Johnny Strauss's Questionnaire

Well now, reckon I can tell ya all about that. Name's Johnny Strauss, born and raised out on a little pig farm just outside of Grayson, Georgia 'bout halfway between nowhere and the edge of peace. I live there 'cause, plain and simple, it’s home. Ain’t no place on Earth I’d rather be. See, me, Mama, and my sister, we run the farm together. Been in the family for three generations now. Got 'bout a hundred head of hogs, couple goats for good measure, and a stubborn old mule named Roscoe who don’t take kindly to strangers. I play fiddle most nights when the chores are done, on the porch, under the stars, just lettin’ the crickets keep rhythm.

Our house ain’t much, but it’s everything. White clapboard walls, tin roof that sings when it rains, and a wood-burning stove that keeps us warm when the Georgia nights turn cold. My room’s got fiddle strings strung across the window, drying in the breeze, and a stack of old records I play on Daddy’s phonograph. I stay here 'cause it's real. Out here, you rise with the sun, you get dirt under your nails, and you sleep good at night. City life? That ain’t for me. I got music, I got family, and I got pigs. What more could a man want?

Well shoot, money round here don’t grow on trees, that’s for sure. Most of what we get comes straight from the farm, sellin’ pork to the local butcher, folks in town, and sometimes drivin’ up to Macon for the farmers’ market on Saturdays. Sister bakes pies and Mama sells her pickled okra and chow chow, so we piece it all together like a patchwork quilt. Now I ain’t one to waste a dime. First thing that money goes toward is feed... pigs eat more’n you'd think, and good grain ain't cheap. Gotta keep 'em healthy if we want 'em fat and happy. Then we make sure Mama and Sister got what they need, groceries, medicine if the cold sets in, and some extra for little comforts like coffee or yarn for Mama’s quiltin’.

But I’ll tell you a little somethin’ most folks don’t know: what’s left over, the bit I tuck away under the floorboard in a coffee tin, I spend on books. Not just any books, though. I got a taste for the old, rare kind, the ones bound in cracked leather and written in tongues ain’t been spoken in a long time. I’m talkin’ about books on demons, shadowcraft, resurrection, dark magic, the kind preachers warn you about from the pulpit.

I just want my friend back...

Gilryen wasn’t like anybody else. He came wanderin’ up our road one August evening, dusk hangin’ low and heavy, coat too black for the heat. Told us he was lookin’ for work and a roof, and somehow, without askin’, he just fit. Mama called him strange. Sister said he talked like the wind through the pines. But me? I saw a kindred soul. We worked the fields together. Played music deep into the night, he on the banjo, me on the fiddle, songs that sounded older than this land. And when the music stopped, we’d talk. 'Bout death, the stars, things forgotten. Gilryen knew things. Said there’s more than just this life if you look hard enough… if you listen. Then, one morning, I found him.

Laid out stiff and cold in the south field. Right next to them scarecrows, the ones that looked too human even when they weren’t soaked in blood. But that day they were. Blood everywhere. Gilryen had no wounds, no sign of struggle. Just... gone. Like somethin’ plucked the soul right outta him and left the shell behind. I dropped to my knees. Held him. Called his name over and over. Nothin’. And right then, I swore: I ain’t leavin’ him dead. That’s why I read the books.

I don’t care if they’re banned, cursed, or written by madmen long dead and buried upside down. I don’t care what preacher says it’s sin. I’ve spent every spare dollar on ‘em, books in Latin, Sumerian, some written in ink that smells like copper and burns your eyes if you look too long. I ain’t studyin’ 'em for power or glory. I ain’t tryin’ to summon demons or shake hands with the Devil. I just want Gilryen back. The way he laughed. The way he looked at the world like it was some old secret worth diggin’ into. The only person who ever understood me.

I ain’t lettin’ him stay dead.

It was the day Gilryen died.

Nothin’ before or after ever cut that deep. I can still see it, clear as if it were happenin’ right now, frost on the grass even though it was early fall, the pigs quiet like they knew somethin’ wasn’t right, and the sky hangin’ low like it was tryin’ to press us all into the dirt. I found him in the south field. Just layin’ there, still as the dead cause he was. Right at the feet of those scarecrows, the ones me and Sister put up back in July. But that day, they didn’t look like straw and burlap. They looked fed. Their arms drooped low, like they’d just finished a job. And all around them was blood. More than one body’s worth, and yet... Gilryen had no cuts. No bruises. Just eyes wide open like he saw somethin’ before the end. Somethin’ terrible. That broke me. Not just in the heart but rather in the soul. Like somethin’ got ripped out and didn’t come back. After that, nothin’ tasted the same. The music I played felt hollow. The chores lost rhythm. The sky, the wind, the very soil, all of it started whisperin’ in a way it never had before. And I started listenin’. Real close. I changed that day. The boy who laughed at the dinner table and sang to the hogs, he died out there too, with Gilryen. The man who came back from that field was quieter. Hungrier. Not for food, but for answers… and a way back.

That’s when I started collectin’ the books. And when I stopped fearin’ what might be inside ‘em.

Gilryen’s death wasn’t just the end of a friendship.

It was the start of a purpose.

Sure thing. There ain’t many folks in my life these days, but the ones that are, they’re carved into me like initials in barnwood. Here’s the three that matter most:

1. Gilryen – My closest friend. My ghost.
He wasn’t from here. Spoke like he read things most folks would burn, and walked like he’d seen too much. But to me, he was home in a way even home never quite was. We’d play music together, talk late into the night ‘bout things folks around here wouldn’t dare speak out loud. He got me, the silence in me, the questions, the pull toward the dark places. Since the day I found his body by those scarecrows, I ain’t been right. I’m still tryin’ to bring him back. I don’t care what it takes.

2. Olivia – My favorite pig, and don’t you dare laugh.
She’s a big ol’ sow with ears like tattered blankets and a snort that could wake the dead. Smart as hell, too, smarter than most folks I know. She follows me around the farm like a dog, even waits by the porch some nights when I’m playin’ my fiddle. There’s somethin’ about her eyes, like she knows what I’m tryin’ to do. I talk to her sometimes when no one’s around. She listens better than most humans, anyhow.

3. Sarah Strauss– My sister, my anchor.
She’s tough as nails and sharp as a gutting knife, always has been. Runs the house, keeps the books, and somehow manages to keep Mama sane while I’m off diggin’ through books full of curses and resurrection rites. We fight like any siblings do, mostly ‘cause she don’t trust the path I’m walkin’,  but I know she’d fight for me just the same. She's the reason the farm still runs. She don’t understand what I’m doin’, but deep down I think she knows I ain’t doin’ it outta madness.

I was raised out on a patch of dirt and dreams in Grayson, Georgia with my mama and my sister. Never knew my daddy, but Mama more than made up for it. She runs the farm with hands tough as rope and a heart soft as cornbread. My sister helps too, mostly with the chickens and garden, while I handle the heavy liftin and fixin up the barn. We got cows, a few goats, and my prize pig, Olivia. She’s smarter than most folks I met, and she follows me ‘round like a dog. Sleeps outside my window every night, gruntin like she’s tryin to talk in her sleep. Now I ain’t your average hillbilly. I been takin college-level classes to study Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Not just for fun neither. I’m learnin the old words so I can unlock dark magic. My best friend Gilryen passed last fall, and I ain’t ready to let him go. I reckon if I can learn enough, maybe I can bring him back. Folks say it’s foolish, but love makes a man do strange things.

Well now, that’s a mighty fine question. Truth is, I reckon I have been in love, just not the way most folks mean it. I ain’t never courted nobody or danced under the stars with a sweetheart or nothin like that. But I do love my farm, deep down in my bones. Every fence post, every muddy trail, every sunrise over the pasture feels like it’s part of me. And then there’s Olivia, my pig. She ain’t just livestock, no sir. She’s family. Smart as a whip, loyal as a hound, and always knows when I’m feelin low. I raised her from a runt, fed her from a bottle, and she’s been by my side ever since. It ain’t romantic or nothin like that, but it’s real love. The kind that don’t ask nothin of you but to just be there. So yeah, I guess I been in love. Just in my own kind of way.

My worst fear? It ain’t monsters or ghosts. I done seen plenty of those, what with Martha’s restless spirit floatin’ ‘round that graveyard, them ten coffins slidin’ across the floor like they had minds of their own, and that creepy jack in the box I found in the orphanage attic, the one that still plays music even though I smashed it to bits. No, what truly gets me deep down is the fear of losing the ones I care about. When you grow up watchin’ folks vanish without a trace, especially kids who never had a fair shot at life, it leaves a mark. Like a crack in your boots that you keep tryin’ to patch but always feel with every step. It ain’t the silence that scares me. It’s the empty rooms, the unfinished goodbyes. I also got a fear of bein’ forgotten. Not for my sake, but for theirs. All those kids trapped in the curse, all the souls we set free—if nobody remembers ‘em, then what was the fight for? It’s like buryin’ ‘em a second time. And I won’t let that happen, not if I still got breath in me and strings on my fiddle. And alright… I’ll be real with ya. Mannequins. Somethin’ about ‘em just ain’t right. Standin’ there like they’re watchin’ you breathe, waitin’ for you to blink. I once spent the night in an abandoned department store. Never again. That was worse than the near car crash we had outside Dunkin’ after grabbin’ those donuts. You remember that? Nearly spilled hot coffee all over my pig socks.

But fear or not, I don’t stop. I lace up my boots, sling my fiddle on my back, and walk straight toward the darkness, because someone’s gotta.

My most prized possessions? That’s easy, my pig Olivia and my fiddle. Olivia ain’t just some farm pig. She’s family. I found her when she was just a little runt, shiverin’ behind the barn during a thunderstorm, and she’s been with me ever since, through ghost towns, cursed graveyards, and one particularly bad Taco Tuesday. She’s smart as a whip, can sniff out danger better than any hound, and when things get dark or strange, she’s always there nudgin’ my leg like, “Hey Johnny, don’t go pokin’ that coffin.” She keeps me grounded, reminds me of what’s real in a world that sometimes ain’t. Then there’s my fiddle. It’s old, older than me, handed down through folks who didn’t leave much else behind. The wood’s worn smooth where my fingers dance across it, and the sound it makes feels like it remembers everything, joy, sorrow, even the cries of those lost souls we helped lay to rest. That fiddle’s not just an instrument. It’s a voice for the things that can’t be said. When I play, I feel like I’m speakin’ to the past, carryin’ the weight of stories too heavy for words. So yeah, Olivia and that fiddle. One’s my heart, the other’s my soul. Long as I’ve got them, I ain’t ever truly alone.