Dan Carroll is doomed for a certain term to walk the night, and for day confined to fast in fires till the foul crimes done in his days of nature are burnt and purged away.

But that he is forbid to tell the secrets of his prison house, he could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand an end, like quills upon the fearful porpentine.

He also lives in Chicago, with his wife and a bad dog.

William Shakespeare wrote something like thirty-eight plays in his life, and people seem to like them. But he never drew anything, and besides, he's dead now.

Look at Dan again.