Southold General was quiet in these early dawn hours. Winston was admitted immediately and vanished behind the closed doors of the emergency ward, leaving his friends to occupy themselves in the comfortless environs of the waiting room.

Ray, still subdued, retreated to a hard chair in one corner, where he sprawled, hands still in his pockets and his chin sunk on his breast. Considering the hour, Egon and Peter assumed him to be asleep and so contented themselves by talking quietly across the room. They remained thus until the black Ghostbuster reappeared some ninety minute later. Snarling away the offer of a wheelchair, Zeddemore emerged from the hospital's inner chambers, his arm in a sling, his expression forbidding.

"Are you all right now, Winston?" Ray asked, rousing himself and getting to his feet. "How do you feel?"

"What do you think?" Winston growled, rubbing his shoulder. "That doctor has the touch of a mule skinner; thought he was gonna rip it off rather than snap it in."

Ray took a single step backward. "I'm sorry."

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Peter asked sympathetically. "Dislocated my shoulder once; hurt like blazes at first, felt fine a few days later."

"That's not what you told us," Egon pointed out, giving him a sharp look. "You wouldn't even lift your coffee cup for over a week."

Peter grinned. "That was different."

"How?"

"Because it was my shoulder that was hurt."

Winston rolled his eyes heavenward, then stomped for the door, closely followed by his colleagues. "I'm not driving," he snapped by way of a parting shot.

The trip home seemed twice as long as the one up; Peter drove most of the way, trading off with Egon a half hour out of Manhattan. In the backseat, Ray had resumed his bent-headed sprawl, while Winston frankly snored at his side.

Four hours after leaving the hospital the sliding doors of the firehouse opened to receive Ecto-1 and the Ghostbusters home. Wearily, the four emerged from the big car, stretching and yawning with relief.

"Thought we'd never get back," Winston complained, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. "We really ought'a think about staying the night for anything over two or three hours out of town."

"I'm even too tired to take a shower," Peter groaned, jabbing at a stiff muscle in his neck. "I just want to hit the sack."

"Are you sure you don't want to shower first?" Egon asked, deliberately stepping upwind.

Venkman regarded his colleague disdainfully, the effect slightly spoiled when his eyes immediately drooped to half mast. "You ain't exactly a spring rose yourself," he grunted, shooing Winston ahead of him up.

Egon dropped the signed invoice on Janine's desk, pausing to acknowledge the woman's presence for the first time. "Good morning. You're in early."

"It's ten-thirty," Peter remarked to no one in particular.

Janine ignored him to smile warmly up at Egon. "Hello, Egon. How'd the cemetery call go?" She gestured vaguely in the direction of the wounded Zeddemore. "Is Winston going to be okay?"

Egon slipped heavily into the chair next to her desk. He reached automatically for the full cup of coffee next to the typewriter and took a heft gulp before answering. "He'll be all right in a couple of days... according to our medical expert here." He shot Venkman a disgusted look; Peter grinned unrepentently back and followed Winston up the stairs. "And the citizens' bureau will be sending a check for payment on Monday...." He broke off to hail Stantz, who was trudging by with both full traps dangling from his left hand. "Ray, you can just leave those, we'll empty them later."

Stantz continued on, unheeding. "It's okay," he replied dully. "I can handle that much, anyway."

"Hello, Ray!" a shrill, cheerful voice called from the ceiling. Seconds later Slimer materialized through the plaster, leaving behind a dripping green stain to mark his passage. He swooped on Ray, arms wide for a welcoming hug, then stopped short at the blank-eyed gaze turned his way.

"Leave me alone, Slimer," Ray snapped, turning his back. "I'm not in the mood." He slipped down the stairs and vanished from sight.

Egon and Janine stared incredulously after him, Slimer hovering three meters off the floor, drooping unhappily.

"Awwww," the little ghost mourned. "Ray's mad?"

"He's just tired, Slimer," Janine soothed, reaching for her coffee. Her hand encountered Spengler's, which was still wrapped around the cup. She hesitated, her manner unaccustomedly diffident, then allowed her fingers to linger where they were.

"Have you ever seen Ray really mad?" the blond physicist pointed out, for once not retreating from Janine's touch.

Slimer floated closer, his 'face' puckered with the effort of thought. "Once. Slimer knocked Peter down. Peter hit his head. Ray maaaad." He let out a long whistle and snapped his fingers, emphasizing the fact.

A devil's light lit the blue eyes, but Egon's features remained impassive, revealing nothing. "Perhaps that's the problem," he suggested innocently. "The fact that you hurt Peter's feelings."

Large orange eyes regarded the blond with horror. "Slimer did? How?"

Egon exchanged a look with a puzzled Janine. "You didn't greet Peter when he came in at all," he chided mildly. "And after Peter came out and said that he was going to hide a treat for you in his clothes... somewhere."

Slimer's face glowed with a mixture of adoration and greed. "Slimer loves Peter!" he chirped, zipping up the stairs.

Egon glanced at his watch. "Three... two... one..."

"AAAAAAGH!"

"Right on time," the physicist approved, chuckling at the outraged yell audible across three floors. "Now he can take a shower."

Janine giggled and tightened her fingers around Egon's hand before releasing him. "He's gonna get you back for that, you know. Sometime... somewhere...."

The other dismissed the warning with a little snort. "He's been trying for years. Just ask him about Frieda LesMartin." He stopped, his expression blanking. "On second thought, maybe you'd better not." He drained the cup, then set it atop a pile of bills on one corner of the desk. "I'd better head upstairs; I'm going to have to search my bed for booby traps before I can turn in."

Janine laughed outright at that. "I'll hold your calls until you and Dr. V. get done playing war zone."

Egon winked. "Good night, Janine." He turned, then paused, a worried frown replacing the merry twinkle. "Ray should have been back by now; he only had to flush two traps."

"He's just tired," Janine repeated, though with less assurance.

"Maybe." The tall scientist hesitated another moment, then resolutely turned to the cellar in search of his friend. He slipped through the safety door and stopped to survey the scene below. The massive containment unit gleamed dully in the harsh glare of the fluorescents, its low hum a reassurance against the dangers within. Scattered haphazardly across the floor lay several pieces of wire and pipe, the remains of some project or another Ray had been working on, involving a new exhaust system for their emergency generator.

But it was not equipment which had brought Egon Spengler the thirteen steps to this high platform, it was the lonely figure occupying a stool against the far wall. Ray sat slumped in his seat, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. Little could be seen of his face, but the man's whole attitude bespoke dejection and despair. Worried, Spengler descended the long staircase to the cellar level, his boots making soft crunching noises on the dirty stone. Ray never looked up, remaining completely unaware of the fact that he was no longer alone until Spengler's large hand clamped his shoulder. "Ray?"

Stantz' reaction to that touch was immediate -- and electric. With a hoarse shout, he catapulted himself out of his seat, coming up short against the wood workbench. Brown eyes stared wildly at Egon's still raised hand, and it was some time before recognition eased the frozen terror in their depths. "E-Egon," he stammered, collecting himself. "I'm sorry. I d-didn't hear you come in."

"That much I deduced," the older man teased, lowering his hand. "I grew concerned when you didn't return from emptying the traps." He gestured vaguely to the workbench, where the still full traps blinked their status. "Is something wrong?"

Ray followed the blond's line of sight, studying the traps for a long moment, automatically shoving both hands into his uniform's pockets. Then, with a visible act of will, he shifted his gaze to Egon's concerned features, and his lips parted as though to speak.

"Yes?" Egon prodded after a minute.

Time elapsed, a dozen heartbeats during which two close friends regarded each other across a span of inches -- or miles. Brown eyes sought blue with a touch of desperation, and then Ray had turned away and the moment was past.

"If you change your mind," Egon offered gently, "I'll be glad to listen."

That won him a wan smile and a soft, "I"m sorry."

"Don't be, Raymond." Egon returned the smile warmly, then picked up the traps and headed for the permanent containment, resigned to respecting what he assumed his young friend's wish to be -- to work out his problems... alone.

***

For the next two days, Ray wandered the firehouse like a ghost, his eyes haunted, his thoughts tumultuous. That eerie voice from the cemetery echoed never-endingly in his thoughts, maddeningly familiar. "The pact is binding," it whispered from every corner of his mind.

"No." Ray's protest rose often to his lips; it emerged as a strangled croak for, try as he might, he was unable to speak of that frightening vision to his friends. Even Egon, who exuded competence and security as an almost palpable aura, could not loose the frozen paralysis which aborted the words before they could emerge.

Also impossible was any attempt of Stantz' to forestall the dire prediction. That first night Egon had caught the dejection in his friend's posture, the trouble in his expression. Had the blond shown up mere minutes sooner he would have seen far more than that -- he would have seen his friend on his knees before the control panel, wracked with pain and fighting for consciousness. After accepting the fact that Peck was indeed returning to claim what Ray had promised -- the release of the evil Samhaine -- the solution had seemed obvious: eliminate any possibility that he could carry out the deed and the pact would be negated. Upon returning to the firehouse, Stantz had moved immediately to put this plan into effect. Accessing the computer-directed security program was child's play -- the system had been designed and built by Stantz himself, and he knew the wiring, programs and components better than any man alive. He'd punched in the proper sequence and soon the screen had flashed its readiness, the question displayed across the bottom half: "RAY STANTZ:14325700 DELETE CODE?"

Ray had smiled his relief at the innocent letters. Samhaine's earlier appearances had resulted directly in many deaths: traffic accidents caused by the free movements of his minions, panic induced suicides, children crushed in the mass rushes for the deceptive safety of the streets. Riots and looting could be added to the long list of mob actions initiated by the arrival of this supernatural entity. And finally there were the damages deliberately caused by the Spirit of Halloween himself. The total effect had been frightening and catastrophic in the extreme. With Ray's codes cancelled, all possibilities of a repeat performance would be eliminated after tonight. His face set, his eyes determined, Ray had reached to punch in that last, final command.

It was then that the pain had hit -- a searing thread that started in his right palm and gradually extended upward nerve by nerve to engulf his entire arm in liquid fire. The pain had been so intense that it had knocked him to his knees, consciousness mercifully fading for a time, and even now his hand throbbed unceasingly, a constant reminder of his helplessness. Since then, any further attempts on Ray's part to eliminate the threat of Samhaine's return had been ruthlessly squashed, not only by a renewal of that searing agony, but also by an unnatural paralysis which both constricted his throat and stayed his hand, leading a desperate and terrified man those first steps on the road back to hell.

***

Peter Venkman tossed once and then opened his eyes to stare upwards into the blackness of the bunkroom and wonder what it was that had awakened him at.... A glance at the glowing face of Egon's clock confirmed that it was, indeed, 4 am. He stared a moment and then cautiously sat up, rubbing his eyes with a balled fist. Directly overhead, Slimer floated, snoring loudly. Peter regarded him warily for a moment before convincing himself that the little mascot was not dripping ectoplasmic slime on his covers like he usually did when he wanted to sleep close to his idol. Peter shook his head at the sight, fascinated yet again at the numerous 'human' traits the ghost had picked up by his continued proximity to the Ghostbusters. No other nether being Peter had ever studied slept -- or snored, for that matter -- although many of them ate human food as a matter of preference.

He next transferred his attention to the other occupants of the room, wincing at the chorused rumbles coming from three corners. Between Slimer, Egon and Winston's snoring, the noise level approached that of LaGuardia's busiest runway during the rush hour. It was a wonder that they all didn't wake themselves up far more frequently than they did. One voice was missing from the lineup, however -- the slightly softer tones which had always identified the sleeping state of the team's youngest member.

Peter carefully ducked Slimer's hovering form, frowning at the still-made bed of his friend. An unabashed TV addict, it was not unusual for Ray to stay up to catch a late movie, but 4 am was late even for him. A picture flashed in Peter's thoughts, that of his friend's face the night before, the distress lurking behind the dulled brown eyes, the deep seated weariness dragging the man's every step. No amount of questioning or coaxing had persuaded Stantz to open up, and now Peter worried, fighting a sense of impending peril which he sensed was somehow tied in with Ray's unidentified gloom.

Disdaining his slippers and robe, Peter padded barefoot through the short hallway, pausing at the top of the spiral staircase for whatever it was that had awakened him to repeat itself. At first he heard only the nightsounds of the busy city -- an almost living pulse which throbbed in easy harmony to Peter's own. City born and bred, Peter dismissed that instantly as something far too familiar to have ever affected his own sleep patterns.

Then he heard it again, recognizing the low cry that had awakened him: it was Ray and he was in trouble.

He descended the stairs three at a time, then six running steps brought him to the still dressed figure tucked into a corner of the living room sofa. Ray had slipped sideways until he could pillow his head against the armrest; beyond that he'd made no concession to comfort. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest and his every muscle sang of tension and unhappiness, something rare in the extreme in the normally cheerful man.

Peter stood breathing heavily and regarding his friend with a mixture of annoyance and relief playing in his green eyes; Ray had probably had fallen asleep during one of those horror movies he favored and was now paying the price with one lulu of a nightmare. Smiling wryly, Peter had stretched his hand out to shake the younger man awake, when he noticed that Ray's face glistened in the dim light of the window. Very gently, Peter touched the unshaven cheek; his fingers came away wet. Tears? Concurrent with that discovery was the realization that both lights and television were off. What was Ray doing sitting alone in a dark room all night crying?

Ray shifted and whimpered softly, and his spoken words froze Peter where he stood.

"I'll do anything you ask," the occultist whispered, "only please don't hurt Peter."

Venkman recoiled as though he'd been struck. The words and tone were familiar -- horribly familiar, recalling a night of pain and terror he'd pushed back into the darkest recesses of his mind many months before. Rage welled up, as well as a soul devouring fury that even the psychological therapy Winston had arranged for them had not been able to dispel. And with the rage rose a face and a single, loathsome name:

Walter Peck.

The very name resurrected memories that Peter had banished from his consciousness, but which still dwelled eternally inside his soul. Images flashed by, a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, searing agony and ultimate despair.

For the briefest instant, Venkman again knelt at the feet of a scarlet- robed man, tall and fair, whose complacent smile never wavered while Ray, unconscious in Peter's arms, dripped away his life's blood from a wrist slashed so badly it would take a dozen stitches and two operations to restore.

Hatred replaced the fear, hatred, as well as a surge of anger directed at Ray himself for bringing these emotions to the fore. Peter stared hard- eyed at the sleeping man for a long moment, vacillating between the desire to flee back to the safety of his own bed and his own more pleasant dreams, and the one to wake his friend, rescuing him from the horrors he now relived.

Peter took a step backwards, then two, but another whimper from the sleeping man halted his feet where they were. In an instant, Peter had flung himself to his friend's side and slipped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him up and shaking him once. "Wake up, Ray," he ordered in a no- nonsense voice. "You're having a nightmare."

Wide brown eyes flew open in an instant, fixing Peter with a duplicate of the look he'd given him five months earlier, on emerging from Peck's drug- induced illusion and learning that Peck had not yet killed the psychologist as he'd promised to do. "P-Peter?" Ray whispered, grief and joy merging in his tears. "I'm s-sorry."

"Oh, man," Peter replied, pulling the other roughly into his arms. "It was a dream, Ray, just a dream."

"Peter...." Ray returned the embrace briefly and then pulled away, swiping shame-facedly at his eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Peter. I... I must have been dreaming. Did I wake you?"

"No." He let Ray retreat back to his corner, the lie tripping facilely off his own lips. "It's all right, I was on my way to the kitchen for some milk." He rubbed at his abdomen. "Upset stomach." That much at least isn't a lie, he thought ruefully. It's certainly upset enough now.

Ray leaned forward, running a hand through his auburn hair, brushing it back out of his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I said it was all right," Peter reminded him, sitting back. "You want something to eat?"

Ray shook his head.

"Then how about crashing," Peter suggested carefully. "You look like you haven't slept in awhile."

Again Stantz shook his head. "I... think I'll just watch some TV. There's ... something on I want to see."

Having been taught by a master of the arts of deception, Peter Venkman could recognize a con by some of the best in the business -- something Ray Stantz was definitely not. Peter, however, allowed the untruth to pass unchallenged, divining correctly that he would accomplish nothing save upsetting his already distressed friend still further. He hesitated and then rose gracefully to his feet. "Good night, then," he said, tousling Ray's long hair affectionately.

"Good night, Peter." Stantz' voice was shaken and resigned, and Peter reluctantly returned to his own bed and the dreams which were not quite so pleasant for the rest of the night.

***