CZM Book Club: Kushtaka, by Mathilda Zeller  ## Metadata - Author: [[It Could Happen Here]] - Full Title: CZM Book Club: Kushtaka, by Mathilda Zeller - Category: #podcasts - URL: https://share.snipd.com/episode/ebe0f0d8-25ef-4ddb-913b-39a15975d92c ## Document Notes ## Highlights - **Family Pressure And Moral Stakes** - Margaret Kiljoy reads Matilda Zeller's Kushtuka about a village girl pressured by her mother to work for a wealthy settler. - The narrator frames family pressure, racialized labor, and local myth as the story's opening stakes. Transcript: Margaret Kiljoy 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 Machiavellian, but this was next level. Not even the old ladies who gossiped about her would have guessed she'd try to pull something like this. I shuddered and slid my knife up the side of another salmon, severing a long fillet 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 pocked 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 Cobuck Valley, I muttered, and I don't want to make anyone's baby. Except maybe Panas, but even then that's not happening until after I finish 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 fillet 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 Ana, who opened it. My heart fluttered a little, despite having known him my whole life. What are you doing here? He grinned that perfect grin, complete with deep-set dimples and one-eye tooth missing. Having tea with your Anna. 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 ocklock, 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. Anna shook his head. The foreman said it was a bear or maybe some wolves. A bear and maybe some wolves, Ana repeated, cackling. He didn't even see what happened. He is throwing guesses into the dark. I sat down next to Pana. Sedna is mythology, Ana. Sedna is angry, Ana interrupted. They're coming uninvited and taking what's ours. They don't belong here, in our land, in our beds. She clutched her jaw tight, swallowing hard. But Sedna is gracious enough to give warning. She only tore their guts out. A wolf or 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 Pana, my own innards tightening. Their guts were torn out? Pana nodded. Torn up across the abdomen. Torn up everywhere, in fact. I raised a skeptical eyebrow. And they're saying it was wolves? Pana shifted defensively. If they weren't saying 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, Ana said, reaching for me with one hand and smacking Pana's knee with the other. Pana, why didn't you see she's hurt? Go get the bandages. Pana 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. Pana 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 Pana, 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 a 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. Pana 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, he'll 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 of leatherworking. 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. Pana finished my hand, and I stood reluctantly. Here, with him, with my Anna. This was my heart's home. Outside that door lay wolves and bears and Hank Ferryman ([Time 0:05:03](https://share.snipd.com/snip/1ffd5d7f-1bd2-4df2-a6e7-509162a11917)) - **Road To The Lodge Turns Supernatural** - The protagonist endures Hank Ferryman's crude behavior while driving to his lodge, hearing warnings about Sedna and kushduka. - She sees a kushtuka figure in the truck headlights and later again at the lodge, escalating her dread. Transcript: Margaret Kiljoy The land of the midnight sun, bellowed Hank Ferryman, punching my shoulder playfully. More like the land of 6 p.m. Bedtime. Was he always this loud, or was the closeness of the truck amplifying his voice? He chortled at his own joke. Tapisa, 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 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 story, 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 the 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 ruff 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 juddered through me as she tumbled up and over the hood of the truck. I looked behind us but saw nothing in the taillights 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 it with my own two eyes. You saw it with yours. It was a deer, plain 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 sea black pupil, wide and hungry. All I hear is you trying 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, Tapisa. 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, 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, an 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 to 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 kushduka, 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 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 Inuit. I recognized the carvings ([Time 0:17:20](https://share.snipd.com/snip/8c4efcc4-3065-4ee0-ab8d-9cbe32445686)) - **Artifact Theft And Cultural Theft** - Hank Ferryman mocks and appropriates Inuit artifacts, claiming his grandfather owns spears that likely were stolen from Anna. - The protagonist recognizes these artifacts and feels a tightening, signaling cultural theft and disrespect. Transcript: Margaret Kiljoy 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? Shrugged as if I'd asked a stupid question. My secretary found them for me. Found them? Stole them, more likely, for my widowed 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 to the kitchen and grabbed the ulu that was sitting on the wood holder on the counter. Hank bounded over and snatched it from my hands. That's an artifact. It's for decoration. I looked down at the ulu in his hands. It was newly sharpened. The baleen handle was worn, polished to a bright shine from all the times it had been gripped. I wonder whose 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. ([Time 0:24:39](https://share.snipd.com/snip/a4e67d98-7c4d-48d8-8edd-73bf98a9d9d5)) - **Horror At The Party And Flight Preparations** - After serving at the party, the protagonist hides when something gruesome attacks guests and leaves a bloody trail. - She gathers weapons and rushes to the barn to hook up sled dogs, fearing the kushtuka will return. Transcript: Margaret Kiljoy 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 through 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. A 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 the 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. Depisa, 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 whole door vibrate. Let me in! The heavy crack of a skull on the floor preceded 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 kushtuka, 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 padding 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 come back. I needed to get home to my Anna and her shotgun. Would a shotgun work against a kushtuka? 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. Entrails of men. I took a step forward and my foot grazed something wet. I looked down. It was an eye, bloodshot across the sclera. 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 dog 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 recoating the already fallen snow in the yard. I pressed my back into the log exterior and sidestepped towards the barn, where the huskies were. ([Time 0:30:31](https://share.snipd.com/snip/2296f30c-7503-4095-8dac-83e784a332e6)) - **Sled Chase, Confrontation, And Bloodied Justice** - While fleeing by sled, the protagonist is attacked but escapes when someone fires a shotgun and the kushtuka falls. - At the riverbank, Buck brutalizes the fallen kushtuka and the protagonist stops him, then a spear kills Buck instead. Transcript: Margaret Kiljoy I'd driven a sled 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 hands 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! 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 we 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 hills. 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 kushtuka. We had come to the river and the dog swerved to run parallel to it. The kushtuka 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 Kushtuka 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, Hank's boy, has absolutely lost his mind. I nodded. We crawled behind a rock and sat stock still, muffling our breathing with our coat sleeves. Footsteps grated across the stones on the riverbank. 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 Kushtuka with the barrel of his rifle. You're an ugly one, aren't you? He muttered. The Kushtuka shifted. Buck nudged the Kushtuka 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 turndown service at a fancy hotel rather than threatening mortal violence. The Kushtuka made a quiet whimpering sound. Or better yet, perhaps with my own hands. He dropped to his knees and put his hands around the kushtuka'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 kushtuka 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, then slowly stood, hands above his head, turning to fix me with a grin as ugly and unsettling as the Kushtuka's. 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 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. Were bruises around my neck. My throat hurt when I breathed. Where was the Kshtuka? Where was Pana? 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 Kshtuka? Buck went on a rampage. Both elders who came with us hunting are dead. There was a Kushtuka. The Kushtuka killed him. She was right here. She looked just like me. Pana opened his mouth to protest that looked down at Buck. He took a deep breath. You know what, Tapisa? I think you were right. I think there was a kushtuka. 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 handmade. Artifacts, even. I thought I saw that hanging in Hank Ferryman's lodge, Pana said. It looks like the one my Anna 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 his 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 Ana's ulu on that dog sled. She'll ([Time 0:36:25](https://share.snipd.com/snip/69e9723d-5b35-45b4-b9c7-ff24f488737c)) - **Self And Monster Collide** - The story collapses the boundary between self and monster by having the kushtuka appear as the protagonist and use her form to enact violence. - This duality suggests internal capacity for violence and the externalized colonial threat are intertwined. Transcript: Margaret Kiljoy 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 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. Were bruises around my neck. My throat hurt when I breathed. Where was the Kshtuka? Where was Pana? 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 Kshtuka? Buck went on a rampage. Both elders who came with us hunting are dead. There was a Kushtuka. The Kushtuka killed him. She was right here. She looked just like me. Pana opened his mouth to protest that looked down at Buck. He took a deep breath. You know what, Tapisa? I think you were right. I think there was a kushtuka. 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 handmade. Artifacts, even. I thought I saw that hanging in Hank Ferryman's lodge, Pana said. It looks like the one my Anna 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 his shoulder at Buck. ([Time 0:40:38](https://share.snipd.com/snip/fe3210dc-f5bb-48b0-a65e-78267e812e1c)) - **Colonialism As The Real Monster** - Margaret Kiljoy highlights how Zeller weaves extractive industry and racialized sexual violence into horror to reveal systemic brutality. - She argues the supernatural element unnormalizes real-world horrors, making colonial violence perceptible as monstrous. Transcript: Margaret Kiljoy 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 tension so seamlessly in this story, weaving routine horrors like extractive energy And racialized sexual violence in with the supernatural 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. ([Time 0:44:28](https://share.snipd.com/snip/759008c4-abc7-4c3d-93a7-ad0d45c5534b))