#winterhaunting

Every December, condensation blooms on the morgue windows — from the inside. The coroner says it’s pressure; the janitor says it’s prayer. At night, you can see faces in the frost, whispering through the pane. They aren’t asking to be let out. They’re asking what day it is.

Your breath on glass, a fogged-up vow. You left a heart — it froze somehow. I traced it twice, the crack ran deep, and now the pane won’t let me sleep.

🩸 Choose wisely — warmth costs memory.

A power outage froze the whole street — except one house, still lit and warm. Inside, the fireplace burned blue, and every photo on the wall smiled with frost-bitten teeth. When the city restored power, the lights went out on their own. The next day, the house was empty but steaming — like something cold had been cooked alive. Filed under: Thermal Anomalies / Domestic Residue.

It hums like prayer, a frozen hymn — leftovers sigh, and call you in. Don’t open wide, don’t look too long, the light remembers who you’ve gone.

🩸 Vote before your breath turns visible.