Ghostbusters

by Richard Mueller

  “Soon, Peter. Soon.”

  Though he would have rejected the concept on scientific grounds, Egon Spengler had just made a good guess. The crack in the cosmic eggroll that had manifested itself at the New York Public Library, and in Dana Barrett’s refrigerator, was about to widen at a first-class old hotel called the Sedgewick. Built in the thirties on the edge of the garment district, the Sedgewick was home to businessmen, trade shows, conventions, and vacationers. It was also the home of something else.

  In the bridal suite on the twelfth floor, a time-honored ritual had just taken place and two people were whispering in the dark.

  “Oh, Roy, aren’t you glad we waited?”

  “I don’t know. It probably would have been the same.”

  “Well, thanks a lot!”

  High in one corner of the room, a light film of dust on the air vent was dislodged by something floating through it; a nebulous, persistent yellow vapor.

  “What are you doing? Are you just going to roll over now and go to sleep?”

  “Uh-huh ”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “C’mon, honey. It was a long day, with the wedding, and the drive from New Jersey, and . . . you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  The vapor spread to the four corners of the room, hovering just below the ceiling, then began to intensify. A few curious tendrils reached out in the dark, looking for something interesting to examine. One of them discovered a small travel alarm on the bedside table and curled around it. This was fun. This thing had energy. Perhaps it could be induced to play. With a sharp snap the plastic clock face split, turning a sickly, fire-scorched brown. Confused, the tendril withdrew.

  “Roy, your clock broke.”

  “Nice going, honey. It was brand new.”

  “I didn’t break your precious clock, Roy! Now where are you going?”

  “To the bathroom, where do you think?”

  My God, she thought. Have I made a serious mistake?

  The light went on in the bathroom and the door closed. This was noticed by the vapor, which immediately flowed down and through the cracks of the door. Here, perhaps, would be something to play with.

  “Brauuuuugh.”

  “Roy, are you all right?”

  “Brauuugh! Brauuugh! Brauuuuugh!”

  “Sweetheart, that’s disgusting. Cut it out.” She slipped out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her, and started for the door.

  “BRAUUUUUGH!”

  Roy came charging out of the bathroom, both hands clamped over his mouth, stumbling for the other side of the room. That does it, she thought. If that’s the effect I have on him, he can just sleep alone. She stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door. My God, that smell . . .

  “What did you do in here? It’s like something died . . .”

  The room itself was discolored, the sickly yellow-brown of old damp newspapers, and smoke seemed to hang in the air, smelling of vomit and rot and old meat. As she watched, gagging, it coalesced and flowed into the mirror. That’s impossible, she thought. Smoke can’t go into a mirror. But it did, swirling in a whirlpool, forming, becoming solid, with features and movement . . .

  It was a face.

  The thing smiled, wagged a foot-long tongue at her, and belched. The mirror cracked.

  Roy caught his wife as she ran by, screaming, and clamped a hand over her mouth so he could shout into the phone.

  “Right . . . it’s smelling up the whole suite . . . I don’t know, it’s in the bathroom . . . I’ve never seen anything like it . . . twelve ten, the bridal suite, for godsake . . . Hurry!”

  Janine Melnitz was fed up. She’d never been so bored in her life. When she’d first taken the job with Ghostbusters she’d assumed that it would be exciting. She’d been in a TV commercial with three men who were supposedly going to be catching real live ghosts. She’d seen the money pour into their building, their equipment, the bizarre ambulance that Ray Stantz insisted on calling an Ectomobile. And then they’d waited. And nothing had happened. She wasn’t even getting anywhere with that cute Dr. Spengler, Face it, kiddo, she thought. You’ve waltzed into another dead end. Best to cut your losses and move on, pick up some takeout, go home, watch Dynasty, read the want-ads.

  She snapped off the light and grabbed her purse. The phone rang. Probably the man from Telectronics wanting his money again. She hesitated, then picked it up. After all, I am a receptionist. It’s not my money they want.

  “Ghostbusters . . .”

  The voice at the other end sounded nervous. “Is this really Ghostbusters?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “And they’re . . . they’re serious about this?”

  “Of course they’re serious,” Janine said impatiently. Crazy, but serious.

  “Oh, good. My name is J. M. Shupp. I’m the manager of the Sedgewick Hotel, and I wish to contract for their services . . .”

  “You do?”

  “I . . . we . . . have this ghost . . .”

  “You have?”

  She took down the information with a trembling hand. It’s real, she thought. It’s not a con; they’re really going to catch ghosts. Oh, Egon, you’re not crazy.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be totally discreet.”

  She set down the phone, took a deep breath, and laughed. We really got one. We got one. “We got one!”

  The alarm bell blasted Venkman out of bed just as he was falling asleep. He stumbled up, pulling on his socks, and ran for the lockers in the kitchen, where Stantz and Spengler were trying to put on the same pair of coveralls. A real call? Please, don’t let this be a false alarm.

  “Ray, are the accelerators charged?”

  “Certainly. Have you seen my boots?”

  “In your hand. The traps?”

  “The traps are fine. It’s the ERM, Ray. The crack is widening.”

  “Yes, and so soon. My calculations were correct.”

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “The crack in the cosmic eggroll, Peter. We re going to have more business than we know what to do with.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Venkman replied. He launched himself at the pole, hit, and plummeted into the garage.

  “Where’s my trinocular visor?”

  “It’s in the car, Ray.”

  “It’s not a car, it’s an Ectomobile.”

  “Whatever you say, Ray,” Spengler cried, grabbing the pole and descending. Stantz looked about him and realized that he was ready. He took a run at the brass pole.

  “Geronimo!” he cried, but his legs were too far apart and the impact was cushioned by precisely that part of his anatomy he’d been trying to protect. With a surprised whimper he fell through the hole.

  Venkman grabbed him and dragged him toward the passenger seat as Spengler, his arms full of traps and detectors, loaded the rear compartment. Janine handed him a clipboard with directions on how to get to the Sedgewick and the nature of the complaint, and then, on impulse, kissed him on the cheek. Egon, surprised, gave her a thumbs-up and grinned.

  “Will you get a move on here, Egon?” Venkman cried from the passenger side. “You’re driving.”

  “What’s wrong with Ray?”

  “He dented his bumper. Let’s go.”

  With a blaze of lights the old Cadillac’s motor roared to life, the banks of rooftop sensors, antennae, and microwave transmitters swinging to alertness. Janine triggered the door opener, Venkman hit the siren, and they were off.

  The doorman of the Sedgewick had seen a lot of strange vehicles in his thirty years on the job, had heard a lot of strange sounds, but the moaning, ululating siren of the Ectomobile brought back childhood memories of Eastern Europe that he had taken great pains to forget, and he instinctively crossed himself. When it screeched to a halt at the curb, his jaw dropped. A radar dish and a microwave tracker swiveled about to point at him, and the old doorman probably would have run had not Shupp, the manager, appeared in the doorway.

 
Well, they look professional enough, Shupp thought as three men in coveralls alighted from the converted ambulance and began strapping on large electronic backpacks and belts bristling with metal implements. They wore brushed-metal, flip-down visors, boots, and knee and elbow pads over their gray coveralls. The face of one was obscured by a cyclopean headset. Another strode forward, his hand out to shake.

  “I’m Dr. Venkman. You are . . .?”

  “Mr. Shupp, the manager. Thank you for coming so quickly. The guests are starting to ask questions and I’m running out of answers.”

  They moved into the lobby, people turning to stare at the three outlandishly dressed men. A group of Japanese tourists immediately began snapping pictures.

  “Has this ever happened before?” Stantz asked, now fully recovered from his mishap with the pole.

  “Well, most of the original staff knows about the twelfth floor—the disturbances, I mean—but it’s been quiet for years. Then, two weeks ago, it started again, but nothing like this.”

  “Did you ever report it to anyone?”

  “Heavens no! The owners didn’t like us even to talk about it. I hoped we could take care of this quietly tonight.”

  Egon shook his head. “Like social disease,” he exclaimed loudly. “You think it’ll go away if you ignore it, and then, eventually, your—”

  “Egon, the job, remember?”

  Ray Stantz was walking the manager toward the elevators, cleverly distracting him from Spengler’s outburst. “Don’t worry, we handle this sort of thing all the time.”

  “You gotta be cool with these people, Egon,” Venkman said.

  “I was appalled at his unprofessional attitude.”

  “Well, we’re the professionals. That’s why they called us.”

  Ray shook the manager’s hand and the man withdrew, leaving them alone in front of the elevators.

  “Twelfth floor, huh?” Venkman pushed the button. Something tugged on his sleeve. It was an old man in an overcoat and alpine hat, carrying a newspaper. He poked Venkman in the chest.

  “What are you supposed to be?”

  “Me? We’re exterminators. Somebody saw a cockroach on the twelfth floor.”

  Stantz and Spengler smiled. The old man whistled. “That’s gotta be some cockroach.”

  “Well, you can’t be too careful with these babies,” Venkman said. “Going up?”

  “That’s all right. You go ahead. I’ll wait for another car.”

  They had the elevator to themselves.

  “I just realized something,” Stantz said. “We’ve never had a completely successful test with any of the equipment.”

  Spengler raised a hand. “I blame myself.”

  “So do I,” Venkman agreed.

  Stantz shrugged. “No sense in worrying about it now, right, Peter?”

  “Sure. Each of us is wearing an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on his back. No problem.”

  “Relax,” Egon said. “I’m going to switch on.”

  Before Venkman could protest, the warning light on Spengler’s proton pack flared red and the accelerator kicked in with a deep, disturbing hum. Stantz and Venkman edged away as the whole car began to vibrate, dust motes kicking into motion in the suddenly polarized air. The hair went up on Venkman’s neck and he felt a crawling sensation on his scalp, as if a thousand lice had begun a breakdown competition among the roots of his hair. He swallowed uncomfortably, noticing that Stantz had curled his lips back and away from his teeth.

  “Ray, you okay?”

  Stantz shook his head. “Egon, the fillings in my mouth are beginning to heat up.”

  “That’ll stop when you cut in your own accelerator,” Spengler announced. Stantz nodded and switched on. Venkman’s eyes were starting to hurt. Here goes nothing, he thought, and kicked in his own unit. Immediately the symptoms subsided as he was surrounded by the proton generator’s field. Maybe these things will work. The door opened and they stepped out on the twelfth floor, instantly alert for any sign of trouble, but the floor was brightly lit, tastefully appointed, and quiet.

  “What do you think?”

  Spengler consulted the aurascope on his belt. “Definitely something here.”

  “Stay on your toes. Don’t let it surprise you.”

  Suddenly a squeak and a clank from behind them. They froze, and then Stantz and Spengler whirled and fired, multicolored streams of supercharged particles ripping out of the induction nozzles. They struck the walls, shearing great ribbons of flaming wallpaper into the air, blowing holes in the carpet, exploding a light fixture. A doorknob spun through the air, striking and then going cleanly through a solid wall. The streams struck a maid’s cart, twisting the metal, rebounding in flashes of uncontrolled energy. A box of soap burst into flames and a dozen rolls of toilet paper dispersed, hitting the walls and the terrified maid who crouched screaming on the floor. “Cease fire!” Venkman cried.

  “What the devil you doin’?” called the maid in the sudden silence, slapping at bits of burning paper that were drifting down around her. “You crazy?”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “We’d better adjust the streams,” Spengler suggested.

  “Yeah,” Venkman added disgustedly. “And let’s split up. We can do more damage that way.” He turned and stalked off down the hall. Spengler and Stantz set off in the other direction.

  “I’m getting high readings near the air vents. It must be using the duct system to get around. I told you we’d find something. You head that way and I’ll go north. And keep your radio on.”

  Why not? Spengler thought as he shouldered the induction nozzle and reached for his trusty plasmatometer. Valences, that’s the key. Ghosts leave an ethereal spore, but I can track them. He edged along the wall, tapping gently, watching the lights flashing on the little detector. He came to a door, tapped his way across it, then examined the crack at the top, sides, along the floor. The easiest way for them to get in, he figured: cracks, vents, keyholes. The door opened. He looked up to see a tall, beautiful woman in a bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a turban of wet toweling. Careful, Egon, he thought. They can be devious, like the one in the library. Still, she seemed pretty solid and she certainly had legs.

  “Yes?”

  He stood up. “Were you recently in the bathroom?” he asked, running the plasmatometer across her front. No response there.

  “What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “The wet towels, the residual moisture on your lower limbs and hair, the redness in your cheeks indicating—”

  “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes. Now, what do you want? And get that thing out of my face.”

  Spengler withdrew the detector. “When you were in the bathroom, did you notice anything that was yellow and unusually smelly?”

  The woman stepped back and slammed the door in his face. Spengler shrugged and moved on.

  On a lower floor, Venkman, induction gun held protectively before him, was moving cautiously down the hall, feeling stupid. Dressed up like Buck Rogers, hunting ghosts. Is this any life for a grown man? He stopped beside an unattended room-service cart and consoled himself with an order of shrimp cocktail, not noticing the trail of yellowish stains along the wainscoting.

  Ray Stantz was standing very quietly in the center of an intersection, staring at his PKE meter. He had tracked the ghost down to the fifth floor and suddenly the needle was going crazy. Stantz tapped the mike on his headset.

  “Egon, I’ve got something. I’m moving in.”

  He headed cautiously down the hallway toward another T-intersection at the end, around which came the sounds of clinking plates and the faint smell of something old and ugly. He pulled down his induction gun, but held it pointed toward the floor. No sense in blowing away another maid, or some Puerto Rican busboy. Still, the readings and that smell. He turned the corner at the end.

  “Yaaah!”

  Twenty feet away, hovering over a room-service cart, was the object of his search: a free vapor, apparently c
omposed of a series of compacted noxious gases, with a face like a misshapen potato and a pair of spindly arms. Stantz watched fascinated as it rummaged through the dishes, tossing some of them on the floor, and cramming leftover scraps into its mouth. It had to be the one. It matched perfectly with the manager’s description.

  “Ray. Where are you? Are you all right?” came Spengler’s voice over the radio.

  “Egon, you should see this thing. It’s so ugly.”

  The vapor raised a half-empty bottle of wine and chugged the remaining contents, the wine pouring through it and out onto the carpet. Satisfied with that trick, it tossed the bottle back over its head and began rooting around in the plates like a hog after truffles.

  “Where are you, Ray?”

  “Five south, I think. I’m moving in. I don’t think it’s seen me yet.”

  This time it downed a mass of half-eaten salad, which was obviously too spicy, for the thing sneezed, spattering the wall with greasy residue. It belched loudly and patted its rudimentary stomach. Stantz was disgusted.

  “Ugh, what a slob. I’m going to take him.” He snapped the visor down over his eyes and raised the induction rifle. “Freeze, Potatoface!”

  It turned toward him and let out a piercing scream as Stantz fired, tearing a flaming crater in the wallpaper. The vapor did a wingover and sped off down the hall, dragging the cart behind it. Stantz took off in pursuit, calling for Egon and Peter to watch for it, but when the ghost reached the end of the hallway, instead of turning, it passed right through the wall. The cart hit directly behind it and overturned, trashing the carpet as Stantz arrived. He peered at the wall, which had turned an ugly yellow. There were drops of ectoplasm oozing in thick, stringy trails from the spot. Well, at least I hit it. But where did it go?

  Venkman was steamed. He had wandered down to three and was leaning against a wall, pulling disconsolately on a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. This bites the big one, he thought. I actually work for a company called Ghostbusters. Not even I thought it would come to this. Beep, beep, beep. Beep?