Chapter 8: The Pale Cast Of Thought

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action," -- William Shakespeare, 'Hamlet.'

Doom.

The word echoed in her mind with the power of a metal vault slamming shut somewhere deep underground. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet and looked around. The only movement was the gentle sway of bushes in the breeze, the wet rustle of young leaves twisting restlessly above her. No birds sang, no insects chirped. Despite the animation, the garden seemed empty, devoid of life.

Cautiously, she began to move through the undergrowth. This was wrong. She wasn't meant to be alone, something was missing... someone was missing and she had to find them. Him, her mind corrected.

She paused. Now why had she thought that? For a moment, she listened to the whispers of the trees around her. There was something dark to their conversation, something... angry. She was surrounded, alone, in hostile territory and a sharp icy chill began to seep slowly through her body. With a shiver of fear, she tugged the collar of her uniform to cover her neck and hurried forward. She had to get out of here.

A moment later, she pulled up short, raising her hand swiftly to stare at it. The hand that had reached out to unthinkingly push branches out of her path as she travelled. The hand that was now coated in a sticky, viscous substance that chilled her skin as if she was holding ice. Ectoplasm, she realised. Slimer?

She didn't say his name out loud. She couldn't force the word through her dry throat and chapped lips. She looked at her hand again. Grey ectoplasm. Not green. Not Slimer. Grey. Grey as the base coat on the firehouse walls. Grey as a storm cloud. Grey as death, her mind supplied helpfully.

Her gasp was involuntary and quiet but it seemed to freeze the landscape around her. Bushes stopped moving, trees stopped swaying. The silence pressed in on her tightly until she was certain every plant in the garden could hear the blood that was thumping against her eardrums. Something cold trickled slowly down the back of her neck, an icy caress that froze even her heart that rattled her ribcage so loudly. Even her breathing stopped.

Then she was moving, racing through the garden, slapping aside the bushes that interfered with her passage, ignoring the clammy feel of once familiar leaves as they touched her exposed skin.

She broke free of the undergrowth and skidded to a stop in the clearing, gasping for breath. Revelling in the feel of the warm sun that filtered down from the sky above driving away the chill that had taken her body hostage she sighed, lifting her head, allowing her muscles to relax slowly.

The warmth of the sun vanished with the finality of a glacial march as her eyes fell on the scene before her. Six bodies, laid out in a line, as if they had been standing to attention and knocked over, one by one, like toy soldiers. Frozen as if trapped in a moment of time, they were preserved in every perfect detail. A hand in the process of reaching out to touch something; eyelashes lowered midway through a blink; lips parted in arrested conversation; the rosy hue of embarrassed pleasure shading pale cheeks. Had it not been for their unnatural stillness, they might have seemed naturally asleep.

She edged forward, eyes peeled for a sign of what was wrong with them, something to explain how they had come to be like this. Something that could explain the inexplicable. But there was nothing to see. They looked as though they were all in perfect health.

Slowly, she reached out to touch the nearest body, to press her hands against the skin. Unsure of what the sensation would be like, expecting to feel the cold stiffness of death, she braced herself and took a deep breath but when her fingers finally grazed the skin, it felt pliant, alive. There was more warmth here than in her own body. How was that possible? She wondered vaguely, looking at the still face in awe.

Then the eyelids flashed open. In the blood-stained sockets where eyes had once stood, the answer was clear to see and, unable to stop herself, she began to scream.

Something sharp and painful pierced her ears, causing her to jerk back but she found herself held in place by an immovable trap. Warm, unyielding, it snaked around her upper body, binding her arms and making it difficult to breathe. Her scream died away in a ragged gasp as she fought for air and her awareness of the garden began to fade.

Slowly, eyes swam into view and found focus. A pair of very worried eyes, their normal olive green shade almost black with emotion. She could hear her name being repeated in her ear over and over and felt her awareness expand to include the hoarse throb in her throat, the weight pressed on top of her and the pressure of the old couch springs digging into the small of her back. He wasn't the tallest Ghostbuster but he was definitely heavier than she had expected him to be.

"Peter?" she mumbled in confusion, feeling the dull throb flare into a searing ache as she forced her voice to work.

"Janine?" he sounded breathless, as if he was trying to recover from strenuous exertion.

"If you don't have a good reason for being up close and personal I'm gonna put you in traction."

Relief lightened the colour of his eyes, followed swiftly by a flush of embarrassment as her words sank in. With a tiny, sly smile that lasted only a second, he pushed himself off her and sat up.

She blinked sleepily. Her head was aching as if she had hit it in a fall and for the life of her she couldn't remember where she was or what she was doing lying on a couch. She watched as the psychologist flashed a strangely sheepish, apologetic look to someone standing just beyond her field of vision but his expression became oddly haggard as his attention shifted to watch her struggle into a sitting position.

She was in the rec room of Ghostbusters Central lying in a makeshift bed that had once been the two-seater couch. Nearby, the three-seater couch was also made out into a bed. Currently unoccupied, the hastily tossed blankets and pillows indicated it had been deserted in a hurry. Opposite her, the two comfy chairs were also submerged in a pile of pillows and sleeping bags. A pasty-faced Ray was struggling out of one, Slimer hovering over his head, gazing at her with huge eyes. By the door, Winston still held Egon's arm in a tight grip and the faces of both men mirrored the shock she had seen in Ray and Slimer's stares.

Everyone was in nightwear, including her. She leaned forward slightly as her memory returned. The confrontation with the ghosts, the hypothermia, being evicted from her apartment by Egon and Winston, the five of them deciding to camp out in front of the TV instead of separating to different rooms to sleep...

The dreams...

The breath left her lungs with an almost audible thump. Ice began to claw its way through her skin again as she remembered the gaze. The bloody, eyeless stare that had found her in the garden, that had followed her to the hospital, that was staring at her from the opposite end of the couch, leaning forward to grab her, to caress her with its deathly touch, to coat her with its ectoplasmic shroud...

"Janine?" Peter asked sharply, then started as she cried out in shock. "Janine!" he snapped and grabbed her quickly.

Her eyes refocused on him for a moment, then she reached up to press her hands against the side of her head, crumpling against the back of the couch. "Head hurts," she hissed.

"I'll get that!" Ray stumbled over his sleeping bag and charged past Winston and Egon before anyone else could react.

As the engineer clattered loudly in the kitchen, Winston released Egon and followed the physicist over to the others. He was just making himself comfortable on the coffee table when Ray returned with a glass of water and some painkillers.

"This should help," he said sympathetically as she gratefully knocked back the medication.

She shuddered. "Thanks," she muttered. She put the glass down and then gave them all a sharp stare. With Peter perched on the edge of the couch by her feet, Egon having shifted her pillow to make room for himself by her head, and Winston and Ray hovering around the coffee table, she was beginning to feel like she had been surrounded. "Guys, go back to bed," she said firmly. "It's just a bad dream."

"That didn't sound like 'just a bad dream'." Peter told her dryly.

"Yeah, Janine. You were screaming like you were being tortured." Ray's tone was concerned.

"You got that one right." Winston agreed firmly, spotting her flinch at Ray's words.

She twisted around on the couch until she was able to get a better look at Egon's expression. "I suppose you're going to side with them?" she demanded irritably.

"Yes." His voice sounded like a steel trap slamming shut in front of her face. Involuntarily, she found herself drawn back into the dream and she could feel the cavernous whispers that had narrated the litany of her fate begin pressing in on the edges of her mind. Her vision wavered and for a moment, she was back in the garden, staring at the eyes. The eyes that no longer existed.

"Janine!"

She blinked as she found herself staring into worried blue eyes, Egon's grip almost painfully tight on her shoulders. The weight of it was too much, she could feel it suffocating her and her muscles caved. She sagged as darkness claimed her vision and it took her tired brain a moment to register the fact that she had merely closed her eyes. "I can't do this a third time," she whispered, her voice drooping with exhaustion.

Egon's grip shifted as he enfolded her into a hug. There was silence for a few moments but the secretary didn't say anything more.

Winston glanced at Peter, expecting him to chime in with something either witty or psychological but nothing came. The psychologist was staring at Janine with a worn, unfocused gaze, as if he wasn't quite seeing her but watching something else that lay beyond her, something no-one else could see. The mechanic frowned uneasily. There was something familiar in Peter's eyes. Something he had seen in Janine's eyes at her apartment and which was clearly visible on her face now. Something lost, something... broken.

"Do what for a third time, Janine?" Ray asked at last, more intimidated by the oppressive silence than any answer he might receive.

"Dream," she mumbled into Egon's night-shirt. "I haven't slept... in..." she paused and with a visible effort lifted her head again. "Since the garden," she finished wearily.

The engineer shifted uncomfortably as she turned her tired gaze on him. Her eyes were normally an astonishing, vivid blue - almost lapis lazuli in their intensity. He had never seen anyone else with eyes quite that shade before but now they seemed pale, almost washed-out, like a cloudless winter sky after a snowstorm. It made him nervous, it made him remember... He swallowed. Now, he told himself firmly. If not now, never. He sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Three nights, Janine," he said softly. "And... and I haven't been sleeping either."

Aware that the others had turned all their attention on him now, he ignored them and plunged on. "I... I'm walking through the garden, enjoying the scents. I can smell roses, jasmine, fresh-mowed grass... the perfume of the women walking past me on the path..." he swallowed again. "Then I realise I'm asleep and I open my eyes but it's still dark and I can't see anything. But I can... smell... something. At first, it smells like fresh earth, a stale compost heap nearby. I think I'm back at Cousin Sam's farm. I can smell the cows outside so I sit up to close the window. But I'm not lying in bed, I'm lying on soil. I'm lying in soil. I climb to my feet and the smell gets worse. It's all around me - in the air like smoke, in the earth, my clothes and hair stink of it. I try to get out of the hole by using a nearby stone to lever myself up but I can't get a grip and the stone slips..."

His face was white and his words tumbled over themselves. For a moment he didn't continue then he breathed once and forced himself to go on, this time at a slower pace. "It's a tombstone," he whispered in a shaky voice. "Here Lies Doctor Raymond Stantz... I'm sitting in a grave. My grave." He stopped again and felt Winston grip his arm comfortingly. He tried to smile at the gesture but his lips refused to respond. "That's when I realise I'm not alone. I look up... and around me are six people. They look weird in the darkness, like they have a fake suntan... or maybe they're sunburned. Then I realise. They are burned. They're burned... so badly..." he wavered, tears begin to form in his glazed eyes. "And it... it's that I can smell. The burns. The dead skin. The flesh..." his voice broke.

"Ray..." Winston began but stopped as Ray shook his head savagely and staggered on, his tone numb - as if he had promised himself that he wouldn't stop until he had said everything he wanted to say no matter how hard it was for him to say it.

"They are all smiling at me, leering and that's when they raise their shovels. Shovels filled with earth. They throw it on top of me and I fall back into the grave as they cover me with soil... only it's not soil. It's maggots. Living, swarming, wriggling..." his voice hissed in a sharp gasp. "And... and that's when I wake up!"

The silence in the room was thick with tension and it was Ray who broke it first. "It's the smell," he whispered. "I can't stop thinking about the smell. It's everywhere... the street, here, in the kitchen when I try and cook. I shower constantly. I've washed my uniform five times. But I can still smell it on me!" He sank his head into his hands and felt the weight of Winston's arm around his shoulders. "God, I can still smell it on me!"

"For me it's the eyes." Janine whispered softly, reaching out to touch his hand. "Everywhere I look, I can see their eyes," she managed a tremulous smile. "Except they don't have any eyes. They've been... they've been pulled out. There's black holes. Dripping blood. And they call to me, Ray. They want to drag me down there... into the dark. To be with them." She stopped, then squared her shoulders defiantly. "In the dark. Where the only sound is the blood dripping off the walls."

Ray squeezed her fingers gently then released her to run his hands through his hair and quickly wipe his eyes. "I could deal with this better if I could only get a few hours sleep. But every time I close my eyes..."

She nodded in understanding. "I can feel their eyes watching me even now," she admitted softly. She hesitated. "I thought it was just me."

"It's not just you," Winston said quietly. "I'm having them too." He nodded to Ray. "It's the smell. I've smelled it before. It's not death. It's beyond death. It's neglect. It's something I haven't had to face since 'Nam. And it was one of the hardest things I had to come to terms with when I came home." He released his grip on Ray and leaned forward, looking at both of them. "It's okay to feel disgust," he told them, his voice soft but firm. "It doesn't make you less human. No-one deserves what happened to those folks. There's nothing they can do now but it's okay for us to be angry for them. They need us to be angry for them. We need to be angry for them. Why else are we fighting this monster if not to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else?" He looked at Peter for confirmation and frowned again. There was no help from the psychologist forthcoming, he realised, nor would there be. Peter wasn't watching him, he was staring through him, lost in his own distant world, his green eyes reflecting horrors Winston didn't want to imagine. "Peter?" he asked.

The psychologist jumped and looked at him, eyes refocusing abruptly. "Yeah?" The tone was light enough but Winston wasn't fooled anymore.

"You're having them too, aren't you?" He asked bluntly. Sometimes the blunt approach was the only one that worked on Peter.

Peter shrugged. "Sure," he said easily and smiled a reassuring smile at both Janine and Ray. "It shows us we're human, that's all."

"And it's good to talk about it and get it in the open." Winston pressed on doggedly.

Peter turned his attention on Winston, emotions now locked behind his familiar cocky grin. "You said it, Doctor Zee."

The mechanic scowled at him. That grin hadn't reached the normally animated green eyes and this time, he wasn't going to let Peter get away with it. "So, how are you sleeping, Peter?"

The psychologist's hundred-watt smile dimmed but managed to stay fixed in place. "Oh, you know. Between Egon's snoring, Ray's tossing and your mumbling, I'm not exactly getting my beauty sleep here. I'm thinking of getting a restraining order against you guys actually. Doctor Venkman being seen in decent society without his shut-eye? It's a public health hazard!"

Winston leaned forward. "How are the nightmares?" he demanded relentlessly.

"Bad smell, spooky eye sockets. Ray and Janine said it all." The psychologist's answer was quick and calm.

The mechanic gazed steadily at him and Peter stared defiantly back. Winston glanced across at Egon, who had been silent through the entire discussion. The physicist was gazing thoughtfully at Peter but met his gaze as the mechanic turned towards him. He nodded slightly and Winston returned his attention to Peter. "Okay, man, whatever you say."

His tone was agreeable enough but Peter got the message. Winston had only backed off because Egon had desired it. That didn't mean Winston was going to let the subject rest; that meant from now on, Winston and Egon would be joining forces to find out what he was hiding. He didn't want to talk. They were determined to make him.

And that was a confrontation Peter Venkman, Doctor of Psychology, wasn't looking forward to at all.