Grandma Tells Ghost Stories

The autumn heat made the evening feel like the inside of a steamer. I crouched by the stove, feeding it firewood. The flames licked the bottom of the pot, and the smoke warmed my face. Grandma sat on the kitchen threshold, idly waving the palm-leaf fan in her hand. The soft rasp of the bamboo strips, mixed with the chirping insects in the distant rice fields, made my skin crawl more than the cicadas ever could.