It’s a warm night, but Will is awoken by a sudden chill. He’s about to return to sleep when a noise attracts his attention. A cough, to be precise. An impatient cough.
He opens his eyes, expecting to see nothing but darkness, but instead a figure stands before him, glowing enough to cast a dim light around the room. No, he thinks, it cannot be. A trick of the mind, the result of much writing and sack and little else. He closes his eyes, counts slowly, then reopens them. Still there. Conjuring spirits as well as words now.
‘I am real, you clotpole,’ the spirit says with a roll of his eyes.
Standing before Will like the diabolical creatures conjured by Faustus is a man five years dead, the only hint of this fact other than the glow being a smear of blood down the right cheek. The figure is grinning, like haunting Will Shakespeare is the best fun he’s had in years. There’s only one word Will can think of.
yes this is a good