Disclaimer: I don't own the Real Ghostbusters or any of the characters you recognize from the show. No profit was made from this fic other than some minor ego gratification. Good luck trying to sue me for that. :)

In many human structures, form follows function. Living and working spaces are designed to bring together things that need to be together and keep separate things that shouldn't be. This phenomenon takes many forms: interior design, office flow, feng shui, but they all share the same goal of making people comfortable with life and work or make them more profitable or both.

However, the requirements of keeping human remains safe and out-of-sight of the general public seem to override worker comfort in pathology, hence the unwritten rule that hospital morgues must be located in hospital sub-basements.

Jeremy Markam didn't care much about that. A pathologist with twelve years experience, he was used to spending the days without seeing the sun. In his opinion, his job was the best in the medical field. The pace was usually sedate except for the occasional rush job from the police who needed the evidence filed PRONTO, and his patients never backtalked him.

"Well, Ted, back to the salt mines," he cheerfully said to his assistant as he snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and walked over to his latest project on the autopsy table. Pulling back the sheet, he gave the corpse a quick but thorough look over. He then stepped on the recorder's foot pedal. Almost absently, he rattled off the date and his identification.

"Subject is a Caucasian male, forty-five to fifty years old," he continued as Ted took photographs of the body from head to toe. "Identified by police as David Maniscalco. Fingerprints have been taken for confirmation."

Ted had finished with his photography, and Dr. Markam paused in his dictation to help him remove the body's clothing (which in this case, was only an elaborate, embroidered robe of green silk) and place it in an evidence bag. As his assistant started taking a second set of photographs of the now nude corpse, the pathologist returned to the microphone. "Visual inspection shows three bullet entry wounds in the left anterior chest. Entry wound number one is located at the level of the third rib, approximately one centimeter medial to the mid-clavicular line..."

With practiced ease, the pathology team examined, noted and recorded every external aspect of the body; a tattoo of a snake around the right wrist, a missing nail on his toe, several scars from past fights including two recently-healed puncture wounds on his left shoulder. Cause of death was obvious. All three shots had been placed to take out the heart, but this was an autopsy in a criminal investigation. Therefore no stone could be left unturned.

"Think we'll be able to get this wrapped up in time for lunch, Doc?" Ted asked as Markam paused the recorder and picked up a scalpel. "I hear the cafeteria's having chicken Caesar salad today."

"I'll do my best," Markam said with a smirk. "Far be it from me to miss the only food that the cafeteria is actually capable of making correctly."

Focused on opening the chest cavity, neither man noticed a dark form stirring in the shadows of the room. Slowly, silently, it slid across the floor to the table.

"There, we go. If you'll hand me the rib cutter, please."

The tool crunched its way though bone until the sternum and front halves of the ribs could be lifted free, exposing the heart and lungs. Markam reached in and gently lifted the heart to examine it.

"There is rupture of the left ventricle, the aortic arch just proximal to the brachiocephalic artery and..."

"Holy shit!"

Markam looked up sharply, startled by Ted's uncharacteristic outburst. The man was backing away, whites showing all around his eyes. "Doc! Get back!" he shouted, his gaze fixed on the table. The pathologist looked down just in time to catch a glimpse of something dark zipping into the corpse's open chest. He didn't get a good look at it, but suddenly, it felt like his hands had been plunged into ice water. He dropped the ravaged organ and took a step back. Time itself seemed to hold its breath as the exposed heart jumped, then jumped again. To the pathologist's amazement and growing horror, it began to beat again. The chest heaved and a long low groan came from the deceased lips. Dr. Markam glanced up at the face just in time to see the sunken eyes snap open. The dead man's hypnotic gaze held him frozen in fascination, oblivious to Ted's screams of terror and warning.

"It's good to be back," the creature that had once been David Maniscalco rasped as he sat up, the ruptured wall of his heart flapping obscenely with every beat. He reached out and gently took the pathologist's head between his hands. "Yes, it's very good to be back," he repeated with a cold smile and snapped the doctor's neck.

"Trap out!"

A fan of white light, one last ear-shattering wail and the Ghostbusters secured the last of the five spirits haunting an old house which was slated for demolition. Winston Zeddemore wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Is that all of them?" he asked.

"Game, set and match," Ray Stantz answered with satisfaction as he holstered his thrower. "That was fun!"

"Remind me to discuss your definition of 'fun', Ray," Peter Venkman said sourly from his position across the room. "Getting up at seven in the morning to chase class fives around a firetrap is definitely not fun. Have I mentioned how much I hate haunted houses?"

"Indeed, you have, Dr. Venkman," Egon Spengler answered dryly as he looked up from making one final check on his meter. "So many times and in such great detail that I'm sure we can describe the depth of your ire from memory."

Peter shot the physicist a wry grin. "Well, far be it from me to beat a dead horse..."

"Since when?" Winston asked just loud enough to be heard, triggering a laugh from Ray as he picked up the smoking trap. Peter ignored him pointedly and turned to leave.

"If you guys are ready, let's go pick up our check and let those construction workers get back to knocking down this dump to make way for the latest in mini-malls."

The four men trooped out to their car, making a short stop to pick up their pay, and started loading their equipment to the accompaniment of good natured insults and their usual one-upmanship contest. However, the horseplay was soon broken off by the ring of Ecto-1's cell phone. Ray answered it with glee.

"Ghostbuster's mobile. Hey, Janine, what's up?" The others gathered around to wait as the engineer listened with an occasional nod and "uh-huh". "Tell them we'll be right over. See you later. Let's go, guys!" he said as he hung up the phone. "We've got an emergency call over at St. Vincent's hospital."

"You know," Peter said as he propped his feet up on the conference room table, "for people who wanted emergency service, they sure are keeping us waiting a long time."

Winston nodded in agreement. The second the Ghostbusters had shown up at the hospital, they had been spirited away to a physician's conference room with assurances that someone would be there to brief them soon. They had now been waiting nearly twenty minutes and every minute made the former soldier more edgy. "Did you notice all the police cars parked outside? Something screwy's going on here."

"Whatever is going on here, it has caused a significant disturbance in the local psychokinetic energy levels," Egon added. The physicist had been taking readings from the moment they entered the building. "I'm picking up the signatures of at least four class-twos and possibly a three."

"This hospital's not had any incidents of haunting before, Egon," Ray said, frowning down at the woodgrain pattern of the table. He reached out and absently traced a line. "Wonder what stirred them up."

The doorknob rattled and the four men looked up eagerly. It opened to reveal Dr. Boggan, the frazzled hospital administrator who had brought them here. "I am so sorry about the wait, gentlemen," he apologized as he entered. "But I believe we can now get started."

"And the sooner the better," growled a low voice behind him. Peter's eyes widened as he recognized it.

"Frump?"

The burly police inspector pushed his way past Dr. Boggan and tossed a several files and a videotape onto the table. "In the flesh," he said, sweeping the room with his irritated glare. It finally came to rest on Peter who leaned a little further back in his chair with a smug look, pointedly not removing his feet from the table. Egon sighed and moved to take control of the conversation before the snipe-fest could get started.

"May I ask why you are present at this meeting, Inspector Frump?" he asked, discreetly kicking Peter's chair. His friend shot him an irritated glance and went back to trading glares with the detective. "This is, after all, supposed to be our briefing for de-haunting this hospital."

"Well," Dr. Boggan started to explain, nervously adjusting his tie and sitting down. "You see, the hospital will not be your sole employer in this...venture, so I felt that a representative of both parties should be present before we began."

All the Ghostbusters sat up a little straighter and Peter dropped his feet to the floor with a thump as the implications sank in. "Let me get this straight," he said with a gamin grin spreading across his face. "You want to hire us, Frump? You're hiring the Ghostbusters? The quacks and frauds you've been itching to throw in the slammer?"

"Yes, Venkman," Frump snarled. "Though it's not me personally, but the department ordered me to call you in. And don't rub it in, or I will throw you in the tank for obstruction of justice."

"Whoa, guys!" Winston broke in, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "Just what's going on here? Is this a haunting or a criminal investigation?"

"If you'll just let me explain, you'll see it's a little of both," Dr. Boggan said with a fair amount of irritation in his voice. Peter started to say something, but was cut off by Ray kicking his shin from under the table. He rolled his eyes at the engineer and subsided. Now that he had obtained the floor, Dr. Boggan folded his hands on the tabletop and began.

"Yesterday, around 11:45 a.m., Dr. Jeremy Markam and his assistant Ted Hammons were performing a scheduled autopsy. One of our janitors heard a disturbance coming from the morgue. When he went to investigate, he encountered a strange man dressed in surgical scrubs and a white coat. The stranger did not stop when he was asked what was going on, and, when the janitor grabbed his arm, he found himself thrown against the wall hard enough to knock him unconscious for a moment. When he came to, he called security."

The administrator broke off and glanced at Frump who got a sour twist to his mouth as he opened one of his files.

"When security got there, this is what they found in the morgue."

He handed two photographs to Venkman who was closest. The psychologist looked down at the image and blanched. Two men, rather obviously dead, one of whom was stripped naked. "Oh, shit," he murmured as he passed them on to the others. Frump smirked at his reaction.

"Good summary, Dr. Venkman," he drawled.

"I call it like I see it," Peter shot back. He traded looks with his partners, grim ones with Winston and Egon and a sympathetic one for Ray who was looking a bit green around the gills. "But I don't see why you're calling us for this. We're not in the Crimebuster business anymore."

"For which I thank God every night," the detective said piously. "Well, there is a little more to it. First, the body they were cutting on was missing when security arrived. Second, each exit out of the morgue area is monitored by security cameras." He picked up the videotape and stomped over to the VCR in the corner of the room. "We got ourselves a good ID on the perp."

The T.V. switched on to a black and white image of a hospital corridor. After a moment, a white- coated figure came running up. Frump paused the tape. "There's our perp. Wearing Doc Markam's threads."

"Okay, who is he?" Winston asked. He already had a sinking suspicion he knew but wanted confirmation. Frump opened another file and tossed some more papers to the Ghostbusters. A mugshot and several pages of a case file. The man in the mugshot was identical to the man on the tape.

"Meet David Maniscalco," Frump said flippantly. "A.K.A. Pit Viper. Former mobster and the stiff the pathologist was working on when everything went to shit."

The four men glanced from the photo to the T.V. and back again. Finally, Egon cleared his throat. "Am I right in assuming that you believe your murderer is a dead man? And not in the figurative sense?"

"Yes, you're right in assuming that," Frump said nastily. "Forensics has been over that place with everything but an electron microscope. As far as they can tell, the only people back there were the doc, his flunky and the corpse. And the only one who walked out was some slime that by all rights should be worm food."

"And this Maniscalco doesn't have a twin?" Ray asked.

"For that matter, are you sure he was dead in the first place?" Winston added.

"No, he doesn't have an Evil Twin Skippy," Frump answered with another glare. "And we're pretty damn sure he was dead. I was there when we busted his operation two days ago. Had to take the perp down myself when he started getting frisky with an Uzi. Three large caliber holes right in his chest."

"And the recording we have of the autopsy to the point of the...incident backs this up," Dr. Boggan confirmed.

Peter leaned back in his chair, giving both the doctor and the detective a measuring look. "Okay, what else is there?" he asked. "I know you wouldn't call us in just on this evidence, Frump. Not this soon, anyway. I'd think you'd give CSI at least a couple weeks to come up with an explanation before calling in the spook squad."

Frump's lips pressed together in a thin line as he glowered at Venkman. Dr. Boggan sighed and attempted to take up the thread of the conversation again. "Well, ever since the incident, there have been...well I'll just come out and say it. We've been haunted. The ghosts are staying mostly in the sub-basement area but we are very concerned that they do not get into the patient areas."

"Uh-huh. That's why you want us here, doc," Peter said, his eyes never moving from Frump's thundercloud visage. "But you're not the only one hiring us. Come on, Frump. Spill it."

"Indeed," Egon agreed. "If you have any other information that touches on the supernatural aspects of this case, it is imperative that you share it with us."

All in all, Frump looked like he'd rather have a root canal without novocaine, but finally he looked away. "Okay, you clowns. It's something that happened when we busted Maniscalco," he said reluctantly. "We knew the sleeze was into cult stuff and witchcraft. When we stormed the place, he was in the middle of some kind of seance or something. Looked like one of John Carpenter's wet dreams with all the smoke and candles and this weird-ass altar deal. The whole time he was shooting at my men, he kept jabbering in some language that no one on my team could understand." Peter's sharp eyes barely caught the detective's suppressed shudder. "And all that smoke kept collecting over his head while he kept hollerin', like it was trying to turn into something nasty. It broke up the minute I put a slug in him." He glared impartially at all four Ghostbusters, defying them to make a crack. Peter opened his mouth to oblige, but quickly shut it again as this time Egon kicked his shin under the table.

"Wow!" Ray breathed, leaning forward on his elbows. "Did you keep the stuff he was using together? We might be able to piece together what he was doing when you got him."

"Sure. The lab boys can take you through the place," Frump answered. "Listen, I don't like you guys, but my instincts tell me that we've got some serious shit going on here. And you don't stay alive in this business long without listening to your instincts. So the hospital's hiring you to bust the ghosts in here, then you're on retainer with the police to help us figure if it was a dead man that killed those guys and, if so, how. You got a problem with that?"

"No problem at all," Peter said, looking like the cat who'd gotten the cream. "Now, let's discuss this retainer."

"Yeeesh!" Peter said with a shudder as he looked around. The techs from the crime lab had cleared out, leaving outlines of the murder victims on the floor. "Morgues creep me out. Remind me again why we're doing this."

Winston grinned as he rested his proton thrower against his shoulder. "Glory, the safety of humanity and a steady paycheck. What else?"

"And the ladies, Zed," Peter said, bumping Winston with his shoulder. "Don't forget the ladies."

"If you are through, gentlemen," Egon said, as he panned his meter over the room. "Can we get down to business?"

"Aye, aye, Captain," Peter said with an insolent salute. "What have we got?"

"Residuals," Egon answered. "Powerful residuals."

"That's what I'm getting, too," Ray confirmed from the other side of the room. "At least Class seven."

"So it's not our not-so-dearly-departed gangster back for a visit?" Winston asked. "What then? Something he was summoning when the police capped him?"

"A distinct possibility," Egon confirmed. "As soon as we finish with the ghosts in this facility, it is imperative that we investigate the scene of the ritual."

Ray nodded in agreement as he put his meter back in his pocket and drew his thrower. "I need to make some phone calls. Maybe my contacts in the psychic community have heard something about what he was into."

"Okay, then. Let's bust some ghosts," Winston said, ready to get into action. "What do you guys think? It'd be faster if we split up, but is there any chance of that Seven coming back?"

"If the Seven walked out of here in Maniscalco's body, I don't think he's to eager to come back here where he'd be recognized," Ray said, shaking his head. "And we need to get this wrapped up A.S.A.P. The residuals at the other site are fading as we speak, if they're not completely gone already. "

"Groups of two, then," Peter said. "Keep an eye on the readings and yell if you get a spike."

"Good idea," Winston said as he started to lead the way out of the morgue. "Egon and I will take care of this area. You and Ray start at the other end."

Peter tossed his head in the direction of the hall. "All right, Tex. Let's get moving. And everyone be careful with your shots. As often as we get hurt, we do not want a hospital mad at us for neutronizing their MRI or something."

"Really, Peter," Ray said cheerfully. "They know about the damage clause in the contract. They can't hold it against us."

Peter rolled his eyes and fell into step beside the engineer. "Ray, Ray, Ray. You never, ever want to take a chance on getting someone who is in a position to use sharp objects pissed off at you."

Half an hour later, both Ray and Peter was getting quite irritated at their slow progress. Class Two's were relatively weak ghosts, but these were quick and agile, and they were further hampered by the cramped conditions of the basement. Out of the five ghosts they had finally been able to register, they had caught only one and this little intruder they had discovered in the medical records department was proving to be as difficult as the first.

"Man! Whatever happened here really stirred them up!" Ray said as the wispy entity evaded his beam once again.

"You said it, Tex. I hope Spengs and Zed are having an easier time of it on their end or we'll be here all afternoon." Peter cut off his beam and slid around the corner of a file cabinet. "See if you can herd him toward the message tubes."

"Sure thing!"

Ray adjusted his thrower to a slightly wider stream and fired several short bursts at the ghost, driving it into Peter's waiting ambush. The white-yellow beam snaked out, pinning the ghost in place. "Got him! Where's that trap?"

"Coming right up," Ray called back, suiting action to words. In a few seconds the spirit was contained. "Whew! That wasn't so easy."

"Tell me about it," Peter said as he wove his way through the file cabinets and desks. "Okay, where's our next one?"

Ray leaned against a nearby cabinet as he consulted his meter. "We've only go two left...make that one. I guess the others just trapped it." He looked up and pointed at the far wall. "And it looks like it's right out there in the hall."

"Peachy," Peter said as he scanned the room. "Let's try to get it in a pincer move so we don't have a repeat of our last performance. You take the main door. If I remember the layout right, the side door will take me to a hall that connects with the one you'll be going into."

"Okay, Peter," Ray said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's get going."

The two men split up. Ray paused at the door to take another reading and listen for movement. Then he cautiously opened the door and slipped through into the hall. He could just see the Class Two, a pale yellow, amorphous blob drifting a little ways away. He crouched by the wall and waited for Peter to appear at the end of the t-junction. It was so quiet that the sudden urgent beeping of his PKE meter nearly made him jump out of his skin. "What the...oh darn!" he snapped as the little ghost took off through the ceiling like it was trying to attain escape velocity. He pulled out his meter and looked over the readings with growing alarm. He jerked his radio off his belt. "Peter! I'm getting a PKE spike. Pull back and circle around to..."

A scream echoed down the hall. Ray felt the blood drain out of his face and broke into a sprint, thrower at the ready. "Winston! Egon!" He shouted into his radio. "We need back up in medical records!" He barreled around the corner in time to see the last glimpse of something dark disappear around a shadowed corner. Peter crumpled motionless on the floor. "Oh, God, no!" Ray breathed as he dropped to his knees. "Please be okay, Peter. Please?" He felt for a pulse at the older man's neck and sighed in relief to find it strong and steady.

"Raymond!"

Ray's head jerked around to see Egon and Winston pounding around the corner. They skidded to a stop and Egon dropped to his knees to check his teammates while Winston remained on guard. "Ray, what happened?"

"We were trying to outflank the last ghost," Ray answered. "Just as we were getting into position the meter went off and I heard Peter scream." He nodded toward the end of the corridor. "I...I didn't see what happened, but whatever did it went that way."

Egon pointed his meter in that direction. "Nothing there now. Only residuals, at least Class Five. I detected the spike as well, but whatever it is appears to have made a rapid exit."

"We have to make sure about that," Winston said, keeping his eyes on the hall.

A low groan quickly turned their attention back to their friend. "Peter?" Ray asked hopefully. "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" came the muffled reply. "What hit me?"

"We were hoping you could provide us with that information, Dr. Venkman," Egon quipped, some of the tension draining from his face.

"Smart ass," Peter said as he started to roll over on his back. "I've got half a mind to...urgh!"

"What's wrong?" Egon asked anxiously as he and Ray reached out to steady their friend. Peter took a few gasping breaths before continuing.

"It's a good thing we didn't blast anything important, guys," he said through gritted teeth and he rolled the rest of the way over. "'Cause I really don't need the doctors to be pissed off at me."

The front of his uniform had been shredded and blood was soaking into the dark, brown fabric. Winston bit off a curse. "Ray, you stand guard. Egon, get to the phone down the hall and get a gurney down here stat." He ripped the remaining cloth away, exposing three, parallel slashes stretching from Peter's shoulder to just short of his breastbone. Winston pulled the first aid kit off his belt and ripped into the gauze package to try to slow the bleeding. "Damn, Pete. Whatever it was went through your pack's strap like a hot knife through butter. You're lucky it just grazed you."

"Yeah, Zed," Peter replied, sarcasm thick in his voice despite the pain. "I feel really lucky right now. Maybe I should try the lottery on the way home."

Peter blew irritably at the paper sheet that covered part of his face. Overall, he was glad it was there. It gave him an excuse not to watch the process of having his chest sewn up. The three cuts were fairly deep and their length had caused the E.R. attending to call over not only a resident but also two medical students to do the suturing. Having three people leaning over him with instruments made him feel rather like a race car in the pit.

"You hanging in there, m'man?"

Peter turned his head to the right where Winston had ensconced himself beside one of the students. "No sweat, Zed," he said, pointedly ignoring the tugs of the needles as they poked their thankfully painless way through his skin. "Well, maybe the wrong choice of words. I'm baking here under this light."

Winston chuckled and reached out with a fist to gently tap Peter's uninjured shoulder. "Hey, if you'd gone for the staples, they would have been done in half the time."

"No way, Winston," Peter replied. "Even without a bunch of metal in my skin, carrying a pack is..."

"Is something you're not doing for a while. We discussed this..."

"No. You, Ray and Spengs discussed it. Come on, I can pad the pack strap if I have to."

Winston rolled his eyes. After they'd determined that the site of the attack was clear, and Peter had been taken to the emergency department, it had been decided that Egon and Ray would go on with the police to investigate the site where Maniscalco had been killed. Winston was staying with Peter until he got patched up, then he was going to take him home in Ecto-1. Peter had been okay with that bit but vehemently protested the idea of going on inactive status for the next few days.

"Be reasonable, Pete. You've got a chunk taken out of you. If you rip those stitches by putting on a pack too soon, you're gonna be twice as long getting back in action."

Peter wasn't convinced. "But...ouch!"

"Sorry, Dr. Venkman." The resident pulled the sheet away from Peter's face for a moment. "I take it you felt that."

"Yeah, a little," the psychologist confirmed, wincing.

"Anesthetic must be wearing off. I can give you more lidocaine if you want, but we've only got this last suture..."

"Oh, just get it over with," he growled, digging his fingers into the gurney's mattress. "Damn stuff's like battery acid anyway."

"We'll be quick."

Winston reached under the sheet to grab Peter's hand and gripped it tightly as the last stitch was completed. Peter sighed in relief as they pulled the paper away and started to bandage his shoulder.

"The nurse will be over in a bit to give you the paperwork," the young man said as he made a notation in the chart. "Then you're free to go. But listen to your friend and take it easy for a few days. I know you don't want to have to go through this again."

"We'll keep him in line, doctor," Winston said reassuringly, earning himself a dark look from Peter. "We need to get him back here to have the stitches out in a week, right?"

"You're not my mother, Zed," Peter grumbled as he pulled the remains of his jumpsuit up around his shoulder. The physician grinned.

"We can do it or you can just go to your regular doctor. Goodnight, gentlemen. I hope I don't see you back here any time soon."

Peter managed a wry smile. "That makes two of us." As the resident collected his students and went on to their next patient, Winston helped him sit up on the table. "Sure you don't wanna run by the crime scene and see how the Dynamic Duo are doing?"

"Stop trying to weasel out of this," the former soldier warned. "Besides, the way traffic is at this hour, they'll probably beat us home."

"Good point. Oh, well. I'd say a ghost hunt which ends with me being used as a scratching post is more than enough work for today."

Winston chuckled. "I hear you, m'man. Are you sure you don't remember what tagged you?"

"For the fifth time, Zed," Peter said with a long-suffering sigh. "I don't remember a thing. One minute I'm stalking a Class Two. Next thing I know, I'm on the floor making like the proverbial stuck pig. I wish I could remember what it looked like so I could track the bastard down."

"Okay, okay." Winston raised his hands defensively. "I just wish we had some idea what it was. Kinda makes me jumpy when one of my partners gets himself sliced by something so quick that Egon and Ray can't get a clear reading on it before it makes its exit."

"Doesn't exactly thrill me either, Zed," Peter agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. He nodded toward a nurse who was walking up to his bed. "What do you say we blow this pop stand and see what the geniuses have figured out?"

Winston's prediction proved to be annoyingly accurate. Not only did they hit rush hour in the teeth, but a four-car pile up delayed them to the point that Egon and Ray did make it back to headquarters first and were pouring over PKE readings and ancient texts in the lab.

"Well, they haven't blown up the lab yet," Peter quipped as he and Winston entered the room. Ray looked up from his book and practically bounced over to them.

"Are you doing okay, Peter? What kept you, guys? Do you have any idea what we found?"

Peter smirked and dropped down on the lab's couch, wincing a little as his usual slouch sent a twinge of pain through his injured shoulder. "Fine, traffic and sure I do. I knew you guys would track down the Holy Grail sooner or later. I'll get us tickets on tomorrow's red-eye to Alexandreta."

"But your leather jacket and fedora won't be back from the cleaners 'til Thursday, Indy'," Winston grinned as he propped himself up against a countertop.

"Good point, Zed. We'll go Friday and spend the weekend dodging Nazis."

"If you gentlemen are quite finished," Egon's dry voice rumbled from across the room. His sharp, blue eyes raked over Peter in a measuring gaze and took on an amused glint as the psychologist responded by sticking his tongue out at him. "I presume you would like a report on our findings at the site of Maniscalco's demise."

"Okay, Egon," Winston replied. "What's the scoop?"

"It's really wild, Winston!" Ray gushed, moving back to the piles of books. "The readings we got there, even three days out, were incredible. And you wouldn't believe the set-up he had." He handed a large photograph to Winston who frowned at the image of the elaborate magical workroom it showed. "It definitely looks like that guy was in the middle of some kind of summoning when they broke in."

"Any idea what got loose?" Peter asked, turning to prop one leg up on the couch. "I take it you think it's the same nasty that took his body for a joyride."

"That is correct, Peter," Egon confirmed, picking up his meter. "The signals found at the hospital are a close match. However, we have not made much progress as to identifying the entity."

Ray carefully picked up a dusty scroll. "About half the books Mansicalco had, neither of us have seen before. We're going through the ones that we have copies of to see what we can find, but I have a feeling the pay dirt is in the other ones. But the red tape for the cops to let us borrow them won't be worked out until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"And deciphering them will take a significant amount of time as well," Egon added, turning back to the book he'd been reading earlier. "Our initial survey showed many of them to be written in obscure dialects."

"So we get to spend the evening reading through this stack you've got here to rule them out," Winston asked, picking up a book of his own. "Anything in particular we should be looking for?"

"Anything having to do with necromancy," Ray answered. "Oh, and you might want to make note of anything having to do with snakes. One thing we noticed about Maniscalco's place was that he really had a thing for snakes. He had them everywhere."

"Wonderful," Peter said sarcastically. "An undead herpetophile. I knew I should have asked for a higher retainer."

As it turned out, nothing in the books the Ghostbusters already had access to shed significant light on their case. Ray wanted to go online to check some of his contacts through email, but Winston vetoed that suggestion. He reminded Ray that, in addition to this new job, the Ghostbusters already had two small 'busts planned for tomorrow and they shouldn't start shorting themselves on sleep since they were only going to have three throwers in play. This, of course, prompted a reprise of Peter's argument that his shoulder could handle a pack just fine, thank you very much. It was just after midnight when Egon finally argued him into reluctant submission. The psychologist finally headed for bed and drifted off to sleep plotting ways to get around his friends and get back into action in case they needed him.

"Hunterrrrrrr."

Peter spun around to face the voice. He was back in the sub-basement hall of the hospital. However, this time it was much, much darker than he remembered. Shadows crept along the walls with an eldritch life.

"Okay, spooky," he challenged, brandishing his proton thrower. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

The shadows chuckled, a soft yet sharp sound like the whisper of a razor cutting through skin. "Ahhh, such spirit. We are indeed well matched." There was movement within one patch of shadow....or did the shadow itself move? Peter squinted, trying to make out whatever it was that was talking to him.

"Okay, Mysterio. Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?" He blinked in surprise as a thought occurred to him. "For that matter, what the hell am I doing back here?"

The shadows laughed again. "You have no need of my name yet, cub. Go lick your wounds in your den. You'll be ready for the hunt soon enough."

"Jeeze, that's not very polite," Peter said, throwing bravado up as a shield as he tried to find a target, any target. "Remind me to get you a copy of Miss Manners."

"Human etiquette means little to the universe," the voice growled in scorn. "And even less to me. Now go before you begin to annoy me." Too quick to see, the shadows gathered themselves and lashed out at Peter. He snapped out of the nightmare and panted quietly in the sweat-soaked sheets of his bed. Already, the memory of the dream was running out of his mind like water, leaving him with a vague uneasiness and a growing awareness of the pain in his shoulder.

"Yo, Monty! You got the package?"

The grizzled man in a worn Lakers jacket looked up from unlocking his car and frowned at the younger punk approaching him through the late night shadows of the parking garage. "You're late, Carlos. I was just about to take my package to another customer."

Carlos swaggered up to the battered sedan with a smug grin. "Sorry about that, amigo. Had some cops shadowing me and had to make like a fine, upstanding citizen until they went into donut withdrawal." He sat on the hood of the car and made a beckoning motion with his hands. "Come on, let's see this product you managed to lift when el jefe bought it."

Monty glared at the dealer. A small timer, one he hadn't dealt with in years since he started moving up the ranks in the organization. This kind of nickel-bag scum wouldn't have dared been so smug with him less than a week ago. It stung...but he needed the money to blow town before either the cops or his boss's old enemies caught up with him. "Here you go," he said, pulling the bag out of his pocket after a quick glance around to make sure they were unobserved. Young or not, Carlos knew the etiquette for a deal. He took the bag of powder quickly and made sure to shield the sight of it with his body, just in case, as he took a tiny sample on his finger and tasted it.

"This is pretty good shit, amigo," Carlos allowed. "Maybe el jefe's friends in Columbia will be interested in taking us on as distributors. I'll take it off your hands for two G's."

"Don't be insulting," Monty snarled, letting his hand slide near the pocket where he kept his piece. "That's half a kilo of uncut cocaine. It's worth way more than two grand."

"Yeah, but it's a buyer's market right now," the punk countered. "If you want a fast turn over, you take what I've got or try to find some other feeb who will touch you as hot as you are."

"You are making quite free with my property, Monty."

No more than a whisper, but the voice seemed to cut straight through the two men. In an instant, they both had their pieces out, looking for the intruder. "I thought you said you weren't tailed, wise- ass," Monty snarled.

"I wasn't. If this is a set-up, I'm gonna blow your shitty-ass off!"

"Ahhhh, gentlemen. I've been here for some time." The low chuckle echoed through the structure and the two criminals slowly rotated, guns at the ready, looking for any sign. "In fact, if I'd been a snake, I could have bitten you."

Carlos felt a faint breeze on his neck and started to turn, but he was too slow. Something hit him and knocked the gun from his hand. Before he even had a chance to yell, cold, hard fingers locked around his throat and choked the life from him. Monty had turned at the sound of the falling piece and saw his former customer held off the floor by a sandy-haired man in a ragged, black coat and scuffed blue jeans. Monty raised his gun and warned, "I don't know who the hell you are, buddy, but I'm gonna head out that door over there and anyone who gets between me and it is gonna be sorry."

"You don't know me? Monty, my old friend, I'm crushed." The stranger dropped Carlos' corpse to the pavement and slowly turned. Monty's eyes widened with fear. "M-m-m-maniscalco..." he stammered as his hands began to shake. The undead mobster smiled coolly.

"Yes, Monty. It's me. Now please put the gun away before I have to take it from you."

Slowly, Monty put the safety on and returned the gun to his pocket. "But...how?"

"It worked, that's how," Maniscalco said as he glided over to his old associate. "The police interfered before it was complete, but it worked all the same. I brought Him here and He brought us both back." Monty found himself caught up in his old employer's eyes. They were different from how he remembered. More yellow than brown and there was something wrong with the pupil. It seemed more oval than round. As he fell farther into the mesmerizing stare, the words Maniscalco spoke seemed to burrow into his brain. "We now have what we've desired for ages. A firm foothold in this realm. The material to build an empire."

Monty's blood went ice-cold in his veins as the creature who somehow was and was not his old boss took him by the elbow and steered him to the car. "Come on, old friend. We have a great deal of work to do."