Chapter 7: Rehearsing the Macabre

The silver lockbox sat on the dusty floor of the Grand Hall, a silent, glittering promise. Its tarnished surface and intricate engravings of thorny roses seemed to absorb the weak gray light, holding a secret wealth that felt both ancient and shockingly new. The lid was closed, the deal was struck, and the air in the vast, decaying room had shifted. The initial terror of the supernatural had subsided, replaced by the far more familiar and grounding anxieties of a freelance gig. This was a job. A bizarre, probably hallucinatory job, but a job nonetheless. And Donnie Keller, ever the pragmatist, was going to treat it like one.

He found an old, overturned wooden crate that was relatively free of dust and set up a small, personal workstation. He placed his cheap, cracked smartphone in the center and, next to it, a glass of water he'd poured from a grimy tap in a downstairs scullery. The water tasted of rust, but it would have to do. His throat was his instrument, and his instrument was his ticket out of eviction. The four members of the Spectral Siblings—Maria, Amanda, Terence, and Benny—had arranged themselves around him. They floated a few feet off the ground, a silent, expectant board of directors ready for their first quarterly review. Their faint, bluish light pulsed in the gloom, their collective gaze fixed on him with an intensity that was deeply unsettling. The first rehearsal on the schedule was with Amanda, the Gilded Age tragedian. She gave him a slight, graceful nod, and glided through the nearest wall, clearly expecting him to follow. Donnie picked up his phone and his glass of water and, with the weary sigh of a man heading into a pointless meeting, he followed her.

Amanda had chosen the ballroom for her rehearsal space. It was a vast, cavernous room with a high, vaulted ceiling from which a massive, skeletal chandelier hung, draped in a century of cobwebs. Sunlight, thick with dust, struggled through a series of grimy, arched windows, falling in pale, hazy stripes across a floor that was warped and buckled. The air smelled of dust and decay. Amanda glided to the very center of the room, her translucent form a stark contrast to the heavy, physical reality of the ballroom's ruin. She struck a pose of exquisite tragedy, one hand pressed to her heart, the other reaching out to an invisible, long-lost lover. She looked at Donnie, her large, spectral eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and began to mime. Her silent mouth formed words, her gestures painted a picture of a heartbroken woman whose love had been lost to the cruel, unforgiving sea. It was all so theatrical, so overwrought, that Donnie felt a headache beginning to form behind his eyes.

He stood opposite her, his modern, dark clothing a jarring note in the Gilded Age melodrama. He held up his phone, hit record, and cleared his throat. He pitched his voice high, softened the edges, and added a touch of aristocratic breeding. He aimed for poetic melancholy.

"My heart, a lonely galleon, adrift on sorrow's tide..." he recited, the words feeling ridiculous in his mouth.

Before he could continue, a shower of black rose petals materialized in the air between them. They were not spectral; they were horribly, vividly real, but they were wilted and dead, their edges brown and crumbling. They fluttered down around him, a silent, gothic critique of his performance. The feedback was unmistakable. He had failed.

Right, he thought, his internal voice dripping with sarcasm. Less lonely galleon, more leaky dinghy. Got it.

He stopped the recording, took a sip of rusty water, and studied Amanda. She was miming again, more emphatically this time, her silent grief somehow even more dramatic than before. He saw it then. It wasn't just sadness she wanted. It was a specific kind of sadness. A fragile, breathless, almost beautiful sadness. It needed to be delicate. He hit record again. This time, he didn't just change the pitch. He changed the very texture of the voice. He added a delicate, breathy tremor, the sound of a voice on the verge of breaking but held back by sheer force of will and good breeding. He let the words hang in the air, each one a fragile, perfect pearl of sorrow.

"My heart, a lonely galleon... adrift on sorrow's tide..."

The effect was instantaneous. This time, a shower of vibrant, red rose petals rained down from the ceiling, their color a shocking splash of life in the dead ballroom. They were perfect, their petals soft and velvety, and they smelled faintly of a summer garden. They drifted down around him, a fragrant, spectral approval. Amanda, her tragic pose forgotten, clasped her hands together in silent ecstasy, a radiant smile on her face. She nodded gracefully, a queen acknowledging a worthy performance. One down. Three to go.

 =========================================

Terence, the spectral sea captain, had chosen the manor's study for his session. The room was the complete opposite of the ballroom: small, dark, and aggressively masculine. The walls were paneled in dark, heavy wood that had absorbed the scent of a hundred years of pipe smoke and spilled brandy. The air smelled of old leather and, somehow, faintly of salt and brine. Old, yellowed nautical charts were framed on the walls, their surfaces mapped with forgotten currents and sea monsters. Terence stood beside a large, mahogany desk, his spectral form seeming to fill the small space. He pointed a thick, spectral finger at an object on the desk: a large, beautifully crafted ship-in-a-bottle. The tiny, fully-rigged vessel inside rested on a calm, painted blue sea.

The captain puffed out his chest and began to mime his own story. There was no delicate poetry here. His gestures were broad, powerful, and violent. He mimed hauling on thick ropes, of wrestling with a giant ship's wheel in a storm. He then mimed a battle, a struggle against a great, unseen beast from the depths. It was a tale of high adventure, of man against nature, and it was utterly ridiculous.

Donnie took a long swig of water. This voice required power, not delicacy. He hit record on his phone, dropped his voice into a low, rumbling register, and added a layer of gravel, the sound of a man who had shouted over hurricanes.

"Aye, the Kraken..." he growled, the voice a low rumble in his chest. "'Twas the size of a church..."

He glanced at the ship-in-a-bottle. The tiny vessel remained perfectly still on its painted sea. Terence glared at him, his spectral brows furrowing in disapproval. He mimed again, this time making his gestures bigger, more powerful. He let out a silent, imaginary roar that seemed to shake his entire translucent form. He wanted more energy. More power. More roar.

Donnie sighed. He hated shouting. It was bad for the vocal cords. But the clients were the clients, even when they were dead. He took another sip of water, braced himself, and tried again. This time, he didn't just add gravel; he added the force of his diaphragm, pushing the sound out with a raw, explosive energy. He let his voice crackle and break, the sound of a man pushed to his absolute limit.

"...and its TENTACLES," he bellowed, the word tearing from his throat, "were SLICK with the SOULS of FORGOTTEN MEN!"

The ship-in-a-bottle reacted instantly. The tiny vessel began to rock back and forth violently, its miniature masts swaying wildly. The painted blue water inside seemed to churn and slosh, as if caught in a tempest. It was a silent, absurd, and perfectly clear piece of feedback. Terence watched the tiny, rocking ship, and a broad, silent grin split his spectral face. He slapped his spectral thigh in triumph and gave Donnie a hearty, approving nod. The kraken story had been successfully voiced.

 =========================================

The nursery was on the third floor, at the end of a long, dark hallway. The air in the room was dust-choked and desolate, thick with the silence of forgotten childhoods. A single, creepy-looking wooden rocking horse sat in one corner, its painted eyes chipped and staring. Faded, peeling wallpaper depicted scenes of happy farm animals that now looked like leering mutants in the dim light. Benny, the small ghost boy, stood by the rocking horse, his tiny form seeming to shrink in the sad, empty space. He clutched his spectral teddy bear, the one with the missing button eyes, and looked down at the floorboards, the very picture of pathetic sorrow. He looked up at Donnie, his eyes wide and sad, and mimed a small, pathetic whimper, his little shoulders shaking.

Donnie felt a pang of something he couldn't quite identify. It wasn't pity, exactly. It was a kind of professional sympathy. This was a challenging sound. The sadness of a child was a complex thing, full of high, thin notes of despair and helplessness. He knelt down, bringing himself to Benny's level. It felt important, somehow, to not tower over this particular client. He hit record and produced a soft, sad, crying sound. It was a good sound, technically proficient, full of controlled sorrow.

He looked at Benny for a reaction. The little boy looked down at the teddy bear in his arms. The spectral toy, which had been held upright, suddenly went limp, its head drooping, its arms falling to its sides. The feedback was clear. The sound was not pathetic enough. It was too controlled, too adult. It lacked the raw, unformed misery of a lost child.

Donnie took a breath. He accessed a different part of his vocal arsenal, a higher, more fragile register. He thought about the sound of a kitten mewling, of a balloon slowly losing its air. He thought about being small and alone in a very large, very dark room. He tried again. This time, the sound that came out was not just sad. It was lost. It was a high-pitched, wavering cry, punctuated by a small, wet sniffle he produced by vibrating the soft palate in the back of his throat. It was the sound of a child who had just realized that no one was coming to find him.

Benny's reaction was immediate. He looked down at his teddy bear and hugged it so tightly that the spectral toy seemed to bulge at the seams, its non-existent stuffing under immense pressure. The boy looked up at Donnie, and for a fleeting moment, the profound sadness in his eyes was replaced by a look of silent, grateful recognition. He had heard his own sorrow, and it was perfect.

 =========================================

The final rehearsal was with Maria, the stern matriarch, and she had chosen the formal dining room. The room was baronial and imposing, dominated by a long, dark, mahogany dining table that could have seated thirty. Maria presided from the head of the table, her spectral form as rigid and unyielding as the high-backed chair she floated in front of. In the air before her, a single, ornate silver candlestick hovered, its single flame burning with a steady, bluish light. It was her tool of correction, her spectral conductor's baton. She didn't bother with miming. She simply gestured with a sharp, disdainful flick of her wrist at Donnie's modern, dark clothing—his worn-out jacket, his faded black jeans. The prompt was clear. She wanted him to voice her disapproval.

Donnie stood at the opposite end of the long table, feeling like a schoolboy called before the headmistress. He knew this voice. It was the voice of authority, of judgment, of unwavering certainty. He drew himself up, straightened his back, and channeled every condescending teacher and disappointed authority figure he had ever known.

"Modern fashion," he began, his voice sharp and aristocratic, dripping with disdain, "is a testament to the utter collapse of societal decorum."

The floating candlestick reacted instantly. It tapped sharply, twice, on the surface of the mahogany table. Tap. Tap. The sound was crisp and clear, a sharp rebuke in the silent room. The diction was wrong.

She wants a harder 'T' in testament, Donnie thought, a flash of irritation running through him. Of course she did. She was a spectral tyrant of elocution.

He took a breath, focusing on the crisp, plosive consonants. He repeated the line, enunciating each word with a sharp, cutting precision that was almost painful.

"A TesTamenT," he bit out the words, "To The uTTer collapse..."

The candlestick's flame, which had been a steady blue, suddenly flared, growing brighter and warmer, casting a brief, approving golden light across the room. Maria, from her position at the head of the table, gave a single, sharp, satisfied nod. The lesson was over. He had passed.

 =========================================

Later, Donnie slumped onto the bottom step of the grand staircase in the main hall, his throat raw, his mind buzzing with the echoes of other people's lives. He felt utterly and completely drained. The physical effort of producing four distinct, emotionally resonant voices was one thing, but the mental gymnastics, the constant translation of silent, spectral feedback into audible human sound, had exhausted him. His phone lay on the step beside him, its memory now filled with a strange and precious collection of recordings: a Gilded Age woman's tragic verse, a sea captain's boastful roar, a lost child's heartbreaking sob, and a stern matriarch's cutting judgment. The four perfected voices of the Spectral Siblings now resided inside his phone, and, in a strange and unsettling way, inside him.

The last of the day's weak light was fading outside, and the Grand Hall was sinking into a deep, velvety gloom. As he sat there, catching his breath, the four Spectral Siblings gathered before him. They floated in the fading light, their translucent forms seeming more defined, more solid, more hopeful than ever before. The rehearsals were done. The performance was ready.

Donnie looked up at the silent, shimmering ghosts. He was their voice. He was their vessel. He was their only connection to the world of the living. The sheer, crushing absurdity of the situation was matched only by his profound exhaustion. This was his life now. He was a human soundboard for a family of picky, melodramatic ghosts. He let his head fall back against the hard wooden step with a soft thud. He had a feeling this was going to be a very, very long gig.