In my last hours, he stayed constantly at my side. In my last moments, he held me in his arms. And the last words I heard before passing were his, promising me that he’d love me forever.
Death was bittersweet for me. I watched over my loving, devoted husband as he mourned for me, all the time remembering his last words to me.
Years passed in this way. But then one dreadful day, she came. He stopped mourning, he stopped caring at all, she made him forget, forget everything.
His lasts words still burned in my heart, as they would forever and always. He broke his promise and my heart with it. At first, I only brooded over the matter. But as I watched her, watched her sink her venomous fangs into my husband’s now clouded mind, I grew enraged. I already hungered for revenge, and then he proposed.

It was very, very dreadfully late; the witching hour, I suppose. They were both asleep. If I was in a better mood, it would have been a peaceful thing to see. I avoided looking at the girl sleeping beside my husband. She didn’t look a day over twenty-five, less than half my husband’s age.
“Richard, Richard,” I cooed. I tickled his chin. “Julia?” he mumbled. He peered over at his new wife, but she was sound asleep. I scoffed at his puzzled face. “Catherine?” he tried again. “Richard, Richard.” He sat up in his bed, again with that puzzled look. I lured him into the hallway. Every time he called my name I returned him by saying his twice. Suddenly, I stopped. He noticed himself to be right near a door. Light seeped through the cracks around it. He slowly opened it and peered inside. It was the reading room, I always loved to read. His eyes went directly to my favorite spot. The fire crackled and the lamp was turned on, even the chair seemed to rock to and fro.
It went on like this for seven or eight days. Every night I led him to a different area of the house, reminding him of the things we use to do together. But it wasn’t satisfying enough to see him spooked. And it was rather irksome that the girl hadn’t taken the least notice of the recent night’s happenings.
The next night I visited her side of the bed. I didn’t wake her, but whispered words of doubt into her ear. “He doesn’t love you, never has and never will; you’re not good enough for him.” She frowned in her sleep, I smiled to see it.
Now they were both bothered. But that wasn’t enough; I needed to drive a wedge between them.

It was a difficult task, even planning it. I couldn’t do anything with my own hands, but I could guide them into doing it themselves.
For seven more days I continued my usual ritual: whispering words to the girl, each night bringing her self-esteem lower, each night making her more paranoid; leading him around the house, continually reminding him of us.
On the eighth night I led him to a room I hadn’t dared to before. We didn’t use it much while I was alive, but when we did, it was for very special occasions. It was small and plain, but it held sentiment. There was a twin bed with a small desk beside it. On the desk were three things: a lamp, a picture of us at our wedding, and a music box. He sat on the bed, turned on the lamp, and wound the music box.
He had given me the box for our tenth anniversary. I still remember what he said upon presenting it to me. He said, “If we can last this long, we can last forever.” I had opened it and wound it just as he did now, it played our song. “Oh, Richard,” I murmured. He grabbed the picture. “Oh, Catherine!” he cried and broke down into sobs.
Julia had awakened shortly after Richard, she had a bad dream. When she saw him not beside her, she began to worry. She wandered into the hallway just as he turned on the lamp. She crept to the door, but not so that he could see her there. Upon hearing those words he cried she ran from the door, sobbing as well.
Richard opened a drawer, pulling out a gun. As he did so, Julia opened wide a window and stood on the sill. As he drew it closer to his head, she gazed down, measuring how many stories up she was. And when he pulled the trigger, her body hit the ground.

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