Southern Gods by John Hornor Jacobs

man’s face. He picked a loose fleck of tobacco from his teeth. He took a speck of lint from his slacks and smoothed the fabric.
    Eventually, he raised his head, looked at Derwood, and said, “Tell me everything you know about a man named Early Freeman. If you lie, if you leave anything out, you’ll regret it.”
    Miller swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
    “I know Early through work, deejaying at KBRI. He comes through about once a month, takes Mr. Couch to lunch and drops off some forty-fives, then moves on to the next radio station, the next town. That’s about it.”
    “Mr. Couch said you’ve spent some time with him. Tell me.”
    “Well…” Miller’s eyes flicked around the kitchen looking for something, some way out of this unexpected domestic interrogation. “Sometimes, we’d go drinking, you know, roll out to the Stockyard tonk, out near the county line, and Early would always do the buying, long as I made sure I spun his records. Which was fine with me cause I would’ve spun ’em anyway. They’re good.”
    “Tonk?”
    “Yeah. Honky-tonk. A blues joint. We’d listen to the blues, drink beer, or Coke and whiskey.”
    “It a Negro establishment?”
    “Yeah, but they know me there. They play the best blues, even on the juke. Most weekends, there’s a player, or a band. It’s good. Folks don’t know what they’re missing.”
    Ingram paused to think, flicking the ash of his cigarette onto the floor. “So, when was the last time you saw Early?”
    “Same day Mr. Couch did. He told me you’d been by asking after Early.”
    “He take you drinking that night?”
    “Yeah, he did. We went out to the tonk, like I was telling you, and pretty much got our bellies tight, you know?”
    “He mention where he was off to next?”
    “Said he was gonna head down to England, visit the folks over at KENG.”
    That matched what Ruth Freeman had told him about Early’s last phone call.
    “What do you know about Ramblin’ John Hastur?”
    The outraged flush of red drained from his cheeks like water from a cracked glass, his eyes pulled tight as if to ward off a blow. Miller brought his hands into his lap, like a schoolboy, and clasped them together.
    “Nothin.’ I don’t know nothing ’bout him.”
    Ingram clubbed Miller across the face with the sap. Miller looked at Ingram with surprise, an expression of pure bewilderment on his face. He toppled onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor.
    Ingram snatched the front of Miller’s shirt, lifted him, then placed him back in his chair.
    “What do you know about Ramblin’ John Hastur?” Ingram said slowly.
    Miller swayed in his chair and reached a hand up to touch his rapidly swelling cheek. His hand came away bloody.
    “I know… I don’t know nothing,” Miller said, looking Ingram straight in the eyes and saying it slowly. “Nothing.”
    Ingram rapped Derwood’s head twice with the sap, and the man slumped back into the chair, unconscious.
    Ingram stood. He moved across the room and rummaged in the kitchen cabinets and closets. In an adjoining hall, he found a cylinder of nylon rope and returned to the kitchen. He bound Miller’s hands and feet. He tied his body to the chair. Taking a pot from an open cabinet, he filled it with water and dumped it on Miller’s head.
    Miller spluttered. He twisted his body, looked down in surprise at the rope binding him.
    Ingram patted Miller’s cheek. “Here’s the deal, pard. I’m not gonna hit you again. You’re gonna tell me everything you know about Ramblin’ John Hastur or I’m gonna pick up this chair, with you in it, and take you outside, where that fucking thing attacked me. I’m gonna set you down on the edge of the wood, out of sight of the road, and let you think about what you know and you don’t know. I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll have this conversation again, if there’s anything left of you.”
    A growing horror filled Miller’s face as Ingram spoke, and Ingram felt