It Could Happen Here - Nazis Don't Go To Valhalla: Spooky Week #5

Episode Date: October 29, 2021

Margaret Killjoy joins us to read a special spooky week ghost story about the 2nd American Civil War Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

You should probably keep your lights on for Nocturnal Tales from the Shadowbride. Join me, Danny Trejo, and step into the flames of fright. An anthology podcast of modern-day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends and lore of Latin America. Listen to Nocturnal on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's Spooky Week.

Alright, I did it. Sophie, I'm done for the day. Okay. Taking the rest off. Bye. All right. I did it. Sophie, I'm done for the day. Okay. Taking the rest off. Bye. It's okay. We have a cooler replacement for you today anyway.

We sure do. So, you know, normally this is a show about collapse, all that good stuff, yada, yada, yada. But fuck it. It's Halloween week. So we're making sure all of our stuff has a little bit of an extra spooky twist. It's like when you make a martini and you decide to actually put vermouth inside it, as opposed to just kind of waving it nearby. That's what we're doing this week, with spookiness being the vermouth. And mixing up our martini today is Margaret Kiljoy.

Margaret, hello. Hello. I'm a famous mixologist, so clearly this will be very good. Now, Margaret, today, for this very special episode of It Could Happen Here, on Spooky Week, you have written us a short story, and you're going to read it, and we're all going to enjoy it. Is that accurate? I hope at least I can testify to the first parts

and I hope for the last part. Excellent. All right. Well, without further ado, or with minimal further ado, let's, you know, with the stuff. With the stuff, Margaret. With the stuff.

Well, and this is great because this is actually a short story that you start reading of oh shit yeah where's that link you texted it to me but i don't have my phone on me okay let me uh put it in the chat here um based impressive to say the least based in fiction pilled okay I start reading the italics? Yeah, it's the first couple paragraphs of introduction, and then you're interviewing me. All right, motherfuckers. Let's get it started.

Welcome. I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me at the fire and dare enter? Nocturnum, Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know you.

Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts,

or wherever you get your podcasts. The Northern Host For all its lingering horror and misery, the wake of a war is rich terrain for a folklorist like myself. More people report more supernatural experiences during times of war than times of peace. Some of my peers have argued the stress and shock of battle leaves our brains more susceptible to mass delusion. Others claim that the veil between worlds remains thin when so many are passing from life to death.

The Second American Civil War has been no exception. Most famously, of course, soldiers from each of the three armies present at the 15-day siege of St. Louis reported a wailing man who walked among the wounded, healing some and ending the lives of others. On the Cascadian Front, rebel forces spoke of black bears who in effect stood sentry for their guerrilla positions. During the White Army's occupation of Washington, D.C., civilians and soldiers alike reported apparitions pouring out from the Pentagon crater every new moon. Of all the various myths and legends to spring up in the wake of the recent conflict, however, I find myself most strongly drawn to the stories of the northern host.

Never have I heard a myth recounted in such detail by such a wide variety of people. My favorite telling comes from Private Sarah Dollar in The Battle of Asheville. This interview was recorded in the spring of 2035 and lightly edited for clarity with permission of the subject. Note that the subject refers to the White Army by pejoratives throughout. These have been left intact for the historical record. Could you introduce yourself and tell me what you saw? Yeah, my name is Sarah Dayher. I'm 31 years old. I live in Asheville in the Appalachian region of the United States of America on stolen Cherokee land. My US military rank was private. They made us all privates when they incorporated the Irregulars into the Army. But I only served

in the Union to fight the White Army. A year later, I'm one of those crazy radicals who doesn't think the reconfiguration goes far enough. I'd never fired a gun in my life before the Irregulars, and I hope I never fire another one again. By temperament, I'm neither a lover nor a fighter. I'm just your average trans girl who likes cats and hates Nazis. I fought in three engagements in Weaverville, Leicester, and Asheville. I think I killed two people. One of them, I know I killed him. I saw him bleed out, and I saw him taken away in a black bag. The other person was a man I shot in the thigh during the Battle of Asheville.

I didn't know you could die from a bullet in the thigh, but I've spent a lot of time looking at casualty records, and someone who fit that man's general description died in that battle from a bullet to the thigh. Does that bother you? Yes? No? I don't know. I don't lose sleep over it, but I think about it a lot. I look at the docs on both of them. The first guy was a true believer, a real blood and soil type.

It doesn't bother me that I mingled those two things for him. The second man, though, I'm not so sure. He signed up because his son signed up. I don't have any kids myself, but I could see myself doing that. His son survived the war. Have you been in contact with his son? No, fuck that guy. That kid's a fucking Nazi, and I don't know how he talked his way out of the tribunals.

Can you tell me what you saw at the Battle of Asheville? This was during the fascist spring offensive last year. You know, Hitler's birthday, April 20th. By that point, the White army was pretty much done, but they weren't about to go down without doing some major symbolic damage. So there were about 40 of us, all irregulars, with our own commanders, no army oversight. Morale was down, we felt pretty abandoned. Common sentiment in the south. I was on the street out in front of the library walking rounds. Downtown was half rubble at that point. Only the library was standing because symbols matter and all that bullshit. So that's where we were making a stand.

Neither side had artillery really by that point. The brass had just commandeered even our RPGs for the quote real fight. Air support wasn't coming, not for them and not for us. Really, the Battle of Asheville was like nothing to the rest of the world, and we knew it. So I was doing the rounds, thinking about my shit luck, thinking maybe I was going to die and how so many people had died, and what's another dead girl to add to the pile? I was thinking about how at least this dead girl was going to die surrounded by or in defense of books. Then I heard dogs from around the side of the building. One barked loud and near, the other sort of distant and echoey. I went to check it out,

turned the corner, and there was this naked guy. He was pale as hell, tall, tattooed, and scarred, and like I said, he was naked as the sun. I stared at him. He stared at me. I got so distracted trying to figure him out that it took me a moment to realize there were nine others behind him. Or maybe they weren't there at first? I don't know. Most of them were men, mostly of the tall, Norse-looking variety, but there was a Middle Eastern man and three women, including one who by my read was Latinx. No dogs anywhere that I could see. The man closest to me, he asked me something in a language I didn't know. I just kind of stared. He asked me another question in another language. What, I asked. Who are you? Who are we fighting, he asked. His accent was thick and I couldn't

place it for the life of me. I mean, I know now, but I sure as shit didn't know it then. We, I asked. What? I was due back out front because I was a sentry doing the rounds and this sure needed reporting, but what the hell was I going to tell people? Who are we fighting? Where are we? You're in Asheville. Who are you? Ah, the American conflict, the man said. Behind him, others nodded. Their movements were sloppy, dreamlike. They were drunk, I later realized. One of them had dried blood running down from her lip onto her not-insubstantial belly. You're fighting the Nationalists, the first one said. We're here to help you.

Who are you? I asked. This third time, he actually answered. My name is Belgier. We are the dead. We are the Einhejar, from Valhalla. Every day, we are sent to a battle to fight, and we die. The others behind him nodded. Definitely drunk. Now, I know there were good folks on our side who were into European paganism, but you have to understand that a lot more of the Fash were into that shit than anybody else. If they hadn't been naked and drunk, I might have mistaken them for the enemy and shot them. Valhalla, I said, reciting the tiny bit I knew. That's where Vikings go if they die in battle, feast every day and fight every night in Odin's hall. Until the end of the world,

where you like also fight and die, but a wolf eats the sun or something. Close enough, Balgir said. I mean, Odin only gets half the battle dead, and Viking isn't a good name for us. But sure. And you're here because we are to take arms alongside you, fight your enemies, and die today. Am I going to die today? Only the seers and the gods know that. I'd been calling myself a witch half my life, but honestly that was mostly because I liked tarot and astrology and pentagrams and shit. I've never been someone

who took the supernatural all that seriously. But nothing in the world made sense like it used to. Fascists had just been driven out of DC. Cascadia had not only seceded, but was in a civil war of its own now. Mexico was gone and replaced by self-governing states of almost every stripe in the political rainbow. China had backed white supremacists and other nationalist types in an American civil war, and anti-government leftists were fighting alongside weirdos like me in the damn U.S. Army. I can't say those things were as weird as naked dead don't-call-us Vikings talking to me in the street, but somehow all of that was just comparably bizarre. Come, let us arm ourselves

and fight together, you and I, Belger said. So that's how I met the northern host. Most people don't believe me, assume it was just some kind of drunk wingnuts, maybe some irregulars I'd never met before. But I saw what I saw, and I believe it. The rest of us who survived, they saw it too. And how did it go? Yeah, pardon? The battle. How did it go? We got the Einherjar into a regular's garb and armed them. There were plenty of guns at that point, in the forgotten hellhole of Front. Bullets, not so much, but plenty of guns. They were all comfortable with firearms, though one fellow groused about what he wouldn't do for an axe and shield, and another said what we had was fine, but monofilament web guns were better than any

combat shotgun. To hear them tell it, fuck it, why am I pretending like I don't believe them? I believe them with every bit of my soul, and damn what people think of me for it. The northern hosts fight every night, and every night they are in a different time and place. Most battles in human history were in the past, they said, which sounds optimistic, doesn't it? But they said they fought in every century up to the 24th. Nothing happens after the 24th century. Ragnarok, most likely. The end of the world, wolves eating the sun and the moon, all that. They stood guard with me out front. Around midday, we got hit with an EMP. We knew that was coming. It didn't screw us up much.

We had a hardened phone in the basement, and all our weapons operated just as well in dumb mode as smart mode. Including our own EMPs. The white army showed up, maybe a hundred men. All men. That's their whole shtick. They came in on motorcycles and ATVs and horses. More shtick.

Look how fucking folksy they are. We hit them with the EMPs anyway, leveled the field, took out the ATVs. The bikes were retrofitted, no electric, and a horse? You can't EMP a horse. I don't know if there was a skirmish in that war that didn't start with both sides ritually knocking the other one back to basically the 20th century. I think the tactical EMP is the reason there's anything left of this country. We took a few potshots while they were still at range, but we didn't have the ammo to waste on anything else. Don't think we did any damage. They took up position further up the hill in the ruins of the old basilica.

Then we waited. We should have mined the church. That old thing was blown half to shit anyway. It wouldn't have made the world any worse if we either leveled it or hidden explosives throughout. But you know, ethical war or whatever, don't mind churches. The other side leveled every mosque, synagogue, and quote heretic church they got their hands on, not to mention libraries and universities and even the goddamn Statue of Liberty because they hated immigrants. But we were supposed to be fighting a, quote, ethical war. Those two words don't got nothing to do with one another, and everyone knows it. So they hold up in the basilica, and we pulled

back into the library, and we had one of those good old-fashioned standoffs where people die slowly from sniper fire, and everything is awful. That's when Laura got shot, right in the head, because we missed a spot when we bulletproofed the facade. She's dead. She had natural red hair, but she always dyed it redder, and her favorite show was Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and she liked to drink water out of long-stemmed glasses. She was, I think she was 37, way past drafting age. She volunteered. It was her first engagement. She was only there because she loved books. Had plenty of time to avoid looking at her corpse while she was in there with us dead. Dwight was another one of my friends

in the unit. One of my favorite people, hands down. Total weirdo, and he was all obsessed with that Viking shit and dark ages in general. Both his parents had come over from Sweden, though his dad was originally from Nigeria. Dwight had one degree in medieval studies and another in African history, and I can't tell you how many times during basic he'd run down the details of this or that ancient battle, whether in Europe or Africa. If there were guns involved, he didn't care about it, but if there were swords and armor or spears and shields, he was all in. He started talking to the Vikings first thing. He was the first person to believe them, to really believe them, and his faith was contagious. While we were pinned down, he asked them everything. Mostly, they were quiet, even taciturn. But there was one thing they were very insistent on,

and that I overheard them talking about. Nazis don't go to Valhalla. But why not, Dwight asked. It takes two things to go to Valhalla, the spokesperson said. You have to die in battle, and you have to venerate Odin. A bunch of those fuckers are Odinists, he said. No, they aren't. They're nationalists, fascists, racial separatists, they're all kinds of things. But they don't venerate Odin, whatever they think. What do you mean? They only know one half of Odin. They know the masculine side, the heterosexual side, the Christian side. They worship a bastardization of our God, a bastardization first created by a nationalist Christian 800 years ago that's only gotten further afield since. Our Odin practices

women's magic, the magic of the sexually penetrated. We also worship female gods of war and male gods of the hearth and gods who change their gender when they're bored. Nazis don't understand that, any of it. In life, we raided sometimes, traded other times. We also did all sorts of things that won't fit your modern sensibilities. Things that, were I alive, you might kill me for. But we're not Nazis, and people who worship a Christian version of our God, most certainly do not go to Valhalla. It was as if the man had used up every word allotted to him for the day,

because I don't believe a one of them spoke again before the battle began in earnest. And how long was that? Uh, another hour, maybe? The sun was still right overhead when the White Army rushed us. It was a bullshit move, rushing us. One part overconfidence and one part desperation, if you can imagine that. They knew they were losing the war at that point, but they had us more than two to one, and we all know the KKK commanders don't give two shits about the lives of their men. That's when I put a bullet in a man's leg. While he was in the street, running. It was a good shot. He was running, and I led the

target and everything. I'd been aiming for center body mass, but still. At least 100 yards against a moving target. I was proud of that shot at the time, on a technical level, even if I'm not sure I'm proud of it anymore, now that I know the man's name. We expected the charge. What we didn't expect was the ordnance that knocked the reinforced front off its hinges. But that happened, and almost all the fighting happened right there on the first floor, among the empty shelves. The whole thing felt like it lasted half an hour. I've looked it up since. From the time of the first blast to the time the last shot was fired, we're talking about three minutes and twelve seconds. We thought they were going to pour in through the door after they blew it the

fuck off, so James got in there with our one functioning automatic, and he took at least 10 of the fash down with him before someone got him in the neck. It was a feint, and they blew a hole in the side of the building while that was going on, and that's where they got in. Close quarters combat is a whole different beast. A worse one, maybe. Maybe a better one? I go back and forth on that sometimes instead of sleeping. I think about the pros and cons of various types of absolute horror. Is it better to see your death coming, or to get picked off without knowing it? I would have thought the Vikings would expend themselves right off. I mean, Vikings. They were starting to sober up by that point, but still, they'd been drinking.

And they were already dead. And they were doomed to die. by that point, but still, they'd been drinking. And they were already dead. And they were doomed to die. But they were smarter than that, never risked themselves unnecessarily. Your next assumption of a comrade you know is doomed is that they'll sacrifice themselves to save others. None of that either. They knew they were the best trained soldiers on the field. And that in order for us to win, they had to be in the fight as long as they could. They were smart like that. Assholes like that. I stationed myself in the back. I fancy myself

more of a sniper than the assault sort, so I watched the whole thing go down. I also only hit three targets out of 117 bullets I fired, but that's another story. I watched us win. We took casualties of 50%. Half of those were KIA. But we defeated a force twice our strength. I watched the Einherjar bayonet men and shoot them, and I saw one of the Viking women break a man's face apart with her fists. Soon after, a bullet found her heart, and she collapsed with a smile on her lips. She disappeared. Like, literally, she phased out of existence, beaming up Scotty. We pushed them back onto the pavement. When I say we, I'm honestly not being fair,

because I didn't do much of it myself. We had them scattered and running. Most of them. Dwight was out there, waving a pistol in one hand and swinging a wooden stock rifle like a club in the other. A viking with a shotgun stood beside him. I think the same fashy little shit killed them both, maybe in the same three-round burst. I tagged the fashy in his belly, and his friends helped him get away, and the remaining Nazis ran. He survived his wound. Why do we have so much information about the war? Does it do me any good to know who I killed and who I didn't? And Dwight? Dwight lay alone in the concrete, didn't. And Dwight? Dwight lay alone in the concrete, face down. There wasn't much blood, but he was dead. Two ravens sat atop him, one on each shoulder. I've never seen a raven in Asheville in my life, not before, not since. There were two of them, as big as people say

those things are. They barked and they sounded like dogs. One was loud, like it was right where I was. The other was distant, echoing. Then they flew away, directly up and toward the sun, and I tried to watch to see where they went, but you can't look directly at the sun like that. I looked back down, and Dwight was gone. Okay, so his body was still there, but there was something about him that was gone, and I don't know how to tell you what it was. That was that. We won, sort of. They didn't storm the library, which I guess means we won, but sometimes I'd think I'd burn every single book in that place that would bring back Laura or Dwight or any of the rest of

my friends. The war was over at that point, even if we didn't know it yet. So what did they die for? I guess for symbols. Maybe symbols matter that much. I don't know. I deserted after that. Half the survivors of the Battle of Asheville died less than a week later up in Pittsburgh, and I suppose I'd be dead if I'd gone, and it probably makes me a coward that I didn't. It's not that I was afraid of dying. It's that I was afraid of dying in battle. Because I believe in Odin now. It's hard not to believe in a god without venerating him. I don't want to go to Valhalla. I don't want to fight ever again, let alone every night. I don't want to serve with the Hyeniar at the Twilight of the Gods

sometime in the 25th century. If I don't want to do that, then I don't want to die in battle. Dwight, though, I expect he's happy. I expect he dies every day with a smile on his lips and meat in his belly. He won't have to fight alongside the monsters of the human race, either, because as I learned in Asheville, Nazis don't go to Valhalla. Welcome, I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me at the fire and dare enter Nocturnum, Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern-day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters

to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know you. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

All right. That was awesome, Margaret. Thank you. Yeah, thanks. Dan, I'll put a bunch of applause noise here. Because this is not translating over. Yeah. And an air horn.

Definitely an air horn. Stick an air horn in that motherfucker. Stick a couple motherfucking air horns. I don't think the air horn's going to be that as good. Garrison, air horn. You're a show. Thank you. Thank you, Garrison. Uh-huh.

Margaret, how long ago did you write that? I wrote that, I believe, in 2017. Maybe 2018. Oh, yeah. Well, it's not gotten less relevant. Yeah. I wrote that I believe in 2017 maybe 2018 oh yeah well it's not gotten less relevant yeah man there's definitely some times

where I've wished for a platoon of vikings to deal with some shit well this has been it could happen here and this has been spooky week i hope you enjoyed this scary story that's also relevant to our theme of collapse margaret uh you want to tell the people where they can find you yeah i'm on twitter at magpie killjoy i'm on instagram at margaret killjoy i'm on patreon at patreon.com slash Margaret Killjoy, where this story and many other stories are available for anyone who sponsors me at a dollar a month. And if you make less money than I do, then just message me and I'll give you all my shit for free.

And I have an upcoming, cause you've asked me to plug things and I'm definitely just going to go ahead and plug things. Um, hell yeah. Uh, I have a book coming out from AK Press. It's a reissue of my anarchist utopian book, A Country of Ghosts. If you like my very, I like writing war stories, but I specifically like writing war stories that are actually sad and about how war is horrible. And so A Country of Ghosts is such a book. And this story will eventually, I'm excited to say, I just signed the contract for AK Press is going to put out a short story anthology of mine, which will include this story. Oh, yeah.

That sounds incredibly rad. Yes. Great publisher. Yeah. Not biased at all in that. No, no. No. Nor towards stories of the Second American Civil War with super strong characters.

I've been introduced to just today. Yes. All right. Well, check out Margaret's book, parentheses S, and check out this show when it comes back someday, one day. You'll never know when,

but you'll hear a whisper on the wind, and there will be, or it'll be the next weekday. One of those. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.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 coolzonemedia.com slash sources. Thanks for listening. Join me, Danny Trejo, and step into the flames of right. An anthology podcast of modern day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends and lore of Latin America. Listen to Nocturno on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.