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The solitude gnawed at him, an ache deep in his bones, but the thought of facing Jack twisted that ache into dread. A chasm yawned wide between them, a fact as clear as crystal. It was Ethel who could ease the pangs in his spirit, Ethel who could fill the hollows carved into his heart. He was parched for her touch, aching for the balm of her nearness, yearning with a desire fierce as obsession and as penetrating as the longing for oblivion.

Silent as shadows, he drifted to the door—every murmur from the other men sliced through his heart like shards of glass. At Ethel's doorstep, he learned she had stepped out into the evening to breathe in the night's chill. The servant motioned him into the sitting room with its oppressive stillness. There he sat swallowed by time—waiting, waiting for her return.

The crisp night air had smoothed the wrinkles of his agitation as he tread back upon Clarke's words in his mind. The truth crystallized—that the blame may not lie with Jack after all. Perhaps Reginald, with a devilish cunning, had ensnared Jack's essence and marked him as yet another quarry. This could not come to pass; it was now his turn to be the savior. He had to alert Jack to Reginald's sinister web even if it meant speaking against a tempest that would only carry away his words.

Reginald's twisted genius had birthed a suggestion: that old illusions had curdled into madness—a monomania—and any attempt at warning would but reinforce this vile narrative. One route remained—he must confront Reginald himself, brave face-to-face that vile harvester of souls. A slumberless night stretched before him; he would stand sentinel against whatever might come. Should Reginald dare near his sanctuary, he'd bear fangs and threat if needed to shield his friend from doom's clutches.

Ernest's resolve was ironclad when suddenly—through a trance broken—a cascade of joyous cries from Ethel pierced the brooding air as she returned from her walk refreshed, only for her smile to fray into concern at the sight of Ernest’s pallor. And so he poured forth the day’s eerie events—from unearthing his work beneath Reginald's possession to that ominous exchange which fate had thrown upon his ears. As his story meandered towards its close, he couldn't help but notice how light seemed to creep back into Ethel’s features...

"Your story, is it done?" she blurted out, her question cutting through the stillness with an urgency that betrayed an inner turmoil.

"Yeah, I guess," was my hesitant reply, a mix of hope and fear in my voice.

"If that's true, then you might just dodge the bullet this time. He won't be after you anymore. But you've messed up by leaving it behind."

In my head, I could only replay the moment of chaos: the mad scramble in which the manuscript just about slipped into the desk drawer again. "All I could manage was to stash it away," I confessed. "Tomorrow, I'm going to lay it on the line and demand it back."

"That's suicide," she snapped back sharply. "Don't be a fool - it's penned in his hand. You have zero legal claim to it. The only way out is to snatch it when no one's watching. Trust me, he wouldn't dare call foul play."

"What about Jack?" The words were out before I realized Jack had slipped my mind entirely – a slip all too common when hearts teeter on the brink of desperation.

"You've got no choice but to tip him off," she said flatly.

"He'd think I'm joking," I countered, a grim laugh hiding unease. "Still...I need to hash this out with Reginald."

"Spare yourself. It won’t do any good – at least not before you secure that manuscript," she cautioned with a piercing earnestness. "Why risk everything now?"

"And what comes after?"

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"Maybe then... but listen - don't paint a target on your back."

“No, honey,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers, “what’s to fear as long as I stay sharp? That guy, he preys on the clueless and the ones lost in shadow.”

“You still need to watch your back,” she replied.

“Oh, I will. And I've got this hunch that he’s out right now. If I hustle, I could snatch the manuscript and stash it before he even knows what’s hit him.”

Her voice was a soft tremor when she said, “The mere thought of you stepping foot in there sets my heart racing.”

“Give it a couple days—you won’t have to worry anymore.”

“Will I get to see you tomorrow?”

“It’s iffy. There's a pile of papers with my name on them that needs sorting so I can bolt at a second’s notice.”

“And after that?”

“And then—” He pulled her close, their gaze locking in a silent promise.

“Yes,” she breathed, a tentative smile on her lips. “Maybe.”

With a newfound determination radiating from him—a stark change from just last summer—he turned to leave. It was clear as day: it was her love that carved out the man he had become.

“If I’m not expecting you by tomorrow, I’m gonna hit the opera. But trust me; I’ll be back before the witching hour. Give me a ring after? Hearing your voice will chase away the night's demons—even if it's just crackling through the wires.”

"I'll ring you up. We, the people of this era, possess a benefit the old-timers couldn't dream of: in our day and age, even a world of barriers can't silence the whispers of love, as Pyramus can still call out to Thisbe."

"An amusing thought indeed! Yet I pray our tale will veer away from such a sorrowful finale," she murmured, her fingers gently weaving through his locks with affection. "Oh, we'll find our slice of heaven, you and I," she said after a pensive pause. "The relentless grip of destiny that once seemed to mock our every move has eased its hold. Well, almost eased. Yes, all but completely."

A chill of terror suddenly gripped her.

"No!" she exclaimed, the color draining from her face, "Please, don't leave! Stay here with me; there’s an unease taking hold of me—a premonition of dread for your safety."

"My love," he assured her with a steady voice that held the faintest tremble, "there's no cause for alarm. Deep down you must know that abandoning a companion isn’t in my nature, just as I can’t forsake the essence of my soul's work to Reginald's whims."

"But why risk everything on behalf of someone who might very well stab you in the back?"

He gave her a look that was both tender and resolute. "Friendship," he intoned solemnly, "is one of life's true treasures. Once it demands recompense, it loses all meaning. Moreover, haven’t you convinced me that Reginald poses no real threat? There’s nothing he can take from me."

Comforted by his resolve, she found herself regaining composure steadily as the door shut behind him. On the street, his steps were quick and determined at first but gradually lost their sense of purpose. Her words echoed in his mind like an ominous drumbeat, causing his thoughts to whirl as he approached his quarters in unease. He didn't immediately dive into Reginald's labyrinthine documents upon arrival; instead, he listlessly lit a cigarette while twilight threw long shadows across the room. Then Reginald's key turned in the lock unexpectedly early—for ill or good—he was about to find out.

He flicked off the light swiftly and huddled in the half-gloom cast by an electric torch downstairs, quickly fortifying the door as he had done the night before. As he lay in bed, sleep eluded him.

An eerie stillness hung heavy over the home. The elevator had fallen into silence. Ernest’s mind was a symphony of heightened senses, a vessel for every sound. The pacing of Reginald in the studio above was relentless; not a single shuffle or sigh escaped Ernest's vigil. Time crept by on leaden feet. Twelve o'clock chimed, yet Reginald's steps persisted – an ascending and descending rhythm, a mantra of footfalls.

One o'clock.

His footsteps maintained their hypnotic cadence. It was like a demonic metronome, lulling all to sleep against their will. Exhaustion claimed Ernest; nature's debt collector. Slumber engulfed him.

But once his eyelids drooped, that terror which once lurked in dreams alone sprang forth to taint reality. Those spindly fingers returned, questing delicately through the intricate web of his nerves – hunting for essence, for soul.

A fragment of consciousness fought to wake him, sensing withdrawal from the invasive touch.

Ernest jolted awake with the impression of fleeing steps in his chamber. Slick with sweat, he lunged for the switch to flood the room with incandescence.

The room was undisturbed—no human presence revealed itself—his barricade untouched. Still, dread unfurled within him like storm-filled sails.

Despite no evidence, no iota of proof to justify his belief that Reginald Clarke had just been harvesting his fears, that conviction gnawed at him fiercely. Staring into the large mirror above the mantlepiece yielded only his own pallid reflection – wide-eyed and crazed, as if staring back from an abyss.