The southern edge of Mawtawk cemetery was set into the downhill slope of a
gentle hill, and held the oldest of the gravesites. Many of the tombs had
stood here since the year 1701, when the first Dutch settlers had arrived.
It was rumored -- unofficially, of course -- that the settlers had been
prevented from farming the land by the regular spirit activity, also why
they had decreed it to be holy land, something which it had remained to
this day.
Ray Stantz trotted a little ahead of his taller colleague, examining everything around him with bright eyed excitement. Leaving Egon several paces to the rear, he approached a little stand of graves, paused, then burst into their midst, not unlike what John Wayne did in every single ambush scene the Duke had ever filmed. Ray spun, gun ready, then shot an amused Egon a grin. "I just like doing that," he explained sheepishly.
"You do it very well," the blond returned amiably, "but the meter isn't giving us a reading from there."
"Oh, well." Unperturbed, Stantz knelt by one dull gray marker to read the inscription. "Martha Biggs 1726-1730. Consumption. Gee, that's a shame; she was only four years old."
Egon paused at his shoulder, beginning to breath heavily from his walk. "High mortality rate among the early settlers," he explained pedantically. "Only one child in six made it to adulthood in those early days."
Ray stood, swiping ineffectually at the soil which stained his pantlegs. Giving up on the task, he straightened and tapped Spengler on the arm. "I know that, Egon," he said patiently. "I learned it back in the fifth grade."
Then it was Egon's turn to look sheepish. "Sorry. I forgot it wasn't Peter I was talking to. I generally just prattle on until he lets loose one of his put downs." He chuckled richly. "I always wondered if he actually listens to anything I say or if he's spending all that time trying to think up one of his patented Venkman Specials."
"I've heard him quote you later," Ray told him, tugging mightily at a mausoleum's barred door. "And you know Peter -- he doesn't forget anything."
"Except his turn to do the dishes," Spengler retorted, following his colleague around a half buried crypt. "Last night, for example." He nearly ran the younger man down when Ray stopped abruptly and turned around. "What?"
"It was your turn to do the dishes last night," Stantz said softly, a mischievous light dancing in his brown eyes. "Peter did them the day before."
"Oh." Bereft of a more suitable return, Spengler took a few moments during which Ray smothered his snickers to recheck the hillside, paying particular attention to the direction from which they'd come. "Wait a minute, is it my imagination or is that our target coming this way?"
Before Ray had had an opportunity to reply, the communicator clipped to Egon's belt beeped. He unhooked it and raised the instrument to his mouth. "Spengler."
"Zeddemore," a pleasant baritone replied. "Gooper headed your way."
Egon nudged Ray with his elbow, briefly sharing the man's infectious grin. "Already in sight, Winston. We're moving to intercept." He shut off the instrument and reclipped it to his belt. "Back up the hill," he sighed.
Ray adjusted the power switch on his thrower for the dozenth time, then started off, moving fast. "We'd better split up. You go this way, I'll circle over there. We should be able to get it in a cross fire."
"Right."
Stantz took off horizontally across the hillside at a dead run, recklessly weaving through -- and occasionally over -- the various markers dotting the landscape. A copse of firs grew in a closed circle a hundred yards to the left, and Stantz chose that as his pivot point, intending to start up the hill on the far side and so bracket the fleeing entity between himself and Spengler.
The firs stood tall, the result of a hundred years of nurturing, their needles forming an interlocking barrier which protected the center from casual view. Ray brushed his way through the branches and glanced around, orienting himself with the far side in the dense gloom. Six strides took him into the exact middle of the circle and it was there that first he heard the voice.
"The pact is binding."
Ray stopped, cocking his head attentively. "Is someone there?" he asked in a hushed voice. Chill fingers ran up and down his spine, and the hairs along his neck twitched and began to rise. "Where are you?"
"The pact is binding," the voice repeated, very close to Ray's ear. "I will come for you."
A sensation he only now identified as terror constricted Ray's stomach into a knot. Pain flared then in his right hand, and he glanced down. The small burn scar in the very center of his palm glowed brightly, even in the absence of available light. Less brightly but still visible, the jagged white line running up his wrist stood out, disappearing under his sleeve. The particle rifle slipped from numb fingers, hitting the ground with a muffled thump.
"I-it c-can't be you," the occultist stammered, beginning to tremble. "They t-told me you were d-dead."
The darkened grove wavered once and then vanished, replaced by a rough-hewn cave lit harshly by naked bulbs. To the left, Peter Venkman knelt, held upright by a skeletal figure draped in black. Peter's face was raised, and defiance glittered in his emerald eyes.
Ray looked downward, gaping at the blood which flowed from beneath a make- shift bandage swathing his right wrist. His hand was swollen -- obviously broken -- and discolored with bruises. He raised it wonderingly, staring at it with the returning knowledge of pain and despair.
"I'll do it." The toneless words, that defeated tone were his own though Ray's lips remained barely parted, his tongue frozen. "I'll do anything you ask. Please don't hurt Peter."
He'd sensed his tormentor's smug satisfaction in the man's voice. "Do you know what you're saying, Raymond? Are you agreeing to release Samhaine from your containment unit for me?"
"For Peter." Ray looked up briefly then, staring forlornly at his friend's twisted features and blue tinged skin. "Peter," he moaned, curling in on himself. He raised his eyes again, and it was with a sense of numbed horror that he saw himself offer his mangled hand to be engulfed by the scarlet garbed figure of Walter Peck.
As before, reality wavered and faded away, and Stantz was once again in the little grove of firs, sprawled full length in the soft needles carpeting the ground. His hand was aflame, the scars angry but no longer glowing with the demon light of before.
"The contract is sealed." The voice echoed in the still night air, and then Ray knew himself to be alone once more.
Crawling awkwardly away from the trees, Ray made his way to the nearest gravestone and huddled against it, cradling his right hand to his chest. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, muffling the soft whimpers he couldn't suppress.
Overhead, the uncaring moon began its final dip toward the horizon, and once again the hush which cloaked this venerable city of the dead was complete.
***
"Throw out the trap... NOW!" Peter's strident tenor rang clearly, and Egon sprang into immediate action. A trap flew through the air, propelled by a long-armed toss, then for the second time that night a reverse pyramid flowed upwards, entrapping the still struggling nether-creature in an inescapable tapestry of light.
"Trap... closed," Spengler announced, lifting his foot off the activator pedal. The trap snapped shut, leaving both men blinking in the accentuated gloom.
"He was a nasty one," Peter remarked, picking up the trap and handing it to Egon. "Fast, too. I hate it when they're fast."
"Me... too," a seriously panting Spengler managed, accepting the trap. "I didn't... think I was going... to make it up that hill the... fourth time."
His own breathing already under control, Peter turned an amused eye on his older partner. "You know, you're really out of shape," he remarked, thumping the blond between the shoulder blades. "You need to come jogging with Ray and me sometime. Does wonders for the constitution -- and the figure," he added meaningfully, staring at Egon's middle.
Spengler stepped back out of range of Peter's helpful ministrations. "There's nothing wrong with my constitution," he retorted, nonetheless glancing quickly at his abdomen. Satisfied that he hadn't sprouted a pot belly during the last few minutes, he turned his attention to the subject of the chase. "This would have been a lot easier if Ray and Winston had been around. What could have happened to them?"
Peter shrugged. "Winston took a spill; his shoulder might be dislocated."
"Is dislocated," a pained baritone corrected from behind. Peter and Egon turned as the black man emerged from the shadows of a massive vault, then Peter hurried forward to help the man sit on the edge of a flat marker. "Sorry I wasn't more help, guys. I couldn't keep up."
"No problem, bro." Peter patted his friend lightly, then cocked his brow inquiringly down the hill. "That still leaves us one short on the administrative level. Yo, Ray?!"
There was no immediate response to Peter's call save the faint echo of his own voice from the surrounding hillside. He tried again, louder. "RAY!"
Still no answer. Peter turned to his colleagues, the amusement gone from his face. "Something must have happened to him. Egon, take Winston back to the car and notify me by radio if Ray's there. I'll start searching in that direction," he jerked his head back down the hill, "and try to track him down."
"I don't need a baby sitter," Zeddemore returned gruffly. "I'll check the car out. Egon, help Peter search. Ray might be hurt."
The blond nodded grimly and turned, then paused. "Something moved over there," he said, pointing towards the boundary fence. The other two followed his line of sight, heaving a collective sigh when a light-clothed figure came into view.
"That's him," Peter acknowledged, sinking down beside Winston. " Man, he scared me."
Egon watched the rapidly closing man with a thoughtful frown. "He was going to circle around and come up from the fenceline. I wonder what happened to him."
Speculation from the others was not forthcoming, however, for Stantz arrived at that moment and stopped to stand hands-in-pockets several feet away.
"What happened to you, man?" Zeddemore demanded, struggling to his feet. "You had us worried."
"I-I'm sorry."
The apology was so low it was barely audible. Peter stepped nearer, examining the younger man as best he could by the rapidly fading moonlight. He could make out the tense stance and bowed auburn head but little more. Finally, he asked, "You okay?"
Ray nodded once. "Yes... I'm sorry...."
A new possibility presented itself to the psychologist, lighting his eyes with suppressed merriment. "Did you get lost?" he asked gleefully. "Mr. Boy Scout?" Ray hung his head even lower and Peter burst into a loud chuckle. "Isn't this one for the books? Ray Stantz, intrepid woodsman, lost in a fenced in cemetery! Good thing we weren't searching any place big -- like our backyard." He clapped the younger man heartily on the back, propelling him towards the main path with a gentle shove. "Come on, Dorothy, let's hit the yellow brick road and get Winston to a hospital before he decides to neutronize the lot of us."
"Read my mind," Zeddemore returned sourly. "Just my luck to get suckered into that hole."
"The real pits," Peter chuckled irrepressibly.
That brought Ray's head up. "You... were hurt?" he asked, his soft voice carrying a trace of alarm. "Bad?"
"Not once I get to a doctor," the black snapped. "Provided you're all through discussing the matter?"
"You heard the man, kiddies," Peter said lightly. "Nearest emergency room and then breakfast. "I could eat a moose."
"He could, too," Winston growled, allowing Venkman to take his good arm. "Not put on a pound, either, the bum."
They all started back up the hill, good natured quips and blue oaths disrupting the quiet. Thus occupied, none of the three noticed the subdued silence of Ray Stantz, who trudged along a few paces behind, his expression shuttered and his thoughts very far away.
***
Ray Stantz trotted a little ahead of his taller colleague, examining everything around him with bright eyed excitement. Leaving Egon several paces to the rear, he approached a little stand of graves, paused, then burst into their midst, not unlike what John Wayne did in every single ambush scene the Duke had ever filmed. Ray spun, gun ready, then shot an amused Egon a grin. "I just like doing that," he explained sheepishly.
"You do it very well," the blond returned amiably, "but the meter isn't giving us a reading from there."
"Oh, well." Unperturbed, Stantz knelt by one dull gray marker to read the inscription. "Martha Biggs 1726-1730. Consumption. Gee, that's a shame; she was only four years old."
Egon paused at his shoulder, beginning to breath heavily from his walk. "High mortality rate among the early settlers," he explained pedantically. "Only one child in six made it to adulthood in those early days."
Ray stood, swiping ineffectually at the soil which stained his pantlegs. Giving up on the task, he straightened and tapped Spengler on the arm. "I know that, Egon," he said patiently. "I learned it back in the fifth grade."
Then it was Egon's turn to look sheepish. "Sorry. I forgot it wasn't Peter I was talking to. I generally just prattle on until he lets loose one of his put downs." He chuckled richly. "I always wondered if he actually listens to anything I say or if he's spending all that time trying to think up one of his patented Venkman Specials."
"I've heard him quote you later," Ray told him, tugging mightily at a mausoleum's barred door. "And you know Peter -- he doesn't forget anything."
"Except his turn to do the dishes," Spengler retorted, following his colleague around a half buried crypt. "Last night, for example." He nearly ran the younger man down when Ray stopped abruptly and turned around. "What?"
"It was your turn to do the dishes last night," Stantz said softly, a mischievous light dancing in his brown eyes. "Peter did them the day before."
"Oh." Bereft of a more suitable return, Spengler took a few moments during which Ray smothered his snickers to recheck the hillside, paying particular attention to the direction from which they'd come. "Wait a minute, is it my imagination or is that our target coming this way?"
Before Ray had had an opportunity to reply, the communicator clipped to Egon's belt beeped. He unhooked it and raised the instrument to his mouth. "Spengler."
"Zeddemore," a pleasant baritone replied. "Gooper headed your way."
Egon nudged Ray with his elbow, briefly sharing the man's infectious grin. "Already in sight, Winston. We're moving to intercept." He shut off the instrument and reclipped it to his belt. "Back up the hill," he sighed.
Ray adjusted the power switch on his thrower for the dozenth time, then started off, moving fast. "We'd better split up. You go this way, I'll circle over there. We should be able to get it in a cross fire."
"Right."
Stantz took off horizontally across the hillside at a dead run, recklessly weaving through -- and occasionally over -- the various markers dotting the landscape. A copse of firs grew in a closed circle a hundred yards to the left, and Stantz chose that as his pivot point, intending to start up the hill on the far side and so bracket the fleeing entity between himself and Spengler.
The firs stood tall, the result of a hundred years of nurturing, their needles forming an interlocking barrier which protected the center from casual view. Ray brushed his way through the branches and glanced around, orienting himself with the far side in the dense gloom. Six strides took him into the exact middle of the circle and it was there that first he heard the voice.
"The pact is binding."
Ray stopped, cocking his head attentively. "Is someone there?" he asked in a hushed voice. Chill fingers ran up and down his spine, and the hairs along his neck twitched and began to rise. "Where are you?"
"The pact is binding," the voice repeated, very close to Ray's ear. "I will come for you."
A sensation he only now identified as terror constricted Ray's stomach into a knot. Pain flared then in his right hand, and he glanced down. The small burn scar in the very center of his palm glowed brightly, even in the absence of available light. Less brightly but still visible, the jagged white line running up his wrist stood out, disappearing under his sleeve. The particle rifle slipped from numb fingers, hitting the ground with a muffled thump.
"I-it c-can't be you," the occultist stammered, beginning to tremble. "They t-told me you were d-dead."
The darkened grove wavered once and then vanished, replaced by a rough-hewn cave lit harshly by naked bulbs. To the left, Peter Venkman knelt, held upright by a skeletal figure draped in black. Peter's face was raised, and defiance glittered in his emerald eyes.
Ray looked downward, gaping at the blood which flowed from beneath a make- shift bandage swathing his right wrist. His hand was swollen -- obviously broken -- and discolored with bruises. He raised it wonderingly, staring at it with the returning knowledge of pain and despair.
"I'll do it." The toneless words, that defeated tone were his own though Ray's lips remained barely parted, his tongue frozen. "I'll do anything you ask. Please don't hurt Peter."
He'd sensed his tormentor's smug satisfaction in the man's voice. "Do you know what you're saying, Raymond? Are you agreeing to release Samhaine from your containment unit for me?"
"For Peter." Ray looked up briefly then, staring forlornly at his friend's twisted features and blue tinged skin. "Peter," he moaned, curling in on himself. He raised his eyes again, and it was with a sense of numbed horror that he saw himself offer his mangled hand to be engulfed by the scarlet garbed figure of Walter Peck.
As before, reality wavered and faded away, and Stantz was once again in the little grove of firs, sprawled full length in the soft needles carpeting the ground. His hand was aflame, the scars angry but no longer glowing with the demon light of before.
"The contract is sealed." The voice echoed in the still night air, and then Ray knew himself to be alone once more.
Crawling awkwardly away from the trees, Ray made his way to the nearest gravestone and huddled against it, cradling his right hand to his chest. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, muffling the soft whimpers he couldn't suppress.
Overhead, the uncaring moon began its final dip toward the horizon, and once again the hush which cloaked this venerable city of the dead was complete.
***
"Throw out the trap... NOW!" Peter's strident tenor rang clearly, and Egon sprang into immediate action. A trap flew through the air, propelled by a long-armed toss, then for the second time that night a reverse pyramid flowed upwards, entrapping the still struggling nether-creature in an inescapable tapestry of light.
"Trap... closed," Spengler announced, lifting his foot off the activator pedal. The trap snapped shut, leaving both men blinking in the accentuated gloom.
"He was a nasty one," Peter remarked, picking up the trap and handing it to Egon. "Fast, too. I hate it when they're fast."
"Me... too," a seriously panting Spengler managed, accepting the trap. "I didn't... think I was going... to make it up that hill the... fourth time."
His own breathing already under control, Peter turned an amused eye on his older partner. "You know, you're really out of shape," he remarked, thumping the blond between the shoulder blades. "You need to come jogging with Ray and me sometime. Does wonders for the constitution -- and the figure," he added meaningfully, staring at Egon's middle.
Spengler stepped back out of range of Peter's helpful ministrations. "There's nothing wrong with my constitution," he retorted, nonetheless glancing quickly at his abdomen. Satisfied that he hadn't sprouted a pot belly during the last few minutes, he turned his attention to the subject of the chase. "This would have been a lot easier if Ray and Winston had been around. What could have happened to them?"
Peter shrugged. "Winston took a spill; his shoulder might be dislocated."
"Is dislocated," a pained baritone corrected from behind. Peter and Egon turned as the black man emerged from the shadows of a massive vault, then Peter hurried forward to help the man sit on the edge of a flat marker. "Sorry I wasn't more help, guys. I couldn't keep up."
"No problem, bro." Peter patted his friend lightly, then cocked his brow inquiringly down the hill. "That still leaves us one short on the administrative level. Yo, Ray?!"
There was no immediate response to Peter's call save the faint echo of his own voice from the surrounding hillside. He tried again, louder. "RAY!"
Still no answer. Peter turned to his colleagues, the amusement gone from his face. "Something must have happened to him. Egon, take Winston back to the car and notify me by radio if Ray's there. I'll start searching in that direction," he jerked his head back down the hill, "and try to track him down."
"I don't need a baby sitter," Zeddemore returned gruffly. "I'll check the car out. Egon, help Peter search. Ray might be hurt."
The blond nodded grimly and turned, then paused. "Something moved over there," he said, pointing towards the boundary fence. The other two followed his line of sight, heaving a collective sigh when a light-clothed figure came into view.
"That's him," Peter acknowledged, sinking down beside Winston. " Man, he scared me."
Egon watched the rapidly closing man with a thoughtful frown. "He was going to circle around and come up from the fenceline. I wonder what happened to him."
Speculation from the others was not forthcoming, however, for Stantz arrived at that moment and stopped to stand hands-in-pockets several feet away.
"What happened to you, man?" Zeddemore demanded, struggling to his feet. "You had us worried."
"I-I'm sorry."
The apology was so low it was barely audible. Peter stepped nearer, examining the younger man as best he could by the rapidly fading moonlight. He could make out the tense stance and bowed auburn head but little more. Finally, he asked, "You okay?"
Ray nodded once. "Yes... I'm sorry...."
A new possibility presented itself to the psychologist, lighting his eyes with suppressed merriment. "Did you get lost?" he asked gleefully. "Mr. Boy Scout?" Ray hung his head even lower and Peter burst into a loud chuckle. "Isn't this one for the books? Ray Stantz, intrepid woodsman, lost in a fenced in cemetery! Good thing we weren't searching any place big -- like our backyard." He clapped the younger man heartily on the back, propelling him towards the main path with a gentle shove. "Come on, Dorothy, let's hit the yellow brick road and get Winston to a hospital before he decides to neutronize the lot of us."
"Read my mind," Zeddemore returned sourly. "Just my luck to get suckered into that hole."
"The real pits," Peter chuckled irrepressibly.
That brought Ray's head up. "You... were hurt?" he asked, his soft voice carrying a trace of alarm. "Bad?"
"Not once I get to a doctor," the black snapped. "Provided you're all through discussing the matter?"
"You heard the man, kiddies," Peter said lightly. "Nearest emergency room and then breakfast. "I could eat a moose."
"He could, too," Winston growled, allowing Venkman to take his good arm. "Not put on a pound, either, the bum."
They all started back up the hill, good natured quips and blue oaths disrupting the quiet. Thus occupied, none of the three noticed the subdued silence of Ray Stantz, who trudged along a few paces behind, his expression shuttered and his thoughts very far away.
***
