Under That Kind of Sky
The area of South Georgia I came from did not announce itself as haunted. It called itself ordinary. It was made of fence lines, gravel, ditches, heat, livestock, debt, prayer, rust, and long stretches of road that seemed to vanish into weather. Nothing in it asked to be mythologized. Still, looking back, it feels touched by something darker than hardship alone. Not a ghost story exactly, but a place where ruin had a pulse and memory seemed to live in the ground.