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Dawn broke with an envelope lying ominously on the side table – Ethel’s handwriting scrawled across the front, a small sanctuary of warmth amidst the growing tension. Her words were a balm, but also a stark nudge for him: it was madness to share a home with Reginald any longer. He had to lay his hands on that eldritch manuscript they both coveted and catch Reginald wielding his dark arts. Such a victory would flip the chessboard, letting him call the shots and secure Jack’s well-being as hush money.
Reginald had barricaded himself in his den of creation, his typewriter punctuating the silence like uneven heartbeats. The sacred text of "Leontina" remained just beyond reach within those walls, behind a door that kept conversation and larceny at bay.
Ernest, meanwhile, sifted through his own world of paper - letters aging at the corners and notes scribbled in fervor - gearing up for a swift exit from this place fraught with strange tensions. The afternoon sun dipped below the horizon as he filed the remnants of past thoughts, his mind too wrapped up to note time’s steady march.
By nightfall, Ernest lay restlessly on his half-dressed bed; it was ten p.m., and Ethel's voice would breach distances by midnight through the magic of telephone wires. Sleep was an enemy tonight; he’d unmask Reginald’s nocturnal intrusions once and for all.
As sixty minutes ticked by without mischief or mayhem, Ernest’s vigilance dulled, eyelids heavy with the promise of darkness. But then, with a soft tap like death's faint knock on wood, life shattered into alertness – something moved by the door. A Chinese vase clattered to its demise upon the hardwood floor.
Ernest was on his feet in an instant; paler than moonlight reflecting off bleached bones, yet gripped by a resolve steeled in secret battles fought within. With a flick of his fingers, light banished shadow from every conceivable corner – an empty room greeted him back. Silence stood sentinel outside his door.
And then...a brush against skin followed by mystery unfurling at his feet – quiet terror replaced by absurd relief and then hysteria’s dark cousin: laughter edged with shards of glass. Beneath him coiled the trivial architect of this chaos - a little Maltese cat with eyes gleaming through its gymnastic feat gone awry - now serenely nestling close to him, its purrs scattering ghosts and fears alike at the edge of his bed.
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The comfort of any living presence was like a lifeline, yet his reservoir of strength teetered on the empty mark. The memory of his commitment to Ethel danced faintly in his mind, but the heaviness of his eyelids won out, surrendering him to weariness. Time seemed to slip by—perhaps an hour, perhaps more—before a bone-chilling terror seized him.
He sensed it unmistakably—the intrusive fingers of Reginald Clarke worming through the fabric of his mind, probing for some elusive treasure. An overwhelming paralysis cemented Ernest's limbs, holding him captive to an invisible force. Through a Herculean internal battle, he finally fought off the stony grip of paralysis and snapped awake, just in time to witness a shadowy figure retreat through a hidden door that melded into the wall he shared with Reginald's abode.
This wasn't a trick of the senses. The soft click of a secret door marked the intruder’s exit. A scorching wave of fury washed over Ernest. All rational fears—of Reginald's disquieting power, the lost affection—all were scorched away by his inferno of indignation.
Isn't it lawful to defend oneself against a thief in the night? Why should he suffer this more devilish and perilous spiritual pilferer, this spectral burglar? Should Reginald reap others' spoils with impunity? Was he fated to rise as a giant of literature by feasting on superior talents? Abel, Walkham, Ethel—and now Jack himself—mere prey for this ravenous leech?
Was there truly no weapon to combat such an inexorable force?
Resoundingly no!
Like a madman he flung himself at the deceitful partition where Clarke's apparition had phased through. Instinctively his hands found and pressed a concealed switch; silently, the wall receded. Without words or hesitation, driven by fury, Ernest stormed through connecting chambers until he stood within Reginald's sanctum—a stark room bathed in light where Clarke sat at his workspace, lost in a fervor of creation amidst scattered notes.
With Ernest's entrance, Reginald raised his head unhurriedly; displaying no shock nor fear at the sight before him. Arms crossed over his chest with regal poise, eyes glinting with an intimidator's intent; there stood Reginald Clarke before Ernest – predator facing his prey.