Unlike many other so called 'haunted houses,' 421 W. Stuyvescent Boulevard
was a modern, well-kept villa several hours drive out on Long Island. It
sat apart from its neighbors, surrounded by several acres of woods, lawn
and garden. The three Ghostbusters parked Ecto in the long drive leading up
to the house and sat, none of them making any attempts to leave the car.
"Not exactly the Amityville Horror," Ray commented to no one in particular.
"PKE readings show above normal paranatural activity in the area," Egon announced from the back seat, "but nothing noteworthy." He fiddled with his meter, adjusting several knobs. "Several sets of readings; I'd say the house is the sight of severe...."
"Oh, shut up, Egon," Peter snapped from the passenger's seat. "We know what 'paranatural activity' means." He paused, then reached resolutely for the car door handle. "We're getting nowhere sitting here, troops. Come on."
The others obeyed with a decided lack of grace and began to assemble the equipment they would need. Ray slipped into his pack and stood regarding the house with a puzzled frown. "It's so ... unhaunted looking," he said aloud. "Like something out of Better House and Gardens. Hard to believe this place needs our services."
"Shallow observations notwithstanding," Egon remarked bitingly, "We do have a job to do. Ray, you get...."
"Get it yourself!" Stantz snapped, glaring defiantly into Egon's tight face. "I'm not your slave."
"I simply thought..." Egon's bass grew, if anything, deeper yet. "...that you would want to make yourself useful. For once."
Ray took an angry stop towards the taller man, brown eyes promising violence; Egon held his ground. Peter intervened before blood could be spilled. "Save it, men," he ordered, slipping into his 'team leader' mode. "We're on a call."
Stantz and Spengler stared at each other truculently another long moment, then Egon broke contact, turning on his heel and fetching his proton pack. Ray finished buckling his own harness, Peter following suit, and soon the three were trudging up the long driveway to the house.
"Do we have a key?" Ray asked as they neared the door.
"Leave it to you to think of it now," Egon muttered disparagingly.
"The key's under the mat." Peter spoke quickly, forestalling another bout, but inwardly he consigned both his partners to eternal flames. "The new owner told Janine that he was spending the next week in Hawaii; they want the house ready for habitation by the time they get back. Provided we leave enough of it to habitate," he joked weakly.
"Damages are covered in our service contract," Egon pointed out, stooping to search for the key. It was there as promised, nestled in a plastic bag neatly tagged Ghostbusters. "Trusting sorts; anyone could have found it here."
Peter peered into one shuttered window, striving to see inside. "Let's just hope the owner paid his electric bill -- I hate working in the dark."
Egon used the key and the door opened at a touch, spilling sunlight into a roomy, modern interior resembling any other yuppie residence in the city. "Not bad," Venkman commented, fumbling for the switch. "Very nouveau."
"We're not here to advise on the interior decoration," Egon grumbled, pointing his PKE meter around like a sword. "Low to moderate level concentrations in three specific locations: attic, ground floor rear and basement."
Ray pulled his thrower from its rack, bringing it level with both hands. "Let's split up and get this over with."
Doubt creased Venkman's dark brow; he hesitated just inside the door. "Wait, I ... think we should stick together on this one. Something doesn't feel right."
"It doesn't feel right?" Ray poked his head behind an ornate French sofa, reemerging with cobwebs trapped in his hair. "That's real scientific, Peter," he jeered, pulling sticky strands away from his mouth. "Can you give me an equation on that?"
"The PKE concentrations are low," Egon pointed out in a bored drone, just 'happening' to step between the two glaring men. "Nothing even remotely dangerous."
"Don't tell me the great Peter Venkman is afraid," Ray jibed mercilessly, ducking around Spengler's intervening form.
"I'm not afraid," the dark-haired Ghostbuster retorted smoothly. "I thought you'd want someone around to hold your hand -- as usual."
That struck a nerve. Ray's admittedly tenuous hold on his temper stretched to breaking, held, then died. "I'll take the attic," he snapped, heading for the stair.
Leaving the main floor to his blond companion, Peter chose the cellar, finding the steps off the kitchen. The light switch was not immediately apparent, so he began to inch down, feeling his way along. "Light must be along here somewhere," he muttered, still smarting from Ray's remark. He felt along the wall and stepped down ... onto nothing.
"Yike!" Hurriedly, he backpedaled, catching his balance only by slapping his thrower barrel against the concrete. "Board's missing. I'd better go back for a flash." He turned cautiously, but found the kitchen's light blocked by a shadowy figure standing between himself and the door.
"Oh, boy," Peter whispered, desperately bringing up his weapon. He was too late; the figure was upon him in a flash wrapping him in fold upon fold of velvet blackness. The thrower dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers as the air vanished with the light. Valiantly, Peter fought, flailing out with both fist and boot, but could find no target against which to strike. Soon he knew nothing but the heavy lassitude of suffocation, and then he knew nothing at all.
I told them we should have stuck together, was his last thought before the night swept him away.
***
The attic turned out to be a musty, windowless affair, piled high with boxes and bags and years of accumulated neglect. Ray stepped out of the stairwell, narrowly avoiding a large rat which scurried out of the way. "Oh, gosh," he gulped, looking around warily. "I hate rats."
Treading carefully, he began a point-by-point search of the high ceilinged room. The attic ran the length of the house, and the light of the single bulb he found did little to illuminate its nether regions. Systematically examining each nook and corner, he worked in a circle pattern, finally ending his circuit back by the stairwell.
"Nothing," he said aloud, disliking the quiet. "And I can't do anything unless I can get something specific." He paused, thinking furiously, something which seemed to have become harder of late. "I ... guess I ... could try an ultra-low level bombardment and see if I can force a nether- entity to show." He adjusted the setting on his proton pack, cradling his thrower in the crook of his arm. His hand had swollen badly over the past few hours, and he was starting to regret the stubborn pride which had prevented him from confessing his liability to the others. Dials set to satisfaction, he pressed the firing button, playing a stream of low-speed protons around the room. With little power and no heat, there was no possibility of fire, but the light show did elicit a satisfying collection of moans and wails from various corners of the room.
"Ah-ha! Got you!" he crowed triumphantly. He adjusted the setting higher and took a single step backward. "Ready...." Unfortunately, that single step was his undoing. In the murky light he was unable to see the single form which did appear: an all-too-human hand at ankle height. In midstep and off balance, Ray had no way to catch himself when the hand grabbed the cuffs of his trouser and yanked upwards, precipitating him backward down the stairs. He tumbled head over heels down the steep incline, landing at the bottom in an untidy heap. The world, however, continued to revolve sickeningly and movement hurt. "You were right, Peter," Ray whispered before passing out.
***
Egon's bland expression revealed nothing, but inwardly he fumed, as angry with himself as he was with his colleagues. For days now he'd striven to distance himself from the tensions in the firehouse and to restore some of his habitually phlegmatic nature. He'd been unable to attain the proper scientific detachment he needed to examine himself -- or anything else -- properly, and this had worried him all the more. Absently, he patted his stomach which had been mildly upset lately. "Swell," he rumbled sourly. "I'm probably getting some disease on top of everything else. Something one of those cretins brought in -- that reprobate Venkman, no doubt."
Starting in the living room, Spengler worked his way through the ground floor, finally ending his search in the area of highest PKE concentration, the rear bedroom. It was a neatly furnished chamber, decorated in maroon and pink, sporting an armchair, a queen sized bed and Sears TV on the nightstand.
Slowly wending his way through the furniture, Egon examined every piece carefully, puzzled when his meter registered identical readings for each item. "Odd," he muttered, studying his results intently. "Everything is carrying the exact same valence, as though it were ... set ... deliberately?" Ice blue eyes widened in realization. "Peter was right! It's a set-up!"
"Yes, it is," a smooth voice answered from the door.
Egon spun, wildly scrambling for his thrower, and ran right into a hard knuckled fist delivered precisely to the point of his chin. Egon went down without a sound.
"So sorry I had to do that, Dr. Spengler." The fist belonged to the tall, handsome man who had invaded the firehouse earlier. He positioned himself over Egon's limp body, rubbing his knuckles. "I couldn't take a chance on your detecting my servants and neutralizing them before they could accomplish my purposes, could I?'
There was no answer from Egon, not that the bearded man seemed to expect one. He picked up the unconscious Spengler, hoisting him over one shoulder as he would a sack of grain. "Nothing to say, Dr. Spengler?" the man went on conversationally. "Have it your way then. I guarantee you'll be doing a lot of talking -- in my own good time."
***
"Not exactly the Amityville Horror," Ray commented to no one in particular.
"PKE readings show above normal paranatural activity in the area," Egon announced from the back seat, "but nothing noteworthy." He fiddled with his meter, adjusting several knobs. "Several sets of readings; I'd say the house is the sight of severe...."
"Oh, shut up, Egon," Peter snapped from the passenger's seat. "We know what 'paranatural activity' means." He paused, then reached resolutely for the car door handle. "We're getting nowhere sitting here, troops. Come on."
The others obeyed with a decided lack of grace and began to assemble the equipment they would need. Ray slipped into his pack and stood regarding the house with a puzzled frown. "It's so ... unhaunted looking," he said aloud. "Like something out of Better House and Gardens. Hard to believe this place needs our services."
"Shallow observations notwithstanding," Egon remarked bitingly, "We do have a job to do. Ray, you get...."
"Get it yourself!" Stantz snapped, glaring defiantly into Egon's tight face. "I'm not your slave."
"I simply thought..." Egon's bass grew, if anything, deeper yet. "...that you would want to make yourself useful. For once."
Ray took an angry stop towards the taller man, brown eyes promising violence; Egon held his ground. Peter intervened before blood could be spilled. "Save it, men," he ordered, slipping into his 'team leader' mode. "We're on a call."
Stantz and Spengler stared at each other truculently another long moment, then Egon broke contact, turning on his heel and fetching his proton pack. Ray finished buckling his own harness, Peter following suit, and soon the three were trudging up the long driveway to the house.
"Do we have a key?" Ray asked as they neared the door.
"Leave it to you to think of it now," Egon muttered disparagingly.
"The key's under the mat." Peter spoke quickly, forestalling another bout, but inwardly he consigned both his partners to eternal flames. "The new owner told Janine that he was spending the next week in Hawaii; they want the house ready for habitation by the time they get back. Provided we leave enough of it to habitate," he joked weakly.
"Damages are covered in our service contract," Egon pointed out, stooping to search for the key. It was there as promised, nestled in a plastic bag neatly tagged Ghostbusters. "Trusting sorts; anyone could have found it here."
Peter peered into one shuttered window, striving to see inside. "Let's just hope the owner paid his electric bill -- I hate working in the dark."
Egon used the key and the door opened at a touch, spilling sunlight into a roomy, modern interior resembling any other yuppie residence in the city. "Not bad," Venkman commented, fumbling for the switch. "Very nouveau."
"We're not here to advise on the interior decoration," Egon grumbled, pointing his PKE meter around like a sword. "Low to moderate level concentrations in three specific locations: attic, ground floor rear and basement."
Ray pulled his thrower from its rack, bringing it level with both hands. "Let's split up and get this over with."
Doubt creased Venkman's dark brow; he hesitated just inside the door. "Wait, I ... think we should stick together on this one. Something doesn't feel right."
"It doesn't feel right?" Ray poked his head behind an ornate French sofa, reemerging with cobwebs trapped in his hair. "That's real scientific, Peter," he jeered, pulling sticky strands away from his mouth. "Can you give me an equation on that?"
"The PKE concentrations are low," Egon pointed out in a bored drone, just 'happening' to step between the two glaring men. "Nothing even remotely dangerous."
"Don't tell me the great Peter Venkman is afraid," Ray jibed mercilessly, ducking around Spengler's intervening form.
"I'm not afraid," the dark-haired Ghostbuster retorted smoothly. "I thought you'd want someone around to hold your hand -- as usual."
That struck a nerve. Ray's admittedly tenuous hold on his temper stretched to breaking, held, then died. "I'll take the attic," he snapped, heading for the stair.
Leaving the main floor to his blond companion, Peter chose the cellar, finding the steps off the kitchen. The light switch was not immediately apparent, so he began to inch down, feeling his way along. "Light must be along here somewhere," he muttered, still smarting from Ray's remark. He felt along the wall and stepped down ... onto nothing.
"Yike!" Hurriedly, he backpedaled, catching his balance only by slapping his thrower barrel against the concrete. "Board's missing. I'd better go back for a flash." He turned cautiously, but found the kitchen's light blocked by a shadowy figure standing between himself and the door.
"Oh, boy," Peter whispered, desperately bringing up his weapon. He was too late; the figure was upon him in a flash wrapping him in fold upon fold of velvet blackness. The thrower dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers as the air vanished with the light. Valiantly, Peter fought, flailing out with both fist and boot, but could find no target against which to strike. Soon he knew nothing but the heavy lassitude of suffocation, and then he knew nothing at all.
I told them we should have stuck together, was his last thought before the night swept him away.
***
The attic turned out to be a musty, windowless affair, piled high with boxes and bags and years of accumulated neglect. Ray stepped out of the stairwell, narrowly avoiding a large rat which scurried out of the way. "Oh, gosh," he gulped, looking around warily. "I hate rats."
Treading carefully, he began a point-by-point search of the high ceilinged room. The attic ran the length of the house, and the light of the single bulb he found did little to illuminate its nether regions. Systematically examining each nook and corner, he worked in a circle pattern, finally ending his circuit back by the stairwell.
"Nothing," he said aloud, disliking the quiet. "And I can't do anything unless I can get something specific." He paused, thinking furiously, something which seemed to have become harder of late. "I ... guess I ... could try an ultra-low level bombardment and see if I can force a nether- entity to show." He adjusted the setting on his proton pack, cradling his thrower in the crook of his arm. His hand had swollen badly over the past few hours, and he was starting to regret the stubborn pride which had prevented him from confessing his liability to the others. Dials set to satisfaction, he pressed the firing button, playing a stream of low-speed protons around the room. With little power and no heat, there was no possibility of fire, but the light show did elicit a satisfying collection of moans and wails from various corners of the room.
"Ah-ha! Got you!" he crowed triumphantly. He adjusted the setting higher and took a single step backward. "Ready...." Unfortunately, that single step was his undoing. In the murky light he was unable to see the single form which did appear: an all-too-human hand at ankle height. In midstep and off balance, Ray had no way to catch himself when the hand grabbed the cuffs of his trouser and yanked upwards, precipitating him backward down the stairs. He tumbled head over heels down the steep incline, landing at the bottom in an untidy heap. The world, however, continued to revolve sickeningly and movement hurt. "You were right, Peter," Ray whispered before passing out.
***
Egon's bland expression revealed nothing, but inwardly he fumed, as angry with himself as he was with his colleagues. For days now he'd striven to distance himself from the tensions in the firehouse and to restore some of his habitually phlegmatic nature. He'd been unable to attain the proper scientific detachment he needed to examine himself -- or anything else -- properly, and this had worried him all the more. Absently, he patted his stomach which had been mildly upset lately. "Swell," he rumbled sourly. "I'm probably getting some disease on top of everything else. Something one of those cretins brought in -- that reprobate Venkman, no doubt."
Starting in the living room, Spengler worked his way through the ground floor, finally ending his search in the area of highest PKE concentration, the rear bedroom. It was a neatly furnished chamber, decorated in maroon and pink, sporting an armchair, a queen sized bed and Sears TV on the nightstand.
Slowly wending his way through the furniture, Egon examined every piece carefully, puzzled when his meter registered identical readings for each item. "Odd," he muttered, studying his results intently. "Everything is carrying the exact same valence, as though it were ... set ... deliberately?" Ice blue eyes widened in realization. "Peter was right! It's a set-up!"
"Yes, it is," a smooth voice answered from the door.
Egon spun, wildly scrambling for his thrower, and ran right into a hard knuckled fist delivered precisely to the point of his chin. Egon went down without a sound.
"So sorry I had to do that, Dr. Spengler." The fist belonged to the tall, handsome man who had invaded the firehouse earlier. He positioned himself over Egon's limp body, rubbing his knuckles. "I couldn't take a chance on your detecting my servants and neutralizing them before they could accomplish my purposes, could I?'
There was no answer from Egon, not that the bearded man seemed to expect one. He picked up the unconscious Spengler, hoisting him over one shoulder as he would a sack of grain. "Nothing to say, Dr. Spengler?" the man went on conversationally. "Have it your way then. I guarantee you'll be doing a lot of talking -- in my own good time."
***