They say ghosts are cold. But not her.
Sveta was just seven when the war took her.
Her parents—cowards, maybe just desperate—hid in the basement with their four younger children as soldiers stomped through the home above. They knew Sveta hadn’t made it down with them. But silence was safety. And Sveta was screaming.
She screamed for half an hour before the men were done with her. Then they set her alight. What was left wasn’t much.
The next morning, the family climbed back into the ash of their old life. They buried what they could find in the backyard. Then they left. Not just the house. Life itself.
They didn’t take her doll. They left it on the grave, a memento. A companion. A cruel apology.
Years have passed. The snows are thick in this place—enough to bury trees. But never the doll.
Frost won’t settle on her. The wind won’t move her. Animals won’t chew or steal. She simply sits. Upright. Waiting.
And if you come close—if you dare—there’s a warmth to her. Like breath against your neck. Like a child trying to curl into your lap.
People say ghosts are cold. But not Sveta. Sveta burned. And she burns still—to live again. To be held. To be loved. To never be left alone again.
About the Creator
Iris Obscura
Do I come across as crass?
Do you find me base?
Am I an intellectual?
Or an effed-up idiot savant spewing nonsense, like... *beep*
Is this even funny?
I suppose not. But, then again, why not?
Read on...
Also:
Keep reading
More stories from Iris Obscura and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just the wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 18 hours ago in Fiction
Luxury Meets Innovation on the Green Field
The morning sun spread gently across the wide green field, turning every blade of grass into a small mirror of light. The field lay just outside the city, a place where nature still breathed freely and the noise of traffic felt far away. On this quiet land stood two remarkable cars: a sleek Lamborghini, glowing in deep metallic orange, and a modern Tesla, smooth and silver, reflecting the sky above it.
By Bilal Mohammadi3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
OMG. What a tragic ghost story. This left me wishing for more
And she never told where they were, not even to relieve her suffering. Some memories linger upon the soul, whether warm or cold.