As the autumn winds whisper through barren trees, and the veil between worlds thins, a strange chill settles upon us. Not a chill of the body, but one that seeps into the mind, a creeping unease, a nameless dread that whispers, of the things left unfinished. Not just loved ones or distant memories, but something more elusive, more insidious, games. Unfinished campaigns, expansions suffocating in shrink wrap, and stories left incomplete. These spectral echoes follow us into the season of Samhain, like phantoms lurking just out of sight. We all have them, and in this time of shadow and remembrance, they stir from their slumber.

The nights grow long, and with them, the shadows of half-remembered adventures creep into our minds. How many quests have we embarked upon, only to leave them frozen in time, locked in a liminal space between what was and what could have been? The heroes, those once-bold companions, are still out there, locked in an eternal limbo, waiting for us to return and finish what we started. And yet, we never do.

There is a peculiar, almost eldritch weight to an unfinished game, something more than mere nostalgia. It is the creeping sensation of something lost, a fragment of a world abandoned. These incomplete campaigns are like lost tomes, half-read and discarded, their secrets festering in the dark. They are more than games, they are portals to forgotten realms, lingering on the threshold between the known and the unknown.

Imagine, if you will, a Dungeons & Dragons campaign, its pages curling with age, its notes growing faint as if the ink itself fades from disuse. Somewhere, in that forsaken realm, a villain waits, motionless, his eyes ever watchful, locked in time. The world, once alive with promise, has grown silent. No wind stirs the trees, no footsteps disturb the dust. The characters, the brave warriors, the cunning thieves, and the enigmatic mages remain trapped in stasis, their destinies untold, their voices echoing in forgotten halls. These ghosts haunt us, their unfinished stories like whispers from some dark corner of our minds. Why did we not finish?

And so, we carry these ghosts with us. The games, though neglected, are not forgotten. No, they dwell at the edge of our thoughts, their unfinished business a quiet reproach. In their incompleteness, they are like Poe's ravens, forever reminding us of what could have been.

But why do we abandon them? Why do we leave these stories, these worlds, to wither in shadow? The reasons are too many, perhaps, to recount them all. But like the forgotten corridors of an ancient mansion, they are always there, waiting to be explored.

Time is a merciless warden, its iron grip tightening with every passing day. Friends drift away, the camaraderie we once shared dissolving like mist before the dawn. And sometimes, the games themselves grow strange, their once-familiar rules becoming alien and unnerving. Perhaps the dungeon was too deep, the puzzle too complex, or the real world too pressing. We tell ourselves we’ll return to it, that we’ll gather our companions once more. But time is not so easily bent to our will.

And so, the games remain silent and unfinished. Like ancient tomes gathering dust, they sit on our shelves, their mysteries forever unsolved. But they are not dead, far from it. They are like the ancient, slumbering gods of Lovecraft, waiting with patient, malevolent hunger for the moment when we will once again invoke their names.

No game ever truly dies. Even as it lingers, untouched, it exerts a subtle influence upon us, like an unspeakable force beneath the surface of a still, black ocean. Even if we never return, these stories live on, haunting the recesses of our minds, their threads of narrative tugging at the very edges of our consciousness.

But how does one banish these ghosts? Is it even possible? Some brave souls hold symbolic “farewell” sessions, seeking to give the game the closure it was denied. Others embrace the unfinished nature of the game, treating it as inspiration for something new, a new adventure yet to come. But the truth is, these games are not so easily laid to rest. Like the telltale heart, they beat beneath the floorboards of our minds, forever reminding us of the stories left untold.

So, as the shadows lengthen and the spirits of Samhain stir, take a moment to remember the games that haunt you. Those unfinished campaigns, those forgotten expansions, those stories left incomplete—they are not gone. They linger, as all things forgotten must. Perhaps they wait for the day when we will return, or perhaps they will haunt us forever, their presence a quiet reminder of the stories we never finished. And in their haunting, perhaps they have found a strange kind of immortality.