Chapter Twelve

It is extraordinary how the house and the simplest possessions of someone who has been left become so quickly sordid. Even the stain on the coffee cup seems not coffee but the physical manifestation of one's inner stain, the fatal blot that from the beginning had marked one for ultimate aloneness.
--Coleman Dowell

In the eastern windows, the sky was just lighting up with the rising sun when Peter wandered back into the TV room, plopped down onto the sofa, grabbed the remote, and began flipping through the channels. With a vague sense of horror he discovered that early a.m. television programming consisted almost exclusively of talk shows, infomercials, and ancient reruns. He stumbled across a black and white show that featured cardboard tombstones and rubber bats on very visible strings. For a few minutes, he amused himself by playing "spot the boom mike."

When the novelty wore off, he switched off the set and tossed the remote back onto the coffee table. He sat for a moment, dreading the coming day. Then the realization hit him. Every day, every night, was going to be as long as the one he had just endured -- longer, if he had to spend it cooped up in the firehouse where he couldn't be spotted by the public at large. He shuddered. It was sobering to realize how much time there really was to fill every day when you were denied such basic human activities as eating and sleeping. Not wanting to think about it any more, he shot to his feet and began prowling the room again.

Briefly, he pondered the stereo. But music, too, lacked appeal. Maybe reading would take his mind off things for awhile... Crossing the room to one of the firehouse's many bookcases, he idly ran his fingers over the spines of the books packed sardine-like into the shelves lining the wall--psych, physics, and engineering texts stuffed cheek-to-jowl with assorted Westerns, mysteries, and esoteric volumes of occult lore. The familiar jumble barely registered at first. Then it hit him: all of his books, from Abnormal Psychology to The Brackett Brand, were still there, just as all his clothes were still in his closet, all his junk was still piled in the office downstairs.

Nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

A sudden, unexpected pain made him glance down at his hands. He was surprised to find his fingers curled tightly, short nails digging into his palms deeply enough to draw blood. He forced his hands open and watched sourly as the crescent-shaped wounds healed between one blink and the next. There was no trace of injury, not even blood.. Only fleeting pain and a faint residue of black ash marked where the wounds had been. Disgusted, he wiped his hands on his pants, eliminating the latest evidence that he wasn't the man he used to be. Hell, he wasn't sure he was any kind of man, now. Except the dead kind.

He found himself staring at the neat rows of books, unwanted reminders of the life he had lost. Their sheer normality mocked him. Suddenly, it was more than he could bear. The ever-present darkness, lurking beneath the surface of his emotions, swirled up and out, crashing through the thin barrier of his self-control.

Face locked in an angry rictus, a wordless snarl vibrating in his throat, he tore at the books, sent them crashing to the floor until the shelves were empty and his hands closed impotently on bare wood. Only then did he stop, panting with fury, and survey his handiwork. The former contents of the bookcase lay scattered at his feet, an unholy mess--rather like the one inside his head.

Way to go, Dr. Venkman, he thought, eyeing the aftermath of his tantrum-- and the black streaks bleeding up into his nails from the nailbed. That seemed to be happening a lot lately, as did these bursts of temper. Tear up the firehouse and turn into a freaking undead mime. Next thing you know, you'll be doing that 'walking against the wind' shit and then…well, there's really no hope for you, then.

Suddenly weary beyond words, he slumped against the shelf and rested his forehead on the wood. He could feel the darkness boiling inside him. The relief he had felt when fighting the muggers had been an all-too-temporary thing. Maybe he should go play with Frump again… No, not even that smug bastard deserved what Peter's darkness wanted to do to him.

"Pete? You okay, man?"

Peter tensed, instinctively ducking his head further as he straightened just enough to cross his arms and tuck his hands out of sight beneath them. He didn't want Winston to see him like this. The first time, with Egon, had been bad enough; he didn't really think he was up for a repeat performance. He forced the unpleasant memory away as he fought to get himself back under control.

"Winston. Hey," Peter said finally. "Just doin' a little light reading."

"Yeah, looks like it," Winston said dryly, surveying the damage.

One shoulder lifted in a shrug, Peter shuffled his feet, sending books skittering across the floor. "You know how it is, Zed. I couldn't pick just one."

"Uh-huh." Winston shook his head. "What really happened? Looks like a bookmobile exploded in here."

Peter risked a glance at him. When Winston merely returned the look, Peter realized with a surge of relief that his appearance had returned to normal. "Sorry I woke you."

"No sweat, man." Winston surveyed the pile of books at their feet. With a minute shake of his head, he reached out to settle a hand on Peter's shoulder. "C'mon, I'll help you clean this mess up and we'll--"

Instinctively, Peter shied away from the contact. He regretted it immediately, as the other Ghostbuster stared at him in surprise.

"Pete? What is it? Did I hurt you?"

"No."

"You were never this skittish before," Winston said, gaze narrowing, though whether with suspicion or concern (or a little of both), Peter was uncertain.

Peter gritted his teeth, still struggling with his inner darkness. He wasn't sure he was winning. "Let's just say that invading Dr. Venkman's personal space is not exactly a winning survival strategy and leave it at that. Okay?"

He knelt and started gathering up books, slapping them on the shelves with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Say what? I know that wasn't what it sounded like, so why don't you tell me exactly what it was?" Winston's tone brooked no argument.

Peter turned back to the mess on the floor, grabbed another book and shoved it into place. No way he was getting out of this with anything less than full disclosure. He sighed. It was disconcerting that he had to draw in a breath specifically for that purpose. He pulled in another lungful of air so he could speak, but his voice still sounded thin and strange to his ears. "No, it wasn't a threat."

"I didn't think you were that stupid. So, what was it?"

Peter shelved the last of his Westerns and slumped to sit on the floor, his back against the bookcase. "Sometimes, I …see things." He thumped his bent knee lightly with his fist. "Images, visions, whatever. They're psychic impressions of strong emotions, mostly. When I touch certain things or..."

"…People."

"Yeah." He swiped a hand over his face, raked his fingers through his hair, then dared to meet the other man's dark gaze. "Nothing personal, okay?"

"I was beginning to wonder," Winston said with a strained attempt at lightening the mood. "The only time you haven't jumped away from me was when you pulled that Max Headroom stunt on me."

"Yeah. Sorry about that. And this." Peter shrugged sheepishly. "Things were weird enough without me bringing my personal Psychic Friends Network to the table."

Winston squinted at him. "Funny. You don't look a thing like Dionne Warwick."

In spite of himself, Peter laughed. It wasn't that funny and, frankly, it wasn't much of a laugh. But after a second Winston's smirk split into a full-blown grin and the two of them settled into a companionable silence as they reshelved the books.

By the time the other Ghostbusters awoke, Peter and Winston had breakfast ready and waiting for them. Ray expressed surprise, not only at seeing Peter up before anyone else but also for the fact that he had cooked. Egon simply looked at the food, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the lab. Winston heaved a long-suffering sigh, grabbed some toast and a glass of orange juice, and pursued him.

When they had eaten, the others joined Egon in the lab. The empty juice glass sat forgotten on the table beside his computer and he had apparently eaten all the toast. Peter wondered briefly if that meant Egon had decided Peter wasn't trying to poison any of them or if Egon had just been so absorbed in his work that he forgot who had prepared the food. Now, Egon was deeply absorbed in something on the screen before him. When the others made their presence known, he directed Peter to a nearby stool and grabbed a PKE meter.

More tests. Peter could scarcely contain his joy. The sarcasm seemed to be spilling over a bit, too.

Slouching on the metal stool while Egon pointed the PKE meter at him for what felt like the one-millionth time, Peter reminded himself that all this testing was a good thing. No matter how bored and uncomfortable he was. He was just as eager to prove his identity to the guys as they were to have it proved and it would be a relief to finally have an answer to the burning question of the hour: exactly what had Peter Venkman become?

Egon "hmmed" as he tinkered with the dials on a PKE meter. Slouching against the nearest surface --which happened to be Ray, who patiently bore the extra weight-- Peter asked in a bored drawl, "Was that a good 'hmm' or a bad 'hmm'?"

"Hmm?" Distracted, the physicist didn't even look up from his task.

Peter clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. "You're killing me, here, Egon."

Belatedly, he realized what he had said, clued in by the sudden stillness around him. "Oops. Sorry, guys. Poor choice of words."

Ray gave Peter a shove, forcing him back upright, and Winston rolled his eyes. Egon pretended to ignore him. At least, Peter hoped he was pretending. He sighed. "Look, I know it's…awkward. But we might as well face facts. I'm among the vitally-challenged, the living-impaired. I have wrung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. If I weren't nailed to the perch, I'd be pushing up daisies."

"Maybe you're just pining for the fjords," Ray said, grinning a little.

Peter grinned back, though it quickly faded. "I know it's not what any of us, least of all me, want to hear, but-- I'm dead, guys. Ignoring that little tidbit isn't gonna make it go away. The only real question is what species of spook I am."

"Definitely not a Norwegian Blue." Egon delivered the line with such dry matter-of-factness, it was a moment before Peter realized the physicist had made a joke. From the looks on Ray and Winston's faces, they were just as surprised as he was. Egon didn't seem to realize what he had done, and Peter had no intention of calling his attention to it and ruining the moment.

"I think I may have narrowed it down a bit," Egon said, retrieving a PKE meter and adjusting the display to show the readings the device had stored in its memory. "Ray, I've gone over all the readings you recorded at the cemetery. Were you aware that, in addition to the spectral traces, the meter registered the opening of a minor transdimensional crossrip?"

"Wow! Really?" Ray's eyes lit up with the excitement of scientific discovery. He took the meter and began fiddling with it as Egon had. "Let me see!"

"Want to let the rest of us in on the fun, Egon?" Winston asked. "We didn't see anything like a 'rip, but we were pretty busy with…other things at the time."

"According to the readings, the crossrip was quite small -- perhaps less than 2 meters across--and it was only open briefly. The odd thing is--" Egon paused and shot a questioning glance at Ray. "Do you recall exactly where you were when you took the readings?"

"Just at the grave, Egon. We didn't go anywhere else." Funny how much easier the words came now that Peter was back with them. Ray turned to show the others the information on the small screen. "Look at this, guys! Isn't it great?"

"Sure, Ray." Peter rolled his eyes indulgently. "It'd be even greater if you would tell us what we're looking at."

"This particular dimensional crossrip does not seem to have originated in the Netherworld," Egon explained. "The energy signature is different from that normally associated with portals into that particular dimension. It's unlike anything we've encountered before."

Winston's eyes narrowed in thought. "So, if Peter came through the crossrip…"

"…He didn't come from the Netherworld!" Ray concluded, bouncing happily on his toes.

"Heck, I could have told you that. I came from…" Peter trailed off, his expression turning thoughtful. Someone had said something about that, hadn't they? He could almost hear the voice… Then it came to him, and his eyes darkened with the memory. "I was in the land of the dead. With my dad."

"The land of the dead? You mean…like heaven?" Winston asked cautiously.

Peter shook his head. "More like…a waystation. Limbo, maybe. There was this strange bridge…"

"The bridge between life and death!"

They all looked at Ray. Winston said, "I thought that was just a metaphor."

"Maybe it is. Doesn't mean it can't be real, too." A knock from downstairs interrupted him. "I'll get it!" Ray called as he dashed out the doorway.

Winston grinned. "Man, I've missed seeing that…" Then a new thought struck him and the grin vanished. "Uh, maybe I'd better go make sure he doesn't forget and take on a client or something. We're not exactly ready to go on a bust right now."

With a grin tugging at the corners of his own mouth, Peter watched Winston race after Ray. Yep, there was something right with his world when Ray was bouncing around like an enthusiastic five-year-old. Turning, he caught Egon watching him.

"I have also analyzed your psychokinetic energy readings," Egon said slowly. "They do not match those of any Netherworld entity which we have encountered before."

"Makes sense," Peter said. "Since I'm not from the Netherworld, I mean." He studied the other man's still, almost expressionless features. "You thought I was a demon."

"It did seem the most likely explanation."

Cautiously, Peter said, "But… you don't think that, now?"

"No. The readings--"

"Readings, shmeadings!" Peter threw his hands up in the air. "Damn it, Egon, what do I have to do? Rip out my heart and lay on the table for you?" Despite the angry words, Peter's eyes held more sorrow than ire.

"I assure you I have no need to inspect your viscera--"

"Oh, but I think you do!" Peter snapped. "You need to see my insides spread out so you can inspect them for the 'made in hell' label. Only it's not gonna be there, Egon, because I've been telling you the truth right from the beginning. I'm me--"

"I know."

"--not some refugee from the Netherworld, and furthermore--" Peter faltered, as his brain caught up with his ears. "What?"

"I said, 'I know.'" Egon's gaze had settled on a point just above and beyond Peter's left ear, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to match Peter's gaze with his own. "I think a part of me knew right away, but…I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge it. The implications --"

"Egon!" Exasperation and relief warred briefly in Peter's expression. Cautiously, he looked up at Egon, brown hair shadowing his eyes. "…You really know it's me?"

"Yes, Peter. In fact, some of the readings show a remarkable similarity to your normal biorhythms, though overshadowed by a strong spectral signature, which should not be possible considering your current state of--"

"Spengs." Peter looked as if he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He opted for shaking his head and settling a soft smile on his friend. "Now I know I'm home."

Before Egon could respond, the sound of three voices raised in argument echoed up the stairwell and shortly the other two Ghostbusters appeared at a gallop behind an irate Inspector Frump, who was moving at a surprisingly fast clip for such a large man. Egon shot a frantic look at Peter, obviously calculating whether or not to try and shove him under the workbench or behind a filing cabinet before he was spotted. But Frump had already barreled through the open door, and his beady gaze was focused unerringly on Peter.

"Sorry, guys," Ray panted, bending double and resting his hands on his knees. Three months of no ghostbusting had left him a bit out of shape. "We tried to stop him!"

"Don't worry about it, Ray," Peter said. "Inspector Frump and I have already gotten reacquainted."

"What?" All three of his friends favored him with glares that were variations on the theme of "how could you be so stupid?".

"Jeez, Pete," Winston muttered, wiping a hand over his brow. "Thought you had more sense than that."

Ray and Egon's admonitions overlapped. "Peter! What if somebody saw you?" "What on earth possessed you to risk--"

"Shut up, all of you!" Frump didn't seem too thrilled to be back at Ghostbusters' Central. In fact, he looked eager to say his piece and be on his way as quickly as possible. "I didn't come here to listen to you clowns argue." He spotted Peter and his expression darkened even further. He growled, "Venkman."

"Hey, Frump. Should you be out without a keeper?" Peter said, taking in the detective's disheveled appearance with a moue of distaste. "You look like something no self-respecting cat would drag in on a bet. What did you do, sleep in your clothes?"

Frump glowered at Peter, then surreptitiously attempted to smooth the wrinkles out of his jacket. He didn't have much success, which did nothing to improve his already volatile mood. "This how you greet the man bringing you valuable information? Not exactly getting on my good side, dead boy."

"You found something new on the case?" Egon asked quickly, before Peter could respond to Frump in kind.

"Looks that way." Frump's expression was unreadable as he studied Peter. "What's the matter, Venkman? Bird got your tongue?"

"I've got a bird for you--" Peter began, lazily raising a hand to demonstrate.

Hastily, Winston intervened. "What's this new information, Inspector?"

"Yeah, Frumpy. Don't keep us in suspense."

Frump snarled. "If you don't shut yer trap, Venkman--"

"What?" Peter's eyes glittered dangerously. "You're not going to do anything to me, and you know it. You're too scared I'll come rapping at your chamber door, again."

With an inarticulate roar, Frump lunged at Peter.