“Sorry about that. Holy water takes that right out.”
“Holy water?”
“Right. What can I do for you?”
Peck looked him in the eyes and Venkman realized that the man wasn’t especially tall, just thin. “Are you Peter Venkman?”
“Yes, I’m Doctor Venkman.”
Peck stared at Venkman’s soiled jumpsuit. “Exactly what are you a doctor of, Mr. Venkman?”
Venkman indicated the rank of framed diplomas behind the desk. Admittedly most of them belonged to Egon and Ray. “I have Ph.D.s in psychology and parapsychology.”
“I see,” Peck replied snidely. “And now you catch ghosts.”
“You could say that,” Venkman said, plopping himself down into his stuffed chair. Peck took a seat across the desk from him.
“And how many ghosts have you caught, Mr Venkman?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“And where do you keep those ghosts once you catch them?”
“In a storage facility.”
“And would this storage facility be located on these premises?”
“Yes, it would.”
“And may I see this storage facility?”
“No, you may not.”
Peck’s smile dissolved instantly. “And why not, Mr. Venkman?”
Venkman’s smile was all boyish innocence. “Because you didn’t say the magic word.”
“And what is the magic word, Mr. Venkman?”
“The magic word is please.” Venkman said softly.
Peck laughed nervously, totally at the end of his patience. “May I please see the storage facility?”
“Why do you want to see it?” Venkman asked sweetly.
“Well, because I’m curious. I want to know more about what you do here. Frankly, there have been a lot of wild stories in the media, and we want to assess any possible environmental impact from your operation. For instance, the storage of noxious, possibly hazardous waste materials in your basement. We want to know exactly what sort of scam you people are running here, Mr. Venkman. Now, either you show me what’s down there, or I come back with a court order.”
Venkman felt his blood pressure boil over. That does it. After a day like I’ve had, I don’t have to come home and listen to this. He stood up and leaned across his desk, nose to nose with the skinny bureaucrat.
“Go ahead! Get a court order, and I’ll sue you for wrongful prosecution.”
Peck stood stiffly, his briefcase held in front of him like a shield. “Have it your way, Mr. Venkman.”
He turned and strode quickly out of the office. Venkman followed him to the doorway. “Hey! Make yourself useful. Go save a tree! And that’s Doctor Venkman!”
Winston Zeddemore was absolutely fascinated as he stood peering through the view slit. It’s a damned prison, he thought. A prison for ghosts. Inside, the various multicolored spirits, wisps of color and light, swirled about aimlessly or slouched in despair against the walls. Occasionally one would drift up to the viewport and stare back, like a grouper in an aquarium. It was depressing, but at the same time Winston couldn’t think of any other solution to letting them run loose. But this had never happened before. There had always been a few ghosts. Why so many now? Weird.
And these guys actually catch ghosts.
And I’m going to be a Ghostbuster.
Mama Zeddemore, I hope you’re satisfied.
Spengler worked at the bench, repairing a damaged proton pack, muttering to himself about “hyper-spatial toruses” and “magnetic monopoles,” stuff even Stantz didn’t understand; but at this point Stantz wasn’t interested. He was worried about the grid. “Winston.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll show you how to unload the traps.” He slid the smoking box into a slot on the wall of the storage facility. There were three, like airlocks of different sizes, for the custom traps Ray had put together. This one was a Mark II. “You set the entry grid, push this button, wait for it to cycle yellow.” The slot lit up. Stantz pulled down on a heavy knife switch, and the slot emitted a loud cycled humming, like the sound a Xerox machine makes, Winston realized, as the trap was cleaned. The sound ended with a loud snap, the humming stopped, the indicator flashed.
“The light is green, the trap is clean.” He tossed the little box into a bin marked FOR RECHARGE. “Got it?”
“Got it. Seems simple enough.”
Stantz smiled. “A lot simpler to run than to build, I can tell you.”
Spengler put his head down on the bench with a low moan. “I’ve got to get some sleep, I’m starting to make mistakes. You okay, Ray?”
Stantz shrugged. He didn’t seem to tire as fast as the others. And the job continued to be fascinating. He often came downstairs in the middle of the night to watch the ghosts through the viewing port, though lately he’d begun to have the same feelings that Zeddemore had experienced, that penning the spirits up like that was somehow wrong. But if there was an alternative to an endless matinee of Spooks Run Wild, he didn’t know what it was. The facility was too small—this was true—but even Egon had never planned on the volume of business they were getting. Something very unsettling, very dangerous was about to break, and they had to find out what.
“Egon, I’m going to need two new purge valves. How’s the grid around the storage facility holding up?”
Egon adjusted his glasses and blinked back the fatigue. “I’m worried, Ray, It’s getting crowded in there. And all my recent data points to something very big on the bottom.”
“How do you mean ‘big’?” Zeddemore asked.
Spengler rummaged among the bits of wire, plastic, and lunch on the workbench until he located an intact Hostess Twinkie. He held it up by way of illustration.
“Well, let’s say this Twinkie represents the normal amount of psychokinetic energy in the New York area. According to this morning’s PKE sample, the current level would be a Twinkie thirty-five-feet long and weighing approximately six hundred pounds.”
Zeddemore whistled. “That’s a big Twinkie.”
Stantz nodded. “We could be on the verge of a fourfold crossover . . . or worse. If what we’re seeing indicates a massive PKE surge, we could experience an actual rip.”
The three were looking very depressed when Venkman came down the stairs. “How’s the grid around the storage facility holding up?”
“It’s not good, Pete.”
“Tell him about the Twinkie,” Winston said glumly. Venkman looked curiously at Zeddemore, then at Stantz, who shrugged.
“We had a visit from the EPA.”
“What’d they want?”
“A whole lot of doodly-squat.”
10
If a sane dog fights a mad dog, its the sane dog’s ear that is bitten off.
—Burmese proverb
Night had come swiftly to Manhattan, the end of October bringing lengthening darkness and sunsets that crashed down like collapsing buildings. The skyscrapers glowed briefly red, then switched to their own feeble illumination, the Great White Way making a vain attempt to hold back the dusk, the billowed clouds and snapping lightning, the storms of autumn rolling in off the wind-tossed Atlantic. Approaching Halloween, the holiday of oblivion, shorn by the church from its hopeful pagan roots. Witches and spooks painted on store windows, and little Ghostbusters’ no-ghost stickers, like offerings of blood to warn away the destroying angel. Or to attract something else.
A strange year, Harlan Bojay thought as he shuffled along the sidewalk. Suddenly New York is awash in superstition, and the technology of scientific spirit removal. The pockets of his greatcoat held a folded copy of Omni that he had found in the subway station at Times Square. He had read several articles on the new phenomenon before being asked to move on, and was pondering the question on many minds, from Walter Peck’s to Peter Venkman’s. Why now? Where are they all coming from, and why New York?
Lightning forked down from the roiling thunder-head, striking the cap of a nearby building. Boja
y instinctively opened his mouth against the accompanying clap of sound and ducked, though it could not possibly hit him here in the street with so many tall buildings about. But something did, glancing off his shoulder and bouncing along the sidewalk. The blow stung, and Harlan looked about for some sign of trouble—a recalcitrant youth or perhaps a piece of improperly shielded machinery. There was none. He was alone on the street. He reached down and picked up the offending object.
At first it appeared to be stone, but it was not. It was a lighter substance, like terra-cotta or a given grade of ornamental concrete, and Bojay realized that it must have fallen or been blown from the rooftop by a bolt of lightning. An odd shape, like a horn or claw, he thought, peering into the hollow interior, and was startled to see a residual wash of blue static play across the inside. He dropped it on the sidewalk and peered up at the top of the building, watching flashes of light reflect from the gargoyles on the height. Yes, if it had been stone falling from up there, it would have taken my arm off. He looked again at the little claw, now lying harmless on the pavement like a cement croissant. Then he flipped his collar up and headed swiftly for the park.
High atop that building, before a templelike structure on the roof, two immense statues stood. It was a curious place to build statues, as no human ordinarily ever stood there and the building was just tall enough that they were not clearly visible from any of its neighbors, but great care seemed to have been taken in detailing them. Each depicted a doglike animal, fully the size of a man, with a flat, triangular, almost serpentine head, and four large, clawed feet. Lightning played over the huge terror-dogs, over the steep staircase, and the tall ornate metal doors that crowned them, over the ceremonial inscriptions and architectural oddities. And though they were stone, or a light grade of ornamental concrete, the eyes of the terror-dogs seemed to reflect back the energy of the storm. It crashed and cracked again, and a section of the pebbled surface fell away, freeing a glowing red eye beneath. And the claw again flexed, cracking more of itself loose.
As Dana Barrett stepped from the elevator, loud rock music suddenly competed with the fury outside. Louis’s party. She had, of course, forgotten, and with Peter Venkman dropping by later any thought of attendance was out of the question. Thank God. She tiptoed toward her apartment, but Louis Tully had ears like radar.
“Oh, Dana, it’s you,” he said, stepping into the hall. He hurried up to her. She did her best to smile.
“Hi, Louis.”
“Hey, it’s crazy in there. You’re missing a classic party.”
“Well, actually, Louis, I have a friend coming by.”
Louis was undeterred. “Great! Bring her, too, but you better hurry. I made nachos with nonfat cheese and they’re almost gone. I’ll make some more though.”
I have to give it to him for persistence, she thought, and then had a sudden idea. Introduce Louis to Venkman. Maybe it’ll scare him off once and for all. “Fine, Louis. We’ll stop by for a drink.”
“Hey, it’ll be great. You can meet all my friends, get to know the real me . . .” She shut her door, leaving him talking to the number plate. He sighed and took a last shot. “I got a Twister game for later . . .”
Wow, she’s gonna come, he thought, walking back to his apartment. She’ll love the party. It’ll really impress her. Maybe tonight’s the night. I’ll have to get rid of her girlfriend though. After all, I got great food, the latest with-it music, party games, door locked . . . Oh, no.
“Hey, lemme in . . .”
Dana tossed her coat in the closet, took off her leg warmers, and stretched out briefly in her favorite chair. It’s seven. That gives me an hour before Peter gets here. I can afford to relax for a minute, then grab a shower, be all fresh when he arrives. She laughed to herself, watching the storm move off to the west over the river, the last flickering edges of lightning playing above the city. In the distance Louis’s party boomed raucously. Louis Tully, Andre Wallance, Peter Venkman. I certainly can meet ’em, she thought, psyching herself up for the evening. Be ready to laugh off Venkman’s childish passes, keep him off balance. But, she realized, I’m the one off balance. A month ago he was a nut, a pest. Tonight I’m having dinner with him. I have to admit, there’s something in that loony approach of his that I like. Now, if I can just figure out what it is . . .
The phone rang, startling her out of her reverie.
“Hello . . . Oh, hi, Mom . . .”
Every Thursday, like clockwork, her mother called. No, not like clockwork, like magic. She always called when Dana was home, her voice having never appeared on the answering machine. No matter when Dana went in or out, Mother Barrett would catch her, usually, like tonight, when she didn’t have time to talk. And her mother liked to talk.
Talk had been the major recreation in the Barrett household. Her father had been a railroad worker for the Boston and Maine, invalided off on a pension, which had to make do for his wife and three children. But somehow they always got by, and she and her two brothers always had whatever they needed, if not necessarily everything they wanted. There was seldom money for the movies, but Dana had new clothes each fall—not flashy but well made—and when she had expressed an interest in music, from somewhere her father had come up with a cello. Each of the children had worked after school, and her mother was always running a dozen cottage industries, so there was money for her lessons, for Doug’s books, for Davey’s uniforms. Now Doug was a reporter on The Boston Globe and little Davey was playing center field for the San Diego Padres. Mother Barrett no longer had to scrimp, proud of her three children, collecting their clippings, and looking after them as best she could via long distance. But since the boys had married, that meant mothering Dana. Mother Barrett was not yet satisfied. She wanted a son-in-law.
“Yes, everything’s fine. No . . . nothing to speak of . . . Mother, I don’t have time to just go out and ‘meet’ men . . . Mother! I will not try a dating service . . .”
She thought of Peter. That would scandalize the folks at home, at least give them something to talk about. Why not?
“I can’t stay on the phone too long, Mom. I’ve got a date and I’ve got to get . . . Yes, I said a date . . . He’s very nice, Mom. He’s a Ghostbuster . . . Yes, the ones on television . . . I’ll tell you all about it the next time you call . . . Okay, you can call tomorrow . . . I promise, ’bye.”
Yes, Mom. A scientist. A loony, little-kid scientist. She closed her eyes and put her head back, not noticing that the storm had returned, the clouds pressing in against her windows, the ominous rumble of ripple lightning echoing over the bump-a-doop of Louis’s party. And then, suddenly, a low, eerie moan. A drawn-out sigh. As if something very large and very old was awakening.
Her eyes opened immediately and she looked toward the kitchen. Intensely bright light was coming from under the door. As she watched, mesmerized, the door buckled, then drew in, like a great rhythmic pulse. Like a heartbeat. No . . .
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, and started to rise, but a pair of dark, scaly hands ripped upward out of the chair and locked around her waist, pinning her to the cushions. She had time for half a scream before the second pair took her by the chest and across the mouth. The chair began to turn slowly toward the kitchen.
This isn’t happening, she thought, struggling against the awful embrace. I’ll wake up in a minute. The door was pulsing now, like a giant membrane; and then the chair began to move toward it, gathering speed. With a roar the door swung back, revealing a fiery chamber where her kitchen had been and, standing to receive her, the looming presence of a terror-dog. There was no way to struggle, no way to scream, and mercifully she passed out as the chair slid into the flames, the door closing behind it.
Coincidentally, in a cab heading uptown on Central Park West, Peter Venkman was also thinking of his childhood. Earlier that month one of the supermarket tabloids had run a profile on Venkman, charging that he had been a carnival con man during his summers away from college. Venkman had been furious. But y
ou were a carny barker, Stantz had said, not understanding Peter’s anger. What’s the problem? Peter had refused to talk about it. It wasn’t just a carny, he thought, it was my home. And I wasn’t just a barker, I was the best. But there was no way to explain that to a reporter who was looking for an angle to titillate an audience that had trouble with the TV Guide crossword puzzle, to whom investigative journalism was a report on Lady Di’s latest snit. He had held his tongue and planned his revenge, the next day giving Janine a card with written instructions on exactly what to do if the offices of the newspaper called. Then he waited for a combination of the right circumstances. It took ten days.
“Dr. Venkman, this is Bill Hibbler at the National Reporter. We did a story on you?”
“Several stories, as I remember. On each of us, and on the firm.”
“Well . . . yes . . . but I’m calling on a different matter.”
I’ll bet you are. “And what might that be?”
“We seem to have a ghost.”
The phantasm, a large and voracious creature, had terrorized the editorial offices of the Reporter, jamming typewriters, exposing film, setting fires in the wastebaskets. The toilets had overflowed, lightbulbs exploded, the phones sang obscene ditties. The operation of the scandal sheet had come to a standstill. The presses were full of ectoslime.
“That sounds like a class-nine autonomous roaming disrupter,” Venkman had said sagely. “But I got the impression from your articles that you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“Of course we believe in ghosts,” Hibbler said defensively. “We never said that.”
“No, what you said was that we were a bunch of fakes, charlatans, bunco artists.”
“I . . .”
“Interesting word. Haven’t heard anyone say bunco since the days when I was with the carnival. But you know about that too.”
There was a long silence. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I’d say a retraction, an apology to Ghostbusters, all of our employees and our families, and the admission that you libeled us. That should do it.”
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