The hut is tiny and windowless and constructed of round river stones, and it stands alone in a high wild valley in Afghanistan.
From 20 paces away you can hear it hum: Its walls emit a strange, wavering sound like an extended sigh—a soft, dry, droning song that rarely ceases. Occasionally a man and a boy duck out of the blackened doorway into sunlight. They are covered from head to toe in white dust. They look like pale beings from another world. They wipe their faces with a rag. They go back inside.
Is this some sort of ceremonial site? Is the rock hut a shrine to a forgotten cult? Are the man and boy ghosts?
The answer to all these questions is: yes.