A wave of applause, loud and enthusiastic, washed over the town square as Donnie Keller walked onto the brightly lit stage. He moved through the sound as if it were a physical thing, a wave of noise that he had to push through to get to the center. He wore the simple, dark clothes that had become his uniform: black jeans, a dark shirt, and the long, severe wool coat that gave his gaunt frame a sense of dramatic authority. He ignored the applause, his face a pale, determined mask in the glare of the stage lights. He felt disconnected from the sound, as if it were for someone else, for the fictional character of "D. Keller, The Schroon Falls Medium."
In the wings, Mayor Taylor beamed. He clapped along with the crowd, his face flushed with political victory. The town was thrilled. The tourists were ecstatic. The festival was a resounding success, and it was all thanks to his mysterious, crowd-pleasing headliner. This was going to guarantee his reelection.
Donnie walked to the center of the stark stage. The only furniture was a single, ornate, high-backed chair he had brought from the manor's dining room, and a single, waiting microphone on a stand. He ignored the chair, a prop for a show he had no intention of performing. He stood at the microphone, his hands at his sides, and waited. He let the applause wash over him, peak, and then slowly die down, replaced by a thick, expectant hush. The festive energy of the night, the cheerful cacophony of the festival, quieted to a reverent silence.
His eyes, shielded from the bright lights by the shadows of his own brow, scanned the crowd. He saw the sea of upturned faces, eager and hopeful. His gaze passed over Mrs. Janson in the front row, who was clutching her amethyst crystal to her chest, her eyes already shining with unshed tears of anticipation. He saw Tim and Sonia, the goth teenagers, sitting beside her, their usual cynical slouch replaced by a posture of rapt, almost religious devotion. He saw the proud, proprietary smile of Mayor Taylor. He saw them all, his audience, his believers, his flock. And he passed over them all until his eyes found their true target.
In the fourth row, sitting with the calm, detached posture of an academic observer, was Dr. Julius Elliott. The scientist had set up his discreet equipment on the empty chair beside him: a small, high-fidelity audio recorder and a digital camera on a tiny tripod. He was not a fan waiting for a thrill. He was a scientist preparing to document. As Donnie's gaze met his, Dr. Elliott gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was a silent acknowledgment. A confirmation. The experiment is ready to be documented.
Donnie closed his eyes. The crowd leaned in as one, a collective intake of breath. This was it. This was the moment they had been waiting for. Donnie's posture, which had been stiff and rigid, softened. His shoulders slumped slightly, his head tilted in a familiar, sorrowful pose. When he spoke, the voice that emerged from the microphone and washed over the town square was not his own. It was the beautiful, tragic, heartbreakingly musical voice of Amanda.
"My heart..." the voice sighed, a perfect, crystalline note of grief that seemed to make the twinkling fairy lights shimmer. "My heart is a..."
The audience was hooked. They sighed along with him, a low, empathetic murmur. Mrs. Janson closed her eyes, a beatific smile on her face, already transported. This was the magic. This was the connection to the other side.
The voice cut off.
The tragic posture vanished. Donnie's back went ramrod straight. When he spoke again, the voice was still Amanda's, the pitch and timbre were identical, but the musicality, the emotion, the very soul of it was gone. The voice was flat. Cold. Robotic. It was the voice of a dispassionate text-to-speech program reading a technical manual.
"...is a designated emotional parameter," the robotic Amanda-voice stated, the words crisp and devoid of any feeling. "Subject Designation: IP-Beta. Protocol active."
A confused, uncertain murmur rippled through the audience. This was not the show they had paid to see. This was not the beautiful, tragic poetry they had come to expect. What was this? Was this part of the act? Mayor Taylor's beaming smile tightened into a look of utter bewilderment. He glanced at the town council members sitting next to him, who just shrugged, their faces blank with confusion. Mrs. Janson's eyes snapped open, her beatific smile replaced by a look of complete, baffled disorientation. She looked at her friends, who looked back at her, just as lost.
The robotic voice continued, relentless and clinical. "Origin: Amalgam of nineteenth-century romantic literature. Purpose: To induce melancholy and curb subject's latent aggression. Status: Active."
In the fourth row, Dr. Julius Elliott did not look confused. He leaned forward, his face a mask of sudden, intense fascination. His scientific mind, his entire field of expertise, was centered on analysis, on finding the patterns, on understanding the mechanics of a thing. And what he was hearing now, this was not the language of a medium. It was not the vague, emotional, unverifiable rambling of a charlatan. This was the precise, cold, clinical jargon of a laboratory. Of a psychological report. He discreetly checked the digital levels on his audio recorder. They were perfect. The data he was capturing was clean, clear, and utterly, scientifically unprecedented.
Before the crowd could begin to process the first shock, Donnie's body shifted again. The delicate, sorrowful slump of Amanda was gone, replaced by a broad, confident, swaggering posture. His voice, when it came, was the familiar, booming, salty roar of Terence, the sea captain.
"Belay that talk!" the voice thundered, a welcome, familiar sound to the confused audience. "The sea calls my name! And a captain answers the call!"
A few scattered, relieved cheers and whoops came from the crowd. This was more like it. This was the show. This was the cantankerous, heroic captain they loved. But their relief was short-lived. Just as he had with Amanda's, Terence's voice suddenly flattened, the booming roar collapsing into a cold, navigational computer's monotone.
"Correction," the robotic Terence-voice stated, its tone flat and informational. "The 'sea' is a narrative fantasy construct. A subroutine designed to contain and re-channel aggressive impulses. Subject Designation: IP-Gamma."
The festive, cheerful energy of Founder's Day began to curdle. The air grew heavy. The twinkling fairy lights suddenly seemed harsh and garish. The crowd was silent now, their confusion turning into a palpable unease. This wasn't a fun, spooky ghost show anymore. This was something else. Something strange, and cold, and deeply uncomfortable.
The robotic voice of the captain continued its report. "Protocol: Channel aggressive impulse into non-destructive folklore archetypes. Current fantasy module: Maritime. Status: Active."
Donnie fell silent. The only sound was the faint, distant whine of the feedback from the local band's abandoned amplifiers. He looked out at the sea of faces before him. He saw their confusion. He saw their dawning horror. He saw them beginning to understand that the man on the stage was not a vessel for the dead, but something far stranger, and far more broken.
His gaze again found Dr. Elliott. The scientist was watching him with the fierce, focused intensity of a man witnessing the birth of a new star, or the beautiful, terrifying collapse of an old one. The first stage of the plan was complete. The foundation of the lie, the charming, entertaining, profitable lie of the Spectral Siblings, had been demolished. Now, it was time to show the crowd the madness that had been hiding underneath it all along.