There’s a reason every Southern story starts with a porch, a secret, and someone pretending everything’s just fine. The sweet tea is strong, the hospitality is performative, and the silence? Deafening. But if you’ve grown up in the South, or grown up under it, you know the truth: this place is haunted. Not by ghosts (though we have those too), but by generations of pain that still echo in the bones of our churches, our backroads, and yes, even our kitchens. Southern identity is often served up like a…