In the evenings, my grandfather would pull out a lawn chair and sit under the stars.
Many times, others would join him. Sometimes this was family. More often, it was a group of men my grandmother referred to as "your granddaddy's cronies."
While heat lightning flashed overhead, they would sip Pepsi from glass bottles. Every now and then, something with more bite got passed around.
The stories would start immediately.
In pursuit of lighting bugs, I would come close to their loose circle. Stopping long enough to catch the beginning or tail end of some yarn.
A few of the stories stayed with me - including one about my grandfather and a hanged man.
He told this story the same way he'd tell you the price of chicken feed—matter-of-factly.
It was late Fall in the Carolinas. Thanksgiving had passed, but Christmas hadn't arrived. Like all farmers, Calvin "Bun" Stigall had risen early. Clocking in before the rooster was mandatory, especially if he planned to rabbit hunt.
He did the necessary chores. Feed and water the cows, goats, and chickens. The lot of Beagles heard him moving around. Their low and long baying started before he even let them out. They were crated and tossed in the back of the pickup truck.
He wasn't going far, but a few miles is still a few miles on foot. He'd received permission to hunt on someone else's land the week before. He decided to take the fellow tobacco farmer up on his offer.
Bun knew it was a big property. Lots of woods. Several pastures. He believed a stream or creek ran through it. The dogs would get worked. He hoped a few rabbits would too.
When he arrived, he noticed the sun was taking longer to peak out.
"Rain," he said out loud. "Maybe it will hold off."
The Beagles were buzzing. Excited to run and explore new smells. They bolted, moving like small sharks through the tall pasture grass. Bun grabbed his .22 rifle and gave chase.
Most of the morning was uneventful. The dogs had tracked at least one lucky rabbit. Bun had fired and missed. This had been near a tree line and closer to the property owner's homestead than he would have liked. He could see the house a ways off, and several other buildings: sheds, a pack house. Bare fields stretched out in all directions—a looming barn sat near the edge of the one closest to him.
It's what he ran for when the bottom fell out and the rain had come.
Inside, grey light seeped through the boards. Bun looked around and noticed a pile of tobacco sticks stacked in the corner. On the dirt floor sat attachments for the owner's tractor. Some tools hung on the wall with the help of large rusted nails. The familiar was all around him, including the smell of hay and earth.
Glancing up, he saw the beams where the golden leaves were cured.
That's where the man hanged himself.
The thought hit Bun like a clap of thunder. Several years ago, the oldest son of the farmer whose land he was standing on was found in the barn.
Up there. Right above his head.
"I don't know, but let me tell you, it all started to feel wrong in there," he said.
Bun listened as the steady rain pelted the metal roof, but heard something else.
It sounded like someone breathing—gasping for air.
He looked around, but couldn't pinpoint the sound.
That's when he sensed someone behind him. He whirled to find nothing there, but the sensation remained.
Somebody, something, was bearing down on him, breathing on his neck. It didn't only hear it, but could feel it.
"It was hot," my grandfather said. "Was no breeze. It was damn cold that morning."
"What was it then?" a cronie asked
Bun shifted in his chair. "I didn't stick around to find out. I got the hell out of there."
The rain was still falling when he left the barn. He gathered his hounds, leaving wet and rabbitless.
Bun Stigall didn't talk about ghosts or haints, didn't believe in them.
Maybe so—but I never heard him say he hunted that land again, and I know he stayed out of that barn.
I figure he felt it was already occupied.