Flush with the success of his first séance and, more importantly, flush with two hundred and forty-five dollars in crumpled, hard-earned cash, Donnie Keller decided to tie up a loose end. It was a petty errand, an indulgence, but one he felt he had earned. He returned to Pilgrim's Passage, the site of his recent, unlamented firing. The air of manufactured history, the smell of damp wool and electric woodsmoke, felt different now. He was no longer Cholera Victim #3. He was D. Keller, Clairaudient, a man with a pocket full of cash and a bizarre, paying gig. He walked with a sense of ironic superiority, a swagger born not of confidence, but of the sheer, ludicrous turn his life had taken.
He found Mr. Hernandez in the gift shop, hunched over a stack of inventory forms, his wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. The shop was a nightmare of historically inaccurate kitsch—plastic muskets, "Ye Olde" fudge, and t-shirts that read "I Survived the 1675 Cholera Outbreak." The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon-scented pinecones and smug satisfaction. Donnie cleared his throat.
Mr. Hernandez looked up, and the polite, welcoming mask he wore for the tourists vanished, replaced by a look of pure, undiluted disdain.
"I'm here for my final check," Donnie said, his voice flat and even. He had rehearsed the line on the walk over. It was meant to be casual, dismissive, the words of a man who had moved on to bigger and better things.
A slow, triumphant sneer spread across Mr. Hernandez's face. He leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment, enjoying it with a relish that was almost palpable. This was his turf, his kingdom of historical reenactment, and Donnie was the traitor he had successfully vanquished.
"Ah, yes. Keller," Mr. Hernandez said, drawing the name out as if it were a particularly unpleasant taste. "Your final paycheck. A matter of some... complexity." He steepled his fingers, the picture of bureaucratic authority. "When you failed to collect your check upon your... departure," he said, using the word as if Donnie had been fired from a fancy law firm and not a living history museum, "Human Resources was notified. They processed that, of course. Standard procedure." He gave a small, self-satisfied smile. "The check is in the mail."
The words hung in the air, a perfect, infuriating, bureaucratic brush-off. The check wasn't here. It was floating somewhere in the vast, indifferent universe of the postal system. It was a denial. A small, petty, but undeniably effective power play. The small, satisfying triumph Donnie had envisioned—waving the check in Hernandez's face before sauntering off—evaporated. He had been thwarted by paperwork. Denied his petty victory, Donnie simply stared at his old boss for a long moment, his face a blank mask. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the gift shop, the smell of cinnamon and smugness following him out the door. The mundane world, he was reminded, always found a way to snatch away your victories.
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Licking the fresh wounds of his humiliation, Donnie sought solace in the one place where money could buy immediate, uncomplicated happiness: the Falls Diner. It was a classic small-town diner, a long, narrow room with a checkerboard floor, red vinyl booths, and a counter that had seen better decades. The air smelled of hot coffee, frying bacon, and quiet lives. Donnie slid into a booth by the window and ordered a tall stack of pancakes. When the plate arrived, steaming and golden brown, swimming in a pool of melted butter and syrup, he felt a rare, quiet sense of satisfaction. This, he thought, stabbing a fork into the fluffy stack, was the taste of success. It tasted like buttermilk and maple syrup.
He ate slowly, savoring each bite. He was so focused on his meal that he didn't immediately notice the shift in the diner's atmosphere. Mrs. Janson, the earnest woman from the séance, was sitting at the counter. She was pointing him out to the waitress, her hand fluttering with excitement as she whispered behind it. The waitress, a young woman with tired eyes, glanced over at him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. The newfound celebrity was awkward. He felt a prickle of annoyance. He just wanted to be left alone with his pancakes.
His solitude was officially broken when Mr. Prince, the town librarian, approached his booth, a folded newspaper in his hand. The librarian's usual meticulous, scholarly calm was replaced by an almost boyish excitement.
"Mr. Keller," he said, his voice a respectful hush. "I believe you'll want to see this. You've made the front page."
Mr. Prince placed the newspaper on the table next to his plate of half-eaten pancakes. It was the weekly paper, The Schroon Falls Chronicle. The headline, in big, bold letters, was huge.
SPECTER OF SCHROON RIVER MANOR SPEAKS!
Below the headline, a sub-heading read: Local Man Gives Voice to the Voiceless. And below that was a photo. It was grainy, taken from a distance—Mr. Prince must have snapped it with his phone—but it was undeniably him. He was sitting at the table in the Grand Hall, his face illuminated from below by the harsh, dramatic glare of the flashlights. The photo had captured a moment of intense concentration, his eyes closed, his expression somber. He looked mysterious. He looked authentic. A small, unfamiliar flicker of pride fought with his reflexive, ingrained cynicism. For the first time in his life, he looked like someone who mattered.
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A world away from the greasy charm of the Falls Diner, sunlight streamed into a stately, book-lined office at the prestigious Miskatonic University. The office was a shrine to reason, a fortress of skepticism. The walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled not with dusty old novels, but with leather-bound volumes on psychology, acoustics, the history of spiritualism, and the art of deception. On one wall, a glass case displayed a collection of debunked artifacts: a bent spoon allegedly warped by psychokinesis, a set of "ectoplasm"-stained cheesecloths, a spirit trumpet with a hidden compartment. This was the office of Dr. Julius Elliott.
Dr. Elliott, a man in his late forties with a sharp, intelligent face and a perfectly tailored tweed jacket, sat at a large, minimalist desk. He held a delicate porcelain teacup, taking a small, precise sip of Earl Grey as he scrolled through his morning digest of paranormal news sites on a large, high-resolution monitor. His expression was one of weary patience. He had seen it all: ghost orbs that were clearly dust motes, EVPs that were just radio interference, spirit photographs that were clumsy double exposures. His life's work was to bring the cool, clean light of rationality to the murky, superstitious corners of the world.
His mouse hovered, then clicked on a link from a small regional news aggregator. The article from The Schroon Falls Chronicle filled his screen. He read the sensational headline: "SPECTER OF SCHROON RIVER MANOR SPEAKS!" A deep, weary sigh escaped his lips, a sound of profound intellectual disappointment. He read the gushing, credulous article, his lips thinning into a tight, disapproving line. It was all here. The classic tropes. The decaying manor, the tragic backstory, the "sensitive" medium, the easily impressed locals. It was a textbook case of provincial hysteria.
He took another sip of tea, his mind already deconstructing the fraud. He minimized the newspaper article and opened a new window on his monitor: the homepage for his personal blog. It had a clean, academic design. The title was displayed in a bold, serif font at the top of the page: The Elliott Exposé: A Beacon of Rationality. He clicked "New Post." His fingers, long and elegant, flew across the keyboard. He was not angry. He was simply disappointed. Another charlatan had emerged, another fire of ignorance that needed to be calmly and methodically extinguished. He began to compose his response, the words forming in his mind even as they appeared on the screen.
"Case File 347: The Schroon Falls Charlatan," he typed, his voice in his own head calm and authoritative. "A classic manifestation of public susceptibility when faced with charismatic vocal trickery. The case of 'D. Keller' presents a fascinating, if depressingly familiar, confluence of gothic atmosphere and collective delusion."
The screen showed excerpts of the blog post taking shape, a clinical, detached dissection of the phenomenon.
...the 'clairaudient' is likely an individual with advanced ventriloquist skills, possibly aided by polyphonic vocal ability, a rare but documented talent for producing multiple tones simultaneously. The so-called 'supernatural' events—the cold breezes, the flickering lights—are easily explained by the acoustic and atmospheric anomalies common in large, decaying manors. Add to this the power of collective suggestion upon a small, eager-to-believe audience, and you have a recipe for a manufactured haunting...
Dr. Elliott leaned back, taking another thoughtful sip of his tea. He was utterly confident in his diagnosis. He had seen this a hundred times before. It was just a matter of showing his work.
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Back at the Falls Diner, Donnie finished the last, syrup-soaked bite of his pancake. The whispers from the other patrons had grown louder. More people were pointing now. A man in a booth across the aisle was holding up his own copy of the Chronicle and comparing the photo to Donnie's face. The attention was making his skin crawl. This was the downside of his ridiculous new career. He wanted the money, not the fame. He threw a ten-dollar bill on the table—a bill he had collected from a giddy Mrs. Janson just last night—and slid out of the booth. He grabbed the newspaper from the table as an afterthought, folding it and tucking it under his arm. He needed to get out of there.
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In his silent, sunlit office, Dr. Elliott typed the concluding paragraph of his blog post. It was not enough to simply debunk from afar. True rationality required engagement. It required a demonstration.
...Therefore, The Elliott Exposé officially announces its intention to travel to Schroon Falls. This foundation will conduct a full, on-site investigation, complete with audio-spectral analysis and psychological evaluation, to debunk this crude haunting. We will expose Mr. 'D. Keller' for the common charlatan he so clearly is. Rationality must, and will, prevail.
He reread the final paragraph, a grim sense of satisfaction settling over him. It was a declaration of war, an intellectual challenge thrown down from his ivory tower. He moved his mouse over the "Publish" button and, with a decisive click, his post went live. The first shot had been fired.
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Donnie walked down the main street of Schroon Falls, the cool, gray air a welcome relief after the stuffy diner. He unfolded the newspaper and reread the article about himself, a small, smug smirk playing on his lips. "Mysterious," "gifted," "a bridge to the other side." The gushing praise was absurd, but he couldn't deny the small, warm glow it produced in his chest. For once, people were saying something good about him, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
The smirk vanished as Mr. Prince, the librarian, came jogging up behind him, looking slightly out of breath. He was holding out his smartphone.
"Mr. Keller, I apologize for bothering you again," Mr. Prince panted, his face a mixture of excitement and concern. "But I believe you need to see this. I follow a number of paranormal and skeptical academic blogs. This man, Dr. Julius Elliott... he is quite influential in certain circles."
Donnie took the smartphone from Mr. Prince. On the screen was a webpage with a clean, academic layout. The title read: The Elliott Exposé. And below it, the headline of the latest post, big and bold and accusatory.
The Schroon Falls Charlatan: A Case Study in Vocal Trickery and Public Gullibility
Donnie's eyes scanned the text, the clinical, dismissive words jumping out at him. "Vocal trickery." "Gullibility." "Common charlatan." Each phrase was a small, sharp slap in the face. His brief moment of pride curdled into a familiar, defensive anger. He scrolled to the final paragraph, the public vow to travel to Schroron Falls, to conduct an investigation, to expose him.
The smirk on his face was gone, replaced by a hard, defiant glare. So, a professional skeptic was coming to town. An expert. A debunker. Donnie looked up from the phone, his gaze distant, settling on the gray, overcast sky. Let him come. Let the expert bring his science and his skepticism. He had an angry sea captain, a tragic poetess, a stern matriarch, and a sad little boy on his side. It was a fight, and Donnie Keller had something to defend.