Haunted Guthrie

 I actually started writing Haunted Guthrie about five years ago, back when I got invited to do a book signing at Guthrie Haunts. People kept whispering, “That place is seriously haunted,” like they were warning me not to go in the basement or I’d end up possessed and speaking in Latin by midnight.

I nodded and smiled, but honestly? I was like, yeah, OK, cool story, Casper. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t disrespect the ghost crowd—but I’ve always kind of been like, if you’re not throwing knives at me or messing with my playlists, you do you, ghost fam.

Hell, I’m pretty sure my house is haunted. Doors creak when they shouldn’t, lights flicker, and there’s definitely a presence—but you know what? They don’t talk back or ask me for rent, so we coexist just fine.

Besides, if I were a ghost? I’d be pissed too. Imagine dying in 1912, chilling in your damn parlor for eternity, and then suddenly a bunch of weekend goths with selfie sticks and spirit boxes show up screaming, “IS ANYONE HERE WITH US?”

Yeah. I’d throw a Victorian lamp at your head. Respectfully.

Anyway, this book sat in a pile of old notes and weird little napkin sketches—half-forgotten like most of my lunch plans—until Ash came along. She was digging through my junk one night (the literal paper kind, don’t get excited) and goes, “Dude. What the hell is this?”

I told her it was just some scribbles about haunted bars and cryptic sightings in Guthrie, and she straight-up slapped her coffee down and said:

“We’re finishing this. Now. This is like Ghost Files meets Southern Gothic Daddy Issues. It’s perfect.”