The Grand Hall of Schroon River Manor was a mausoleum of silence. The air dead, was heavy and still, weighted down by a truth more terrible than any ghost story. Donnie Keller sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase, staring into the dusty space. He had been sitting there for hours, unmoving. The sheaf of papers he had printed, the clinical, world-shattering text of the IPP Overview, lay beside him on the step. The flimsy sheets felt heavier than stone. It was his weapon, but he felt too weak to lift it.
At the edge of his perception, the "ghosts" flickered. They were faint, unstable, their usual vibrant, bluish light dimmed to a pale, watery glow. After his confrontation with them, after he had wielded the truth of their origins like a weapon, their energy had collapsed. They no longer demanded his attention with dramatic poses or spectral tantrums. Now, they just watched him from the shadows, a tense, silent, watchful stillness emanating from them. They were waiting. The programs were waiting for their operator to give them a new command.
A loud, official-sounding knock echoed from the massive oak front door. The sound was a violation, a loud, intrusive noise from the outside world barging into the quiet tomb of his shattered mind. Donnie didn't move. The knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. With a weary sigh that seemed to pull up the last of his energy from some deep, exhausted well, he got to his feet. His legs felt stiff and unsteady. He walked to the door and pulled it open.
Standing on the sagging porch, silhouetted against the perpetually gray sky, was a man in a crisp suit. He had a politician's practiced smile, the kind that was wide and bright but didn't quite reach his eyes. In his hand, he held a large, ornate envelope made of thick, creamy cardstock.
"Mr. Keller!" the man boomed, his voice radiating a forced, cheerful confidence. "Mayor Taylor. A pleasure to finally meet the man behind the... voices." The mayor's smile remained fixed, but his eyes darted nervously past Donnie into the gloomy, cavernous hall, a flicker of apprehension belying his confident tone.
Donnie just stared at him, his face a blank mask of exhaustion. He said nothing. The mayor, undeterred, took this as an invitation. He stepped past Donnie into the Grand Hall, his polished, expensive shoes looking absurd and out of place on the dusty, ancient floorboards.
"As you know," the mayor began, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space, "the annual Schroon Falls Founder's Day festival is our biggest event of the year. Biggest weekend for tourism, brings in people from all over the state." He got to the point. "The town council has voted unanimously. We would be honored, truly honored, if you would be our main attraction. A grand séance, on the main stage in the town square. The grand finale of the festival." He held out the ornate envelope, a peace offering to the local celebrity ghoul.
Donnie looked at the fancy invitation, at the embossed gold lettering, then at the Mayor's hopeful, calculating face. He thought of the packed halls, the sea of expectant faces, the pressure to perform the madness that was tearing him apart.
"No," Donnie said. The word was flat, final, devoid of all emotion. It hung in the air between them. "The show is over."
Mayor Taylor's practiced smile faltered. His political instincts had failed him. This was not the eager, grateful response he had anticipated. "But... Mr. Keller," he stammered, his confidence evaporating. "Think of the town! The tourism... it's a matter of civic duty, of pride! The world is talking about Schroon Falls because of you!"
As the mayor continued to babble about economic impact and community spirit, a war erupted inside Donnie's head. The "roommates," who had been silent and subdued since his confrontation, suddenly flared to life, not as ghosts, but as impulses, as raw, unfiltered motivations reacting to the idea of one last, grand performance.
First came Amanda. A wave of profound, tragic purpose washed over him. The thought of a stage, a massive audience, a final, public expression of sorrow... it wasn't an obligation; it was an opportunity. A chance to perform a tragedy so beautiful, so heartbreaking, that the whole world would weep. A chance to truly be heard, to have their collective, manufactured pain validated on the grandest possible scale. His shoulders slumped slightly with the weight of her melancholy.
Then, the sorrow was shoved aside by a surge of defiant, crackling energy. Terence. The captain roared silently in his mind. This wasn't a performance; it was a battle. A chance to go out in a blaze of glory, to stand on a stage before the world and roar one last time, not a fictional tale of a kraken, but the raw, furious truth of his own existence. Donnie's right hand, hanging loose at his side, clenched into a tight, white-knuckled fist.
And then, cutting through the chaos of emotion, came Maria. Her influence was not a wave of feeling, but a sliver of ice-cold, sharp, calculating logic. This was not a performance. This was not a battle. This was a platform. A stage, a live microphone, a captive audience, an opportunity to seize the narrative. They had been exposed to him. Now, he could expose them—and the corporation that created them—to the world. It was the only logical move. The only way to regain control. His spine, which had been slumped with Amanda's sorrow, straightened.
The internal battle raged for only a few seconds, but Mayor Taylor, watching him, saw a confusing series of micro-expressions flash across his face. A flicker of deep sadness, a flash of anger, and finally, a cold, unsettling stillness.
Donnie's gaze became sharp, focused, and deeply, chillingly calm. A decision had been made, not by him, but by the fractured committee in his head. Maria's cold, pragmatic logic had won.
"On one condition," Donnie said, his voice level and devoid of its earlier exhaustion.
Mayor Taylor, seeing a glimmer of hope, practically leaped at the chance. "Anything, my boy! Anything at all!"
"No interruptions," Donnie said, his eyes locking onto the mayor's. "No introductions. I get the stage, the lights, and a live microphone. For as long as I need."
The mayor, sensing a massive PR victory and completely oblivious to the dangerous, threatening undertones of Donnie's terms, readily agreed. "Of course! Absolutely! The stage is yours! The town will be thrilled!" He grabbed Donnie's hand and pumped it vigorously. Donnie's hand remained limp and cold in his grasp. The mayor, his mission accomplished, made a hasty exit, eager to leave the creepy, decaying manor and announce the festival's headliner to the press.
Donnie stood alone in the center of the Grand Hall, the ornate invitation still clutched in his hand. In the shadows, the faint, flickering forms of the Spectral Siblings were quiet, their chaotic energies now aligned, focused into a single, terrible purpose. This would not be a séance to tell their tragic, fake stories. This would not be a performance for the town's entertainment.
He walked to the grime-caked window and looked out, past the overgrown grounds, toward the distant town square where the Founder's Day stage would be built. That was the battlefield. This final performance would not be an act of mediumship. It would be an act of war. It would be an exorcism, broadcast to the world. Not an exorcism of the house, but of himself. The road back to the final conflict had been chosen. And he would walk it.