It seems like most of Guthrie is a ghost-town by the early evening. As an old steel sign swayed unsettlingly in the wind as the shadows grew longer on the walls with each passing light, a lone couple indifferently made out by a parked car while a black cat—okay, it was a tabby—crossed the street. It was all very cinematic.
Yeah, the whole town was under lock and key—the whole town that is except for the Pollard Theatre, 120 W. Harrison Ave.; as a mixture of theatre supporters and horror geeks mixed and mangled near the doorway, my date and I entered into the smoky lobby, atmospheric as all hell and ready to have our souls mutually swallowed.