Madness in the castle

The court of Denmark rots with madness as I speak - the Prince is deluded with hysteria; the King is dead, and 'tis ravaged with spying and secrecy. This night was not a good one.
Hamlet waited with Marcellus and me to find the ghost which we had found stalking the halls before. He did; he found him, and what followed was purely surreal.
The ghost beckoned him; he, who was behind the barrier of me and Marcellus. We feared to let him through. Surely, we did not want to lose the Prince. The loss of such a royal figure at our hands would create endless hindrance for us. But the Prince didn't agree. He was driven forth with the blurred (not quite blind, as it is understandable) urge to reunite with his father. And, so, he drew his royal sword and threatened us with it, pointing it's sharp and smooth edge in our faces. We let him through, forced by his utter powerfulness, and watched in despair as he ran to the ghost.
To have called this ghost "voiceless" was, in my hindsight, a grave mistake. His fervent, booming voice, bringing on our reminiscences while striking us with fear, preached to Hamlet for what seemed like years. It faded away and we scaled the castle, searching in pure terror for him.
When we finally found him, the ghost had vanished. Hamlet sat there. His countenance was different - much less plaintive, and much more uneasy and - dare I say - deranged.
And then he spoke, and I can say that I've never heard such a shocking change in character as how Hamlet spoke. After weeks of him only uttering low-register moans and mumbles of deathly melancholy, he was suddenly happy. But not in a satisfactory way -he seemed not satisfied at all. His happiness was almost mad - like he had finally been toppled over the edge, like the everlasting sadness had finally pushed him off the metaphorical cliff of sanity.
He spoke with such a queer gayness that it seemed completely out of place for such a dark time. We left that castle with a changed prince, a mentally blundered prince.
What has happened to Hamlet?

Reporting To The Prince

Today, I have visited Prince Hamlet in his royal court. The terrifying events of the ghost's appearance was something that could not be left unreported; and, so, I told Hamlet. Hamlet was, as I observed, in the deepest blackness of mourning and grieving his father. So, at the news of his ghost, Hamlet's tear-soaked eyes lit up as I had not seen them since the tragedy befell him.
He asked me where, and he asked me when. I had to tell him, even though I did not want him to meet the ghost and risk his life with such a mysterious and potentially dangerous creature.
How excited he was; he is going to the castle halls tonight to attempt to find this mystical ghost.
I am so worried for him.

A Phantom!

That of myths and nightmares have I seen in the fateful, misty darkness of yesternight. A ghost, wrapped in an incomplete cocoon of shrouding mist, entered into the pitch dark chasms of the castle where I, Marcellus and the two guards by the name of Bernardo and one more which i cannot recall, stood. It struck me with otherworldly fear whilst I was filled with wonder for such a mythical thing. With a hat and a beard it advanced towards us, with the rest of its muscular body submerged in the mist, and the four of us backed away. Pressurised with the constant shouts telling me, the scholar, to question it and to confront it, my final question garnered no answer. The voiceless ghost dissappeared as it had appeared, leaving us with a breathless mind and a body still sparking from the shock.
This is unreal; it is a dream. But what kind of a dream can one not awaken from? 'Tis the dream of life. Strange and cruel life.
I can not believe myself; my eyes and ears, for this extraordinary experience. 'Twas more than quaint - 'twas fearfully surreal. How was he a ghost, you might wonder? Well, that is what harrows me with fright. That this ghost, this phantasmal figure of the fog, was in the image of... the king. But not King Claudius, no - the king who's dead.

The New King!

Things have turned contrary to how I would have thought in the throne. The new king has turned out to be Claudius, the brother of the king. Even more suprisingly, Gertrude, the widowed queen of the late Hamlet is now arranged to be wedded to King Claudius! This drastic change in the state has evidently affected the Lord Hamlet. I say evidently with the evidence of his plaintive face that I have seen yesterday. I can not imagine how hard this blow of death and - with all respect to the king and queen - incestuous, hasty marriage is hurting Hamlet; he must be in the most disconsolate state of hell that I've ever seen shroud a man.

Woe has befallen us

Oh, how we have been tragedied! The noble King Hamlet has perished. They say he fell to demise at the hands of a scorpion bite, that the poison has relinquished him from the throne. What shall be the fate of our noble court? With this death of the king, our  new heir shall be my close friend Hamlet - the young Hamlet - but will he be able to bear it? He doesn't seem fit to rise to the thrown when he is weighed down with the sheer intensity of the agonized grievance that I know afflicts him during this dark time.