Cool Zone Media book Club, book Club, book Club, boo Club. I've never gotten to do this booooky thing before. That's not true. I've probably done it every October, but I don't remember it, because why would I remember doing something cringey? Although, as they say, only the cringe are free, that shouldn't be our tagline here at Kolzon Media book Club, but it kind of could be, except actually I would say that this week's story isn't cringeing at all. It's just good.
I'm the one who's cringey. I'm your host, Margaret Kiljoy. This is the only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. There might be other book clubs where you don't have to do the reading because someone else does it for you, but it's not this one. Also, sometimes I resent my own choice in using that tagline, because while having a story read to you is different than reading, it's like,
not so fundamentally different than reading. I listen to a lot of audiobooks, and I tell people I read those books because, you know what, every single word of them went into my brain. And what is reading besides having words go into your brain? Anyway? We're going to do some horror stories this month and this is one of them. oOoOO okay one more time. Woo. That's how you're supposed
to do spooky Okay. First up this week, we have a story called Kushduka and it's by Matilda Zeller and it first appeared in the twenty twenty three collection Never Whistle at Night in Indigenous dark fiction anthology. It is a creature and a slasher centering around a figure, the Kushduka, which is common in the folklore of people native to so called Alaska. And as for what the creature is, I will let Matilda explain that to you in a
second in the story. And it is a spooky story, and heads up that not everyone's going to make it out. You could probably guess that there's a little bit of gore, mostly off camera. I'll probably be doing more content warnings than usual for Spooky Month, because I don't know whatever. People of different ages and different desires of listening to things listen to things. I'm squeamish and this one was
all right for me. As you listen, you should keep an ear out for what Matilda is doing with perspective. And now Kushduka by Matilda Zeller. You don't have to love him, just make his baby, Mama said, hanging the fleshy swath of salmon to dry. It might have colored eyes, you know, maybe blue eyes. He'll pay you to keep quiet about it. Mama had always been Machavelian, but this was next level. Not even the old ladies who gossiped about her would have guessed she'd tried to pull something
like this. I shuddered and slid my knife up the side of another salmon, severing a long filet of red flesh and silver scales. The cold, wet flesh reminded me of Hank Ferryman's lips, which he constantly licked while talking to us village girls. His hands were wide and stubby, his cheeks were poked and ruddy, and his breath smelled like a caribou carcass that had been left out in the sun for a week. He's rich, Mama reminded me, unnecessarily, and I'm sure he wouldn't be wanting his wife back
in Kansas, knowing he's got a kid up here. The money could really help, you know, He's probably got kids all over the Kobuk valley, I muttered, and I don't want to make anyone's baby, except maybe Paana's. But even then, that's not happening until after I finished college, which costs money that we don't have, which is why this conversation is happening in the first place. I brought down my knife too quickly through the filet and caught the side
of my thumb. Blood blossomed along the cut, and I brought it reflexively to my mouth, the taste of my blood mingling with the fishes. Mama sucked her teeth. Stupid girl, go inside and clean that up. You're getting blood everywhere. The cut stung, but it was a way out of this conversation and away from Mama. I jogged back to the house, pressing my jacket sleeve around the cut, which extended from the tip of my thumb down the side of my palm. Not wanting to take the pressure off it,
I kicked the door with my toe. It was Pana, not my Auna, who opened it. My heart fluttered a little, despite having known him my whole life. What do you do here? He grinned that perfect grin, complete with deep set dimples and one eye tooth missing, having tea with your Ana. Why not that I minded, But he was supposed to be on shift in the mines. There was an accident down at the mines. Frankie an o'clock, and a couple of the white guys too, you know the
ones visiting from Kansas. Which white guys. Maybe one was Hank Ferryman. Maybe Mama would leave me alone. Then Jim and Bob. They all survived, but they're in really rough shape. Had to be flown to Fairbanks. Oh my heart sank a little. How did they get hurt? Pana's face darkened? Maybe you should come inside. Anna waited on the overstuffed chintz sofa, her dark eyes smiling at me from their nests of deep wrinkles. She was aged but ageless. I swear she hasn't changed since I was four years old.
It was Sedna, Anna said, by way of greeting, she's the mistress of the underworld and they're mining into her domain. Hana shook his head. The foreman said it was a bear or maybe some wolves. A bear and maybe some wolves. Honor repeated cackling. He didn't even see what happened. He is throwing guesses into the dark. I sat down next to Pawna Sedna's mythology. Anna, Sedna is angry, Anna interrupted, they're coming uninvited and taking what's ours. They don't belong
here in our land, in our beds. She clutched her draw tight, swallowing hard. But Sedna is gracious enough to give warning. She only tore their guts out. A wolf, for bear would have stayed to eat the guts. They wouldn't be alive in the hospital right now if it weren't for her grace. I turned to Pona my own innards, tightening. Their guts were torn out. Panna nodded, torn up across the abdomen, torn up everywhere. In fact, I raised a skeptical highbrow. And they're saying it was wolf wolves. Hanna
shifted defensively. If they weren't sane, it was wolves, you know who, they'd be accusing us, all of us. I nodded my head. What did you do to your hand, Anna said, reaching for me with one hand and smacking Paana's knee with the other. Panna, why didn't you see she's hurt? Go get the bandages. Pauna jumped up to get them. He didn't need to ask where he knew my house as well as I did. As soon as he was out of the room, Anna leaned towards me. He wants to marry you, you know, I sighed, I know.
Paanna had been saved last year by a visiting preacher and was now determined to marry me before I moved in. Common law marriage was what basically everyone else did, but not Pauna. No, he wanted to go to a little white chapel and promise God he'd love me first. Your grandfather married me first, Anna reminded me, smiling. I know, I repeated. I'd heard the story a million times, how he'd waited and saved until he could take Grandma and Eddie, her baby from a visiting school teacher all the way
out to Fairbanks for a marriage and adoption. He'd wanted to do it properly, he said. She thought it was stupid at the time, but it had grown to be a major point of pride with her. I wasn't sure I saw the point. It was a lot of money, but Pana cared about doing it that way, and I cared about him. Pana returned with the first aid kits and pulled my hand into his lap. Gingerly unwrapping it
from the jacket sleeve. I'm taking Hank Ferryman's boy hunting this weekend, he said, pouring some iodine onto a bit of gauze. Hank says he wants him toughened up out there on the tundra. I rolled my eyes. Panna and his crew would do no such thing, not if they wanted repeat business. They would take the kid out there, make him feel like a big tough hunter while doing all the actual work of packing things, unpacking things, and hauling things, and he would have stories to take back
to his buddies in Kansas. It was about the kid's ego and the dad's too. I'm sure he'll shoot the biggest caribou known to man, I said, with razor sharp teeth. Pana grinned. By the time he gets back to Kansas will have turned into a polar bear that he killed with his own bare hands, added Anna, her face splitting into a wide grin, revealing teeth worn down by years of leather. Working like this, her hands made violent strangling motions. Pana and I melted into a fit of giggles, as
if we were both ten instead of nearly twenty. Panna finished my hand and I stood reluctantly here with him, with my ana. This was my heart's home. Outside that door lay wolves and bears and Hank Ferrymen and Mama. When I returned to Mama, she was smiling. You have a job this weekend, a job with Hank Ferryman. He's having a party at his lodge. He needs hired help, you know, cooking, cleaning. A curdling feeling gathered around my ears. Why don't you go work for him? It was a
stupid question that we both knew the answer to. Mamma rolled her eyes. I already told him you'd go, You're going. No, No. Mamma's hand tightened on the knife she was holding. I did my best not to look down at it. My heart trilled like it was trying to beat for three people. I don't want to. To my surprise, Mamma's grip loosened on the knife and she shrugged. Maybe I'll send esther. Then my mouth went dry. Esther was my fifteen year
old sister, my sweet compliant sister. Mamma wouldn't She couldn't as I stared at her, though I knew she would. I'll go. I picked up my ulu and rocked it across the salmon, chopping its head. That's what I thought, Mama replied. Some days I hate her. But do you know what we don't hate. You're a cool Zone Media book club. We don't hate all of our advertisers. That's right, not all of them. In fact, you can play a game called listen to these ads and decide which ones
you hate, or you could skip them. I don't actually care. And we're back the land of the midnight Sun, bellowed Hank Ferryman, punching my shoulder playfully, more like the land of six PM bedtime. Was he always this loud? Or was the closeness of the truck amplifying his voice? He chortled at his own joke. Topisa, Hey Tappy, I cringed at the improvised nickname. Tell me a native story, I
shook my head. That's a bad idea. The sun had set an hour ago, and we were bumping over the half frozen ground in the dark, with nothing but the truck's headlights standing between us and the darkness. Snow had begun to fall, thick and fast. Alone with someone like him in the darkness like this, seemed the worst possible place to bring up the stories that could catch the attention of a spirit. It's a swell idea, Hank Ferryman doesn't make bad ideas. Don't forget I hired you for
the evening. The last sentence felt like lead between us. He had hired me to cook and clean for his party, not tell him stories. I wasn't hired to do whatever he felt like doing. My hands curled into fists. Still, maybe you would shut him up. Fine, fine, I racked my brain, But in the dark darkness I could think of nothing bright and benign. There once was a girl named Sedna. Her father threw her over the edge of
his fishing boat. She tried to save herself by catching onto the ledge of the boat, but he brought a knife down onto her fingers and cut them all off. They became the first seals, walruses whales. She became the goddess of the underworld. Hank waved his hand impatiently. I already know about Sedna. I got your buddy Pana to tell me about her. Tell me something new. I pulled my coat tighter around me. There are kushduka. They appear to us taking on the appearances of those we love.
They try to get us to go with them, to go with them where I pulled my coat even tighter, suddenly feeling cold. I don't know. Hank was quiet for a blessed minute. Then he let out a guttural snort that blossomed into full blown laughter. Oh you call that a ghost, missy. Your ghost stories are as bad as your watermelons up here. We don't have watermelons up here, Damn straight, you don't. I can tell you some ghost
stories from Kansas that put hair on your chest. In fact, my head slammed into a dashboard as Hank floored the brake, sending us into a fishtail. When the car finally stopped, he sat, his chest heaving as he stared out at the road ahead of us. A figure stood before us in the headlights, cloaked in heavy furs, black hair tumbled down in wild rivulets to her elbows. She pushed back
the rough of her parka. She was me, or would have been, were it not for the pupils that covered the whole of her eyes and the hideous, obscenely wide grin that distorted the lower half of her face. Hank let out a small scream as he floored the gas ramming straight into her. A thunder roll of sickening thuds juttered through me. She tumbled up and over the hood of the truck. I looked behind us, but saw nothing in the tail lights. As Hank continued to pick up speed,
his breathing ragged and shallow. He muttered to himself thickly for a moment, before looking over at me with a little nervous laugh. Some deer you got out here? Huh? I stared. That wasn't a deer. Don't be stupid, Hank coughed. I saw my own two eyes. You saw it with yours. It was a deer playing as the nose on your face. A gentle tapping noise sounded on the glass behind me. I shuddered, unable to turn around. I think there's something in the bed of the truck. Hank's hands tightened on
the steering wheel. No, there isn't. Do you hear that. I felt those eyes on the back of my head. Those eyes all see black pupil, wide and hungry. All I hear is you try to amp me up. Wasn't enough to tell me your ghost stories? You want to spook me now. His body stiffened at the noise. Stop it to Pisa, it's not funny at all. It's not me. Surely he could see both my hands silent in my lap. He huffed impatiently, but didn't say anything else. The tapping stopped,
He relaxed. He laughed a little. You really had me going for a minute there. I didn't reply. There was no point. By the time we reached his lodge in oversized monstrosity on the edge of the lake, he was back to cracking bad jokes and resting his hand on my knee, removing it when I batted him off, only to drop it there again a second later. You'll love this place. I can't believe I've been taking you out here yet. I had everything flown in from anchorage. It's
all custom, top of the line. He was grinning like a kid. I hated his familiarity, as if I were a friend who hadn't gotten around a visiting instead of a village girl whose mother he'd leveraged to drag me out here. He slipped out his side of the truck, swinging back his keys and whistling. I sat on the passenger side, my dread growing in the stillness. I turned this time and saw her. She was me, this cushduka with inky black eyes and black hair, billowing and wild.
When her eyes met her face split again into that freakishly wide grin that nearly reached her ears and revealed pointed molars, meat eating molars, flesh ripping molars. Hank's voice registered from somewhere in front of the truck. Aren't you coming to Pisa? I opened my mouth and closed it again, unable to bring myself to make a sound. The kushduka tapped the back window of the truck once more with
a long black fingernail and disappeared. I tore my eyes from the back window to see him trundling over to the door. You're one of those fussy, old fashioned girls, aren't you. You want a big strong man to open the door for you. Is that it? He chuckled to himself and opened my door. I climbed out, scared to take my eyes off the truck bed, as if doing so would make the kushduka materialize again and leap on us, ripping at us with those pointed teeth. The lodge was massive,
with vaulted ceilings and mounted animal heads everywhere. Above the fireplace hung two spears crossed over each other, like they were European swords or something. But they weren't European. They were into it. I recognized the carvings on them, the worn leather bindings that secured the pointed stone ends. Those spears. Artifacts. They're incredible, aren't they genuine? Ancient artifacts? You know they're my grandfathers. Hank Ferryman smile stayed frozen on his face.
After a pregnant pause, he laughed, you're mistaken. There are so many spears out there like these. I recognize the carving. They're nothing indigenous motifs that have been carved a thousand times over the back of My neck felt tight beyond cringing. If they're not his, Where did you get them? Hank shrugged, as if I'd asked a stupid question. My secretary found them for me, found them, stole them, more likely from my widow to Anna found them, bought them. It doesn't matter.
You're here to work. There's the kitchen, He pointed to a corner of the lodge sectioned off by granite countertops. My secretary was here earlier. They've dropped off recipes and groceries for tonight's dinner. I stalked over the kitchen and grabbed the ulu that was sitting on the wood holder on the counter. Hank bounded over and snatched out from my hands. That's an artifact, it's for decoration. I looked down at the ullu in his hands. It was newly sharpened.
The balan handle was worn, polished to a bright shine from all the times it had been gripped. I wonder who's anna he stole this from. It's a tool for cutting. Hank rolled his eyes. You are basically white. Your dad's dad was white, your mother is white. You should be able to understand that modern knives are better. He pointed to the block of knives on the counter, carbon steel, flown in from Japan, top of the line. Try them, honey,
I promise you'll never go back to an ulu. If he saw I was shaking with rage, he didn't show it. I strode to the knife block and drew out the largest one, grabbing a cutting board and a bag of potatoes. Before I could give in to my urge to run him through with it. See now, isn't that fabulous? Hank Ferryman pumped a fist, as if he had just taught me to fish and I'd caught one. He didn't wait for a reply before continuing, I'll go to take a piss. Make sure the champagne is in the fridge, will you.
No one likes it warm. And you know here at cool Zone Media, we serve all of our products and services freshly chilled, just how everyone likes them. And we're back. I made dinner. Other men showed up and ate, made passes at me, laughed and talked to Hank. I passed the hours in a deep, fuzzy rage, forcing myself with the motions of arranging canopies on a plate, pulling a roast from the oven, slicing it up on a serving tray.
I couldn't bring myself to fake smile at them. There was something outside the house that was clearly murderous and looked just like me. There was something inside of me that was clearly murderous and felt nothing like me. Someone popped the cork off the champagne bottle and I jumped, letting out a small scream. The room exploded with laughter, and Hank grinned at me, pushing a champagne glass over the counter. Towards me. You clearly need to loosen up.
I pushed it back towards him and left for the bathroom. I needed to be somewhere, anywhere, away from these people. I locked the bathroom door and pulled myself onto the counter, leaning my head back against the mirror. It was colder here, a welcome relief from the heat in the main area. I breathed deep, sizing up my options, wondering if I could get the police to look into how Hank got my grandfather's spears, if they would actually care at all.
Probably not. Heavy dragging sound slid across the hall outside the bathroom, I looked down, watching a shadow pass along the crack under the door. The air filled with a thick smell of old fish. The shadow paused. I pressed my lips together, hardly daring to breathe. After an eternity, the shadow continued on past the bathroom door and down the hall. I slipped off the counter and stood in front of the door. The murmur of laughter and conversation
went silent. Hank Ferryman's voice broke the silence to pisa, I told you to leave the artifacts alone. His voice should have sounded plaintive, but it didn't. It trembled. A scream tore through the air, followed by a trampoline of feet, breaking of glasses, more screams. I sat on the counter, my mouth growing dry. Someone was running up the hall towards me. The handle to the bathroom door rattled, followed by pounding that made the door vibrate. Let me in.
The heavy crack of a skull on the floor proceeded a wet, tearing sound. Something dark seeped under the bathroom door, and it wasn't until the smell hit me that I fully registered what it was. Blood. Primal growls turned into satisfied chewing and smacking noises. I pressed my back against the bathroom mirror, drawing my knees to my chest. My heart thudded in my ears, and my breathing sounded too loud. It that Kushduka would hear me, It that creature would
find me. My blood would join with the blood on the floor. After what felt like an eternity, a rustling of furs and patting of feet told me it was leaving. I heard the front door banging open, the sound of feet on gravel walking away. I couldn't stay here. It could come back, it would back. I needed to get home to my auna and her shotgun. Would a shotgun work against a kushtuca? Surely it would. If it weren't flesh and blood itself, it wouldn't be able to do
whatever it just did. I dropped to the floor as silently as I could, holding my breath while I turned the doorknob. I had seen a lot of blood in my life. I had gutted fish and caribou, slaughtered ducks, and sliced up eels. But that was orderly, deliberate, purposeful. This this was not that. Bloody footprints covered the floor, blood spatters and smears graced the walls. There weren't men here. There were pieces of men and trails of men. I took a step forward and my foot grazed something wet.
I looked down. It was an eye, blood shot across the silera. It rolled, revealing a blue iris as blue as hanks. I fell into a squat, hugging my knees, pressing my toes down to stop myself from falling into the mess. I didn't want to touch the ground. I didn't want to touch anything. I pressed my shoulders between my knees and vomited. Outside Hank's sled dogs started barking. Working up into a panic, I looked around. I had
to get out of here. Hank's keys had been in his pocket, but now I could barely bring myself to cast my eyes around the room again. This was a search. I couldn't undertake the dogs. The dogs would take me home and away from that thing, whatever that thing was. I grabbed my grandfather's spear off the wall, the ulu off the counter, and stepped lightly out onto the gravel. New snow was starting to fall, dusting the gravel and
recoding the already fallen snow in the yard. I pressed my back into the log exterior and side stepped towards the barn where the huskies were. Their barking had died down, and now they were all panting and whimpering anxiously. I stepped into the shadowy barn, straining my eyes against the darkness. If she was in here, they'd know, wouldn't they. If she was still there, they'd still be barking. But they weren't. They were just whimpering and staring at me. Still. My
scalp prickled. She'd be coming back. Something deep inside me knew it. I grabbed their harness and began hooking them up as quickly as I could, praying that the snow is deep enough that the dogs would nowhere to go, that I wouldn't fall off. I'd driven a sledge a few times before, but I wasn't good at it, not by a long shot. Something shuffled in the dark. The dogs whining intensified. My hand shook as they buckled the last clasp, and I jumped onto the runners. Something shuffled again,
and the rancid fish smell filled the air. She was here, go, I hissed to the dogs. Mush sh The dogs whimpered, looking around anxiously. I tried to whistle at them, but my mouth was too dry. Something bit into my arm, sharp and cold. I screamed, and the dogs took off like a shot. I snatched the handle with one hand and slapped the kushduka with the other. Her nails dug into my flesh, and searing cold shot through me. I raised the arm she was gripping and bit down hard
on her hand. A scream echoed across the tundra as she fell back and weak gained speed. I looked over my shoulder and saw her in the moonlight, a dark, spidery figure loping towards us across the white snow. I shook the reins, urging the dogs to go faster. The sound of her awkward lope and heavy breathing grew louder. We swerved through scrub brush. She bounded over it. She was gaining on us. Blam. A shot rang out across the hill. Blam. It was a shotgun. Who on Earth
was shooting their gun at this time of night? Blam. I prayed the bullet would miss us, that it would find my kush Duca. We had come into the river, and the dog swerved to run parallel to it. The kushduka cut the corner, closing the distance between us. I could feel her breath on the back of my hand. Smell the blood and fetid flesh. Blam. The smell subsided. I looked back behind me and she was on the ground, inert. The dog slowed to a walk, and my knees buckled
with relief. Blam. Why were they still shooting? The kushduca was dead. Someone grabbed me, throwing a hand over my mouth and another around my waist, tackling me to the ground. Don't say a word. It was Pana. Buck Hanks, boy has absolutely lost his mind. I nodded. We crawled behind a rock and sat stock still fleeing our breathing with our coat sleeves. Footsteps grated across the stones on the river bank. I got one, two, three, little Indians all
for me, Buck sang. I ignored Pana's whispered protests and peeked around the boulder to see Hank Ferryman's son nudge the inert Kushduca with the barrel of his rifle. You're an ugly one, aren't you, he muttered. The kushduca shifted. Buck nudged the Kashduca with the butt of his rifle. Are you dead? Or do I need to blast you again? He spoke as if he were offering a complimentary turn down service at a fancy hotel, rather than threatening mortal violence.
The Kushduca made a quiet whimpering sound. Or better yet, perhaps with my own hands. He dropped to his knees and put his hands around the Koshduca's throat. It made a strangled sound, writhing against his tightening grip. A knot twisted in my stomach. I should have been relieved to see the Kushduca go, But in that moment, she looked at me. She looked like me. Somehow, she was me.
Buck squeezed harder, and she kicked and flailed her foot, connecting with the butt of the gun, sending it skittering towards me across the snow. Ignoring Pana's protests, I lunged forward, grabbing it and bringing it level, jamming the butt into my shoulder. Stop. My voice didn't sound like mine. It sounded desperate, primeval, superhuman. My finger went to the trigger. My voice trembled when I spoke, you're killing her. Stop.
I fired a warning shot above his head, and he froze and slowly stood, hands above his head, turning to fix me with a grin as ugly and unsettling as the kushdukas. Those devil natives thought they could abandon me, he said through his manic grin. They were wrong. They were all wrong. I showed them. Pana stood up now, turning a fl flashlight on Buck, his blonde hair and pale face, his expensive thermal coat and snow pants. They were all spattered in blood. My finger went back to
the trigger. He wouldn't be missed. His father was already dead. If he lived, he'd kill and kill again. He'd kill my people, he'd kill Pana. I leveled the gun at him and took aim. Warm gentle hands covered my hands, and I heard Pana's voice in my ear. Please don't. He isn't worth what we'll pay for this. The tightness welling up in my chest broke into a sob. I lowered the gun. This was it, how we all ended, defeated by their brutality in a world that would choose
them and forget about us. Buck screamed, there was a spear in him. The Kushduka on the ground held the spear, grinning widely. I was on the ground holding the spear. I was holding it with my own hands. As Buck's blood trickled down and warmed them, I let it go, scrambling to my feet as he fell. There were bruises around my neck. My throat hurt when I breathed. Where was the Kushduca? Where was Pawna. Buck fell onto his back, the spear sticking straight up out of him. Pana lowered
the rifle, tears streaming down his face. I thought he was going to kill you. The Kushtuca Buck went on a rampage. Both elders who came with us hunting are dead. There was a Kushduca. The Kushduca killed him. She was right here. She looked just like me. Pana opened his mouth the protests that looked down at Buck. He took a deep breath. You know what, to Pisa, I think you were right. I think there was a Cushduca. I pulled my hands into the thick furs I was wearing.
They were beautifully made. The trim was black, with little red flowers and green leaves trailing along the edge. They were hand made artifacts. Even I thought I saw that hanging in Hank Ferryman's lodge. Pana said, it looks like the one my ana made. Once I walked to the sled, my legs shaking. Let's take it back to her then, okay, Pana nodded, tossing one last glance over her shoulder at Buck. His freshly dead body smelled good, so good. I was sure the wolves would find him soon. I swallowed the
saliva gathering in my mouth. Come on, Pana, I think I have your Hona's ulu on that dog Sled should be wanting it back. Pana paused, then nodded, taking my arm. Thanks to Pisa, I smiled, you, my dear, are most certainly welcome the end. I like that story a lot. I I don't know, I don't have a ton to
say about it. I like when stories have kind of like clear metaphors but not quite like beating you over the head metaphors, and how you can interpret this like a little bit more or less literally depending on how you want to, and neither way feels false. Like sometimes when things are sort of uncertain, you're like, it feels lazy, and this happens actually, especially in movies for me, But I don't feel that way at all about this one.
I just like this idea that inside of us is this certain capacity, and that capacity can kind of be understood as something external to us as well. That goes along well with my sort of metaphysical views of the world or whatever. Anyway, Hazel, who helps me pick out the stories, really loves how Matilda the author builds tensions so seamlessly in this story, weaving routine horrors like extractive energy and racialized sexual violence in with the supernaw natural stuff.
It sort of unnormalizes that stuff and brings the horror that underpins much of our current systems into focus. It's one of the things that makes horror so fun, using fear, disgust, and intensity to investigate underlying truth. So, yeah, it's Spooky Month where the real monster was colonialism all along. Y'all probably could have seen that coming because it's Cools on Media book Club and we all know that colonialism was the real monster all along. We'll be back next week
with another horror treat for your ears. In the meantime, you can keep up with Matilda Zeller online at Matilda Zeller dot WordPress dot com. How do you spell Matilda Zeller, you might ask, Well, I'm going to tell you. You spell Matilda M A T H I L d A and you spell Zeller z E L l E R. So that's Matilda Zeller dot org, WordPress dot com. And I'm Margaret Kiljoy and you can follow me wherever you want. I don't know, I okay, Well, whatever, it's spooky month.
My last book is spooky. It's called The Immortal Choir Holds Every Voice and it's three story set in the Daniel Kine Universe. It's the third book of the Daniel Kaine series, which you can listen to the first two on this very podcast, and you can go and listen to the third one without having well, yeah, read the third one that I haven't done in the audiobook yet because I would record the audiobook, but for some reason, I'm recording this every week whatever. I like my job.
It's called the Immortal Choir Holds every Voice, and you can read it. It's out from Strangers in the Tangled Wilderness, which is a anarchist collective and support worker owned businesses and take care of each other and decolonize Turtle Island and stop the genocide and take care of each other. And it'd be good to each other because we're all we've got. Oh no, I went earn it spooky. It could Happen here as a production of cool Zone Media.
For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website coolzonemedia dot com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here, updated monthly at Coolzonmedia dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening,