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.
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