by Ed Naha
Synthesized Muzak began to play in the back ground.
He glanced at the TV monitor to the right of the camera as the title World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter
Venkman materialized against a background that looked like swirling phlegm.
Venkman screwed on his best grin (which operated at a forty-five-degree angle) and pushed his voice up to gracious-huckster volume. He was suave. He was engag ing. He was the people's friend. He would do anything to pay the rent.
"Hi," he said breathlessly to both the camera and the adoring audience. "We're back to the World of the Psychic I'm Peter Venkman."
He glanced at his two guests: a frail man who resembled Boris Karloff after a bad day in the lab and a rotund woman who bore more than a passing resem blance to Lou Costello in drag.
"I'm chatting with my guest—author, lecturer, and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund."
He faced the dour man and cocked his head to one side in a Cary Grant kind of way. "Milt, your new book is called The End of the World Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease? Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it?"
The dour man shrugged. "Well, I think it's impor tant for people to know that the world is in danger."
Venkman nodded. "Okay, so you can tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book?"
Milton puffed up his sparrowlike chest. "I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve."
Venkman rolled his eyes. "This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or miniseries potential. You
would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to play it safe."
Milton was not amused. "This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve!"
Venkman raised his palms. "Whoa. Okay. For your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind, right?"
The heavily made-up woman from New Jersey nod ded her head. "According to my sources, the world will end on February fourteenth, in the year 2016."
Venkman winked at her. "Valentine's Day? That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine?"
Elaine pursed her lips dramatically. "I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn. I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind-control device, because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world."
Venkman grinned as he felt a good number of his brain cells check out. "Your alien had a room at the Holiday Inn?"
Elaine pondered this. "It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn."
Venkman gazed at the woman. He was losing feeling in his feet. "No, you can't be sure," he said with a nod. "And I think that's the whole problem with aliens. You just can't trust them. Oh, sure, you may get some nice ones occasionally, like Starman or E.T., but most of them
turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time."
Venkman faced the camera, mentally nodding out. "Next week on World of the Psychic... Bigfoot: is he real or just a lumberjack from a broken home?"
He smiled at the camera. "Until then, this is Peter Venkman ... good night."
After the show he cornered his producer, Norman, in the hall. Norman looked a little like Timmy from the old Lassie show but was slightly better dressed.
"Where do you find these people, Normie?" Venk man asked. "I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons?"
Norman was embarrassed. "A lot of the better psychics won't come onto your show, Dr. Venkman. They think you're too skeptical."
"Me?" Venkman said, astonished. "Skeptical? Nor man, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real!"
Venkman looked up. There was a commotion brew ing from the studio next door. Several plainclothes policemen strode out of two swinging doors, followed by a small army of men in suits, with serious expres sions.
"What's all this?" Venkman asked Norman.
"They just interviewed the mayor on Cityline" Norman replied.
"The Mayor of New York City!" Venkman ex claimed. "Why, he's an old friend of mine."
Venkman ran down the corridor as the mayor and his top aide—a mousse-laden, no-nonsense, three-piece suit named Jack Hardemeyer—emerged from the studio next door.
"Lenny!" Venkman called, waving at the mayor.
Mayor Leonard Clotch wheeled around and, spot-
ting Venkman, wiped a trickle of sweat from his upper lip and almost ran down the hall in the opposite direc tion.
"Hey, Lenny!" Venkman called. "It's me! Peter Venk man."
Two plainclothes cops stopped Venkman in his tracks. Hardemeyer marched up to Venkman and, after adjusting his hair, placed a heavy hand on Venkman's chest.
"Can I help you?" He sneered.
Venkman, while appreciating the sneer, didn't like the man's attitude. "Yeah," he said, "you can get your hand off my chest."
Hardemeyer offered a serpent's smile and dropped his hand. "I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you?"
Venkman straightened his tie. "I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just wanted to say hello."
Hardemeyer emitted a harsh laugh. "I know who you are, Dr. Venkman. Busted any ghosts lately?"
"No," Venkman admitted. "That's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed, and tattooed by desk worms like you."
Hardemeyer offered Venkman an angry stare. "Look," he replied, bristling. "You stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state, and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me?"
"Yeah, Venkman thought to himself, and it's strictly big print.
The two plainclothes cops flanked Venkman, help ing him get the point. "Okay," Venkman said smoothly.
"I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that because of you, I'm not voting for him."
Hardemeyer smiled smugly and, spinning on his heels, marched off with the two plainclothes cops. Venkman watched them move out of the hallway.
Heaving a sigh, he trudged through the reception area, where a small group of his fans and possible guests were gathered.
The fans applauded him.
"No, really, you're too kind." Venkman was nearly grimacing.
One man was holding a crystal the size of a Toyota.
Another man had a small TV antenna glued to the hat he was wearing.
A fellow in full voodoo uniform sat next to the candy machine, burning incense.
A fat woman petting a hairless cat smiled up at Venkman.
Venkman smiled at them all, but at a strange angle. He was losing it. He was definitely losing it. He winked at the woman. "Nice cat. Very unusual. I had a bald collie once myself."
Venkman eased himself out the exit door and walked toward the elevator.
After thinking about it a second, he ran.
4
Dana Barrett walked up the stairs of the Manhattan Museum of Art, her portfolio and artist's box in her hand. She weaved
her way through the crowds of tourists and visitors milling toward the museum's en trance.
Little Oscar would be safe today, she knew. She gave strict instructions to the baby-sitter not to take the boy out of the apartment.
Dana flashed her ID card at the guard at the main entrance and, ignoring his smile, walked into the back of the museum,
where the large restoration studio was housed.
Since leaving her dreams of cello playing behind, Dana had earned a living restoring some of the oldest long-lost paintings of the Western world; chipping, cleaning, and urging them back into full bloom.
She stepped into the restoration studio and glanced upward with a slight shudder.
A titantic portrait of Vigo the Carpathian stared down at her. The seventeenth-century despot bore a
striking resemblance to the Incredible Hulk dressed for an evening in Camelot. Vigo's dark, evil eyes seemed to leap out of the painting toward Dana.
Actually it was the artistry of a young, wiry, and decidedly quirky artist, Janosz Poha, that was bringing Vigo "to life."
Janosz was the head of the department and incred ibly talented. He was also incredibly creepy to Dana's way of thinking. What he saw in the ugly painting of Vigo was beyond her.
Dana walked over to a ninteenth-century painting, this one a landscape, her mind still on little Oscar, and began to clean the years of soot and dust off its surface.
Janosz stopped working on Vigo for a moment, and staring longingly at Dana, softly padded up behind her. He looked over her shoulder and smiled. He opened his mouth and spoke, his words emerging in a thick Eastern European accent.
"Still working on the Turner?" he said casually, sounding a tad like a talking Veg-O-Matic.
"Oh?" Dana said, startled. "Oh, yes. I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. I'm sorry. I'll have it finished by the end of the day."
Janosz twisted his scarecrow face into a grin. "Take your time. The painting's been around for a hundred and fifty years. A few more hours won't matter."
Dana forced herself to emit a polite laugh. She began to work again, hoping her young boss would just go away. "You know," Janosz continued, "you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations."
"Thank you, Janosz," Dana said, still not facing the man. "I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra."
At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo in the painting seemed to glow slightly, its dark eyes gleaming. Slowly, deliberately, the painting turned its mighty head and gazed down at Dana.
Dana, her back toward the mural, did not notice. Neither did Janosz, who was deeply involved in gazing at Dana himself. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "We'll be very sorry to lose you."
Dana continued to clean her landscape. "I didn't really want to quit the orchestra in the first place," she explained. "But it's a little hard to play a cello when you're pregnant."
Janosz emitted a braying, nasal laugh. "Of course. Perhaps I could take you to lunch to celebrate your return to the Philharmonic?"
"Actually I'm not eating lunch today," Dana said, putting down her cleaning tools. "I have an appointment."
She gazed at her wristwatch. "In fact, I'd better go."
Dana replaced her tools. Janosz was clearly disturbed. "Every day I ask you to lunch, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something?"
Dana smiled at him. "Something. Perhaps some other time."
Janosz brightened. "Okay. I'll take a rain check on that."
Dana walked out of the room, leaving a smiling Janosz to return to his easel. "I think she likes me." He winked at the towering painting above him.
Reaching for his small tape-player, Janosz flipped on a tape and began practicing his English phraseology as he once again resumed work on Vigo.
High above the unsuspecting Janosz, the portrait of the all-evil Vigo rolled its eyes heavenward. Silly mortals.
5
A gaggle of Manhattan University gradu ate students carefully examined a small, rectangular bit of nouveau scientific gadgetry in a lab at the university's Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research while Egon Spengler, the last of the original Ghostbusters, sat at his desk listening to a thoroughly distraught Dana Barrett recount her tale of the baby buggy with a mind of its own.
Egon's face was a portrait of intense concentration, which wasn't surprising, considering that Egon had two expressions. Intense concentration and more intense concentration. Egon had been born to wear a lab coat. He felt out of place when not involved in some sort of experiment involving techno-wizardry.
Egon had a hawklike face and a neatly kept hairdo, separated by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that, while out-of-date, fit his concerned face perfectly. Nothing seemed to faze earnest Egon. He had grown up idolizing two men: Albert Einstein and Star Trek's Mr. Spock. Neither were known as party animals.
Dana finished her tale of roller-coaster carriage goings-on. "... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street."
Egon nodded sagely. "Did anyone else see this happen?"
"Hundreds of people," Dana replied. "Believe me, I didn't imagine this."
Egon's brain was already in high gear. "I'm not saying you did. In science, we always look for the simplest explanation."
A graduate student ran up to Egon. "We're ready, Dr. Spengler."
Spengler didn't take his eyes off Dana. "We'll start with the negative calibration."
The student handed Egon the small black box. Spengler glanced at it, adjusting its controls.
"What are you working on, Egon?" Dana asked.
Egon got to his feet. "You might find this amusing," he said, attempting to smile. It hurt his face. "I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters."
Dana didn't understand a word he was saying. "Oh, I see."
Egon led Dana to a large curtain. One of his stu dents pulled back the drapes to reveal a large picture window. It was actually a two-way mirror looking into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room, Dana saw a young couple apparently in the midst of a heated argument.
Egon pointed to the couple. "They think they're in here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room."
He checked a heat sensor located next to the two- way glass. "It's up to ninety-five degrees at the moment. Now, one of my assistants is going to enter the room and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half hour."
He turned to Dana confidentially. "This should be good."
As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watched, one of Spengler's assistants entered the waiting room and, gesturing wildly, told the young couple about the delay. The two people leapt to their feet and began screeching at both the assistant and each other.
Spengler calmly raised the small black box and took the readings from the room.
Dana stood there, baffled.
"We'll do the happiness index next," Spengler ex plained.
"I-I'm sure you will," Dana said.
"As for your problem," Spengler went on, "I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you."
"Okay, whatever you think," Dana answered. "But please, not Venkman!"
Spengler almost laughed out loud but caught him self in time. "Oh, no. Don't worry about that."
Dana attempted to look casual. "Do you, um, ever see him anymore?"
"Occasionally," Egon said.
"How is he these days?" Dana asked.
Spengler cast her a wise look. "Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border."
"Does he ever mention me?" Dana queried.
Spengler turned to a second pair of curtains. "No," he said with a shrug. "Not that I can recall."
He drew the drapes and peered down on a tiny little girl playing with a wonderful array of colorful toys.
Dana tried to hide her disappointment about Venkman's lack of interest in her. "Well," she said, sighing. "We didn't part on very good terms, and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married—"
One of Spengler's aides interrupted. "We're ready for the affection test."
"Good." Egon nodded. "Send in the puppy."
"I thought of calling him after my marriage ended," Dana babbled on, "but... anyway, I appreciate your doing this, Egon."
Egon watched as another assistant entered the playroom with an adorable cocker spaniel puppy. He gave it to the little girl. Spengler monitored her as she jumped for joy and embraced the tiny puppy affectionately.
Dana thrust a card in front of the busy Spengler's nose. "This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me?"
Spengler studied the little girl and the puppy. "Huh? Oh, certainly. Yes."
"And, Egon," Dana continued, "I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind."
"I won't," Spengler said absentmindedly.
"Thank you," Dana said, shaking the preoccupied Spengler's hand before leaving.
Spengler watched the little girl oooh and aahh over the puppy dog.
Spengler nodded knowingly to his study team. "Now... let's see how she reacts when we take the puppy away."
6
Stantz's Occult Bookstore sat on a small, quaint block in Greenwich Village. The window was crowded with occult artifacts and ancient books filled with arcane metaphysical lore that appealed only to the very rich, the very bored, or the very addled.
Stantz sat inside the shop on a bar stool behind the main counter while Egon Spengler waddled up and down the aisles of the tiny place, occasionally stopping to peruse a volume.
Stantz, reading glasses on, prepared a cup of herb tea for his old Ghostbuster crony while chewing on a pipe that emitted an odor reminiscent of week-old sweat socks.
The phone rang.
Stantz was amazed. A customer! Summoning up his most pleasant voice, he picked up the phone. "Ray's Occult," he said sweetly. "Yes. Uh-hmmmm. What do you need?... What have I got?"
Stantz took a deep breath. "I've got alchemy, astrol ogy, apparitions, Bundu magic men, demon interces sions, UFO abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, mod ern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts. I've got it all. What is it you're looking for? Don't have any. Try the stockyards."