As to what class of spirits the spectre dog belongs, that is impossible to say.  At the most we can only surmise, and I should think the chances of its being the actual phantasm of some dead dog or an elemental are about equal.  It is probably sometimes the one and sometimes the other; and its origin is very possibly like that of the Banshee.

Spectral Hounds

As with the spectre dog, so with packs of hounds, stories of them come from all parts of the country.

Gervase of Tilbury states that as long ago as the thirteenth century a pack of spectral hounds was frequently witnessed, on nights when the moon was full, scampering across forest and downs.  In the twelfth century the pack was known as “the Herlething” and haunted, chiefly, the banks of the Wye.

Roby, in his Traditions of Lancashire; Hardwick, in his Traditions, Superstitions, and Folk-lore; Homerton, in his Isles of Loch Awe; Wirt Sykes, in his British Goblins; Sir Walter Scott, and others, all refer to them.  In the North of England they are known as “Gabriel’s Hounds”; in Devon as the “Wisk,” “Yesk,” “Yeth,” or “Heath Hounds”; in Wales as the “Cwn Annwn” or “Cyn y Wybr”; in Cornwall as the “Devil and his Dandy-Dogs”; and in the neighbourhood of Leeds as the “Gabble Retchets.”  They are common all over the Continent.  In appearance they are usually described as monstrous, human-headed dogs, black, with fiery eyes and teeth, and sprinkled all over with blood.  They make a great howling noise, which is very shrill and mournful, and appear to be in hot pursuit of some unseen quarry.  When they approach a house, it may be taken as a certain sign someone in that house will die very shortly.

According to Mr. Roby, a spectre huntsman known by the name Gabriel Ratchets, accompanied by a pack of phantom hounds, is said to hunt a milk-white doe round the Eagle’s Crag in the Vale of Todmorden every All Hallows Eve.

These hounds were also seen in Norfolk.  A famous ecclesiast, when on his way to the coast, was forced to spend the night in the King’s Lynn Inn, owing to a violent snowstorm.  Retiring to bed directly after supper, he tried to forget his disappointment in reading a volume of sermons he had bought at a second-hand shop in Bury St. Edmunds.

“I think I can use this one,” he said to himself.  “It will do nicely for the people of Aylesham.  They are so steeped in hypocrisy that nothing short of violent denunciation will bring it home to them.  This I think, however, will pierce even their skins.”

A sudden noise made him spring up.

“Hounds!” he exclaimed.  “And at this time of night!  Good heavens!”

He flew to the window, and there, careering through the yard, baying as they ran, were, at least, fifty luminous, white hounds.  Instead of leaping the stone wall, they passed right through it, and the bishop then realized that they were Gabriel Hounds.  The following evening he received tidings of his son’s—­his only son’s—­death.