises long after the people who made them have forgotten, and who would almost certainly have strong opinions regarding missed deadlines.
This observation may become relevant later.
I am pleased to report that considerable progress has been made since the last update. Articles have been completed, illustrations have been commissioned, layouts have been assembled, research has been checked.
In short, the end is now clearly visible. Unfortunately, it is currently obscured by a single remaining obstacle: an interview.
More specifically, an interview which was supposed to have been conducted some time ago.
Now, in the interests of family harmony, I shall not dwell excessively upon the identity of the individual responsible for this delay. It would be ungenerous to mention that she is also the editor. Or that she recently entrusted me with writing this update. Or that she has spent the last several months referring to publication as “imminent” in the same manner that geologists refer to continental drift.
Instead, I shall simply observe that the interview remains outstanding, the interviewee has been remarkably patient and certain members of the editorial staff may wish to avoid entering into legally binding agreements with faeries until this matter has been resolved.
Nevertheless, I remain optimistic: Shuck Eight approaches steadily.
Whether it arrives before Midsummer’s Eve, when the fae are traditionally at their busiest, remains uncertain. It would undoubtedly be advantageous from a marketing perspective. It would also save me from having to answer the same question repeatedly on behalf of a publication whose editor is, at the time of writing, still “just finishing one thing.”
Readers familiar with my aunt’s work will know that this phrase has no recognised relationship with ordinary measurements of time, a fact I feel able to state with confidence because she rarely checks my copy before publication.
Editor’s Note: The author has been spoken to.
Assistant Editor’s Note: I have not.
Extraordinary illumination of the heavens above Hemblington
By Percival Nemesis, Acting Correspondent for Celestial Phenomena, Medieval Murals and Villages Chosen for Entirely Professional Reasons
An unusual occurrence is said to have taken place in a field near Hemblington during the year 1997, where five local gentlemen engaged in the respectable pursuit of metal detecting reported a spectacle which none could satisfactorily explain.
The party had assembled in hopes of discovering Saxon silver, Roman coins, lost buckles or, in accordance with long-established Norfolk tradition, absolutely nothing at all.
The evening appears to have been progressing in a disappointingly earthly fashion when the sky suddenly erupted into brilliant flashes of red, blue, green and purple light.
The illumination was so intense that the entire field was bathed in shifting colours.
One imagines the effect was rather as though a travelling fairground had somehow become detached from the Earth and drifted into the upper atmosphere.
The lights continued for some moments but then, as abruptly as they had appeared, they vanished. No sound accompanied the display and no object was identified, explanations did not emerge, rather it seemed that the heavens simply switched themselves off.
What makes the affair particularly interesting is its location.
For Hemblington is already home to one of Norfolk’s most remarkable medieval treasures: a magnificent wall painting depicting the adventures of St Christopher.
Visitors to the church may observe giants, devils, martyrdoms, miraculous staffs, miraculous healings, executions, conversions and enough supernatural activity to keep an entire monastery occupied for several centuries.
Indeed, St Christopher’s own story features a giant seeking the most powerful being in existence, eventually discovering that neither kings nor devils were equal to the task.
One cannot help wondering what the saint would have made of a sky suddenly flashing purple.
Whether the lights originated from visitors beyond our world, a phenomenon of the atmosphere, or some celestial display beyond current understanding remains unknown.
The five witnesses returned home without alien artefacts, messages from the stars, or even a decent Roman coin.
Instead, they possessed the customary harvest of bent wire, corroded iron fragments, and an object which one enthusiast confidently identified as a Saxon fitting until it was recognised as part of a lawnmower.
Such disappointments will be familiar to every detectorist in the county.
Shucks of Norfolk: Bergh Apton Shuck
By Percival Nemesis, Temporary Assistant Editor, Recorder of Black Dogs and Firm Believer That Walls Should Mean Something
An incident of a most singular nature is reported to have occurred upon the road between Thurton and Bergh Apton during the closing years of the late war.
The account comes from a respectable local gentleman returning home from a darts match shortly before midnight.
The witness was at pains to state that whilst he had consumed refreshment appropriate to the successful pursuit of darts, he was in no sense overcome by liquor.
Indeed, he remained sufficiently alert to notice the sudden appearance of what can only be described as an enormous black dog.
The creature reportedly emerged near a pond opposite Washingford House and launched itself directly towards the cyclist at approximately crossbar height.
This detail alone presents certain difficulties: ordinary dogs, whilst capable of enthusiasm, rarely attack bicycles by means of aerial assault.
The witness described the animal as being as large as a substantial Labrador, though considerably more alarming in temperament, possessing a shaggy underside and a mouth filled with formidable teeth.
“I expected to be knocked from my cycle and bitten,” he later recalled. Readers will doubtless sympathise, for there are few circumstances less desirable than meeting a gigantic snarling dog on a deserted Norfolk lane at midnight.
One can think of only two: meeting two gigantic snarling dogs, or meeting one gigantic snarling dog whilst pushing a punctured bicycle.
Yet the strangest part of the affair was still to come.
Having charged at the terrified cyclist, the beast abruptly appeared on the opposite side of the road and disappeared directly into a wall: not over it, not through a gate, INTO it.
This manoeuvre, whilst uncommon amongst Labradors, has long been associated with the spectral hound known throughout East Anglia as Black Shuck.
Descriptions of this mysterious animal vary considerably. Some report eyes blazing like red coals, others speak of breath hot as a furnace, some claim the apparition foretells death, while others insist it serves as a guardian of lonely places.
What all accounts share, however, is the conviction that the creature is not entirely bound by the ordinary rules governing dogs – or, indeed, walls.
The shaken cyclist pedalled home with commendable speed, establishing what may have been a local land-speed record for a gentleman returning from a darts fixture.
As for Bergh Apton itself, we note with approval that its village motto declares it to be “A village where wonderful things happen.”
One cannot help but admire the optimism. Most villages would hesitate to advertise the presence of a supernatural death-hound capable of emerging from ponds and passing through brickwork. Bergh Apton, it seems, simply considers this one of its attractions.