Macbeth, the fierce warrior.
Macbeth, the ever-loyal cousin.
Macbeth, all hail the king who thought he could hold the crown in one hand and hide his dagger in the other, straddling hell's bloody doorway.
My smoky spirit, thinking about all these things, sat myself in the king's chair at the head of the long mahogany table. The banquet hall was a lavish one, surrounded by marble walls decorated with beautiful oil paintings; laid on the table was a sumptuous feast of roasted boar, venison, sea bass, and a nearly never-ending number of dishes continuously brought out by the servants, and rich crimson wine swirling in clinking glasses.
I watched my friends at the sides of the table discuss the coronation in odd tones of voices that tried to balance thinly-veiled pleasantry with grief; each thane trying a little too hard to sing the right note and lyric in the choir of conversation.
The door swung open and the protagonist strode in at last.
As though time had stopped, the air came to a standstill.
Welcome back to thy humble abode, killer!
Barely noticing the blood dripping from my dark ghostly hair, I sat up straight and stared right into Macbeth's glassy brown eyes.
"SHAKE THY LOCKS AT HIM."
I turned around and glared at a witch's dismembered skull floating behind him: "Uh, why?"
"JUST DO IT. FOR THE PLOT."
"Um." I waggled his head back and forth as hard as possible.
"Thou cans't not say I did it, never shake thy gory locks at me!"
I stared at the witch. "They can see me? What about you?"
"JUST MACBETH. HE WILL SEE US WHEN WE MAKE US SEEN."
The floating skull grinned and attempted to wink at some hidden camera like she was on The Office. From a distant corner, the other two hags dressed in thick wool cloaks and shimmering like distant heat waves on a hot day, hovered behind a curtain to shovel pies into their mouths.