Dear Dark Lord,
Oh! What is love if not fleeting and ever-escaping our yearning grasp?
And when one has lost a love, what is one to do except die of grief so they might become a ghost which haunts their former lover to no end, driving them, too, to their grave, whereupon they will be together again in a ghastly purgatoric haze of ecstasy?
This is what was wrought upon mineself when my lover left me for another. ‘Twas clear to me that I could never win her back. And indeed, after some trying on my part, she had a wizard attorney cast a two furlong restraining spell upon me so it became quite impossible. If I could not have her in this life, the only clear option was to die and become a specter which would haunt her in the night and drive her to an early death whence I could once again hold her in my wispy translucent arms.
And die I did. For the heart knows what it wants. Mine was broken, and haunting my ex-lover was the only way to mend it.
But lo! A twelvemonth is now past since my demise, and I find I am still too heartbroken even to haunt her!
Most days I just sit in a graveyard crying tears of mournful ectoplasm, too sad and hurt even to bother floating across town to her crumbling mansion. I wander in the shadows, past the graves of lovers buried side-by-side, their spirits oftentimes going at it specter-style right there before mine eyes. This only drives the knife deeper into what used to be my heart. On the few occasions I’ve mustered the courage to enter her bedchambers on a stormy night, the most I could manage was to rustle the curtains or to blow out the reading candle by her bedside whilst she slept. I cooked an egg once to pass the time, but became depressed when I remembered I couldn’t eat. I doubt she even noticed any of this.
‘Tis not that I lack the ability to temporarily embody a corporeal form to conduct effective haunting. And ‘tis not that I am intimidated or belittled by her new lover, who happens to be a woman. For I judge not upon such things, although I don’t see the attraction in it. ‘Tis just that every ounce of dark energy in my body aches with the pain of heartbreak.
Will I ever overcome my hurt? Will I ever be able to scare my lover so that she throws herself off a balcony in terror, or wades horror-stricken into an icy river on a winter’s night? I long for nothing more than to be together again, I merely lack the courage to indirectly murder her.
Too Heartbroken to Haunt
Dear Too Heartbroken to Haunt,
Thine is a pathetic story, indeed. If I had a groat for every ghost lover who came to me with some flaccid story about being too heartbroken to murder their ex, I’d have enough groats to buy a new torture rack. (Though the old one works just fine!)
I can’t say I’ve been there. I’ve never been a ghost because I’m immortal. I’m also pretty sure I’m incapable of loving anything except the act of making other beings suffer. And power. But I’ll try to offer some advice:
You’re dead. There’s a whole afterlife of possibilities in front of you. There’s so many innocent and unsuspecting morons to haunt to death, why limit yourself to one former lover?
Anyways, murder haunting takes practice. Do you really want the love of your life to be your first? Start small. Give an old lady a heart attack. Spook a couple peasants in the woods at night until they’re too scared to run and get eaten by wolves. Hone your craft before you go for the Big Haunt. I think after a few times, you’ll realize that getting back with your ex means a lot less to you than you thought. You’ll find all the happiness you’ll ever need in tormenting the souls of the innocent. And I’m not just saying that because it would personally benefit me and my plans for casting the Realm into Eternal Shadow.
I’ve always found hate to be much more powerful—and more enjoyable—than love.
Happy haunting, and putrid dogflesh unto thee,
Dark Lord Dörgu Bøgerleshk, Bane of the Nrymbobl, Usurper of Forlorn Souls, Blood Govourner of the Flaming Infernal Swamplands