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Reginald Clarke's voice, with its deep and melodious timbre, held the listeners spellbound. It ebbed and flowed, now swelling like the chords of an organ, now tenderly dropping to the delicate pitch of a bell's chime. The allurement of his manner detracted, paradoxically, from the weight of his words. Even Ernest, well accustomed to his friend's eloquence, found himself entranced by the sound.

As the first page of the manuscript gently made its descent to the floor, Ernest was struck with a strange recognition—the words Reginald spoke, he knew them, intimately. They were etched deep into his consciousness, resonant and familiar.

When the second page followed, a shiver tore through Ernest's body, a frigid realization gripping him. There was no mistaking the sensation—it was unmistakable evidence of plagiarism. An impulse to speak out, to confront the situation, surged within him, yet the room seemed to spin, blurring into a whirlpool of faces and lights, with Reginald's figure at its vortex, all swirling into the maelstrom of a dream.

Doubt gnawed at him; perhaps this was a long illness manifesting, maybe Clarke was offering his work as a solace during recovery. Ernest could not recall the act of writing the words, yet the notion that he might have been sick after penning the play brought little consolation. Memory can be a fickle custodian, but no, this was no illusion, and he had not been bedridden.

The torment of uncertainty became unbearable. Ernest's nerves screamed for release; they could not sustain the strain much longer without snapping. He sought solace in the presence of his friend, leaning in close, a whisper barely escaping his lips.

"Jack, Jack!" he called out, his voice trembling.

"What's wrong?" Jack responded, his attention momentarily diverted from the reading.

"That play... it's mine!" Ernest insisted.

"Do you mean you inspired it?" Jack was trying to make sense of his friend's agitation.

"No, I've written it—or was about to write it," Ernest clarified, the words rushing out.

Jack's response was one of utter disbelief. "Wake up, Ernest! You're not thinking clearly!"

But Ernest was insistent, his voice tinged with a seriousness that left no room for doubt. "It's mine. Remember, I mentioned to you on our way back from Coney Island that I was working on a play?"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Yes, this very play," Ernest insisted, his voice quivering with anxiety. "I dreamed it, I shaped it in my mind."

"But Clarke had the same idea before you," Jack reasoned.

"It is mine, nonetheless!"

"Did you ever tell him about your idea?"

"Not a word."

"And there was no manuscript left in your room?"

"I hadn't written down a single line. I hadn't even started the actual writing."

Jack was puzzled. "Why would Clarke, a writer of his stature, steal your play, especially when it wasn't even penned?"

"I can't think of any reason. But—"

"Come on," Jack interrupted, sensing the futility of the discussion.

Their hushed tones had already attracted a sharp glance from a woman seated in front of them.

Ernest's grip on the chair tightened; he needed to anchor himself in reality to prevent being swept away by the storm of emotions and vague fears that threatened to engulf him.

Could Jack be right? Was his mind betraying him? No, he couldn't accept that. There had to be a secret, a monstrous, terrible secret. The specifics didn't matter at the moment. He had reached out for Jack's support, like a ship signaling through the fog, but Jack had not understood, had not responded.

The sting of unshed tears was in Ernest's eyes. He felt alone, utterly alone amid the crowds around him.

As Reginald Clarke's resonant voice filled the room, Ernest's own words, his very own creation, were spoken back to him. The intensity of his emotions was almost unbearable. It was like witnessing a spectral performance, his characters coming alive before him, not on the stage, but in the chilling reality of this room, through the voice of another.

Each figure of his narrative was there, as vivid as in a fevered dream. The mad king, with his wild decrees and erratic tyranny. The courtiers, sharp and cunning, maneuvering in the shadow of power. The deep-souled prince, carrying the weight of a kingdom's sorrow. The Queen-Mother, whose love for a fool had birthed a scandal, and their daughter, Princess Marigold, a being of light and darkness intertwined.

The story unfolded with relentless pace. The looming specter of death cast its pall over the royal household. Under the crushing weight of torture, the jester's confessions spilled forth. Once the king's entertainer, now he stood, a figure of tragedy, stripped of his motley and adorned with a garland of blood. His grotesque fate elicited a laugh from Princess Marigold, a laugh tinged with tears, a response to the absurdity and horror of the scene.

The Queen, silent and ghostly pale, witnessed the love of her life taken by the executioner's unforgiving blade. The jester's severed head rolled to a stop at the king's feet, who, in a gesture of grim humor, presented it to his daughter. Marigold, with a kiss, shrouded the ghastly smile in her veil of gold.

The play reached its conclusion, the last words echoing in the stillness that followed. There was no applause, only a collective hush, the kind of reverent silence that greets the profound or the sacred. The audience was held in the grip of the power that is at the heart of true artistry.

Ernest, however, was disconnected from their awe. The physical reaction to his inner turmoil was overpowering. A cold sweat covered his forehead, and he felt the blood pounding at his temples. In a merciful attempt to preserve his sanity, his brain numbed, the flood of blood muffling the screams of his frayed nerves, offering a brief respite from the torment of consciousness and the piercing sting of betrayal.