Thing is

by tinyvessel

Summary:

*NOW COMPLETE*

The tarnished cover looks as if it’s had a history on its own. An artifact, really. You can’t take your eyes of it. Egon and Ray use it so often you’ve lost count— almost as if any excuse was good enough to reach for that tome. It’s priceless, fragile and a real rarity. You absolutely shouldn’t touch it, heck, no amateur should...
“Found anything interesting?”
“Egon!” You whip your head around and slam the book shut.

Chapter 1: Journal

Thing is, you need stimulation.

You love the job and the boys. They keep you busy. The place is usually a mess and whenever the team comes back from a bust, it takes a good few hours of deep cleaning to get the grime off of the suits. It’s an old- fashioned, raw wash. You like it. Once their clothes are spotless and hanging in each locker, you feel like you’ve actually done something tangible, physical— something that matters, at least to your colleagues.

It’s the mind that’s the problem. It’s starving.

There was a time occupying yourself used to be easy. Every few days you’d read a short paranormal splurge in some pulp magazine and ruminate on it, while scrubbing the good, old Ecto- 1’s hood. Overhearing what the guys have been through is an additional bonus, even though you wouldn’t understand three quarters of their terminology.

It was endearing at first. Now it’s frustrating. 

Not because you feel left out. Not at all, the guys are great, Janine is the head secretary and sets up schedules so you’re off the hook— but because all of those ghosts, phantasms, manifestations, ectoplasm and even a darn river of mood slime is right here. A spark lit at the back of your brain and it won’t go out. 

It has grown unbearably curious.

 

---

It’s a regular evening at the station: 

Peter has already left (he spends a lot of time with Dana and Oscar these days), Winston and Ray are out on some minor job on the 21st, while Egon’s downstairs, all too busy in his lab. You watch Janine wrap faux fur around her tiny frame and Louis, who stumbles a few times before he gallantly opens the door. They leave for the night. The whole place is quiet.

Until Ray and Winston come back, you have to stay here. Their laundry shouldn’t wait. Slime tends to get extra sticky and difficult to wash off once it’s set in room temperature. You neglected it once (well, twice— Peter “forgot” to bring his suit back after an incident a few months ago— he stayed with Dana). The stains took soaking in an absurd amount of putrid vinegar and detergent for over 14 hours to get removed. That was even worse than the fridge assessment, even though finding half- frozen minced beef in stenchy ecto- jello would sure qualify for the runner- up.

You wrap up cleaning the kitchenette with the last swipes of sponge. It’s spotless and your muscles are sore. That’s a perfectly valid reason to take a break, isn’t it?

You sneak out to the living area, intending to huddle on the sofa. 

As much as Egon considers print as dead, all information on the dead is still easiest found in print. Ray littered the whole place with books and notes, some of them old enough to crumble upon touch. Their tiny ecosystem, alongside their lab, is the only place you’re not supposed to clean. In fact, you were explicitly told not to displace anything on your first day. You’re fine with it. It’s adorable, really: the scraps and notes constitute to a visual representation of their chaotic minds. There’s always something going on in their heads. The brains, bulbs and sprockets always powered up.

You pass the shelves, eyes skimming over the titles. There are a few you recognize: The Roylance Guide to Secret Societies and Sects (weren’t they using it with Dana’s case?), Nameless Horrors and What To Do About Them (that sounds adorable) and— the one and only— Tobin’s Spirit Guide.

The tarnished cover looks as if it’s had a history on its own. An artifact, really. You can’t take your eyes off of it. Egon and Ray use it so often you’ve lost count— almost as if any excuse was good enough to reach for that tome. It’s priceless, fragile and a real rarity. You absolutely shouldn’t touch it. Heck, no amateur should.

You press your mouth into a thin line and tentatively reach for the book.

The paper is rough. Your fingertips brush against the embossed letters on the front cover. The way you pinch the pages is almost comical but you’d rather do that for the sake of this book’s longevity. You flip them, taking closer looks here and there. A portrait of Gozer catches your attention (you shudder, the guys could have died right there and then). There’s also a few minor entities you recognize from Ray’s photos. 

Gosh, isn’t that amazing for people all around the globe to not only believe in something as etheric as a ghost, but to also classify it and turn it into a science? There’s loads of details which determine those creatures— their behavior, preferences and focus. No wonder choosing the correct strategy for catching such beings requires expertise.

You frown. Would it mean that Ray and Egon need to assess their targets correctly every time? They must have simplified the formulas and designed the equipment to contain all kids of ghosts. If so, why does it matter what specific entity they look for? How many other “Gozers” are still out there?...

“Found anything interesting?”

“Egon!” You whip your head around and slam the book shut. 

He is standing at the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. His face is unreadable— serious, default— but his eyes are set on you, as if you’ve just been caught stealing his Twinkie. It’s then you realize there’s faint gurgling noise coming from the kitchen. Everything clicks. 

“Oh my, your tea!” 

“It’s okay. I forgot about it too. Only realized when I tried to drink from an empty mug.”

Your head burns. How come you haven’t heard him switch on the kettle? It must’ve been on for at least half a minute.

He nods, pointing at your hands.

“So, that book?”

“I’m so, so sorry. I am fully aware how valuable it is, I didn’t—”

“I don’t mind. It’s not like you were giving it an acid bath. Keep reading if you find it compelling.”

“Oh”, you snort, relaxing a bit. “Thanks.”

He approaches you, close enough to peek into the Guide.

“Were you looking for something particular?”

“No, no. What you guys do is super interesting. I wanted to enroll on the Studies of the Paranormal when I was fresh out of high school but didn’t have the money, so…” you shrug, eyes glued to the pages. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be. Happy to be your assistant, though. It’s more than I could ask for.”

Egon’s stare is frustratingly tactile. You avoid his gaze.

He walks past you, awkwardly brushing against your shoulder and rummages through a pile on the shelf.

“It may be a little heavy for casual enthusiasts. If you’re looking for a comprehensive pack on the interesting bits, I’d suggest something more humane. Now, this…”

He pulls something which doesn’t look like a book at all— it’s a hardcover journal, all scratched edges and black ink, pages filled with even, capital letters.

“Is that…?”

“Mhm.”

“No way!”

He just nods, eyebrows high.

You’re holding his own student’s notebook from his undergrad years. The pages are tinted with yellowish shade. The notes are a summary of the paranormal sightings through history, all supplied with chemical formulas, rough sketches and classes of ghosts with historical examples (albeit this last part is a little chaotic, as you’ll soon find out, but the sidenotes absolutely make up for it). 

It’s filled with love and genuine enthusiasm. Looks like he’s always been passionate about his studies.

“Oh my days… Egon, that’s fantastic!”

“Before the entire Ghostbusters thing, I used to work at the Uni. The entirety of the curriculum’s merit could be squeezed into one notebook.” He smirks and tilts his head. “Obviously, the students didn’t need to know that. Half of them would fail at the flowery narrative of Hjalmar Brochenvelt’s Molecular Discrepancies of Plasma in States of Matter. That got the feeble minds out of the department within two months.”

“And you didn’t say a word?”

“Mm.”

“You traitor.”

The smirk turns into a grin. It’s cute, it’s mischievous and it does things to your guts.

“Thank you”, you whisper. “I will take good care of it.”

“I know.”

You look at him, intending to maintain eye contact for a moment but it feels unfair— you’re vulnerable and he’s peering into your eyes with a curious twinkle. The amount of trust he’s just poured on you is unholy.

Ecto- 1’s wailing can be heard within a 500 m radius. The siren must’ve woken up the entire neighborhood before the garage door opens and the obnoxious sound fills the station. It’s Winston and Ray. They’re back, all slime and grime.

Your face scrunches a little but you smile, nonetheless. Egon seems to share the sentiment.

“I should go wash their suits.”

“Right.”

“And you should go to sleep.”

“…Right.”

You want to hug him— you really do— but your limbs are awkward and stiff, your whole body’s numb and all you’re able to muster up is a loaded sigh of thank you.

You turn around, picking up the pace so that you reach the staircase before Ray starts calling for you. As you pass by the kitchen counter, though, you see his absurdly huge mug (covered in cute, floral print) propped right next to the kettle. You grab a teabag (Earl Grey) and three cubes of sugar, then pour the hot water until it’s full.

“Catch some actual sleep, alright? See you tomorrow.”

“Wait”, he says in a soft voice. “Don’t worry if it’s too much all at once. Enjoy it. Research is not about memorizing all specifics. It’s about knowing where to look for them when you need them.”

He’s still looking you in the eyes but it’s not intimidating anymore. He’s a few steps away, propped against the doorframe again and you’re pressing his journal to your chest. The distance between you boosts your courage. This time, you hold his gaze. It’s open. It lasts. Then you realize.

He isn’t trying to help you learn. He wants you to like the process.

The smile on your lips is huge and warmth blooms in your chest.

“I wonder if you preached that to your students.”

He chuckles.

“Absolutely not.”

“Guess I’m an exception then, huh?” You wiggle your eyebrows. “Sleep tight, doctor Spengler. And drink your tea! I owe you.”

After that you scuttled down the stairs and greeted the boys but if you’d stayed for a moment longer, you’d have witnessed Egon smile to himself and mutter:

“You owe me nothing.”

Then grab his mug and leave.

Chapter 2: Lab

Summary:

Ah, bribery. You hit the new low.

Four days pass. It’s busy. Janine’s glued to the phone and it just won’t stop ringing. As soon as the guys are back in the garage, they’re called in again— back in the car, no time to rest, eat or take showers. They vacate the ghost traps, get changed into spare jumpsuits and pass the slimed garments to you. Honestly, they don’t have to do that. It’s additional effort but you appreciate the gesture— you’d rather deal with moderate stains than a massive grime bomb at the end of the day.

 

While their clothes are in the wash, you have some time to indulge in Egon’s notebook. The way this man constructs his notes is almost scary: it feels like he’s leading you by the hand, one step at a time. He patiently waits until you bite into the topic. Allows you to understand theories with silly metaphors: historical monuments, sweets, terrible puns and stuff. It’s hilarious, compelling and frankly, you’d have never suspected Egon to be such a good narrator. He makes sure the reader is prepared to move on by asking simple questions, then proceeds to expand their knowledge with tiny bits at a time.

 

It's as if, while writing this journal, he expected someone to learn everything from it in the future. A comprehensive manual. An endearing one, too.

 

---

 

It’s Friday, seven thirty. You’ve just finished digging into the first type of ectoplasmic residue: the most common one, found in simple Slimers of all kinds. Egon took it upon himself to draw what the molecules look like. It’s fitting but there’s this scribbled comment underneath which reads: all ectoplasmic molecules move like drunken flies, even when set. Have to think of a way emphasize it in the picture.

 

Smile tugs at your lips. If you were allowed, you’d draw them some wings. That would surely solve the problem.

 

A cacophony of sounds comes from upstairs. The boys must’ve come back. You’d usually go and greet them immediately but it’s their last shift, they’re exhausted and probably need some time to cool off. You’ll give them a few minutes to get changed, then take the dirty bundle down here. Looks like today’s work is coming to an end so you close the journal with a soft thud and put it in your bag.

 

To your surprise, the door opens before you reach it and you nearly stumble into Egon. He takes a step inside, then halts, guilt all over his face.

 

“Hello. We’re done for today, Winston is cleaning the traps.” He points at a pile in his arms. “I’m sorry. This is, um…”

 

“The last load!” You beam. “Thank you, captain! I’ll take care of it.”

 

“It’s just Peter’s. I politely asked him not to get slimed. I think he did that on purpose.”

 

“Next time try reverse psychology, see how it works.”

 

“Tried and failed”, he sighs, leaning against a table. “I could try forcing him to do his own laundry though, he’s allergic to work producing actual results.”

 

You snort and proceed to take care of the sticky garment. The jumpsuits from earlier are almost dry. They still require some basic ironing (yes, it is pointless but you do it for the first impressions— Peter cares about the Ghostbusters looking like freaking Justice League, okay?). You add a mixture of poignant detergents and a good splash of softener, close the lid and set the washing machine for a quick rinse.

 

“Hey, Egon?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Are you busy- busy now?”

 

That seems like a stupid question. He’s standing in the laundry room right next to you, resting and watching the machine work. That doesn’t even qualify as “busy”. You do suspect he’s beat though, so you opt to give him a way out.

 

Egon doesn’t seem to think too much about it.

 

“Do you need help with that?”

 

“No, no. It’s not that, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

 

“What is it then?”

 

“I know the lab’s all locked at the moment, so it doesn’t have to be today, or any day of course, but… I was wondering if you had some microscopic slides of monochromatic ectoplasmic bonds. Type I.”

 

Egon raises an eyebrow.

 

The clock ticks, silence grinds and you seem to have some sort of a staring contest. Judging by his unwavering lids, you seem to be losing. There’s no time like now: you shove a hand into your apron and pull out a real dark horse— a trap card, the greatest temptation— Nestle’s Crunchy— all without breaking the eye contact even for a second. Bribery. That’s it. Ancient trick of the cunning lot.

 

Egon glances at the bar, then outstretches a hand and looks you in the eye. Ah, that’s a win then.

 

He elegantly slides the wrapper into his scrubs and brushes past you. You follow him, a shit- eating grin on your face.

 

The garage is quiet but Ray seems to be fixing something in the engine. He hears your footsteps, nods at you with a smile and a puff of thick smoke surrounding his face. You wave at him, then follow Egon downstairs.

 

He reaches the entry first.

 

“You took to the subject, mm?” With a swift motion he pulls out a key and unlocks the door. “How is it going?”

 

“Fantastic. I thought it would be too difficult for me at first. But you really have an ease of explaining things in a super simple way.”

 

“Good.” He says, switching on the light. “You’re the first to ever read it.”

 

He saunters inside, stopping by the drawers. His fingers rifle through a magnificent collection of samples and slides, all labelled alphabetically in their proper place. Once his eyes are set, he pinches the glass rectangle with tweezers and moves to the microscope.

 

“Seriously?” You ask. “Wouldn’t you ever lend your notes to Ray during your academic years?”

 

“This journal is not what you think it is.”

 

“Wait”, you frown, “are you… working on a book? Is that what you’ve given me?”

 

Silence is more than enough of an answer. You open your mouth and step inside the lab (confirm your suspicion— he’s given you an actual draft of a book!) but the faint blue glow coming from above the tables strikes and you can’t utter a word.

 

You see him whole at once: Egon’s hair looks even messier now, framed by rim light— he’s focused on setting up the equipment, completely oblivious to how gorgeous he is at the moment. His features look soft and relaxed, full attention aimed at testing the lens. Furrowed brow, lips parted, long fingers gently adjusting the turning knobs. A stray lock falls onto his forehead, soft and fluffy like a dark cloud and your fingers throb at the thought of flicking it back into its proper place—

 

You avert your gaze, cheeks burning. You recognize the symptoms. Ah, shit, no, no, no—

 

You’re so confused about why this is happening to you, you barely recognize what Egon’s just said. It takes a minute to shake off the dizziness and tame the flood of heat in your system.

 

“Oh, my God.” You blink. “You are writing a book! You totally are! Has anyone…?”

 

“No. Nobody knows, not even Ray. It’s still under development.”

 

Egon places the slide under the lens and secures it. He sits down, swivels around and looks at your bewildered face.

 

“I’m testing the waters, figuring out the best methods of breaking it down. There are some sidenotes I’d like to redact. You’ve probably noticed. I sit down to it every once in a while, fill in some blanks, add new data, then bury it among the other books and forget about it for a year or so. I’d like to make it comprehensive but we’ve got new findings every month…”

 

Your stomach drops a little. You approach the running microscope, then lay your hands on the back of the chair and you look at Egon’s face— he’s so close, your reflection glimpses in the rear of his glasses.

 

“So you’ve given it to me as a form of experiment? If I’d known, I would have approached it differently. Take notes, report to you. Am I a proof- reader or a lab rat here?”

 

“What? Neither.” He says and spins around, face incredulous. “You’re our assistant. A zealous, aspiring scientist who now has an opportunity to learn out in the field. I want to give that to you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I can.”

 

He’s right here, face close, eyes honest and open, playful smile tugging at his lips. You search for the truth and find it— no ulterior motives, no agenda— just a passionate researcher who’s found a common thread with a curious friend. He wants to share this world with you and he’s excited about it. He cares.

 

It’s pure, wholesome and your breath hitches at the sheer weight of it. The moment would be soothing if you weren’t so wildly aware of the heat radiating from your proximity— of just how close his lips are to you— how his palms rest on his knees just beside your lax fingers— how for the first time in years you find yourself transfixed by someone’s sheer presence, torn between the urge to reach forward and fear of crossing the line.

 

Egon doesn’t seem to share the uncertainty. He breaks the eye contact, turns around, peers through the microscope and adjusts the light. A joyous smile blooms on his face.

 

“Here, take a look.”

 

He stands up and offers you the chair.

 

It’s been years since you looked at a slide like that. The particles look positively unreal. It’s nothing like plant tissues you’ve seen: the molecules don’t align at all, they’re scattered, still throbbing with random spikes of energy. Even though the substance is diluted and it’s technically supposed to sit still, the ectoplasm can’t help but pulse with life. It’s irregular and unpredictable. Like a swarm of overstimulated jellies.

 

“Yeah, alright”, you chuckle. “It’s exactly how you’ve described them. I see that now.”

 

“Do you like it?”

 

“Love it. They look high. You weren’t kidding when you said plasma is a junkie state of matter.”

 

“Wait until you see the polychromatic complex bonds. That’s a radical experience.”

 

A laugh escapes your lips. You move the slide to observe the rest of the ectoplasm. You notice the particles differ in size but their structure is the same. Must be a typical ectoplasmic oddity.

 

“I…”, Egon’s fingers twitch on the table. “I, um… I’d appreciate if this stayed between the two of us. The journal. I haven’t had much experience writing so far but I do wish to make this knowledge more accessible. If Peter finds out, he’ll do anything to steal the whole thing and monetize it.”

 

“Sure. I only read it when you’re out on a job. If they do find it and ask though, can I just maintain that it’s your old student’s notebook? Or do we come up with a cover?”

 

“No, I think that’ll do”, he nods. “They’ll assume interpersonal shenanigans but it’s innocuous. Leave that to me. I can handle Peter.”

 

He lets you observe in for a moment longer, testing a variety of lenses and lights, helping you pinpoint nucleus, Tobin apparatus and endoplasmic reticulum. It helps a lot with finding patters and differences between the cells. He explains what each component does (the green bit gurgles and spits out a shockwave, that’s why they can’t sit still) and you find yourself mesmerized by chemistry for the first time.

 

By the end of it, your cheeks hurt from smiling like an absolute goon. He turns off the equipment, the lights and lets you out of the lab. It’s quiet: everyone’s probably gone home, except for Ray who must be sleeping upstairs.

 

 “Hey, thank you”, you whisper, waiting for Egon to lock the door. “I had fun. It was a real gift.”

 

“You pulled out a Crunchie. I was defenseless.”

 

“Oh, I see. Doesn’t your willpower stand a chance?”

 

“I’m forced to question it”, he sighs. “Regardless, bribery is a dirty move.”

 

“There was nothing about it in the rules though, so… tough luck, science boy.”

 

He turns to you, shoves the key into his pocket and leans against the doorframe with a smirk.

 

“I consider myself lucky enough.”

 

On the spurt of the moment you step towards him, finally reach for that stupid lock, flicker it behind his ear and let your hand rest there. He takes a sharp inhale— Bad? — seems to lean into your touch— Good?— and lets out a shaky breath— What is happening— oh goodness, it can’t be alright, he’s probably averse to touch, have you just crossed a boundary?...

 

You take a step back, your hand falters and you set your jaw, eyes pinned to the floor.

 

“I’m sorry. It was out of place.”

 

“…Oh, the hair?” He asks, looking at you. “A desire to prevent entropy is a natural phenomenon. It’s okay.”

 

You blink a few times. The apology was for the mere intimacy, right? Did he misinterpret that on purpose or…?

 

You rush to clarify it but he’s holding your stare— purposeful, intense and loaded— as if he’s crafting you an excuse. He’s guiding you around the problem, giving a free pass. It’s an invitation. Surely, he must know what he’s doing—

 

Before you have time to figure it out, you hear a familiar sound. A set of rhythmic steps gets louder, accompanied by a happy tune. It’s Ray— he’s coming down to the lab— and you whip your head around just in time to greet his smiling face.

 

“Hey, are you still… Oh, hi, Egon.”

 

“Ray.”

 

“Is it about the jumpsuits?” You blurt out. “They must’ve dried by now. Peter’s last spare is still in the machine. I’m hanging it in a minute.”

 

“Oh, good! Good. Look, it’s been a shitload of work for you this week and I just wanted to beg you not to clean Ecto- 1 today, alright? Take an evening off. We still have the sewer under 91^st to do tomorrow and I fully expect it to be a hygienic disaster.”

 

“Really?” Your eyes go wide and you throw your hands in the air. “Yes! Thank you, Ray! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re a real sweetheart.”

 

Ray barks a laugh, puffs a massive cloud of smoke from his pipe and winks.

 

“I’m gonna hit the hay. Goodnight you two! Egon, don’t stay up till three again, you need your beauty sleep.”

 

“He’s always beautiful!”, you yell.

 

“You should’ve seen him on campus!”

 

With that Ray’s gone, only a faint smell of tobacco lingering in the air.

 

You turn around and tuck a few loose strands behind your ear.

 

“I’ll wrap things up in the laundry room and head home. You’ll be all set for tomorrow”, you say and keep talking— please stop before you share too much: “Again, thanks for today. And the journal. It’s our little secret. My lips are sealed. By the way, you also look good when covered in slime and that’s the ultimate empirical test, so don’t worry about Ray. I mean, who needs sleep, anyways, right?”

 

Ah, yes, there you said it. Congratulations, you’ve just hit the new low.

 

Luckily, Egon doesn’t seem to register that at all. Maybe he didn’t. He nods and lets you leave on your own.

 

As you run up the stairs and head back to work, he keeps standing there in the scent of tobacco, completely lost in thought. After a while, he pulls out the Crunchy he got from you and savors its sweet tinge.

Notes:

Hello there~

My fic got way more positive feedback than I'd anticipated so I've written this chapter as a follow- up. I've got an idea for the next one too so let's just hope you like it as I pump up the steam.

Chapter 3: Reckless

Notes:

Warning: minor injuries

Thing is, he’s become too observant.

 

Egon knows you come to the station around 10 A.M. There’s no jumpsuits, car or equipment to maintain so you start with the kitchen. It’s not exactly a part of your duties: the guys are fully capable of washing their own, especially since they barely eat in. Yes, okay— he’ll agree none of them is a dishwashing phenomenon and they hardly ever manage to finish breakfast before their first call— but you can just leave the plates there and nobody would bat an eye.

 

You do it though. Without a word.

 

On Tuesday, while showing you monochromic ectoplasm bonds Type IV (Egon prompts it himself these days, no bribe included), he notices the skin on your hands is chapped. He knows you work with nasty chemicals while taking care of Ecto- 1 but you’ve always worn latex gloves— he’s seen them hanging on the heater, next to whichever colorful apron you chose for the day. The only time you work with your bare hands is while cleaning the kitchen. Wiping the counters. Scrubbing the sink.

 

You’re busy looking at the molecules of Type IV, while he does some research on what he calls The Collective. The sight of your dry fingers keeps nagging him though— there’s no way a simple detergent affects the cells so much— so after replaying all possible scenarios in his head, he can’t take it anymore. He pauses.

 

“You don’t have to do the dishes”, he states out of the blue. “You know that, right?”

 

 “Mhm.”

 

“Why, then?”

 

You swivel in your chair and look at him.

 

“I mean, why not? It’s like 20 minutes, tops. You come back to a tidy home and it costs me nothing.”

                                                                                                                                                                               

But it does cost you your hands, he wants to say. There’s no way it doesn’t sound creepy though, even by his standards, so he just acknowledges that with a hum and a thank you. Arguing is pointless. You’ll do whatever you want anyway. He’s not even here to make sure you take care of yourself while on duty.

 

What he does, however, is wait till the evening and inspect what that low- budget detergent is made of. He’s quick to spot the culprits. It’s a nasty fragrant and the artificial dye. No wonder your skin is irritated. That thing would be harmless if, instead of using your hands, you scrubbed the plates with a metal rod as a part of your morning routine.

 

Egon buys a new liquid— top shelf this time— and adds some stuff of his own. Some softeners. A nice scent. He pours it into the old bottle so that you don’t think twice. Just a precaution. In case you realized it wasn’t your soap and look for that terrible, skin- devouring slime. He places it near the tap. Then waits.

 

Over the following weeks he’ll diligently observe how your skin gets better every time you come down to the lab. He’ll see the rough edges get smooth. Fractured knuckles seal shut. Nails regain their shine.

 

He’ll notice how gentle your fingers are when you secure his slides under microscopic lens.

 

👻

 

On this particular Thursday everything goes wrong.

 

There’s a Class 2 Free- Floating Vapor who’s wildly attracted to funky shapes and vivid hues. It’s the ethereal kind: one whose molecular structure fluctuates. He pries on wallpapers, bedsheet and clothes, tears them up and snugs like an unhinged puppy. Catching him is comparable to squeezing slippery soap. What complicates things even more is that Peter has a clumsy day so even though they manage to trap the ghost, it slips out at the station because somebody forgot to follow a few basic safety tips. Cool. It’s all cool.

 

Egon knocks at the laundry room’s door. He enters. You’re inside, hanging freshly washed suits.

 

“We’ve got a situation”, he informs. “Please, wait in here for a few minutes.”

 

“Oh? You guys need help?”

 

“We’ll handle this. Venkman let the vapor out. It’s nothing.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” You straighten up and smooth your apron (it’s the yellow one, embroidered with bees— you wear it when you feel especially joyful and of course it’s got to be today). “I can help, if—”

 

“No. It’s all under relative control. Don’t worry about it.”

 

He waits for you to nod, then steps out and closes the door. Relative. Great phrasing, Doctor Spengler.

 

He powers up the proton pack. The faster they get rid of the ghost, the better. You won’t have time to get creative.

 

Peter’s pressing a gauze to his nose. It’s bleeding. Not from within though, looks like a cut and that’s relevant: if the vapor is capable of transferring molecules and strengthen bonds within different body parts at will, it could thicken its limbs enough to cause physical harm to humans. Class 2 are rarely aggressive— annoying, yes, destructive as well— but they aren’t interested in manhunt. Maybe this one’s been triggered enough to choose attack for defense.

 

“Who’s got the trap?”

 

“I do!” Winston kicks the pedal. “The stream won’t hold long enough though!”

 

Ray’s standing at the other side of the room, protecting their dear vehicle.

 

“We should stream it together from different angles! It won’t be able to wiggle out! Let’s try that and move him towards the trap in sync!”

 

“Baby, you’re lucky I’m a terrific dancer”, says Peter and aims at the ghost.

 

Egon assesses the situation. The vapor stays too close to the reception for their benefit— the massive wooden desk is going to be a great shield for the specter if they aren’t precise enough. The deeper they go within the station, the more damage they’ll cause. That’s not worth it. Too much precious stuff to risk.

 

They could try a bait. They’ll have to find some red herring and place it far away: ideally, further into the garage, near the door. Lots of space, no hiding spots. Relative damage control. Cheap repairs. No casualties, either.

 

He notices Janine’s scarf hanging over her chair: conspicuous, extravagant and frilled, covered in a cheetah pattern. A perfect lure for the ghost. It’s still Janine’s— and she’s upstairs, taking cover in Tully’s office— and once it’s all over she’ll absolutely hate them for destroying her garment. She’d cut their ears off for it, if she could. Luckily, she’s too small for that. Radical.

 

“Yo! How can I help you, boys?”

 

For the Mother of—

 

Egon turns his head. It’s you— standing right at the door in that silly, yellow apron— because of course you are. Hell, you’re an embodiment of what a perfect live bait looks like in this scenario. However, your position (from the strategic point of view) is the absolute worst. You should either take off that apron immediately or move away— and move fast.

 

“Gear up!” Winston shouts to you. “He’s actually dangerous! Scratched Peter in the face!”

 

“Guess I was just too pretty!”

 

The vapor dashes in your direction. It’s quick. You grunt, try to dodge and fail miserably: its slimy claws reach your neck and graze your shirt in a failed attempt to rip off the perky apron. You growl and crouch before Ray chases the ghost off with a stream.

 

“Ah. Funk. Shite.”, you grunt. “I’ll get the proton pack!”

 

Egon can’t fucking believe it.

 

He eases down the proton rod and appears in front of you in a few long strides. No questions, no warning, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder like a sack— then proceeds to literally carry you away from the scene.

 

“What the heck?!” You yelp. “Let me go!”

 

“Over my dead body.”

 

Ray and Winston struggle to aim, Peter does more talking than shooting— as usual— so the vapor dissipates and the streams slide off of its ethereal body. The moment isn’t ideal for being a knight in the shining armor but it’s as good as any. Your safety is more important than a burned wall or Peter’s personal opinion (he surely has one— he saw you two— he did a double take).

 

All of that is irrelevant. What matters though, is that Egon is aware.

 

You’re close. Locks brush against his ear and your breath is hot on the nape of his neck. The air tingles his tiny hairs. It tickles, it’s distracting and he tenses up, fingers finding their way into your hair. Then, the scent of soap he planted for you reaches his nostrils— and it’s good, it means you’re taken care of. Your hands clutch his jumpsuit— on his shoulder blades, on his chest— and pull at his damp undershirt just because it’s there, right underneath, warm and soaked with sweat.

 

You’re holding on to him for dear life. You’re around him, everywhere, all at once and it takes every ounce of his willpower to stay focused.

 

He lets you go in the far corner of the garage. You slide off. Your numb hands linger on his patch and under his collar. Eyes lock.

 

For a split second he fights an urge to lean in— to press his forehead to yours, to feel you’re right there, safe, away from danger. He almost does. Then he sees blood on your collarbone and his face turns stark.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Um”, you look downwards and tap the stain with your finger. “I don’t know.”

 

“He scratched you.”

 

“ I mean, it doesn’t hurt now, so—”

 

“He scratched you.”

 

Something within him shifts. He’s all fire and smoke, jaw set, breath hot, eyes sharp and unrelenting. His fists clench, knuckles whiten, a wave of heat reaches his ears— and in this moment he barely recognizes himself.

 

“Egon…?”

 

“Winston!” He yells. “Set the trap!”

 

Your hands grab his sleeve but the grasp is weak, unsure— as if you wanted to anchor him before he does something stupid. Egon vaguely registers that. The fabric slips away from your grip and he strides away, gaze fixated on the ghost. He supports the proton gun on his arm and aims.

 

Ray picks up on this change of demeanor immediately.

 

“Ho, someone’s pissed!” He chants. “We’re shooting on three!”

 

Peter seems to come round as well. He tosses the bloody gauze on the floor (the wound he got is a sleek, clean line, it doesn’t seem deep) and clenches his teeth.

 

“You envied my pretty face, huh?”

 

What happens next is difficult to put in the correct order. There’s a loud shriek, a flash of streams coming from at least three proton packs, a loud zap and a warm glow. There’s also a burnt smudge on the ceiling, stretching all the way from garage door to the reception desk, an armchair on the first floor that’s set of fire and — for some inexplicable reason— two bulbs have just exploded.

 

Janine and Louis run out of the office. Everybody’s quiet. Thick smoke comes from the trap and the air is still until the red light on it switches on.

 

“…It’s inside.” Winston sighs. “Are you guys okay?”

 

Ray does a one over. The overall damage is considerable but Janine’s already prancing around the armchair with an extinguisher and the ceiling— well, it’s not like any client ever pays attention to the ceiling, right?— so everything’s taken care of. Peter extends a thumb in a weak attempt to show it is, in fact, alright.

 

“Yeah. I’ll go get changed. More than enough for today.”

 

Egon turns his head towards you. You’re still standing right where he put you: far away from the scene, unsure and anxious. His head is still burning. How stupid of you, how reckless not to listen to his request— how much unnecessary stress, how much disaster— what an idiotic move to ignore an explicit warning—

 

Ray is a perceptive guy.

 

“I’ll handle the trap”, he says and leaves the garage first.

 

 

👻

 

 

You take off the apron, blood splatter tainting a bee you embroidered yourself.

 

“…Oh. I doubt it’ll come off.”

 

Egon lets you into his lab and closes the door.

 

“It will”, he assures you. “Here, change. I won’t look.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

He lets you swap your ripped shirt for one of his sweaters while he skims over the first aid kit. There must be some ectoplasmic residue around the gash. If he gets a good quality sample, he could run a few tests and see how the molecular transfer works in reference to changing the ghost’s state of matter. It’s a first. If they could figure it out, that would be a real breakthrough.

 

“I’m, uh. I’m decent.”

 

Egon picks up a petri dish, a bottle of antiseptic spray and some gauze pads. He sits in a chair right in front of you, rolls up his sleeves and leans over to inspect the wound.

 

A long red line runs over your collarbone, up to your neck. It’s fresh, red splatters specked across your throat and chest but despite the impact, it doesn’t seem dangerous. He’s relieved to see the other end of the scratch— it’s right above your chest. The hem of his sweater hangs a little loose on you, allowing easy access. Thank God for small mercies.

 

The light is dim. It’s the blue glow he uses when he needs to focus. Crisp air wraps around him like a blanket. Drawers and tools are outlined by its faint radiance, particles of dust only fleeting in proximity— the specks move slowly, lazily, as if they had the whole time in the world.

 

Egon takes his time as well. He disinfects his hands, picks up a cotton stick and leans into your personal space.  Your body radiates with heat. He chooses not to think about it: instead, he works around the wound and collect samples. The tip gathers some of the ectoplasm left by the attack. He’s careful to avoid pressing against the slit— only prods at its edges, makes sure none of the cotton fibers get into your wound. Fingers brush against your neck. Your skin is warm.

 

You look up.

 

“Are you mad at me?”

 

“I don’t know what I am at you”, he exhales, then puts away the sample. He takes a scrap of gauze and soaks it with spirits. “It may sting.”

 

The cloth touches your skin. It’s cold and it burns.

 

“Eesh. Oof.” You nod. “Yeah, that’s the feeling.”

 

“Familiar?”

 

“Ah. Scout camps. We’d get a lot of these. Scraping your way through the woods and all that.”

 

Egon frowns, meeting your gaze.

 

“Weren’t your uniforms designed to protect you from those?”

 

“A cotton button- down skirt? Knee- length? Seriously.”

 

“…Okay, I can see your point”, he snorts— and you chuckle too, glint in your eyes — and it’s warm in his chest.

 

He cleans the gash way longer than necessary. Your skin seems so fragile up close. Drops of liquid sanitizer glide against it, guiding him through the task. He runs over them with gentle pads again and again, smearing the antiseptic into an even coat. Delicate swipes leave smudges, which’s irregular lines shapes gleam on your skin. The wound looks a little better. It’s a cue. He doesn’t stop.

 

“Egon, I’d like to thank you for all of this”, you almost whisper. “I know I screwed up. I’m terribly sorry. I should have been wiser and stay where I was told.”

 

He frowns. He was mad at you before you came down to the lab. He should still be mad at you but hormones are like tides— they rise and retract, they take over, then dissipate— and he’s just not feeling it anymore.

 

“We’re good”, he murmurs. “I’ve neglected the issue myself. I should teach you how to use our equipment. Accidents will happen. It’s imperative you’re capable of defending yourself.”

 

“You’re the experts though. I keep forgetting my place.”

 

“You’re not bound to a place. You’re a person, not a pet.”

 

There’s a slight swift in your expression. He doesn’t look— doesn’t dare, really, his demeanor is all too bothering— but your whole body relaxes, as if dead weight just fell off your chest.

 

“It’s been a long day but at least you got the sample, right? A silver lining?”

 

Egon looks at you. He’s met with a smirk but— heck, it must be the adrenaline residue or some unusual distress (he’s gotten considerably better at reading your emotions as of late)— he can’t interpret whether you’re being honest or sarcastic. Thin ice. Better make sure.

 

“Um. Was it wrong of me?”

 

“Silly”, you let out a laugh. “Not at all. I’m glad, as stupid as it sounds.”

 

He shivers but manages a smile. It’s chemistry or biology, one of the two. Ridiculous.

 

Both of you fall into comfortable silence. He finishes patching you up, while you’re just sitting there, looking over the lab. Your neck is close. Breaths mingle. It’s soft and warm. He could stay like that for the rest of the evening but there’s only so much proximity he can go away with (or handle) at once so he leans back.

 

“That’s all. Keep it dry. Clean in again before you go to bed.”

 

“Thanks. I’ll go put your jumpsuits in the laundry.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He raises from the chair but feels a grasp on his hand. He looks at you and freezes. You seem to purposefully avoid his gaze but dare to lift his fingers to your lips in a gentle motion. He’s not prepared for this. His mind is blank. He—

 

“No. I mean it”, you press your cheek into his knuckles, eyes squeezed shut. “Thank you for taking care of me, Egon. I owe you again. At this rate, I’d better start paying it off or I’m going to be in debt for a long time, huh?”

 

No, he wants to say. You owe me nothing, but he can’t utter a word so he watches you stand up, offer a smile and leave, snugly wrapped in his sweater.

 

There are some noises upstairs. They’re foggy. Later, he’ll be pretty sure Ray called his name at some point but the only thing he registers tonight is loud white noise, an ache in his ribs and warmth in his temple. He carries it to the kitchen, where he eats eggs for supper— then bathroom, where he takes a long shower— then his bed when he goes to sleep. He leaves his flip- flops on the floor but the feeling slides with him under the covers.

 

It’s late. It should go away, dissipate, but it doesn’t. He counts sheep, tries meditating and stretches every breath to ridiculous extends. It doesn’t help though: it’s still there, strong, unrelenting, it keeps him awake for at least two more hours.

 

He’s not stupid. He recognizes the symptoms.

 

He just doesn’t recall struggling with them so damn much.

Chapter 4: The Call

Summary:

“You’ll be ordering a pile of wobbly thermoplastic haystack around for the whole gig. What a time to be alive.”

The following weeks are a challenge.

 

Egon experiences plenty of previously unfelt symptoms. He isn’t sure how to classify them.

 

There’s a bunch of obvious signs of affection: blunt pangs in his chest every time you come down to the lab, a recurring hitch whenever you say or do something silly. And there’s a lot of silly. You brighten the room, make everything more vibrant. It’s quite ridiculous, frankly. He knows nothing’s changed. You’re still you, he’s still himself, the ceiling’s still burnt and the sooty armchair hasn’t been replaced. Still, he can’t help but gravitate towards you: the warmth, the heart and the laughs.

 

Thing is, there are times when much stronger waves of feelings wash over him. Egon finds them unable to process.

 

In the lab, for instance. At this point, you’re welcome here unannounced, even at his absence. You spend the mornings here (right after you’re done with the dishes), at his desk, reading his notes. No matter how much you try to clean up afterwards, there’s always something amiss: a skewed desk lamp, a tilted chair, a half- empty mug— and that doesn’t bother him in the lightest. What does, however, is that sometimes his sweater or lab coat are hung up on the hook or the chair. They’re warm and have a familiar scent. He puts them on and goes about his day, only calmer and slightly agitated.

 

A paradox, he observes. Still, he can’t help it.

 

He isn’t sure whether you’re crossing a line or not. Sharing clothes doesn’t classify as socially acceptable— not without an explicit permission. You don’t seem to mind though. It may be because he’s already lent you a garment once— and technically the offer’s still on the table (possible reasons: comfort, amicability, low temperature in the lab). What’s equally plausible is that his scent is as welcoming to you as yours is to him. It’s about familiarity, positive affiliations. Pheromones. You’re probably as much of a victim here as he is. Hopeless against biology— ah, yes. Must be that.

 

There’s an intrusive thought which prods at the back of his brain, however. A slim chance you might, somehow, reciprocate this state of madness.

 

He lacks data though— lots of data. He’s never seen you blush. You don’t initiate physical contact beyond close friendliness and utmost respect. You’ve never asked about his personal life (Janine used to do it— he’s learnt it’s a cue of romantic interest). You don’t put on more makeup than usual, neither do you seem overly preoccupied by his proximity— even though he’s been progressively invading your personal space in the lab for a while now.

 

He breathes you in. Melts in your warmth. Aches to touch your hand. He’s starving.

 

He wants to confront you about it. He does. It nags him in a way he hasn’t known before. But if his explicit confession brings and end to the comfortable intimacy you two have, he’d rather not say anything at all. It’ll pass. It will all pass. For the time being, he’s determined to wait it out.

 

There’s lots of road bumps, though. You— blissfully unaware of his discomfort— are pretty friendly with the others. Flirtatious, even, especially with Ray— you talk a lot, chat about the paranormal as you wash Ecto- 1 and he tinkers with the engine. Yes, you’ve grown familiar (eye contact, laughing, occasional hugs), albeit the relationship seems far from the wardrobe- sharing kind. That seems to be exclusive to Egon.

 

Oh, he likes that word. Exclusive.

 

An experiment is due.

 

---

 

It’s a big bust. Lots of trouble. A ton of money to be made.

 

Dragging you out with the team isn’t Egon’s idea— Ray suggested it. Naturally, everybody got aboard. It’s a perfect opportunity to run a few tests, both on the improved equipment (remotely operated traps! That’s the latest crown jewel of Egon’s ingenuity) and your bodily functions, a.k.a.: trying to elicit undisputable hints of attraction.

 

Needless to say, he’s thrilled.

 

You stagger towards the lockers where the boys are gearing up. If your body language indicates anything, it’s pure terror.

 

“I’ve only practiced on inanimate objects!”

 

“Ghosts are inanimate objects!” Ray beams. “We’ll need backup. Someone to set up the old- fashioned traps in case the remote rookies fail. If it goes well, you won’t even have to use the proton pack. Just, you know, move around a little bit, stretch some wires and stomp!”

 

“Yeah, sure. I totally won’t get tangled up in the cables”, you swallow a bile and laugh weakly. “You’ll be ordering a pile of wobbly thermoplastic haystack around for the whole gig, as per usual Friday night. What a time to be alive.”

 

“Don’t worry. You’ve done well on the training”, says Egon. “Get changed and we’re going. Here, take my spare.”

 

He hands you the jumpsuit. You take a deep breath and go to the bathroom to change.

 

Peter Venkman is an absolute slut for that.

 

“How chivalrous”, he wiggles his eyebrows. “Egon, isn’t your mood slime going to be jealous? Are you taking good care of your ladies, nurture them and all?”

 

“The slime’s never complained.”

 

“Ah, but you left it underground, didn’t you. Moving on to humans now. Hey, I’d call it progress, good for you.”

 

Egon’s a hair away from producing some sick, elaborate burn to put Peter out but you open the bathroom door— dressed in his uniform, eyes sparkling with playful glimmer, wide smile plastered to your face.

 

“Ha! I look good in your surname.”

 

Ah, how perfect. Egon smiles.

 

“Better than your own, I think. It’s a good surname. Quite versatile.”

 

“Mm! Goes well with a lot of names. Has a nice flow, asserts dominance.”

 

“Indeed. Very attribute-y. Lots of great qualities”, he raises an eyebrow. “Would be a shame not to pass it on.”

 

That was about as smooth as a speeding truck—hard to miss and heavily loaded. That’s the point. He looks at you: you’re absolutely aware of what he’s just said, covering your mouth with a hand and stifling a laugh. Good. No blush, though. Bad? You don’t seem too flustered either. He’s swarmed with mixed signals. The only thing he can go off of is a warm, bright grin stretching across your cheeks and a slightly scrunched nose (adorable) and oh no, his guts are churning again, that’s inconvenient, that’s, uh, it’s—

 

Peter, on the other hand, assaults Egon with his Shook Look (TM). Egon recognizes that: he’s asking The Question. He decides a smirk is enough of an answer. Vague. Evasive. That won’t solve any problems (potentially cause more— screw it) but it’ll sure as hell keep Peter away from explicitly taunting him, you and the mood slime. Let’s shut his mouth for a change, shall we?

 

“Ray told me about the place”, you say, getting into the car. “Seems to be littered with ghosts. He said there were lots of Class Fours and Fives so I read about them again. I hope I remember everything.”

 

“Going out in the field is a great way to learn.”

 

“Yeah, Egon’s right! You’ll be a professional in no time. It’ll be nice to have you fully on board, can’t wait to show you all the cool strategies we’ve come up with.”

 

Winston takes the wheel. Peter turns on the obnoxious siren and the magnificent Ecto- 1 leaves the station.

 

The loud wailing from the roof boosts New York City’s average noise pollution by at least 40%. Street lamps flicker as you pass by. Cars beep, tires screech and bumpy road is getting increasingly more troublesome with every turn. That’s understandable: the car’s designed for four passengers. There’s five. While Winston and Pete have plenty of room, Egon’s squeezed in the back, sandwiching you between himself and Ray. It’s snug, cozy. Like, military- truck sort of cozy.

 

He glances at you. A few minutes pass. You’re preoccupied with picking at your fingertips, face visibly contorted. Stress— yes, that’s stress. He’s capable of recognizing it by now.

 

Egon leans over your ear.

 

“Tense?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Remember Chapter Twelve on the Ghost Classes? Class Fours, specifically?”

 

“Established identities. Capable of communication. Historical figures and such.”

 

“Perfect”, he murmurs. “We’re going to try regular assessment and peaceful method of disposal. If that doesn’t work, we’ll resort to the streams. Unlikely but possible.”

 

“So, a proton pack for me as well?”

 

“I’d recommend it. Once we’re done with Class Fours, we’ll have to deal with Fives. No other way than to shoot them. No mercy there.”

 

He watches your face as you offer a small nod. Your shuddered breath tickles his skin.

 

“Okay. I just want to say that upfront: I’m scared, okay? I’m petrified. I may freeze or try to do the least logical thing at the least appropriate moment.”

 

“And I acknowledge that”, he presses his shoulder to yours a little tighter. “Stay close to me. I’ll guide you through it, okay?”

 

“Stop me if I attempt to do something stupid. Please.”

 

“I will. Trust me.”

 

“I do.”

 

The car keeps veering as if there was no tomorrow. Egon’s palm is laying on his knee, pressed against your side. Were you alone, he’d squeeze your hand— soothingly, with care and patience— but Winston is speeding, siren is wailing and the circumstances are off. Seeping warmth you share through layers of fabric must provide at least a shade of comfort. You’re wrapped in his jumpsuit, too. He truly hopes it helps.

 

Ecto- 1 pulls over with a loud screech. Everyone jumps out of the car and Winston is quick to distribute the equipment.

 

Egon’s used to the clunky shape of proton packs so he swiftly puts his on and helps you set up. He adjusts the belt around your middle, secures the grapples and makes sure it’s not too tight. Then he straightens up and inches closer to check the straps. He’ll optimize them for you. A few simple tricks can save your life. It’s not like he’s acutely aware of how close your face is. Nor is he tilting his head to brush your hair with the tip of his nose but—

 

“…Egon?”

 

The familiar scent keeps him pulled in. The warmth is magnetizing. It defies everything he’s learnt throughout his college years and he’s not used to it— to being so helpless— defenseless, pliant, weak— to yield to how your hair tingle his skin— your lips so close he can taste your breath—

 

“Hey, Spenglers!” Peter calls. “Both of you! Chop, chop!”

 

Crap. Peter. The guys. How could he—

 

Egon backs away.

 

“Alright. That should do it. Won’t slide off.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

He grunts, breath short. Pulls on a pair of latex gloves. He’s just about to turn around but something clicks and he pauses.

 

“…Wait. Has Peter just coined a collective for us?”

 

“…Um. Maybe”, you say. “Sorry, I didn’t catch it. Wasn’t paying attention.”

 

Egon looks up to see your lips curved in a smile. It’s… small and tentative. Strange. What’s even weirder, you don’t meet his eyes and that fact alone strikes him as wrong. Something’s amiss— he barely understands anything anymore (are you just scared?) but there’s no time to ponder upon his personal issues right now. The Ghostbusters are on a job. This will have to wait until later.

 

The house might as well be the 8^th World Wonder. Even the station wasn’t near as decrepit as this mansion— yeah, it was empty, dusty and almost irreparable (almost: he’d never quash Ray’s enthusiasm)— but at least it had a future. This mansion, simply put, doesn’t. Honestly, it’s a miracle this thing is still standing.

 

“Class Fours should be members of the Marsh family”, says Ray. “Two or three of them.”

 

“Wait, that Marsh family?” You catch up and grab him by the arm. “You know, the Innsmouth’s Marsh family who also happen to have been heavily involved with the Children of Dagon? The Sea People? The Marshes?!”

 

“Oh, you’ve read about them! That’s fantastic! One of the children moved here three generations ago. Apparently, they’d been performing rituals in this very house until their death in 1932. Or was it ’35?”

 

“Good timing”, says Peter. “Man quit before the Nazis.”

 

“Hey, ho, but… If Class Fives are still there, they were likely listed in, uh, that book you guys have, Whatnots of Koth… Something.”

 

“The Black Rituals of Koth- Serapis”, Egon supplies.

 

“Exactly! Whoever this Marsh guy is, he’s probably invoked, uh… non- humanoid entities? Literal, dangerous monsters? Tentacles? Floods of slime?”

 

Ray graces you with a smile and warm eyes.

 

“That’s exactly why we need you here.”

 

Egon’s brows knit. That’s strange. You could technically know a little about Dagon and the whole Sea People lot— you did read pulp magazines after all— but for you to be familiar with Koth- Serapis is suspicious.

 

Yes, if you peeked into his latest research on The Collective, you can be aware of The Great Old Ones. There are lots of loose notes and markers he’s scattered across his desk, after all, and you’re welcome unannounced. But, heck— even if you did take interest in that particular branch of his research— even if you did, in fact, learn his notes by heart, it’s impossible for you to know the author’s name. At no point did he mention Koth. There is no chance for you to know about that darn book.

 

He pulls out P.K.E. Meter and sweeps your back.

 

“I think we shouldn’t go head- on”, suggests Winston. “They’re gonna surround us. We know there’s many, right? And various types? So let’s be smart about it.”

 

“Lure them out?” Asks Ray.

 

Peter flexes. “I’ll lure them. Help me pick the strategy, boys. Male or female?”

 

“Um, neither, actually. Merozoites.”

 

“…Fuck.”

 

Egon shoots Peter a dead stare.

 

“Let’s not.”

 

“I think we should try talking to them first”, says Ray. “The Marshes were human once. A while ago. Not long, only a few decades at most! They were the cult leaders here so… I suppose they’re the ones to reason with.”

 

“You do realize you’ve just put cult and reason in one sentence, right?”

 

The P.K.E. Meter’s beeping speeds up. Egon looks at the screen— there’s a rapid spike in readings. It’s detected spectral motion. Sparks flicker around its metal wings. Signs of trouble creep just around the corner.

 

The sky’s darker and hauling wind pulls at bare trees. It gets stronger, tugs at dried branches, scatters dead twigs across the mansion’s lawn— a tangled mess which has stayed untrimmed for decades. What’s worse, an electromagnetic field is brewing above their heads. An impending storm is always a bad omen. Lots of ghosts. Mess. Moving targets. Pure luck. Occultic residue is always a pain to clean.

 

Ray hops onto the porch. Peter prances close behind like the smartarse he always is. Winston charges his proton rod, vigilant, focused. The whole ordeal seems to escalate rather quickly.

 

Egon turns to you.

 

“Stay here.”

 

“…Okay. What do I do?”

 

“Set the traps. All of them, place them on the porch. We aim to catch them inside but if they try to escape, they’ll be greeted with a surprise. We’re the frontline and you are safe here.”

 

You breathe a sigh of relief.

 

“Thank you, Egon. You’re my favorite person on Earth. Are you sure you’re going to be alright? This looks rather dreadful, if you ask me.”

 

“We’ve done worse. Hopefully it won’t take long. No matter what happens, don’t go inside.”

 

“Sir, yes, sir”, you chuckle. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. What I do want, however, is you all back in one piece. Are we clear? Seal the deal? Can I have an, uh, a fist bump or something?”

 

He smirks so hard his dimple shows.

 

“See you later, Spengler.”

 

Egon doesn’t see your face— he turns away and scuttles up to the gang. However, to his delight, a vibrant timbre of your giggle rings in his ears and the warm sound follows him. It’s there when he passes through the decayed doorstep— into the rotten foyer— onto the perished floor. He scrapes through the vapors and drowns in the shadows— surrounded by damp walls, ceilings and textile scraps. It’s like this place has been buried for years but still refuses to die. There’s nothing here. Not a shred of life.

 

He latches onto the fading echo of your laugh. It’s warm. Distant but familiar. It’s his way out.

Chapter 5: I consent

You’re shivering. It’s stress, fear and the wind.

 

Just when Egon’s silhouette disappears inside the house, you rush to the car. There’s no time to waste. Your trembling body should calm down if you occupy yourself with practical, physical tasks.

 

Ray’s packed five pedal traps. He must’ve expected this bust to be tricky. You pull two of them out of the trunk and move towards the house, long grass clinging to your boots. The sky is almost black— clouds clashing into a pile of chaos— but there’s no sign of rain. You force yourself not to think too much of it.

 

You set the two traps in place: just outside the stoop, down the stairs, so that you’re able to see the ghosts when they come. Once they sit, you spool out the cords and stretch them until you bump into the car. Perfect: the pedals are both within one foot’s reach. Even if you panic, you’ll leap right onto all buttons— if they activate at once, chances of missing the vapors are minimal. Yeah, yeah, okay— you’re also wildly aware of how easy it’d be to open the wrong one— but it doesn’t matter if you’re smart about it, right? Even if that means dumbing down your strategy.

 

You reach to the trunk again and that’s when it starts.

 

F' ah nog, f' ah hupa.

 

You jump. An ugly, gurgle- like noise appears right behind your ear. There’s a whisper. A few words. You don’t recognize them at all. It’s a chant— seems like— but there’s no way for you to make out any of the words. They clump into one another and form some sort of horrifying language: impossible to understand, impossible to mimic.

 

“…Ah! Heck, no!”

 

Eyes frantic, breath short, you turn your head around only to see nothing. Shite. You’re sure it’s not you’re your imagination. It can’t be a Class 4. They don’t behave like that. Egon wrote that Classes 5 and higher took pleasure in taunting. Class 6— they’re highly intelligent, often malicious, Class 7s are usually set on a goal. Whatever this one is, it’s smart and despite your plea— maybe it’s just a gust ectoplasmic mist we’re having here, it’s invisible and outside the premises, right?…— all the evidence threaten to quash your hope.

 

You grab two more traps from the trunk when—

 

F' mgep llll mgepfhtagn y'nahh.

 

It’s loud. The voice pulses in your head. A deep roar escapes your throat. Traps slip out of your hands and land on the grass with a flat thud. You bend in half, your hands shoot towards your temples and fingers dig into your scalp. It doesn’t hurt but it’s invasive— the voice seems too close, too clear and way too tactile.

 

“Argh! No, no, no, no, absolutely NOT!”

 

You huff, groan and bend over to pick up the traps. Heck, shouldn’t you charge the proton rod instead? The ghost may be invisible but it’s still real. Corporeal— sort of— in a weird, capturable way. Two traps are out in the field so if you could somehow, magically, scoop the vapor and drag it in, you could handle the issue yourself.

 

The proton pack is humming with energy. You pull out the rod. A few steps towards the porch and you’re ready to shoot. You’re exposed. A bait again.

 

(Egon’s reaction is embossed in your memory— the exasperation, the utter disappointment in his eyes— and you frown because, urgh, okay— but this time it’s different. Now the spirit is a spooky type, not a poltergeist. Hasn’t caused physical damage so far. Scary but harmless. Heck, it hasn’t even shown itself yet, so chances of you getting hurt like the last time are minimal. As long as you keep your wits about you, everything’s going to be alright…)

 

Wind picks up. It’s stronger by the minute. Wild gusts toss your hair, strands invade your lips. The air is dry and sharp, it stings in your eyes— pinches your cheeks— you can’t see—

 

“Yo! Come on!” You shout. “Come at me!”

 

You’re panting. Your knuckles turn white. You hold on to the rod for your dear life, whip it around, hypervigilant.

 

C' ah ahna geb mgep h' nafl'fhtagn.

 

A proton stream blows a hole in the roof. You scream, stumble and lift your head to see a shaky beam rip through slates, across the rotten ceiling. It’s coming from the inside, which means one of the Ghostbusters is trying to capture a vapor. The roof is barely standing. If they do that again…

 

“…Oh no. Guys! BOYS!”

 

You want to dash towards the mansion— screw the ghosts and traps— but if you run inside and fail to make it, you’re at risk as well. You can’t help from an even worse position so you just stand there, petrified, your head pulsing with adrenaline and sheer dread. If you rush there and something happens, you’ll only cause more problems. If you don’t move… Well, if you don’t—

 

Geb c' nog.

 

“No, NO—”

 

Sharp roofs of the wooden vault give in. Another beam sears through, this time reaching so far it hits a nearby tree. A branch breaks. The ceilings cave in. They collapse in an instant.

 

The sight is surreal. It happens so fast. Walls on the second floor burst. A hail of splinters pours onto the porch. Some heavy object must have hit the chimney because the bricks crack and the whole shaft falls into pieces. Huge chunks of concrete burst through the floors, leaving breaches of sharp planks behind. There are screams— the boys, they’re there, you have to go help them— but you’re hopeless— and the tree is burning, the branch is ablaze, spreading wildfire across the remnants of oaken stakes and furniture. Before you know it, the mansion is reduced to a pile of dust and rubble.

 

Your breath hitches.

 

…Boys.

 

You dash forward. Scan the area. A faint glow of burning wood lights the ruins, allowing you to see shapes and silhouettes. Their faint outline seems static. Smell of must, humidity and ash tinges your throat. Sharp air stings your eyes. Your breath comes out as puffs of thick steam. Your lungs are burning.

 

“EGON!” You yell. “RAY!”

 

“They’re here!”

 

It’s Winston. Of course the most resourceful out of the bunch will make it out first. He scrambles out and waves at you.

 

You run— climbing the debris, pieces of concrete and wood— until you’re right before him.  You take his face into your hands and tilt it sideways. Something warm and wet seeps onto your fingers and you pray for it to be sweat— but it’s not— it’s dark, sticks to your nails and smells like iron.

 

“Are you alright?” You ask. “You’re… Your brow...”

 

Winston takes your hands into his and gently pulls them away.

 

“Sugar. Don’t worry about me.”

 

A few steps away, Egon limps out from beneath heavy blocks of wood. His glasses are gone. Hair is disheveled, ashy, blood is dripping from his nose. His breath is heavy and for some reason— one you aren’t sure you want to know— a latex glove is pressed tight against his side as he makes his way towards the two of you.

 

You let out a sob.

 

“…Egon.”

 

“We miscalculated. The vapors were coordinated for some reason. They moved in sync”, he gasps, then looks at you. “Are you hurt?”

 

“…You idiot! You’ve just fallen down like a piece of rubble and you’re asking me—”

 

“Just tell me.”

 

His breathing is rapid, gaze fixed and steady. You fall quiet. The sight brands in your memory: how he winces, how he’s in pain, how he’s hurting— and how absurd it is that the only thing he seems to care about is… to make sure…

 

“…I’m okay.”

 

“Good”, he nods. “The rest?”

 

A pile of rubble shakes and there he is— Peter Venkman, the immortal son of a glitch— whose right sleeve is absolutely on fire but the man himself is unscathed. Winston hops to him and pats it until it’s off.

 

“Ah, shoot. It was my last hope for a smoking hot body.”

 

“Where’s Ray?”

 

A cough rumbles from beneath a pile of debris. Winston rushes there and you follow without thinking. Ray’s leg is trapped, squeezed by some furniture and he’s lying face down, barely able to lift his head up to catch a breath. Winston’s quick to assess the scene and come up with the logistics. With a quick motion of his head, he directs you: let’s lift the armchair first.

 

It takes a few minutes but the two of you manage to pull Ray out. He’s almost limp when he props against your arms. His confused face is caked with ash. Looks dizzy— disoriented? Hit his head?— but since he’s alive and vaguely okay, Peter looks satisfied.

 

“Ray, my pretty boy! How does the ash taste?”

 

Ray puffs out a cloud of dust.

 

“Sour”, he grunts, wincing.

 

---

 

 

You aren’t allowed into the emergency room. Using a surname badge as a leverage doesn’t work— a Spengler patch isn’t exactly an equivalent of an ID and you can’t blame the staff. Your options are reduced to: A— waiting outside or B—going back to the station.

 

Frankly, you are exhausted. Winston urges you to leave: he hands you a pile of dirty jumpsuits (just put them in the washing machine, they can wait till tomorrow) and says you should take some rest. Your heart has a hard time relenting but your limbs speak for themselves. Adrenaline is leaving your body— you can feel it. Everything slows down. The boys are taken care of. They’re in good hands. You should go home.

 

You don’t.

 

It's later that evening when you step into the empty station. It’s dark. Cold. With the lights off and no ambient sounds, it feels odd— unfamiliar, almost inhospitable. There’s nobody tinkering with the car. No radio, no phone calls, no bantering— as if the life evaporated with the guys. You’re tentative about going further. It feels invasive. The bundle of jumpsuits requires a wash though and you’re determined to do it today. With that in mind, you make a beeline to the laundry room. You need some time to think.

 

You throw everything into the washing machine and strip off the borrowed uniform. The flannel shirt you’re wearing is way too cold at this hour so you reach for the clothes hanging on the strings: some tops and bottoms slimed a few days ago. They’re clean and dry. You fold them.

 

One of the sweaters belongs to Egon. You put it on. It’s a little big but delightfully soft. And, heck, yes— you know it’s probably a little intrusive, and a tad inappropriate— but it warms you up. Doesn’t carry Egon’s scent, it’s fresh out of the laundry. Borrowed from a common room, not stolen from his wardrobe— and for comfort, not recreation. None of that exonerates you but it surely serves as extenuating circumstance so you snug the garment around your frame and move towards the cupboards.

 

In a few moments all jumpsuits land inside the machine. You load a mixture of powder and softeners, then set it on a slow, overnight program. You press a button. Wait.

 

The drum moves. Water flushes in. Foam clings to the glass.

 

You prop against a wall and let your legs slide until you sit on the tiles. Your mind is blank, eyelids heavy. Your head tilts forward till it rests on your knees, drowning in the steady rhythm and gentle squelch of the washer.

 

“Oh!” You hear. “That’s a surprise.”

 

Your head shoots up. Egon’s standing in the doorframe, carrying the shirt he wore during the bust. His hair is still a tangled mess— devoid of ash, at least. Shiny glasses adorn his pretty face. Must’ve taken the spares from the lab.

 

“Egon, you’re here? They discharged you?”

 

“Yes. Sorry. I didn’t realize you came to the station”, he frowns. “Didn’t Winston tell you to rest?”

 

“I just wanted to finish up. Where’s Ray?”

 

“Still there. It’s possible he has a mild concussion. Peter and Winston sneaked out of the hospital in case the Mayor’s men come looking for us.”

 

“Ah, yes! Right, right. I forgot that’s a thing.”

 

There’s a moment of comfortable silence. Both of you watch the washer— the drops and tides, the soaked uniforms bashing against the walls. A low, humming noise fills the room.

 

You shift a little.

 

“Sorry about earlier. I could’ve warned you when I saw the first stream rip through.”

 

“Don’t. Lack of proper maintenance is the Mayor’s fault.”

 

“Do the ghosts still… reside there?” You squint. “ I mean, if the house collapsed…”

 

“Class 5s might’ve escaped. They can move freely. But Class 4s are definitely still around.”

 

You hum and rest your head on your knees again.

 

There’s plenty you don’t understand. Lots of things you have yet to read in Egon’s journal— most of them too advanced for you. Had you been more knowledgeable and more experienced, you wouldn’t bother the boys with your ghost encounter. You’d look it up yourself. The language though, the sounds falling into one another like an abhorrent gurgle were almost surreal. You can’t withhold it. Egon should know.

 

“I have something to tell you”, you say. “There was… someone. I heard something speaking to me. A ghost of some kind must’ve been outside as well. It was talking. Making noises and I couldn’t understand anything.”

 

He looks at you.

 

“Did you see it?”

 

“No, but—”

 

“Come with me.”

 

He reaches his hand and pulls you up from the ground. You go upstairs. Egon grabs a few devices on the go while you follow, praying for strength to keep your eyes open.

 

“Tell me, how did you know about Koth?”

 

“I’m not sure. It just popped in my mind. I get that sometimes”, you shrug. “Associating smells with events or tastes with places, for instance. Thought I’d just heard it somewhere and it triggered a memory.”

 

“Mm, that’s curious. You might be susceptible to psychic stimuli. Can I run a few tests?”

 

“I mean”, you yawn. “Will it require my active participation? Can I leave you to it, while sinking into a magnificent cot and stretching in an embarrassing, unladylike manner?”

 

He stops and turns to face you.

 

“How long have we known each other?”

 

“Enough?”

 

“That’s an understatement.”

 

“Yeah, sharing the laundry really knits people tight”, you chuckle. “Let’s move, then.”

 

He lets you into their sleeping quarters and nods. You take the cue, saunter towards his bed and huddle there. Egon sits down on Ray’s cot. Knees touch. You watch him fiddle with the equipment. It must be a whole new level of exhaustion but you mindlessly lift a finger and touch his nose.

 

“No blood.”

 

He freezes.

 

“Got checked. Nothing serious.”

 

“Mm. You looked radical though.”

 

“Interesting”, he says and you have no idea how to interpret that. “Lay down, please?”

 

That’s what you do. Stretching your back after today feels glorious and you’re absolutely taking your time. You roll a little, outstretch your feet, grunt and sigh, and there you are— slack and susceptible. Egon allows you to sink into a comfortable position. He turns on the PKE meter, then gently takes your hand.

 

It’s delightful beyond anything you’ve known so far.

 

“I’m literally falling asleep”, you hum.

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

“I do. I have to go home. Take a shower and get changed before I show up to work tomorrow.”

 

“We are taking a few days off, at least until Ray comes round. There’s no need to rush. I suggest you crash over here and leave in the morning, if you insist.”

 

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

 

“You’re not. Get some proper rest. I’ll be able to determine whether these anomalies reoccur throughout the night or not. It’s beneficial for both of us.”

 

You want to argue a little but your muscles feel sore. Egon’s hand is holding yours and the grip is steady, firm and sure. He's safe.

 

You’re on the brink of slumber when his voice brings you back to reality.

 

“You’re wearing my sweater.”

 

“…It’s warm”, you manage. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll...”

 

“No. You’re welcome to do that. Surely, you must know that at this point.”

 

“I figured. Assumed, more like. Do we have rules about it?”

 

“No. I guess we should, but…”, he seems to ponder. “Actually, I’d appreciate if you refrain from throwing it in the laundry before giving it back to me. I need it for a test.”

 

“Oh. Do I want to know?”

 

He’s stalling— you can hear it.

 

“You should”, he retracts the device and adjusts something. “I have a theory about the effects of pheromones. My body seems to react to your scent. It’s unusually responsive. Gradually increasing. It’s getting… rather bothersome. I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad— but it’s there and I’m in great need of more data. With your consent, that is.”

 

A wave of heat runs through you. Has he just…?

 

“Yeah”, you exhale. “I consent.”

 

“Alright then”, he whispers, retracting his hand. “We’re done for now. PKE levels aren’t indicative of demonic possession, so we can rule that out. That’s good news but I want to have you here throughout the night: for observation. Keep the sweater. I’ll fetch you fresh linen.”

 

“Wait. Can we— can I, uh…”, you move your fingers, “…have some more? Of this? Please. Just… Just because…”

 

“Yes”, he says but you fail to register. Your mind is on and off, in that weird hypnagogic state where you forget to complete a sentence— or remember the context, or purpose and the point you’re trying to make with your rushing train of thought.

 

“…Ah, sorry. I’m… being stupid. I was scared. For you, guys. For a second I thought I was going to lose you. It was…” you huff. “Sorry. I apologize. I didn’t— I don’t mean to—”

 

“Stop right there.” Egon cuts in and you fall quiet. “There’s no need for excuses. Ask.”

 

"...Please."

 

He laces your palms together. His hand is wide and warm. His fingers slide in between yours— slowly, gently— and he’s taking his time to prove it’s alright— the touch like this, skin to skin— it’s good— it’s okay.

 

You sigh, eyes flutter shut again.

 

His warmth seeps through. It envelops your skin. One slow tug and your entwined hands are just a breath away from your lips. Calming heat radiates onto your cheeks. A wave of sooth overflows your body. The boys made it. They’re safe. The fact sinks in.

 

“I have to go to the lab. Need to write down my initial thoughts and parameters for future reference.”

 

“Come here later?”

 

“Yes. Should be back in a few minutes.”

 

“Stay?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Your eyes are closed. You’re dozing off, smile tugging at your lips, shamelessly snugging into Egon’s hand. Heck— if you weren’t so beat you wouldn’t dare crossing that line— but the day’s already gotten out of hand and you couldn’t care less. The two of you are alone. It’s late. All of it stays here. You can have this moment.

 

Exhaustion makes you weak. You succumb to peace and quiet, to the warmth and familiar scents. You allow the long- awaited slumber to take over you. There’s no certainty— it could be merely a figment of imagination— a subconscious— a wish of a tired mind— or a dream— but you’d swear a thumb lies on your cheek until you fall asleep.

Chapter 6: It was in your resume

When Egon comes back from the lab after an hour, you are sleeping.

 

It takes him a moment of hesitation: he stands still and weighs his options.

 

You’ve explicitly asked him to come back and stay. You crave the comfort and safety of physical contact, which he is more than willing to give. There’s no issue here. No boundaries are crossed: you’re aware that the two of you are sharing his bed tonight. It feels intimate— but it’s acceptable. Amicable, he thinks. Consensual. You need it— and he wants it— so that’s okay.

 

Egon takes off his glasses and puts them on the nightstand. He covers you with a fresh quilt and tucks it in. Then, he grabs his own duvet and slides right next to you. He’s fully clothed, wrapped in separate linen so the proximity shouldn’t be a problem— but he’s aware of your presence again. Heat, hair, soft breathing. All of it tingles his neck.

 

He swallows thickly. He’s here for you, not the other way around. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong…

 

Egon whispers your name. You shift, humming.

 

“I would… very much like to hold you. If that’s acceptable, given the circumstances. I understand if you refuse”, he pauses. “…I won’t touch you if you say a word. I promise. I can keep my distance but I need to know.”

 

“…Mm.”

 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t… Was that a no?”

 

There’s no answer. He’s about to move away when you curl up and nuzzle into his chest. He doesn’t question anything anymore— he gives in, reaches out and scoops you close with a contented sigh.

 

---

 

Thing is, the Marsh genes spread like a plague.

 

When the first colonizers crossed the border of Innsmouth, the town did not offer a warm welcome. It instantly showed what it was made of: cold wind, slippery cobblestone and a greenish tint on every surface. Pavements were wet, houses damp and curbs covered with grime. Nobody wanted to stay there. The area seemed too moist to be hospitable and the atmosphere thick, as for some reason the locals got repelled by sheer sight of the visitors.

 

Most newcomers gave up on that godforsaken town. It’s not like they were welcome there, anyway. It was a terrible place to settle down in— an old dock, horrid weather conditions and the people of Innsmouth who made clear their town would never belong to anyone else.

 

That fact alone would remain true. In fact, as it turned out decades later, despite some people’s insistence on staying there, Innsmouth wouldn’t belong to humans at all.

 

Settling there came at a price paid by whole generations.

 

--

 

Despite having stayed up late, Egon wakes up first.

 

Orange sunlight seeps through the blinds. Specks of dust float in the air. It’s seven thirty. The view is odd: the room is devoid of Ray’s soft snoring (Egon’s been accustomed to it for years) and all the beds are empty, except for his. And— what’s even more unusual— he’s not in it alone.

 

He takes a peek. There you are— with your sleeping form firmly pressed to him. Your face is near, features softer (small eyes, unkempt hair, radiant skin), more vulnerable, warm. It’s weirdly appealing, amplified by the fact you’ve been sleeping in his sweater. The collar and sleeves peek from under the quilt, covering the knuckles of your hand. Your fingers are loosely curled on his chest. Fingertips twitch— then relax into his shirt.

 

You look calm. Still sleeping.

 

He can’t help but press his lips to your hair and breathe.

 

This— all of it— it’s like a fever dream. intoxicating. Hazy. He should stand up and start the day but the mattress is soft, your body is warm and he’s comfortable beyond belief. Besides, his head is very much awake and it’s already started wandering.

 

Yesterday’s events are a hassle. Lots of new data infest his mind. Some of it forces him to shift a few paradigms he’s grown too comfortable with: like the fact that sightings shouldn’t be exclusive to one person, that in order for you to have heard the vapor the rest of the Ghostbusters would have experienced it as well. Or, like the irrefutable fact that he’d love to label your account as fear induced delusion, you knew about Koth— better! enough of his writing to refer to it— and that fact alone grants you credibility.

 

A part of his mind screams to ignore it. He wants to. He craves a peace of mind.

 

He can’t.

 

If Ray wasn’t at the hospital right now, his first move would be to visit Ray’s Occult. Egon has a decent list of titles he’d rifle through first: specifically, a whole pile of loose articles containing weird accounts of travelers from the Victorian Era—

 

“…Egon?”

 

Egon’s breath hitches and he pulls back. While you yawn, snuggling into the quilt, he makes sure to untangle his limbs into relative decency (there’s no denying he’s been as handsy as you, he might as well act cool about it).

 

“Hello. How are you feeling?”

 

“Better”, your lips stretch. “You?”

 

“Good. Very good.”

 

Egon keeps gazing at you when you open your eyes— they’re so small and languid— and way closer than he realized. The general rules don’t apply to your sweater- sharing arrangement. They also seem to elude personal space. He’s more than eager to keep it that way. If you’re baffled by the proximity, you don’t show. It's trust, he concludes, aftershock, friendship, support.

 

“You’re thinking”, you whisper and his eyes spark up.

 

“Indeed. At 2:38 spectral presence was detected. Nothing showed up but you talked in your sleep.”

 

“…You can’t be serious.”

 

“I’m always serious”, he raises an eyebrow. “That’s wonderful news. I am no specialist in linguistics but I did take some notes. Are you able to recall any of the sounds you heard yesterday? Describe them? Anything would be helpful, I’m trying to narrow it down.”

 

You roll on your back and shift your gaze to the ceiling.

 

“…Oof. Tricky. There were consonants, mostly voiced, bumping into each other. The voiceless, like fs were followed by deep, throaty noises. Difficult to make out exactly what was said and, uh, where words ended”, you wince. “Sorry. What I mean is, I wouldn’t label the language as hissy or melodic. This was, uh, a bunch of gobbling and gurgling going on. Fishy. Like, literally.”

 

“Ah, yes. That’s more or less a match. I think I have a pretty good idea of where to start digging. Your input is always welcome, obviously.”

 

“…Egon.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“…Um. Did I do anything unusual, apart from talking?” You squint.

 

“Well, clinging. We obviously haven’t found ourselves in such a situation before but you tend to be handsy and this level of touching hadn’t occurred prior to tonight. I associate it with stress. Must be the unconscious, your involuntary response. I suspect no paranormal induction there, albeit I do not have sufficient comparative data.”

 

You look sheepish and start to move away.

 

“…Egon, if I, or all of this, makes you uncomfortable, you should have kicked me out. I wouldn’t be mad.”

 

“I didn’t say I was uncomfortable.”

 

“Because you’re being nice.”

 

“No. It’s mainly because your shape and exothermic properties apparently do wonders to my habitual insomnia. I deem it mutually beneficial.” A pang of boldness overrides his mind and he adds: “If you ever find yourself in a dire position, please do feel invited to kip in my bed. Know that it’s not entirely selfless on my part. Today’s the first time I slept for more than 6 hours since college.”

 

“You’re just shit at taking care of yourself.”

 

He doesn’t comment on that but gives you a look of incredulous please.

 

Egon thinks you may be having a moment there— you’re staring at him with joy and affection— but whatever that is, you cut it short— look away, shift free from his loose arms and the spark is gone in an instant.

 

You roll away from him with a heavy, loaded breath. Your face falls.

 

“Should I be aware of anything?” You manage. “Scared, maybe? Because frankly, I’m terrified.”

 

“Don’t forget you’re with us. We’re professionals.”

 

“You’re so cool about it. How are you so cool? How do you even—”

 

You shake your head, he winks, then grabs his glasses from a nightstand and sits up.

 

There’s a lot he needs to do before Peter and Winston show up. Janine and Louis, too. There have been no calls from the Mayor so far— good, good— so chances are the local government doesn’t care about that mansion as much as its neighbors did. Well, either that, or somebody’s going to pay the Ghostbusters a visit in person. If so, Egon wants to be prepared.

 

“Yeah, you’re right. We should get the day started”, you drawl and stretch. “…Ah. I’ll take a quick pee and go home to pull myself together first, okay? I need a moment to collect my thoughts. All of it seems a little overwhelming. If I really spoke that language in my sleep, that’s… oh, well. That’s my life now, I guess.”

 

He stands up in crumpled pajamas— the ultimate antidote for commanding respect.

 

“Sure. I’d like you to be back by 5 P.M., please. I’ll have found some clues by then and we can move on to assessing the ghosts we encountered yesterday.” He pushes the glasses deeper onto his nose and clears his throat. “Thank you for your cooperation tonight. I’m glad we’ve gathered some data.”

 

“Thank you, too. I’m… not that optimistic but hopefully I’ll walk it off.”

 

Egon frowns. He turns around and watches as you roll out of bed, then begrudgingly pull the shoes on. You zip them, quickly smoothen your clothes and tousle disheveled hair, and head towards the door.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He asks.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Just, you know. Bad feeling and all that nonsense. Don’t worry, I’m new to this, an anxious rookie. Thanks for everything. See you later, yeah?”

 

“Well, I certainly hope so.”

 

“Good. I’ll bring the sweater back?”

 

“Right.” His face turns serious. “You know better than to ignore any suspicious symptoms or spiritual activity. You do. It was in your resume. And the draft I gave you. Underlined with red ink at least once every chapter.”

 

“…Yeah. Yeah, hard to ignore.”

 

“I’m serious. Stay in touch.”

 

“Who you gonna call, right?” You offer a weak laugh, killed off by his stern look. “…Yeah, okay. If anything happens, I’ll let you know. Promise. Pinky promise.”

 

“I’ll hold you to it.”

 

You stop before the door. Turn around. Scuttle towards Egon, fling your arms around his neck, whisper a thanks for everything, Spengler and dash to the exit.

 

He does everything in his power not to rush after you for one more touch— a mere brush of a shoulder, fingertips, anything— to hold on to this memory, to soak in your warmth until you’re willing to spare. He stands in place though, stubbornly peering at your back until you slide out of his reach.

 

He exhales.

 

The arrangement seemed so simple yesterday— the sweater, the sleepover, even the physical contact. The whole biology- adjacent stuff. He thought he could handle it with no issues but a dreadful epiphany starts to dawn on him: a shattering realization that it’s not just the body— not the heartbeat, the longing stare, the shivers, the ache— but his mind is rushing too.

 

He’s petrified— he doesn’t understand anything anymore— and that doesn’t even begin to cover what he feels.

 

There’s no time to get distracted right now. You might be in danger. This entire scheme to let his silly infatuation wear off was supposed to be a quick, full- blown exposure. That would lead to fatigue within days— a glorious gateway to peace of mind. That’s it. That was the plan. At least, that’s how it’s always worked: as soon as things started to interfere with his research, he’d immediately lose interest.

 

He must have underestimated the whole thing. The symptoms are not going away. They’re getting stronger, stifling and sure, and if that’s only the beginning, he’s entirely unprepared for what might follow.

Chapter 7: Let's keep me in check

New York is an unappealing city at this hour. Rain pours from the sky. Traffic noise is louder than your own thoughts and you can barely make out shapes and sounds: smog, lights, honking of cars and a wet splash of wheels running over dirty puddles. All stimuli blend into one amassed wave which seems to slide right past you— as if you were moving in a bubble, barely aware, hardly responsive.

 

You rush to your apartment. Raindrops wash away sweat that’s formed on your skin through the night.

 

Droplets are cold against heated skin. They fall right onto your brows and cheeks, only to slide a short distance and dissolve. Hot breath comes out as puffs of steam and get bombarded by drizzle. Heat settles on your wet cheeks. It clings to you like a mask.

 

You pull out the keys with a funky chain, fiddle with them a little— your fingers are slippery thanks to weather and stress— and manage to open the door. You slide inside. Close the door. Lean against it, squeeze your eyes shut and exhale.

 

The flat is quiet. Smells of carpets, concrete and dust. Rain hits the kitchen pane. Tap. Tap, tap. Tap.

 

You’re fully aware of what’s happening. Your mind is infected.

 

There’s no time to waste. You take off your shoes and coat. Rinse your face. Get to the phone, dial a familiar number and prop your back against the wall.

 

It takes four beeps.

 

“Hello?”

 

“…Uncle Neil.”

 

There’s a wholesome, deep laughter coming from the other side. You smile. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.

 

“Oh, my…”, you manage. “I’m… hah, so happy to hear you.”

 

“That sounds as if we hadn’t heard from each other in years. Something happening?”

 

“No. Yes. A little bit”, you chuckle but your heart squeezes and gut twists. “I wish I was calling under different circumstances but I really, really need your help. Do you remember when we were skimming through the pink diaries years ago? The ones about Yog- Sothoth and, um… the whole bunch? When we…”

 

You don’t get to finish because the sound of his terrified voice uttering your name cuts you short.

 

“Wait”, he says. “…What is going on?”

 

You wince.

 

“…I may or may not have done a little digging? Maybe? Found out a thing or two?”

 

“Honey, you promised”, he grunts. “You promised not to get involved with the paranormal. Remember what happened? Do you even remember why we ended up moving to New York? Why you didn’t get to stay at the ranch?”

 

“…Oh, come on. It’s not like I’m involved. I don’t summon anything or worship a giant shapeless glob. There’s nothing but facts. Pure information. It’s different! I’ve made friends. They aren’t cultists, they’re scientists, they—”

 

“Scientists. Since when do you think science works with ghosts?”

 

You swallow a bile and press a hand to your face. Your eyes sting.

 

“It works when they do it. I’ve seen them in action! I finally understand the correct approach, we could—” Your voice breaks and you bite your lip because you try so hard, so hard not to cry, “…they could help. Please. Please, let me try. We can make it right. Give us a chance. Please.”

 

There’s a lengthy silence which seems to grind forever.

 

“…I’m sorry, honey. It isn’t worth the effort. You should stay safe. Get untangled from this mess. Stay away from those pals of yours, alright? I’m sorry but… I couldn’t borrow you the diaries if only for a good night’s sleep. I don’t want anything to happen to our family again. We’re here now. Alive. That’s all that matters.”

 

“Uncle—”

 

“Don’t take interest in evil, sweetie.” His voice gets stern and you close your mouth. There’s a sigh, a grunt and clear frustration in Neil’s voice when he says: “I’ll keep chewing your ear off about that until the end of my days.”

 

“…I understand. I’m sorry.” Your eyes close. “Hey, I love you. Okay? I love you. Always know that.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

“I know.”

 

Uncle Neil hangs up first.

 

You pull out Egon’s journal. There’s barely anything you can go off of. That’s a comprehensive guide, yes— but it is not an encyclopedia. It’s supposed to be a training, not a database. What you need, though, is the latter— and that was what the diaries uncle Neil had in his possession offered on the very thing you’ve encountered.

 

Thing is, the more you ruminate over the voice you’ve heard, the more convinced you are that you’d heard it before. It was a long time ago, under different circumstances. It spoke to somebody else. The echo of it creeps out of a long- forgotten corner of your mind and amplifies in your head every time you mindlessly associate it with your dad.

 

It’s a time you do not want to relive.

 

---

 

 

When you arrive at the station this afternoon (clean, groomed and refreshed) you’re greeted with holy stink.

 

Janine’s face says it all. The phone keeps ringing incessantly— so much so, that the poor receptionist doesn’t even have a moment to catch a breath. She’s not done with a report when the other phone goes off— so she pauses, writes down some details and promises to call back.

 

You wave a “hi” and go to check up on the suits from yesterday. They’re still a little damp upon touch— nothing to do here— so you change into the blue apron with cloud pattern and promptly move to the kitchen.

 

The boys are away but the mess is there. Despite Egon’s plea to have a few days off, the Ecto-1 is gone and you’re almost sure they’re out on a bust. There’s no time to waste: you collect the dishes, put them in a sink and pour an obnoxious amount of detergent on them.

 

Fifteen minutes in, you’re scrubbing the last pot and Janine’s had roughly six more calls. All pertaining to the same thing: an alleged sighting of a fish person stealing dog food from people’s porches. That’s oddly specific and highly questionable but it’s still there, confirmed by numerous eye witnesses so there isn’t much they can do about it.

 

A fish person. Like folks from Innsmouth. A child of Dagon. Your stomach twists.

 

You wipe both hands in your apron, then go downstairs to meet Janine. She’s putting down the receiver and you approach with wary eyes.

 

“So many?”

 

She throws you a look, mumbles something under her breath and rifles through her organizer when the phone rings again.

 

You listen to her conversation with another client when a brain- blasting siren wails in the garage. You dash towards it and wait for the doors to open.

 

“Guys! I thought you were taking some time off.”

 

Winston takes two smoking traps from the trunk.

 

“We couldn’t. Got a situation. Looks heavy but we’re dealing with it the old- fashioned way.”

 

“With arguable efficiency, you mean.” You look behind him to assess the others. “Where’s Ray?”

 

Peter smiles.

 

“The poor boy lives! They’re letting him out tomorrow.”

 

Winston disappears downstairs. Egon— hair tousled, cheeks pink, breath heavy— leaps out of the car and looks at you.

 

“I’m terribly sorry. I thought I would’ve had something new for you but we’ve been out since 9 in the morning. All emergencies.”

 

“Hey, it’s alright! Surprisingly, I might have found something on the weird Class Fives from yesterday. That’s a big if, though. Do you have a moment or—"

 

“Chop, chop, Spengies”, Peter pats you both on the shoulders and goes to the toilet. “Three successful busts. One more to go and we’ll call it a day!”

 

Egon waits for Peter to disappear behind closed doors and focuses back on you.

 

“It’s going to take two hours at least. Tell me what you’ve found. I may be able to come up with something and we’ll talk it over once we’re back.”

 

“Um, it looks like I might’ve had a cultist in my family. A follower of Dagon. I may be able to get my hands on his journals but there are road bumps ahead, so… Uh, there are lots of ifs here. Can’t promise anything.”

 

“…Oh.”

 

“I may be entirely wrong.”

 

“I suppose not. The Collective spreads like a plague, reaches its filthy tentacles into innocent minds via affiliations. That’s entirely plausible. Would explain a lot.” He blinks a few times, then looks straight into your eyes. “I need you to do something for me.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Go to my lab. There’s a green notebook in the top- left drawer of my desk. Read everything I’ve written on the Collective Unconscious and how its omnipresent noise can influence the human mind. Don’t conduct any experiments by yourself, do you understand?”

 

“I understand but may choose to ignore it. I mean—”

 

“No. This is important. The whole research is incomplete, I’m still working on it. Please, wait for me. I’ll be back before you know it. Alright? I’ll be back and then we proceed. Later. When I return. I can’t stress it enough.”

 

Egon doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t. It’s a thing.

 

You gulp.

 

“You seem, uh, agitated? Is it… worse than we thought?”

 

“No. It’s exciting”, he raises an eyebrow. “But may also be deadly and we wouldn’t like that. I’d appreciate your cooperation and abstinence. Especially since you tend to get a little overexcited when unsupervised.”

 

“Wow. I’ve never felt so offended by something I one hundred percent agree with.”

 

“Abstinence, my overly eager underling. It’s a virtue every scientist has to live by, unless they aim for total annihilation.”

 

You chuckle at the mirth in his eyes but he’s still looking and you can swear there’s something there— a double meaning, a tiny glimpse into something exceeding science— peering into his soul— a warning of an impending doom— but you’re likely reading into it due to stress.

 

It’s just nerves. It’s the aftermath of yesterday. Of course the events are finally taking their toll on you.

 

“You can count on me, captain”, you smile, a little anxious. “It’s just going to be harder now that you’ve said it out loud.”

 

Peter prances out of the toilet, lights a cigar and puffs in your face.

 

“Done spicing things up?” Peter pats Egon’s shoulder. “Hop on, Egie. Gotta go. You’ll take the lady to your apartment later.”

 

Egon sends you a final look and gets in the car, leaving you with a sinking feeling that you could’ve at least reached out— pulled at his jumpsuit— tried to give him a brief hug— and that would be reassuring enough. That the bliss isn’t temporary. That it won’t end in another accident. That tomorrow Ray will burst into the station, smoking a pipe and talking about his experience in great detail. That the boys will eventually make it and the ghosts talking to you are susceptible to proton streams.

 

More than anything, though, you wish not to abandon everything you love again.

 

---

 

 

The Collective Unconscious, as it turns out, is a pretty heavy concept. If you were to compare it to something a little more swallowable, you’d describe it as a supernatural wavelength. With a dedicated equipment— a radio of sorts— the weird language can be heard everywhere at all times because the entities are incessantly talking to each other.

 

It’s scary, really— to think that humans are constantly enveloped in a cacophony of blasphemous languages— and nobody even knows. It’s like the Earth doesn’t belong to humanity at all. The rulers reside in the oceans. They speak. You’re just deaf.

 

You started reading in the lab but as time went on and your back gave in, you moved to the sofa upstairs. You’ve skimmed through some reports from long- forgotten sailors. In them, they claim to have found bizarre sculptures and sigils all over the world and some of their drawings remind you of your father. Your stomach doesn’t stop sinking.

 

On the upside, the accounts make sense and tie to the Collective Unconscious. What you heard yesterday was a glimpse of that noise. Clear, distinct. Reminiscent of the ancient ones. A stream of forbidden information funneled through your brain but what you aren’t sure about is why.

 

That’s where you are when the boys come back. They open the lockers, talk some and leave.

 

A minute passes. Someone ascends the stairs.

 

“Good. You’re here”, Egon says.

 

“How was the bust?”

 

“Successful. How was the read?”

 

“Terrifying. I mean— interesting. But terrifying.”

 

“Nothing’s broken, shattered or slimed, though. Great job waiting for me, apprentice”, he hangs his pullover on a hook. “Where’d you put my sweater?”

 

“It’s folded on your bed. I ironed it a little, it was crumpled from sleep.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Uniforms need a wash?”

 

“Not today. Wait a minute, would you? I’ll change.”

 

You smile but the pit in your stomach makes you weak. Hands shake, palms sweat. You’re overthinking. Anxiety hits again.

 

Egon emerges in the sweater you returned and seems to pick up on your silence. He approaches the couch. Sits right beside you. Knees touch.

 

“Talk to me.”

 

“I’m dejected. A mess, frankly. There’s lots of moving pieces and I crave something to hold on to. Sorry. I’m purging again, I can’t— I can’t focus.”

 

He nods.

 

“Distress is natural. I’ve seen it with Ray.”

 

“Yesterday was a little too much and… uh, haven’t thought of my dad for a long time.”

 

“You said he was a cultist?”

 

“I called my uncle earlier today. Asked him about some weird names I remember from my dad’s diaries. Yog- Sothoth was prominent. I looked for it later, before I came back here and found it linked to Dagon. It’s the same folk, the great old ones, fish people, and my dad was in deep. So, you know. Everything points to it.”

 

You let out a small sigh. Egon extends his fingers and offers his palm to you— and you hesitate just a bit because— darn, you do want it to be like this but every little gesture forms another memory you’ll inevitably cling to— so you curl your hands into fists and bite your lip.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m not okay”, you admit. “I think I’m having a tiny breakdown and I don’t want to do something I might regret. Really don’t want to risk what we’re having due to my own issues. Yesterday was a mess. And you, boys, you almost...”

 

“I understand. It doesn’t change anything on my part. I’m here.”

 

You hesitate. Lift your hand and try to bite at your nails but Egon reaches out a hand— calm and sure— to hook a loose finger against the center of your palm. He pulls it a little, as if to suggest a solution. He’s safe. Warm and broad. His skin is dry. He waits.

 

You give in. You ease down your hand. Slide your fingers in between his. On the outside, his gestures must seem subdued, almost passive— but between the two of you, he’s the one guiding you through it.

 

“How are you able to remain so calm?” You whisper. “It could’ve been a lot worse. Heck, it probably is going to get worse…”

 

“It’s difficult to die”, he says. “Extraordinarily so. We’ve had more than enough opportunities. One day it’s Ray swallowing a bile of ash, another it’s a giant marshmallow invading New York. A regular day at the Ghostbusters’ and yet, here we are.”

 

You chuckle. He smiles and strokes your hand. It takes a bit of weight off your shoulders.

 

“The options are narrowing down”, he mutters, brow furrowed. “If your father was indeed a cultist, chances are he’d performed rituals. Some of them might have left some spiritual residue. What you heard yesterday, why you heard it, is all tied to you father’s practices. We have to find out more.”

 

“My uncle has his diaries. It’s all there.”

 

“Wonderful. We’ll retrieve them and sort this mess out in no time. And then you’ll get some proper sleep.”

 

You aren’t sure who moves but his shoulder gently bumps against yours and that seems to be enough of a cue. You press your side to his warm body. His face leans towards your head until it rests on top of it.

 

“It’s not that easy”, you say. “As I said, I’ve already called and, uh, inadvertently made sure we’re not getting them. I should’ve consulted the strategy with you. I… huh. I got too eager.”

 

“Don’t change. It’s your best quality.”

 

“I cause problems.”

 

“We all do”, he sighs. “Well, save for Winston. But one Venkman in the team is enough: we’re all working our asses off to balance his lack of enthusiasm. You’re a curious thing. We’ve taken to you.”

 

In a slow, tired motion your head sinks into the crook of his neck. His skin is smooth and hot, the sweater soft and your eyelids get heavier. You’re verging on falling asleep.

 

 “Egon—”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“But I… I’m—”

 

“I know. Stay.”

 

You try to shake your head but it ends up turning into a pathetic, sleepy nuzzle.

 

“Don’t have my stuff…”

 

“Right. You could bring some if it turns out to be a regular thing. I can give you something more comfortable to sleep in tonight. I’d like to see whether you talk in your sleep again.”

 

You should go home. You should. Two nights in a row are much beyond anything you’ve done so far. Heck, this one night was a leap— going from occasional touches to a full- blown cuddle was way faster than you’re prepared for— but his whole presence, his scent, his warmth and how safe you feel make your common sense weaker than your heart.

 

And it’s racing.

 

“Just… Just this once?”

 

“Mm. It is not just this once though, is it?” He almost whispers. “It’s a thing. With us, specifically.”

 

“Is it good or bad?”

 

“It is a lot of things. Intense things. Some of them dangerous. If we are to maintain this… level of closeness, I have to make sure we are on the same page.”

 

You’re exhausted. He’s probably tired as well. Neither of you is in a state to have a proper conversation but you try to focus. This is important.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I’m a scientist. I don’t… do this. You must understand it’s new to me. Wanting. I have hypothesized but never experienced it, not really, not like this”, he sighs into your hair. “Now that I do, I must admit it’s… much more agitating than I’d expected. I react to it. It’s not… it isn’t neutral to me.”

 

You open your eyes, breathing slowly, trying to process what he’s saying. You can’t see his face but it’s the voice that speaks— it’s lost, a little unsure, feeble.

 

He takes a breath.

 

“If we are to stay this way, I must know what this is. How to define it. Where the limits are and how to detach it from my research because while I… revel in your companionship, since it’s an unknown, it has been increasingly confusing and distracting. For… a long time now.”

 

“What do you need?”

 

“Boundaries.”

 

Ah, there it is.

 

You’re trying not to show, but a bile forms in your throat. You’ve already suspected as much. Egon doesn’t get into relationships. He doesn’t make exceptions, doesn’t listen to his heart because that’s not what matters in the grand scheme of things. You’ve known it for a long time but hearing that out loud… Well. It hurts.

 

“I don’t understand. You’ve just asked me to stay the night.”

 

He lets out a shaky laugh.

 

“You asked what I needed, not what I wanted.”

 

He’s not pushing you away. He’s trying to navigate it. He’s at a loss.

 

“I’ve already lost someone close to me due to, um… ghosts. Spiritual stuff. And I don’t think I could handle another loss so I’m apprehensive about… getting involved”, you swallow thickly, blink a few times and regain composure. “And your research is important. It’s unreasonable to risk it. I understand. I don’t demand anything from you. It is what it is. You can rest easy. Live on.”

 

Egon’s nose buries in your hair. He hums.

 

“So… are you suggesting friends? Companions?”

 

“Do we need a label?” You ask, groggy. “This is how we are. This is what we do. I’m trying to be respectful, not push you into things. You’re primarily a scientist, you said it yourself.”

 

“I am also a human being.”

 

“It’s human to seek comfort. It doesn’t mean we have to fit the paradigm.”

 

He seems conflicted. His grip on your hand tightens a little. He nuzzles the crown of your head, breathing slowly and you’re almost slack against his side when he whispers:

 

“…I just want you to stay.”

 

“I’m staying.”

Chapter 8: What fear does to people

Notes:

Yes... yes... Mhm... Expert talking

It’s roughly 2 a.m. when it starts.

 

Egon wakes up with a shiver. He’s freezing. A gust of wind runs through his clothes and that in itself is enough to put him on guard. Thing is, all the windows are closed, both of you are covered with quilts and there’s no tangible cause for the cold. No rational excuse, unless…

 

With mounting suspicion, he takes a look around. It’s pitch black and he can barely make out the edges of Ray’s empty cot. Warmth of the linen seems to hit him all at once, stark contrast to what he’s just felt on his skin. Disconcerting. Eerie, maybe— but he’s calm nonetheless. This is how those entities operate. The Collective: all kinds of eldritch horrors. They’re playing hide- and- seek until their victims can’t keep their wits about them anymore and he— as a devoted scientist and a Ghostbuster (yes, the very same)— is here to teach a lesson.

 

You’re unabashedly curled up against his side. Safe, unbothered, sound asleep. The attacker must be considering you innocuous enough, likely due to your comparative vulnerability, and is focused on Egon. Perfect. He lays his head back but doesn’t close his eyes— he’s vigilant— alert— ready.

 

The thing about Collective Unconscious is that despite being aware of its modus operandi, human brain is pretty pathetic in comparison. Its innate susceptibility to fear, specifically. During his years of Psychology, Egon would repeatedly hear that fear and love were the strongest of all human instincts, as they made the whole body receptive and focused in an instant. Later he’d find out that’s true about fear. He has no first- hand data on the latter— he supposes due to the troubled relationship with his parents— but Peter and Ray have done enough stupid things out of affection to confirm the thesis. Since Venkman’s incident with the tank a few years back, Egon hasn’t questioned love or its impact on a subject’s decision- making process. Or common sense. Or mating choices, just to be clear.

 

With that in mind, Egon knows what to expect. Diminished control of his body. Flinches. Unconditioned reflexes. He is determined to distinguish between real, physical stimuli and paranoia- induced ploys. A moment to cool off, analyze and conclude before acting on impulses. That’s the plan. Right. It’s easy in theory.

 

A distant bang echoes in the garage. It resembles a metal tool— a wrench, maybe?— but the sound is followed by nothing else, so Egon decides it’s nothing but a figment of imagination. Until—

 

“What was it?”

 

He leans back. He can’t see your face properly but enough to notice your eyes are open.

 

“…Oh. You’ve heard it too?”

 

“It’s not like… Ray got discharged in the middle of the night and sauntered back here, is it?”

 

There’s another loud bang. Nobody moves but both of you are very much awake.

 

Egon finally speaks.

 

“I’ll check it.”

 

“Uh, okay, okay”, you whisper. “What do I do?”

 

“Stay here and try to sleep. I’ll handle it.”

 

“…what?”

 

“Don’t argue. There’s no time. I’ll take care of whatever that is. I’m a professional, listen to me and I’ll make sure you’re safe. That’s what I’m here for.”

 

“Yes, but the Ghostbusters are a team. Now you’re on your own. I’m not leaving you! What if—”

 

“No time”, he mutters, putting the proton pack on. “Stay here. You were so tired you almost passed out on the couch. Do I need to remind you that you put my shirt on backwards?”

 

“My mom says it’s good fortune!”

 

“I’m serious”, he states and switches the backpack on. “Eldritch horrors are different than regular spirits. They harm both physically and emotionally. Lack of proper rest weakens the cognitive functions and you may be a real, tangible danger to yourself— and to me. Especially if you’re not familiar with their strategy.”

 

Egon slides into a pair of slippers. It’s not the perfect job attire but it’ll have to do— he stupidly left his combat boots in the locker downstairs. Maybe when he slides down to the garage, he’ll manage to change.

 

He takes the final look at you because you’re awfully quiet. Exhausted and hopeless, he guesses. He’d appreciate some backup but the boys aren’t here and you’re in no position to fill the role now. When you ignored his precaution the last time (while fully capable and well- rested), you ended up wounded in his lab. What you’re facing here can do much, much more damage.

 

Egon briefly considers escorting you out of the premises altogether—just in case— but then, how could he ensure your safety if the spirit decides to leave after you?

 

His chest is heavy when he speaks.

 

“If anything suspicious happens in this room, call me immediately. Shout, if you have to.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Promise.”

 

“Alright”, he shoots you a look. “Stay here.”

 

You nod. It’s weak, devoid of conviction and Egon wants to emphasize how crucial it is for you to stay— but another loud bang comes from the reception area and there’s no time to waste.

 

Egon turns around and scuttles towards the pole. He slides down. Lands with a loud thump, doubled by the flip- flops and takes a slow, cautious look around.

He’s quick to spot the source of the noise: it’s a loose pipe lying on the floor. It might not be currently moving but it sure as heck was just a moment ago— Ray doesn’t leave spare parts scattered around the floor. He has his secret dirty stash for that.

 

Egon takes a long, wary look around. Nothing’s moving, except for gentle flow of a dirty cloth drying on the heater. He pulls out the PKE meter and glances at the readings. Whatever this thing is, it’s here. It may be invisible but it’s here. Lurking. Leering. Hidden in the shadow, a predator on the hunt. Any moment now.

 

He doesn’t even manage to slide the device back into the pocket when a slimy tentacle shoots at him.

 

It’s massive. Heavy and slick. Whatever creature it belongs to, it must be huge and, uh, incredibly unusual. The dissonance is almost incomprehensible: to see a wet, marine limb which acts very much alive here— in the garage of New York’s finest— in a place devoid of water (well, save for a tap).

 

Egon screams. He drops the PKE meter and reaches for the charged rod. A proton stream lashes outwards with full power but before it catches the giant limb, it’s already gone— slithered into the shadows, shrouded in shade.

 

A few things to note right away: one, the ghost is huge. Two, it’s unlike any other they’ve seen before. Three, the sheer amount of mucus suggests a healthy dose of Marsh genes. Four, it’s out of sight and apparently good at staying there. Right. All Egon has to do is pretend to be unsuspecting, so that the ghost—

 

“Yeah, so I’ve done some thinking and I can’t do this.”

 

He whips his head around. There you are: in his crumpled shirt still inside- out, peeking through the hole in the ceiling. You’re in the middle of putting on your socks.

 

He can’t with you. He can’t.

 

“What did I tell you? Don’t come down here!”

 

“Oops?”

 

“No”, he yells. “I told you to STAY! Stay! How many times—”

 

You clutch the pole with both hands, pull yourself close and slide down. Egon curses under his breath. Shite. Shite. Of course you wouldn’t listen. Psychology classes pop up in his mind again— the most powerful instincts— the things people do for fear…

 

“I’m here now. Poof. Too late”, you say. “Whatever happens is on me.”

 

He stifles a groan. It’s a lost cause. The stairs are at the opposite end of the garage. Escorting you there would take way too long and expose you to a stealthy attack and— well, he doesn’t suppose forcing you to climb the pole is on the table.

 

“Alright”, he decides. “Grab the pack.”

 

You manage to put it on yourself. He helps you to switch it on. You huff, smile and turn to him.

 

“Which trap?”

 

“Regular.”

 

“On it!”

 

You dash towards Ecto- 1. Just as Egon suspected: the enormous tentacle emerges from the shadow and aims.

 

Egon shoots. The proton stream reaches the ghost this time. The current wraps around its shape. The ectoplasmic limb wrestles and yanks but he holds it in place: it’s your turn to capture it before it rips the shackle.

 

“Now!”

 

You slide the contraption right under the ghost. Set the pedal. Step. Open. Wait.

 

Intense glow fills the room. Egon navigates the tentacle downwards but for some inexplicable reason the trap doesn’t seem to swallow its prey. It tries— sucks some ectoplasmic residue, hoovers up some of its slime— but the monster doesn’t get pulled in, as if it was… attached to something?

 

A roar echoes through the garage and everything happens at once: the trap closes, proton stream breaks and the ghost dissipates again.

You’re the first to whisper.

 

“…Is it…?”

 

“No”, Egon exhales. “It’s around here somewhere.”

 

“So… The trap didn’t work? Why?”

 

“Apparently it’s not just a ghost. It must be a complex being with some sort of material form. We may need to overpower it in a more… traditional sense.”

 

“Chain? Wires? Chandelier? Forget- me rod? A random hydraulic pipe of oblivion?”

 

Your flowery language is both a blessing and a curse. That translates into a perfect bait. Keep talking.

 

“So you’re opting for brute force?” Egon asks and that’s all it takes.

 

“Uh, I thought you were suggesting. I’d try another approach. If that guy is a marine cephalopod he may have a hard time adjusting to open air. Maybe dragging it out of the drainage will do the trick, right? Instead of streaming it, we could—"

 

Your mouth is still open when the giant tentacle shoots in your general direction. You let out a loud shriek and manage to evade— albeit barely— and even though Egon assumed using you as a lure would be the practical choice, he, for once, can’t stand the sight of it.

 

The proton rod won’t help any. Hitting you is a real threat— and it’s way more dangerous for you than the ghost. He’s about to resort to brute force but the monster steps out of the shadows and Egon can’t believe his eyes.

 

It’s human.

 

Oh, that makes things significantly easier.

 

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tiny bottle and charges.

 

A hit from behind may be cheap but it works every time. Egon swings the uncharged proton rod right into the creature’s head. It squeals, unwraps the tentacles protruding from its sleeve, then snarls and shakes its head. Egon has a few seconds to take in the entire picture: three gargantuan ectoplasmic limbs (a developing ghostly sickness?) have taken over the poor guy’s left arm. He seems dazed: his eyes are foggy, droll seeps through his teeth and for a split second Egon wonders if there’s any spiritual cancerous disease he’s failed to discover.

 

The hybrid lifts its arms and aims at you again, full force. Before you have the chance to scream, Egon slides right in front of you, pushes you aside and splashes some of the bottle’s contents on the monster’s face.

 

It howls and retracts.

 

“…What is that?!” You manage.

 

“An old trick. Handy when possessed individuals fail to be cooperative.”

 

Egon spots the dirty cloth still hanging on the heater. It should be dry enough. Easy to soak. Perfect.

 

He dashes for it, grabs it and presses it against the bottle, pouring a decent amount of the liquid on it. Heavy drops of the potent solution spill around. Tiny wet lines trickle down his gloves. He takes a deep breath, holds it and looks at the monster. It snarls. Then charges.

 

Egon isn’t a great fighter but he dodges just fine. He slides under the tentacles, turns around and hops on the hybrid’s back. It screeches— then stops— wet, throaty sounds stifled by the rug in Egon’s hand. He clutches the monster’s throat, squeezes it with an elbow and turns to you.

 

“A common tranquilizer. Learnt it during my coroner years”, he grunts, pressing the pad into its face. “You might want to find something to tie him with.”

 

You’re awfully quiet, staring at him blankly— but you nod. There’s a spare, long chain in Ray’s stash (nobody knows what he uses it for) so you take it and approach the scuffle with apprehension. The hybrid’s movements slow down but it’s still trying to break out of Egon’s unrelenting clutch.

 

“Thank you”, he says, composed as ever. “You’re doing great.”

 

It takes a few more seconds. The monster’s muscles eventually give in and it slides down on the floor. Its arms loosen. Eyes close. Its head hits the garage floor.

 

For a long moment nobody moves.

 

 

“Yo”, you whisper. Egon looks at you, then at the limp body beneath him and takes a step back.

 

“Sedated. Perfect.”

 

“What now?”

 

“Let’s tie it up.”

 

Egon reaches for the chain you’re holding. He wraps the creatures torso (making it extra tight and unnecessarily confusing around the arms— safety first) and you take care of its legs. The constraint turns out pretty solid and, most importantly, impossible to slip through by the tentacles. Once you make sure it’s sealed, each of you grabs a loose end of the chain and proceed to drag the dead weight across the floor.

 

It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace level of service anyway— not like you owe anybody standards— but when the monster’s back slams against a concrete pillar, you flinch.

 

“Oh no!— Oh dear, it hurt him—”

 

“It’s just tried to kill you. You do understand that, right?”

 

“Sort of”, you groan. “I really wanted it to warm up to us. We’ve sort of killed our chances at cooperation.”

 

“Don’t worry. It isn’t capable of drawing conclusions in this state.”

 

Egon pulls the chain and ties the creature around the pillar in an ungallant knot. It’s not his proudest work but a staple of initiative nonetheless. Links are sealed. Hostage is secured. It’s all under control.

 

He’s still focused on triple- checking the locks when you speak.

 

“Egon, why did you…?” You rub your hands together. “You… It was dangerous. Reckless. You don’t do reckless, Egon Spengler. Overcomplicated, yes, way too optimized, yes. But this, whatever you were thinking, was almost careless! You… You could’ve—”

 

He looks upwards. You seem anxious but you’re alive and well. He doesn’t understand.

“I could’ve what?”

 

“Well, I mean, you stuck your neck out for me. It could’ve been bad”, you gulp. ‘You could’ve been hurt.”

 

“I wasn’t though, was I?”

 

Egon’s at a loss. He watches you closely. You’re both okay and that’s all that matters. It’s not the first time he’s done something stupid out of fear— ah, fear, the bypass of rational thought— the Psychology classes again…

 

You stay silent for a moment, then sigh.

 

“I’ll call Peter.”

 

“Yes. No. Wait.” He frowns, takes off his gloves and approaches you. “Check- up first.”

 

“…This again? Seriously?!” You huff. “It’s, like, the third time this week! If something happened, I’d tell you immediately. I’m fine, Egon! I’m fine, you should be focused on yourself, you’re the one who went berserk for some reason I can’t wrap my head around—"

 

No bruises, no scratches. He touches your face, looks you in the eyes.

 

“It’s a precaution. I’ll make it quick. Tell me if anything hurts.”

 

His fingers skim over your features— cheeks, nose, forehead, temples. Your voice catches. Breath gets shuddered, eyes go frantic and cheeks are still awfully warm but it’s a natural response. Egon’s expected that much. His thumb runs across your lip, even though it looks untouched and there’s no justifiable reason to examine it closely. He just… can’t resist. Nor does he want to, really. There’s still room for excuses which get half- woven in his head but their seams are loose and each sentence falls apart before it leaves his mouth.

 

Egon knows he lingers too long. Needs to pull back. He doesn’t understand why his body won’t listen.

 

The tip of his thumb rests at the corner of your lips, then moves on to another gentle caress. Then again. And again, until you sigh. Warm breath tickles his skin. He tries it once more to check if you allow him— and you do— more than that— you melt into the touch, heat radiating from your skin, breathing deep— receptive, indulgent, responsive.

 

This is… inebriating.

 

“…You seem okay”, he concludes. “No injuries?”

 

“No. You?”

 

“None”, he says, letting his hands hang loose again. “I’ll run a few tests. Call Venkman, tell him we’ve got a subject. He should come immediately.”

 

“Okay. But tell me what’s going on.”

 

“…We’ve just caught an anomaly. As I said.”

 

“Not that. I see you. I notice things”, you say cautiously but he makes sure his face is as blank as ever. “You’re usually so collected. What happened?”

 

Egon doesn’t think it needs explanation. It’s obvious. Should be, at least. He frowns and says:

 

“I don’t want my friends to get hurt.”

 

“…After Ray?”

 

He nods.

 

A pair of soft hands brush against his jaw and in a moment— before he’s able to fully process what’s happening— his face dips down, guided by the delicate touch and you gently place your lips near his chin.

 

It’s a simple gesture. Gentle touch. A shadow of a kiss, lighter than Dana’s, nothing more than a brush of hot skin but— Lord, help him— he shivers— it’s so much more— it’s everything— it’s overwhelming.

 

“Ray is fine”, you whisper, looking at him again. “You’ll see him tomorrow, remember? It’s almost over.”

 

“…Again, please.”

 

“You’ll see him tomorrow...”

 

“No. Not this, the…”

 

It takes you a second but you get it and breathe out a laugh. Brush his jaw again, then wrap your hands around his neck and pull him into a tight hug.

 

Oh. Oh.

 

His arms tentatively reach for your back and once they’re there— recognize the texture of his shirt (outlining your shape in a way he declines to register)— and he lets down his guard a bit. Tightens his grasp. Sinks into the moment. He lets his hands really feel you for the first time since the both of you’ve started accepting proximity and it frightens him beyond belief— it’s soft, welcoming, disarming and pure— so his eyes close, stiff muscles let go— anxiety abates—  he’s out of breath— but all you do is hold him close, no doubt, no shame. You’re as open and affectionate as ever, a salve for his mind, a missing link. You fit right here. He’s never known a feeling like this, not even with his family.

 

That’s something new: his fear for your life instigates a soothing response. Highly unusual. He’ll have to write it down for future reference.

 

“Could we include this into the list of things we do? Under… particular circumstances, of course?”

 

“Sure. Whenever you need it.”

 

You stay like that for a moment. It’s quiet and dark. Egon relishes every breath tickling the nape of his neck, every slight fidget against his chest, every movement— and when you finally take a step back, his chest feels almost hollow. As if it’s just tasted peace and had to let go.

 

“You should also add a point in which you listen to me in case of immediate danger”, he says. “In a bold, red, permanent marker, preferably.”

 

You smile. It’s playful. Cheeky. Beautiful. Whatever anxiety you’d felt a moment ago, evaporated.

 

“I did cooperate, doofus! You won’t find a more flexible squire than myself.”

 

“Flexible tends to mean obedient”, he raises an eyebrow. “When I say you fall back, you do.”

 

“When you require assistance, I help! That’s literally in my agreement. I signed the paper, you have no say in this, Spengler.”

 

“Spenglers are a team. And, when faced with danger, have to be unanimous.”

 

“You’re right!” You give him your finger guns and turn to the reception desk. “See? We’ve just agreed and it’s that easy!”

 

He smirks.

 

“Call Venkman.”

 

“Ai, ai, Sir!”

 

He watches you pick up the phone and dial Peter’s number. A few beeps later your voice fades into a mumble of funny noises.

 

When he turns towards the hybrid, he notices another curious thing: the tentacles seem to deflate and seep into a bile of ectoplasmic goo.

 

He must take a sample immediately. Ray is going to love this.

Chapter 9: The right things

 

“You what?!”

 

Egon’s more than glad to see that Ray is pumped.

 

It’s six thirty. Almost sunset. The boys are eating celebratory dinner. Ray’s discharge from the hospital is a marvelous occasion to spend some time together and recuperate— recent findings turn everything upside down and Egon’s thrilled to share the news. He swallows another bite of sweet- chili chicken and speaks.

 

“I might have discovered a spiritual sickness. I’ll show you. I’ve already analyzed the ectoplasmic molecules that fell off of his arm. This is huge. I suspect an intrusive cancerous ectoplasmic disease, which progresses by constantly changing its state of matter.”

 

Peter turns to Winston, entirely unamused.

 

“Jelly rot.”

 

Egon rolls his eyes but Ray is positively exhilarated.

 

“Wait, wait— what you’re saying is that we could work on an antidote? Would it work on the entirety of Marsh family gene? So that we could, hypothetically, use it in other cases?”

 

“Well, theoretically. We lack expertise. That’s… also a big if.”

 

“Splendid! Makes me feel like I didn’t hit my head for nothing.”

 

Egon exchanges excited glances with Ray. He shoves another forkful into his mouth and hears familiar steps passing by the kitchen. He turns to look— there you are: pale, sleep- deprived, fully clothed, ready to leave.

 

“I’m off for today. Thanks for everything. Oh, and… it’s been wonderful working with you again, Ray. Good to see you’re alive and well. I… uh, honestly, I was scared shitless.”

 

“Likewise, milady, and I’m equally happy to be back.”

 

“Are you going on foot?” Egon interjects because both you and Ray are about to get chatty and now is not the time.

 

“Intend to, yes”, you respond. “Why?”

 

“Take the blue sweater, should keep you warm.”

 

“Ah. Alright. Thanks.”

 

Egon nods and proceeds to dig into his chicken. The new ooze sample is waiting in his lab. He hasn’t run tests on it yet— thorough observation always comes first— but he can’t wait to conduct a few experiments as soon as he’s done eating.

 

The hybrid should also wake up within an hour. He must be there. Can’t miss it for dear life…

 

“You really are serious about it, aren’t you?”

 

Egon looks up to see all three men staring in his general direction. He swallows a bite.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know. The Spenglers thing.”

 

“Ah”, he says and shakes his head, focus back on the plate. “No, we are not involved. I see how you might be mistaken though, that surname joke last week was intended to shut Venkman up. I’m happy to see it worked.”

 

Peter looks almost offended.

 

“Does she know you’re not dating?”

 

“Yes, we talked about it. It is not a romantic attachment. We’ve been very clear on this matter.”

 

“I folded the grey one and put it on the shelf, just so you know”, your head appears in the corridor. “I’ll bring this one back tomorrow, yeah?”

 

“Please, do. Make sure it covers your neck when you get out, it’s way colder than it seems.”

 

“Mother hen.”

 

“You’ll thank me later.”

 

Your steps fade away with every step downstairs and soon enough you leave the station, bidding Janine farewell.

 

“The man didn’t have any ID on him, sadly, but I think looking for missing persons reports will suffice”, Egon continues. “He’s too well- dressed to be homeless. Once we establish his identity, it’ll be easier to analyze the cause and check if he’s had anything to do with the Marshes.”

 

Ray nods vigorously. He reaches for Egon’s notebook and skims through yesterday’s pages. The hybrid, in all honesty, is an unprecedented case: whenever they encounter possessed individuals, it’s always in the material form. Shapeshifting is one thing but altering the consistency of your body to accommodate various kinds of beings? Walking half- conscious in a patched- up organism which can’t sustain its contradictory needs? Such a mockery of humanity is beyond anything they’ve seen so far. If wicked rituals weren’t involved, all other explanations are circumstantial at best— and— objectively— rather idiotic.

 

Egon keeps his focus on the remnants of his sauce, consciously ignoring Peter’s drilling stare. Chews. Takes his time. He’s making a point.

 

Right on cue the alarm wails. Must be an emergency. Winston volunteers. Ray does as well— it’s a minor gig, screw doctor’s orders— so the two raise from their chairs and move to the pole within seconds.

 

Egon uses that moment to slither out of the kitchen. He throws the package away, washes his hands (he refilled the gentle, custom- made soap last week so it’s there) and leaves.

 

He’s about to congratulate himself on dodging the bullet when Peter runs through the doorway and pins him to the wall.

 

“Egon. Honey. Handsome. Sweetie. How long have we known each other?”

 

Egon’s teeth clench.

 

“Enough to have the talk, I presume.”

 

“Right. Tell me when was the last time you shared clothing with a woman.”

 

This again. He can't believe it.

 

“Kindergarten", he states. "My sister would regularly steal my sweatshirts.”

 

“Mm. And when was the last time a woman spent the night with you?”

 

Oh, this is brilliant. Egon smiles.

 

“Funny you should ask that. Dorothy May, the girl from Accounting you dated? She kipped in my room after she got drunk and passed out one night. She confused me for her roommate for some reason, which was strange because I am pretty sure I do not exhibit prominent female qualities. Nevertheless, she crashed on my bed and I tried to study all night. She left in the morning, cursing. It’s not my fondest memory.”

 

Peter is quiet for a moment. Whether it’s because he has no recollection of the girl or remembers her all too well, Egon can't decipher. What matters is, his mouth is shut for good fifteen seconds before Venkman sighs and says:

 

“Ah, yes. Dottie, a fever dream. Yeah, a real sweetheart. So, on the campus.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“All those years without, say, borrowing pajamas? Sharing a bed? Cuddling? Sleeping together? All that… hormone- adjacent stuff?”

 

“You claim to know me, Venkman. Take a guess.”

 

Thing is, Egon’s stare is much stronger than Peter’s and he doesn’t feel like sharing the details of his private life out loud. There are lots of things they don’t know about each other— and it’s okay, it’s not like you should scrape every little thing out of your bestie’s past. With that in mind, Egon’s silence grinds forever and finally pushes Peter into submission.

 

“…Alright. Okay, I see what’s going on. I’m not preaching”, Peter puts both hands on Egon’s shoulders. “Far from it. But I’ll name what I see and I see this: the bags under your eyes are gone. Your cheeks are rosy. You fucking smile, Egie. You never smile! So I’m kinda petrified— but hey, who am I to judge. All I’m saying is: think about it. Yeah? Old uncle Pete’s advice. I’ve made many mistakes so that people like you can learn from them.”

 

“Done?” Egon asks, not even blinking. “Wonderful. Focus now. I need you downstairs in five. The subject is about to wake up. It requires a qualified parapsychologist with a particularly invasive personality.”

 

"I love you too, honey."

 

"Five minutes."

 

Peter blows him a kiss and lets him be— then goes down the stairs to tease Ray some more.

 

Egon should follow to the lab. He doesn’t. He’s still standing there.

 

He smooths the crumpled bits of his jacket. Fixes his glasses. Allows himself a moment of weakness: closes his eyes, takes the deepest breath he physically can and lets it out through the lips. The flood of thoughts going on in his head is incoherent and unintelligible— even to him, which is horrifying— but for the first time in his life he’s overcome with annoyance at Peter’s jabs and he can’t pinpoint the cause. It’s always been fine. Wouldn’t get to him. There is no logical reason for it to have changed.

 

After everything that’s transpired, the world threatens to crumble beneath his feet. It’s as if the whole paradigm he’s built his reality on played a trick on his mind and if he fails to accommodate all the moving pieces, he’ll cave in on himself.

 

He doesn’t understand some crucial bit. He’s at a loss. Needs data. Facts.

 

It takes him two more minutes to regain composure. When he opens his eyes, there’s no hesitation in his step. He rushes downstairs.

 

 

_

 

 

The man gurgles almost to the point of choking. Janine attempts to offer him some tea but Peter is quick to distill a meaning from the watery noise: not thirsty, thank you— so she mumbles something, bids farewell and leaves for the day.

 

Peter is an impatient guy. Luckily, the subject takes five more minutes of ungallant slurping to wake up. The man’s eyes finally open. They’re cloudy. Confused. He takes a languid look around.

 

Egon’s wastes no time.

 

“Hello there”, he says, switching on a flashlight right into the hybrid’s eyes. “We’re acquainted.”

 

“…Y' mgep nog geb Iiahe ya gnaiih's nwnglui”, he gobs but Egon is prepared this time. A device he’s holding at the hybrid’s mouth beeps a few times, then produces a written text in English, all caps. Egon’s delighted. A smile tugs at his lips.

 

“Our subject says: I have come here on behalf of my father. Who is your father, sir?”

 

“Ph' ehye.”

 

“Catchy”, Peter comments. “What does your fancy pager think?”

 

“It’s a name, Venkman. Over Integrity.”

 

The sample Egon took yesterday turned into jelly and so has the man’s tentacle. The poor arm  seems to be completely limp, as if devoid of nervous system. He tries poking the limb and jabbing it to no avail— and he isn’t opposed to tasing it (just to make sure) but Peter objects and offers to take it from there.

 

Egon stands up and watches as Pete in his old Charming Dick fashion sprawls in his chair.

 

“You’re not my type but it’s not all about looks. Talk to me. How’d you end up in our station?”

 

“Ymg' mgep mgepah'mgehye ya wgah'nagl.”

 

“He says: you have destroyed my home”, Egon reads. “It refers to the mansion, I presume.”

 

“Ah, I see! We paid you a visit the other day, didn’t we? I’m not one to hold grudges but you didn’t even offer cookies and I like cookies. Guess your roommates ate them? Or were you just being stingy?”

 

“F' h' mgepah gof'nn.  Ymg' h' ephaigoka vulgtmor.”

 

“They were his children. You will give him sacrifice”, Egon frowns. “Ph’ ehye was his name, correct? Interesting...”

 

As Peter continues the amiable chat, Egon switches on the computer and types in the phrase. The name, in its entirety is not a thing in the database but maybe if he searches through a few variations…

 

“We tried”, Peter scoffs. “You rejected our tea. We don’t have much else, honey. A twinkie, maybe, but my brainy friend here? He likes to save his sweets for himself.”

 

Ph’ ehye does not appear in the browser. It may be having a problem with the apostrophe, so Egon tries deleting it. Still nothing— and that’s more problematic because there’s not much more to go off of. He’d rifled through the database for fish people and the Marshes but though prominent (and indisputably real) he found too few paragraphs on them to learn anything usable. There’s one more approach he could try: sieving the meaning of this guy’s name through the algorithm and checking if anyone’s referred to an ethereal being as Over Integrity…

 

“So, tell me some more about your dad, ‘cause you don’t seem to happy to be here”, Peter continue but his voice seems distant. “Why’d he send you? Family issues?”

 

Egon scrolls. No answers. He mulls over optimizing the entry name. Over as in: beyond? More than? Above? End? Integrity seems more direct, as it implies plurality. What they’re looking for is an amalgamation— a hive?— an entity capable of connecting moving pieces and commanding them— overseeing— watching everything and taking care of them as a parental figure…

 

It takes six minutes and fourteen more attempts to get a solid clue. It takes two more minutes of staring at the screen until Egon snaps out of the trance.

 

“Venkman, you might want to take a look.”

 

Peter leans back and peeks over Egon’s shoulder. He looks thoroughly unimpressed.

 

“Yog- Sothoth, yeah. Just got it out of him. Weren’t you listening?”

 

“…I must go.”

 

“What?! Why?”

 

“I know a rich source of information on Yog- Sothoth but it requires my direct involvement”, Egon says, shedding his scrubs.

 

“Now?!” Peter whines. “It’s almost eight! Can’t it wait till tomorrow? It’s not like the world is burning, right? Leave it, Egie, do yourself a favor, go to sleep.”

 

“…Is it just because you want to go home?”

 

“Hell, yeah! Are you seriously leaving me here on a date with the slime guy? After hours? Dana’s going to be jealous if I tell her. And I definitely will! Whatever happens at my home this weekend is on you!”

 

“Tell Ray what we’ve found once they’re here. I’ll be back after midnight. Don’t wait up.”

 

Egon’s pulling on his warmest vest, grabs his case and a scarf. There’s another grinding silence, which he refuses to acknowledge, and when he fastens the last buttons of his coat, Peter finally speaks.

 

“You’re doing it for her, don’t you?”

 

Egon sighs, annoyed.

 

“I’m doing what is right.”

 

“Is she in danger?”

 

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he throws a feeble “see you tomorrow, Venkman” and ascends the stairs— passes the car— then disappears into the night.

Chapter 10: There's no place for us to stay

It’s nine in the evening. You crack the window and roll down the blinds. New York is a noisy city at any hour and you’ve grown used to it— to the incessant humming of engines, puddled streets and distant laughing— but in the familiar cacophony of sounds you hear one that seems unusual. You lean towards the pane and listen. There’s nothing there for a few seconds but when the noise appears once more, you realize it does not come from the city.

 

Someone’s knocking on the door.

 

You approach it, steps quiet, muscles tense. One peek through the peephole sets you at ease.

 

“Egon?”

 

You unlock the door. He’s there: tired, hair tousled from the air outside, cheeks cold. His eyes are focused and a little too alert for your liking.

 

“…Hi.” He breathes out. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so late but it’s urgent.”

 

“Come in.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Your apartment is small but rather neat. You move near your cot and desk, slide into the kitchen and switch on the kettle. Egon follows through the room, mindful of knick- knacks laying on the floor. He walks inside. Leans back against the fridge, facing you. You pull out a mug for him, put in a sachet and hop on the counter.

 

The space is narrow. Clean air seeps through the window. Heat radiates. You almost touch.

 

“The subject came round”, Egon informs. “Am I mistaken to recall that it was Yog- Sothoth who tainted your father’s mind?”

 

“That’s correct. Is it somehow connected to our new acquaintance?”

 

“I hate to say it but yes. He claims to be his child. I suppose it was a metaphor but you can see how it all ties up to a very saddening conclusion.”

 

“…My dad?”

 

He nods.

 

The kettle whistles and you move to turn it off immediately, then tilt it and watch the teabag sink in hot water. A cloud of steam hits your face.

 

“Honestly, it sucks. I knew it somehow but hoped… I just hoped…” You shake your head, putting the kettle away. “…Uh. It’s not that easy. I was a kid. I don’t remember a lot, just bits and pieces. Nothing usable, really.”

 

“You’ve mentioned your father kept a journal.”

 

“My father’s diaries are in my uncle’s possession. He won’t give them to me. I’ve tried to talk him into that but he… he won’t do it. Not after what my dad did.”

 

Egon stares you in the eyes and raises a brow.

 

“We could try talking to him together.”

 

“You’re unhinged.”

 

“True. But I look reasonable.”

 

You bark out a laugh but it’s comes out a little teary. You haven’t slept enough for a long time now. The thoughts invading your mind are hazy and corrosive, they bump into your feelings and make you dizzy. Head feels light. Eyelids heavy. There’s a single drop hanging in the corner of your eye— but it’s okay, it’s a wound that’ll heal— and you’re not even sure why you’re crying but you are. In a few seconds your laugh turns into a sob, then another.

 

You hide your face away, cover it with both hands. Breathing seems hard all of a sudden. Eyes flooded and helpless. You bite your tongue and wait for the pain to mend whichever part of your soul is cracking.

 

Egon straightens and that’s enough for your knees to touch his hips. He offers you a hand. You reject it.

 

“No, no”, you swallow a bile. “I’m alright.”

 

“You don’t seem alright.”

 

You shake your head. Wipe the tears away. Cheeks are wetter than you thought.

 

“You’re one in a million, Egon Spengler. It’s my issue and I have to cope”, you sigh, looking through the window. “Let’s get it over with. I’ll just grab my coat and we’re going to get those diaries. The sooner, the better.”

 

“Are you sure you’re in a condition to go?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll pass. I cry for no reason sometimes.”

 

You slide off of the counter, oddly brushing against his abdomen and chest. You don’t dare look into his eyes. There’s a task at hand— a task you haven’t been strong enough to fulfill by yourself. Uncle Neil’s going to be pissed. He’ll yell and remind you of all the things you wish you’d forget. You hate it. Dread it. Despise going back to your youth because it’s all tainted with a huge, dark splat— with underlying grief and horror, forbidden knowledge spoiling your home and you were aware of none of it at that point. What happened later poisons the entire memory. You shut it out and haven’t looked that way in a long time.

 

You fasten the buttons of the coat. Your hands are shaking. Egon helps you with it and gently wraps a scarf around your neck.

 

The streets are cold and uninviting. Whatever comfort you’ve found in New York’s bustling aura has vanished— it’s all white noise now, dirt and smog, and neon lights. You walk on and on, leading Egon through the infrastructural maze. A few shortcuts taken, a few crossroads passed and you end up in a familiar area— steep pavement escalates like stairs, every step you trudge heavier, dejecting. Cracked concrete tiles have given in to mossy tufts. The air is wet and filled with scents of gravel, exhaust, junk and rubber— all of them painting a tactile reflection of the New York which became your home. Tonight, though, it’s anything but.

 

When you approach the dark mahogany door it’s almost ten.

 

Your heart  is racing. Uncle Neil might not even be in there. A part of your brain tries to placate the other but your body reacts for itself: cold sweat and shivers are hard to ignore. You reach out. Knock. Wait.

 

Footsteps come from the other side. Then, your whispered name. Whatever courage and strength you’ve had is gone right this instant and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry—

 

The door cracks open. A familiar, slightly hunched old man rounds his eyes. His wrinkled features look warm but hardened by years of internal turmoil.

 

“Uncle—” you manage but his stern look diverts toward Egon.

 

“Who’s this?”

 

“Can we come in?”

 

He’s stalling for a good moment. He gives Egon a once- over, judges his hair, glasses, scarf and coat— and dear God, you’re grateful Egon’s right about looking like a trustworthy, reasonable man because uncle Neil doesn’t ask any more questions. He lets you in and closes the door.

 

“So?”

You swallow. You want to cling to Egon’s arm but it’s not the time.

 

“Do you remember when I told you about the men I met a while back?”

 

“…Are you serious? And you dare bring him home?”

 

“He’s a good friend. He knows what he’s doing”, you rush to say but it’s not leveled anymore, it’s almost desperate. “They’re scientists, uncle, not cultists.”

 

Neil’s teeth clench. Fists do, too. His face contorts into an awful expression you’ve tried to forget. It’s ugly, tough and unforgiving, and can only lead to a fight.

 

“You have learnt nothing. Stupid girl! You’re bringing doom on us all over again!”

 

“It isn’t like that! Please, just let me explain—"

 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. And he’s, what, luring you in with some cheap tricks? You’ll go down right the same path Nancy did! One of them will charm you, get married and use you for whatever godforsaken practices they perform in the basement!  And you…”, Neil shakes his head, fuming. “You’ll stand by and watch your life get turned into ruin.”

 

You clench your teeth and fists. You shouldn’t engage, you should focus now— it’s not about you, it’s the diaries, don’t let it escalate— but it’s late, you’re tired and a flood of raw emotion overrides common sense.

 

“Do you honestly think I’d ever commit to someone who takes interest in ghosts after everything that happened?” You yell. “All I’m trying to do is the right thing! It’s not just about us anymore!”

 

“And it should stay that way! Not every fight is worth your time and effort. You have to let some things go, honey. It’s not your burden.”

 

“You’re right, sir. It’s ours”, Egon interjects. “I’m doctor Egon Spengler of the Ghostbusters. We are professionals. You might have heard. It’s not about you or your family but people who are getting hurt right this moment. We have reasons to assume the spreading sickness is a direct result of your brother’s misconduct. Every bit of information could help, the sooner the better. I will personally make sure your niece stays away from danger.”

 

“She could be away from danger, weren’t it for you!”

 

“The wrath of your brother stalks generations. His children as well. I hate to say this but I believe she might have been subjected to some shady practices and has been haunted by them for some time.”

 

“The names are there”, you whisper. “Yog- Sothoth. I didn’t want to tell you, you’d panic, it would be the ranch all over again…”

 

You’re caving in but Egon’s stare is calm and unwavering. He keeps looking into Neil’s eyes: honest, sensible, composed— and after a long minute Neil’s anger finally abates. He sighs, glances at you and takes note of how you’re half- hidden behind Egon’s coat. It’s safe, you want to say. He’s safe.

 

Uncle Neil straightens up.

 

“Look at the position I’m in, doctor Spengler. Put yourself in my shoes. What would you do?”

 

“Keep my family safe at all costs”, he says, doubtless. “Even if that took a toll on me.”

 

They stare at each other some more and then the unthinkable happens— Neil sighs, yields and disappears in a room on the left. Hollow sounds of moved furniture come from behind the door and when everything quiets down, the old man reemerges with his hands full.

 

The diaries.

 

“I’ll give them to your friend— and exclusively him”, he states. “I am parting with it with a heavy heart. Believe me, there’s nothing I hate more than giving them away. The amount of evil this knowledge can cause is abominable. You, honey, are strictly forbidden from reading it. That’s for your own sanity. Can you promise me that? No reading, not even a peek, are we clear?”

 

“Yes, uncle. We are. I won’t read it, cross my heart.”

 

He turns to Egon. Extends his hand and passes two thick tomes to him.

 

“This is it, doctor Spengler. The pink diaries”, he seems to hesitate for a second but the moment Egon touches the covers, Neil lets go. “They’re your responsibility. She’s the apple of your eye. Protect her. Do what you must. Don’t let me down.”

 

“Understood, sir.”

 

---

 

Neither of you speaks for the better part of your walk home. The air is crisp. Bits of sand and dirt crunch beneath your feet. As some point you reach for Egon’s hand and he hooks a pinky around your finger. It’s not much— and oddly apprehensive— but you try not to think much of it.

 

You take a final turn onto your street when Egon breaks the silence.

 

“What was you reason for joining our team?”

 

“Don’t you remember? I wanted to apply to Uni, Studies of the Paranormal. That’s the closest I could get.”

 

“At your uncle’s house you said you’d never commit to someone who took interest in ghosts.” He sounds a little distant, lost in thought. “Job is a form of commitment. And this job, specifically, exposes you to the very thing you swore to avoid.”

 

You shrug and let go of his hand.

 

“It’s different”, you utter. “I wouldn’t get married to my job. Or start a family. It’s strictly professional, not personal, it’s just… different.”

 

“But it’s not. Your uncle has a point there. You keep saying you want to stay away from the paranormal for fear of getting hurt, and yet you seem strikingly attracted to it.”

 

The tone is leveled but for some reason it feels almost accusatory. Your brows knit.

 

“Can we… not?”

 

“I want to understand.”

 

“Not today. Please.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s been a hectic few weeks”, you explain. “I’m exhausted. Let’s not do this today, shall we?”

 

“You do realize it isn’t going to get any calmer as long as you’re with us though, right?”

 

“Alright, hang on. That’s… whatever it is—” you grunt, pent up exasperation finding its way out. “What’s the point you’re trying to make? Do you want to ditch me from the team? Is that your way of protecting me?”

 

“Absolutely not. I’ve spotted inconsistency in your viewpoint and it bothers me. You haven’t just applied for any job. You’re working with the specialists on the paranormal. You are personally committed. We are friends.”

 

“Okay! Okay, maybe I am attracted to the paranormal, maybe I adore learning about it and maybe I finally feel like I belong somewhere, alright? I’m surrounded by people who don’t treat it as a curse, who share the enthusiasm! Who don’t try to force a taboo on my past but help me understand”, you pant. “I want you to prove me wrong, I try to convince myself it’s temporary but I’ve grown fond of you and it’s only making things harder. I’m getting attached. Comfortable. And it’s horrifying.”

 

You’re at your wit’s end— so much so that you fail to recognize your body’s trembling— but Egon doesn’t seem deterred by this. He keeps looking you in the eyes, takes a step forward.

 

“Only because your premise is fallacious. All things are temporary. You cannot escape the inevitable but you can decide what to do with the time you’re given.”

 

“Wow. Thanks for spelling it out for me. It magically made me feel worse.”

 

“Because you misunderstand. Fighting the passage of time is useless. You’re wasting your time and energy on things you can’t control and it is the sole reason for your despair”, he says. “Why not focus on possibilities instead? Enjoy what life brings. Allow yourself to let go for a change.”

 

“Let go?” You wheeze. “That’s rich, coming from you. Working your ass off to the point of falling asleep on a microscope? Dating a mood slime in the name of science? Offering me to sleep in your bed just to collect data?... All you do has a cause and purpose, Egon. Have you ever tried actually feeling something?”

 

The silence that follows is terrifying.

 

A car passes by. Some fliers get pushed by a gust of wind, then tarnished as they tangle into somebody’s shrub. Yesterday’s newspaper lands in a puddle of mud. It drowns in the sewer.

 

“Thanks for walking me home”, you manage because there isn’t much you can say.

 

“Pleasure. I shall go back to the station and start reading before our subject wakes again.”

 

“…Yes. See you tomorrow.”

 

A bile in your throat is almost unbearable so you walk towards the entrance of your apartment building. Each step you take is begrudging. It almost feels like the mud from the street crawls up your ankles and sheens— wraps around your legs, slows you down— like your trudging gets heavier— like the words you said taste of dirt and grime, and you should apologize but you don’t know how—

 

“Do you really think I don’t feel anything?”

 

You turn around.

 

Egon is still there, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His cheeks and nose are red from the cold. He’s calm. He’s patient. He’s a beautiful soul.

 

Somehow your heart sinks even further.

 

“…I’m sorry. It was insolent. I keep forgetting you could fire me.”

 

“We’re talking as friends now, not coworkers.”

 

“I should not have said that”, your voice shakes, “I owe you an apology. Please, forgive me. It’s lack of sleep and constant stress. And probably having to face some heavy family shite I fully intended to forget about. Shouldn’t have brought it out on you, Egon. You’re a good man. I'm sorry.”

 

“I could stay with you tonight.”

 

“No”, you say because the guilt’s consuming you. “Go back to the station, Ray’s fresh out of the hospital. He’s in no shape to keep watch over our guest all night. I’ll cope.”

 

“If anything happens—”

 

“I’ll call.”

 

“…Right.”

 

When you walk into your apartment, it’s dark and cold again. You notice a full mug of cool tea standing by the sink.

 

You close your eyes, grab it and pour it down the drain.

Chapter 11: Human after all

Summary:

Egon realizes.
(now revised).

From the journal alone, Egon is about to learn the following:

 

One: your father was a curious man. A scientist of sorts. He was fascinated by the concept of cosmic forces. Since he deemed humanity insignificant, only thing that mattered was a giant portal he was building in his barn: a door to humanity’s progress— or, as he called it— Compliance CH2. He used some restored scribbles found in the Marsh chronicles to design the gate. It took him ten years. He built it. It worked.

 

Two: your dad wasn’t summoning spirits per se. The creatures were alien, of all species. There’s a pattern: every time an alien (one of Yog- Sothoth’s children) was summoned, they would need a host. Like parasites, they needed to infest an organism adjusted to Earth’s conditions. Once they did, they preyed on the organism and slowly regrew it in accordance with their DNA. See, their bodies constitute loose ectoplasmic bonds which leads to another conclusion: while their hivelike minds were powerfully connected, their physical forms were weak. That’s why the PKE meter detected their presence but the proton streams didn’t work.

 

Three: if love means priority, your dad was shit at it.

 

---

 

Egon decides it’s for the best to stay the night at the station. There’s the issue of the mutant guest in the basement and staying within reach if somebody calls. He half expects you to change your mind and dial their number— but time flows, minutes merge into hours and the phone remains painfully quiet.

 

He dedicates every second to reading your father’s notes. It’s productive, informative. Fascinating, truly— but he soon realizes it doesn’t put his mind at ease. A stray thought keeps reaching to the conflict from a few hours back. He fights it. He tries to. He fails.

 

There’s a pressure in his chest he’s never felt before. It’s heavy, unrelenting. The cold night air must've pushed some pollen through the city. Allergy always seems to come unannounced. Thankfully, he’s aware of how his body works so— while far- fetched at best— he decides to trust this self- diagnosis and ignore the pain.

 

He needs to focus. He keeps reading.

 

~Do you honestly think I’d ever commit to someone who takes interest in ghosts?~

 

He's almost a hundred and seventy pages in when everything clicks. The hybrid intruder in the basement is an infected specimen, who’s grown into a semi- functioning symbiotic organism. While Egon can think of a person who would be enthralled by giving up their body for research, he doubts any reasoning would push him this far. The infected man has no ID. No records, no publicity— a recluse or a tramp. Regardless, there must be a way of helping him. To save the human and send the alien away…

 

~Do you honestly think I’d ever commit to someone—~

 

He’s on his fifth mug of tea and a third chocolate bar when he hears a loud bang downstairs.

 

Egon stands up. Frowns. Waits a few seconds and listens in.

 

There’s a muted echo of footsteps, shy and wary, then complete silence for a moment and then…

 

“…Hello?”

 

…You’re here.

 

Egon runs to the stairs. Hooks the rail, swings and dashes down to the garage in long strides. He looks around and there you stand, right beside the car, unsure, agitated, still. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly off— your coat’s unfastened, pajama shirt peeks from underneath— you’re shivering, trembling, cold. It’s late at night and you didn’t even bother to grab a scarf. You must be in shock or in danger.

 

He wastes no time— runs the distance and stops right in front of you. You look worried, breaths are shallow and they fill the air as clouds of steam.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Your eyes are glossy.

 

“…It’s here”, you whisper, shaky. “It’s with me.”

 

Egon already knew— he knew the moment he saw you— he just didn’t want to believe it. He should’ve stayed. He shouldn’t have left you unguarded—

 

The PKE meter in his hand scans you head to toe. The contraption is beeping wildly, condensed spiritual presence detected, unmistakable and progressive. Egon shakes his head— not in denial but disbelief.

 

“…No. Not you”, he says. “Anyone but you.”

 

You let out a sob— and a laugh— tilt your head backwards and struggle to hold back tears.

 

“I hate everything about it. Ah… Why don’t I ever listen to wise people?... I should’ve stayed away from ghosts, the stupid books, this job, the journal—”

 

“Do not confuse avoiding a problem with solving it. I should’ve never left you on your own. Should’ve been wiser about the dangers, I…” Egon’s brows knit, blood threatens to simmer in his veins. “Stupid. Stupid! How could I—”

 

He needs to throw something on the ground because, seriously— why did he think leaving you in a vulnerable position was ever a good idea— it’s all his darn fault!— Had he urged you to stay the night here, none of this would’ve happened. He didn’t want overstep but seeing you in this state now is torture. You’re exhausted to the point of crying.

 

“Come with me”, he says, extending an arm. “I’ll fix it. I know what to do.”

 

You can’t answer but a step towards him ensues. Your hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white out of fear, pain and determination— but they’re also trembling, which Egon picks up on in an instant. You’re horrified. You’re a hostage in your own body. He takes your hand. Tugs at it and you follow.

 

Mid- way to the basement, your mouth forms a string of words.

 

“Ymg' lloig ah mgn'ghft”.

 

Egon whips his head around. Pulls out a translator from his pocket and it immediately spurts the translation: Your mind is worthy of Him.

 

Ah, yes. It’s the glorious full- blown takeover stage. That was to be expected.

 

Egon’s too old for this. He’s seen it all. An imposter is a lowball, truly, he’s dealt with those more times than he cared to count.

 

“You aren’t staying for long. Don’t get comfortable.”

 

She is our vessel now.

 

“Fallacy”, Egon’s tone is casual. “She does not belong to anyone.”

 

And yet you wish she would.

 

Egon stares at the translation. His mind is blank.

 

The pressure in his chest again. It’s there— it’s prominent— his palms are sweaty, air feels hot and an unpleasant cold runs down his spine. How can an Eldritch horror guess… How does it—

 

Your love for her clouds your judgement.

 

Oh. Oh.

 

…Is that what that is?

 

Eyes wide, arms stiff, Egon glances at you. Your face is distant, entirely unfazed, muscles slack, eyes barely open— but there’s something about your inexplicable awareness that’s almost unsettling. It’s not you. It’s all a trick, he knows but your mouth opens again and a string of freshly translated words appear on the screen.

 

Good scientists should rely on their brains, not hearts. Yours is worthy of the knowledge we offer.

 

No, he shouldn’t listen. Staying in place won’t help any.

 

In a practiced movement Egon leads you by the hand to his lab. He opens it and lets you in, then helps you sit in your chair, in relative distance from any dangerous chemicals. Once sure you’re still, he proceeds to prepare the equipment.

 

Whatever horror is currently inhabiting your body, it’s suspiciously obedient.

 

Egon rummages through his desk. There’s a distilled sample of that Class 2 Free- Floating Vapor who attacked you a while back— the one he was pissed about when you got slashed— but now that you’re merged with a similarly complex creature, Egon’s thankful he’s already went through a successful separation process. Ah. Silver linings are always clear in hindsight.

 

While he’s assembling the set, you keep spilling strings of unintelligible gurgles. He shouldn’t be interested in checking the translations (curiosity killed the cat) but he’s sure he can take it— no temptations could affect him at this point.

 

Just a peek, you know. Besides, it’s all for research.

 

The translator shows just one sentence:

You want her. We can make a deal.

 

“We have strict policies concerning fraternization with paranormal creatures”, Egon replies. “I’m not interested.”

 

You are. She is human, is she not?

 

“Not at the moment, no.”

 

Her mind is here no longer but the body is human. She’s too weak to understand. You aren’t.

 

His eyes divert from the translator. Your mind is…?

 

No, you’re still there. It’s all reversable, it surely is— he’s just read all about the procedure, it’s an early stage, it’s not too late. He’ll save you. He can fix this. He has to.

 

“What is it that you do?” Egon calmly inquires, pulling a wired helmet out of a drawer. “Are you a mind- reader? An empath? How do you collect data?”

 

What Yog- Sothoth knows, we all know. None of us matter in the grand scheme of things.

 

The Collective, then. Classic.

 

Egon switches on the helmet and fuels it up with a luminescent liquid. It pours underneath a plastic egg- shaped shell, sinking bunches of electrodes in the glowing goo. Great: the only thing that’s left is placing the contraption on your head, pushing a few levers and a nice, clear form of the intruder should pop right out. Capturing it would be more problematic (regular traps aren’t adjusted to this level of molecular differences) but he’ll think of something. The priority here is to make sure you’re safe.

 

He plugs the last wires, ready to go.

 

You keep talking and right when he’s about to turn to you, he glimpses at the screen.

 

The burden is light because our sole purpose is to die. See what we see. Have a look.

 

Ah, crap.

 

Egon hesitates— and despises himself for it. There’s no way a deal with Eldritch horror could end well— it’s a bait, a classic one, a lure meant to pull new cultists in and spread the extraterrestrial tentacles over humanity— but the possibility of getting to see how they operate first- hand is almost too good to be real.

 

He’d be the first paranormal researcher to maintain his consciousness throughout the ordeal. He’d witness it, feel it. Describe it in detail. Provide facts. This… Ah, it could be groundbreaking. Revolutionary. His name would ascend to an almost godlike status…

 

Yes. He’s strong enough. He could take it. Just a peek into the cosmic knowledge and everything changes for the better. The creature is cunning— but so is he.

 

His mind is set. He turns around, almost prone to sealing his fate— but he looks at you.

 

Your body is nothing but a physical shell. A wilted form, a stranger. Your face is lax in a way reminiscent of cadavers he’d seen during his coroner years: foggy eyelids struggle to stay up— lips are tilted, brows too low and no— no, despite the body, it is not you. The features are there but they are misplaced, devoid of emotion. They don’t fit. The beauty, the light from within, all gone.

 

A realization serves as a wake- up call: you’re being abused. All of a sudden, the whole shtick is too revolting to fall for.

 

He approaches you, scrutinized.

 

“Puts things into perspective”, he says, easing the helmet onto your head, “but not good enough to risk losing my sanity over. I’ll have to decline.”

 

He will consume you regardless. Your only choice is whether to accept the knowledge we offer—

 

“Pleasure to meet you. We’ll end it here.”

 

The moment he pushes the lever, you lash out at him.

 

He screams in shock. A familiar hand grabs him by the throat and pushes backwards. A wire rips.

 

Ah, damn it, no—

 

Egon smashes against the desk. Your body presses against him. Fingers are clenched around his neck— and it doesn’t hurt but the grip is firm. Piercing stare pins him to place. Your hips and chest press against his, blocking his movement and Egon feels it: every inch of you, every friction. Your breath is warm. You’re so close he could kiss you by merely dipping down his head.

 

He tells himself that it doesn’t affect him, it’s not you, you’re not yourself, all while seeking something of use on the counter.

 

He feels a screwdriver with his fingers. That’s a weapon against the body but you’re not responsible for the attack— and the ghost within uses you as a living shield. No use. There must be something else…

 

Before he has the chance to look, all lights go dark. An unsettling noise invades his ears, horrid chanting of a thousand voices. It’s relentless, intrusive, drilling into his head. His teeth clench but it doesn’t help any: it’s the hallucinations, this is how the Collective operates. He has to act— and act fast…

 

A sedative. A sedative. The vial, it should be…

 

Through the fog of erratic stimuli, he reaches a desperate hand into his pocket. There it is: a thin, elegant glass bottle filled with poignant liquid. He curves a thumb. The lid comes off. He presses it to your nose in a swift motion.

 

He can’t tell which of those are real: the sudden growl, a swirl of lights or hands sliding off of his chest. It’s all mixed with a head- blowing cacophony of screams and the incessant chanting. All Egon knows is this: he keeps clenching his teeth, shoving the chemical right at your face until your tossing about abates.

 

Your body weakens. Limbs go lax. Knees give in, head falls sideways. Your chest slams against his— and Egon’s still trapped in the cosmic mess— but he catches you, head, back— secures your fall as you slowly ease onto rows of white tiles.

 

He lays you down.

 

The exposure to the sedative was short. It wasn’t concentrated either. He has to act fast.

 

The helmet needs a quick adjustment but Egon knows what he’s doing. Wires plugged, straps fastened, he pushes the abominable lever. There’s a few sparks, a smoke from somewhere and an otherworldly glow of the luminescent goo and— just like that— a massive glob of ectoplasm evaporates from your body.

 

Egon can’t tell what shape or size it is. It’s unlike anything he’s seen so far. It looks incomprehensible, as if it didn’t have a form: a giant mass of eyes and limbs, a pile of half- physical slime, a stack of unstable tentacles materializing and evaporating in random places. Truly, a marvel in itself. A phenomenon to investigate. It gathers above your head. Escalates. Then disperses and dissolves into thin air.

 

Everything’s quiet after that.

 

Egon waits a moment. There’s no chanting. No distortions. His senses come back to reality: shapes, lights and colors he’s familiar with. A minute passes until he’s able to map the place. There’s his desk, the chair and the helmet. Smoke and sparks surround it.

 

And here, right beside him: it’s you.

 

You poor, poor thing…

 

He crouches. Gently lifts your head and arms. Places you on his knee. Waits.

 

He unties the straps around your head. Unplugs the wires and takes the contraption off. There you are. You’re safe. Your face looks soft and relaxed— no indication of the paranormal. You’re yourself. You’re back, you are. You could wake up any moment…

 

He hesitates for a split second, then wipes your forehead with one gentle stroke. Skims over your face, checking for wounds. Touches your scalp to make sure you’re not bleeding. His large, warm hand slides down your locks a few times, a thumb softly touches your chin. The movement is attentive, slow and caring— coarse because his palms are rough— but he pours every ounce of his willpower to envelop you (because you’re alive and scared—need to feel safe—have to know you’re being cared for)—

 

“…Egon?”

 

His body freezes.

 

Your eyes are half- lidded, brows knit, fingers hooked at his scrubs— but somehow you manage to offer him a small smile.

 

And— God Almighty— this is what it’s been all along— he is in love, he’s been in love for a good while now and it’s too late to snap out of it. It’s bad, blatantly obvious, overwhelming. He hasn’t realized the extent of it until he heard it from your own lips, seen it on the screen— and now that he has…

 

“…Hi”, he sighs, retracting his hand. “You’re back. Splendid.”

 

There’s a small scar right below your lip. Another on your cheek. Above your brow. An uneven line along your jaw. They’re ordinary, pretty shallow— the kinds every person has so nobody pays attention— except now, he does, because he’s thinking of ways they could’ve been prevented. He wants all of them to disappear. He wants them to heal— to kiss them away, as if sheer wishes ever worked out…

 

“What is happening?” You whisper trembling, voice shaky.

 

Egon watches your face: eyes shy away to hide dilated pupils— a forced, dry swallow attempts to calm your nerves. He’s become so good at this, at reading you. The proximity affects you and his heart aches again: the way you try to ignore it but can’t— the way your body’s anxiously shivering— it’s unbelievable how every bit of you that’s usually so outspoken and confident transforms into some startled prey.

 

It’s intimidating how fragile you are now that he’s close. As if mere step in the wrong direction could shy you away.

 

He wants to take care of you. Envelop in his adoration. You’ve been hurt, taken hostage and he doesn’t have the willpower to hold back. In a spur of the moment (and hormones, bloody mess—) Egon leans forward.

 

Foreheads touch. Against all reason, Egon brushes your nose with his.

 

Your breath catches and his entire body aches to dip down. A shuddered sigh you let out lands on his lips. It carries your scent. It tastes like tea.

 

He desires this kiss. Aches for it. He’s been denying himself his whole life but this time everything’s different. You seem to want it too. The eyes, the breath, the shiver. He hopes he’s right about it. He hopes it’s not fear, exhaustion or stress that makes you react this way. He hopes it’s him. Ah, he hopes—

 

A distant echo of your words pops in his mind:

 

~Do you honestly think I’d ever commit to someone who takes interest in ghosts?~

 

…He winces.

 

His eyes squeeze shut. He forces himself to pull back.

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

“I don’t know”, you manage. “I’m… it’s hazy.”

 

“What do you need?”

 

Your voice is barely a whisper.

 

“Closure. Egon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.”

 

“Ah. Chamomile tea, then?”

 

“Egon…” Your eyes are set but a smile cracks on your lips. “I’m serious. It’s all my fault. I never meant to hurt you, or walk away, or leave you there. It was shitty of me. You deserve loyalty, respect and appreciation, and I behaved like an entitled brat. Please, forgive me.”

 

“But there’s nothing to forgive. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

 

“Does it mean…?”

 

“…you should stay here for protection.” He says. “Your bed is made. I’d say you’ve dressed for the task.”

 

He watches you realize you’re in crumpled pajamas, then let out a soft laugh— a stark contrast to the remnants of sadness in your eyes. If he’s great at something, it’s antics and he’ll gladly exploit this talent until you're pure sunshine again.

 

“Even after yesterday?” You ask.

 

“Especially after yesterday.”

 

You look like you want to get up: back straightens, your weight slides off Egon’s lap. But then, just as he thinks that’s it, you hesitantly lean forward and nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

 

“I should really bring my stuff here for the long run, huh?”

 

It’s meant as a joke but Egon thinks that yes, indeed you should. Preferably under different circumstances.

 

Oh, boy. What a day. What a night. What a revelation.

 

You’re cradled in his arms. He’s read half of the forbidden journal. The boys are coming in a few hours.

 

Somehow Egon’s got a feeling tomorrow is going to be even wilder.

Chapter 12: You owe me nothing

“Oh, shit. It’s the Mayor.”

 

Your eyes snap open.

 

You sit up in an instant, hypervigilant, surrounded by dust particles lit by soft sunlight. It takes a minute before you realize that everything’s actually okay. The sheets are a crumpled ball of warmth, the sun seeps in through the window. It’s the station again, the sightly ashy ceiling and the familiar siren wailing from downstairs. All you remember from yesterday are scraps: an emotion, a fear, an ache. And yet, here you are— safe, dressed in your own pajamas, all alone in Egon’s bed. No reason to panic. No reason at all.

 

Your heart’s still racing. Breaths are heavy. Something’s changed, something’s off. You can’t put your finger on it and that’s enough to take your peace away.

 

You lay back down. Bury your face in the pillow. It’s fine, it’s alright. Maybe you’re experiencing some sort of ghostly haziness— it’s not like you’re taken over by an ethereal alien every day, after all. A quick nap should iron it out. Just a few more minutes and you’ll be as good as new. They boys will understand. Just this once…

 

You’re just about to drift away when familiar blurry silhouette approaches your cot.

 

“Thank God you’re awake”, Ray whispers, leaning over your bed. “The Mayor’s here. Pete’s trying to talk him out of a lawsuit. Stay here, alright?”

 

You prop on your elbows and turn your head around, then squint— because, heck, if he’s trying to wake you up, why is Ray whispering? It’s late morning— must be around nine, nine- thirty or so…

 

Wait, what?

 

“The Mayor?”

 

“Yeah, yeah”, says Ray. “Don’t worry, He comes and goes. Peter’s got a way with politicians.”

 

A heated conversation rumbles through the walls. Pete’s voice sounds as confident and cheerful as ever but the Mayor— presumably— doesn’t seem pleased at all. New Yorks’ representatives stop by from time to time so it’s not unusual but dread creeps up your back the moment you realize…

 

“…Oh, shite. Is it about the mansion?”

 

“Yeah, we’re kind of screwed. Too bad we didn’t get a chance to get a second look but hey, you weren’t officially there so we’ve got you covered.”

 

You frown, blink a few times, then sit up.

 

Shouldn’t he be more bothered by this? Right, the boys get in trouble with the law on a regular basis. Ray’s probably used to it by now, that he’s entire demeanor is relaxed, casual— if only slightly annoyed (ah, yes, authorities, how convenient). They always wiggle their way out somehow. That’s what they do. But if their luck runs out one day, the charges will snowball into life behind bars— and the mere thought makes you flinch.

 

“But I was there”, you look at him. “Saw what happened. You were doing your job! Can’t I testify?”

 

“No. Zip, zip, I mean it. We were all seen at the hospital that night, you didn’t even go to the emergency room. And that’s good! It’s great! That means you’re in charge of the case if we get incarcerated.”

 

Your face falls.

 

“You must be joking.”

 

“Hah! I wish I was.” Ray laughs, hands on his hips, then immediately turns sheepish. “Hey! Not that I don’t believe in you, no offense—”

 

“No, no, none taken!” You wave your palms. “I agree. Let’s hope Peter saves the day.”

 

A bang of some distant door is followed by Peter’s loud voice. You look at Ray with wide eyes but he shrugs.

 

“Meh, he’s doing alright. The Mayor failed to maintain the mansion for decades. It’s somewhat on him, too.”

 

Ah, that’s why Ray seems so casual about this. That’s understandable— the guys are recurringly raided by a variety of government officials so today must feel like a regular workout. For you, however, it’s a lot. You have no idea how long you’ve slept but it feels like a giant leap in time. It’s refreshing, yes— the lightness in your heart, as if yesterday’s events happened a lifetime ago— but a shadow is hanging over your head. A foot in the door to newfound peace.

 

“Nah. I gotta dress up”, you say. “I’m hungry. I need to do… something. Anything. Everything.”

 

“That’s the spirit.”

 

Ray pats your arm with a wide, warm hand, flashes a genuine smile and leaves the room. There’s some yelling coming from downstairs, some door slamming, screeching of wheels, and then— expectedly— Peter adds his two cents because there is no possible way he’d give up having the last word.

 

It takes you two minutes to get out of bed. Six to freshen up. Three to determine whether you should or should not change into Egon’s clothes (because it’s been okay so far, it’s a thing) but ultimately, you decide that no— not this time, you should really get out of his hair. Your crumpled sleeping two- piece has to do. It’s decent. Ray didn’t comment on your sleeping circumstance, maybe Peter won’t either.

 

The very instant you leave the room, you see him— Egon— he’s alright, he’s okay— who climbs the stairs and freezes the moment your eyes lock.

 

His face is blank. He’s quiet. All the courage you’ve mustered evaporates in a snap.

 

When he finally speaks, it’s as casual as ever.

 

“You’re awake.”

 

“You’re alive.”

 

“As I said, it’s difficult to die”, he states. “Extraordinarily so.”

 

“Yeah, sure, but nothing about yesterday was ordinary. It’s—"

 

“…in the past.” He approaches you, lifts your chin and smirks. “We’re moving on.”

 

You keep looking at him as he inspects your features. The touch is gentle. Systematic. Careful and you know it all too well: it’s exclusive to his tinkering, the machines and inventions, only present when he’s left to his own devices. To precious things. That’s new. Whatever happened while he was busting the ghost out of you must’ve shaken him up.

 

“Mhm. As I suspected. Beautiful.” He straightens. “You may experience headaches, fatigue, dizziness and muscle pains but otherwise you’re perfectly fine. I recommend aspirin with your breakfast.”

 

“…I’ll take some. Thanks.”

 

“Do you have a moment? I would like to show you something in the lab.”

 

You nod, absent- minded, rubbing at your chin where his fingers lingered a moment ago. That’s unusual. Egon’s never been so direct with physical contact… has he?

 

Whatever your mind is trying to push through, in reality it’s probably nothing. You must be experiencing some spiritual jetlag: slow thinking and clouded judgement, all spiced up with a throng of unanswered questions and guilty conscience. Egon’s right though. You’re all moving on and it’s high time you caught up.

 

You walk past the garage, where Ray and Winston are leaving in Ecto- 1. Peter’s guiding them out, gesturing to let go of the siren for once— the Mayor’s people must still be in the area. Janine’s on the phone, rummaging through the drawers with such urgency she doesn’t pay attention to you walking by. That’s what it looks like: another day at the Ghostbusters’. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, to the extent you’re forced to question whether the spiritual influence you experienced the day prior wasn’t a dream.

 

“Ray wasn’t surprised to see me”, you say at the last flight of stairs. “Do the boys know?”

 

“All things pertaining to the case, yes.” Egon admits, eyes down. “I apologize for taking such liberty. It’s a major turning point and I couldn’t withhold this information. It’s the sixth time we’re getting called about amphibious ghostlike creatures roaming through New York. It’s a plague.”

 

“Mm. The Mayor was unwelcome, I take it.”

 

He throws you a brief look, then proceeds. “Do you feel any different?”

 

You ponder, tailing Egon descending the familiar stairs. The door to the lab is ajar, which never happens: an undeniable proof of how thrilled he is with the discovery.

 

“Yes. It’s quiet in my mind, for once. No whispers at the back of my head, no need to burst out crying for no reason. It’s something.”

 

“Feelings of uneasiness? Anxiety? Existential dread?”

 

“No. I’m just grateful to be alive.”

 

“I share the sentiment. In a day or two, we might purge the mansion for good. What we have at our disposal now is powerful. Needless to say, I’m thrilled beyond what my hormones usually allow”, he pauses at the door. “After you.”

 

You enter the laboratory. The cool light enveloping tools and papers is refreshing, clean air clashing against the heat and steam clouding in the garage. On Egon’s desk, far away from the microscope, there’s a huge, ugly helmet you recognize— the wires tangled in a knot only Egon himself can understand, odd antennas protruding from its top. You walk up, reach and touch the glowing tips.

 

A pillar of warmth stands right behind you. Egon’s breath tickles the hair on your neck. Dust particles hang still in the air between your bodies, so close you almost touch— like when he helps you gear up— when you use his microscope— like so many times before. You can’t see him at all now. Your eyes are focused on the weird, pointy device but when Egon’s forearm brushes yours, your stare shifts just enough to observe his hand rest on the contraption.

 

This dance between you two has been going on for a long time. It’s not like this, it never is, but you struggle to keep your breathing even.

 

“Remember the Collective?” He murmurs. “Turns out their consciousness, being shared through the ether, is prone to alterations. Removal. Addition. Substitution, in an almost surgical manner. I made this device for that specific purpose. Peter called it a yap- cap but it’s more nuanced than that. Take a look.”

 

He switches on the translating pad. Some symbols appear on the screen before a thin, vertical line pulses on the far right. To your surprise, he uses the buttons to type: I want to go home now and all it takes is one press of a single green key to translate the phrase into Eldritch symbols. Just like that, an electric wave pulses through the antennas, the helmet charges with power and glows with blue light. It’s that simple.

 

“The message is transmitted through the ether to the helmed recipient and travels until it finds an ectoplasmic structure. A ghost can’t distinguish it from the Collective so it builds a narrative around the inserted thought and accept it as a fact.”

 

Unbelievable.

 

“You literally made the ghost think it wanted to go home.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“And… it just left home.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Egon… that’s fantastic.”

 

“I’m wildly aware”, he grins.

 

You bark out a laugh. The helmet looks like a giant jellyfish. The pad is a literate calculator. All the mystery, the horror, the haunting— all the destruction and pain brought by Eldritch horrors— everything undone by a designer’s worst nightmare: a glowing sea urchin hat. The yap- cap, as Peter calls it. Ah, that one’s going to stick.

 

Egon is a genius. The simplicity of it disarms you. In this rapidly changing world, the cybernetic reality where every technology requires a cascade of complex developments just to come up with a novelty, Egon thought the simplest way to deter some ancient ghosts was to talk them into defeat. It couldn’t be more straightforward. All data were copied and transferred, every bit of the Eldritch language, the translating software and the device itself was made here, in this lab. He’s done it all with Ray’s help. This man is a genius but chooses the simplest solutions.

 

The simplest solutions.

 

“…Can it be used on humans? To… Hack us into thinking differently?”

 

Egon is silent and you can feel his stern eyes on your back. You realize how that sounds and God it’s awful— but that’s not what you meant so you rush to clarify.

 

“I mean, is it possible to erase some memories? To change what we’re susceptible to?” You swallow. “To let go of… destructive tendencies?”

 

“Technically, yes. But the outcome is unforeseeable. Whatever ends up happening, one change could affect your entire life. Mistakes, however unwanted and painful, shape who we are in the end”, Egon’s voice is serious. “Thankfully, you were not affected.”

 

“What if I wanted to be affected?” You turn around, not daring to meet Egon’s eyes. “You were right when you said I was attracted to the paranormal. And I hate it. My uncle is the closest I have to a dad now and I can’t keep doing this without feeling guilty about it, about betraying him. He’s never going to approve of me getting involved with you, guys. I just… I could fix this. I—"

 

“Look at me.”

 

You do.

 

His eyes are warm. Steady, understanding. Pupils are wide, graced with the dim light surrounding you. Some distant shadow blurs his locks into a dark cloud. Your own reflection lurks in his glasses. The sight takes your breath away.

 

“You don’t need to be fixed because you’re not broken”, Egon murmurs. “Don’t expect him to approve your every choice. Love doesn’t work this way.”

 

“But I want it to”, you whisper like an absolute fool and a single tear rolls down your cheek because your wish— so pure, so simple— doesn’t hold merit. It’s pathetic, a lost cause. He’s right and you know it.

 

Egon raises an eyebrow, eyes warm and playful.

 

“Do you, really?”

 

You blink a few times, bow your head down and laugh. It’s quiet and breathy. It’s full of grief— and pain, and sadness, and acceptance, and joy. You wipe the stray tear with the back of your hand. Only then, broken and mended, are you able to lift your gaze and meet Egon’s unwavering stare again.

 

“No, you’re right. I’ll give you that one.”

 

He smiles.

 

“Do you want to raid the mansion with us tomorrow? Ray’s setting up the car, we’ll gear you up.”

 

“Won’t I become an offender as well? Ray said…”

 

“We’re the Ghostbusters. We’ll cover up for you.”

 

“You’ll get in trouble.”

 

“It’s worth it.”

 

Words get stuck in your throat. The circumstances are different but intimate enough so before you have the chance to overthink every little gesture, you lean in and press a gentle peck on his jaw. He inhales— good?— frowns— bad?— so you step back with a tight smile.

 

“Thanks for everything. I mean it. I owe you.”

 

Long fingers wrap around your hand. Egon’s stare doesn’t waver— not now, not yesterday, not ever— as he lifts your fingertips with a gentle motion and (in a mind- boggling, unprecedented turn of events) presses his lips to your skin— and it lingers— it lingers— it stays.

 

It’s a kiss.

 

He pulls away. The air he breathes is warm.

 

“You owe me nothing.”

Chapter 13: the Thing Between Us.

The four of you are standing in front of Pete.

 

“Alright, guys! And gals. It’s briefing time and I expect your undivided attention”, Peter booms. “Five proton packs?”

 

“Packed!”

 

“Remote traps?”

 

“Check.”

 

“The yap- cap?”

 

“I can’t believe you’re rolling with it”, sighs Egon. “It’s in the trunk.”

 

“Perfect. Whoever needs to pee one last time before we move out, the time is now. We’re leaving in three!”

 

Ray uses the time to have a few enthusiastic puffs, Winston restocks an extra tool kit and Egon turns to you.

 

You’re fiddling with the surname patch on your chest. It’s his. Last time you wore it, it was almost a skit. This time it’s different— all jabs are mute, quips are deaf but the fact remains shared between the two of you like an unspoken promise.

 

It would be an excellent opportunity for another intimate exchange but the circumstances are all wrong. The mission ahead fills Egon with unparalleled vigor— with the translator in his pocket and the double- checked brainwasher, chances are it’ll be a night to remember. If everything works out, they’ll purge the Marshes like a dream: no more hauntings, fish people or the Collective. And, most notably, tons of fresh samples to study. Tissues. Blotches. Heck— even a whole specimen if they’re lucky enough.

 

Oh, my. Oh, dear. His fingers are throbbing with excitement. A few spare containers are secured in the trunk in case—

 

There’s a gentle tap on his forearm. It’s you.

 

“…I’d like to talk. Do you have a moment, or…?”

 

“Ah. Sure.”

 

“It’s about your book”, you whisper and he snaps back to reality. “I took the liberty of writing down some cheat-sheets. Chapter recaps. They’re on loose scraps in between pages— just tucked in, not glued, of course! Some loose ideas and comments I thought could help newbies like myself grasp some basic concepts. If you’re, uh— if you’re really thinking of sharing the knowledge with common folk. Please, do not be offended. You’re extraordinary, it’s just that, um, most people aren’t.”

 

Ah, the sweet rambling again. He registers enough to understand what you’re saying because the air of excitement makes him unable to absorb much data— but what it also does is make him unusually bold. You’re barely able to wrap up the last sentence when he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead.

 

“Thank you. Your input is greatly appreciated.”

 

Your eyes are wide. You look like you want to add something but whatever it is, has to wait. Ray’s already in the driver’s seat, honking and Winston shuts the trunk. The mansion is waiting. No time to waste.

 

Egon shuts the door behind you and slides into the passenger seat. Ray’s still smoking (despite the abysmal air conditioning they’re currently stuck with) but it’s an unspoken law here: the driver sets the rules, even if it means that the shared vehicle requires cyclical fumigation.

 

“Did you take the translator?”

 

“Please”, Egon scoffs. “Have a little faith in me, Raymond.”

 

“Uh- huh, someone’s pumped! I’ve taken all the free containers we had, just in case. Never too many samples, amiright?”

 

Engine starts, tires screech and the abhorrent wailing infests the New York City’s air.

 

It’s a busy morning. Locals walk the streets with coffees and newspapers in hands. Crowds are swarming the sidewalks, pouring onto barely marked crossings. Dogs run loose and the only thing that’s keeping Ray from causing an accident is sheer faith and (or?) Divine Intervention.

 

Once you’re out of the city and travelling upstate, pedestrian sightings become scarce with a few worrying exceptions taking form of creatures bearing uncanny semblance to fish.

 

It doesn’t get bad though, until Ray pulls over at the mansion itself.

 

“Uh. Oh”, he mutters. “It’s crowded.”

 

It is. The once- abandoned mansion is swarmed with mockery of life. Offspring of Dagon and the Marshes are spreading around the area like a hive. The infestation must’ve occurred somewhere over the past few days, considering the poor media coverage and the occasional sightings. Egon doesn’t know how long it takes for the creatures to hatch but he’d guess it’s probably a day for a batch or so. Nevertheless, the boys have never dealt with breeding fishy ghouls and although it’s an incredible discovery, Egon supposes he’ll have some time to examine, inspect and ponder afterwards.

 

Peter gets out of the car first. Distribution of the packs goes seamlessly, the boys gear up within seconds and pull the traps out. Pete— in his typical alpha- male demeanor— stands on the porch and puts hands on the hips. This time, however, his charm isn’t enough to assert dominance. Mutants don’t pay attention to him. They chatter, eyes wide open, agitated like a swarm of ants before the rain.

 

Looks like a gathering before some ritual. Things are brewing in an eerily idle way.

 

A shiver runs down Egon’s spine. The insurmountable excitement is too much to push back so he grabs another proton pack and crowds your space.

 

“Come here.”

 

He’s a little too close— not enough to impair the movement of his hands— but enough to suck in your scent, your heat, your breath. Your body is tense. Breaths shallow. Eyes diluted. He understands it now: it’s attraction, not fear. With every gesture you seem a bit more agitated. His fingers don’t put you at ease— on the contrary, it appears as if their precise motion was about to set you off. It’s all painfully obvious now.

 

He chooses not to address that but the adrenaline tempts him to test the limits.

 

Egon secures the straps around your waist. It’s easier this time: he’s grown familiar with your shape. Naturally, in a purely scientific, unbiased and objective way, he’s capable of assessing the perfect strap length for each measurement. Funny how all the pieces suddenly fall into place.

 

He tugs at the waistbelt and you bump into his hips. Your embarrassed gasp slides past his ears because all he does is an innocent, methodical double- check to make sure the clasp is fastened, secure.

 

“Egon, what…”, you swallow and, oh, he likes it. “…are you doing?”

 

“Making sure you’ll make it out alive.”

 

You seem to be searching his eyes for something but he’s fully focused on adjusting the pack for the optimal COG. It affects you. All of it. You’re playing his game, whether you like it or not.

 

“Is this a joke you’re pulling on Peter again?” You blurt out a loud whisper. “The boys are going to assume…”

 

“I don’t mind. Do you?”

 

“I don’t know. Didn’t you say you needed boundaries?”

 

“Mm. Yes. That needs adjustment.”

 

You huff in irritation, then swallow hard as he dips lower to switch on the pack.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

“Better safe than sorry. You’ll thank me later.”

 

“I’m not talking about the gear, I’m—“, you grunt. “I mean all of this. The whole thing. You… you being…”

 

He straightens, towering over you. He looks you straight in the eyes.

 

“Me being what?”

 

From what he can gather, you seem irritable and it dawns on him that you may not be as excited about tonight’s bust as he is. In fact, you’re likely terrified. As such, the proximity he offers works as a relief but confusion does not. Better iron things out before the situation gets convoluted and the whole operation— beyond dangerous— also turn unamiable.

 

“…Ugh,” you frown, “you know very well what I’m talking about! We’re not like that. We’ve talked about this. You said—”

 

“I know what I said”, he cuts and you fall silent. “At the time, it was a logical line of thinking. I lacked some crucial data. My priorities, as it turns out, have drastically changed. The oversight is my fault. A correction is due. You cannot feel trapped in a commitment involving any paranormal shenanigans and I understand that. That being said: I’m not going anywhere.”

 

You’re searching his eyes, face incredulous.

 

“…What are you telling me?”

 

“That you’re free to prance around the subject if that is what keeps you sane”, Egon’s fingers touch the surname patch on your chest. He gently swipes his thumb over the letters— as if to make sure they aren’t going anywhere. “I’ve made up my mind.”

 

You look just as lost as a minute ago. Egon wants to help but doesn’t know how—Peter calls the two of you, Ray switches on Winston’s pack, all the rods are ready to shoot— and just like that, the moment is gone.

 

Egon approaches them, pulling the translator out. Winston’s holding the yap-cap, unsure of what to do.

 

“We’re not gonna exorcise each of them separately, right? This would take forever.”

 

“The Collective is a hive. We need to find their consciousness. It’s presumably somewhere here, on the premise, so let’s look for someone who stands out.”

 

“We stand out”, Ray gulps. “I mean, it’s all relative to the local population. Don’t you think they’ll mind some random fully-armed strangers casually brainwashing their mom?”

 

Peter’s face turns smug.

 

“That’s exactly what I specialize in.”

 

“Right. Right. What do I do?” You ask, looking a tad stressed but determined to help.

 

“You, our Spengie lady, you stay at the car. If anything happens, we’ll shout.”

 

“Are you sure—”

 

“Excuse us, Venkman. She’s coming with me”, Egon interjects. “She is incapable of staying put in dire circumstances. Also, attracts danger. It’s in everyone’s best interest that she’s with one of us. And since I’ve sworn to her family that she’d be protected, I may as well take the responsibility.”

 

Peter pats him on the back.

 

“Egon, my handsome man, you’re a paragon of chivalry. I’d fall for you.”

 

“You already have.”

 

Peter winks at him and leaves.

 

Egon walks and you follow. Rubble from the collapse litters the ground. Pieces of furniture protrude in every direction, bent railings crawl among the bricks, half-burnt paintings peer from below. It’s a landfill of an amassed historical value, each part an echo of long-forsaken heritage. A pile of rust and debris makes for all that’s left of the porch but the farther parts of the mansion are still standing— albeit rather temporarily.

 

The translator in Egon’s hand beeps and he glances at the screen, reads a string of words and frowns. There’s only a few lines repeated over and over again. They flow with ease and grace, fall off the folks’ tongues as whispers and breaths, which combine into a mantra. It’s chanting, presumably a part of a ritual. Egon’s quick to gather that whatever awaits to be summoned, the Ghostbusting squad doesn’t want to deal with that.

 

“This should have been clarified earlier”, Egon says, “but we may be on the clock.”

 

“…And you see how this may be considered a crucial bit of information, now?”

 

“That’s the reason I’m speaking.”

 

“Un. Believable.”

 

He leads you through the maze of junk until you enter the staircase. The pillars and railing must’ve prevented this entire section from collapsing and, by some miracle, the second and third floor are still intact. This doesn’t mean it’s safe to venture wherever you please but all the clues leading to the crux are likely easy to spot.

 

Egon helps you to move forward. It’s a series of tiny things— like lifting a dirty, swinging carpet up so that it doesn’t touch your face— or like holding the door for you, even though they consist of two sooty planks and a knob. Once he realizes how creaky and frail the wooden floor is when you get upstairs, he counts every splinter and even though he’s focused on gathering clues, he’s alert enough to hold your hand and help get through all the bigger rifts.

 

The two of you are standing in a corridor. A series of eerie amphibian portraits are hung like unholy icons at a blasphemous shrine, surrounded by texts and symbols none of you recognize. Egon pays it no mind— he’ll have time to take notes later— but you shudder and his eyes shoot up.

 

“You’re scared.”

 

“…Yeah.”

 

Egon can’t afford additional responsibility on top of the mounting stakes. He scoops you close with an arm in order to shoo the dangerous mix of erratic, impulsive and reckless you usually become under stress.

 

“It’s the best I can do. I’m sorry. Time is of the essence. I will, however, provide comfort after the danger is neutralized. Twinkies and a hug. Yes?”

 

You nod. He lets go, moves to the closes doorframe and peeks into the room when he hears you say:

 

“…You want it. You actually do.”

 

Egon turns around. You haven’t moved. You’re standing at the staircase, staring at him dumbfounded, as if he’d turned into an amphibian himself.

 

“Yes.” He states. “As I said. But I’ll accept us either way.”

 

“…Us?”

 

“Together. As whatever you please.”

 

He takes another look at the floor. Eldritch symbols are burnt into the wood and he thinks there’s a good chance it may be relevant. The pink journal in his back pocket may have the answers he seeks so he pulls it out and quickly rifles through the pages.

 

“Egon, we are together, sort of. All the…” You flail your hands around in a feeble attempt at communication. “Everything we do. We’re not exactly typical colleagues, you do realize that. We just don’t call it a relationship—”

 

“—because you need a way out.” He nods, eyes glued to the notes. “I understand. Pressuring you is not my intention, I’m merely defining what it is.”

 

“No! No, you’ve got it all wrong! The thing is”, you grunt, “the thing is, I love you and that’s why I’ve never wanted to get together. I wouldn’t hit on you because I respect your scientific pursuits. I was very clear on that matter! You’re as smart as you’re stupid sometimes!”

 

Egon’s still for a moment.

 

He looks at you. Properly. Your eyes wide and glossy, lips pressed, fists clenched. You’re buckled up, steadfast, as if you were up for a challenge— defeated but dignified, exposed but okay.

 

A warm pang hits him. He’s suddenly dizzy and his mouth feels very dry.

 

“You’ve never said you loved me.”

 

“Oh, come on! You must’ve known that, it’s all over my face!”

 

“…Is it?”

 

“Whatever. It’s not like it changes anything. I’ve learnt to live with it. Love happens with no one’s consent and I was trying to spare you the burden. All I can do is thank you for not ditching me because of things I can’t control. And, uh”, you take a rapid breath, “for being a real damn great friend.”

 

Egon’s quiet. The noise of chanting crowd fills the silence. He hears what they’re saying but the cogs shifting in his brain— prompted by an abundance of groundbreaking discoveries— deafen him to the outside world. Everything’s changing. He’s almost catatonic.

 

“You said…”, he tries, frowning, “you’d never commit to anyone who’s involved with the paranormal because of you. And yet, you’re implying the main reason you’re rejecting us is my wellbeing. That’s a huge leap of reasoning and I fail to see how it makes any sense.”

 

“I don’t want to change that… thing between us!”

 

“Give me the reason.”

 

“I’m just scared!” You almost sob.

 

“Of?”

 

“Of the whole—”, you gesture frantically with both hands, failing to articulate what you mean— until you give up, sigh and roll with whatever comes to your mind. “This whole shtick! Ghosts and stuff.”

 

“Drop it. You aren’t scared of the job, not enough to quit. Talk to me. What is it?”

 

You’re heaving, chest going up and down in an unsteady rhythm but your eyes— they aren’t focused on his face, he realizes, but lower— his hands— his fingers— on the pink journal— the one he got from your petrified uncle.

 

Oh. Oh. He gets it now.

 

The fear, apprehension, the contradictions… It’s not about him, it’s never been about him.

 

“Look at me” he says, voice low and soft because he gets it and it’s important. “Your uncle loves you, regardless.”

 

“Does he, though?” You wince. “You’ve met him, he didn’t even want to let you into his house.”

 

“He gave me your father’s journals and instructed me to protect you.”

 

“But I told him… I told him it’s not like that.”

 

“But it seems we both want it to be like that”, he takes a step forward, pinning you in place. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

 

You don’t say a word.

 

His face dips down until his locks brush your forehead.  You smell of spearmint and soap— the soap he made for you— and—

 

“Let’s be together.”

 

“…What?”

 

“You’re already wearing my surname. I’ve grown tremendously fond of the idea. I wish to entertain it further. Understandably, you wouldn’t want to inform your uncle straight away— he might not take the news well— but I don’t think propriety should be our main focus. He’ll come around. It’s a suitable arrangement and the timing is well beyond prime.”

 

“Wait. Are you… is this—?!“, you heave. “Are you serious?!”

 

“I’m always serious.”

 

“What about my uncle? Your studies? Everything we’ve just talked about? It’s all fine now but in the long run? I can’t afford— I can’t handle… I don’t want to…” You pant, taking a step away.

 

He’s not an expert at this: at intense emotions, at conflicts or romantic relationships. All he knows is that he cares. The possibility of losing your uncle isn’t worth letting you two fall apart, never has been. He hope’s he’s making the point clear.

 

“You know what?”, you offer. “Forget it. Forget this entire conversation. We’re on the clock, you said—”

 

“No. No, we are having this conversation.”

 

The chanting grows louder. There’s some commotion— a scream, a thud— but Egon actively ignores all of it. Peter’s out there. Ray and Winston are, too. Whatever it is, they can handle it for a minute longer.

 

“The Spenglers”, he murmurs in a slow, calm voice. “What do you say?”

 

You shake your head.

 

“I don’t understand. Why do you want me?”

 

Egon lets out an exasperated sigh but there you are— vulnerable, helpless, scared and pliant— and oh, so loving, his insides turn soft. He leans over your ear, tucks a lock behind it, cradles your jaw in his warm hand and whispers.

 

When he pulls back, your eyes are wide.

 

It’s almost nothing— it’s everything— it’s overwhelming— and in this moment Egon knows he’s made all the right decisions.

 

“It’s here!”, Ray’s excited yell resonates through the corridor. “Found it! Spengler! SPENGLER!”

 

Distant chanting turns into singing, dust falls from the roof, dead walls begin to shake and Egon knows that whatever’s happening, he has to go now.

 

His fingers on your jaw glide in a soothing line. Your eyes are soft and scared, and confused. He hopes you can see into his heart because the circumstances have just got infinitely worse and neither of you can stay here any longer.

 

“…Let’s get out alive and talk later?”

 

You nod.

 

He passes you, taking your hand in a swift motion and before you know it, he’s holding a rotten, half- burnt door for you like a gentleman.

 

“Ray's waiting. After you.”

Chapter 14: Keepers.

It’s not like there were any signs of the circumstances being better than dire to begin with but the sight ahead is an absolute eyesore.

 

As soon as Egon stands besides Ray in (what seems to have been) a great hall, his assessment checks out. The walls are overgrown with signs of neglect and exposure. Piles of rubble and gunk are covered in dust so thick it’s coated in sticky clamps of grey ooze and granules, molding together as a heavy sediment of old fibers and rot. Its particles hang in the air. Erode the wooden floor. Gnaw at the old carpet.

 

The carpet is what catches Egon’s attention. It’s entirely inconspicuous but upon closer inspection a large eldritch symbol peers from underneath. It’s different to the ones from upstairs— the shape is darkening and a black smoke hovers over the floor— as if someone was pressing a burning seal there.

 

This is what it looks like, Egon thinks, the symbols being made. Fascinating how the process requires no cultist to physically draw the circle. Usually there’s at least one crazed shaman who initiates a ritual like this. The chanting must be an instigator enough— and that only proves how unusual this setting is. The whole thing must have been preplanned by a long-dead ancestor.

 

The boys are already standing there, surrounded by multiplying voices of fishfolk. With fewer damp planks in the way, the noise sounds raspier, almost hostile.

 

Egon lets you in, then takes a look at Ray. He’s staring at the sigil, cheeks clouded in thick cigar smoke, face scrunched.

 

“I don’t know what it is”, he mumbles. “But I don’t like it one bit.”

 

Peter uses his proton rod to fold the corner of the carpet, revealing more of the image. It’s a big illustration branded in wood. The biggest defined shape is a circle filled with inscriptions in an unintelligible language— or various dialects— judging by the sparse (but patterned) placement of individual symbols.

 

Egon crouches down at the rim. He knows it’s the voice of the hive, the dialect belonging to the Great Old Ones and their offspring— but his translator is only capable of processing auditory input. It’s an oversight on his part. He should’ve been prepared.

 

“Do you mind?”, he asks, waving at Peter’s rod.

 

Peter stares at him for a few long seconds before going “ah” and pushing the rest of the carpet away.

 

The circle, as it turns out, is but one of sixteen. Each of them same size, framing a massive, intricate artwork: a huge oval, enclosed within the confines of floating words and curved lines. There’s a figure there— a well-dressed human with a distinguishable face devoid of emotion. His glassy, bulging eyes stare back at whoever dares to challenge them, captivating the viewer with unexpected reciprocation.

 

Egon’s impressed. Whoever had burned the portrait, must’ve been a great artist. These lines are sharp and purposeful, they emphasize just as much as they leave unsaid. The rest of the sigil could be some cultist’s job, simple shapes and symbols easy to recreate… but this? This is a masterpiece.

 

“…Hey, I know that”, he hears your voice from beyond Winston’s shoulder. “It’s a portal.”

 

“You sure about that? Looks like a regular seal to me. A huge-ass one but a seal nonetheless.”

 

Egon fixes his gloves, stands up and turns to Winston.

 

“Maybe”, he affirms. “But there is no need for a seal to be this big. Besides, their continuous effect is like a steady beam of radiation, they can’t suddenly change their properties and start exuding smoke after decades of dormancy.”

 

“…Are we sure about that?” Ray interjects. “Eldrich horrors have been around for millennia and we’ve only started cataloguing them, like, a hundred years ago? I mean, at this rate, anything’s plausible.”

 

Egon must admit that Ray’s point makes sense. Despite having studied arguably everything there was on the topic— heck, analyzing your father’s journals!— he can’t be sure. Your father was a cultist for a little more than twenty years and while it sounds impressive in human standards, it objectively isn’t. In all his knowledge and even he couldn’t have known what kinds of cosmic forces had been brewing for millions of years. It’s a terrifying concept, how small and insignificant humans are in comparison. Simple minds, weak cognition. Whatever glimpses of Yog-Sothoth have seeped through the veil, human brains were unable to process. Ancient truths have been shrouded in myths to make them a bit more palatable for the average person. If these scraps of knowledge are the only straws people grasp for, how impossible is it to uncover the full extent?...

 

“No, no”, you wave your hands. “Egon’s right. They’re trying to wake him up, I’ve seen this thing before.”

 

“Wake who up?”

 

When everyone looks at the portrait, the answer is terrifying.

 

Egon knows what’s about to happen. The chanting will get loud and oddly unanimous, sealed with a loud command. Then— silence— and amidst the deafeningly mute crowd, a disfigured monstrosity will emerge from the portal, solidifying its shape, gaining autonomy and speaking to the Collective while crawling out to the world. Whatever happens then is going to be horrible and affect everybody. He’s at a loss. Time’s running out.

 

He opens his mouth and turns to you but your stare takes him off-guard. Your eyes seem to plea for guidance and in that moment he knows only one thing: you’re under his protection. There’s a future ahead and he’s determined to take you there.

 

“Your father mentioned a summoning ritual in the diaries but did not describe it in detail”, he says in a soothing voice. “How did it go?”

 

“Well… the last time it burned my house to the ground and that’s when it was over.”

 

“Why did it burn?”

 

“I don’t know”, you worry your lip. “Some candles, perhaps? I can’t think of a reason fish people would utilize fire in their practices, nor generate it.”

 

“I may have an idea”, comes from Peter’s mouth and both of you look at his eerily glowing face which— as Egon quickly gathers— is lit by flames emerging from the markings on the floor.

 

All of you step back. The portrait is burning.

 

Flames engulf the gentleman’s eyes. Thick tongues of fire are bleeding from a pair of bulgy pupils onto his face, deepening sickly sunken cheeks and pouring ash down his chin. The circles around him catch a spark in an instant— spreading like a disease, gnawing into the deeply carved ridges, devouring carefully drawn lines, leaving nothing in their wake.

 

Peter aims his proton rod and shoots straight into the man’s face, scribbling over it. It’s wishful thinking— as if an act of vandalism could prevent the impending doom. In a typical ghostbusting fashion, though, Venkman  wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try demolition first (it also requires very little forethought and may give instant results) but to nobody’s surprise, it changes nothing.

 

“Worth trying though”, Peter exclaims, doing his best to outshout the chanting crowd. “Let’s stick to the plan!”

 

Egon takes the yap-cap from Winston, while the others (you included) adjust their proton rods and aim at the sigil. Presumably that’s where the creature will emerge but Egon’s studied enough mythos to stay vigilant. These beings are unpredictable. They’re sentient. Dangerous. A mere assumption that a man is able to control what he summons borders on insanity.

 

The swarm outside seems to move in an organized manner now. They’re approaching. This cannot be a good sign.

 

The fire consumes the portrait within seconds but doesn’t spread any further: the circles and symbols surrounding it are intact, save for an eerie glow which seems to come out of them. Ash sticks to the wood in an ungraceful bile of sop. The shoved carpet soaks sparks and cinders falling from the flames— and they go out with loud hisses, amounting to yet another layer of noise.

 

When dozens of wet palms slide across the ruined walls, the voices become grinding. They hit all registers at once. What’s worse, Egon observes, is that they seem to be fueling the pillar of fire, now reaching half-burnt ceiling supports. Any moment now.

 

“The command is ready”, he states, firm. “When the monster comes through, shoot him and hold in place until I put the helmet on its head.”

 

“What if it doesn’t have a head?”, yells Peter, grinning because that’s, apparently, hilarious.

 

Exactly like Egon’s predicted, the ritual’s done in half a minute. The tongue of fire escalates until it licks the ceiling, its hue turns green and that’s when chanting abruptly stops. Egon glances at your team. Winston and Peter are wielding their proton rods in front on them, ready to shoot— Ray does too but his facial expression betrays worry. You stay behind the guys and though you’re holding the charged weapon, your grasp is tentative.

 

You’re scared. Uncertain. You’re in the back and that’s a good thing from a strategic point of view but Egon wishes the two of you were closer. He wants to reach for your hand. He wants to calm you down. He wants—

 

“It’s coming through!”

 

A large tentacle shoots through the portal. The pillar of fire bleeds with green blotch, as if a ghostly force was turning it into an unholy veil. The sticky limb raises as high as it can, stretches and slams into the wooden panels. The floor is old and frail. It cracks. Splinters dash around.

 

The monster’s suckers stick to the floorboards and the a wall. It folds and squeezes into all nooks and crannies, fills the crevices with slick tissue like a heavily kneaded, oily dough would fill a form. Except it doesn’t stop there— doesn’t sit still— it squelches, pounds, gurgles, breathes.

 

After one limb comes another. Then two, then three more. Each of them pierces the wood further until the floor is reduced to a cracked frame, supporting the boys and you on a few broken planks and sheer willpower. The tentacles squeeze through the hole until the eighth (last?) of them comes out with a pop— and in that moment Egon’s skin turns pale.

 

He liked being prepared. He knew the creature would emerge in its entirety. He should’ve known better than to construct a human-sized helmet and expect it to fit. Thinking about it now, it’s an entirely foreseeable problem— we’re talking the Queen of the hive, not some random pre-infected half-fish humanoid whose size would fit within the US measuring standards.

 

The creature is massive. It’s huge. It’s gargantuan and slick and moving, which makes it almost impossible to climb up to reach its head.

 

He’s about to die from embarrassment at the incriminating level of stupidity when Ray’s weak gasp slaps his other cheek.

 

“…There’s no head.”

 

And— fuck— of course! Of course there wouldn’t! Of course a literal extraterrestrial eldritch entity with stupefying anatomy would develop No. Fucking. Head! Why would it?!

 

Perfect. Everything’s perfect, the whole setup is perfect, the circumstances are ideal.

 

“Hey, Spengler!” Peter yells with that idiotic half-smile. “No head! Who would’ve guessed, right?”

 

“Eat shit.”

 

Winston, as per usual, is the sane one. He nudges Egon with an elbow.

 

“What does your device need to access, exactly?”

 

“Brain”, Egon says. “Well. The subconscious.”

 

“Don’t octopi have some brain in their tentacles? We could strike one of them and put it to the…”

 

Winston looks at Egon’s hands— at the yap-cap’s egglike shape and its, frankly, pathetic size— then says:

 

“…nevermind.”

 

Egon deflates a bit. He considers allowing himself to feel an emotion (rage, anxiety or irritation) but there’s no time for that. He’ll have some time to process everything afterwards, either back at the station or in jail.

 

“Venkman?”

 

“No stupid ideas, boys!”

 

The four of you exchange looks because at this point all ideas are equally stupid— but Ray seems a tad more excited (and alert) so he’s your best chance of survival. No time like now because one of the massive tentacles lifts from the ground, then smashes a window and slams into the floor with full force. Peter and Winston leap back and hold on to the windowsill. You manage to grab the latter’s hand and he pulls you towards his chest. Egon only catches a glimpse of your hair protruding from under Winston’s glove. That’s good. That’s safe. Now, where’s Ray?

 

Ah.

 

As it turns out, Doctor Raymond Stantz is currently sliding downstairs through a gigantic hole in the floorboards.

 

Egon doesn’t think too much. Ray is his best buddy after all, the only person on Earth who’s allowed to freely snack on Egon’s Cheez-Its. He tightens the hold on the yap-cap, pins the translator to his belt and leaps after Ray.

 

A sleeve rips on a nail, a knee bumps against an old wooden panel and an elbow hits a pipe but overall, Egon somehow manages a happy landing. Ray’s even luckier— a burnt remnant of a dining table broke his fall and offered just the amortization he needed.

 

“Ray?”

 

“I’m okay”, he coughs, “better than okay!”

 

They stand up. Pat their sooty jumpsuits. Thick clouds of ash fill the air.

 

“It’s the adrenaline”, Egon informs. “Don’t get comfortable.”

 

Egon assesses their surroundings. They’re in the middle of debris in a dim room— two walls are gone so the chill and murmur of the crowd outside pushes through the rubble. They’re a whole four-meter gap from the rest of you and the hole in the (now) ceiling is dripping with slime. There’s no chance they’re gonna make it back up there unless they go all the way back to the main staircase. It’s impossible. Not with the tentacles filling the corridor.

 

They’re screwed. They’re so screwed…

 

“No, no! Seriously, I’m okay!” Ray has that full-blown teeth-showing grin and a spark in his eye. “I know what we gotta do!”

 

Egon looks at him. Ray’s fall might’ve been more severe than he thought.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    “Let’s plug the cap into Ecto-1’s siren”, he beams.

 

…or?...

 

“Look: how do you normally convey a message?” Ray continues. “It’s not through some elaborate coding or inception, it’s literally by talking! And talking is one person speaking while others are listening! Why don’t we…”

 

“…transmit the command into all of their heads…”

 

“…by simply announcing it? I mean, even the blob-mother must have ears somewhere if she responded to their calls.”

Egon smiles. Raymond is a genius.

 

The crowd is standing outside. Some of the fishfolk are in the way to Ecto-1 but there’s no time to overthink it: Ray leads through the piles of burnt wood and rusty piles towards the car and Egon follows. They pass the dirt and junk, their boots squelching in pools of leftover slime until they reach the corner— a hole— a passage outside.

 

The swarm is there. Ray gulps as large groups of people are not his forte. Peter would know what to do.

 

Ray approaches the line of people, lifts his hand in a terribly unconfident manner and says:

 

“…Um. Excuse me?”

 

They don’t even turn to face him. Their eyes are glued to a flailing set of tentacles which are now, somehow, twice as big as Egon’s assumed upstairs. They’re straightening up. They’re stretching above the mansion, uncurling their tips and that means preparation for another attack.

 

Ray and Egon dash through the crowd. The creatures don’t pay attention at all and that’s perfect— the boys are sliding through the masses straight towards the car. Egon’s already untangling the wires, preparing the tips to fit into Ecto-1’s radio. If this works, they’re going to get rid of everyone, no casualties, no more damage. If it doesn’t…

 

Egon opens the door and slides in. He doesn’t fumble with the jacks, his dexterous fingers move across the slots with ease and precision. The power is on, the loudspeakers maxed out Ray’s outside, setting the siren towards the aliens’ general direction. Egon takes out the translator, types a simple command, then triple-checks for mistakes. Meanwhile, Ray takes out a walkie-talkie, summons Peter— then waits. Egon closes his eyes. Let it work, let it work, let it work…

 

“Cover your ears, NOW!” Ray yells into the receiver.

 

Egon presses a button.

 

Bug wgah'nagl.

 

The tentacles freeze. The crowd’s stuck as well. For a moment, everything’s still.

 

Egon holds his breath.

 

Then, like from one organism, a thick line of ooze evaporates from the fishfolk. The people wake up. Their faces change. Features soften. Eyes go back to their usual size, cheeks rose up and the sheen of slime previously covering their skins seem to disappear altogether. The cloud flies towards the tentacles, forms an elaborate symbol above it and opens a door— a portal— a swirl.

 

The ancient eldritch entity levitates. Its limbs form a cord, as if it was trying to take as little space as possible. It rises up and disappears in the gaping hole in the sky.

 

The cloud follows and seals the portal shut.

 

Egon exhales.

 

Ray knocks on the windscreen.

 

“Did it work?”

 

“…It worked.”

 

“It worked?!”

 

“They…” Egon nods, “…went home. I told them to go home and they went there. They actually bought the idea.”

 

Ray bursts out laughing. The sound is so clear and loud, it warms Egon’s heart.

 

The crowd looks entirely normal now. Humans are back, looking at each other, making eye contact, scared, confused. They aren’t controlled by any higher being. They’re free to make their own choices. They are…

 

…leaving?

 

“Where are they going?!” Asks Ray but before Egon’s able to say anything, three familiar figures emerge from the crowd, dirty, sooty and slimed. Winston’s leading you (alive, unscathed) with a hand on your upper back, while Peter saunters like a common drunk and blurts:

 

“I’m not sure why but I really wanna go home, pronto.”

 

 

 

___

 

 

You load the sooty suit you wore into the machine.

 

“I feel like this past week’s just one criminally long day”, you hum, tying up a neat blue apron around your waist. “I’m so ready to start fresh. You have no idea.”

 

Egon observes you. Shades under your eyes are present again but you’re relaxed: motions light like a breeze, gaze soft and warm. Despite exhaustion you climb to your tiptoes every time you lift a garment, as if you were celebrating the victory and freedom in a language you’re fluent in. It’s a dance and you’re a ghostbusting fairy.

 

“I’ll do the laundry. Go to bed.”

 

“Not a chance”, you scrunch your nose. “You’re the one who’s just expelled a whole alien species from Earth. The least I can do is clean up, lemme.”

 

“You’re likely exhausted after the past few days. I, on the other hand, am still running on leftover adrenaline. Since I won’t be able to sleep for a few more hours, I may as well do something productive with my time.”

 

“Pfft. Whatever you said is probably reasonable but sounds like blah, blah, blah.”

 

Egon smiles.

 

“That’s exactly what I’ve said.”

 

You’re still you. Languid eyes linger on his face for a few seconds, as if trying to figure something out through the thick fog of weariness— until you make a funny face and reach for your apron. You untie the bow, take off the strap and slide the garment onto his neck.

 

“Here you go. Oh no, wait.”

 

You reach for his locks and help them fall onto his forehead. Fluffy fringe hangs loose. You comb your fingers through the strands and he doubts it’ll smoothen them out but he allows the contact— you’re close, skin’s warm and the scent of his soap is like an invitation.

 

“There. I like… It, uh.” You say, take a breath and whether you want to add something playful or sincere, it gets stuck in your throat.

 

“Noted. Now go to bed.”

 

“I don’t wanna leave you—”

 

“I’ve gathered. It’s flattering.”

 

“Uh, no! I mean— here, with the laundry—”

 

“Sure, sure. You aren’t even able to maintain a conversation. Go to bed. I’ll come upstairs as soon as I finish up here.”

 

“Egon...”

 

The washing machine’s unapologetic rattle fills the silence. Egon ponders. You were so brave earlier today— but the stakes were high, the noise was everywhere— and it’s easy to muster up the courage when time is of the essence. Everything’s different now. You’re almost shy, unsure. It’s a stark contrast to how vehemently you professed your love for him earlier today— and yet, the love is here— palpable but quiet— like a warm breeze on a summer night— like a patient glow of a lantern on the porch.

 

He lets out a small sigh. Takes a step. Presses his forehead to yours. He lets you ease into the touch, waits for you to take a few breaths— to feel the locks you like so much tingle your skin. Rubs the tip of your nose with his. Dips down. Tastes your lips.

 

It’s merely a press but you shudder.

 

The quiet of the station keeps the air warm. The rattling noise morphs into a low, pleasant hum. Your skin smells like his whole world and Egon fights an urge to ease further.

 

He takes a deep breath, then feels you move away an inch or two.

 

“Wait, I…”, you sigh, “…I need to make sure. I’m sorry but… If this is just a fling, I don’t want… I can’t…”

 

Egon straightens to take a proper look at you. Your eyes are glued to the floor because the tension is too much to handle. This isn’t the time for playful exchanges, this is a plea for honesty— a wound that scarred in an ugly way and threatens to tear when pulled.

 

The light is dim. It tickles your hair and skin but the shadow creeping from behind waits is there to swallow you whole. He weighs his words.

 

“The Ghostbusters have always operated on borrowed time”, he states. “Soon we’ll face another lawsuit for vandalism, trespassing, collateral damage and the mayor will do everything in his power to shut us down for good.”

 

A flinch crosses your face. You nod, defeated— but Egon’s not done yet.

 

“I’ll tell you what happens then.” He leans closer. “I’ll ask you an important question and if you say yes, we’ll buy a house. Somewhere quiet, preferably a ranch so that you can overwrite your father’s imprint with a whole new chapter— this one built on loyalty and genuine affection. I’ll keep teaching you, if you want. I’ll set up a lab in the basement so that I can continue my research and I’ll ask you for assistance during busts and sample collection.” He takes a small breath and adds: “We can be a team. We’ll be taking our kids into the fields and teach them how to aim, out into the wilderness to have s’mores, and maybe even our gigs. We’ll investigate urban legends and see if we can help any.”

 

You stare at him, searching his eyes. Your lip wavers. It’s a reaction of some kind but whatever you’re feeling seems too complex— he needs to reduce it to something he can label— something he can understand.

 

He decides to go on.

 

“We’ll spend our evenings together. Indulging in touch, if you please. You’ll embroider your clothes. I’ll build a few really cool toys. You’ll make sure they actually look the part and that they don’t break down after one use. I’ll keep replacing your terrible cheap soap with my own nurturing, skin-softening mix and add that mint-raspberry scent you like, so you don’t notice—”

 

“…You what?!”

 

He halts.

 

“…Ah. I might have failed to inform you.”

 

“You’ve been swapping my soap?...”

 

“Your skin was irritated after washing the dishes. I couldn’t let that slide.”

 

“How long?”

 

“One hundred and sixteen days”, he states and suddenly tenses up. “…Have I overstepped?”

 

You seem amused— good?— but your eyes are glossy— bad?— and he quickly ponders whether invading your sanitary life was his first and last nail to the coffin.

 

But then…

 

But then.

 

Your palms press against his chest like feathers— then gently hook some woolen creases, too shy to clench, too desperate to flee. You stand on your tiptoes. Rest your cheek against his neck. Your skin is soft to the touch and he almost crumbles when your entire body presses against his and— oh dear— you’re sinking into him— for the love of God— you’re warm and tender, and beautifully hopeless— and he can barely think straight.

 

Curious thing. You nuzzle deeper, until he feels the graze of your lashes as you close your eyes and hears you breathe in his scent. You’re his now, needy, pliant and unabashedly cradled into his shape. He glides a thumb along your jaw and feels your body tremble and— oh, If a mere caress makes you so weak, what else is he capable of?

 

He backs a little, lifts his hands and laces your fingers together— guides yours between his— his tips slide past your nails, along the phalanxes, down to the crevices. You’re painfully still and he lets you adapt because touching and touching are two different things.

 

The shortening breath on his skin is intoxicating.

 

“Egon”, you breathe into his neck and when he steps back to look at you, your face is flushed, eyes dazed.

 

You’re absolutely gorgeous.

 

You poor thing, he cradles your cheek— and you melt into the touch, languid eyes pleading for as much as he’s willing to give. This, he thinks, I understand.

 

“I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes.” His whisper tingles your lip. “I’ve missed you for longer than I’d been aware.”

 

___

 

 

Tonight is the first time Egon sleeps for eight hours straight.

 

Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally bring in your stuff.

 

Maybe in a year you’ll proudly wear his surname as officially yours.

 

Maybe in two years, you’ll move to a beautiful ranch house in Summerville, where you’ll host a heartwarming get-together with all the boys. It’s there where you’ll be raising your beautiful daughter, Callie for another twenty years— crafting her costumes for school parties, rejoicing her resounding success at a swimming championship and sharing campfire stories on chilly nights under the starry evening skies while eating s’mores and playing with a bunch of little Stay-Pufts.

 

(And if an ancient power ultimately takes your life—

 

(And if grief and horror consumes the world one day—

 

(And if Egon is forced to use the yap-cap on his beloved daughter to make her forget everything about the years they’d spent together and save her life from certain death—

 

—is yet to be seen.)

 

For now, only one thing is certain.

 

Starting now you’ll walk together— every day, every month, every year — and into the Afterlife

Notes:

...and so it is done.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading 📚 It's the longest fic I've written so far. Hope the build up pays off 🙏 enjoy!