The day after Donnie learned that an academic ghost hunter was coming to debunk him, the check from Pilgrim's Passage finally arrived. It was nestled in the small, metal mailbox for Unit 4B, tucked between a flyer for a pizza place and a credit card offer addressed to "Current Resident." The envelope was plain, business-like, and depressingly thin. Donnie carried it upstairs to his sound-proofed sanctuary, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead insect.
He sat in his lone wooden chair and tore it open. The check inside was for one hundred and eighty-seven dollars and fifty-four cents. He stared at the number. After all the hours spent lying on that lumpy straw cot, feigning a slow, agonizing death from cholera, after enduring the cinnamon-scented smugness of Mr. Hernandez, his final compensation was less than the take from a single, one-hour séance. The check wasn't just a paltry sum of money; it was an ironic, pathetic footnote to his old life. It was the universe confirming, in black and white, that the path of quiet, soul-crushing labor was never going to be his salvation. With a humorless snort, he folded the check and put it in his pocket. It was time to pay the landlord.
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With the pathetic paycheck cashed and combined with the séance money, Donnie now had a wad of crumpled bills totaling four hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty-four cents. He put the thirty-two dollars and fifty-four cents back in his pocket. He stood inside his apartment, listening. He didn't have to wait long. A loud, impatient knock echoed from his door. It was the sound of a man who owned the very walls around him. It was Mr. Kim.
Donnie opened the door. His landlord stood in the hallway, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stern impatience. Mr. Kim was a small, neat man who always looked as if he had just ironed his own shirt. He exuded an air of crisp, unforgiving order.
"Mr. Keller," Mr. Kim said, his voice as sharp as a freshly creased pair of slacks. "The forty-eight hours have elapsed."
Donnie didn't say a word. He held out the entire wad of cash. It wasn't the full twelve hundred dollars, not even close. But it was a substantial pile of rumpled fives, tens, and twenties. It was something.
Mr. Kim's eyes flicked down to the cash, then back up to Donnie's face. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression. He had almost certainly seen the front-page article in the Chronicle. He knew his delinquent tenant, the jobless loser from 4B, was now D. Keller, the mysterious clairaudient of Schroon River Manor. The situation had changed. Donnie was no longer just a liability; he was a local celebrity, a curiosity. And a curious local celebrity might just be good for business, or at least capable of paying his rent eventually.
Mr. Kim uncrossed his arms and took the money from Donnie's hand. He didn't count it. The gesture was a small, calculated display of power.
"This is a good start," he said, the words clipped and precise. "This buys you time." He tucked the cash into his pocket. "The rest," he added, his eyes narrowing slightly, "is due by the end of the month. Do we have an understanding, Mr. Keller?"
The eviction was paused. The immediate, crushing threat was gone, replaced by a new, slightly more manageable deadline. The need for more cash, however, was still very, very real. Donnie simply nodded, and Mr. Kim, satisfied, turned and walked away down the sterile gray hallway. Donnie closed the door, the sound of the lock clicking into place a temporary reprieve.
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A few weeks later, the Grand Hall of Schroon River Manor was packed. The whispers of the first séance had rippled through the small town, growing into a wave of eager curiosity. Word of mouth was a powerful thing, especially when the story involved ghosts, local history, and a mysterious, gifted medium. The audience had more than doubled. The dozen dusty chairs were now three dozen, arranged in tight, crowded rows. The front row was a gallery of familiar faces. Mrs. Janson was back, this time with two wide-eyed friends who clutched their own protective crystals. Tim and Sonia, the goth teenagers, were also there, no longer radiating boredom but the quiet, intense devotion of hardcore fans. And Mr. Prince, the town librarian, sat in his usual spot on the end, a fresh, new notepad open on his knee, his pen poised.
Donnie had invested some of his earnings. The small, rickety table at the front was now draped in a piece of cheap black velvet he'd bought at the fabric store, which instantly made it look more mysterious and important. He had also found several more of the old, industrial flashlights in the manor's forgotten corners, and their combined beams created a more complex and theatrical web of light and shadow. The whole setup was more polished, the flashlight-Gothic ambiance perfected. He sat at the velvet-draped table, waiting for the excited buzz of the capacity crowd to die down. Behind him, unseen in the deepest shadows, the faint, shimmering outlines of Maria, Amanda, Terence, and Benny hovered like a strange, spectral tableau, their collective energy a low hum in the back of his mind.