Haunted by Shadows: Lady Macbeth Through a Psychiatrist’s Eyes

By Divya Behl

Seventh October, Two Thousand Twenty-Five.

After an arduous journey from my homeland, I arrived at Dunsinane Hill, the seat of the Scottish King, as a tourist eager to explore its beautiful landscapes and rich history. Little did I know that I would find myself caught in the midst of a troubling situation at King Macbeth’s castle.

The castle’s museum—a gallery of relics and prized artifacts—was where it all began. I was admiring a beautiful scimitar, once wielded in battle, when a woman approached me. She was plain in appearance, dressed modestly in a servant’s attire, yet she looked troubled. Her hands twisted the edge of her apron, and her voice was soft yet pleading as she addressed me.

“Are you a healer?” she asked, scanning my face for reassurance.

I explained that I was a psychiatrist. Relief and hesitation crossed her features. She told me that Lady Macbeth was unwell and had begun sleepwalking. Out of curiosity, I agreed to accompany her to the queen’s chamber. Along the way, I wondered—was this merely a case of sleepwalking brought on by stress, or something far deeper?

When we reached Lady Macbeth’s chamber, the air felt heavy. The gentlewoman opened the door with trembling hands and gestured for me to enter. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single flickering candle. For two days, I saw nothing. On the third day, I inquired about Lady Macbeth’s episodes.

The gentlewoman described something peculiar. Since His Majesty went to battle, Lady Macbeth had been rising from her bed, dressing, unlocking her closet, taking out paper, writing, reading, folding, sealing, and returning to bed—all while asleep.

Suddenly, a pale, ghostly figure rose from the bed. It was Lady Macbeth. A small light by her side illuminated her frantic movements. She began rubbing her hands repeatedly, as if washing an invisible stain. I asked the gentlewoman why she did this. “It is guilt,” she whispered.

Lady Macbeth muttered, “Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One spot, two spots…” Her words chilled me. The invisible blood she spoke of—was it guilt, grief, or both? I could do nothing except observe and instruct the gentlewoman to ensure no sharp instruments were nearby. She needed more than a doctor—perhaps a priest, or a guiding hand she would never find in me.

As I left the chamber, shaken, I reflected on the human mind and the burdens it carries. Lady Macbeth is haunted not just by deeds, but by remorse and unspoken fears. Will she ever find peace, or will she remain trapped within her own shadow, chasing phantom stains across the corridors of her mind?

The castle, though grand and historic, now seemed like a prison—not of walls, but of guilt. And I, a mere observer, could only bear witness to the quiet torment of a queen haunted by her own choices.

Yours,

Dr. Eleanor Whitcombe.

By Divya Behl