The Criterion 2013, The Literary Magazine of American International College

inhaled the sweet-smelling combination of the fresh, unbroken binding and freshly printed pages. I began my process of living with my script. Although I am very familiar with Hamlet, seeing that it is one of my favorite plays, I decided to approach it like I’ve never read it before.

When sitting in my kitchen, sipping glass of scotch, I read through the play. And then read it again, and then once more. Now this is where things get dicey. It was dusk by time I got to the third reading. I felt a chill come over me, which I thought odd because I was now on my third glass of spirits. In fact, a chill came over the entire room. I didn’t think anything of it. As I read on, I got to Act I: scene v. “And for the day confined to fast in fires/ Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature/ Are burnt and purged away,” I read aloud. Right then, that cold air that was I feeling was now somehow a dark, dagger-like energy eerie enough to make my fingers itch. And they did, so I scratched them.

The next day at the read through, I kept to myself, only giving a polite smile when prompted. Now, you probably won’t believe what happened next, after all I didn’t. Two weeks later, I was in my kitchen, studying my script again, and the same chilling front embodied me, making my fingers itch again. I scratched and scratched until my fingernails broke the skin.

Next came production week. I had fully submerged myself into my character. I moved like him, spoke like him, and talked like him. I had basically decided to method act, meaning that I put myself in Hamlet's skin, approaching every daily act of mine the way Hammy would. To the ordinary actor, that might sound great. To our good ole friend, Willy Shakes, it was the beginning of the imminent manifestation.

Now since the last time in my kitchen, I hadn't really felt that ghostly presence. I knew, however, that the master of our destiny wasn't done with me. So, it was opening night and I was doing a bomb job. First Act? Gold. Act II? You're welcome, audience. Now here's where it gets extra dicey. In Act III, I have this awesome conversation with myself, debating the pros and cons of suicide. At this point I also remind myself of Dante's Inferno. The seventh circle of Hell can't be that bad, right? I mean at least you're all the way in there. And plus, I'd get to meet Pietro della Vigne. Heard she was a real smoke-show. Anyways, back to the story. I got to the part where I say, "For in that sleep of death what dreams may come/ when we have shuffled off this mortal coil/Must give us pause." Now see, I love that part; however, I started to feel that evil energy - this time, even more so. It's almost like this dark being begun to creep up to me from behind and slither up my body from my feet, disturbing each and every inch of my body. Only instead of leaving like before, I felt it latch onto me, and intertwine its cold, stony fingers with mine. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I was seeing the ghost of Shakespeare or something like that. No. I'm not some weird freak. I'm just saying it was like a baneful spirit with an obvious malicious intent.

This scared me. It gave me the chills again, but this time, all the way to my bones, making my fingers itch again. They started to bleed again. I tried to madly wipe the blood off my fingers.

“Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him,” I thought. "Out damned spot!” I yelled. That's when I looked out into the house of the theatre and realized that I was still in the middle of my soliloquy. I hadn't even gone halfway through. But, for some reason,