Ghostbusters

by Nancy Holder

  “Why do you think you’re having the nightmares, Erin?” Dr. Malone asked one day.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your family had some problems with Mrs. Barnard before she died, didn’t they?”

  “She wasn’t a very nice neighbor,” Erin said softly, staring down at the game board. “After Corky ate Ernesto she got even meaner. I was afraid of her. So was Corky.”

  “Do you feel guilty about Ernesto?”

  “If I had kept Corky in the house it wouldn’t have happened. Ernesto wouldn’t have gotten killed.”

  “But you didn’t know Ernesto was going to get free and hop into your yard,” Dr. Malone said. “You had no way of knowing that. And you couldn’t have stopped him from flying over the fence. So that isn’t your fault. What about Mrs. Barnard? Do you feel guilty because she died?”

  Erin fidgeted in her chair, squeezing a game piece. “Kinda.”

  “She was an old lady, and she had a bad heart,” Dr. Malone said. “She wasn’t taking her medicine. You had no control over what happened to her, either.”

  Erin looked up at her. “Then why doesn’t Mrs. Barnard know that? Why is she after me?”

  “Erin, do you believe ghosts are real?”

  She met the doctor’s gaze and nodded emphatically. “Will she get me? What will she do to me? Can you make her stop?”

  Dr. Malone sat quietly for a moment. Then she inclined her head as if she had decided something.

  “Erin, could you please wait here for a moment while I speak with your parents? I’ll be right back.”

  After she left the room, Erin started to feel weird being alone. She got up and went down the hall after Dr. Malone, hoping to find the source of the cookie smell. On the right was another room with the door slightly open. She could hear the doctor talking. She stopped outside and listened.

  “Honestly, Mr. Gilbert, there seems to be no family history of mental illness on either side of the family. I don’t think this is something you and your wife need to worry too much about. I think this is a passing phase. It could be an attempt to remain a helpless child and draw your attention. A final burst of infantilism is not uncommon at her age. I think the dreams will stop when she realizes she’s not going to lose your love if she grows up.”

  “So she’s lying about the ghost in order to manipulate us?” her mother said.

  “This goes much deeper than that, below the conscious level. I don’t think Erin is at all aware of the need she’s actually expressing. She sincerely believes what she has seen is real.”

  “We’re not getting any sleep,” her father complained. “It’s worse than that damned rooster. Can you give her something to calm her down?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t prescribe sedatives for children her age. Perhaps some warm milk and a bedtime story might do the trick. That would make her feel more comfortable and loved, and make her drowsy as well.”

  “Is that all?” Her father sounded mad.

  “I would like to keep seeing Erin on a weekly basis, monitor her progress in the short term to make sure nothing else is going on with her. There could still be an underlying organic cause for her hallucinations.”

  Erin tiptoed back to the doctor’s office, crying softly. She didn’t understand half of what she had heard, but she was wounded to learn her mother thought she was a liar and scared there was something wrong inside her. It was all Mrs. Barnard’s fault. Everything. She wiped back her tears and steeled herself, determined to ask Dr. Malone for the shot, no matter how big, that would just make it go away.

  3

  Enough thinking about that, Erin told herself. But the memories always stayed with her at a slightly-less-than-conscious level. Like a rash, but from the inside. There were things you could buy at the grocery store for that, but not for what ailed Erin.

  It was deep autumn, and she was happy to see the biochemistry of the season in full swing—the chlorophyll in the leaves breaking down while at the same time, the development of red anthocyanin and other pigments went full throttle, thereby producing the traditional colorful fall foliage. In her sensible plaid skirt and jacket, she strode at a spritely pace across the venerable campus of Columbia University, her place of employment, her place to shine. Students in sweaters sat in group discussions on the rolling lawn, watched over by bronze sentinels of knowledge such as the enthroned Alma Mater and The Thinker, lost in deep thought. Columbia was one of the most prestigious schools in the country—6.9 percent undergrad acceptance rate—and she was a professor there. And soon, if all went well, Christmas would come early this year: she would be a professor there forever.

  Today was a stepping-stone toward that goal. Make that a milestone. A day she had marked on her calendar. V-Day. For validation. All the years she had suffered as “Ghost Girl” were far behind her. Here she was respected for her fine mind, her research skills, and her dedication to the scientific method. For being a scientist.

  She nodded pleasantly at a few colleagues as they passed her. Did they know what was happening today? She was going to speak in the department auditorium—“the big hall.” It was such an honor. Only the best professors delivered their lectures there. But she was up for the challenge. Oh yes.

  Poised and confident, she sauntered into the clubby alumni hall that led to the faculty lounge, with its gleaming dark wood paneling, oil paintings, and statuary. Perks for the possessors of high IQs. She beamed as she watched the academic elite milling about in weighty conversation en route to the big lecture hall. They were her colleagues. She was their peer.

  She got down to the pit—the front of the room—and wrote the equations she planned to discuss on the whiteboards. As the number strings stretched across the shiny surfaces, she couldn’t stem the pleasurable thrum that came from knowing that she knew what she was doing. Yes. She launched. Full speed ahead. She put down the marker.

  “As my calculations show, we will soon be able to combine general relativity and quantum theory into a—” Hmm, her voice was a little squeaky there. “Muwaaaaaaa. Muwaaaaa.” Time to stretch the vocal cords. And do some lunges. Yes, some lunges so that everything flowed.

  The room was empty, but it wouldn’t be for long. She put the turbo on her exercises—muwaaa, lunge—sharpening both body and mind. Like a fencer: parry, lunge, riposte, yodel—

  “Muwaaaaaaa—” she sang out. “Muwaaaaa—”

  She turned on her heel and let out a shriek. There was a man standing behind her. Sixty-something, quite attentive.

  “Yes?” she said, grabbing a folder and perusing it in an attempt to recapture her dignity.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting you,” he said. “But I need to speak with you. About something you wrote.”

  To conceal the fact that he had scared the living daylights out her, she began to pack up her things, belatedly realizing they were unpacked because she had yet to deliver her lecture. But she would look foolish if she un-unpacked them in front of him.

  “All right. Which publication?” He couldn’t mean her article in Nature. It wasn’t out yet.

  “I’m talking about your book.”

  Erin froze. Surely she had misheard him. No one knew about the book. It didn’t even exist in this space/time. She began to get dizzy again.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said as neutrally as she could.

  “You’re Erin Gilbert?” he asked.

  She waited. Her heart had ceased beating. Or was beating too fast. Or something. She couldn’t even remember what state she was in. New York. A state of high anxiety. And anger, yes.

  “Coauthor of—”

  He must not speak the title. The title is poison. Listeria for tenure.

  But he had a copy! In his hand! Huge, hardbound, real! He squinted and began to read:

  “‘Ghosts from Our Past: Both Literally and Figuratively: The Study of the Paranormal.’”

  Each syllable was like a knife through her heart. Oh god, god, my tenure review is next Thursday, she thought
wildly. I buried that book years ago. This can’t be happening.

  “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “That must be a different Erin Gilbert.”

  The man cocked his head as he compared her face to the photograph on the dust jacket. She looked a lot younger. And stupider, even though she was trying to look smarter.

  “This really does look like you,” he observed.

  I have to make this go away right now or I am dead. Had she actually just been warming up? Her entire professional life was now passing before her eyes in a freezing cold sweat.

  “Okay, listen, Mr.…” Ghost of Christmas Past …

  “Ed Mulgrave.”

  “Listen, Mr. Mulgrave.” She strained to be pleasant. “That book was just sort of a joke. No self-respecting scientist really believes in the paranormal. That was a long time ago, just a gag between two friends.” She almost choked on the last word. That friendship was also a thing of the past. She ignored the pang of guilt centered in a vortex of building apprehension.

  He frowned dubiously. “A four-hundred-and-sixty-page gag?”

  It was clear that he was not going to go away without a fight. Or a discussion.

  She surrendered. “What do you want?”

  He claimed his victory as he lowered the book. “Well, I’m the historian at the Aldridge Museum and I believe it’s haunted,” he announced, with no small modicum of drama.

  “Don’t you give ghost tours? Isn’t that the whole point?” She tried not to sound snappish. But why not? She could sound snappish if she wanted to.

  “Yes,” he conceded, “but that’s just for fun. And ticket sales. But this has never happened before. It scared my tour guide nearly to death. If you could just take a look.” He shrugged helplessly. “I tried the police, but I just sound crazy.”

  And I won’t? Days away from my tenure review?

  “I’m sorry, but that book you’re holding is nonsense.” She gave her head a quick shake. “I don’t know how you found it anyway. I thought I burned both copies.” Then threw the ashes into the Hudson River in a weighted garbage bag.

  He blinked in surprise. “Oh, I bought it online. It’s on Amazon. Both hard copy and e-book.”

  What?

  WHAT?

  Shock smacked her like a slap; then rage ignited like a Roman candle. No way no way no way. I will murder her. Maim her and—

  She remained poised.

  “Is it now,” she said calmly.

  Then the students began to file in.

  * * *

  Ninety-seven minutes later, her lecture was finally over. Erin had killed it, but she didn’t know if she had done it in a good way or a bad way. She couldn’t remember a word she’d said. The students hadn’t asked any questions and had filed out silently. That had given her a chance to race back to her office and go online. One, two, three, and she was on Amazon and—

  She gasped. “No.”

  It was there, just as Ed Mulgrave had said, on its own Web page. There was no mistaking the cover. Or her name as coauthor. And the other author? Who else: Abigail L. Yates.

  The final blow was the three words in huge letters above a photograph of Erin that dominated the screen:

  GHOSTS ARE REAL!

  Her fury doubled. Tripled. There weren’t enough exponents to adequately quantify it. She was pissed.

  “Son of a—”

  There was a knock on her door. It opened, and Harold Filmore, her department chair, stood on the threshold. In the pantheon of the Mount Olympus that was the Physics Department, Dr. Filmore was all the gods. He held her fate in his hands. His was the sword that could cut the string—or sever the neck—of her career. He cannot ever, ever see that book.

  “Erin,” he began, and she quickly turned the monitor, angling it away from his line of sight.

  “What? Yes,” she blurted. Then took a breath to calm herself. “How is your day faring?”

  His brow furrowed and at first she thought he was angry, but then she realized he was confused. Trying to parse what she had just said. She had to get ahold of herself.

  He took a step in and she pretended to stretch her wrist, bumping it into the monitor to angle it farther away. She thought about knocking the monitor onto the floor, but what if it didn’t break? Then if he tried to help her retrieve it, and saw the screen and oh my god, oh my GOD—

  She ordered herself to stay calm. Or at least to appear calm.

  “We’re set for the final review of your tenure case next Thursday,” he said, as if this was good news. Two hours ago, it had been. “But I saw that you had a referral from Dr. Brennen at Princeton. Their science department just isn’t what it used to be. I’d consider getting a referral from a more prestigious school.”

  She was baffled. “More prestigious than Prince—” And then she caught herself. This was not something she should argue about. “Yes, of course.” She faked a little laugh. “I can’t believe I almost did that.”

  He appeared to relax, satisfied that she could sail over this speed bump. Behind her, the monitor glowed like a piece of plutonium. She body-blocked it and maintained her focus on his face.

  “I think you’re an asset to modern physics and I’d hate to see you throw it down the drain,” he told her.

  I’ve heard that before. She kept her focus without blinking, smiling tightly. He turned to leave and she almost let go, collapsing into a puddle, when he spun back around. She stood at attention. He looked her up and down.

  “Oh, and about your clothes,” he said.

  She was unnerved. “Um, what about them?”

  He stared at her. Just stared. She stared back. It was a staring thing. Her heart was pounding. The monitor was glowing. The book was on Amazon. Her clothes … what, what was wrong with her clothes?

  “Never mind,” he said.

  She looked down at her outfit. That was not the priority here. The book of doom was the priority.

  She whirled around and clicked on “Abigail L. Yates.” Then she leaned forward, and began to read the horrible revelations that spewed forth:

  “Abigail continues her passion for the study of the paranormal at the Kenneth T. Higgins Institute of Science…” Ooof! The eigenvalue of her outrage was unquantifiable.

  She sailed out the door. Abby. Abby Yates. What would her life be like if she had never met Abby?

  4

  A long time ago in a high school far away …

  Erin Gilbert, her well-worn briefcase clutched to her chest, serpentined between the long lab tables, and took a seat on a stool near the windows at the back of the classroom. On the stool beside her sat a girl she’d never seen before—eager, alert, but also a little shy. The class was Honors Physics, but for lack of available space at C. W. Post High, it was being held in the chemistry lab. The other students were excitedly chatting and joking, with the occasional piercing shriek; the noise was quite loud. She set her briefcase on the counter beside the stainless steel sink and Bunsen burner, and took out her notebook and pen, trying her best to be invisible.

  That rarely ever worked for her, but she had no other option except to stay home from school—and she had pretty much played out that hand with her parents by third grade.

  The boy sitting at the lab table in front of hers slowly turned on his stool. He smiled wickedly at her, revealing his braces. Pudgy, blemished, pasty-faced Carl Lund was her science and math class nemesis. Because they were both college fast-tracked, he was in every period of hers except PE.

  “I’m going to kick your butt in this class, Gilbert, you giant loser,” he sneered.

  Erin wanted to say, “Good luck with that,” but she knew better than to provoke him.

  Not that it ended up mattering anyway.

  Carl straightened his signature slouch, and loud enough for someone in the hall outside to hear, bellowed, “Hey, Gilbert, see any ghosts over the weekend?”

  She could feel the new girl staring at her in astonishment. Erin’s cheeks burned.

  “Look out, Gh
ost Girl!” Carl said. “Here it comes…” He opened his yap, stuck out his tongue, and made gross barfing noises.

  The whole class cracked up. Some of the kids caught the fever and mimicked Carl, pretending to vomit. Which made everyone laugh even louder.

  The joke apparently never got old.

  Way back in second grade, Erin had made the mistake of confiding her experience with the spirit of Mrs. Barnard to Darla Murray, a girl she had desperately wanted to be her friend. Darla had promptly told the other popular girls in the class, to secure her place as their reigning queen. The story spread around the playground like chicken pox. No one believed Erin. They all thought she just wanted to sound important and special when she wasn’t. So not only was she geeky and friendless, she was a mental case to boot. They started calling her “Ghost Girl,” behind her back at first, then to her face, and the name had unfortunately stuck.

  As the class bell rang, the physics teacher hurried into the room with an armload of notebooks. He was a big man with a tight crew cut. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and a bow tie that clashed with his slacks.

  “Welcome to Honors Physics,” he said. “I’m Mr. Puccini.” His baritone, no-nonsense voice silenced the laughter and talking. He glanced down at a three-by-five card in his hand. “We have a new student with us today. From Indiana, isn’t it, Abby?”

  “Yes, Mr. Puccini.”

  Erin looked at the smiling girl one stool over.

  “Let’s give her a special welcome to our school,” the teacher said.

  “Ahh, ahh, ahh…” Carl pretended to sneeze as he shouted, “Fat-butt!”

  Everyone laughed; everyone but Erin and Abby.

  Although Erin felt really bad for the new girl, part of her was relieved the focus of derision had momentarily shifted.

  “Enough of that, Mr. Lund,” the teacher said, staring him down. “On your feet. Get up here. Let’s see if you can solve the problem I’ve written on the board. If you can’t, maybe you don’t belong in an honors class…”

  The students made appreciative “ooooooh” sounds.