Chapter Five

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

Edgar Allan Poe

As the first heavy drops of rain began to fall around them, the two Ghostbusters stared at one another for a full second, then...

"Follow that bird!" Ray shouted, and they were off, chasing the crow.

The huge, black bird was easy to follow as it swept low over the rain-drenched cemetery. Its raucous call split the still air, almost as if the thing were taunting them. For a moment, Winston entertained the suspicion that it was a little too easy. That the thing had them right where it wanted them, as they raced through the neat rows of tombstones, boots pounding on the sodden ground and hearts pounding in their chests.

Panting, he and Ray had almost reached the edge of the grounds, where manicured grass met gravel road, when the crow wheeled suddenly in the leaden sky. For a frozen instant, it seemed to hang suspended above them, as if getting a last, good look at them - or letting them get a good look at it. Then it gave a powerful downbeat of its massive wings and vanished into the rain. Back into the cemetery.

"Dammit!" Winston bit back a stronger curse as he squinted into the downpour. The thing had been playing with them, leading them on a wild crow chase…and away from Peter's grave. Disgusted, he slapped a hand against his leg.

"Where did it?" Ray's voice was drowned out by a sudden, shrill clamor as the PKE meter in his hand sprang to life again. "What the ?"

Before he could finish the thought, another sound - a high, inhuman shriek - cut him off, mid-sentence.

Ray would have bolted - straight for the source of the still-echoing scream, naturally - if Winston, accustomed to such behavior from his impetuous friend, hadn't grabbed him. He nodded toward the car, parked a few yards away on the gravel road. "Packs first. Then we investigate."

Ray nodded. The Ghostbusters hadn't gone on a bust since that night. But Winston had maintained their equipment in a state of readiness, just in case. You never knew when some Big Ugly might turn up with mayhem on whatever passed for its mind. That was a lesson they had all learned early on. Recent events had only served to drive that lesson home.

So, when they slid the rack out of Ecto's rear hatch, it held four fully-charged proton packs. The two men shouldered the heavy packs with the mindless ease of long-practice, Winston unlimbering his thrower while Ray shielded the PKE meter as best as he could from the rain and squinted at the readings.

"Ray?"

Ray shook his head, frowning in uncharacteristic frustration. "These readings are... weird."

He fiddled with the dials as they jogged back into the cemetery, ignoring the rain streaming down their faces and soaking hair, skin, clothing and equipment alike.

Winston's hands tightened unconsciously on the grip of his particle thrower. "'Weird' how, exactly? 'Wait 'til Egon sees these' weird or 'Cthulu's third cousin is about to eat our brains' weird?"

"The same weird readings we got from that ash-like stuff." Ray's attention was focused almost exclusively on the meter, but he spared Winston a worried glance. "It's coming from..."

He pointed ahead and Winston groaned. They were right back where they'd started from: Peter's grave. He grimaced. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't going to be a good thing?"

Ray didn't answer. He was too busy eying the huge crow perched smugly atop Peter's headstone. The bird mantled, tilted its head to regard them with beady black eyes, then went back to peering down into the open grave.

"What the hell's it doing?" Winston demanded, only to jump when another piercing cry made every hair on his body stand on end. He aimed the thrower at the source of that inhuman wail - Peter's grave. Beside him, Ray did the same, balancing the meter in one hand, the thrower in the other.

Several moments passed, during which neither man so much as blinked. Winston tensed as he spotted movement in the inky shadows of the grave.

They both stared in disbelief as first one muddy hand then another appeared over the lip of the grave. The hands clawed determinedly at the slippery earth, as something fought its way free.

It was pitch black and he was falling, falling forever and forever in the featureless dark with nothing but the rush of his own thoughts for company. No sight, no sound, no sensation but the sense of falling - nothing but the endless dark, inside and out, and the crushing grip of an iron hand squeezing his heart.

And then there was sensation, too much sensation, as he slammed into the unforgiving earth with enough force to drive the air from his lungs and there was pain, oh god there was pain and agony and endless, fiery torment sizzling like acid along every nerve in his body and it was dark, so very dark, and it burned

He thrashed in the darkness, flailing limbs encountering slimy earth-turned-mud and icy water and the darkness was all around him and inside him and it hurt and he opened his mouth and vomited black ash and darkness and the iron fist twisted tighter around his heart and he screamed and screamed and screamed until his throat bled and his lungs emptied and there was nothing and nothing and -

From somewhere above him, the crow called.

It tugged at his frantic, confused mind, a thin silver thread in the endless nothingness. He tried to go to it, to answer its call, but his body failed him, feet sliding in the mud, hands unable to find purchase on the slippery walls of his prison. He threw his head back and screamed, but there was no sound, no sound - only his mouth, stretched raw and wide and filling with cold, cold rain and the bitter black taste of ashes.

The crow's rough voice scolded him, demanding obedience, and he clawed with mindless determination at the nearest wall until he somehow found his feet and he scratched and tore and dug his fingers into the wounded earth until they bled black and still he fought his way upward, toward the crow and the rain and away from the darkness that was trying to pull him back under and all was cold and dark and pain and the terrible, unyielding purpose growing in his silent heart.

When the top of a familiar head of brown hair appeared over the side of the grave, Ray felt his knees go weak. The PKE meter fell from his suddenly numb fingers and only Winston's hand under his elbow kept him from sinking to the ground as a confused jumble of emotions threatened to short-circuit his brain. For a long moment, he couldn't process what his eyes were telling him.

It was Peter.

It was Peter… and 'how' didn't matter, just so long as it was really Peter, fighting his way back to them. And then the hands clawing at the mud and the wet grass started to slip and fall back - and Ray leapt forward, instinct taking over where rational thought had failed.

He grabbed a handful of Peter's brown jumpsuit, dug in his heels and pulled, desperate to get Peter out of that awful hole and onto solid ground. Irrational as it might be, a part of him insisted that if he lost his grip on Peter now, it meant surrendering him back to the grave - and that, Ray would not do. Not willingly. Not without a fight.

Gritting his teeth, ignoring the cramping of his fingers, the wrenching in his shoulders, Ray yanked upward for all he was worth. For a moment, it seemed that it would not be enough. Then, with a suddenness that left him sprawled on his back, balanced like a turtle on his proton pack, he was rewarded with a double-armful of psychologist. Rolling onto his side, Ray wrapped his arms tightly around his friend, feeling the slender body tremble as if in agony.

"It's okay, Peter," he murmured soothingly, wanting desperately to do something to ease Peter's obvious distress. Ray rolled carefully to one side, then sat up slowly, cradling the shaking form of his friend. "It's okay, now. Everything's okay."

He looked up helplessly at Winston.

For his part, Winston had snatched up the fallen PKE meter and, with a certain reluctance, turned it toward the entity lying in Ray's arms. The meter shrilled, needle swinging instantly toward the high end of the scale. Winston's eyebrows shot up as he stared at the reading, then drew together in an unhappy frown as he looked back at the... being... that wore Peter's face. His free hand clenched on the stock of his thrower.

"Winston?" Ray's voice, soft and edged with concern, pulled him from his unpleasant thoughts.

"Class nine, Ray. Negative valence."

Ray looked down at the shaking body he still clutched tightly against his chest. Peter's hands were caked with mud and bits of what looked like more of that black ash, his fingers twisted in the soggy material of Ray's jacket. His head was bent, pressed against Ray's shoulder as silent sobs wracked his body. Peter shivered almost continually, as if in unbearable pain.

"It's Peter, Winston," Ray said, breathless but firm. His eyes were wide as he stared down at the brown jumpsuit, the 'no ghost' patch on the shoulder unmistakable despite the mud streaking it. He didn't need that to confirm what he already knew in his heart, though. "It's Peter, I know it is. I don't know how and, right now, I don't care. But it is him."

"Ray-"

"I don't care!" When Peter flinched away from his outburst, Ray immediately tightened his grip, not wanting to let go. He absently rubbed soothing patterns on Peter's back and lowered his voice to whisper, "I don't care what the meter says. Class four, class nine, it doesn't matter - This is Peter and we have to help him!"

The conviction in Ray's eyes, as they bored into Winston's, couldn't be denied. Winston wasn't convinced... but he couldn't deny the ache in his heart that wanted to believe. He shut off the meter, and lowered the barrel of his thrower so that it was not, quite, aimed at the creature that might or might not be Peter Venkman.

But he didn't put the weapon away.

"All right, Ray." He stepped closer, still cautious, and studied the man in Ray's arms. If it was Peter, he was in rough shape. "Better let me look at him, then."

Ray nodded. While he was reluctant to let go of Peter, he could tell his friend needed help. The lean body shook as if palsied, hands clenching spasmodically as fresh tremors threatened to tear Peter apart from the inside out.

Ray bit his lip, then carefully lowered Peter to the ground. He kept one hand on Peter's arm, as if afraid Peter would disappear if he let go completely. "What's wrong with him?"

The question was barely a choked whisper, but Winston caught it. He shook his head as he knelt beside them. "I don't know, Ray."

He reached for Peter's wrist, intending to check his pulse. But the minute his fingers brushed Peter's skin, the other man screamed as if Winston had stabbed him.

Stunned by the unexpected reaction, both Ghostbusters could only gape as Peter yanked his arm away from the contact. As if it had been injured, he cradled his arm against his chest, rocking back and forth and keening in agony.

Winston recovered from his shock and reached for him again, but Peter scuttled frantically away from the touch, his green eyes wide and staring before they closed tightly. His back pressed hard against the headstone, Peter wrapped his arms around himself, seeming to shrink in on himself as he retreated mentally as well as physically.

It took Winston a second to find his voice and, even then, he had to swallow past a lump in his throat before he could force the words out. "...Ray. You try."

Ray gazed sadly at their friend. Peter, head down and rain dripping from his matted brown hair, was huddled against the tombstone that bore his name. He looked as if he would bolt at any moment. Movingly slowly and cautiously, as if approaching a wild, wounded animal, Ray eased toward him. He stretched out a tentative hand, just brushing his fingertips against Peter's sleeve. All the while, he crooned soft nonsense meant to reassure. "It's all right, it's all right, no one's gonna hurt you..."

His fingers closed around Peter's upper arm. He could feel the muscles tense, knotted and trembling beneath his hand. Peter's entire body was coiled and ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

"It's okay, Peter. It's gonna be okay, I promise." Ray risked a quick glance at Winston. In that same, soothing voice, he murmured, "I think I've got him. Help me - but don't touch his skin."

"Right."

As Ray had done, Winston approached with deliberate care, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening. He crouched beside Peter and slowly extended his hand. Peter didn't seem entirely aware of them, anymore. His eyes were tightly shut, his breathing harsh and ragged.

Winston wrapped both hands around Peter's arm, getting a firm grip on his sleeve, then shot a look at Ray. "Now, what?"

"We have to get him to Ecto."

Between the two of them, they managed to haul Peter to his feet, though they ended up supporting most of his weight. His body sagged, as if he had used up all his strength and was teetering on the edge of consciousness. He was unresponsive, even though Ray called his name at frequent intervals, talking to him every unsteady step of the long walk back to the car.

Winston's mind raced. He kept thinking about Charlie Venkman's enigmatic words - and the class nine PKE reading. He couldn't stop seeing Peter as he clawed his way out of that open grave. If this was really Peter, how had he returned from the dead? Was he still the man they had known and loved as a brother... Or was he something else, something beyond their understanding?

Winston couldn't forget the terrible screams that had issued from Peter's mouth, and the way he had scrambled away from Winston's hand on his wrist. If this was really Peter...

The sinking feeling in Winston's gut was telling him things had just gone straight to hell.