Ghostbusters

by Richard Mueller

  He pushed back his hard hat. His eyes were rimmed with grime. “Lady, does this look like relaxation?”

  Janine decided that she didn’t like him at all. “Don’t get smart, fella. I mean, do you work for Ghostbusters?”

  “Nah, I work for Con Ed. You want those nuts in the back.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  Peter Venkman was standing in a cleared area, giving instructions to a team of painters. He was amazed that there had turned out to be so much to do, and even more amazed that it looked like it was actually getting done. He himself had not worked so hard in years. Private industry. At least in the university system you could get the grad students to do everything, but here the work was your own. Of course the profits were too. He still had a few misgivings but they were rapidly fading. There wasn’t room for them. All available space was becoming filled with electrical equipment, protective clothing, sensors, storage batteries, bins, boxes, cartons, crates, containments. Used to be I didn’t worry because I didn’t care. Now I don’t have time to worry. A shower of blue sparks rained down from above, and the men ducked protectively.

  “Egon!”

  “Sorry.”

  Venkman brushed himself off, and then noticed a young woman crouching fearfully against the wall, looking up at the ceiling.

  “Miss, are you all right?”

  She looked at him; big eyes, red hair, thick glasses and, when she spoke, a Queens accent. “I’m not sure. Is that going to happen again?”

  “Probably, but it’s harmless. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. The agency sent me over. Janine Melnitz.”

  “Dr. Peter Venkman. How soon can you start?”

  She looked around at the chaos. Somewhere in the building a circuit breaker blew with a deafening snap, and all of the lights went out. “The question is, how soon can you?”

  Venkman watched them hang the sign over the garage doorway: GHOSTBUSTERS, with their new logo, a cartoon ghost encircled by the red international sign for prohibition. Pretty good. The logo had been Janine’s idea. So far the woman was working out. She hadn’t yet asked to be paid.

  “Hey, Peter!”

  Venkman turned to see a long, battered 1959 Cadillac ambulance pull up into the garage bay, Ray Stantz at the wheel. He hit the emergency lights, gave a blast on the siren, and killed the ignition. The big battle cruiser backfired noisily, emitting a puff of black soot, then rolled to a stop. God, Venkman thought, listening to it settle on its springs. Is that ours? Stantz hopped out and patted the fender proudly.

  “Everybody can relax. I found the car. How do you like it?”

  Venkman listened to the dripping sound coming from beneath the hood. “Do you think it’s wide enough? How much?”

  “Only fourteen hundred.”

  Spengler and Janine had come out of the office to stare in awe at the monster. Venkman stepped experimentally onto the front bumper and rocked it. The Cadillac wallowed badly. Stantz shrugged.

  “Just needs a little suspension work . . . and a muffler . . . and brake pads, new brake pads . . . universals . . . water pump . . . thermostat . . . timing belt . . . clutch cable . . .”

  Venkman turned and walked rapidly away before things got any worse.

  5

  God may still be in his heaven, but there is more than sufficient evidence that all is not right with the world.

  —Irwin Edman

  Dana Barrett was not aware that she was being watched as she stepped out of the cab, shouldered her groceries, got a good grip on her cello case, and walked toward the building. Across the street in Central Park, Robert Learned Coombs made an off-color remark about her legs, for which he was sternly admonished by Harlan Bojay. Two fair-haired young men, strolling hand in hand toward the baths, exchanged comments on her simple but tasteful wardrobe. An old duffer out walking his schnauzer gazed at Dana and remembered how long it had been since it had been long. The doorman gauged her speed so as to open the door with precision for one of his favorite tenants. And, high above on a ledge overlooking the street, Louis Tully was awarded with the completion of his vigil. Dana was home.

  Louis hopped down into his apartment, scattered a few towels and exercise books strategically about, and slipped an exercise tape into the VCR. Then he ran in place, trying desperately to work up a sweat in the short time he had left. I’m active, he thought. Athletic. She’ll like me if I show signs of self-improvement, pride in my appearance, ambition. Those were the keys, according to I’m a New Me—Be a New You, the latest hip awareness book that Louis Tully had been suckered into buying. I’ll be a self-improving, proud, ambitious, yet sensitive and caring guy. I’ll be a man for the Eighties.

  He heard her fumble for her keys, raced to his door, and peered out.

  “Oh, Dana. It’s you . . .”

  “Uh, hi, Louis . . .”

  Louis sniffed, alert for smells, wondering if he’d overdone the exercise binge. “I thought it was the drugstore man,” he said casually.

  “Are you sick, Louis?”

  She’s concerned, he decided. Good. He trotted down to her door, not noticing his own swing shut behind him. “Oh, no, I feel great. I just ordered some more vitamins.” He pointed at her velour sweatshirt. “I see you were exercising. So was I. I taped ‘Twenty-Minute Workout’ and played it back at high speed so it only took ten minutes, and I got a really good workout. You wanna have a mineral water with me?”

  Dana smiled kindly. “No thanks. Louis. I’m really tired, I’ve been rehearsing all morning.”

  Louis took it with aplomb. “Okay, I’ll take a raincheck. I always have plenty of mineral water and nutritious health foods, but—heh heh—you know that. Listen, that reminds me, I’m gonna have a party for all my clients. It’s gonna be my fourth anniversary as an accountant. I know you fill out your own tax returns, but I’d like you to come, being that we’re neighbors and all . . .”

  Dana touched his shoulder. Gee, Louis thought, she really is taller than me but she does seem to like me. “Oh, that’s nice, Louis. I’ll stop by if I’m around.”

  “You know you shouldn’t leave your TV on so loud when you go out. That creep down the hall phoned the manager.”

  Dana listened at the door. There were sounds coming from her apartment. “I thought I turned it off. I guess I forgot.”

  Louis got ready to spring his big gun. “So, you know what I did? I climbed out on the window ledge to see if I could disconnect the cable but I couldn’t reach it so I turned up the sound on my TV real loud so they’d think there was something wrong with everyone’s TV. You know, Dana, you and I should have keys to each other’s apartments so—”

  “Later, Louis,” she said, and closed the door.

  “So . . . so . . . we can get in . . . in case of emergencies . . .”

  Well, he thought, I’ll do better next time. He turned back to his door. It was locked. Emergencies. Emergencies like this one.

  Poor Louis, Dana thought as she slipped the cello into its niche in the entry hall. He’s like a puppy. I don’t want to hurt him, but he’s as far from my idea of the perfect man as I can imagine. My mother would probably love him.

  She started for the kitchen to put away her groceries, and then remembered the television. Strange. I’m sure I turned it off this morning. In fact, I don’t think I ever turned it on. Could a defective switch do that? She reached for it, then stopped, fascinated by what she was seeing.

  What was it, an old movie? No, it’s shot like a commercial. She settled down to watch the picture—two adorable children asleep in their beds, modern house, nicely furnished room. Suddenly there was a deep humming sound, and then a low disturbing moan, rising, getting louder. The children woke, looked up, then screamed. When All-American Father and Perfect Mother entered they found the children cowering in the corner.

  Typical slick advertising, Dana thought, and again reached for the switch. Again she stopped.

  ”What is it? What’s wrong?” All-American Father was
saying. The children pointed toward the camera. “Look.” they cried. Perfect Mother slipped a comforting arm about them. “Oh, dear. It’s that darned ghost again. Can’t you do something about it?” Father shrugged manfully. “I’ve tried everything, honey. I guess we’ll just have to move.”

  What?

  “Gee, there must be a better way,” Mother sighed. Suddenly a tall man in a field-gray coverall stepped into the picture. A large red patch on his pocket read STANTZ. “Are you troubled by strange noises in the night? Do you experience feelings of dread in your basement or attic? Have you or your family actually seen a spook, specter, or ghost? If the answer is yes, then don’t wait another minute. Just pick up the phone and call the professionals—Ghostbusters.”

  Dana’s jaw dropped. It was too early for Monty Python, but this had to be a parody. She watched as the scene shifted to three of the coverall-clad men standing in front of what appeared to be an old firehouse. A wild-looking Ghostbuster with thick glasses stepped forward, hit his mark, and said, “Our courteous, efficient staff is on call twenty-four hours a day to serve all your supernatural elimination needs.” The scene shifted again to a receptionist answering the phone with a big, cheery smile. “Ghostbusters. We’ll be right there.” And again to the children’s bedroom, which was now swarming with Ghostbusters. The first one jumped up and exclaimed, “Got him. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with that ghost.” He handed All-American Father the bill, who looked up, beaming. “And it’s economical too.”

  “How can we ever thank you?” Mother asked. The third Ghostbuster leaned into the camera, boyish good looks and the smile of a con man. “All in a day’s work, ma’am. After all, we’re Ghostbusters.”

  You must be, Dana decided. No actors could do that badly.

  The family, now clustered together like a moral-majority ad, was singing, “If you have a ghost, but you don’t want to play host, you can’t sleep at all, so who do you call? Ghostbusters—Ghostbusters.” A phone number flashed on the screen—1-212-NO-GHOST—as the three Ghostbusters leaned in on the camera. “We’re ready to believe you!”

  Dana snapped off the TV. That was, without a doubt, the strangest thing I have ever seen on television. Where do they get these people? Best get the groceries put away.

  She turned on the radio, got a Boccherini concerto, and started unloading the bag. Eggs, milk, bread—everything was getting so expensive. Forgot the yogurt again. Guess I must really not like the taste. She opened the cabinets and was putting away the few canned goods she’d picked up, humming along with the Boccherini, when she noticed a hissing sound. Interference? No, more like . . . eggs frying, her nose informed her. But I’m not cooking anything. She turned around, saw what was happening, and backed fearfully away from the counter.

  On the Formica countertop eggs were frying. They were still in their box, but the top had flown open and egg white was bubbling out. As drops of it hit the counter, they sizzled. But the milk and the bread, she thought. They seemed to be unaffected. What the hell s going on here?

  She stepped forward gingerly, like a man walking the plank, and extended her fingers. The eggs were hot. She approached and then touched the countertop, but it was cool. Could the eggs have been bad? Could bacteria do that? That’s crazy. Suddenly the hair went up on the back of her neck. There was a low humming sound coming from behind her. Without looking she reached out and switched off the radio. There, she could hear it, a deep throbbing sound like chanting. Like natives worshiping in some temple. She turned and looked but there was nothing out of place.

  Louis, if this is some creepy trick to get my attention, I am not in the least amused. Then she realized that the sound was coming from her refrigerator. She picked up the carton of milk—half deciding to put it away, half planning to use it as a weapon—and moved closer. There it was, a rhythmic chant like . . . like the temple scene in Gunga Din, she decided. Not the sort of thing I want in my refrigerator.

  Could that little dingaling have gotten in here and put a tape recorder in my fridge? That’s it, she decided, and opened the door.

  Hot air rushed out, strange malignant smells, and the atmosphere of another place entirely, for the interior of the refrigerator was gone. Inside was a pathway of stone steps, flanked by leaping fires and leading to a stone platform before a great steel door. On either side of the door stood the statue of a mythological beast—bizarre, yet somehow familiar—its claws poised. The chanting rolled over Dana in waves.

  She wanted to run, to scream, anything, but she was paralyzed by the insanity of what she was seeing. A temple, in my refrigerator. And then, ever so slowly, the doors began to open.

  Dana was struck by a terrible impression of what she could think of only as living evil, nothing definite, but the worst, most frightening feeling she had ever known. I’m going mad, she thought. It’s that commercial, it’s Louis. I’ve been working too hard. The temple doors clanged back.

  The steps somehow continued to rise beyond into the sky or a mass of blue vapor, and there was something on them that she could not see. It was too far away and somehow indistinct, as if it were not mortal. A superior being, a god. Now, why would I think that, Dana thought with one part of her being while the rest of her concentrated on breathing, on not passing out. And it sees me. It’s coming for me.

  The chanting stopped. There was an instant of fearful silence, and then a voice so deep, so shocking, that it could only have come from the thing on the stair.

  “ZUUL!”

  Dana lunged forward, slamming the door, cutting off the evil orange light, the rising chant. She turned, stumbled toward the phone, trying to remember the mnemonic number, and then decided that she’d just as soon not be here anyway. Grabbing her purse, she ran for the elevator.

  6

  Ghosts remind me of men’s smart crack about women, you can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.

  —Eugene O’Neill

  Janine Melnitz was beginning to have serious doubts about her job. In fourteen days no one had come in, no one had called, nothing had happened. Zip. She’d read Vogue, Cosmo, and Playgirl, made and consumed endless coffee, browsed through the various spirit guides, done her nails at least six times a day, and attempted to have conversations with the three men she was working for. It wasn’t easy. Stantz seemed to spend all of his time under the hood of their disreputable ambulance, converting it into something he called an Ectomobile. Venkman hustled in and out, made phone calls, and smooth-talked their creditors. And Spengler was always buried in a mess of wiring and constructing devices he would not explain and which Janine could not even pronounce.

  Today, at least, he was doing something comprehensible, crawling around beneath her desk, connecting up an alarm system. Occasionally he would poke his head up, look around to get his bearings, and disappear below once more, his hands full of tools, a wire clamped in his mouth. Janine sighed luxuriously. He was cute, in an intellectual sort of way. Janine had always had a thing for brainy guys. They were all so absentminded. They needed guidance, and Janine liked to guide. Maybe I can draw Egon out, get to know him, find out what he’s really like. At that moment, as if on cue, Egon Spengler popped up from under the desk, adjusted his glasses, and groped around for his coffee mug. Janine favored him with a warm smile.

  “You’re very handy, I can tell,” she said, passing him the cup. “I bet you like to read a lot.”

  “Print is dead,” Spengler snorted derisively.

  Janine was undeterred. “That’s very fascinating to me. I read a lot myself. Some people think I’m too intellectual. But I think reading is a fabulous way to spend your spare time.”

  Spengler looked at her, shrugged, sipped his coffee.

  “I also play racquetball. Do you ever play?”

  “Is that a game?”

  “It’s a great game,” Janine said brightly, warming to the chase. “You should play sometime. I bet you’d be good. Do you have any hobbies?”

  Spengler
nodded. “I collect spores, molds, and fungus.”

  Janine’s jaw dropped, and she eased her chair backward a few inches. “Oh. That’s a very unusual.”

  Spengler shook his head confidently. “I think it’s the food of the future.”

  “Remind me not to have lunch with you.”

  Dana was still confused and upset when the cabbie let her off. At first she could not believe he could have gotten the right address. The neighborhood looked so seedy. It was obvious that nothing had happened in this corner of town in a long time, at least nothing pleasant. Some long-haired Chinese hoods watched her from a warehouse loading dock, debating whether to approach her. There must have been some mistake, she thought, and then she spotted the old fire-house with its red and white “no ghosts” logo. There really was such a place. She hurried to the door and went in.

  In the garage bay a man was hanging over the fender of a battered Cadillac ambulance, cigarette in mouth, attempting to dismantle what appeared to be the carburetor.

  “Excuse me,” she ventured. He looked up. It was Stantz, the tall one from the commercial, but she still asked, “Ghostbusters?” He pointed toward the rear. There was a redheaded woman at a desk, filing her nails and looking disconsolately at a bank of phones.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, may I help you?” the redhead asked pleasantly.

  “I—I uh, wanted to see a Ghostbuster.”

  “Hello!”

  She looked up. Another of the men from the commercial—the cute one—was standing in the doorway to an office. He dashed forward, leapt the low rail between the office and the garage bay, and stepped up to her, a bit too close for her tastes, but she didn’t pull away. He’s not nearly as threatening as that thing in my refrigerator, and I do need help.

  “I’m Peter Venkman, What can I do for you?”

  “Well . . . yes . . . I’m not sure. What I have to say may sound a little . . . unusual.”

  Venkman slipped his arm around her, kicked open the gate in the railing, and ushered her toward the office. “We’re all professionals here, Miss . . .”