A girl's body hangs from the live oaks. Something climbed out of the swamp last night, something with human feet. The humid air carries the scent of decay. The preacher-man hides a forked tongue behind too-white teeth. The Civil War never really ended here: you can still hear a ghostly rebel yell, if you listen hard enough.

The third in my series of regional gothic mixes. This time it's the South, a place dear to my heart, but haunted by the past. Photo by me, in Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah.

15 tracks