Midnight In The Southland

By Todd Keisling

“From the grim Ohio Valley to the mists of the Appalachian Plateau, this is Midnight in the Southland with your host Gus Guthrie. Now, here’s Gus…”

That’s how Midnight in the Southland always started. Back in the ‘90s and early aughts, if you were anywhere in Kentucky, Ohio, or either of the Virginias, you probably heard ole Gus. Ghosts, demons, aliens, government conspiracies—you name it, Gus talked about it. He played it straight, took every caller seriously and treated them with respect, and over the years, he built a reputation for being the “Fox Mulder” of radio. Gus wanted to believe, and the odds were good he’d believe you, too.

I grew up listening to him, usually on those late nights while camping with my dad. My old man would be conked out in his sleeping bag, and I’d still be awake, listening to the whispering trees, crackling fire, and the static-tinged yarns spun by guests on Gus’s show. “We’re all lonely travelers,” he used to say, “wandering empty roads under a weight of cosmic indifference.” I didn’t understand what he meant back then; I just knew I wanted to be a lonely traveler, a mysterious caller in the night, someone who saw or heard or felt something. That never happened. Not while I was a kid, and not while Gus was still alive and on the air.

He died sometime in 2002, just after I’d started college. The Lexington Herald gave him front page real estate. REMEMBERING GUS GUTHRIE, the headline read, and the online comments were filled with everyone’s favorite stories from his tenure at the microphone. They all expressed a similar feeling, one I had often felt while growing up, about Gus being a kind of beacon in the dark forest of the weird.

“What brings you out tonight, Lonely Traveler?” (Continue Reading…)

A Wonder of Nature, In Need of Killing

By Virginia Campen

Aunt Pearl saw the creature first, through the kitchen window. “Snapping turtle,” she said, “a big one, headed toward the cow pond.” She stripped off her rubber dishwashing gloves and shut down the hot water, twisting the busted faucet stem with an old pair of pliers. “I’ll make turtle soup, if anyone has a mind to catch it.” (Continue Reading…)

The Grave of Angels

by Erica Ruppert

Corra Martin, last child of her family line, insisted that I bring her home as a condition of our marriage.

And home, for Corra, would always be Holyoke where it stood on the high cliffs above the sea, exposed beneath the wide murky sky. The town had been all but deserted for years now, as all the coastal towns were. But she had been away for years, and longed for it. I had no deep roots, and wondered at her insistence. (Continue Reading…)

Report On The Flanking Action

by Larry Blamire

From the action report of Captain William Meecher:

“…the engagement ended with the capture of most of the hostiles and seven killed. Among our casualties, one killed and eight wounded. Still unknown as of this date is the fate of Hollis, lieutenant, B Company, and a detachment of the 4th Infantry, along with B Company’s scout, who, as part of a flanking action, were dispatched to the adjoining foothills in support of the cavalry, in hopes of setting up a line of fire above the enemy. All attempts to locate the missing patrol thus far have met with failure. At this late date it does not bode well for their return…”

Captain William Davis Meecher,

Company B, 8th Cavalry

Sept. 13th, 1873 (Continue Reading…)

Ba’alat Ov

by Brenda Tolian

In the night, the spirits spoke with hisses and gurgles like serpents wrapped around my head. I awoke covered in sweat, barely able to breathe, so afraid of what they would ask me to do. They whispered things over and over, crying out for understanding. There was never a choice in my action, only the act itself or madness.

The gift of the Eshet Ba’alat Ov was taboo but if not sent by Elohim, then who? What other power could overtake a child in such a way? My grandmother said it was the power from Asherah, the Lady of the Serpent. She told me this, forbidding me from saying the name out loud. Women were killed for less, and for us, death came slow behind brick or below the soil. (Continue Reading…)

See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Josh Rountree

Dig a hole, climb in, cover yourself in grave dirt. Not your face. You aren’t ready to join the dead, not yet. (Continue Reading…)

How to Win a Dance Contest During an Apocalypse (In Nine Easy Steps!)

by Gwendolyn Kiste

Step One: Find the perfect location. After all, you can’t win a dance contest if you don’t know where to go.

You see the dance floor for the first time when your parents are checking in at the hotel.

“They said on the radio that there were rooms left,” your father is arguing with the concierge who is staring back at you blank-faced from behind the desk.

“There are rooms,” the man says slowly, “for all the good it will do.” (Continue Reading…)