One of the perks of living in Stratford is being able to regularly visit Shakespeare’s grave. My wife thinks me daft, but I honestly find inspiration in doing this.

Seated by his grave on this sunny day, I trace my fingers over the inscription for the thousandth time and reflect anew upon the mysterious words:

“Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
and cursed be he who moves my bones.”

“I wonder what would happen if – “

I actually said those words aloud. I would come to regret them soon enough.

They led me to open his grave later, in the dead of night. They led me to poke through the withering remnants of his corpse, curiosity leading me where angels fear to tread. Hidden amongst the threadbare folds of his cravat, I found a strange amulet with a large pendant in its center. It glowed greenly in the impenetrable darkness, lit from within as if it were the eye of a daemon.

Whilst I was staring into its murky depths, I heard an unearthly chuckle.

“To be or not to be? That is the question…”