The town square of Schroon Falls was cheerful and wholesome. Strings of twinkling fairy lights were strung between the lampposts, casting a warm, magical glow that fought, and lost, against the perpetually overcast sky. The air, usually crisp and clean, was thick with the rich, greasy smell of fried dough and the sweet, cloying scent of popcorn and cotton candy. On the main stage, a temporary structure of scaffolding and plywood erected in front of the town hall, a local band was enthusiastically murdering a patriotic song, the lead singer's voice a flat, nasal drone that was mercifully swallowed by a poorly mixed sound system. It was the annual Founder's Day festival, a celebration of community and tradition, and tonight, it was the backdrop something it could not begin to comprehend.
The rows of white folding chairs set up on the town green were nearly full. A large crowd of townspeople and tourists, drawn by the promise of the festival's mysterious headliner, buzzed with an excited, anticipatory energy. In the front row, Mayor Taylor glad-handed a constituent, his politician's smile stretched wide, beaming with pride. He had pulled off a major coup. He had booked "The Schroon Falls Medium." Tourism was up. The town was happy. He was a hero.
A few seats down, Mrs. Janson and two of her friends had arranged their chairs in a tight, protective circle. They clutched large, polished crystals in their laps, whispering excitedly to one another. They weren't here for the fried dough or the bad music. They were here for a spiritual event, a sacred communion, and they had dressed for the occasion in their finest flowing scarves and silver jewelry.
Not far from them sat Tim and Sonia. Their usual, elaborate goth attire had been polished to a fine sheen for the evening. Sonia had even added a touch of silver glitter to her black lipstick. They sat silently, hands folded in their laps, their typical air of performative boredom replaced by a deep, almost religious reverence. They were here to witness their prophet.
And in a single reserved seat near the front, set slightly apart from the others, Dr. Julius Elliott calmly, methodically, set up his equipment. There were no large, intimidating thermal cameras this time, no racks of blinking lights. His approach was discreet, almost covert. He placed a small, high-fidelity audio recorder, no bigger than a deck of cards, on the armrest of the chair next to him. He then screwed a sleek, digital camera onto a small, collapsible tripod, its lens aimed squarely at the center of the stage. He was not a fan. He was not a believer. He was a scientist, preparing to document a specimen in its natural habitat. He was here to record the truth, whatever that truth turned out to be.
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The backstage tent was a cramped, flimsy, canvas box that smelled of damp grass. It was a stark, pathetic contrast to the grandeur of the manor. A single, bare bulb hung from the center pole, casting a harsh, ugly light on a small folding table, a metal chair, and a cracked mirror propped up against a cardboard box. This was the green room. Donnie sat on the edge of the metal chair, staring at his own reflection in the cracked mirror. He had worn the long, black wool coat. It was his uniform now. It was his armor. But tonight, it felt less like armor and more like a shroud.
The cheerful, distorted sounds of the festival outside, the muffled music and the laughter of the crowd, were a distant, meaningless noise. The real noise, the real cacophony, was inside his head. The roommates were in a state of panic, their conflicting desires a deafening roar. They knew this was the final performance, and each was making a final, desperate bid to have their story told.
He looked at his reflection, but the face that looked back at him began to soften, the weary lines around his eyes seeming to melt away, his expression filling with a deep, theatrical sorrow. Amanda's essence flooded his mind, a wave of beautiful, tragic purpose.
One last poem, Donnie, her voice whispered in his thoughts, a silken, pleading caress. One last tragic verse for all the lonely souls in the dark. Give the people beauty before the end. Let our final act be one of heartbreaking art.
A single, genuine tear, born of her manufactured sorrow, welled in his eye and traced a slow path down his cheek.
He forcefully wiped the tear away with the back of his hand, his jaw tightening. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched into tight, hard fists. A surge of belligerent, crackling energy coursed through him, a jolt of pure, aggressive adrenaline. Terence.
Forget the poetry, boy! the captain's voice roared in his skull, a booming, internal thunder. Theatrics are for the weak! Tell the tale of the mutiny! Give the crowd a final, glorious lie! Let Captain Terence go down in a blaze of glory, not a pathetic, rhyming whisper!
He felt the powerful, visceral urge to pound his chest, to leap to his feet and let out a defiant, world-shaking roar.
He fought the urge, his body going rigid with the effort. His spine straightened into a ramrod-straight, judgmental pose. The emotional chaos was sliced apart by the cold, clear, calculating logic of Maria.
Do not be a fool, her voice commanded, sharp and precise and utterly devoid of emotion. Theatrics are a distraction. You have the truth. The document. Stick to the protocol. This is not a performance; it is an exposé. This is the only logical path to control. Do not squander it on sentimental nonsense.
And underlying the entire psychic battle, the warring impulses of the poet, the captain, and the scientist, was a single, piercing, continuous feeling: the raw, childlike terror of Benny. The loud music from the stage, the shouting voices in his head, the crushing, unbearable weight of the crowd's expectation—it was all too much. Donnie could feel his own heart begin to race, his breath growing shallow, a cold, absolute fear gripping him. It was Benny's fear, the terror of a small, lost child about to be pushed onto a very large, very bright stage.
He gripped the edge of the flimsy dressing table, his knuckles white. He stared at his own face in the cracked mirror, and he saw it flicker. It was a horrifying, digital glitch in his own identity. For a split second, he saw the sorrowful, tear-streaked face of Amanda, then the angry, scowling face of Terence, then the cold, judgmental face of Maria, and finally, the wide, terrified eyes of Benny. His own features were lost, a flickering, unstable image caught between the four warring programs that were fighting for control of his body.
"My name is Donnie Keller," he whispered, his voice a choked, desperate rasp. He said it again, and again, the words a mantra, a desperate, flimsy anchor in the raging storm of his own mind. "My name is Donnie Keller. My name is Donnie Keller."
The tent flap was suddenly pulled back. A young festival volunteer with a bright, cheerful face and a laminated staff badge poked his head inside.
"Mr. Keller?" the volunteer asked, his voice a gunshot in the silent, raging war of Donnie's mind. "The mayor just finished his speech. You're on in five minutes."
The volunteer, oblivious to the psychological horror unfolding before him, gave a cheerful thumbs-up and vanished, letting the tent flap fall closed.
Five minutes.
The internal voices, the warring roommates, fell silent. Their final, desperate pleas had been made. A terrible, unified calm, the calm at the eye of a hurricane, settled over Donnie. The time for debate was over.
He slowly, stiffly, pushed himself to his feet. He looked at his reflection one last time. The face that stared back at him was his own again, but it was a pale, determined mask, his eyes burning with a strange, cold light. The final performance awaited.