New york, 1985.

Summer

In the wake of what the new yorkers had come to call the "great blow-up" (even though the event itself was anything but great and had nothing to do with wholesale) Ray would have thought that the spiritual energy would be on the down-low for a while. The release of so much energy that eventful day did in fact, neutralize any supernatural energy present in the northern hemisphere over a period of 72 hours.

But after that period, it was pretty much back to normal.

or well...

"Remind me why I still do this shit?" Winston wheezed, his eyes closed.

"I'd rather not, I'm actually enjoying this." Peter replied, but it was with a similar wheeze in his own voice nonetheless.

"You can't be serious."

The rather rundown but still somehow resplendent The Loew's Canal Theater hadn't been open for business since the fifties. Its many plush seats, now motheaten, had never been used since those days, and the once polished stage was now only a place for drug addicts and runaway strays to sleep on.

But it was, due to unforeseen circumstances, open tonight. Its old crowd had returned, the ushers were all in position and more importantly – so was its star.

The only problem was the fact that none of them were alive.

A call had been put through at the new temporary Ghostbusters HQ (the repairs to their old place was taking ages) around 11 pm at night from a tenant above the old theater, her old, withered voice tired and confused.

"You see dearie, I keep hearing old Sophie Dearing's voice from downstairs – and while she is a lovely singer, I know for a fact that she's been dead for over 50 years."

They were working half-shifts that night – it usually worked out alright, they were "pros" after all.

But it turns out that a team of two is not enough to take care of a whole theater jampacked with old patrons – dead, haughty and determined to stay in their seats. Not to mention the star of the show – the once decadent and glamorous Dearing had in death turned into a more frightening version of herself – someone who could grow spiderlegs and climb up on the walls.

The ghostly audience weren't much help either – they were a perfect time-preserved image of the Victorian elite, but once provoked, their mouths grew large as funnels – blowing wind and smoke out of them powerful enough to knock you over.

"I'm getting sick of this." Winston muttered, trying to catch his breath as he was momentarily resting on the sticky floor – after having been thrown around the auditorium like a ragdoll.

Peter was not better off – crawling on said floor and hiding between the seats.

"I don't know, charlotte's web is starting to grow on me. Might try to get her number after this."

Their initial plan had been to try and reason with the ghosts – because for some reason whenever Ray did it, the ghosts were quite amicable. But with Peter however…


When they had first arrived, it was not clear at first that anything out of the ordinary was going on. But just as the old lady on the phone had claimed, music did seem to enemate from the old theater. They had entered through a broken window (the main doors were deadbolted – not that it stopped anyone) and walked through the dim and dark lobby – seeing light coming from the gaps in the doors leading to the main auditorium.

Winston and Peter had looked at each other for a beat before slamming the doors in. The beat lasted until Peter broke the silence.

"Do you wanna ditch? Knicks is playing tonight and I can get us tickets."

Winston rolled his eyes and entered the auditorium without an ounce of fear – while Peter followed after him like a sullen child.

None of the ghosts present had been very amused at having the performance of the late Dearing interrupted so rudely – but instead of simply hushing them, everyone seemed hellbent on attacking and demolishing them.

The now spiderlike Dearing was now trying to hunt them down and swallow them whole.

"Man – why do ghosts have to be so cranky all the time?"

"Beats me. We're just two civilised men about town – we don't deserve this kind of abuse." Peter replied, and happened to look up at the ceiling. There was a very old but very real crystal chandelier hanging there, collecting dust. What was it Spengler had said about the mirror effect again? Oh that's right -

"Hey. Let's combine our futile efforts up on that fancy dangling thing."

"The what?!"

"Just do what I do and not as I say! "

And with that, Peter directed shot the proton gun directly towards the crystal – Winston soon doing the same. The effect was that the crystal mirrored the energy of the shot out over the entire auditorium.

While the room practically exploded around them, Peter had a vague recollection of what Spengler actually had said about doing this.

"It's a near perfect method of sucessfully containing as many ghosts as possible in a matter of seconds – but it also has a fatality rate of 95,5 % since the chance of getting hit with it yourself is extraordinary high. Peter – are you even listening?"

The poor crystal chandelier shook and shivered, and you had to close your eyes since it had started to give off an ominous, radioactive glow. Slowly but also very quickly, Peter hunched down.

Just before it exploded, it sent out waves upon waves of lightning strikes across the entire auditorium.

And just like it had been predicted – it worked beautifully. Did it also burn the room to a crisp? Certainly.

"Geez - what happened to you? You look like granny's sunday roast!" Ray exclaimed, cigarette hanging limp in the corner of his mouth.

The two came trudging into the ghostbusters office an hour later, both looking like the aftermath of a cartoonish prank when something explodes right in your face.

"I never liked you." Peter said, dragging a charcoaled hand over Ray's flabbergasted face.


Central Park, later that night…

The only place that ever really slept in new york was the park – the animals within, as well as the trees stood silent and protective of a sweet kind of hush that fell over the place when the sun went down. Even the drunkards who fell asleep on the grassy knolls or against a tree were similarily affected – and instead of shouting or causing a scene, they muttered quietly to themselves.

At night, the park was near deserted and very peaceful.

That was why it was so particularly loud when the water in the cherry hill fountain started to bubble – as if someone was making the water boil by itself. Its very foundation started to shake, and for a moment it looked like it was trying to writhe itself free.

Then, the water began to glow very softly in a pink and reddish hue. The water's consistency changed to something more like oil – slick and glossy.

Suddenly, like a sprout coming out of the earth, a small human hand shot out from the contents of the red goop.