"It was the darndest thing," said elderly Mr. Orbison as he leaned back in his reclining leather chair.
Egon was sitting in a living room surrounded by fancy relics. The coffee table in front of him had sheep hooves carved in its legs. The wallpaper had patterns where he was unsure if he was looking at repeated pink wheat plants or repeated pink corn cobs. The only noise in the room came from the cuckoo clock, which he assumed would put on a miniature animatronic show at the top of every hour. But he had to focus on what this man was saying.
"Before I knew it, the black dog looked at me with its red eyes. I think he put those dreams in my head."
"Do you recall how the dog came into the room?" asked Egon.
"I'm a deep sleeper, so I have no idea. I knew it wasn't a normal dog because it disappeared very quickly."
"In a black fog?"
"Yes! That's it!" The man sat up and nodded his head.
"If you don't mind, I have some questions to ask you."
"Go right on ahead."
"Do you have any health conditions that could impact your quality of sleep?"
"I had a pacemaker put in a couple years ago. My ticker ain't what it used to be."
Egon looked down at his note pad and jotted down what he heard. "Any stressors that could impact your quality of sleep?"
"My wife passed away six months ago after a long battle with cancer."
"Was there anything you were doing the night before that could impact your quality of sleep?"
"I drank some bourbon, not enough to get be drunk but enough to get me relaxed."
Egon wrote down some more notes. "I see… that's all the questions I have to ask of you. Thank you for your time, Mr. Orbison."
"My pleasure." The man put his arm up to his mouth and let out some phlegmy coughs.
Egon left the house with many answers but also none at all. The old man's story shared things in common with other people's stories – a dark creature sitting on one's chest, making it hard to breathe or move – but it had differences as well. For one, he described the creature like a dog. He also didn't mention his dream playing backwards before waking up. And then there were the details that muddied the answer of whether it was a ghost or an illusion, such as the health problems that presented greater risk for sleep paralysis.
Egon had a rule for trying to solve mysteries like this: Always assume the natural before assuming the supernatural. For most of the cases that he dealt with, it was obvious that what they were fighting was supernatural, especially since he had a PKE meter to verify it. It wasn't as obvious here, though. The uncertainty was torturing him. But at the same time, he found this to be thrilling. There were more details to be uncovered. It was a game.
Up next was a trip to the New York public library. By now, those stone lions outside of its grand doors were like friends to him. After looking through the digital card catalogue, he found the books that he needed on demonology. Some were the same ones he had consulted before, at least one was new. He sat at a desk with a little lamp, taking in as much information as possible, scouring the index of each book for either "Demons" or "Demons, Sleep Paralysis."
Therein lay the problem: There was no one sleep paralysis demon. There were many types that came from many cultures around the world. In Brazil and Newfoundland, Canada, the sleep paralysis demon resembled an old lady. Mexicans would claim that a dead body would climb on top of them during their sleep paralysis episodes. There were the kanashibari, vengeful spirits from Japan that bound people in their sleep. The creature that people described to him was animal-like in appearance, so he could safely rule out the ones that resembled dead bodies or old women. But other people couldn't recall the spirit, describing just darkness.
In the Firehouse Lab, he had a map of New York City with push pins sticking in parts where the demons were spotted. There didn't seem to be a clear pattern but the demons often struck the same household more than once.
"Hey, Spengler," said Peter as he walked in with a newspaper and a pen, "What's a ten-letter word for a condiment made from eggs?"
Egon didn't answer, instead swimming in his own thoughts.
"You don't know the answer either, huh?"
"No… I'm just thinking…"
"Thinking about what?"
"This information about the demons. I've been trying to get as much of it as I can but I can't get around the fact that it will only ever be anecdotal. Books don't help that much, either. These horrid creatures that disturb the sleep of New York City residents are besting me and I feel like they're in some void somewhere laughing at my attempts to understand them."
"Somebody's paranoid. I mean, I'm being bested right now but it's by the New York Times."
Egon sighed. He was doing as much as he could but this was like cracking the mystery of the Linear A language.
"Have you tried attracting these demons yourself?"
Egon perked up like he did with his first few sips of coffee.
"That isn't such a bad idea, actually," he said as he rubbed his chin. "We would need to go to a place of a person who has been affected by this who we know well."
"Like Louis? The demons have hit his apartment several times."
"Yes, like Louis."
"So, this means we would be staying at his apartment at night."
"Yes."
"It means that we'll stay there all night."
"Possibly, yes. For the sake of collecting data."
"You know what this means, right, E?"
Egon cocked his head in his confusion. "No, I'm afraid I don't."
"It means SLEEPOVER!" Peter giddily ran to the stairwell and shouted down to the other guys. "Hey, guys! Sleepover at Tully's!"
"Woooo!" cheered Winston from the lower floor.
"He's not going to audit us, is he?" asked Ray.
Ray strolled back toward Egon with a pleasured smirk. "I have some good ideas, huh, Egon?"
"I suppose you have your moments." This was one of those moments where Egon realized that The Ghostbusters were a team and, as such, he didn't need to be alone in his endeavors. This wasn't entirely his burden to shoulder. If he succeeded, they all succeeded. If he failed, they all failed together. That was how he liked it.
"By the way," said Egon, "The word you're looking for is mayonnaise. The ten-letter word for a condiment made from eggs is mayonnaise."
Peter clicked his pen and started writing the letters into the crossword.
"No way!" said Peter, "This day keeps getting better and better!" He put the crossword down and gave Egon a quizzical look. "Mayonnaise is made from eggs?"
"Yes, Peter. And here I thought you had a doctorate."
"Yeah, but not in condiments."
