Mr. Carter looked at Hamlet. “That’s some fine work with those props, Hamlet…but do you walk over to me, or do I walk over to you?”

Joseph nudged Mr. Carter with one giant finger. “Oh, walk over to him. He’s not going to bite.”

Mr. Carter began to walk--slowly. It wasn’t so hard to talk to the ghost, now, but he didn’t have to look directly at him to do that, and the distance that separated them felt like a protective shield. But when it came to approaching the ghost and getting close to that unnerving stare of his, Mr. Carter could not help but feel his skin crawl.

Still, Mr. Carter walked, one foot in front of the other.

He held out his hands and accepted the props, and though he didn’t mean to, he got a good look at Hamlet’s face.

Their eyes met, and Mr. Carter saw that the ghost’s expression was unlike any he had made previously. It was neither the expression of his character nor the cold, empty stare from the nights before.

There was warmth in the ghost’s eyes and a smile on his face.

“Thank you.” Mr. Carter said as he accepted the props.

The ghost nodded.

He walked back to the others, stupefied.

“I think he’s starting to come out of it!” Mr. Carter said. “I really do!”

“Hopefully he is.” Matthew said. “But let’s not stop here if he is making progress. Quick Mr. Carter, give me my props and my lines.”

Mr. Carter gave him both, then Matthew was ready, after Tybalt moved to his shoulder.

“Stay.” Claudius instructed Laertes. “ Give me drink.” Claudius sipped from an empty goblet. There was no need to fill something the audience would never see.

“Hamlet.” Claudius slipped the poisoned pearl into the goblet. “This pearl is for thee.” he muttered quietly.

“Oh, he says that so sinisterly!” Joseph whispered.

Claudius raised the goblet. “Here’s to thy health. Give him the cup.”

Suddenly, there was the sound of a rifle going off, and trumpets.

“What on Earth was that?” Joseph asked.

“The sound of Fortinbrass’ army approaching.” Mr. Carter explained. “It is in the playnotes. There’s supposed to a shot and trumpets. Our ghost really cares for the details…incredible!”

Laertes suddenly lunged at Hamlet and wiped a mark across his chest.

A touch, a touch, I do confess.” Martin said with a smirk.

“Hey! Hamlet is supposed to score the second touch!” Mr. Carter shouted.

“I know.” Martin replied. “But I think it’s time to see if Hamlet knows that.” Martin turned to the ghost. “Hamlet, was Laertes supposed to get that touch?”

“No.” the ghost said.

It was the first thing he ever said that wasn’t a character’s line.

“Who was supposed to get that touch?” Martin asked.

Hamlet pointed to himself.

“And who are you? Hamlet?”

Hamlet nodded.

“Let me see if I understand this, Hamlet.” Martin said. “For the second round, Hamlet is supposed to score the touch, and Laertes is supposed to get hit?”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Hamlet nodded again.

“Well, you see, in that case, I can't be Laertes, because I got that touch, and Laertes didn’t. So that means I have to be Martin Glass. That’s who I am. And you can't’ be Hamlet, because Hamlet isn’t supposed to be hit by the poisoned rapier until the third round. So who did I hit, just now? Who are you?”

A somber look of realization flashed in Hamlet’s eyes.

“Way to go, Percival.” Joseph whispered.

The ectoplasmic Elsinore began to flicker like a candle flame caught in the wind.

Tybalt ran down Matthew’s back and ducked behind Joseph’s legs.

Elsinore vanished. In its place came the darkness of the Gnome theater, illuminated only by the gaeite candles of the manesologists and a single blue figure on the stage.

He was naked, or perhaps clothed from head to toe. Mr. Carter wasn’t sure which way was correct. He was smoothly formed from blue ectoplasm. He didn’t have toes, but he had fingers, and they were long like newt’s. He didn’t have eyes, or hair, but he did have a head, and it was as smooth as a bullet.

“He looks like…he looks like…” Mr. Carter couldn’t think of the word.

“Like a doll.” Joseph said.

“I am sane again.” The ghost touched his smooth face. “Whole, again.”

“Are you aware of what has happened to you, sir?” Matthew asked.

“Yes. Yes, I died. I am a ghost now.” the ghost answered. “And I am aware of what I have done. I…wanted to be an actor. And so I acted. I am sorry. All I thought about was my dream of gracing the stage. My mind was inside that dream and nowhere else.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, you couldn’t help it.” Mr. Carter said. “Out of all the hauntings that have been in the world, yours was nothing, just a midnight nuisance, just a nightly chore. And it wasn’t so awful, seeing you in all those bodies. Surely, there are grimmer sights in this world of ours.”

Mr. Carter leaned close to Matthew and whispered in his ear. “Is it alright that he looks like that?” he asked.

“We’ll find out.” Matthew whispered back. He turned to the ghost. “Is this how you want to look?” he asked.

“This is how I feel I should be.” the ghost replied. “In life, I was a small, shriveled old man. I don’t want to appear like that now that I am someone new. And every time I work to place details upon myself, I find that the details remind me of my costumes. I look at what I create upon the blank canvas of my form and I say to myself “This is Hamlet’s hand, this is Brutus’ face.” But this blankness belongs to no character, and so, I feel it belongs to me. I feel as if this is me.”

“Then it is you.” Matthew said.

The featureless face turned and regarded each member of the group before resting on Mr.

Carter.

“Thank you all. But especially thank you,Mr. Carter.” the ghost said.

“How’s that for misplaced gratitude?” Joseph mumbled under his breath.

“ I am so happy to have been able to act on your stage." The ghost said.

“I’m happy that you’re happy.” Mr. Carter said, and he truly meant that.

“My name is Thomas Beckman. I’m sorry if my appearance disturbs you. I see there is fear in your face.”

Mr. Carter raised his hands. “Fear? No! No, you misunderstand! I’m simply anxious. Quite a lot has happened very quickly. I feel as if I have come to the end of a very long and tiring adventure.” Mr. Carter looked over at the manesologists. “Is this how you three feel?”

“Every day, just about.” Matthew said.

“It’s amazing you three aren’t dead.” Mr. Carter said.

“We’ll get there.” Joseph said. “It’s just a matter of time.”

Mr. Carter turned back to the ghost. “You say you’re Thomas Beckman?”

“Yes sir.” the ghost answered.

“You can’t see it in this olprt radiance, because it’s a very faint manifestation and only shows up when their gaeite candles are set a certain way, but there’s something like a piece of black glass stuck inside me. It’s a part of you, and the manesologists tell me that it’s inside me because there was something between us in life, but I don’t know anyone namedThomas Beckman. Who were you to me?”

“An audience member, sir.” Thomas said. “You wouldn’t have known me. But I saw all your works. I was here when the Gnome first opened. I was in the audience during the first play, the very first play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I saw all the others until my passing. I’m afraid I’m behind on my viewing. I’ve been in that phantasmagoria so long, it seems, always in the theater, but only when it's empty.”

A look of recognition washed over Mr. Carter’s face. “Oh! Oh I do know you! You’re the old man! Third row! Oh, I wondered what happened to you!”

“That’s usually how it is.” Joseph said. “Our clients swear up and down that they don’t know who the ghost is and then suddenly “Oh! I’ve always known you!””

“You visited dutifully, Mr. Beckman.” Mr. Carter said. “Thank you!”

“I’ve always been a fan of plays, especially Shakespeare plays.” Thomas said. “When I learned a new theater was being built, you became my favorite. The electric lamps, the fresh paint, the polish on every brass surface--it made me feel young, in my final days, to be among such new and fresh surroundings.”

“I’m glad my theater made your twilight comfortable, sir.” Mr. Carter said.

“I…am somewhat embarrassed to say this, sir, but I’ve always had the dream of performing on stage as one of the Bard’s great heroes.” Thomas said. “Hamlet, or Romeo, or Prince Hal. I daydreamed of joining the actors on stage and being directed by you.”

“But why me, sir?” Mr. Carter asked. “I take pride in performing my duties to the best of my abilities, but I’m far from being the best director in the world. And I don’t have any experience with ghosts…and…I was very rude, with how I treated you during your phantasmagoria. If I had known you were the kindly man who always attended my plays, I would have spoken to you the very first night you appeared.”

“It is you I should apologize to.” Thomas said. “I remember what I was doing. I remember, night after night, mindlessly going through all the roles, all at once, and how you would tremble whenever I saw you.”

“No, you are blameless.” Mr. Carter said. “Night after night, I could have spoken to you. I could have brought us here, to this point, weeks ago. But I was afraid of who you might have been. I imagined that you could have been the ghost of a madman with a Shakespeare fixation, or a perfectionist actor that would kill me as soon as I said a word he didn’t like. I imagined you to be everything except what you actually were--a good man. And so the fault belongs with me. Mr. Beckman.”

“Please call me Thomas.”

“Thomas, there’s a theater up in Scotland with an entire cast of ghosts. They would welcome you. They would know how to handle you best.”

“Was my performance not good enough for the Gnome?”

“No, Thomas, no! You were exceptional, the best Hamlet I’ve ever seen grace my stage. But you deserve a far better director than myself.”

“No, Mr. Carter. I want you to direct me.”

“But I’m not worthy of such a talented actor. I would just hold you back.”

“Nonsense, it was this theater in which I daydreamed of being an actor. It was your productions that I imagined myself joining. It is you that must be my director. It is you or no one.”

Mr. Carter smiled. “Very well, Thomas. Very well. I cannot in good conscience have you remove yourself from the acting world. If your choices are between no one and myself…” Mr. Carter extended his hand. “...I pick myself.”

Thomas shook Mr. Carter’s hand. And though Thomas’ hand was a hand of cold ectoplasm, Mr. Carter imagined that it was warm and did not complain.