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No sooner had Reginald Clarke vanished into the void beyond the studio than Ernest shot up from his chair, a mix of urgency and anxiety propelling him from the plush cushion. Despite the morning stretching out before him—an expanse of time likely to remain his alone—the magnitude of what he sought allowed no space for dawdling.

He entered the studio, that hallowed and haunting space where just one turn of the seasons past, Clarke had ushered him into this very room. As Ernest stood there, it was as if dark specters had taken up residence among familiar sculptures—the once benign faces now twisted with malevolent intent. The figures of Antinous, the teasing Faun, even the solemn Christ—these now seemed to mockingly conspire within their immobile alabaster and bronze. Huddled in their petrified congress, they oozed a vibe so off-key it nearly bordered on profanity.

Ernest's hands shuddered as they rifled through Clarke’s papers scattered on the desk—a desk overseeing Shakespeare and Balzac brooding upon their high perches with an air of disdain percolating from each carved brow. Inadvertently, Ernest’s arm sent a bust of Napoleon crashing onto the surface, its fall echoing through the room like an ominous thunderclap—one that felt like a prelude to some grisly revelation.

As shapes formed in that echo—a tableau vivant sprung from wood and paper—he couldn’t shake off the visceral connection drawn between those statuettes’ famous likenesses and Clarke himself. They all seemed branded by a mark—the kind only worn by entities destined to rend or reshape worlds according to inscrutable designs. Kinship radiated off Balzac's chiseled smirk and Napoleon's callous glare; it whispered in the phantom visage of a world's mogul—a man as rich in capital as he was poor in scruples.

Ernest saw them then for what they were—leviathans impervious to normal means of battle; impervious and merciless, bound by no law but their own incessant compulsion for expansion. Conventional warfare was futile; only cunning could hope to level such colossi.

It was within this grim contemplation that Ernest justified his forthcoming transgression. Ethics blurred at the edges when faced with behemoths. He probed Reginald’s desk, fingers seeking secret compartments revealed once by accident rather than design. Keys jangled, metal scraped fruitlessly against metal until at last surrender seemed inevitable—until, finally, triumph as a compartment yielded.

The hidden drawer surrendered its bounty: a substantial heap of manuscript pages presented themselves like sinners seeking absolution. Ernest’s pulse tangoed with every rustle as he sifted through the sheaf until his gaze settled on a stack securely bound, emblazoned with commanding script: "Leontina, A Novel." His breath caught—the quarry lay before him; this was what he came for.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The truth had been laid bare—every twisted detail of his nightmare, Reginald's eerie admission. And the abode that welcomed him with open arms, that seemingly benign sanctuary, was nothing but a lair... a den belonging to a Vampire!

Yet, it was sheer curiosity that ultimately quenched the fire of his wrath. With quivering hands, he coaxed his eyes to focus and settled down to read. The letters that once capered and spun as if inebriated finally fell into rank, parading before him in well-ordered formation. Elation surged through him followed by a wave of shock. The prose before him was undeniably genuine art, and it belonged to him—he was still the poet, an architect of sublime verse. He inhaled deeply as an unexpected spike of joy pierced his heart. Each segment of the tale, penned by an alien hand, had unfurled like a dark blossom in the recesses of his mind.

True, there were nuances—subtle departures from the envisioned blueprint. A more skillful artisan had tweaked edges here and there; nonetheless, the creation bore his soul's imprint. It wasn't for that purloiner to claim, and at this thought—calling Reginald a thief—his face blanched at the blasphemy of applying such a term to him.

The final chapter was close at hand when the echo of footsteps in the corridor reached his ears. With haste cloaked in silence he shuffled the manuscript back into its crypt, secured the drawer and vacated the chamber.

Reginald had arrived. But not by himself. Murmurs filtering through led Ernest's ear; a voice caressed with déjà vu but its words obscured. He tuned his senses sharper—but could it be? Jack—it was ludicrous to think he'd already heeded Ernest's call! What unfathomable sense or presentient pulse had summoned him to this moment? However, lingering questions plagued his mind: why did Jack dawdle in Reginald's quarters instead of seeking out Ernest immediately? Creeping closer with caution ballooning inside him, Ernest latched onto Jack's utterances:

"The convenience and appeal are undeniable. Yet something gnaws at me—a sentiment nagging at my gut saying taking up residence here is misguided for me if anyone."

"You shouldn't lose sleep over it," Reginald said, his voice measured and cold; "the kid wanted out. Told me himself not two weeks back. Thinks he'll check into some fancy rehab joint. His nerves are shot to hell."

"I guess no one's shocked, considering the hellish episode he had during your play reading."

"He's got this obsession now, won't stop chewing on it."

"It tears me up inside, really. Guy held a special place in my heart, maybe more than he should've. But I saw this coming, you know? His recent letters...all over the place, like a madman's scribbles."

"When you see him next, you won't recognize the man. He's been...altered."

"No," Jack said flatly, "he's not the man I knew."

The news hit Ernest like a body blow, his face twisting in pain so raw it could peel paint from the walls. Each syllable was like another spike hammering into his soul; nailed to the crucifix of misplaced love by the very hand he cherished. He stood there quaking, pale as a fresh sheet. Tears welled but never fell; his grief was as dry as a bone. He stumbled to his room, collapsed on the bed. There he rested – no comfort found, utterly alone.