Dear Mrs. Edgecomb, this letter is sent with great regret to inform you that your husband was killed in battle. He served his country valiantly, and is being awarded the Purple Heart, which is enclosed.
Lizbeth fell to her knees and began trembling, unable to read the rest of the letter. Running upstairs screaming her husband’s name, she threw herself on her bed, where he had come to her the night before; a passionate reunion after months apart. The sheets were now cold but still smelled like him, like the smell of their eager sex.
But the bed was empty; the cruel apparition who had shared it with her had disappeared like smoke.