A Second Helping From Satan

If you’re joining me here because of Sarah Marshall’s new podcast The Devil You Know, I need to explain something.

I feel like something has shifted, like I’m now part of this weird Satanic Panic multiverse as a character, not just a storyteller. I didn’t see that coming, but here we are:

You can also listen to it on the CBC online here.

Around this time last year, Sarah wrote and asked if I’d come on the show to talk about what it was like growing up in the Satanic capital of Canada in the ‘80s—and more specifically, what it felt like to live down the street from the woman the tabloids called the ‘Bride of Satan’.

It’s smart, empathetic, devastating, and often very, very weird.

If you don’t know me or are new to this Substack, I made a feature documentary about the Satanic Panic (with Steve J. Adams) called Satan Wants You. Sarah appeared in that film, and a couple of years ago, I wrote about what it was like to interview her in a creepy old farmhouse on Vancouver Island.

What never crossed my mind was that one day she might end up interviewing me. And holy fuck was I nervous when the tables were turned. I get a particular kind of panic with podcasts and radio that I don’t get with video. Something about the microphone, imagining that I’m talking into a black void, and that all the people listening later will be able to hear every hesitation, lip smack, and breath.

But Sarah is thoughtful and meticulous and kind in all the ways you hope your favourite podcaster will be. We ended up talking for hours. And if you enjoyed her closer look at the book Michelle Remembers with me, you’re going to love the rest of her new series too.

1. A close friend recently told me I was in my prime. We were standing in the kitchen of their East Vancouver townhome, drinking cold cans of beer straight from the fridge while their toddler pinwheeled around the dining room. My friend studied my face and squinted, as if inspecting questionable produce at the grocery store.

Late Tuesday afternoon in the lead-up to Thanksgiving. The moon is already rising, low on the horizon, alien in daylight. So close to the earth this time of year that you can photograph it with a smartphone, opening up the lunar surface to observation beyond the digital blur of pixels and too-bright light.

When I was thirteen, I wrote a detective novel over summer break. I had discovered my parents’ collection of Agatha Christie paperbacks earlier that year, organized them in chronological order, and then read them straight through. At first, they were an easy escape from my troubles at school, but soon they became something more than a distraction.