The success of the spectral family drama was immediate and overwhelming. Schroon Falls, a town starved for entertainment that didn't involve historical reenactments or high school football, had found its new favorite pastime. The story of Captain Terence's ignominious end, brought to light by the sharp tongue of his spectral wife, was the talk of the town. It was recounted with glee at the diner, whispered about over fences, and debated at the post office. D. Keller was no longer just a mysterious medium; he was the producer and star of the most compelling reality show in town. The money from that second, chaotic séance, and the two that followed on subsequent weekends, had piled up. It sat in a thick, reassuring envelope in the pocket of his worn jacket. The days of his life being dictated by a paltry sum in his bank account were over, at least for now. And with this newfound power came a satisfying purpose: paying his landlord.
Mr. Kim's knock on the door of Unit 4B was different this time. The loud, impatient rapping of a man demanding his due had been replaced by a soft, timid tapping, the sound of a nervous mouse asking for a favor. Donnie opened the door. Mr. Kim stood in the sterile hallway, his neatness at war with a palpable cloud of anxiety. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his perfectly ironed shirt, his eyes darting around, refusing to meet Donnie's gaze.
Donnie said nothing. He simply reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick, bulging envelope stuffed with cash. He held it out.
"This," Donnie said, his voice a low, quiet rumble, "should cover the next three months."
Mr. Kim's eyes widened slightly as he took the envelope. He could feel the thickness of the cash through the paper. It was far more than the overdue balance. It was a statement. It was a reversal of fortune. The landlord, who had once held all the power, was now faced with a tenant who was not only solvent, but a local celebrity of the strangest, most unnerving kind.
"Very good, Mr. Keller," Mr. Kim stammered, his voice losing its usual crisp authority. He clutched the envelope as if it might float away. "Excellent. And... my apologies for any... previous inconvenience." He gave a tight, nervous little bow and practically scurried away down the hall, eager to escape the presence of the man who supposedly communed with the dead in his apartment building. Donnie watched him go, a flicker of grim, satisfying victory on his face. He closed the door to his sanctuary, the sound of the lock clicking into place now a sound of security, not of entrapment.
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With his housing situation stabilized, Donnie took a bus to the neighboring town of Ticonderoga for another necessary investment: a wardrobe upgrade. The worn jacket and faded jeans of his previous life were not suitable for D. Keller, the mysterious clairaudient. He found what he was looking for in a dimly lit vintage clothing store called "The Black Cat's Closet." The shop smelled of incense, old leather, and mothballs. It was filled with racks of gothic attire, Victorian mourning dresses, and velvet smoking jackets. It was a store designed for people pretending to be something they weren't, which made it the perfect place for him.
He found it on a rack in the back: a long, black wool coat. It was heavy, beautifully tailored, and severe. He tried it on. The coat fit perfectly, its sharp lines and heavy fabric transforming his gaunt frame into something more dramatic, more imposing, more mysterious. He looked at his reflection in a dusty, full-length, gilt-framed mirror. He saw not just himself, but the character he was becoming. A complex expression played across his face—a deep, ingrained self-loathing at the theatricality of it all, warring with a grudging, undeniable approval of the effect. This was a costume. This was armor. He paid for the coat with cash, the bills still smelling faintly of the dust from the manor.
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Walking down the main street of Schroon Falls in the new black coat was a different experience. Before, he had been invisible, just another face in the small town. Now, people stopped and stared. They whispered as he passed, their conversations dying down as he approached and then flaring up again once he was gone. The whispers were a mixture of awe, fear, and giddy curiosity. There he is. The one who talks to the ghosts. He pretended not to notice, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression a mask of cool indifference. But he could feel their eyes on him, and in spite of himself, his posture was straighter than before. The coat felt less like a costume and more like a second skin.
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He was becoming a regular at the Falls Diner. He no longer had to worry about the cost of a cup of coffee or a plate of pancakes. He sat at the counter, a figure of dark, quiet mystery amidst the cheerful clatter of plates and conversation. The waitress, the same one who had previously regarded him with confused curiosity, now treated him with a kind of friendly reverence. She came over to top up his mug, a fresh pot of coffee in her hand.
"This one's on the house, Mr. Keller," she said with a warm smile. "Gotta stay on the right side of the spirits." She gave him a playful wink, as if they were in on a secret together.
Donnie, who hated secrets and being in on things, just looked at her. But the old, reflexive scorn was tempered by something else. A quiet acknowledgment of a service rendered. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The waitress beamed and moved on, leaving him alone with his free coffee and his complicated thoughts.
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A strange, chaotic domesticity had settled into Schroon River Manor. The Grand Hall had become a sort of communal living room during the daylight hours. Donnie sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase, eating a large, freshly made sandwich on thick rye bread, filled with roast beef and sharp cheddar. It was a vast, glorious improvement over the instant noodles of his recent past. The four translucent Spectral Siblings hovered nearby, their bluish forms a constant, silent presence. A sort of familiarity, born of shared space and a common goal, had begun to form. He had even started referring to them in his own mind not as "the ghosts," but as "the roommates."
Terence, the spectral sea captain, was having one of his moods. He floated near the fireplace, miming a dramatic, silent bellow about some past injustice, his spectral beard seeming to quiver with indignation. It was something about a dishonest first mate and a stolen shipment of molasses.
Donnie didn't even look up from his sandwich. He took another large bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then spoke, his mouth still half-full.
"Keep it down, Terence," he said, his voice muffled by the bread and meat. "Some of us are trying to eat."
The spectral sea captain seemed to huff, a silent, ghostly exhalation of pure frustration. He crossed his massive, translucent arms over his chest and glared at Donnie, a sulking, pouting ghost. A fragile peace returned to the hall.
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His celebrity, much to his horror, now included fans. As he was leaving the manor one afternoon, the heavy black coat draped over his shoulders, he saw them waiting by the rusted iron gates. It was Tim and Sonia, the goth teenagers. They looked uncharacteristically nervous, their usual air of performative boredom replaced by a genuine, star-struck anxiety. Sonia held out one of the original, black-and-white flyers from the very first séance, the paper now worn and creased, and a cheap ballpoint pen.
"Mr. Keller?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Could you... you know...?"
Donnie stopped. He looked at the flyer, at their earnest, hopeful faces. He felt a surge of his old cynicism. This was absurd. They wanted his autograph. An autograph from a man who was famous for talking to himself in a dusty old house. But he was also a professional now, and this was part of the job. He took the pen. He didn't know what to write. He wasn't a celebrity. He was just Donnie. So he scrawled a simple, unreadable "DK" on the paper, a jagged, angry-looking pair of initials. He handed it back to them.
Tim and Sonia looked down at the autograph as if it were a holy relic, a sacred text from another dimension. Their faces were filled with a reverence that was both hilarious and deeply pathetic. They thanked him profusely and scurried away, clutching the signed flyer like a winning lottery ticket.
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The séance that night was a sold-out affair. Every chair was filled, and a small crowd of people who couldn't get seats stood in the back of the hall, straining to see and hear. The pressure was immense. The town now expected not just a spooky story, but a full-blown paranormal family feud, and it was his job to deliver. He sat at the velvet-draped table, the glow of the flashlights carving his face out of the darkness. He closed his eyes and let the roommates in.
The performance was frantic, a brilliant, chaotic masterpiece of vocal dexterity. He was a human switchboard, channeling the bickering spirits with dizzying speed.
"...a tragedy that my delicate constitution was ever subjected to the rigors of a transatlantic crossing!" he cried, his voice the soft, weeping alto of Amanda.
Then, in the next breath, his face hardened, and the sharp, cutting voice of Maria sliced through the air. "Your 'delicate constitution' managed to consume an entire box of French chocolates before we had even left the harbor, Amanda. Let us not rewrite history."
"They were for my nerves, Mother!"
"A lie! The Kraken was real! I saw it with me own two eyes!" Terence's roar suddenly bellowed, shouldering Amanda's weeping aside.
The performance was brilliant, a stunning display of his talent. But it was taking its toll. Beads of sweat were visible on Donnie's forehead, trickling down his temples. The constant, rapid-fire switching between voices, between personalities, between deep-seated, century-old emotions, was draining him. He was a vessel, and the spirits were pouring all of their eternal, unresolved drama into him. It was exhilarating. It was exhausting. And for the first time, as he channeled a particularly vicious argument between Maria and Terence about a misplaced inheritance, he felt a genuine spike of Maria's cold, righteous anger inside his own chest. It was a flicker of emotional bleed-through, a terrifying hint that the lines between himself and the roommates were beginning to blur.
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He was back late that night, back in the stark, silent, sound-proofed sanctuary of Unit 4B. The new black coat was hung neatly on a hook on the back of the door, a silent testament to the man he had become. He sat on the edge of his bare mattress, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the psychic noise that had filled his head for the past several hours. He was utterly, bone-deeply drained. His face, illuminated by the single, bare bulb overhead, was pale and drawn. His throat ached. He gently massaged his own neck, his fingers tracing the tired muscles around his larynx. This instrument, this gift, was also a curse.
On the floor next to the mattress was a cheap wall calendar he had bought at the dollar store. With a red marker, he had circled the next four weekends. Next to each circled date, he had written the same two words: "SÉANCE - SOLD OUT." The sight of it brought him no joy. The immediate, terrifying specter of eviction had been replaced by a new ghost, a new master. The specter of success had become a demanding and relentless ghost of its own, and it was already haunting him.