[ WP ] They say it 's bad luck for an actor to say the name of the play Macbeth inside a theater .

*Translated from the French. Found in an attic in Nice, France, after the Occupant died of pneumonia. The confessor appears to have been a great-great-great grandmother of the decedent. There is no next of kin, so I shall disclose the letter to the world in the hopes of enhancing historical knowledge* 
 
 I hath been blessed with a long life, and all the luxuries and blessings one could want. In hoping to join my late Husband in Heaven, I wish to unburden my soul of the darkest sin. Thus, on this very day, May the Twenty-Sixth, in the Year of Our Lord 1655, I have my final confession to bear: 
 
 Though proof was scarce, I knew it in my very heart and soul that William Shakespeare did away with my dearest friend Christopher Marlowe. We were not lovers, as I do not believe his eyes were ever on the Fairer Sex, but dearest of friends nonetheless. He was a brother, a confident, and I felt our bond deep within my very soul. The day he was slain was the day my life took a turn down a dark path from which it never truly emerged. I found true love in my marriage to the Frenchman I met in Dorset, I bore nine healthy children all of whom have survived to bear me twenty-three grandchildren, and I am a wealthy woman. Yet the sword that pierced Marlowe in turn pierced my heart, and the hole has never closed. It has been a dark cloud over a blessed life. 
 
 After murdering the light of my life, Shakespeare stole his life's work and added it to his own. I had the burden of having to spend time with the monster, and feign ignorance as to his true nature. I heard him chatter like a young maiden about Macbeth. From the moment he wrote it, he adored it. Whether or not it was even from his own Plume was a question that has always lingered. How many bodies did Shakespeare leave behind him? I should n't say such a thing without evidence, but my rage flowed through me. 
 
 There should always be a trail of Death with Shakespeare's work. Then, all can know his nature as I have. I obtained a pair of chicken feet, a bloodied knife ( both from a local Butcher ), and a small piece of wood. I sha n't repeat the curse I used, but't was an ancient Latin Rhyme. The night o the premier, August 7, 1606,'t was I standing behind the Theatre, dressed in Black, conducting a Play of my very own. 
 
 The first fatality was that night. I felt some sorrow at having taken the young gentleman playing Lady Macbeth, but I knew the Spectre of Death would now haunt Shakespeare. 
 
 The curse should lose potency with time. I do think I may be Damned no matter how I confess now, but at least my Immortal Soul is unburdened. 
 

