I Married a Ghost. Last Night, He Served Me Divorce Papers

The divorce papers appeared at 3:07 AM.
One moment: empty pillow. Next moment: parchment thick as graveyard soil, smelling of bergamot and decay. Ink the color of dried blood spelled out *Silas Alistair Thorne v. Elara June Finch*. A wax seal pulsed with cold blue light.

I didn’t scream.
After ten years married to a Victorian-era industrialist’s ghost, you learn panic is pointless. Especially when your undead husband’s idea of foreplay is reciting Edgar Allan Poe during your showers.

*How Do You Meet a Ghost? Badly.
It started with a Ouija board at a frat party—cliché, I know. We’d aimed for "spooky fun." We summoned Silas Thorne, dead since 1889 (typhoid fever, complicated by poor stock investments). He haunted my apartment for months: freezing my wine, rearranging my books into cryptic symbols, whispering investment tips that *actually* worked.

He was charming. For a corpse.
He’d materialize as a flicker of top-hatted shadow, quoting Keats while I burned toast. When my fiancé left me ("You’re emotionally cheating… *with a ghost?*"), Silas manifested fully for the first time—a translucent gentleman in waistcoat and cravat, offering a spectral handkerchief.

"Modern men lack fortitude," he’d sniffed. "Shall I haunt his Tesla?"

*The Chapel of Lingering Vows*
We married at a paranormal chapel in New Orleans. Our vows:
*"Beyond breath, beyond bone,
‘Til entropy claims the last stone."*

Our prenup was… unusual:
**§3.2* *Corporeal Spouse (Elara) retains all tangible assets (real estate, chocolate, living pets).*
**§5.7: *Ectoplasmic Spouse (Silas) reserves right to manifest during showers/baths for "aural companionship."*
**Addendum B:** *Infidelity defined as "consorting with rival spirits (e.g., Gertrude the flapper ghost, who sings show tunes off-key in the parlor on Wednesdays)."*

*The Trouble with Immortal Husbands*
Immortality makes ghosts *particular*. Silas despised:
- Smartphones ("Soulless pocket-spies!")
- Scented candles ("Cloying bourgeois propaganda!")
- My historian boyfriend, Liam ("That beard has the audacity to touch my wife!")

Liam tried. He left 1873 port wine by the fireplace. Read Dickens aloud. Silas retaliated by making Liam’s coffee taste like grave dirt.

**The Last Straw: The Tesla Coil Incident**
Liam installed an "ambiance enhancer" in the study—a singing Tesla coil. Silas saw it as an act of spectral war.

For weeks, our brownstone became a paranormal battleground:
- Lights flickering in Morse code insults (*"L-I-A-M I-S A P-E-A-S-A-N-T"*)
- Antique portraits weeping black oil
- My bathwater turning inexplicably… *chunky*

When I unplugged the coil, Silas froze every bottle of Chardonnay in the house.

"Prioritizing that *bearded transistor* over our matrimonial resonance?" His voice vibrated from the gramophone horn. "This union is a crypt, Elara."
*The Phantom Plaintiff’s Grievances*
His legal filing was absurd, even for the dead:

**COUNT I: Emotional Abandonment**
> *"Defendant reduced séances from weekly to 'monthly, maybe' (see Exhibit A: iCalendar screenshot)."*
**COUNT II: Cohabitation Violation**

*"Defendant permits Living Intruder ('Liam') to occupy claimant’s favorite armchair (see Exhibit B: ectoplasmic residue samples)."*

**COUNT III: Intentional Infliction of Existential Distress**
*"Defendant replaced claimant’s favorite haunted mirror (portal #7B) with 'vulgar IKEA glass' (Exhibit C: shards in Defendant’s trash bin)."*

*Courtroom of the Damned
Our hearing convened in the *Liminal District Courtroom #9*, accessible via my linen closet. Silas’s lawyer was a specter in pince-nez glasses who cited precedents like *Poltergeist v. Homeowner (1692)*.

The judge—a floating judicial robe with two burning coals for eyes—lacked patience:

"Mr. Thorne, possessing the neighbor’s poodle to howl show tunes does *not* constitute 'romantic gesture.'"

"Ms. Finch, ‘I thought he’d like it’ is not a defense for destroying a Class-3 spiritual vortex (your mirror)."

*The Verdict That Killed Us (Again)*

*§1: Asset Division* *

Elara keeps the brownstone. Silas retains the rose garden and non-exclusive streaming rights to Netflix.*

*§2: Alimony**
Three (3) séances monthly + one (1) bergamot candle lit nightly.*

§3: Custody**
>*Shared visitation of Persephone (ghost cat, deceased 1912). Alternating weekends and major holidays (Samhain, Day of the Dead).*

*Signing in the Garden of Ghosts*
We met at dawn among his roses—blooms he coaxed from soil I’d long thought barren. His form flickered like a dying candle.

"You never appreciated my haunting techniques," he murmured. Frost etched his words in the air.
"You never respected my need for *non-sentient* lightbulbs," I countered.
A pause. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "That Tesla coil *was* hideously modern."

I pressed my palm where his cheek should’ve been. Still cold. Always cold.
"Tell Persephone I’ll bring catnip next Saturday."

**Why Ghost Marriages Fail (It’s Not the Death Part)**
We don’t fall for ghosts because they’re perfect. We fall because they’re safe. They can’t leave us for younger women, lose jobs, or develop midlife obsessions with crypto. They’re beautifully, tragically *stuck*.

But stagnation is death—even for the dead.

Silas didn’t want freedom. He wanted *more*. More attention. More control. More proof he haunted more than dusty corners. Our divorce wasn’t failure. It was the final, furious act of love between two souls—one breathing, one not—who refused to let eternity mean imprisonment.
Epilogue: Life After Death (of Marriage)*
Liam moved in. Silas makes the lights flare when we kiss. Persephone leaves ectoplasmic hairballs on Liam’s dissertation. The roses bloom year-round.

Last Tuesday, my phone buzzed. A notification from *AfterLifeConnect*:

*SILAS THORNE sent you a Whisper:*
*"The Tesla coil… was acoustically innovative. Tell Liam… I tolerate him. 3/10."*

I lit his bergamot candle. Outside, a single frost-kissed rose gleamed in the dark.

Some bonds? Death’s just the first negotiation.