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Ernest ushered Ethel Brandenbourg into his quarters, assisting her as she shrugged off her cloak. As he draped the fabric over a chair's spine, she covertly slid a diminutive key into the depths of her purse. His gaze pierced hers, brimming with unspoken inquiries.
She addressed his silent question, "Yes," divulging, "I've kept the key. Although, never in my wildest reveries did I envisage returning here."
By then, twilight had fully succumbed to night's embrace. The outside street lamps cast a ghostly glow within, painting shadow-play on the walls that danced and twisted in the semi-darkness.
Her hair exuded a fragrance so intoxicating it permeated every corner of the room, igniting the embers of romance that lay dormant in his heart. A surge of tenderness, suppressed for ages, now called out to him with the voices of a thousand whispering sirens. This moment—her sudden appearance coupled with the inexplicable hour and perhaps even a touch of youthful vanity—stirred within Ernest emotions thought long subdued. Love, once more, performed its ancient alchemy upon his soul.
His arm formed a band around her neck. Words tumbled from his lips—unguarded declarations of adoration and desires murmured sweetly into the growing dark.
She beseeched him to let there be light.
"You used to shy away from cruelty," she whispered.
"This isn't about love," he insisted—or maybe something inside him insisted.
There was an awkward beat then—a palpable sense of something missed or perhaps misplaced—as he grappled with her presence.
Why had she ventured here? What unseen thread pulled her back into his world? With reluctance shadowing his features, he loosened his embrace and yielded to her plea for light, fumbling for the switch even as confusion swirled within him.
She was ghostly pale under the stark light, her beauty haunting. The grief he read in her eyes, it had to be for him—didn’t it? But the aching silence where her reply should be puzzled him. Why hadn’t she written back?
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“You actually expected words in return?” Her smile was a melancholy curve. “From me?”
“Why the hell not?” He inched closer, his breath ghosting her skin. “I ache for you—damn it, I love you!”
His exhalation was intoxicating, weaving around her like mystical fog. Still, she held firm.
“You only think you love me now. Back then? Your words were empty rhythms, nothing more—a tinny echo of affection. I vowed to myself I wouldn’t answer. ‘He’s forgotten,’ I thought. I didn’t grasp that something dark and dangerous had latched onto your soul, scrubbing from your mind all but its existence.”
“What are you saying?”
Her eyes implored him to understand the gravity. “You think I’d come if this were petty? No—it’s life or death for you, especially as an artist.”
“What do you mean?”
“When’s the last time your hands bled creation?”
“I’ve—well, sure, articles and a verse here and there...”
“That’s not what I’m asking. Have you carved out anything monumental? Have you soared since summer's end? Where stands your novel?”
The words hung in the air, heavy with a sense of near completion. "I... I've almost nailed it inside my head, but actually putting pen to paper? That chance hasn't come knocking yet. And I've been swimming through a sea of sickness lately – really raked over the coals."
For sure, the toll was written all over him—his face drawn tight and colorless, mouth twisted as though wrestling some invisible agony from deep within.
"So," she probed delicately, "do you find things... missing?"
"You think someone's lifted my stuff?" he shot back, an edge of paranoia to his voice.
"Not theft. No, theft's child's play to guard against."
His eyes bulged with a mix of fear and foreboding—an animal cornered by the unknown. His nightmare, oh that nightmare! The hand reaching for him! Was it all just fleeting shadows in the night? He dared not even whisper his demon's name, not to himself in the dark stillness of night.
Ethel watched the terror dance across his features and softened her tone to a soothing murmur—yet every word she uttered was a precise articulation of his own months of torment. Each syllable crashed into him like a sledgehammer. A cold shiver ran down his spine and instinctively he drew her close; not seeking the heat of passion but the comfort of understanding—a heart syncing with his own beat of horror.
Her eyes were now twin prisons holding back an uprising of tears—anger and compassion locked behind her gaze as she beheld his broken silhouette.
"Darling," her voice was fierce against the voyage into his personal darkness, "do you know who haunts you?"
Her insight struck like lightning, illuminating shadows and revealing what haunted him before her next breath could exhale the monster's name.
"Stop! For the love of God, don't say it!" His plea broke into sobs. "I couldn't bear it. It would tear me apart."