Chapter 9: Children of the Soul
"Cherish your visions and your dreams as they are the children of your soul; the blueprints of your ultimate accomplishments." -- Napoleon Hill.
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"They're rebuilding the wind barrier!" Egon snapped. "You have to trap them now!"
Them. The ghosts. The ghosts that had once been people. Living, breathing, intelligent people. People with families. Every person in there was someone's child, someone's parent, someone's spouse. People who would turn to him and ask him what had happened, what meaning there was to any of this senseless slaughter. They would ask him why he hadn't been able to see this coming; why it had taken so long to identify the threat; why they had died.
He didn't have the answers to any of those questions. He even had one more of his own. These people, these people that he had to bust like some kind of otherworldly hate-filled demon: it should have been Humbaba in those traps, not people. People who had committed no crime except to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
How could he tell those families their loved ones were not just dead but that, instead of moving on to wherever it was peacefully dispersed human spirits departed to, their souls rested in a transdimensional prison that contained all the evil and insanity the Ghostbusters had ever protected the world from?
No-one deserved that fate.
In the moment it took a heart to beat a single time, Peter assimilated the impact of Egon's commands, the consequences of his actions, and found himself unable to articulate the sheer magnitude of the decision he was being forced to make.
"This sucks," he whispered and it utterly failed to express everything he was feeling. Instead, he raised his thrower and fired, determined to complete this job as swiftly as possible so that he could unleash his rage on Humbaba, the demon who had forced him - them - into this situation.
In service to the one who had destroyed them, the ghosts had no intention of making it easy for him. Frustrated, he watched as they scattered, moving into position to attack, dodging his stream with ease. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sign of movement. At first thinking it was one of the others, he quickly realised everyone was accounted for. Only Egon was behind him, at the entrance to the garden, and therefore not in view at all.
There was definitely something else there, however, something standing in between him and Egon. Skin prickling with fear, he tried to turn to get a better view of whatever was lurking at the corner of his vision but was jerked to a halt as his stream caught one of the ghosts, almost by accident it seemed. Swiftly, the six converged on him and his vision blurred behind a dizzying, dancing fog. Something touched him then, an icy-cold sensation that rested for the briefest moment on the back of his neck before it pushed forward, seeping through his skin and into his blood, pulsing through his body like a relentless arctic river, spreading that frozen chill through his body in a slow glacial march.
As the numbness spread, he could feel the thrower, now impossibly heavy, slipping from his grasp. Fortunately, the ghosts suddenly deserted him, leaving gasping for breath he couldn't quite draw and fighting to regain sensation in his frozen limbs. The fog dissipated slowly and he quickly turned to see how the others were doing.
He was alone.
He was standing below an open, starless night sky on a dusty plain that seemed to stretch on forever in three directions. There were no ghosts, no Ghostbusters, he couldn't even find any evidence for the existence of New York City.
There was one thing that broken the monotony of the empty plain. In front of him, the earth dropped away into blackness, a sheer drop that gave him a sensation of vertigo just contemplating how deep the cliffs might go. And he was curious he realised suddenly. Curious to see how far down the black pit extended; to know what was at the bottom; to see if the answers to his questions could be found in the anonymous depths. The desire, the need, was burning through him with a heat so great it felt almost as cold as the ghostly touch that had numbed him previously.
He looked around, searching the ground for something he could throw into the pit and discovered there was very little available. The plains were almost impossibly flat. There were no mountains, no hills, no rocks; not even the meandering twist of a riverbed scarred the landscape. His location reminded him of the Great Plains but if there had ever been grassland here it was long gone now. This was a hard, baked earth, parched of water and the soil, dried to the consistency of sand, hung over everything like the dust that coated a forgotten tomb.
With a sigh, he patted himself down and located a coin in one of his pockets. Glancing quickly at it to ensure it wasn't the old battered two-headed coin his father had once given him, he tossed it into the yawning black chasm and waited for the metallic tinkle that would indicate it had reached the bottom.
It never came.
"You could always go down there yourself," a voice mused unexpectedly.
Peter yelped in astonishment as the silence shattered and realised there was someone standing at his side. He scowled and looked around but his environment was unchanged. He was alone, in the middle of a barren wasteland staring into a mysterious abyss that called to his soul with a siren song he was finding difficult to ignore. He stared hard at his new companion, a frail old man, and swallowed hard as he realised he could see right through the thin, wiry frame.
The ghost turned to stare at him and the psychologist froze, words he had been about to speak dying on his lips.
The face was haggard, drawn by lines that testified to a harsh existence. A confusing array of emotions played across the angular features - sadness, pain, anger, hate, hostility, sympathy; all of which seemed focused solely on Peter. Something tingled along the length of the Ghostbuster's spine, a wisp of emotion or a hidden instinct, that told him he was in danger and to back away now before he was lost, before this ghost could touch him.
An instinct that had everything to do with the eyeless sockets that gazed into his face, twin caverns that seemed to reflect the soulless void of the canyon he was standing next to. It looked like one of the six ghosts that had been protecting Humbaba but at the same time he knew it wasn't one of the faces that had encircled him on entering the garden.
Almost before he had a conscious awareness of what he was doing, he took one sharp step backwards and brought his thrower up defensively in front of him. "Whoopie-ti-yi-yo, little dogie," he muttered. "You just hold still while Venkman the Vaquero brings you in to market."
A harsh rasp stirred the lifeless air as the ghost sighed and pursed impatient lips. "Won't work." The voice was dry and brittle, as if the ghost wasn't used to speaking.
"Oh yeah?" Peter challenged. "Well, this is my girl, Ol' Betsy, and all I have to do is throw this here switch and rope you in to join the great ghost ranch in the sky... well, the basement anyway," and to prove his point, he thumbed the switch and braced himself for the recoil.
The ghost leaned forward slightly as the proton gun stuttered briefly into life and then died. "No-one ever believes me when I say that," its breath scraped through the air again and the hollow face lifted to look into Peter's eyes.
Peter wasn't looking at the ghost. He was staring at the thrower in shock. "C'mon girl, it's me, Petey Venkman!" He shook the weapon gently, then pressed the switch again but the gun didn't even twitch this time. "That's the last time I ever put Ray on recharge duty during a cartoon monster marathon," he growled and glared at the ghost.
The ghost smiled at him. The psychologist wasn't entirely sure whether the gesture was meant to be friendly or put the fear of God into him but it was working extremely well at doing the latter. Slowly, the creature began to speak. "I am the inevitable," it announced in a grating whisper. "I am your guide into the darkness, your eyes when you cannot see, your..."
"Look," Peter broke in firmly, waving the ghost into silence with his useless thrower. "You obviously have this little pep talk all worked out and I appreciate the effort, I really do but I'm gonna let you in on a little secret here. I'm not the one who's optically challenged, so if you don't mind, the sooner you get to the point the sooner I can leave."
"Leave? There is only one road," the ghost pointed into the abyss. "And you will need me to get you there."
Peter stared at the ghost, then at the canyon. He could feel the dizzying height of the cliff from four feet away, the light-headed sensation that made him feel as though he was floating several inches off the ground, drifting into the straining embrace of that unyielding darkness. His breath hissed and he scooted back a few feet from both the ghost and the edge. "That's not a road, that's a one way trip into a bad Nigel Kneale spoof! I know I did that 'World of the Psychic' show but seriously, that was a money spinner. A bad money spinner. More of a filler really. The point is, I ain't going down there, Mister, and you can't make me!"
"I'm not here to give you a choice. I'm here to tell you what is." The ghost was starting to lose patience now. "I'm not big on metaphysics so I'll put it to you straight. Life has one purpose and nothing that lives can escape it. There's only one great question. When?" That haggard, broken face seemed to glare sternly at the stubborn psychologist.
Peter could feel the blood draining out of his face and with the retreating warmth, the forgotten chill returned in full. This wasn't happening. This conversation wasn't happening. He had been injured in the garden, maybe badly. His subconscious was afraid and projecting those fears into a form his conscious mind could understand. He wasn't dead. He wasn't dying. This conversation was not happening!
He rounded on the ghost, preparing to launch into a powerful, eloquent speech, full of logic derived from years of psychological experience but the words that formed on his lips failed to materialise in the air.
Behind them, the battle raged. The six ghosts surrounding and mobbing the cold, drained figure slumped on the ground. His eyes scanned the scene frantically. It wasn't... it couldn't be...
No! His voice was a mindless shriek inside his head, unvocalised only because his throat no longer seemed to function.
An out-of-body perception is the penetration of subjective awareness into the transdimensional reality. He could hear his professors at Columbia University reciting the mantra. He could hear himself, standing in their place, lecturing the students when his time for research had come. But he had never experienced it himself; had never believed it truly possible; had always doubted those who had claimed to have experienced it.
He closed his eyes and fought for some semblance of control, something he could cling long enough for him to regain his sense of self. It is an established fact that the incidents of the OBE correlate highly with medical diagnoses of sleep paralysis in a phenomenon now known as projective catalepsy. Unbidden the thoughts floated into his mind and he felt a wild giggle rising as he realised his logical mind sounded a lot like Egon's dry, scientific monologue. Sternly he clamped down on the unstable emotions and fought to concentrate on everything he knew about the situation he was now in. Projective catalepsy, a benign phenomenon not known to be linked to pre-existing health conditions, has been known to catalyse the sufferer's extrasensory perceptions. There, Venkman, you're not dead. You're not dying. No known pre-existing health conditions. See? Stop acting like a girl and wake up!
His eyes snapped open and disappointment flooded him, disappointment that carried with it the bitter tang of fear. He was still standing apart from the struggle, watching the ghosts mobbing the body. He could see the flash of uniform as a leg kicked out, the unruly hair that tumbled into the dusty soil. The ghosts were dragging the body closer to the cliff. In moments they would disappear into the black void that Peter had struggled to resist. Soon, it would be over and the struggle would cease. Forever.
Whoa, back up there, buddy! His mind froze and backtracked swiftly as he stared hard at the battle raging in front of him. The uniform wasn't brown, it was pink. The hair wasn't brown, it was red. Oh God... it wasn't an out-of-body experience, after all!
But he suddenly found himself wishing it was.
"Janine, I'm coming!" He yelled, finding his voice at last as he rushed forward. Forgetting his thrower had failed him once before, he took aim and fired. The recoil almost knocked him off his feet as the proton stream surged forth, scattering the ghosts.
"Janine!" He gasped again as she teetered on the edge of the cliff. Ignoring the ghosts, he dived across the ground, calling forth years of college football experience as he strained to reach her before she was lost to the darkness forever and somehow, he felt his hands close on hers, felt her hands close on him, felt them tumble together into the alien night...
And felt their slide come to an ungracious halt.
Breathing harshly, he opened his eyes and looked around. They had stopped only a few feet below the edge of the cliff. Peter's proton pack was snagged against something. The straps around his shoulders and waist were unbearably tight, cutting off the circulation in his body but he didn't dare move. They were taking the entire weight of two adults and two proton packs. He didn't want to think about how heavy they all were, to do so might encourage whatever luck was with them to desert. Even now, he could hear the material creaking ominously.
He glanced down and found Janine's wide blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on his. "Hold on, Janine," he said softly. "We'll get out of this."
She nodded silently, as if she didn't trust herself to speak and even that movement made his pack shift and their position slide a little. He held his breath and below him heard the secretary do the same. He swallowed and closed his eyes. Supporting the weight of Janine and her proton pack was straining his shoulders. Already, they were aching with fatigue and he knew that if he didn't get them out of this soon, either his grip or his proton pack would fail and they would both tumble into the abyss and die. Slowly, carefully, he looked around, observing that there did actually seem to be a path carved out into the cliff sides. A path made of dead and decayed tree roots, roots that seemed to have snagged his proton pack and were the only things standing between them and death.
Pushing his fear as far back as he could, he concentrated on locating the nearest roots that looked like they could support Janine's weight. To his relief, there were several nearby. With some effort on both their parts, she should be able to make it. He winced as he felt his straps strain again and looked back at Janine. "Your left, two o'clock," he whispered harshly. "Think you can make it?"
She rolled her eyes to the left as if too afraid to move anything else. After a moment, she swallowed thickly and nodded very slightly. "Good. Don't look down, Janine." He waited for her agreement, then braced himself, knowing he was going to have to take her weight no matter what happened. He didn't know if the roots would hold her and the pack both but neither of them could spare a hand to release her pack and ease the load.
Soil poured into the depths below as she struggled for purchase and despite his advice to her, Peter found himself watching the descent of the earth as it tumbled, feeling his gaze being sucked into the pit, feeling the need to join it at the bottom, to let go and tumble peacefully through the air on black, feathered wings.
Janine's sharp cry brought him back to the present with a jolt and his grip tightened instinctively. She had slipped. His grip had relaxed and she had slipped. "Oh God, Janine, I'm so sorry," he whispered.
"Don't let go, Doctor V.," her voice was harsh, her blue eyes shining like clear mountain lakes with her fear.
"No chance of that, Melnitz," his voice was a growl of pain, effort and determination. "I don't pay you enough to die on me."
She smiled wanly and began to inch towards the purchase again, clinging to the roots for her very life but Peter saw immediately it wasn't going to work. The roots were strong, maybe even strong enough to take her weight but with the proton pack, it was more strain than they could bear. His shoulders were beginning to scream with the effort of supporting her and his hold slipped again. Gritting his teeth he hung on but his skin felt cold and clammy. Sweat, he realised, as his grip slipped again. He wasn't going to be able to hold on much longer. She was sweating too; it felt as though he was trying to grasp water.
"Doctor V.!"
He scrambled to improve his grip as she slipped again and felt his proton pack buckle. One of the straps was giving out he realised. If he went now, they'd both die. Dammit, there has to be a way out of here! Desperately, he looked around. He was now at the limit of his reach, unable to move any further without committing suicide but it wasn't enough. He could see that immediately. The roots were giving way, no longer able to stand the extra stress of the proton pack. She was in no position to discard it herself and he couldn't remove it for her without killing himself in the process.
"Oh God!" she gasped, feeling the roots collapse around her.
"Janine, hold on!" he snapped furiously, knowing even as he said it that it was futile. There was nothing for her to hold on to. Nothing, except for him. Gamely she grabbed for him just as her section fell away from under her but his shoulders could no longer cope with the abuse to which they were subjected.
"PETER!" she screamed as his grip failed. The grip he had promised she could rely on. The grip that had been the only thing standing between herself and the abyss. Between herself and death.
The last thing he remembered seeing was the horrified reality of her own death dull her once bright eyes. But long after she had disappeared into the darkness - and each time he awoke from this recurring nightmare - the betrayal in her voice as she screamed his name continued to haunt his soul.