Ghostbusters

by Nancy Holder

  “Well, at least it’s over,” Erin said, although she was still massively shaken.

  The sirens outside reached a crescendo, then stopped. They were replaced by the sounds of police officers storming onto the lobby floor directly above them.

  “Let’s get out of this room,” Abby said.

  Erin was only too glad to leave.

  When they reached the stairwell, Abby cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Hey! Down here!”

  A short while later, after the scene had been secured, they all joined police and Homeland Security in the mad scientist’s cramped basement laboratory. Erin walked over to Abby, who was studying the setup on Rowan’s worktable.

  “What’s up?” Erin asked her.

  “It’s so strange,” Abby said. “A lot of his technology isn’t that different from ours. It’s the same science behind our apparition catching.”

  Erin took that in. “That is strange.”

  “I think I know why that is,” Holtzmann declared. She held up Abby and Erin’s book.

  “Oh my god.” Erin was floored.

  “Well, it’s a very powerful book,” Abby said with pride in her voice.

  Yeah, but, Erin thought.

  Then, like a toothache that just wouldn’t go away, Jennifer Lynch stepped through the doorway and approached them. Erin looked around the windowless room; there was no escape.

  “Thank you. For everything you’ve done,” Ms. Lynch said with what seemed genuine feeling.

  That was unexpected and Erin dropped her guard a little.

  “The mayor privately thanks you as well. Let me walk you out.”

  As they left the room, Erin saw techs from Homeland Security begin disassembling Rowan’s machines. Proof positive that the crisis was truly over.

  They went upstairs to the lobby, where agents Hawkins and Rorke waited for them, unsmiling. Ms. Lynch told them, “Now get some rest. Let these guys get you out of here.” She seemed warm and concerned, and Erin was grateful.

  “That sounds nice. Thank you,” Abby said, speaking for them all.

  “I just have to say a few words. You know how it is,” Ms. Lynch said with a conspiratorial wink.

  When she opened the door and looked out into the street, Erin saw the mob of press waiting for them. Even more than at the theater! They had saved the world and were finally about to get their due.

  As Erin was about to step out, her hands were pulled behind her back. She wasn’t alone. Agents Rorke and Hawkins yanked all their hands behind their backs like they were being taken into custody and then perp-walked them in front of the bank of cameras. Jennifer Lynch immediately headed over to the press, who surged around her with microphones held high and camera flashes popping off.

  “Everything’s fine,” Ms. Lynch assured them with a beatific smile on her face. “Just another publicity stunt by these incredibly sad, lonely women. I mean, give it a rest, am I right?”

  * * *

  The Homeland Security techs finished their assignment and stretched yellow crime scene tape around the disassembled machine. Then they packed up their gear and left.

  But what they did not see … what no one could anticipate … was that the short, loud one had accidently left behind her PKE meter … and as it lay on the floor of the generator room it slowly lit up and then started spinning like a top.

  The Fourth Cataclysm had begun.

  18

  Dissed again, Erin thought glumly as she and the other Ghostbusters walked down the street away from Times Square. Her friends appeared to be shrugging off the latest effort of the powers that be to discredit and disgrace them. As the kids said these days, achievement unlocked.

  “Well, mission accomplished.” Abby sounded philosophical and proud. “Let’s get a drink and celebrate.”

  Holtzmann and Patty high-fived. Abby turned to her. “Erin, you in? My treat.”

  Just as she was about to answer, a guy Erin recognized from the press conference ran up alongside her and started recording her with his iPhone. He wasn’t a real reporter or he would’ve had a real camera, and probably a news outlet windbreaker with a logo, front and back. She decided he had to be a blogger.

  Not that there was anything wrong with that.

  “How do you feel about wasting taxpayer money and government resources with your pranks?” he said.

  Abby jumped in. “Back off, buddy. We’ve got nothing to say to the press.”

  Erin began a slow burn. Really? She couldn’t even defend herself? The guy dogged her, but she ignored him and kept walking.

  “Miss Gilbert, I asked around your hometown. Talked to someone you went to school with. They told me when you were a kid you made up a ghost. Tell me, were you born a fraud, ‘Ghost Girl’?”

  Erin turned.

  Don’t, she warned herself.

  Faced him.

  Do.

  Then she lunged at him.

  IT!

  Abby tried to catch her by the sleeve. “Whoa, whoa! Let it go!”

  Erin went berserk, shaking off Abby’s hand and grabbing the jerk by the front of his shirt. Patty and Holtzmann jumped in to hold her back, but she had come completely unhinged.

  Enough was enough. Enough was too much. She had had it.

  Adrenaline surged through her; she broke free of her friends and chased him down the street. Nothing on earth could have kept her from tackling him, not even a monster ghost from outer space. She dove at his knees, wrapped her arms around his legs, and they both went down hard on the pavement—she landed on top, squashing him. The others came up from behind, trying to pull her off, but she wouldn’t be restrained.

  “They should put you back in therapy, you freak!” the blogger wheezed.

  And that sent her sailing right over the edge.

  Eyes full of rage, she cocked back her fist and punched him square on the nose. It didn’t break the bone, but the impact made his eyes cross, and then he started to cry, really cry. He was still bawling as he scrambled to his feet and ran away, clutching his face.

  * * *

  The next morning, Erin stared dully at the cover of the New York Post. Front and center was a photo of her—who had taken it?—punching the blogger. The headline read “Nosebusters!” She put it back on the table and buried her face in her hands. Why had she let him get to her? She’d made them all look bad.

  Holtzmann walked in, taking off her proton glove as she said breezily, “I’m working on some new treats. No spoilers. But let’s just say a lady needs a sidearm, and I’ve always wanted to throw a proton grenade.”

  Holtzmann grabbed a seat at the table and sipped her coffee. She casually reached over for the Post and began to read it. Erin braced for a bad joke at her expense, but Holtzmann didn’t say a word. She just sipped her coffee and cleared her throat every now and then.

  “These guys really have their finger on the pulse,” she remarked.

  Erin sighed. “Just read it to me.”

  “Okay. ‘Midtown movie theater owner claims basset hound regularly attends matinees by himself—’”

  “The story about me,” Erin said dully.

  Holtzmann flipped through the pages, then flipped back to the front. “Oh wow. I really didn’t notice. Huh.” She skimmed. “It’s not that interesting.”

  She kept reading as Erin turned on the TV. A news reporter was staring earnestly at the screen.

  “We spoke to Harold Filmore, Physics Department chair at Columbia University, where Ms. Gilbert used to teach.”

  “Oh no.” Erin gasped.

  There was Dean Filmore’s office, and the dean was watching a replay of the video of her attacking the blogger—evidently the pest had taken it with his cell phone. She looked like a maniac.

  “It’s unfortunate that we have these former ties with Miss Gilbert,” Filmore said. “At Columbia University, we’re about real science, discovering truths, not lying for a sad moment of fame.”

  The cell phone footage froze on an especially unfla
ttering shot of Erin. She looked like one of those demon-things trying to break through to the other side. She wanted to barf.

  “Doesn’t matter what these people think,” Abby insisted as she watched, too.

  “We also spoke with the dean of the Kenneth T. Higgins Institute—”

  The report cut to Abby’s surfer-dean’s office as he finished his sack lunch.

  “A terrible shame on the Kenneth T. Higgins name,” he said. “But I want to rise from this opportunity to tell you about an album I’m about to drop—”

  Patty clicked off the TV.

  “Forget those dudes. You gotta just walk that off. Think about how many people you saved.”

  Holtzmann nodded. “Yeah. Let’s just grab something to eat and find that basset hound.”

  Erin appreciated the effort, but she was done in.

  “I think I’m going to take a walk,” she murmured.

  * * *

  Abby sighed as Erin got up and left. The trouble was, Erin just couldn’t stop caring about what people thought. She’d figured once they’d proved the existence of ghosts, Erin could lay Mrs. Barnard to rest. Literally. That she would be free of the intense need to be thought well of. Erin had nothing left to prove, no one to answer to, and yet she couldn’t stop herself from craving validation. It was as frustrating as the mayor’s insistence that the only way to prevent mass hysteria was to continually drag the Ghostbusters’ names through the mud.

  “Hey, Abby,” Kevin said. “Can we talk about the paranormal? I got a bunch of ideas and theories about—”

  “Not now, Kevin,” Abby said glumly.

  * * *

  Erin walked through Times Square on the way home to her apartment. She still had on her proton pack, having forgotten to put it back on the wall. Maybe that was symbolic.

  She was all alone in the bustling crowd. People were staring up at the signs advertising Broadway musicals. Locals dressed in superhero costumes posed for photos with tourists for tips.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” asked a woman with two small boys in tow. The kids were maybe five and seven years old. They were eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you from a movie? I know we’ve seen you in something.”

  Erin was startled. She didn’t know what to say.

  “How much do you charge for a picture?” the woman persisted, opening her purse. She pulled out a cell phone and a five-dollar bill.

  “Mom, no,” said the older of the two boys. “We want a good one.”

  “Yeah,” said the little boy.

  “She’s not in anything,” the older boy insisted. “She’s nobody.”

  The woman made a face. She said to Erin, “I’m sorry.” She gestured to the busy square. “It must be very difficult to compete.”

  “I’m not in competition with anybody,” Erin replied. But that felt untrue. If that were the case, would it matter so much what other people thought? Her jaw set, she turned and began to walk away.

  Then the woman called after her, “Oh, I know who you are. You’re a Ghostbuster!”

  “Big liar! Big faker!” the older boy shouted.

  Erin sighed and kept walking home.

  Once there, she tossed her Ghostbusters uniform into the laundry basket, walked over to her computer, and stared at the monitor. Then she typed a URL she had memorized. A YouTube video came up and she shrank inside. It was the University of Michigan show, Best Reads “On the Quad,” that she hadn’t shown up for. The show she had tried to watch live, but couldn’t. Abby was sitting alone facing a snarky man in a tweedy jacket. She was wearing a nubby black-and-white turtleneck sweater. The two of them had spent hours discussing what to wear. What looked authorial. She looked lost and uncomfortable.

  I didn’t even call her, Erin thought. I didn’t warn her that I was bailing. I was such a coward.

  The host smirked at Abby as he said, “So you’re saying that ghosts are actually real? And you can back this up with science? What could be less scientific than that? Have you actually ever even seen a ghost?”

  Abby was squirming like a bug under a microscope. “We have … um … I mean, I have experienced … um … theoretical contact with the, um, spirit world—”

  The host was practically laughing in her face. “I’m sorry, but I find that hard to—”

  Erin turned off the clip. She felt terrible again, queasy.

  I was the one who experienced actual contact. And I couldn’t bring myself to say that in public anymore. But that was why we did all the research. I was tormented, terrified that I was crazy. From day one, Abby believed in me. But I didn’t believe in us.

  What other people thought of her had been far more important to her than keeping her word or backing up a friend. And that was still true. She had walked out on the Ghostbusters, hadn’t talked about what they should do next.

  She picked up the copy of their book. That crazy picture of the two of them on the back jacket—so young and nerdy, but full of hope. Then she opened it and began to flip through it. She stopped. There were physics notes scribbled inside. Her lips parted in shock.

  This is Rowan’s copy of our book. The one Holtzmann found.

  She shuddered. How had she ended up with it? She didn’t even like touching it. But as she stared at the scrawled equations, she realized this was the key to how he had created his superionization device and that machine for breaking the barrier and letting phantoms into this world. She began to page through the book, looking for more notations. She studied them as she went, trying to follow the inherent logic and direction.

  And then, in the chapter they had titled “Attracting the Paranormal,” she found a sketch of a rough design for his barrier-breaking machine. He had scribbled a caption next to it: The First Cataclysm.

  She went past that and saw a drawing he had made of an electrocution. She thought of the first ghost they had seen in the tunnel, and then, of course, of Rowan himself.

  He was insane, she thought. But the machinery he devised was successful. What would have happened to the world if he hadn’t died?

  She reached the chapter with the header “Vengeful Spirits and the Dangers of Their Return to Our World.”

  We guided him every step of the way, she realized. The only person to believe us almost destroyed the world because of our book.

  She continued to page through the book, and when she got to the back, on the blank end pages she found another drawing of ghosts terrorizing New York City. Some wore historical clothes—colonial, Civil War, the Roaring Twenties, and the gangland thirties. Still others were strange, frightening wisps, or looked like demons and monsters—like the ghost at the rock concert. There was a massive being in the background, vaguely drawn and distant. On the next page it drew closer. Then closer.

  She turned the page.

  And froze.

  “Oh no,” she gasped.

  On that final page, the being that was terrorizing the city bore Rowan’s face. The note beside it said, “The Fourth Cataclysm. I will lead them.”

  19

  At Ghostbusters headquarters, Holtz was tinkering and Patty was paging through a map book. Kevin had gone off to do something Kevinish. Abby studied a picture of Erin and her holding the smoking ghost trap in front of the rock concert theater. Both of them were beaming and proud. Erin had allowed other people to take that pride away from her. Abby was still proud. But she was also very bummed.

  Holtzmann and Patty put on their coats. Patty said, “Holtz and I are gonna pick up a snack, something light. Probably a cheesesteak. Want one?”

  Abby briefly wondered in what universe a cheesesteak was “something light,” but she didn’t have the strength to make the comment. “I’m good, thanks,” she said quietly.

  The two left. Abby saw the empty space on the wall where Erin’s proton pack should be and sighed. Erin had finally apologized for bailing on her all those years ago. Maybe I should apologize, too.

  She got up and headed toward the bathroom. Then two distinct slow, loud knocks s
ounded on the restaurant’s front door, a large Chinese character divided into two arched halves that led out onto the stair landing. She stopped, called, “Did you forget your keys again? Wear them on a lanyard. Christ.” She sounded cranky, but it was all bluster. She just didn’t want those two to see her so down.

  She walked back and opened the door. There was nothing there. She leaned out over the threshold, looking around at the landing. She could see all the way down the stairs to the street entrance. Nuttin’. Completely empty.

  It had to be Holtz, trying to tease her out of her funk. It wasn’t working.

  “Very funny. So spooky,” she said.

  She shook her head and shut the door, then headed back toward the bathroom. But before she arrived there was another knock at the door.

  “Oh my god, what are we?” she groused. “In kindergarten? I’m not in the mood.”

  She walked back to the door and opened it. Now it was dark, all the lights off.

  She listened. There was no one there. It was as quiet as a tomb.

  Ghosts, she thought, but no, there were no ghosts hovering in the darkness. No Gertie, no Phantom of the Rock Opera. She shut the door, and this time she locked the dead bolt.

  Unbidden, the scene where Rowan had electrocuted himself replayed in her mind. What had Erin said? That troubled, delusional people would read their book? She’d been right about that. Tomorrow Abby was going to find out what she could about that man—what had driven him to do what he did—not only the suicide but breaking down the barrier. Did he have followers? Was he part of a cult?

  She couldn’t deny that she was scared. She hurried into the bathroom, locked the door, and flattened her back against it. Her hands were trembling a little. She whooshed out a breath, seeking calm.

  There was another loud knock.

  This time on the bathroom door.

  “Who is that?” she shouted.

  No answer.

  There was a noise coming from the sink—something rattling the drain. On alert, adrenaline pumping, she approached the sink. I am a Ghostbuster, she reminded herself. Right. Unarmed, without backup.

  The rattling continued. Then something green glowed inside the sink end of the drain. She reached the edge of the sink and, summoning all her courage, moved in for a closer look. Her chest was so tight she couldn’t breathe.