REVELATIONS BY LIGHT OF DAY
CindyR
The pretty receptionist looked once and then again, recognition lighting her features as the tall blond made his way from the frosted glass door to her desk. She carefully cracked open her drawer to expose the hand mirror she kept at just the right angle for her to surreptitiously check both mascara and lipstick, then she closed the drawer and looked up with a fetching smile. "Dr. Spengler?"
"I'm Egon Spengler." The blond halted in front of her neat-as-a-pin desk, arranging his lean limbs into a casual stance. "I've got a one o'clock appointment?"
"Yes, Dr. Spengler. The doctor will meet you in his office. Right through that door."
"Thank you." Nodding politely, Egon passed through the indicated door into a spacious, richly furnished chamber decorated with thick wine carpets and mahogany paneling. Shelves bearing references works from the world over lined one entire wall, the tomes ranging from antique, leather-bound volumes detailing the first experiments on the human nervous system to journals discussing neurolinkage techniques not slated to become common practice for decades. Egon sauntered casually from the shelves to the far wall where he stood staring for a long while at the assorted plaques and vellum, which covered it as thick as wallpaper. Some were commendations, some licenses, others degrees in various fields of medicine, but ail bore mute testimony to the genius and success of one individual whose name was emblazoned from each and every item: Dr. Morris Spengler.
Egon read his brother's name over and over, a touch of pride erasing some of the lines from his austere features. He turned, examining the room from this new vantage and nodded his approval. The Park Avenue office was expensive and tasteful, it well suited one of medicine's most preeminent specialists in the delicate art of neurosurgery.
Wandering back to the desk, Spengler paused to pick up a neatly framed photograph. He studied it intently, eyes traveling from the severely coiffured brunette on the left to the two children's frozen smiles. With a sigh, he returned the picture to its position on the desk just as the knob rattled, heralding the arrival of the master of the domain. Egon unconsciously touched his tie and turned to greet the man who was his only brother. "Hello, Morrie."
"Egon." More puzzlement than welcome creased the physician's long face. "I must admit to some surprise when my secretary informed me that you had made an appointment for this afternoon. I assume this is not an official visit?"
Egon cocked one blond brow. "If by 'official' you mean, do I have a medical problem, the answer is no."
"Indeed? Oh, do sit down." Spengler-the-younger waved Egon to a massive chair on the far side of the desk before seating himself. The leather creaked as he settled himself in and crossed his legs comfortably at the knee. "I presume there's nothing wrong with Mom or Dad? Or is this about one of those Ghostbuster friends of yours?"
Egon frowned slightly at the obvious disapproval in the other's voice but held his peace on that oft-discussed subject. "Mom and Dad are fine; so are my friends."
"Well, that's certainly a relief." Morris brushed back his short brown hair, then adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles in a gesture reminiscent of his brother's. "Then this is just a ... social call?" The emphasis on the word 'social' made it more than clear that this possibility was being mentioned only because all the more probable ones had been discounted.
Egon cleared his throat. "I'm not certain what you would call it. Basically, I have some information I thought you would be interested in."
"Oh." The physician pushed across a teakwood box from which wafted the aromatic scent of tobacco. "May I offer you a cigar? They're imported, of course. "
"Of course," Egon returned dryly. "And no, thank you. I still don't smoke."
"As you wish." Morris closed the box and restored it to its niche on the desk. "You said you had some information of interest to me?"
"So I did." Egon took a deep breath. "It's about... the Boogieman."
"The what?" Morris Spengler sat up, an unidentifiable expression crossing his lined face and, as quickly, gone. "If this is a joke, Egon...." he began, again settling back into his chair.
Egon shook his head. "I don't recall that he gave us much to joke over when we were children."
Morris regarded him impassively. "I really don't know what you're talking about. What does the ... uh ... Boogieman have to do with me?" He frowned. "Is this something to do with that ridiculous profession of yours?"
Egon blinked twice. "Are you telling me that you don't remember how the Boogieman used to come out of our closet at night? Or how terrified we both were at bedtime?"
Morris snorted impatiently. "This is a joke, I see. Either that, or you've been around those colleagues of your far too long."
"Those colleagues of mine," the blond retorted angrily, "have not only saved my life a dozen times over, they have also helped me settle a score we've both owed for the last thirty years."
"Against the Boogieman." Morris Spengler uncrossed his legs and rose, circling the desk. He perched on one corner of its wooden expanse, folding his arms across his chest. "You know, Egon, sometimes professional help is useful in dispelling certain long-held fantasies and fears. I can recommend several excellent psychiatrists--"
"Stop it, Morrie!" Egon, too, rose to tower over the lounging figure by several inches. "You've criticized my profession for years; condemned my friends...."
"I'm not the only one," Morris interrupted gruffly. "When was the last time Father visited you?"
That stopped the blond cold. "You're quite aware that Dad has never visited the firehouse."
"He's hardly fond of those three ..."
"Three what?" Egon demanded, a dangerous glint lighting his blue eyes.
"Scientists I" the other spat, the word more insult than descriptive. He straightened away from the desk to pace the carpet. "Look, Egon," he began again. "We've been through all this before. You know how I feel about your wasting your talents on those so-called 'ghost eliminators' rather than turning it to a really worthwhile cause. I understand Uncle Cyrus even offered you a position at Spengler Laboratories - which you refused."
"Uncle Cyrus' direction of research hardly parallels my own," Egon replied with dignity. "And I'm hardly wasting my talents; we've made several important contributions to the field of paranormal research, not to mention saving many lives - the world itself on more than one occasion."
The physician raised both hands in a weary gesture. "So you've said before." He turned around to stare unseeingly at the various wall hangings bearing his name. "What it boils down to is that you would rather devote your intelligence and resources to your college friends than you would work with your own family."
"They've never been mutually exclusive to me, Morrie," Egon replied quietly. "Only to you and Father."
The darker man turned, lips twisted into a mirthless smile. "Then would you care to explain where you were the day Sarah was christened?"
"I was at your daughter's christening."
"No," Morris corrected coolly. "You were there after Sarah's christening. If I recall correctly, you wouldn't come any earlier because of another commitment.
"I couldn't get away earlier," the elder brother explained as he had many times in the past. "That was the day Ray was awarded his doctorate. Peter's mother was in the hospital so he couldn't be there, and Ray doesn't have anyone else."
"Be that as it may, you preferred to celebrate with that farmboy than with us." Blue eye met blue sharply, and it was Morris who turned away first. "The reasons hardly seem to matter, Egon. Father was quite livid. And Mother...."
"Mom understood." It was Egon's turn to pace the room which he did once, halting before the desk with his back to the other. "Mom often visits us," he rumbled easily. "She's grown quite fond of Peter, Ray and Winston; she even tolerates Slimer."
"Slimer." Morris adjusted his glasses, the smile shifting down into a semi- polite sneer. "Most of the scientific community considers that thing to be no more than an elaborate hoax."
"I'd be most happy to introduce you," Spongier offered, chuckling at the mental picture conjured by that future historic event. "Slimer would be very affectionate to any brother of mine."
"No, thank you."
Egon picked up the photograph again and studied it quietly for a long moment. "Rehashing old arguments is not why I came, Morrie. I simply wanted you to know that the Boogieman has been disposed of so that you could tell Sarah and Harold."
"And why would I care to tell my children something like that?" the younger man wondered.
Egon turned around, still clutching the picture in both hands. "Because if we were visited, then there's every chance that they were as well."
"Visited by our own imaginations," Morris declared with more volume than was his wont. "We were just children, after ail." He made to say something else, then paused, one hand coming up to scratch his lean jaw. "They..."
"They may not have been visited, of course," the physicist went on, unheeding. "But I can't help recalling how it used to be." He clutched the gold frame to his chest convulsively, unable to restrain a little shiver of remembered terror. "It was always just about midnight when the closet would start to glow and then the door would open very slowly. You were sleeping with me all the time by then - something Mom and Dad never did find out." The red rimmed glasses slid down his nose, but Egon ignored them for once. "And then he would come, snapping those big teeth of his and laughing. We used to hide under the covers until he went away, too afraid to even cry."
"We... never screamed, either," Morris whispered, his eyes far away. "Never told anyone."
"We tried once," Egon reminded him quietly. "Dad sent us both to bed without supper for having an 'imagination.' I began to study the paranormal soon after." He passed across the photo, turning it so that Morris could look down into the faces of the two smiling children. "Do they have an 'imagination,' too, Morrie?"
Morris accepted the picture. "I don't know, Egon," he admitted sadly. "I've never asked."
In an unusual gesture between them, Egon reached across and rested both hands on his brother's shoulders, gripping them tightly. "He's gone," he stated flatly. "I destroyed him - my friends and I. Forever. He won't be frightening little children any more - not the way he frightened us." He gazed steadily into the other's eyes, then dropped his hands and stepped back. "That was all I came for, Morrie. I'd better be going."
"Very well." Lean features blanked into an expression of terse cordiality as Morris walked his brother to the door. "Thank you for coming, Egon. "I'm sure it was kind of you to take the time, though I daresay it was a bit of a waste."
"No trouble at ail," Egon replied as politely. "Perhaps I'll see you at the anniversary party next month."
"Undoubtedly." The door shut with a decided click.
On the other side of that stout barrier, Egon stood for a long time, sadness shadowing his eyes. "Maybe we'll even do lunch," he muttered softly. "Or not."
Nodding his farewell to the receptionist, Egon made his way out of the building to the reconditioned ambulance parked down the block. From within drifted loud voices, raised in another of a series of amiable arguments in which they'd been engaged all morning. This one sounded surprisingly similar to the one Egon had abandoned some thirty minutes earlier.
"Hey," he boomed, breaking in on Peter's second - or twentieth - chorus of "Get out'a town, Ray!" "Why don't we try Giorgianna's today? I hear they make the best pizza this side of Brooklyn."
"Great!" Winston put the car into gear and pulled out. "Visit go okay with your brother?"
"Just fine," Egon assured him. "If there's one thing about Morrie, it's that he'll never change." He paused, adding very, very softly, "and I pray God that none of you ever will either."
finis
CindyR
The pretty receptionist looked once and then again, recognition lighting her features as the tall blond made his way from the frosted glass door to her desk. She carefully cracked open her drawer to expose the hand mirror she kept at just the right angle for her to surreptitiously check both mascara and lipstick, then she closed the drawer and looked up with a fetching smile. "Dr. Spengler?"
"I'm Egon Spengler." The blond halted in front of her neat-as-a-pin desk, arranging his lean limbs into a casual stance. "I've got a one o'clock appointment?"
"Yes, Dr. Spengler. The doctor will meet you in his office. Right through that door."
"Thank you." Nodding politely, Egon passed through the indicated door into a spacious, richly furnished chamber decorated with thick wine carpets and mahogany paneling. Shelves bearing references works from the world over lined one entire wall, the tomes ranging from antique, leather-bound volumes detailing the first experiments on the human nervous system to journals discussing neurolinkage techniques not slated to become common practice for decades. Egon sauntered casually from the shelves to the far wall where he stood staring for a long while at the assorted plaques and vellum, which covered it as thick as wallpaper. Some were commendations, some licenses, others degrees in various fields of medicine, but ail bore mute testimony to the genius and success of one individual whose name was emblazoned from each and every item: Dr. Morris Spengler.
Egon read his brother's name over and over, a touch of pride erasing some of the lines from his austere features. He turned, examining the room from this new vantage and nodded his approval. The Park Avenue office was expensive and tasteful, it well suited one of medicine's most preeminent specialists in the delicate art of neurosurgery.
Wandering back to the desk, Spengler paused to pick up a neatly framed photograph. He studied it intently, eyes traveling from the severely coiffured brunette on the left to the two children's frozen smiles. With a sigh, he returned the picture to its position on the desk just as the knob rattled, heralding the arrival of the master of the domain. Egon unconsciously touched his tie and turned to greet the man who was his only brother. "Hello, Morrie."
"Egon." More puzzlement than welcome creased the physician's long face. "I must admit to some surprise when my secretary informed me that you had made an appointment for this afternoon. I assume this is not an official visit?"
Egon cocked one blond brow. "If by 'official' you mean, do I have a medical problem, the answer is no."
"Indeed? Oh, do sit down." Spengler-the-younger waved Egon to a massive chair on the far side of the desk before seating himself. The leather creaked as he settled himself in and crossed his legs comfortably at the knee. "I presume there's nothing wrong with Mom or Dad? Or is this about one of those Ghostbuster friends of yours?"
Egon frowned slightly at the obvious disapproval in the other's voice but held his peace on that oft-discussed subject. "Mom and Dad are fine; so are my friends."
"Well, that's certainly a relief." Morris brushed back his short brown hair, then adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles in a gesture reminiscent of his brother's. "Then this is just a ... social call?" The emphasis on the word 'social' made it more than clear that this possibility was being mentioned only because all the more probable ones had been discounted.
Egon cleared his throat. "I'm not certain what you would call it. Basically, I have some information I thought you would be interested in."
"Oh." The physician pushed across a teakwood box from which wafted the aromatic scent of tobacco. "May I offer you a cigar? They're imported, of course. "
"Of course," Egon returned dryly. "And no, thank you. I still don't smoke."
"As you wish." Morris closed the box and restored it to its niche on the desk. "You said you had some information of interest to me?"
"So I did." Egon took a deep breath. "It's about... the Boogieman."
"The what?" Morris Spengler sat up, an unidentifiable expression crossing his lined face and, as quickly, gone. "If this is a joke, Egon...." he began, again settling back into his chair.
Egon shook his head. "I don't recall that he gave us much to joke over when we were children."
Morris regarded him impassively. "I really don't know what you're talking about. What does the ... uh ... Boogieman have to do with me?" He frowned. "Is this something to do with that ridiculous profession of yours?"
Egon blinked twice. "Are you telling me that you don't remember how the Boogieman used to come out of our closet at night? Or how terrified we both were at bedtime?"
Morris snorted impatiently. "This is a joke, I see. Either that, or you've been around those colleagues of your far too long."
"Those colleagues of mine," the blond retorted angrily, "have not only saved my life a dozen times over, they have also helped me settle a score we've both owed for the last thirty years."
"Against the Boogieman." Morris Spengler uncrossed his legs and rose, circling the desk. He perched on one corner of its wooden expanse, folding his arms across his chest. "You know, Egon, sometimes professional help is useful in dispelling certain long-held fantasies and fears. I can recommend several excellent psychiatrists--"
"Stop it, Morrie!" Egon, too, rose to tower over the lounging figure by several inches. "You've criticized my profession for years; condemned my friends...."
"I'm not the only one," Morris interrupted gruffly. "When was the last time Father visited you?"
That stopped the blond cold. "You're quite aware that Dad has never visited the firehouse."
"He's hardly fond of those three ..."
"Three what?" Egon demanded, a dangerous glint lighting his blue eyes.
"Scientists I" the other spat, the word more insult than descriptive. He straightened away from the desk to pace the carpet. "Look, Egon," he began again. "We've been through all this before. You know how I feel about your wasting your talents on those so-called 'ghost eliminators' rather than turning it to a really worthwhile cause. I understand Uncle Cyrus even offered you a position at Spengler Laboratories - which you refused."
"Uncle Cyrus' direction of research hardly parallels my own," Egon replied with dignity. "And I'm hardly wasting my talents; we've made several important contributions to the field of paranormal research, not to mention saving many lives - the world itself on more than one occasion."
The physician raised both hands in a weary gesture. "So you've said before." He turned around to stare unseeingly at the various wall hangings bearing his name. "What it boils down to is that you would rather devote your intelligence and resources to your college friends than you would work with your own family."
"They've never been mutually exclusive to me, Morrie," Egon replied quietly. "Only to you and Father."
The darker man turned, lips twisted into a mirthless smile. "Then would you care to explain where you were the day Sarah was christened?"
"I was at your daughter's christening."
"No," Morris corrected coolly. "You were there after Sarah's christening. If I recall correctly, you wouldn't come any earlier because of another commitment.
"I couldn't get away earlier," the elder brother explained as he had many times in the past. "That was the day Ray was awarded his doctorate. Peter's mother was in the hospital so he couldn't be there, and Ray doesn't have anyone else."
"Be that as it may, you preferred to celebrate with that farmboy than with us." Blue eye met blue sharply, and it was Morris who turned away first. "The reasons hardly seem to matter, Egon. Father was quite livid. And Mother...."
"Mom understood." It was Egon's turn to pace the room which he did once, halting before the desk with his back to the other. "Mom often visits us," he rumbled easily. "She's grown quite fond of Peter, Ray and Winston; she even tolerates Slimer."
"Slimer." Morris adjusted his glasses, the smile shifting down into a semi- polite sneer. "Most of the scientific community considers that thing to be no more than an elaborate hoax."
"I'd be most happy to introduce you," Spongier offered, chuckling at the mental picture conjured by that future historic event. "Slimer would be very affectionate to any brother of mine."
"No, thank you."
Egon picked up the photograph again and studied it quietly for a long moment. "Rehashing old arguments is not why I came, Morrie. I simply wanted you to know that the Boogieman has been disposed of so that you could tell Sarah and Harold."
"And why would I care to tell my children something like that?" the younger man wondered.
Egon turned around, still clutching the picture in both hands. "Because if we were visited, then there's every chance that they were as well."
"Visited by our own imaginations," Morris declared with more volume than was his wont. "We were just children, after ail." He made to say something else, then paused, one hand coming up to scratch his lean jaw. "They..."
"They may not have been visited, of course," the physicist went on, unheeding. "But I can't help recalling how it used to be." He clutched the gold frame to his chest convulsively, unable to restrain a little shiver of remembered terror. "It was always just about midnight when the closet would start to glow and then the door would open very slowly. You were sleeping with me all the time by then - something Mom and Dad never did find out." The red rimmed glasses slid down his nose, but Egon ignored them for once. "And then he would come, snapping those big teeth of his and laughing. We used to hide under the covers until he went away, too afraid to even cry."
"We... never screamed, either," Morris whispered, his eyes far away. "Never told anyone."
"We tried once," Egon reminded him quietly. "Dad sent us both to bed without supper for having an 'imagination.' I began to study the paranormal soon after." He passed across the photo, turning it so that Morris could look down into the faces of the two smiling children. "Do they have an 'imagination,' too, Morrie?"
Morris accepted the picture. "I don't know, Egon," he admitted sadly. "I've never asked."
In an unusual gesture between them, Egon reached across and rested both hands on his brother's shoulders, gripping them tightly. "He's gone," he stated flatly. "I destroyed him - my friends and I. Forever. He won't be frightening little children any more - not the way he frightened us." He gazed steadily into the other's eyes, then dropped his hands and stepped back. "That was all I came for, Morrie. I'd better be going."
"Very well." Lean features blanked into an expression of terse cordiality as Morris walked his brother to the door. "Thank you for coming, Egon. "I'm sure it was kind of you to take the time, though I daresay it was a bit of a waste."
"No trouble at ail," Egon replied as politely. "Perhaps I'll see you at the anniversary party next month."
"Undoubtedly." The door shut with a decided click.
On the other side of that stout barrier, Egon stood for a long time, sadness shadowing his eyes. "Maybe we'll even do lunch," he muttered softly. "Or not."
Nodding his farewell to the receptionist, Egon made his way out of the building to the reconditioned ambulance parked down the block. From within drifted loud voices, raised in another of a series of amiable arguments in which they'd been engaged all morning. This one sounded surprisingly similar to the one Egon had abandoned some thirty minutes earlier.
"Hey," he boomed, breaking in on Peter's second - or twentieth - chorus of "Get out'a town, Ray!" "Why don't we try Giorgianna's today? I hear they make the best pizza this side of Brooklyn."
"Great!" Winston put the car into gear and pulled out. "Visit go okay with your brother?"
"Just fine," Egon assured him. "If there's one thing about Morrie, it's that he'll never change." He paused, adding very, very softly, "and I pray God that none of you ever will either."
finis