My jaw agape in wonder, I offer you the closing paragraphs of Chapter Seven in David Bergantino’s Hamlet II: Ophelia’s Revenge:

”You know that I love you, Cameron,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “Not your new wealth, not your castle – “
“Good, cuz you’re signing a prenup anyway.”
“Shut up!” She swatted him playfully. He quickly snapped out of silly mode. “It is you that I love, it is you that I have loved since we were kids, and it is you that I need.”
“Let’s live the rest of our lives together,” she told him.
Silently, he led her beneath the great canopy of the bed, where they made love, and it was like a feather falling from a great height onto a landmine.

At that moment, steam began to rise up from a section of peat bog below Elsinore. Within minutes, the dark, rich earth began to boil impossibly. Soon after, something as insubstantial as steam but infinitely more dangerous emerged from the earth. Invisible to humans, it nonetheless was made of water and peat, a blue-green and brown thing with tangles of algae for hair.
It was ancient. And like many things resurrected after centuries of sleep, it was angry. And it wanted revenge.

Inside the back cover (after the killings have concluded, the most memorable involving amputation-by-hurled-garden-shears), the publisher recommends that readers check out the original Hamlet, to find our "how the horrors at Elsinore Castle began."