Those who have read my treatise on the complicated definition of Southern Gothic, know it is about:
- atmosphere
- irony
- awareness
- time
- place, all amplified through the ages of storytelling
Southern Gothic is an innately physiological living creature response tied to “fight or flight” survival. Depending on what you have absentmindedly waded into, or not, it gives you the willies. It has a way of compounding your collective fears. For readers/watchers That’s the attraction. The sun can be shining, yet the subconscious warning bells are pleading for attention. In literature and film, that’s where crafting suspense elevates the hypertension, and we respond because we have all felt the results of bad things happening when least expected.
The decrepit plantation house, the graveyard and setting sun add to the cumulative effect, setting the stage for possible horror. And many of us love horror in books and films, because we observe from relative safety, feeling the adrenalin and dopamine rush.
But where is the line drawn in our individual lives if the door is left open to chance to experience something truly terrifying? Many of us, thankfully will not have the real experience, though at times, our imaginations run wild and we feel the need to do as Ichabod Crane, to whistle past a graveyard upon hearing a rustling of leaves, as a sudden night breeze signals change.
Some unbelieving people playact these natural and other-earthly phenomena as though it were superstitious folklore, but there really is something to James Whitcomb Riley’s Little Orphant Annie, where “the goblins will get you if you don’t watch out!”
https://cavebuckner.com/2026/03/09/southern-gothic-the-whole-shebang-2/
How do I know? I’m one of those people who has seen ghosts and experienced things from the dark side, and believe me, I don’t go looking for this creep show. My interest in the supernatural also stems from random meetings with black people who say they know me, when I haven’t got a clue how we may have met. I was called by name early one morning in a graphics packaging plant in Kansas City, while working on a McDonalds promotion production run.
"Joe’s confusion with me, there in Darlington, was starting to give me a complex. A time traveling mystery was building"
“Hey John!” the young man called out. I walked across the open floor to see what he wanted, but he looked confused, with a furrowed brow and a confused look, like he’s trying to understand something— how he knows me?
“I know you,” he said, pointing a finger.
“Did we meet in Atlanta? Or maybe Columbia, Missouri?” I asked. He was maybe 20 years younger than me. I don’t remember seeing, much less knowing who he was.
“No, but I know you.”
Maybe there was an explanation for this, but neither one of us could figure it out. I don’t believe this was a case of mistaken identity, particularly since he knew my name (only my mother and a few friends called me “Cave,” or “John Cave,” but most know me as “John”).
The same thing happened to me in Darlington, SC, with a young fellow named “Joe.” When I met him, he said, “I think we’ve met before, someplace.”
As we got introduced and talked about our project, he kept studying my face.
“Are you sure we’ve never met before?” he asked.
“Not likely.”
As I was walking across the large production floor, I looked back in his direction. He was looking at me, still not convinced we had never met, and if we had, why the significance of remembering in the first place?
I was having to watch a production run of McDonalds cups and french fry packs with promotion graphics on their night shift, which was more like quality control and logistics. Not exactly creative stuff, but at this time, I was an independent contractor and I took any contract I could fill. He invited me to his church that morning, and though tired, I made the service. I was the only white man in the church, which held about 100 people. The preacher was about 6’ 8” and thin as a rail. He was in his late 70s and the Bible he held, was smothered by his long fingers. He asked me to introduce myself to his congregation, which I did, standing up and talking about the nice invitation I got to come to their church from my friend Joe and a little about our work together.
I looked at the sea of faces, my lack of sleep blunting any thought of public speaking fear. Some looked interested, some distrustful, some smiles, some frowns. I sat down and enjoyed the service, particularly the preacher’s great-grandson who may have been four-years-old, dancing and playing a tambourine with the piano. He was a cute kid, dressed like his daddy, wearing a bowtie and a big smile.
Joe’s confusion with me, there in Darlington, was starting to give me a complex. A time traveling mystery was building.
Then, there was “Teleportation Man.” Eight years later, I was in my Missouri office, a beautiful, old, converted country store, loading up some prototype boxes I had borrowed from the client for die-cut and fold measurements on some new graphic packaging I was designing for a company selling wholesale birding supplies. I was flying to Italy the next day to run a McDonalds promotion for European countries. I had one more box to load into my car that was sitting by the front door. I picked it up and when I turned around, there was a young black man standing near the car.
“Where did he come from?” There was no one to be seen on the street just 5 seconds before, and yet, there he stood. He spoke in broken English, like he might have come from Nigeria, saying he had been in the county jail the night before, and needed a ride to Kansas City, to meet his brother, which was about three hours away.
"I seem to have a connection with some in the black race from another time, and thankfully, we appear to be on good terms"
I had to go to Columbia to run some errands, so I told him I could get him that far. He appeared agitated and a little worried. Driving down I-70, I asked him if he needed any money and he declined. Occasionally, he would ask me if I heard “the voices,” which for the first time, made me question what I had gotten myself into, knowing schizophrenics could be violent when off their meds, if that was the problem.
I tried to find out more about him, but he wasn’t too cooperative, heavier things weighing on his mind. He had no I.D. on him, and that was an issue, since I was trying to get him in a homeless shelter for the evening. I finally talked the person who ran the house into securing him a spot and passed on the requirements to my new friend. I had to keep moving, so I let him out where he wanted and went on my way. I felt this meet-up was a Devine test for me, and given my schedule, I hoped I passed it; but what a strange encounter!
I don’t think anyone can explain, an empty street and five seconds later, upon turning around, seeing a man standing there. I had two Nigerian friends in forestry school at the university, but I’ve never seen a wayward black man from Africa, off the well-traveled path, in Missouri.
I seem to have a connection with some in the black race from another time, and thankfully, we appear to be on good terms. I wanted to explore this further in a series I am writing. When I lived in Atlanta, I was enthralled with the Georgia sea islands and the Gullah-Geeches who live there. I knew I wanted to include something of the culture, staying away from getting too involved that would draw fire on claims of “appropriation.” I tell my story the only way I can—as a white man, interacting respectfully and openly with another race, which I find endlessly fascinating!
One of my research books (I do deep dives) is called God, Dr. Buzzard and the Bolito Man, by Cornelia Walker Bailey with Christena Bledsoe. There is a chapter called “The Hag Who Rides You.” When I read that, I thought “This is a thing! A real thing!”
"If the hag riding me couldn’t get my attention on my back, it would try from underneath the bed by pushing up the mattress in various places, like it was trying to gain entry in some way"
I have experienced what she described in her book half a dozen times.
You wake up, sleeping on your stomach, and the reason you are awake is because someone is on your back, pushing down, pushing the air out of your lungs. You can’t breathe. I wanted to panic, frozen in fear, unable to move; but something innate told me it was evil, not to panic; but to call out and tell whatever it is (i.e. the “Devil”), to flee in the name of Jesus Christ, as it says to do in The Bible, and the evil spirit will flee. Thankfully, it always does. Immediately. The Geechees call this “hag riding,” and it can be terrifying.
“The hag was always here on this [Sapelo] island. Always. Far back as anyone can remember.”
“Mamma would say, “Sleep on your back, sleep on your back, because that was the only way you could protect yourself from the hag. If she caught us laying on our stomach, she’d make us flip over.”
“But there was only one way you could stop the hag from visiting altogether. You could put salt in an open bottle and leave it near the bed, and the hag would fly into that bottle with the salt. That’s what Mamma would do when she was little, and I listened with my mouth wide open. I believed. I had no reason not to believe, because it was a real as daylight to them.”
I don’t know what to think about any of this. Cornelia Walker Bailey also noted there is a similar, human physiological condition, but while recognizing this, she says it doesn’t explain other evidence there is something else going on, and I tend to agree.
If the hag riding me couldn’t get my attention on my back, it would try from underneath the bed by pushing up the mattress in various places, like it was trying to gain entry in some way. I was wide awake, and I could feel the physical push from underneath.
To fill in the spirit world blanks where I currently live, I have seen two different ghosts in broad daylight in my flat above an old furniture store. They weren’t Casper, just people like you and me. I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and surprised an old woman facing me near the front door. She was dressed in 1880s mourning attire, long dark gray dress, black cape and a black sunbonnet that hid her face. I studied her for maybe two seconds before she disappeared. I found out the building used to be a mortuary. The second ghost made himself at home in my chair near a computer in my bedroom. I glanced up from watching television in my sitting room, which has a line of site into my bedroom. He was dressed in 1940s-50s khaki pants, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and loafers and he was looking down like he was reading something. Again, about two seconds, but instead of blinking out immediately like the old woman, he faded into thin air. He never looked up.
I may have an endless imagination, but seeing ghosts has never been a conscious activity. I see what I see, ghosts being the furthest thing from my mind at the time I see them. There is something fascinating going on here and I intend to explore this, without getting pulled into a situation I don’t want to be in. Even if it can be explained, we may not be ready to accept the explanation or any consequences of that truth.