Chapter IX

The Plan

Night was very rarely quiet in New York City, and the Firehouse was no exception. The lights were on everywhere except the sleeping quarters, and the hum of the storage unit filled the air. Janine, Peter, Dana, Oscar, and Winston had gone home a little while before, and Erica sat on the couch still, holding the diary in her hands, yawning sleepily and wondering if she'd be able to just lay down on the couch and pass out.

Egon and Ray were both still there, though they were asleep on the beds upstairs. They'd cordoned off a separate space for her in the sleeping quarters, but the dark room and peaceful atmosphere had done nothing to calm her anxious mind. She'd finally gotten back up and padded downstairs. With a sigh of relief, she'd cracked the cover once more and returned to the intriguing, bold life of Violet Sharp.

Most of Violet's entries described dusty but colorful journeys on the road as the carnival moved from place to place. The wagons were drawn by horses over short distances, but sometimes everyone got loaded up onto a train that swayed and creaked and chugged past the devastation from the war. The lions didn't like the train and spent a lot of time roaring in frustration, and almost four pages were devoted to a 'tremendous excitement' that involved a cobra loose in the reptile car. Violet herself spent most of her time in her wagon, though she did continue to describe Eugenia and her husband Hugh as 'constant, dear companions'.

Violet also spent time describing the people that came to her wagon. It hadn't taken long for Erica to deduce that she worked as a fortune teller at the carnival. But scattered throughout the pages were strange clues that hinted at something deeper, something far more occult. Violet seemed to not only use the traditional crystal balls and card readings, but also body language and facial expressions. Much, Erica realized, like her. Even more disturbing were the words: " 'I was right.' " These occurred several times, usually after describing an event Violet had claimed to have seen in a crystal ball or dreamed on a stormy night. Cold tendrils of fear wrapped around Erica's heart as she read through the book, acutely aware that she was reading about a woman who was honestly, truly psychic...and horrified by it.

At one point, she turned a page to find a single, undated paragraph. The words read: " 'Those that visit me rarely want the truth. So no matter what I see, I must convince them their lives are going to better. But I am often privy to secrets that break my heart and raise conundrums of morality. I know what I see. Do I really have the right to hide the truth from those I know are going to hurt?' " The agony was clear in the shaky handwriting and the suspected teardrops marring the words. The next entry after that was almost a week later, and made no mention of the previous one. Erica had to stop reading for a little while, however, surprised to find herself breathing heavily, on the verge of tears. She went to splash some water on her face and look at herself in the mirror, alarmed by how strongly she was relating to the author of the book. The red splotches on her arms were fading, but the fading only made them look more like splashed blood. Blood on my hands that isn't mine. It's not mine. I didn't do this, whatever horrible thing this book thinks I did. I didn't! What does it want?

The spiral in her mind began to grow in intensity and she twisted away from it. I can't get too scared. I won't be able to help anyone if I'm scared.

She sat back down on the couch and picked up the book.

After a couple of seconds, her eyes focused and she fell in, intently reading. The entry, dated 1866, 15 July, described a charged meeting between Violet and a young man named Levi Spencer. Erica flipped quickly to the end of the book. " 'Levi is dead, and nothing I do will ever give him or me rest.' " She flipped back. Is this Levi?

" 'Levi has not forgotten the passions of war,' " Violet wrote. " 'He demanded to know the name of the spy responsible for the ambush at Shaw's Mill. I tried to deny him, but he pressed me to great lengths, revealing the names of deceased family members and friends. I've no doubt he will seek revenge on the informant, and to that end I cannot reveal the name. Too many more lives would be destroyed if I did. We were on opposing sides of the rebellion, Levi and I. But it is over. I will not unearth old ghosts. It is our time to move forward. I only wish he felt the same.' "

Erica flipped through the pages, and was not disappointed. Levi returned to Violet again and again, each time demanding the name, each time being rebuffed. His anger and Violet's fear grew with each passing entry. Her dreams grew more violent and the predictions she made to people were causing her more and more pain to reveal. It was clear, Erica realized, that Violet was wearing down under the pressure.

"Still reading?"

Erica looked up to see Ray wandering into the sitting room. He had on black pajama pants and a dark red button-down sleep shirt. His face was bleary from sleep, and his hair stuck up in every direction. And he still looked handsome. God, I need help.

"I can't help it," she shrugged, smiling shyly. "It's a good book." A sudden thought occurred to her and she straightened up on the couch. "Oh...I didn't wake you, did I?"

Ray took a seat next to her. "No, no, don't worry. But it is getting late. Maybe..." his lips curled in an ironic smile, "...maybe you should accept that this one's got you, and you have to wait until morning to bust it."

Erica couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her throat. "Oh my...I deserved that. You're absolutely right, you know. It's just..." her voice trailed off as her mind raced over the heaviness of the last few pages. "I have this bad feeling. It's not just guilt, it's...my hands look like they're covered in blood. The ghost said Peter killed him. Violet right now is being tormented by the guy she said was dead at the end of the diary. I can't help but feel like everything is connected and I just can't see the reason...except I have to see the reason, because the blood is on my hands and the book is only readable to me."

Ray relaxed and reached out to touch her, his warm, callused hand gently closing around hers. "It's different when it's personal. You're too close to the problem to be objective." He tilted his head, trying to get in her line of vision. She let him, smiling shyly. He gave her hand a little squeeze. "Trust me to be objective here. Even if you figured out tonight why the ghost is after Peter, we still don't know how to bust it. We have time." He delicately began to pry her fingers from the book. Erica let him, and he turned to set the book on the arm of the couch behind him.

"Did you go to sleep that night?" she asked.

Ray was silent for a few moments before sighing. "No. I was up most of the night, taking pictures, writing out what happened over and over, until I couldn't see the words in front of me. Your coffee really helped the next day."

Erica gave him a tiny smile, remembering the awkwardness of the morning. "It's good to know I helped a little."

Ray chuckled. "More than a little."

Erica let her eyes linger on his smile for a couple seconds before looking down at her hands. She began to fidget, twisting her fingers together. Everything inside of her screamed to yank the book back and open it, keep pushing, look for the elusive answer that would tie all of her questions together. But she had to admit that Ray had a point. She could feel the fatigue setting into her bones as her mind struggled to let go of the hold the problem had on her. The couch went from feeling like a chair to feeling like a warm blanket wrapping around her back and molding to her shape. She felt the heaviness of the pages slide from her mind to her body. "Whether or not I want to, I think my body's rebelling," she murmured, surprised that it took actual effort to say the words.

"Yeah. That happens when you stop thinking for a few seconds." Ray reached over and took her hands. The sudden feel of his skin on hers woke up her nervous system, and she quickly looked over at him. His eyes were resting on hers, the light catching each one and bringing out its individual color. Green and brown. One color bright and happy, the other warm and soft, both of which described him perfectly.

Without thinking, she said: "Your eyes are really pretty, you know that?"

Ray smiled. "Thanks." He let go of one of her hands and reached up to push her hair a little more out of her face, even though it wasn't really in her way. His fingers drifted past her cheek, brushing it almost secretly, as though he was trying to steal a moment without anyone noticing. His hand came to rest on her shoulder and he gave it a tiny squeeze. "The fact that you have a bad feeling is all right. I've long since learned to trust my gut instinct. The bad feeling is a warning. You know something's wrong. And because of it, you're ready to face whatever is coming. Don't be afraid of the bad feeling, Erica. It means you're aware."

Erica understood. Her limbs relaxed even more as acceptance and bravery began to crawl through them. I know all of this ties together. It might take the ghost showing up and attacking us for me to figure it out. But that's better than not having any idea at all. "I think I get it," she sighed. "I hope I do."

Ray leaned forward slightly and slid his hand from her shoulder around behind her back. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you to bed."

Erica gratefully accepted the help in standing up, snatching the book from the arm of the couch as they passed it, and boldly leaned on him the whole way up the stairs. As they walked, she became aware that Ray's body seemed to be getting tense. When they reached the door to the sleeping quarters, Ray paused and turned to her, still holding her hand. His thumb traveled over her knuckles, sending little shivers down her spine. He didn't seem to be aware he was doing it, instead looking at her for a long moment. He seemed to be anxious, as though trying to bring up a subject uncomfortable to him. Erica wanted to turn her hand over in his and give him a little squeeze and tell him not to worry. Did he come downstairs to actually talk about something? Is something wrong?

"Thank you for coming down," she whispered, her voice just a couple decibels above inaudible. She really didn't want to wake Egon. "I probably would have been up all night."

"I know you would have," he whispered back. He continued to look at her for a few moments and Erica felt anxiety beginning to replace intrigue.

She tugged slightly on his grip. "Well...good night."

Ray's hand tightened slightly. "Sorry. Sorry. I just have a question."

"What?"

Ray stared for another moment, then swallowed. "I've been wondering: if hot chocolate is for when you have a bad night and coffee helps you start a busy day, what do you drink when you're on a date?"

Erica's heart did a hard thump in her chest and her eyes widened a little. Her knees and feet suddenly felt very, very far away from her body. "Um..." Words flew out of her head. She'd never had a drink assigned to a date. The drinks were really supposed to just fortify you. They'd make you stop crying or get past a nightmare or stare down a really intimidating final exam. But a date... "Wh-whatever fits the situation, I think..." she said. "If...if you're in Central Park with a hot dog, it's lemonade. Or...pop, I guess. I had cream soda at Jake's but that wasn't a date. If you're at an expensive place, I guess wine..." Her eyes blinked rapidly, she was stuttering over the words. Is he asking me out? Or is he just asking the question and is curious? "I n-never actually...picked one."

"Well," Ray swallowed and spoke quickly, if softly, "what if I helped you pick one? Maybe it's not the situation, but the date. You know. First date's something casual, like lemonade. Second date's decaf coffee, since normal coffee's already got it's own place. Third date could be wine. Though we'd have to wait and see, of course. That one's got a lot of assumptions."

Erica was pretty sure her mouth was hanging open but there was no mistaking the look in Ray's face. Even though his smile was playful, his eyes were hopeful. He is asking me out. He is. Oh my God, he is. She could feel a smile breaking out, a smile as joyous as his had been that New Year's Eve. She struggled to keep it in check, even though the struggles resulted in a nervous laugh rolling out of her mouth. She barely managed to get her hand up to muffle the sound, and could do nothing but nod. His eyebrows lifted and she pulled her hand from her mouth, whispering: "Thank you. I'd really appreciate the help."

Ray's body relaxed, a relieved smile replacing the anxiety on his face, and he gave her hand a squeeze. "You're welcome. We'll discuss more details after we've busted this ghost, all right?"

Erica nodded, another helpless giggle working its way out of her throat. The smile on Ray's face turned to a grin and he gave her hand a little shove. "Stop it."

Erica put a hand over her mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle her giggles (that seemed to be getting worse as she realized she'd just said yes to a date with Ray Stantz), and tiptoed into the room, slipping behind the divider Egon and Ray had put up so she could change clothes privately. As she crawled into bed, however she heard the unmistakable sound of Ray's muffled laughter. The two of them chuckled into their pillows for several minutes before slipping off to sleep.

**o0o**

The next few days were hell for Peter Venkman.

At first, he had thought that the ghost revealing itself would be a good thing. It had given itself a purpose, a form, a memory (even one that ate at the corners of his sanity). It had left behind enough traces that Egon could match it to other readings, and given enough clues that the Ghostbusters could start to narrow down the seemingly-impossible search for its hiding place. It was out there, they knew it, and they could get it.

Except they couldn't.

Peter had not been kidding. The few boxes stuffed in the back of his closet that contained personal information only went back a couple of generations at best, stopping somewhere around World War I, and even then only following his father's side of the family. Any other records could only be found in archives of each individual city that Peter's ancestor had lived in, and the Ghostbusters had neither the time nor the money to invest in traveling around the country. Messages were left with various archivists, but for the time being that line of questioning was dead.

On top of that, now that the Ghostbusters had enough proof to assume the attack at the bookshop and the attack at the apartment had been done by the same ghost, Peter discovered he didn't feel safe anywhere. The book may not have been the anchor, but he still did what he could to stay away from it. He had no idea what else, besides him, could possibly be bringing the ghost to him. So, he spent more and more time awake, waiting in silent, exhausting terror, for a scream from Dana or a cry from Oscar. If he felt himself slipping to sleep, he would jolt himself awake, trying to avoid the nightmares that wasted no time intruding on his consciousness as soon as he was vulnerable.

The ghost revealing itself was not a good thing at all.

"I have an idea."

Ray's voice was tinged with excitement, which was nothing new. As Peter's energy had slipped away from lack of sleep, Ray threw more and more of himself into tracking down various stories and lore of vendetta ghosts. He bounced back and forth between his slowly-rebuilding bookshop and the Firehouse, scribbling notes and inhaling coffee and cigarettes like they were his last hope. Peter was touched by his friend's concern for him, but really all he wanted was another attack, a way to get his hands around this ghost's throat and choke the life out of it. Again. He'd been awake for a while, sure, but he still had enough energy to end this. If it would just show up!

"The World of the Psychic." Ray didn't wait for Peter's acknowledgment, which was good, because Peter was having a little trouble hearing him through the annoying buzzing sound in his ears. It had started a few hours ago and seemed to only be getting worse. He stuck a finger in his ear and scrubbed it around a little. No change.

"Pete," Ray was still talking, "you have a national television show. Get on it. Do a special segment on ghosts that have it out for someone. Ask for call-ins, people with stories or information."

"Perhaps it would be wise to put Erica on camera." Egon's voice floated up from the floor below. Peter and Ray exchanged looks but it was Erica who responded, looking up from the couch where she was reading the diary.

"Come again?" she asked, her eyes wide.

Peter and Ray wandered over and peered at Egon below. The tall scientist was standing in their busting uniform, waiting casually by the car but looking up at them thoughtfully. Movement by the lockers revealed Winston throwing on his own uniform. Egon and Winston had been two-manning the busts for four days now, with Ray rebuilding his bookshop and Peter staying out of the line of fire. Peter was proud of them for stepping up. But now he was confused. Egon seemed to be outlined in glowing light. That was new. Had they added something to their uniforms?

"It would be inefficient to retrace the path of the diary through its previous owners by calling each individual person," Egon said. "Place Erica in front of the camera as a woman being haunted by a ghost. Her only clue as to why this is happening is the diary she bought from an occult bookstore a week ago. If she reveals any information from the diary, such as names, places, or times, someone may call in with helpful information."

It was a good idea, but Peter couldn't seem to hold on to more than a couple words of it. This is important, damn it. Focus! He looked down at the half-empty mug of coffee in his hand, trying to focus his thoughts. "Egon," he murmured, his voice slurring, "you're the guy who said I've been proven to be a fraud across the country. What makes you think anyone's going to be watching or that anyone who's going to be watching will care?"

"Because it's highly likely that the only people watching your show are the ones who do care," Egon replied. "Conspiracy theorists. People that believe in alien abductions, ESP, paranormal activity. People who are not afraid to speak up regarding these beliefs. We have all but proven the existence of several supernatural creatures with our business alone, but the public is still hesitant to believe. They will turn away because they can't handle the idea of ghosts being dangerous or nonfiction."

"I certainly had trouble when Dana first told me about Zuul." Erica's voice was right next to him. Peter jumped, not realizing she had come to stand with them. She gave him a strange look and refocused on Egon. Peter noticed that she was glowing too. Maybe he needed to bring that up.

"The people you will reach with this segment will be the people you want to reach," Egon concluded. "It's a good idea, Raymond."

"Except for the part about putting me on national television. How many languages do you want me to say no in? I promise I'm not going to be of any use to you!" Erica's voice cracked on the last sentence. Peter stared at her for another moment and decided that since no one else seemed to be reacting to the fact that Egon and Erica were glowing, it was okay. Maybe he just needed more coffee. He took a gulp from the mug in his hand, neither noticing the flavor nor caring about how many cups he had drunk today already. Erica had brought several, along with some hot chocolate, but Peter had gone straight for the coffee. It was dusk in the City that Never Slept. He could stay awake another night. The buzzing in his ears would help.

Winston zipped up his jumpsuit and headed for the driver's side of Ecto-1. Egon followed. "Way I see it," Winston called out, "we're running out of options for finding this thing! We could use the assistance and who knows? It might save Peter's life!" He dropped into the car and slammed the door. Egon shrugged in agreement, and got in. The car roared to life and headed out the door, its familiar siren reaching back to say goodbye to the people in the Firehouse.

Peter dragged his eyes to Erica, who was staring down at her twisting hands. Something snapped inside of him, and he was overcome with a desire to grab her hands and pin them to a wall. "Do you have to be so afraid of everything?" he snapped, glaring at her.

Erica looked up at him in surprise.

"Peter," Ray said. "It's not a problem. I'll go on with the book as the shop owner who sold it before the shop was destroyed."

"No!" Peter knew he was about to cross a line but he didn't want to stop. He had to do something, say something. After three days of nothing, he had to have something. "No, Erica, you will go on camera, because you're the only one who can read the damn book! You're the only one right now who has any clue about what's going on here. I'm being hunted, in case you didn't notice. That thing wants me dead! So stop being such a coward and help me!"

Erica's head had sunk during his tirade and now her eyes were aimed firmly at the ground. Her hands were white from tension. Ray immediately moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. When did he get so chummy with her? Peter wondered. He could feel the guilt already welling up from his speech, but he pushed it down. No. I haven't said enough yet. "And if you won't, then just make a copy of the diary and leave it with Ray. If we can't count on you to help, then we don't need you in the way." He spun and walked back to the kitchen, heading for the coffee. His last words seemed to ring in his ears, and the feeling of guilt increased tenfold.

Ray's voice followed him. "Peter. Go get some sleep."

"I'm fine," Peter snapped.

"No, you aren't!" Ray argued back, his voice rising in frustration. "You're exhausted and cranky and I wouldn't put you on the telephone to place a takeout order, much less national television! No matter who goes on, you're going to need sleep to get through the segment. Go upstairs and go to bed. Now."

"He's right."

Peter turned back to see Erica settled on the couch, her cheeks wet with tears. She repeated her words in a trembling voice. "He's right, Ray. I've never been good at being in public and talking to people. Sometimes I can hide how nervous I get but...national television..." She shook her head and straightened her shoulders. "No. I'll do it. Peter's right. I can read the book. I do know the most about the situation. I'm the best choice." She looked up at Peter. "This whole thing scares me sick. But I'm not the one the ghost wants dead. So...I have to man up." A shy smile pulled on her lips. "When...when do we do this?"

"After Peter gets some sleep," Ray said. "We have to talk to the show, get approval, rehearse...it'll be a couple days."

"Show airs Fridays at twelve-thirty," Peter said. "It's Monday. We've got time."

"It's Tuesday evening," Ray countered.

Peter exhaled sharply, feeling as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. "Wh-what? No, it's...it's..."

"Tuesday evening," Ray repeated.

Tuesday evening? Where had Sunday and Monday gone? He was losing time, just like when he was possessed. And the buzzing in his ear and the glowing...yes, now Ray was glowing too. Something was wrong. Something was coming. Where were Dana and Oscar? He couldn't remember when he had seen them last. "Where's Dana? Where's Oscar? Are they all right? I have to go home to them." The anger at Erica was draining away as fear began to pump through his veins. The buzzing in his ears increased almost to an earsplitting whistle. The need for coffee vanished. "I have to...they're in danger. We're all in danger. I have to go! It wants me, if I get away it won't come after you..." Why couldn't he move quicker? He felt like he was slogging through water as he tried to head for the door. The sensation crawled through his body and up into his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!

Ray materialized next to him and Peter grabbed at him drunkenly, trying to stay on his feet and make for the door. Ray held up solidly, taking his weight and turning Peter towards the couch. "No," Peter groaned, "I have to go."

"No, you don't," Ray countered. "They're fine, Peter. Erica's getting them on the phone. They're fine. We're fine."

"You can't know that." Peter tried to throw Ray's arm off but the man somehow had gotten a hundred pounds heavier in the past ten seconds. "And you need to lay off the donuts."

"Stop drinking coffee and maybe I will," Ray shot back.

Coffee. The coffee mug was still on the counter. He would probably need it to survive the drive home. But he couldn't even turn around to grab it. The only way to go was forward and he did so, falling onto a soft surface. The couch. "I need the coffee." His chest heaved. He was getting air but it wasn't enough. There just wasn't enough of anything. Air. Light. Coffee. Strength. Is this an attack? Is the ghost back? "Something's wrong. I can't move. Dana? Dana!?"

"She's here."

Something solid was pushed into his hands. A telephone handset. He held it up to his face. "Dana?"

"Peter? Are you all right? You sound terrible."

"Dana, where are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm at home. I'm all right. What's wrong? You sound like you can't breathe."

"I can't." He still couldn't, but he could hear her voice. It was warm and sweet and compassionate and sexy and safe. That was the most important thing. If she was in danger, she would have said. She was okay.

The handset was yanked from him and Peter grabbed for it. "Hey!"

"Dana, it's Ray." How had Ray gotten the phone? Come to think of it, how had Ray gotten to the other side of the couch? "Peter's exhausted. He's delirious. He's all right, but if you can get over to the Firehouse tonight, I think it'd be good for him. And bring Oscar."

Dana was safe. The screaming in his brain was subsiding, and the terror seemed to be subsiding with it. He tried to gasp and air rushed into his lungs, heady and sweet. He choked on the air, pain ripping through his body, and groaned loudly. "D-Dana?"

"She's coming, Peter." Erica's voice was soft and right next to him again. It didn't scare him this time. "Close your eyes a moment. She'll be here when you open them up."

Peter obeyed, finally taking a full breath in and letting it out. The relief that flooded his body was so great he repeated the process. Who knew breathing felt so good?

Somewhere around the fourth breath, darkness swallowed him up.

**o0o**

Dana awoke to the scent of freshly brewed coffee. She left her eyes closed for a few moments, enjoying the delicious darkness and the smell caressing her nose, allowing herself to wake up in bits and pieces. She slowly became aware of softness under her cheek, a tickle near her nose, and scattered sounds of voices, clinks, and a low, permeating rumble. Her brown eyes finally opened to the sight of a darkened room and machines and cords running down into a hairy arm. The arm ended in fingers held by her own hand.

The memories came back in a wash, and she lifted her head with a gasp. Pain and dizziness shot through her as her body coldly reminded her that she had spent the night at a ninety-degree angle, and her hand convulsively clenched on the fingers in it. "Oh, my goodness," she murmured, reaching back to press a hand to her throbbing neck. She turned her head left and right, taking stock of where she was.

Peter lay on the bed, his snores rumbling the mattress. The hand in hers was limp with sleep and she reflexively lifted it to kiss his fingers tenderly. The next bed over held Oscar, who was equally out cold. Dana let go of Peter's hand and moved to Oscar's bed, her body creaking quietly in pain as it readjusted to normal motion.

Oscar was snoring on and off too, a soft, peaceful sound that was as humorous as it was worrisome. She hadn't heard him snoring before, and made a mental note to run him by a doctor when she could to make sure it wasn't indicative of an underlying problem.

She turned back to Peter and carefully touched his face. She was silently stunned to discover it was warm and dry. There was no indication of the nightmares that had been plaguing him for days. The bed around his body was dry, and other than the snoring he seemed to be peacefully asleep. Well, that's a nice change.

The shrill ring of a phone cut the air, followed by Janine's traditional greeting. Judging from the additional rustling she was hearing, at least one or two of the Ghostbusters were actually in the Firehouse. The smell of the coffee was waking up Dana's stomach and her bladder kindly informed her that it might need some attention as well. Reluctantly, she left her sleeping boys.

**o0o**

Peter awoke early afternoon. One moment he was snoring and quiet, the next he was speaking. "Dana? Dana!"

Dana twisted around from where she had been playing with Oscar. "I'm here," she called quietly. She checked to make sure Oscar wasn't going to kill himself in the next five minutes, and then stood up and hurried to the bed. Peter was sitting up, pulling off the leads, making the monitors whine and squeal a myriad of alarms. Dana tracked down the off switches and hit them as Peter swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started to stand up. "Whoa! Hold on!"

"I'm fine. I've been in this bed for days." Peter forced himself to his feet and wobbled. "Okay...maybe ten more seconds..."

Dana sat next to him and he suddenly put his arms around her. She held him, the scent of his hair and body sneaking into her nose, the rough feel of his clothes covering up the soft skin underneath. You weren't very good for me, you know, she had told him six months ago. But God, he'd gotten serious after Vigo, and she had noticed. His soft smile that reached his eyes when he looked at her, the warm, possessive feel of his body claiming hers, the taste of his lips...the terror at the carnival, the sounds of his screams, the frantic phone call last night. I love you, she had told him a few days ago.

She meant it.

"Where am I?" he finally asked, pulling away and looking around. "Oh."

"You're in the bedroom at the Firehouse. Ray said you passed out on the couch last night."

Peter seemed to take a moment to process, then suddenly his eyes widened. "What time is it? What day? How long was I out?"

Dana took his shoulders and held him still, looking into his eyes. "It's Wednesday afternoon. You fell asleep early evening yesterday. It hasn't been twenty-four hours."

Peter visibly relaxed. "Oh man. Still haven't beaten my college record. Forty-one hours." He looked a little too proud of that fact. "Anyone tell you how long I was up before yesterday?"

"Sunday morning. Peter, you can't do that." Dana squeezed his shoulders and angled her head, forcing him to look into her eyes. "Ray said you were delirious and hallucinating. You can't do that. We need you. Oscar, and the Ghostbusters, and me. I understand that you want to protect us but not if you're going to hurt yourself doing it. Everyone is watching out for us. You have to trust them."

Peter pursed his lips and shook his head, scoffing. "Dana, this thing walked into our home, scared the hell out of Oscar, and took me over without a second thought. It threw Janine around like she was a rag doll. It tried to drop of shelf of books on Ray's head and after failing to do that, it destroyed his place. It told me that it owed my family for what I had done to it. It doesn't matter how many people we have on this. It's going to come and it's going to hurt us again and if it wants me, maybe that's what I have to give it to make it stop."

The words ripped at Dana's insides. She'd been hoping that Peter's peaceful night's sleep would have rejuvenated some kind of hope within him. That didn't seem to be the case. So, she pulled back and gave him a smart slap on the cheek.

He looked visibly stunned, his hand slowly rising to the reddening skin, confusion and surprise filling his eyes. "Ow."

"Stop talking like that," she said firmly. "Yes, you're right. It's probably going to come again, and it's probably going to try to hurt us. But we know about it. Ray and Erica spend all their free time reading and studying. Egon helps whenever he isn't at work. Winston's practically been my bodyguard for a week. In fact, our conductor at the Philharmonic tried to have him thrown out of rehearsal." Her stomach twisted and her heart rate picked up. She hadn't really been thinking about this before she'd started talking, but as she continued she realized that this was something she needed to accept too. "The measures we're taking aren't to stop the ghost from getting to us. They're to stop it after it's attacked." Yeah. That was definitely unsettling to realize. When had her life become a war zone?

Peter was still rubbing his cheek, but the growing panic on his face began to ease away. While her words had rammed home a new sense of anxiety and worry for her, it clearly soothed him...which was the important thing.

"Ray mentioned something yesterday," he said. "The TV show."

They'd caught her up on that. "Yes, he mentioned an interview with Erica on World of the Psychic to see if we could get any help on identifying the ghost or how to get rid of it."

"It's Wednesday...the show is on Fridays at twelve-thirty. I think I can talk Larry into changing up the guests. I need to call him."

"You need to eat," Dana countered, letting her hand slip from his shoulder to his hand, taking it.

"I will. I will. But I need to get this done. I need to do something. I'll call takeout when I'm done."

Dana let him stand. He looked over at Oscar, who was investigating a plastic dinosaur, and then back at Dana. His face was serious.

"I'm going to stop this," he said.

Dana smiled. "I know," she replied. "Go on, make your phone call."