Ghostbusters (13 page)

The terror-dog had made its way down the side of the building and stepped through the bedroom window, shedding glass and broken mullions like flies off armor plate. The quarry was close, the one with whom the great transformational joining would be resolved. It was here, within this very area, but not within this chamber itself. It sniffed a few coats on the bed, then sprang to alertness as Louis Tully opened the door. It is him, the guardian thought, but before it could act, Louis tossed the coats over it and left, slamming the door behind him. It is nearsighted, decided the guardian, shaking off the coats. It is ugly, too, but I have my duty. It let loose a terrible roar.

The guests had frozen at the sound. Louis looked up in annoyance. “Okay, who brought the dog?”

With an explosion of wooden fragments the guardian landed in a crouch in the center of the room, and the guests scattered in panic. Louis dropped his Perrier and scrambled for the door, yelling incoherently. Something told him not to argue as it roared and started after him. He dashed into the hall, slamming the door to his apartment, then sprinted toward the elevators. Behind him he heard the thing break into the corridor. “Hold the elevator!” he screamed, squeezing in among a group of couples obviously going out to the theater. The doors closed, then bowed inward as the beast hit them, but held. The car started to descend. Louis looked at the couples, who were staring at him in amazement. “I think there’s a bear in the hall,” he wheezed. They moved as far away from Tully as the car would let them.

The doorman was announcing two elegantly dressed visitors when Louis Tully bounded through the revolving door, screaming, “Help, there’s a bear in my apartment!”

The visitors looked at one another, and the doorman, never a fan of Tully’s, frowned. Now he’s got animals up there. At that moment the revolving door spun violently and the terror-dog bounded through, running down the doorman and chasing the terrified Tully toward Central Park.

In the park, strolling along a quiet lane toward the Sheep Meadow and sharing a bottle of New York State red, Harlan Bojay and Robert Learned Coombs were discussing the world situation. Bojay, as usual, was waxing loquacious.

“I must agree with you about Central America, but on the other point we remain in contention. I think a good heavyweight can take a karate black bell every time.”

“Run, run, run,” screamed Louis Tully, streaking between them, almost knocking the precious bottle from Harlan Bojay’s grasp. He looked sadly after the man.

“Those joggers have no sense of common politeness,” he said stiffly. At that moment the terror-dog bounded by, scattering gravel. Bojay’s jaw dropped.

“That is one speedy mutt!”

Coombs nodded. “He’s a big one. You don’t want to mess with that breed.”

“Some sort of fighting spaniel I would guess.” Bojay shook his head. “This city gets weirder all the time ”

Louis Tully pounded through a tunnel and caught sight of the Tavern-on-the-Green restaurant ahead. He could see the well-dressed patrons inside, sitting at their elegant meals, perfect waiters gliding between the tables. He could see everything but a door. He ran along the windows, desperately searching for an entrance. There had to be one, he told himself. Then he was paralyzed by the sound of a low growl off in the bushes. No, let me in. He turned and pounded in terror on the glass. The people inside looked up. Oh, they see me, he thought. Save me, please. I’ll do your taxes for nothing. The dog growled again.

Then, as if all their heads were connected to a common swivel, they turned back to their dinners. Something moved in the bushes behind Louis Tully.

He turned. It was standing there, drooling from its open mouth, four-inch fangs glittering like crystal in the light from the restaurant. It slowly started toward him. No, this isn’t happening to me.

“Nice doggie. Nice,” he whimpered.

Jerry Linz was having a bad night, first with the wind and then with the damned lightning. Nobody wanted a romantic ride through Central Park in this weather. Cold too. He pulled a flask from his hip pocket and nipped on it. Medicinal purposes, he thought, watching a strange, disheveled little man in horn rims come loping down the sidewalk. The creature veered from its course and bounced straight up to his horse. Great, Linz thought. This nut wants a ride.

The little man took the horse’s bridle and leaned in conspiratorially. “I am Vinz Clortho, Keymaster of Gozer, Volguus Zildrohar, Lord of the Sebouillia. Are you the Gatekeeper?”

“Hey! That’s enough of that. He pulls the wagon, I make the deals. You wanna ride?”

The little man stared up at him. Linz swore that, just for a second, his eyes looked red. Bright red. “Are you the Gatekeeper?”

“No, I’m the governor of New Jersey. Now, get outta here.”

The little man growled horribly, sending Jerry Linz scuttling back on his seat. A gun, he thought. Why won’t the cops let us carry guns? “You will perish in flames, subcreature!” the man declared. “Gozer will destroy you and your kind.”

He leaned back into the horse. “Wait for the sign. All prisoners will be released.” Then he turned and scampered away. Like a monkey, Linz thought. Some kinda religious monkey nut.

“What a jerk!” he muttered.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

—William Shakespeare

Venkman stopped to buy a bouquet of flowers from a sidewalk vendor, straightened his tie, and trotted up to the front of Dana’s building. The lobby was filled with chattering guests, a few of them on the verge of hysteria. The doorman was nowhere to be seen, but two maintenance men were struggling to right a large magazine rack that had come loose from a wall and fallen over. Several of New York’s finest were taking statements and conferring with one another, and Venkman had a sudden premonition that the night might turn out differently from what he had planned. One of the policemen noticed his curiosity and walked over.

“You got business here?” he asked pleasantly.

Venkman indicated the flowers. “Just taking my girl to dinner. What’s going on?”

The policeman had not recognized him and seemed satisfied with his explanation. “Some moron brought a cougar to a party and it went berserk.”

“Hey, that’s New York.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Venkman headed for the elevators. The premonition had turned to apprehension. Could trouble be far behind?

On Dana’s floor there were more cops. They clustered about a splintered door, interviewing a group of shaken-looking people. The party with the cougar, he wondered, or something else? He stepped quietly around them and went on to her apartment, rang the bell, and waited. Well, it seems quiet. Too quiet. This time he knocked.

“Dana?”

The door opened and Venkman dropped the flowers in surprise. Dana had been transformed. She stood before him in a loose-flowing gown, hanging low off the shoulder. Her hair was billowed outward, as if caught in a photograph, yet windblown and alive; her lips were slightly parted and wet, her skin glistening softly. And her eyes. They were wide, luminous, boring into him with the intensity of a single thought. Peter Venkman knew what that thought was. He knew that expression, but he had not expected to see it on Dana. At least not at the door.

“This is a new look for you, isn’t it?” He smiled lecherously, but it didn’t take. Something was going on that he was unaware of, as though he had come in in the middle of a movie and had been asked to make a decision on the action. What the heck?

“What happened to
you
? The cop downstairs said an animal got loose up here. What’s the story? Are you all right?”

Okay, I said it, but it isn’t registering. It’s like someone hit her over the head, or put something in her drink, or . . . She leaned closer, and the sheer sexual power of her almost flattened him. When she spoke her voice was husky and animal.

“Are you the Keymaster?”

For a moment he wondered if this was some sort of bizarre sexual game being played for his benefit. “Not that I know of.”

She closed the door. Well, that was the wrong thing to say. He knocked again. When in Babylon . . .

“Are you the Keymaster?” she asked again, as if she had never seen him before. He nodded vigorously.

“I’m the Keymaster, right.”

She took his hand and pulled him in, the door swinging closed behind him. Lord, what a mess. “Dana, what is it? What happened?”

“I am Zuul,” she replied. “I am the Gatekeeper.”

Sure you are. And I’m the Lone Ranger. Kid’s got it bad, a four-alarm case of possession. Keep your sense of proportion here, Venkman. Might be more of them around, looking for souls to eat.

He stepped over a rotted gray lump that he recognized as the remains of her piano bench. The piano itself looked like it had been dredged up from a shipwreck, the wood pale and peeling, jellylike streams of ectoplasm dripping from the cracks and puddling on the floor. The couch and chairs had been reduced to blackened frames, the windows were gone, scorch marks around the doorway to the kitchen. Everything but graffiti. As he watched, a section of wallpaper unrolled itself with a plop, slime oozing out from behind it.

“You know, I really think you should pick up a little when company’s coming,” he ventured. She ignored him and walked to the window. “Hey, Dana . . .”

She raised her arms against the darkness and was rewarded with a shower of ball lightning over the West Side. Venkman shivered. Nice trick. Then she turned back to him, her body silhouetted in the flimsy gown against the fall of fire outside. Venkman felt a spasm of lust, and tried to force it back.

“We must prepare for the coming of Gozer.”

Yeah, right. He edged around to the side. She was too close to the open window. She might want to go skydiving. Get her away from the edge. She was watching him, her tongue moving on her teeth. Humor her. No windows in the bedroom.

“Okay, I’ll help. Should we make a dip or something?”

“He is the Destructor,” she whispered, moving closer.

“Really, I can’t wait to meet him.” He took her hand. She felt normal except for the discharge of static electricity when their fingers met. “Hey, as long as we’re waiting to meet him, I’d really like to try something with you—in the bedroom.”

The bedroom was relatively undamaged. She moved immediately to the bed and stretched luxuriously on the coverlet. “Do you want this body?”

“Is that a trick question?”

She purred seductively and ground her hips into the bed. I sure can pick them, Venkman thought, Them? “Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll just borrow your body for a while and get it right back to you.”

“Take me now.”

He groped for his penlight and flashed the beam into one eye, then the other. Hoo-boy, nobody home.

“Well, I make it a rule never to sleep with possessed people,” he said, taking a step away, but she caught him by the lapels and pulled him down on top of her. The kiss almost tore his lips off. Good Lord, he thought. If she’s anywhere near this good on her own, I’ll marry her. After what seemed like swimming the English Channel underwater, he fought his way up for air. “Actually it’s more of a policy than a rule.”

“I want you,” she said.

“I don’t know,” he said, staggering to his feet and holding her wrists at arm’s length. “You’ve got two people in there already. It could get a little crowded. Now then, I want you to lay back and relax.”

She did, her hands crossing over her breasts like an Egyptian sarcophagus. Venkman caught his breath.

“Now, I’m going to speak to Dana, and I want Dana to answer.”

“I am Zuul. I am . . .”

“Right . . . You’re the Gatekeeper. But I want Dana,” he said commandingly. “Dana, speak to me . . .”

Her lids rolled back, and for an instant the eyes inside were glowing red. When she spoke it was the voice of earthquakes, tidal waves, of avalanches and the grating, rumbling fall of ancient cities. It was the sound of pure chaos.

“There is no Dana. I am Zuul.”

Venkman jumped back. “Whoa! Nice voice.” She started to sit up again, but he restrained her with a touch on the shoulder. She smiled maniacally and did things with her tongue that made him extremely uneasy.

“All right, Zuul. Listen carefully, Zully baby. I don’t know where you came from, or why, but I want you to get out of here and leave Dana alone. I’m going to count to ten, and when I’m finished you’d better be gone. Okay? Here goes. One . . . two . . .”

A shudder ran through Dana Barrett’s body and she laughed soundlessly. Then, slowly, she began to rise in the air. Venkman stared in disbelief as she came to rest, floating a good three feet above the bed, the flimsy dress hanging free.

I’m not really seeing this, he thought. It’s all a trick of the mind, like Mandrake the Magician. Or wires. Maybe with wires. He ran his hands over, under, and around the body, but felt nothing except the crackling of tiny electrical charges. Boy, this would have been great back in the carnival, but, as far as I’m concerned, it makes for a lousy date. He sat down on the bed, wondering how to get her down.

On the Henry Hudson Parkway, Winston Zeddemore and Ray Stantz were heading for the third call of the night. They had only a single trap left. It was just as well, as they were both completely wasted.

Winston drove, his mind on the night, as Stantz sipped from a can of beer and pored over a set of blueprints. Winston was thinking about God. That didn’t surprise him. Ever since he’d started collecting the spirits of the dead he’d been wondering about his own religious upbringing. The Zeddemores were a strict Baptist family, and neither the Air Force nor the street had been able to knock that out of him. Sure, I don’t go to church much anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Lately though, I’m not sure just what I do believe.

“Hey, man. What’s that you’re so involved with there?”

Stantz smiled. He’d liked Zeddemore from the first, and since Venkman had gotten involved with this Barrett woman and Egon and Janine had become an item, Ray Stantz tended to spend a lot of time with Zeddemore. A voracious learner, he was happily absorbing Zeddemore’s experiences, idioms, folk tales, and street stories. Earlier that week Winston had taken him home for dinner, and Lucille Zeddemore had fawned all over him. Her younger children—Winston’s brothers and sisters—had pressed him for stories, and he’d thoroughly enjoyed himself. The nicest thing about being out in the real world was that you got to deal more often with people. I was too insulated in the university.