Kuntilanak
The Weeping Ghost of Unborn Sorrows
You'll hear me before you see me — and it'll be too late.
Once I was warmth, breath, a beating heart. Now I am keening and claws, a wound that won’t close. I wear my grief like a shroud and feed on the living who wander too close. Some fear me. Some pity me. All run from me. But none can silence me.
What I'm Into: the scent of jasmine at midnight, newborn cries, broken promises, my weeping shadow, the taste of fear
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