In my Georgia hometown there used to be a mighty white oak tree. It sat on top of a tall hill, its gnarled limbs spreading outward and skyward. From its base you could see miles of farmland and surrounding forest, but for the locals back in 1962, who remembered how 14 African-American men and women were strung up from its limbs 30 years prior, they preferred to avoid it. Old men in bars would not talk about the tree. Morning commuters would shudder as they drove through its shadow. The children didn’t know what happened, nor would their parents tell them. Why would they? It was a stain on their history and an offense to the regretful, changed people.

People were relieved when the tree was finally struck down during the last thunderstorm of the summer. With the limbs blasted off, all that remained was a 15 foot tall contorted, burnt, and bisected modern art piece that the town council immediately decided was an eyesore. They called a local sawmill, and days later, the tree’s corpse was cut down and dragged off to be turned into wood chips. People slept easy the next few nights; it was relaxing to not have the weight of history on their backs, casting its shadow over the town every morning.

Three days later, though, the twisted specter was back. The horrified townspeople sent the police, who returned, ashen-faced, to report that the tree had indeed been roughly replaced on its stump. A call to the sawmill confirmed that the tree had disappeared from them overnight. Pranksters, had to be. The town quickly decided to dispose of it in the most permanent way they could think of.

The next evening, they all marched up the hill, doused the tree, and set it alight. As they gathered around to watch it burn, the hisses and pops sounded eerily like gasps and cries. The flickering firelight cast shadows over the nooks and crannies of the wood that danced like marionettes on string. Despite the bonfire, no one felt warm. They were happy when it was over, and hastily returned home for a good night’s sleep. Too hastily.

An ember must have caught on some grass, and not long after, the wildfire was too big to stop. The firefighters began evacuating people, but the blaze snaked through the surrounding woods, knocking trees over the exits and encircling the town. Resistance collapsed, and the inferno advanced inward. The smell of smoke and the sound of screaming carried miles downwind, long through the night.

Still, life always springs back after death. As people got over the shock, ferns and shrubs started to grow out of the ashes. As buildings went back up, the first animals and trees returned. As I now stand on the lush hill 60 years later, examining one of the few photos undamaged by the fire, I look up. The tree in front of me isn’t quite as tall, but it looks really, really similar…