by Sheila Paulson

originally published in Tales by the Fireside

"Look out, he's coming your way, Winston!"

"Duck, Egon!"

The ghost was yellow, transparent, and ugly, a long, skinny entity with a vast maw, six trailing legs, and big bulging eyes that glowed red in the darkness. For the past twenty minutes, the four Ghostbusters had chased it up and down the late night streets of the Village, but it was so fast that pinning it down was proving tough. Ray Stantz's breath came hard and fast as he charged around another corner, wondering why the tough ones always chose to come out on the hottest, most humid days of the year when even muggers had sought air conditioned shelter off the streets.

As Ray mopped his forehead, the beast swerved sideways, missed Winston Zeddemore by a hair, and made Peter Venkman fling himself flat on his stomach as it swooped within an inch of the proton pack he wore on his back. Before Ray or Egon Spengler could fire their particle throwers at the entity, it dove through the side of a building and vanished.

"Oh, great," groaned Peter, scrambling to his knees and brushing ineffectually at the front of his jumpsuit. "All that work and now he's gone." The psychologist's mouth turned down in a sour expression. He always complained loudly when a ghost escaped them. Part of that was the loss of their fee, but he genuinely enjoyed the thrill of the chase as much as Ray did.

"Are you hurt, Peter?" Egon asked, giving Peter a hand up and studying him as if seeking for hidden wounds. Removing his glasses, the physicist polished them on the front of his jumpsuit before putting them on again. He looked at Peter expectantly.

"Only my reputation," complained the brown-haired man. "I hate it when they get away from us." He stood breathing fast, glaring at the wall into which the ghost had disappeared as if he could will it into returning. When he scrubbed a dirty hand across his sweat-streaked face, he left a grimy smear across his eyes that made him resemble a bandit. Winston chuckled at the sight.

Ray started toward them only to halt as he noticed the store he was passing. Though he'd been on this street a few times before, he'd never noticed a comic book shop here until now. It must be a new one. Pausing, he stared at the comic displayed in the center of the window behind the grill, spotlighted by the glow from the nearest streetlight. The occultist had collected Captain Steel comic books for years and he had them all but one which Slimer, their tame ghost, had accidentally destroyed last years. Naturally the little spud had managed to wreck the rarest one. Here was the missing issue that he'd been trying to locate ever since. He'd have to come back first thing in the morning and buy it before anyone else could get the drop on him.

As he gloated over the comic, he didn't notice the renewed shouts of his three partners, but suddenly Peter's sarcastic voice cut through his fascination with his hobby, and he straightened up obediently and turned.

"Oh, Ra-ay! If you could forget your window shopping long enough to give us a hand..." Peter pointed up at the yellow apparition that had reappeared high in the sky and was spiraling down toward them.

"But Peter, it's that Captain Steel issue--" he began earnestly, lagging behind for one final glimpse.

"RAY!" The urgency in his colleague's voice made him hurry toward his friends just in time to see the yellow ghost pick up speed and make a strafing run at Peter, shooting streams of vivid fire at the psychologist from its eyes.

"Yeowww!" Peter jumped sideways, trying to burrow into the wall of the nearest building. Winston ducked into the dubious shelter of a dumpster while Egon took aim at the spook from an awkward angle, flat on his back beside a parked car, his glasses askew as he raised his particle thrower and aimed it at the yellow entity.

"I'm coming, Peter," shouted Ray, raising his own thrower and pointing it at the ghost. He had a clear shot as Peter scrambled against the wall. The psychologist tried to fire but he couldn't risk it with the ghost menacing him so closely. If he tried, the proton stream would probably rebound on him and that wouldn't be good. He stood at bay, dodging each gout of flame by inches.

Ray thumbed the trigger of his proton rifle and the crackling energy of the particle stream lashed out at the creature, just as it shot new fire from its eyes. Ectoplasmic energy met proton energy and deflected it, straight at Peter.

"Look out, Peter!" screamed a horrified Ray, yanking his thumb from the power switch of his thrower, an instant too late. The combined energy of the beast's blast and the proton stream hit Venkman in mid chest. He screamed once. That was all he had time for. As the sound knifed through Ray's body, the occultist recalled Egon once remarking that being hit with full streams caused a person's molecules to take separate vacations. While Ray stared in horrified disbelief, Peter vanished as if he had never been there. His proton pack squealed as if it were going into overload and clattered to the pavement, the thrower rolling beside it.

"Peter!" Egon scrambled to his feet and Winston darted around the dumpster, the two of them converging on the place where their colleague had been standing, expressions blank with shock. Egon bent down and flipped several switches on the battered proton pack to prevent overload. Its building whine ran down to a fragile silence that no one wanted to break.

"So what...happened?" Winston finally muttered, the words slurred as if he'd gone numb inside. "Is...is Peter..."

Egon rose to join him. "He was..." He couldn't continue. Even in the yellow glow of the streetlight Ray saw how pale he had become. His bottom lip quivered and he caught it between his teeth for a moment. "He..." the blond tried again.

Ray's thrower slid from his hands and he started doggedly toward the scene of the disaster, the proton rifle dragging behind him at the end of its cable. His stomach twisted as if he might throw up and he avoided his friends' eyes, gazing down at Peter's pack as if his friend would materialize again wearing it.

"Oh, Peter," he moaned miserably. "I've killed you. It was my fault."

"It was the ghost's fault," Winston corrected him sharply. "Where'd it vanish to? It's toast!"

Ray flinched at the familiar words that had so often come from Peter. He could hear the ghost high overhead but it didn't matter now. "I wasn't paying attention. I was looking at the comic book store. If I had, I might have stopped the ghost before it got Peter. Oh, God, Egon, it's my fault." He shuddered, tears stinging his eyes.

"Oh, man," Winston moaned. He pointed his thrower up at the ghost, which backed away and went straight up until it vanished from sight.

Egon picked up Peter's proton pack and clutched it against his chest. His eyes were blank and unfocussed, a sudden brightness obscuring them. Egon shouldn't cry. But Peter...

Ray couldn't bear it. Sickened and horrified, he turned his head away. Peter was dead and Ray had killed him. It was all his fault.

"I killed him," Ray insisted despondently. "I killed him, Egon."

"Nonsense, Raymond," Egon replied automatically, his voice hollow with shock. He passed the pack to Winston and gripped Ray by the upper arms, staring at him intently. "The ghost did it, not you."

Suspecting a lack of conviction, Ray tried to pull free, but Egon pulled him into a comforting embrace, and Ray hid his face against the taller man's chest....

"Ray? Come on, Ray, wake up. You're having a bad dream. Wake up!"

Peter's voice rang in his ear and Ray was so stunned to hear it that he blinked open his eyes and gazed at the impossible sight of Peter Venkman clad in his pajamas, bending over Ray's bed. The hand that clutched his shoulder was warm and alive. Real tears slid down Ray's face as he gaped up at his friend.

"You're alive!" he gasped and lunged at Peter, enveloping him in a fierce hug.

"Easy, buddy." Peter returned the embrace, though he sounded puzzled and worried. "It's all right. Sure, I'm alive. You must have been having one nasty nightmare."

"Is he all right, Peter?" Egon's concerned voice came from beyond Peter's shoulder.

"Bad dream," Peter explained reassuringly. "Ray?" When Ray merely shivered closer, he repeated it. "Ray? You're suffocating me, pal. Ease up, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

Ray relaxed his stranglehold but didn't free him completely. He feasted his eyes on Peter. "You were dead," he explained.

"Yeah, just like Bobby Ewing in the shower," Peter agreed with a forced grin. "You dreamed it, Ray."

"No!" Ray shook his head in fierce denial. "It was real. It was the most vivid dream I ever had in my entire life."

"Sometimes they happen like that, Ray," Winston joined in. The bed dipped as he sat down and clapped a hand on Ray's shoulder. "I had a few doozies after Nam, believe me. Sometimes I'd wake up and think I was still there. If you never had any that real before, you're one lucky dude."

"I--I guess it must have been," he replied, still to shaken to take an interest in the process. "It felt real. There was a new comic book store on West 4th Street, and they had that missing Captain Steel issue."

"Doesn't sound like much of a nightmare, buddy," Peter told him.

"Yes it was, Peter. I was so thrilled with the comic that I was too late coming to your rescue. A nasty yellow gooper zapped you and poof. Instant disintegration." He looked appealingly at Peter. "It was my fault. I'm sorry."

"Come on, Ray, it was only a dream. It didn't happen, so it couldn't have been your fault, could it? Do I feel like I'm disintegrated? Do you think this is Peter the ghost talking to you?"

"Peter's real," insisted Slimer, the green ghost swooping down to drop a messy smooch on Ray's cheek. The little spud looked worried, too. "Everybody's okay," he insisted.

"Do you think it could have been a ghost, Egon?" Peter asked, turning to the physicist. "You know, messing with Ray's dream? Maybe a sandman?" he theorized.

"Possible, Peter. A particularly vivid dream might well be the product of ghostly intervention," remarked Egon logically. "That final bust last night was a nasty one. You were lucky not to be fricasseed when that purple wiggler severed the power cable. Maybe Ray was reacting to that."

Ray shook his head in instant denial. "We've had tougher ghosts than that one lots of times, and I never had nightmares about them before," he objected. "Do you really think a ghost might have been influencing me? Wow, we have to find out what kind of ghost might do that."

"We've had ghosts influencing our dreams before," Winston remembered. "Remember when we tried out Egon's dream machine and those pizza eating nasties got into the machine? That wasn't a lot of fun."

"We beat them, though," Peter responded. "Once we caught on, we could influence the dream--but, remember, that time, we knew we were dreaming. I've got a great idea. If Slimer hasn't cleaned out the refrigerator, what do you say to a midnight snack?" He released Ray, who resisted the urge to grab him again. The memory of the dream was almost as real as the darkened bedroom on the top floor of the converted firehouse that held their headquarters. He was glad when Winston bounded over and flipped on the light. As the shadows retreated, he heaved a relieved sigh. It had only been a dream.

Peter watched Ray out of the corner of his eye as they made their way down the spiral stairs to the next floor, where their kitchen was. With a dream that intense, Ray ought to have a break before trying to sleep again. He needed a healthy dose of normality with his friends, complete with the usual kidding around and friendly repartee. There were sometimes deeply buried reasons for nightmares, and such things were the province of Peter's psychology background. He intended to keep a close eye on Ray until he figured out what, if anything, was wrong.

Egon lagged behind and when he joined them at the dining table he had a P.K.E. meter. Ray watched him take a reading with the hand-held ghost detection device, his eyes widening in surprise and fascination.

"Wow!" he burst out as he sat down, "Do you really think my dream could have been haunted, Egon?"

"It was a possibility, Ray, one I felt important to check. However, I can detect nothing unnatural about you. No residual energy, no strange valence, nothing."

"Ray always has strange valences, Egon," Peter teased, winning a sideways grin from the auburn haired man, and a mock-irritated, "Peter!" Ray appeared normal now, sleepy and rumpled, relaxing away from his bad dream the way people did when enough time had passed. His eyes tended to linger on Peter slightly more than usual, but that was normal, too. Death dreams were no fun, and even after one realized, thankfully, that they weren't real, reassurance always felt good. Peter grinned outrageously, prepared to reinforce Ray's better humor.

"Well, after all," he continued, stretching out a hand and rumpling his friend's hair, "our boy has had a few truly weird ideas in his time. Volunteering to bust the New Jersey Parallelogram, for instance."

"What was weird about that?" Winston objected practically. "We did bust it. Saved your dad in the process, homeboy. Remember?"

"Yeah, but Ray wanted to go out there and clean it up for free!" objected Peter, contriving to look excessively horrified at the idea.

"Yeah, that's a dirty word for you, isn't it?" Winston agreed, picking up on Peter's motives easily enough. He seemed game to play along and help Ray unwind, and besides, thought Peter with a secret grin, it was fun for the guys to pick on him. He could endure it for Ray's sake.

"Hey, moi?" he asked, resting a dramatic hand against his chest and waving his other hand in the air. "Money's important. You like to eat, don't you, Zeddemore? You like to have electricity? Free jobs don't pay the bills. Mama Venkman didn't raise no fools."

"And you'd never do a job free?" Winston persisted, grinning, as he popped the top on a can of soda and passed it to Peter.

Peter shuddered elaborately. "Never. No job's too big. No fee's too big." He took the can Winston offered him.

"What about Mrs. Faversham?" the black man demanded in triumph, his grin stretching from ear to ear as he gave Ray his soda.

"Mrs. Faversham?" Peter had the grace to look abashed at the reminder of the little old lady they'd once helped for the fee of a smile. "Well, uh, that was different." He scowled sourly at Winston while Egon chuckled, leaning back in his chair and fiddling absently with the P.K.E. meter. Venkman sneaked a sideways glance at Ray, and saw the younger man's face assume an earnest expression as he absently opened his own can of soda and sipped it.

"That's not fair, Winston," he burst out in innocent sincerity. "She reminded Peter of his mom. Besides, I liked Mrs. Faversham. She was a nice lady."

"I stand corrected," Winston replied, winking at Peter. Ray's outburst had sounded so normal that all of them began to relax. The dream was fading, as most dreams did. A paranormally induced nightmare would surely linger, but there were no shadows in Ray's eyes as he forged on.

"We should help people when they need us, even if they can't pay a big fee. Remember we helped Megan and Kenny Carter for the money in their piggy bank. Right, Egon?" He nudged the physicist with his elbow.

"Well, we had to bust the Bogeyman," Peter said reasonably when it was Egon's turn to appear embarrassed. The Bogeyman had later escaped from confinement in his realm because of Egon's fear, and the blond man was clearly remembering that now.

"You don't think he could escape again, do you?" Ray asked, his eyes widening expectantly. "Wow, we could bust him all over again. Wouldn't it be great?"

"Escape from the containment unit?" Winston challenged hastily. "We'd only trapped him in his own dimension the first time around. He was bound to break out of there eventually. Now that he's in the containment, we won't be seeing him again."

"Absolutely correct, Winston," Egon replied, setting the P.K.E. meter on the table. "I would prefer to avoid a third encounter. In any case, the only entity I detected tonight was Slimer."

"Where is Slimer?" Ray asked, staring around in surprise. "I thought he'd be here for sure since food was involved. You know how he likes to eat."

The refrigerator suddenly vibrated twice and stood still. Slimer glided through its door, hung in midair before them and emitted a horrible burp. "Slimer loves midnight snacks," he burbled.

Everybody burst out laughing.

"Okay now, Ray?" Peter asked as they trooped upstairs to the bedroom. The younger man was far more relaxed than he had when he had awakened. Peter had been seriously scared when Ray had glommed onto him like that, and had only been mildly embarrassed to suggest that Ray have a glass of warm milk, an offer which Stantz had instantly rejected.

"I'm fine, Peter," he insisted as he headed for his bed.

Peter beat him there and snatched up his pillow to fluff it up. From Winston's bed came the near-inaudible comment, "Mother hen." Peter ignored him, resisting a temptation to whack Zeddemore with the pillow and start a genuine pillow fight. It might be the final tension breaker, but they had an early call in the morning and they needed their sleep.

"Hey, Ray," he remarked as he started to return the pillow to its proper place. "I know you love being a Ghostbuster, but even in your sleep?" He snatched up a button with their No Ghost logo on it that had been reposing in Ray's bed.

"Gosh, is that where that went?" Ray demanded, taking it from Peter and putting it in his footlocker. "That's one of the ones the studio sent us. Spares that they thought we could use for promotional purposes."

"And it wouldn't do them any harm, either," Peter retorted. "I thought you took them all to that sci-fi club meeting last night and gave them away to our fans."

Ray winced. "SF, Peter, not sci-fi. I gave most of them away there, but I kept enough for each of us. I thought we could wear them on our jumpsuits when we went out on calls and maybe give them to kids. It'd be nice publicity."

"Yeah, great idea, Ray," Peter returned without much enthusiasm. They wore their logo on the sleeve of their jumpsuits, and the only advantage of the buttons that he could see was to give them to gorgeous women. Come to think of it, maybe Ray had something there.

"I'll look for the rest of them in the morning then," Ray replied and crawled into bed. He smiled up at Peter. "Thanks," he said, his eyes warm.

"No charge," Peter returned lightly, heading for his own bed. There was a chorus of 'good nights' to which Peter added, "Good night, John Boy." Egon's pillow caught him full in the face.

In the morning, everything was normal. It was true that Ray, upon waking, shot one quick glance in Peter's direction, but the sight of his friend awake and industriously making his bed relaxed him. Peter noted the scrutiny but didn't mention it. Instead he started griping about the early hour. "I would have liked another six hours sleep."

"That's okay, Pete, you can sleep through the job," Winston retorted. "It doesn't sound too hard."

The day's first job was a simple one, a Class Three free repeating phantasm that had been plaguing a midtown office, and they had it in a trap within ten minutes of arrival. The successful bust put them all in a good mood and they returned to Ghostbuster Central to find Janine Melnitz at her desk fending off Slimer. The redheaded secretary glanced up as they got out of Ecto-1, their converted hearse, and approached the office area, her eyes lighting upon Egon. She smiled.

"Did you catch it?"

Winston displayed the trap. "Man, I wish they were all this easy."

"I don't," Ray objected. "Think how boring that would be. I like the big jobs."

"Yeah, like Gozer, right?" Winston asked skeptically. "We should have this kid's head examined."

"The big jobs are exciting," Ray protested with a smile.

"Then I have a big job for you and Peter. I want to wash Ecto this morning. We don't have another job until after lunch, and there's a car show over in Jersey on Saturday."

"Sure, Winston," agreed Ray willingly. "We'll help, won't we, Peter?"

Peter grimaced. "You can. I have important work to do." He struck a dramatic pose.

That made everyone stare at him. "Work? You, Dr. V?" demanded Janine in astonishment. "Has the world shifted on its axis or what?"

"It's research," Peter said portentously. "Egon's going to help me."

The physicist turned a blank stare on Peter, revealing that this was the first time he'd heard of it, but when Peter urged him toward the stairs, he shrugged his shoulders and went. Peter was conscious of the others' eyes on his back all the way up to the next floor.

"Now what is it?" Egon demanded when they reached the lab. "I had planned to do maintenance on traps this morning." He gestured to a row of their shoebox-sized ghost traps spread out on his work table in a row.

"Well, it's more my field than yours, big guy, but it's about premonitions?"

Egon was sharp. Peter had to give him that. "You mean Ray's bad dream? You believe it could be a display of clairvoyance?"

"Listen, pal, I'm hoping like mad it was just last night's pizza settling wrong," Peter returned. "I know Ray's not obviously clairvoyant. We've never seen any real evidence of that." He flung himself onto the couch, folded his arms behind his head, and studied the ceiling without seeing it. "Well, not serious evidence," he concluded. "What we've noticed are little things. Every one of us has known more than once when the telephone is going to ring. I don't know about you, but I never used to be able to do that. Wish I had. My dad would probably have found a way to make money from it." He grinned.

"You've obviously thought this out, Peter," Egon replied, pulling on his lab coat, prepared to run his tests while Peter talked. He sounded rather impressed, and Peter preened himself in delight at the thought of impressing Egon.

"Look, Egon, it's my life on the line if there's anything to it. I don't know that a psychic episode would register after the fact on a P.K.E. meter. That's not what it's designed to register, is it? I wish we'd had a reading of Ray during the dream, but, they way he was yelling, I thought waking him up was more important."

"It was," Egon agreed. "Go on. What's your theory?"

"It's not a theory so much as a speculation. You've talked before about how objects can be contaminated with excessive doses of P.K. energy--like our uniforms after we fought Gozer, and like us when that fake Dr. McCatheter tried to convince us we were allergic to ghosts. You're the one who could test it scientifically. Think of this, Spengs. Maybe all that ambient energy is affecting us in other ways, making us in tune with the other side, receptive to knowing things before they happen? Maybe I could go on game shows with this and clean up? How about Wheel of Fortune? Vanna and I could be the twosome of the 90s. Nobody turns letters like Vanna."

Egon ignored the latter part of Peter's ramblings and concentrated on the first part. "I've given thought to the matter in the past, but never did any serious research on the subject. You're the parapsychologist, Dr. Venkman. How do you want to proceed?"

Peter basked in the warmth of Egon's respect. It was a hard thing to win from the physicist, but when he felt it, it showed. "I suppose we'll need to set up some tests," he concluded. "Most parapsychologists are debunkers, really. They might have had an experience or two, but a lot of them will work at trying to prove that an incident couldn't have happened. If they can't prove that or find another reasonable explanation, then they go on from there. We're stuck from the beginning because we're dealing with a dream. Ray doesn't claim it was precog, and the last thing I want to do is suggest it. You know how he'd get."

Egon winced. "Ouch. You're right."

"I'd have him following me around to make sure I was all right for days," Peter complained. "Probably even on my dates." He grimaced at the horrible possibility. "One thing we can do is search for that comic book store he mentioned. West 4th Street, he said. I'll slip out and take a look. We can say you sent me on an errand. I won't be gone that long. If there's no new comic book store, we'll have a fair idea that it was only a dream."

"Which is probably exactly what it was," Egon conceded. "I find your theory about the possible contaminative effects of ectoplasmic energy fascinating, however. I'd like to work with you on it and see what we can come up with. There might be a paper in it."

Peter waggled a finger in his friend's face. "I know you, Egon. You want to publish. You physicists are all alike."

"Who was sneaking all those studies on the public's reactions to ghosts to those psychology journals last year?" Egon challenged him, holding an instrument over one of the traps and jotting down the reading.

Peter grinned to concede the point. "I just love seeing my name in print. Besides, if I want the Nobel Prize, I've gotta start somewhere."

"Then start by checking out that comic book store," Egon suggested. "When you return, you can run ESP tests on me and determine if there's a noticeable difference from the ones you ran on me at Columbia."

Peter nodded in agreement and started for the door. "Will do."

"But no electric shocks," cautioned the physicist, a twinkle in his eye.

Peter grinned. "Come on, Egon, you're the one who's into electric shocks," he corrected. "See you later."

There was no comic book store on West 4th Street, though Peter made a careful study all along its length. He did find one place that was being remodeled in preparation for a later opening, but nothing indicated it would sell comics. He asked a couple of people on the street, who didn't know and could have cared less, and was finally forced to return to headquarters. The odds were in his favor, but that one place bothered him. As long as Ray's dream had been only a dream, everything was fine. Ray appeared to be all right, which made Peter wonder if his discomfort was worse simply because he had been the dream's victim.

An emergency call came just as he returned which was well timed to prevent Ray or Winston from questioning his absence. The ghost sounded like a Class 5 free floating entity which was terrorizing a work crew that had been hired to begin repairs in an old warehouse. The address was over by the docks, nowhere near the location of Ray's dream. Peter suited up, pleased to have a call. They needed a break. It would do them all good to get out and run around and blast something.

"Have fun, guys," Janine told them as they pulled on their jumpsuits over their civvies and slid into their boots. "Be careful, Egon."

"The rest of us don't rate, I see," Peter observed slyly. The secretary glowered at him in response, but her eyes returned to Egon. Peter couldn't help wondering if one day Egon would wake up and really notice Janine. That might prove interesting.

Ray was excited about the call. It took a lot to dampen his enthusiasm for the job--or for anything that intrigued him. "Class 5 and up are always interesting," he said as they pulled out of headquarters and onto the street. "I wonder if it's why the warehouse was abandoned in the first place."

"You can ask it when we're blasting away," Peter replied. "I'm sure it's gonna stop what it's doing so we can have a history lesson."

Ray grimaced at him fondly. "Yeah, but it's exciting, Peter. It might have been there for years and years. I like it when we catch ghosts that have been around for awhile. Like Slimer."

"I don't," opined Winston from the driver's seat. "It usually means they're pretty crafty and know all the ins and outs wherever they are. It makes them harder to catch."

"So, the harder it is, the bigger the bucks when we catch it," offered Peter, rubbing thumb and fingers together to express his interest in the profits. He sneaked a sideways glance at Ray who was beside him in the back seat. The dream forgotten, Ray's eyes were bright and his mouth curled into a smile as he talked. Peter felt himself relaxing, the memory of the brokenhearted sobbing that had awakened him retreating into a distant memory.

"That makes it all the more exciting," Ray cried in response to Winston. "Doesn't it, Peter? I can't wait to blast it."

"Whatever you say, Ray."

"I think this kid needs fewer vitamins," complained Winston, glancing over his shoulder just long enough to wink at the occultist while they waited for a taxi to get out of their way.

The warehouse must have been abandoned since the 40s. There was a new sign naming the construction company that had phoned the Ghostbusters for help, and a shiny new padlock on the door, but other than that, it wore an air of moldering quiet that was deceptive. A Class 5 could disrupt quiet with the best of them. Slimer always did.

When Ecto pulled to a stop, the construction boss, a burly man in his middle forties, came to meet them, proffering a key to the padlock as the guys donned their packs and joined him at the door. Peter introduced them.

"I'm Harry Jackson," he replied. "I'm in charge of this project, but my men won't go in there until you get rid of that thing," he declared when Peter took the key. "That thing is big and nasty. It's pale blue and about ten feet long. It looks like a demented alligator, and it has the teeth to prove it. It grabbed one of my men in its mouth, and who knows what it would have done if I hadn't grabbed a two by four and slugged it across the tail. It dropped Moe and came for me, and we ran like hell." He shuddered. "Nobody ever called me a coward, but I'm not going in there again until it's gone."

"We'll take care of it," Ray promised earnestly, snatching the key from Peter's hand and starting for the door. "Come on, guys, this is great. We haven't had anything this nasty for weeks. Let's zap it."

"Ignore him," Peter told Jackson. "He gets caught up in his work." He shot a quick grin at Ray, who was already unlocking the door. Observing this, Jackson retreated hastily as if he feared that the entity would pop out and pursue him. Given a physical problem to confront, he would probably have taken care of it on his own. He just wasn't used to ghosts.

Peter followed Ray into the warehouse, and stopped to look around while Winston and Egon joined them, the latter holding his activated P.K.E. meter in his hand and pointing it about. Though the building had once been a single room, it had since been divided into a number of different cubicles with walls that rose a couple of stories, so it wasn't possible to observe the entire place without climbing to the catwalks that ran overhead. Light filtered in from narrow windows near the roof and from a couple of unshaded bulbs that the construction people must have strung when they first started their work which added pale islands of weak light. Dark and shadowy, the place didn't appeal to Peter.

"Are you reading anything, Egon?" Ray asked.

"It's here, but it's quiescent," Egon replied. "I'm unable to pinpoint a direction, but the energy levels are high. It's not moving, but it likely knows we're here."

"Great," groused Peter out of force of habit. "It's waiting to pounce on us, you mean?" He unhooked his particle thrower from the pack he wore but didn't yet power up.

Ray grabbed his thrower, too. "Which way should we go?"

"I believe it would be most efficient were we to disperse our energies in alternate directions," Egon began, taking several steps to the right, along the wall.

"Whoa, Egon, hold it," Peter interrupted. "No more gobbledy gook or I'm going to have to hurt you. Suppose you repeat that in English."

"He means we should split up," translated Winston. "Even I understood that one, Pete."

Venkman grimaced. "Split up? I was afraid of that. Okay, men, once more into the breach." He took a couple of steps in the opposite direction from Egon. "What's a breach?"

"I don't think I want to know," Winston replied. "Okay, I'll go this way. Ray, why don't you take that aisle there. Pete and Egon can circle around. Sound good?"

"Sounds great," agreed the occultist and hurried to comply, his proton rifle in one hand and his P.K.E. meter in the other. He looked like he couldn't wait to trap the entity. Was there a hint of a snarl to his mouth? Peter frowned, then he shook his head. No, Ray was just his usual, gung-ho self.

Peter checked the trap that hung at his belt, leveled his thrower so that he could have a clear shot the minute the creature appeared, and started down the corridor that ran along the outer wall.

At first, nothing disturbed the silence. He could hear the others walking away, but eventually that faded, leaving him with the sound of his footsteps. The floor was filthy, and several large roaches scuttled away as he approached. He drew back to allow them the right of way. Peter hated roaches. Once he'd been chased by a shape shifter that had melted into the form of a cockroach almost as big as Ecto. He shivered. There were worse things in life than roaches, but he hated them.

The floorboards were warped and irregular, forcing him to watch his feet or risk tripping over a protruding board. He paused at a junction of two corridors to scan the ceiling and to study the two passageways to look for the entity. So far, no one had found it. The sound of a thrower is unmistakable and he would have heard it if anyone was firing.

"You can come out any time," he urged the invisible entity. "Dr. Venkman wants to get home in time for dinner."

When he started moving again the board beneath his feet gave a dreadful creak and dropped away. Peter scrambled for safety, but more of the floor collapsed in a roar and he went with it, plunging down into darkness. He barely had time to let out an outraged, "Aaahhhh!" before the lower floor rushed at him and hit him hard.

There was a blurred interval of confusion while he struggled to catch his breath. He hurt all over, but he didn't think any of it was fatal, or even serious. If only he could catch his breath. Once, he thought he could hear the sound of proton rifles and distant yelling. If the guys had found the blue alligator entity, they might not have heard his fall.

Something touched his hand. Thinking it was the Class 5, he fumbled for his thrower, only to plunge his hand in among something small and hard and moving. He felt them scurry across his fingers, and he yanked free with a cry of distaste.

Only the dimmest of light filtered down into the hole, but it was enough to show him that he had fallen into a small room. If there was a door, it was well concealed by rubbish and rubble, leaving him a tiny space in the middle. Over his head, the gaping hole showed his only sure exit, but it was out of reach.

Still wheezing, he realized that the tickling sensation hadn't left his fingers. Lifting his hand, he stared at it, then shrieked and shook it wildly. Half a dozen fat roaches clung to his fingers, and when he tried to dislodge them, one ran up his arm, under his cuff, inside his sleeve.

"Yaaa!" Peter beat at it, trying to kill the nasty little thing. Suddenly he was aware of new crawling sensations as if the roaches on his hand had cousins. When he put out his other hand to lever himself up, he felt a new collection of the insects, a few squishing under the pressure of his hand, some darting away, some climbing on.

He looked down at himself and yelled in pure horror. The floor was alive with roaches. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Several layers deep, they were all over him, crawling up and down his legs, across his jumpsuit. Oh, God, there were even roaches in his hair. He felt one slither down the back of his neck, the tiny feet making their way down between his shoulder blades.

Frantically he jumped to his feet and tried to beat them off. For every one he dashed away, three or four swarmed up his boots. They had worked their way up his sleeves now, and as he waved his arms in a futile attempt to dislodge them, he could feel them inside his shirt, swarming across his chest. He beat at himself, trying to kill them, then he gave up that and fumbled for his thrower. It came to him liberally covered with the insects, but he shook it wildly to clear it and powered up, blasting the floor in a desperate attempt to kill them.

It worked. Soon, he stood in the middle of a charred floor, full of pits and holes but bare of roaches. All that were left were the ones that clung to him, and he could hardly blast himself.

Shudders of nausea wracked his body and he doubled over, still tearing at the zipper of his jumpsuit. When he opened it, he tried to scrape the insects off his tee shirt, but they were too quick for him. He tore off his pack, and fought to free his arms from the sleeves. He was shaking violently.

One of them skittered across his face, and he jumped, knocking it away, probably leaving a bruise in the process. "Help!" he cried. "Help! Guys! Help!"

The distant sizzle of throwers was his only reply.

Finally he pulled his arms free of his jumpsuit, and he shook it out, watching the remaining insects scuttle away and vanish into the rubble that was stacked against the walls. Letting the jumpsuit bag around his ankles, he yanked his tee shirt out of his pants and held it away from his body, shaking it to dislodge the last of the intruders.

Only a few to go. He slapped desperately at any movement until finally there was none. He was rid of them.

Quivering with delayed shock, Peter collapsed onto the floor, drawing his knees up against his chin and wrapping his arms around them tightly. He sucked in great, shuddering breaths of air that grew more and more like sobs. When he tried to control them he realized he was unable to stop. He was on the verge of losing it altogether.

A roach he had missed moved in his hair. Half hysterical, he leaped up with a shriek and dislodged it.

Overhead, someone began to laugh.

The ghost! Peter grabbed his thrower again, only to let the weapon fall from his hand as he recognized the laughter.

It was Ray Stantz.

Peter gaped at him in disbelief. Ray stood at the edge of the hole in the floor, peering down at him. As Peter watched he stowed his thrower. He was laughing so hard that he had to clasp a hand across his stomach to contain it. Hampered by the jumpsuit that had bunched around his ankles Peter scrambled awkwardly to his feet then went sprawling while, above him, Ray doubled over with renewed mirth.

If there was anyone Peter would expect to sympathize with his panic reaction it was Ray. Instead, the occultist behaved as if he found Peter's plight vastly amusing. A combination of rage and deep hurt settled into Peter's soul.

"You look stupid, Peter," Ray informed him, chuckling so hard that tears slid down his face. "You should see yourself."

"Stupid! I'll show you stupid, Stantz." Yanking his jumpsuit up around his waist, he slid one arm into it, shuddering when another roach slid out and scuttled across his chest.

"Ahhh!" He batted at it. When this sent Ray into a fresh paroxysm, Peter's control strengthened and he flicked it off, hunting furiously for a way out.

The ladder lay practically at his feet. It must have been buried by the layers of insects. Two rung were missing or broken, probably from the proton stream, but otherwise it was intact. Grabbing it with both hands, he worked it up and slammed it against the edge of the hole. Ray steadied it automatically, his shoulders still quivering with amusement.

Peter practically flew up the ladder. Ignoring the crawly sensations that ran over his body, he concentrated on Ray, who even reached out a hand to help him up.

"Have you had your jollies, Stantz?" Peter demanded as he climbed onto the solid floor, ignoring the outstretched hand. "Think it's funny, do you? Maybe as funny as your bad dream last night? I don't remember laughing at you."

"It's funny," wheezed Ray, gesturing at Peter's disheveled condition.

It was the final straw. Peter grabbed at the other man, feeling something tear away in his hand as Ray jumped backward in surprise. Flinging the object away, he slammed a fist at the occultist. As he swung he noticed Ray's face change from malicious amusement to worry and sympathetic concern. "Peter!" he blurted a second before Venkman's fist connected with his jaw. Abruptly the auburn haired man collapsed on the filthy floor, his face blank with shock and surprise. Rubbing the point of impact, he raised hurt brown eyes to Peter, seeming so normal that Peter blinked at him in confusion.

"Peter! What the hell are you doing, man?" Winston and Egon thudded toward them and grabbed his arms, yanking him away from Ray. Winston continued anxiously, "Are you hurt, Ray?"

"I--he just hit me," Ray breathed miserably as he struggled to rise. "I was trying to help him out of there," he gestured at the hole, "and he belted me." He turned to Egon appealingly. "I don't know why he did it."

Three reproachful pairs of eyes fastened on Peter, who reeled under them as if he'd been the victim. One final roach crawled across his chest, and he squawked, "Yaaa!" and brushed it off, pulling free of Egon and Winston and staggering past them.

He heard Egon call his name and Ray explaining earnestly about the cockroaches. It was too much.

Peter bolted for the main door, stomped outside and finally pulled his uniform off completely, undoing his boots and kicking them free. He stared at himself and shuddered at the sight of squashed roaches all over his body. With frantic fingers he scraped away as many as he could before reaction set in. Trembling, he collapsed to his hands and knees and abruptly and unexpectedly began to vomit.

"Peter!" Ray's worried voice barely penetrated his misery. He felt a hand tightening on his shoulder, someone holding his head, and he doubled over in abject misery until there was nothing left to bring up.

Only then did he realize that the man supporting him was Ray.

Weakly he jerked away. Bad enough that the guys had witnessed his loss of control. Worse that the man who had found his plight so amusing was the one who now tried to help him. Yet there was no amusement in Ray's eyes now. There wasn't even blame for the blow he'd struck. Instead, Ray's face was full of worry, sympathy, and understanding. He put his arm around Peter's shoulders and squeezed gently. Involuntarily, Peter leaned into the comfort. After his encounter with the bugs he needed it very badly, even if it came from the man who'd found amusement at his expense.

"Are you all right, Peter?" Egon asked dropping his hand on Peter's shoulder. Venkman discovered that Egon was kneeling on his other side. He produced a clean handkerchief from one of his pockets--Egon always had what was needed in there--and cleaned his face with it. "I'm sorry we didn't understand. Were you hurt when you fell?"

Peter shook his head. "Just a few bruises, I guess," he admitted in a muffled voice. "It was the..." He couldn't even mention roaches. He gestured at himself. "They were all over me," he managed to explain. "I hate cockroaches."

"Is that why...why you hit me?" Ray ventured hesitantly, never loosing his grip. "I didn't realize... It must have been reaction. It's okay, Peter. I understand." He touched his jaw. Peter was sure a bruise would form there.

"You laughed at me," he accused, unable to keep quiet about it. "I was down there with all those--those...things--all over me and you laughed at me."

Ray's jaw dropped. "I...laughed at you? No, I didn't, Peter. I would never have laughed at you when you were in trouble. You know I wouldn't." Sincerity rang in his voice.

"Perhaps you imagined it, Peter," Egon suggested, squeezing Peter's shoulder understandingly. "You were obviously shocked from the fall and from the situation. In such instances, it's natural to--"

"I didn't imagine it," Peter defended himself hotly. "I know I was losing it, Egon, but not that much. He just stood up there and laughed at me." That hurt. Ray Stantz was the one person in his life who offered him unconditional support. Ray might reproach him gently when it was called for, but he was always there, his unstinting friendship one of the props of Peter's life. Maybe he'd looked funny down in the pit--he probably had, beating at himself to be rid of the insect invasion--but Ray shouldn't have laughed. Peter would have staked money on Ray's loyalty in any crisis--until now. If Ray would fail him he didn't know what he could rely on any more.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Ray said instantly. "I would never laugh at you when you were hurt or afraid. You know that."

Winston shook his head. "He's right, Peter. That's just not his way."

"That's what I thought--before," muttered Peter, avoiding their eyes. They probably thought he'd lost his mind and imagined the whole thing. Fine. Nobody believed him, but he knew it had happened. He jerked away from Ray as if he feared contamination. "Forget it. Leave me alone." He avoided Ray's instinctive grasp to steady him as he stood up.

Ray gaped at him in hurt disbelief. "I didn't laugh at you!" he insisted. "I wouldn't! You guys know that. I would never do anything to hurt Peter or any of you." Misery filled his face. "I saw him down there, and there were cockroaches all over him. I remember thinking how horrible that would be for him, and then he found the ladder. I helped him steady it, and when he reached the top, he slugged me."

Peter exchanged a confused stare with Egon. His father had told him the ones who seemed this sincere could always get away with the best lies because people were so accustomed to believing them. He never would have thought it of Ray, though. "I didn't imagine it," he snapped.

"No one says you did, homeboy," Winston reassured him, gripping his arm to steady him on his feet. "Oh, shit, here comes that Jackson. Ray, why don't you intercept him and tell him we caught the gooper." He passed the full trap to Ray, its blinking light announcing the incarceration of the entity.

Accepting the trap automatically Ray glanced at Peter and started away reluctantly. He must have realized that Winston wanted to deflect Jackson before he saw how demoralized Peter was.

"You all right, Pete?" Winston asked in an undertone as Ray walked away.

"I guess so," Peter admitted stiffly, though he still felt as if there were roaches crawling on him. "But I want a long hot shower before I do another thing." He turned to Egon. "Can we go home now?"

"Roaches! Why did it have to be roaches?" Refreshed by his shower, Peter joined the other three in the TV room. He was determined to sound as cocky as possible to make up for his earlier loss of control. Peter preferred to take things lightly, to hide his vulnerabilities, but this particular vulnerability had manifested itself before God and everybody. He was afraid the guys might pity him. Even worse, he didn't know what to do about Ray. Until now, he had believed he could be himself with Ray and receive near unconditional support. Ray might find fault, but never severely, and he accepted Peter as he was without attempting to change him. It had offered him a form of security that Peter had relied on without realizing how much it mattered--until now. Fine. He wouldn't let them guess it hurt that Ray had turned on him and the others had believed Ray instead of him.

He struck a pose in the doorway. "I think I'm one big bruise, guys. How about I spend the next day or two stretched out on the couch doing nothing?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" asked Winston, grinning at him. "Come on in and sit down, Pete. You had a bad fall. Do you think you need x-rays?"

He shook his head. "No. Nothing's broken. My head doesn't even rattle when I shake it."

"Are you sure, Peter?" Egon asked seriously, coming to join him and peering into his eyes as if to make sure his pupils were equal and reactive. "Were you unconscious?"

"No. I was shaken up for a minute, but I never passed out. I don't have a concussion."

Ray had said nothing. He sat unmoving at one end of the couch, a book in his hand. Plainly he wasn't reading it because it was upside down. "Winston thinks maybe I did laugh at you, Peter," he admitted, staring at the book as if it were the most fascinating thing in the known universe. "He thought he heard somebody laughing. If I did it, I didn't do it on purpose. I wouldn't have meant it."

"Maybe it was a kind of distancing," Peter mused thoughtfully, grasping on theory as easier to face than the fact that Ray might have enjoyed his unhappiness. He thought about all his psych classes and the books he'd read when cramming for finals. "Last night you dreamed I was dead. Maybe your subconscious mind said it wouldn't be so painful if I didn't mean anything to you." He went over and dropped down on the couch between Ray and Egon. It hurt that Ray had dumped on him when he was down. He wasn't comfortable with Ray now.

The younger man considered Peter's words, his face intent, then he shook his head. "No," he denied. "I wouldn't do that."

"You wouldn't know you were doing it," Egon pointed out. "It would be a subconscious rejection. You would be trying to avoid pain in the future by distancing yourself from the object of that pain, in this case, Peter."

"You mean because I had a bad dream I wouldn't want to be Peter's friend any more?" Ray asked in disbelief, a flash of fear running across his face. "I think you guys are way off base with this." He patted Peter's arm. "I'm sorry, Peter. If I did it, I didn't mean it. I don't remember doing it."

Peter shook his head. He still resented it but Egon and Winston were watching them curiously and he didn't want to simply jerk free of Ray's hand.

"So what happens next?" Winston asked.

Peter shrugged, surprised to find that even after the shower, he had stiffened up from the fall. "Now I crash on the couch," he remarked.

"Are you hurt, Peter?" Ray asked sympathetically. "Did you bang your shoulder? Do you want an ice bag?"

"Hey, sounds good to me."

"I'll get it." Ray hurried off and returned shortly with the ice bag and Slimer.

"Oh, thanks. A new form of revenge," groused Peter, waving a hand at the little green ghost. "Just what I needed."

"He's worried about you, Peter," Ray insisted, holding out the ice bag. "Here. Where do you need it? What hurts the most?"

"Shoulder." Peter waved at it with his other hand. Leaning forward solicitously Ray applied the ice bag, and Peter settled it into place. It felt good--until Slimer decided to help, too. The ghost studied Peter carefully.

"Ooohh, bad bruise," he said, pointing to Peter's forearm. He plopped a bare ice cube on the injury, causing Peter to sit up abruptly with a yelp of shock.

"Sliiiimerrr!"

Everyone laughed. Peter stiffened, shooting a cautious glance around the room, relaxing when he saw nothing but normal humor in their eyes. This sort of incident was fair game, as the other hadn't been, though he couldn't help resenting it.

Ray dove for the ice cube. "No, Slimer," he said, repressing his chuckles instantly as if he felt guilty. "Not like that. You'll only make a mess."

"He makes a mess wherever he goes anyway," Peter complained, mopping at his arm with a corner of his sweatshirt. "You might as well ignore him. I always do."

Slimer grinned widely, babbled a few words none of them could understand, and embraced Peter around the neck.

"Ack! Get him off me! Somebody get him off. I'm not a well man, remember?"

"Come on, Slimer, give him space," Ray urged, pulling the ghost free. "Sorry, Peter."

"Okay. Enough apologies." Peter propped his feet up on the nearest comfortable object, which happened to be Egon's lap. The physicist grimaced expressively but allowed them to remain there. Peter grinned and closed his eyes. In a few minutes he had drifted into a restless sleep.

Peter dozed lightly at first, half rousing when Winston made a remark about checking Ecto's spark plugs and departed. Ray went next.

"Do you think I should stay, Egon?" he asked solemnly.

"It's not necessary. He'll feel better when he wakes up."

"I hope so. I'd never have done it, Egon."

"Normally, I would agree with you. It seems too out of character. Later on, Peter and I will tell you a few of our theories regarding the dream you had last night. It's possible that it is influencing you."

"Maybe, but it wouldn't give me amnesia," Ray disagreed. "I remember seeing Peter down there. I remember the whole thing. I don't remember laughing. I'd remember, Egon." Peter shivered slightly and Egon automatically patted his feet. Somehow, the touch steadied him and he sank back toward sleep, hearing Ray start for the door. He wondered vaguely if Egon had gestured him away.

"I've lost my Ghostbusters button someplace. I'm going to go look for it in Ecto," the occultist said in parting. That was the last thing Peter heard for awhile.

When he awakened, he knew from the light at the window that several hours had passed. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he realized he felt much better. There had been no nightmares to recall the horrors of the roach pit. Only a lingering unease reminded him of his earlier resentment.

"I'm glad you're awake, Peter." Egon's calm voice startled him and he glanced down, surprised to realize his feet still rested in the physicist's lap. "My feet are starting to fall asleep." Egon lifted Peter's feet and slid out from under them.

Rubbing his head, Peter scrunched up so that he was leaning into the corner of the couch, half against the arm rest, and wrapped his arms around his knees. "You could have shoved me on the floor," he suggested, surprised at how comforted he felt that Egon had not. Perhaps the blond had realized he craved a display of affection, even one as simple as this.

"No, you needed the rest. This morning was not easy on you. I remember how you stood by me when I thought I was losing my intellect."

"So you stuck by when you thought I was losing mine," Peter replied, recalling the incident to which Egon referred, when he had been attacked by an entity that devoured the brains of scientists. In Egon's case it had been a concussion from a fall rather than the attack of a ghost which had simulated the symptoms, but Egon hadn't known that until after the ghost was captured.

"No, not losing it," Egon replied, settling himself in the opposite corner of the couch. "Peter, I want to suggest a theory to you. I hope you won't be angered by it."

"What, that I dreamed it all up? Oh, sure, Egon. You think I'd go around punching out Ray because of my imagination." He tightened his grip around his knees. The hurt expression on Ray's face still bothered him. No matter what had happened, Ray genuinely believed he hadn't laughed.

"You experienced an emotional trauma, Peter," Egon went on earnestly, his eyes holding Peter's as he spoke. "Sometimes, when that happens, situations aren't exactly as they appear. Things twist and distort and the imagination makes everything worse than it really is. Bugs, particularly cockroaches, bother you. I've observed it before. Everyone has something he fears. You were unlucky enough to fall into a situation that brought all your worst fears to the surface."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, shuddering. "I've hated bugs ever since I was a kid. I remember..." His voice trailed off. He still found it difficult to recall the cause of that particular fear.

"You remember..." Egon prodded. Sometimes the physicist was an excellent psychologist, and Peter trusted his judgment. Maybe Egon was right. Maybe he should talk about it. He didn't think that would mean an instant cure the way it did in the movies, but it might help. It might even put this cockroach thing in perspective. The way things were going, Peter suspected he was going to need perspective. If he didn't want to lose Ray's friendship, he must try to understand what had happened. He was still angry and hurt. The anger was easy to deal with. He could blow it off in a few noisy outbursts or even working out for a couple of hours. The hurt was harder. Peter tended to take things that hurt him and pretend they didn't matter after all. He'd come up with smart responses and play it cool, and he knew he didn't want to do that with Ray. Unless he did something, he was going to blow up at the kid, and that wouldn't help anybody.

"What do you want, Egon, true confessions?" he snapped, then he shook his head. "No, you're right, big fella. Super brain strikes again. Look at me. I'm halfway ready to deck Ray again. God, I hit him. No matter what was going on, that was a stupid call."

"I agree," Egon replied, allowing a faint glint of humor to lighten his solemn expression.

Peter swatted his shoulder. "Thanks."

"About the bugs, Peter."

"Bugs! Yecch. When I was a kid, we used to go to my uncle Jack's farm for a couple of weeks every summer. You know me, Egon, I'm a city kid. I never liked farms, but when I was eight, there were a few things that weren't too shabby. Kid stuff. A tree house that you had to be so tall to climb up to. That summer I finally made it and I was so cocky that my cousins probably got sick of me. I would have got sick of me."

"As we frequently do," Egon replied.

Peter stuck out his tongue at him. "But then you like spores, molds and fungi. Your taste is questionable to begin with."

"That must be true," Egon replied. "I've tolerated you for years."

Peter grinned. He and Egon had been one upping each other for every single one of those years and he loved it.

"I assume your cousins took revenge on you," Egon prodded, leaning into his corner and pulling one leg up against his chest, wrapping his arm around it, and resting his chin on his knee.

"Yeah, the creeps," Peter snapped. "I live in hope that one day they'll have a ghost out there and I'll be called to bust it. Cousin Charlie was eleven and Cousin Bob was thirteen. They decided I was 'too big for my britches' and they locked me in the fruit cellar. That wouldn't've been so bad but there were all kinds of creepy crawlies down there, and when you're eight, they look as big as rats." He shuddered involuntarily, remembering the long hours he'd waited for the older boys to come and free him, constantly moving for fear that a fat spider would crawl on him if he stayed still. Then there was the horror of something big and hairy with a lot of legs dropping from the ceiling and landing on the back of his neck. He talked for a long time and Egon sat quietly listening. One thing about Egon, when you really needed him, he was there, non-judgmental and calm, exuding that air of control that the situation needed. Though physical comfort wasn't usually his bailiwick, he shifted closer and patted Peter's shoulder.

"This was like a repeat, wasn't it? Think of it this way. This time, you acted instead of simply reacting. You blasted them, you killed them, you rid yourself of them. You didn't just jump around in panic."

Peter considered that, hunting for the catch, and he couldn't really find one. "I freaked," he admitted, dropping his eyes.

"So would I have, and bugs aren't particularly a terror of mine," Egon replied. "Don't judge yourself on the basis of an incident that happened when you were eight years old. You handled it."

"Yeah, and then I tossed my cookies," Peter admitted rather shamefacedly.

"Another natural reaction. Who says you have to be a superhero. We're not all Captain Steel."

It was an unfortunate reference. Ray's favorite comic book character, Captain Steel, had once come to life and helped the Ghostbusters. Ray had been exultant. Captain Steel could do no wrong. He was heroic and dashing and everything that was wonderful. Peter had found himself irritated with the comic creature, criticizing his disguise of glasses and a suit. Well, it had always seemed stupid when Superman did it, so why not the Captain, too? Only later, when he had time to think about it, had Peter realized that part of his reaction was jealousy. Ray usually accorded Peter wholehearted acceptance and Peter was used to it. While Captain Steel was around, Ray was so caught up in his idol that nothing else seemed to matter. Peter suspected he rather needed Ray's open affection. It had been one constant in his life.

Now it was absent, and Peter was floundering. This time, he couldn't even blame it on a wandering super hero. Worse, Ray had denied it. Peter knew he had been half-hysterical down there among the roaches, but he hadn't imagined it.

Which meant that the open trust he'd allowed himself to give to Ray had grown risky. Ray might be his normal self now, but who knew what he'd do the next time.

"Screw Captain Steel," Peter snarled.

That was hardly the response Egon had expected, and he stared at Peter in surprise. "If you want to hurt Ray..." he began.

Peter didn't. Deep down, it was the last thing he'd ever wanted to do, but he was hurt himself. It was a small thing, really, but trust was based on small things, and once it started to erode, it was nearly impossible to put together again.

Egon deserved a reward for his vigil while Peter slept and his determination to understand. So Peter shrugged as if it didn't matter and said, "No, just to trust him."

"You can't mean--" Egon chopped off his words as he realized what Peter was implying. "Because he laughed at you?"

"Because he denied it. Hell, Egon, maybe I did look funny. I wouldn't have thought it of Ray, but maybe it caught him wrong. But he lied about it." This was getting too intense. He jumped to his feet. "I'm going out for some air," he called over his shoulder as he started for the door. He shouldn't have said that much, even to Egon.

Ray met him in the doorway, but Peter pushed past him without a word. He heard Ray call his name, but he ignored the call and stormed down the stairs. Maybe some fresh air would blow the cobwebs out of his brain.

"He's in a bad mood, isn't he?" Ray demanded, coming into the room and sitting in Peter's vacated place. Egon sought traces of sympathy or understanding in his face and didn't find them. Ray was frowning.

"He's feeling very hurt," Egon explained, wondering, as he did it, why an explanation should be necessary. This kind of thing came naturally to Ray. He was one of the most caring men that Egon knew, full of ready sympathy for anyone in trouble or in pain. None of that showed in his face now. "He's feeling as if you betrayed him."

"Because I supposedly laughed at him?" asked Ray, sticking his feet on the coffee table and folding his arms behind his head. "He's overreacting. You know I would never laugh at him." He stared at Egon earnestly.

"That's what I would ordinarily believe."

"Ordinarily?" Ray echoed, eyes widening.

"Peter may have overreacted due to his crisis. But you overreacted last night in your dream. Perhaps there is a subtle form of influence we haven't been able to detect. But Peter's hurting."

Ray nodded. "I know, Egon. I'm worried about him. I'd never betray him. You know that."

Egon nodded. "Let's be certain, Ray. You couldn't have laughed, even once?"

"No. I'd remember."

"Be very sure, Ray."

Stantz frowned as if considering it. He pulled his feet from the coffee table and slid forward on the couch, his eyes narrowing as he forced himself to recall the incident. "No, Egon, I'd know. I remember it all. If there was a gap in my memory, that would be different. I'd wonder if I'd had a blackout." He raised a sincere, intent face. "No, it has to be Peter. He was really freaking out down there, and I don't blame him. I don't mind roaches the way he does but I would have hated it, too. Poor Peter." He stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched over miserably. "You think he doesn't believe me?" he asked in a small voice.

"He believes you lied to him, Ray, and you've never done it before that I'm aware of. It may appear a small thing but Peter has never trusted easily. He trusts all of us, but we had to win that trust. Remember when we first met him in college? It took him a long time to shed that 'party till you drop' image and let us see the good man underneath. Remember how he would never let anybody catch him studying, as if he were afraid people might get the wrong idea. I remember how hesitant he was once when he came to me and asked for coaching on a science exam. I could tell he was waiting for me to mock him. When I didn't, he was more comfortable with me afterwards. I'm sure you remember similar instances. He's had fifteen years to learn to trust you, Ray. I know you would never deliberately do anything to jeopardize his trust in you."

"We laugh at each other all the time, Egon," Ray said thoughtfully. "Sometimes the way you and Peter tease each other makes me wonder. I know it's a game you both play, but..."

"Yes, it is a game, Ray. We both know the rules, and we enjoy it," Egon insisted, smiling faintly at the memory of his and Peter's attempts to one up each other. "It's never malicious, however. If Peter or I were genuinely unhappy or frightened or in trouble, we'd know better than to score each other off. Peter occasionally uses humor to get to people who are depressed or disturbed. When it doesn't work, he backs off. That's not the same as laughing maliciously. Friends tease each other," he continued intently, trying to catch Ray's eye, but Ray had lowered his head. "They don't take advantage of each other."

The occultist brought one of the Ghostbusters buttons from his pocket and sat passing it from one hand to the other as if he needed to concentrate on anything but the thought of dumping on Peter. "I wouldn't lie to him, Egon. I wouldn't laugh at him, either. You know I wouldn't. I don't even tease Peter that way."

Ray's teasing was a gentle thing. Egon tried to remember Ray coming down hard on Peter, and the hardest thing that sprang to mind was Ray once saying, "A little of you goes a long way," to Venkman when the psychologist had been giving Slimer a bad time.

"Then you must convince him of that," Egon insisted. "I know it seems like a small thing, but I believe it's important.

Slimer drifted into the room and hesitated as if he sensed the gravity of the discussion. He floated over to Ray and leaned against him affectionately. Ray draped an arm around the little ghost as if deriving comfort from it in spite of the ectoplasmic mess he was making of his shirt.

"He's gone out to be alone," Egon reminded Ray. "You know how he gets when his feelings are hurt. He either takes it out on everything in sight or he pulls it inside, thinking no one will notice."

"I know," Ray agreed earnestly. "But how do you? You don't have feelings like the rest of us."

Egon gaped at him. Was it a joke? He couldn't believe Ray had actually said that, especially in light of their previous conversation. Strangers might believe that of Egon, people who did not know him very well, but Ray should have known better. All the guys did. Simply because he did not often wear his heart on his sleeve didn't mean he was cold or heartless. Egon stiffened. Were he as Ray claimed, Ray's words wouldn't have bothered him.

"Oooh, nice," Slimer said, startling the physicist until he realized Slimer was gazing covetously at Ray's button instead of approving his comment.

"You can have it, Spud," Ray said quickly as if he hadn't just insulted Egon. "I have more. Here, let's pin it on you." He leaned in to apply the button to Slimer's chest. The spud gloated at it in delight, pulling his ectoplasmic body upward so he could see it better. "Slimer's a Ghostbuster now," he said and drifted out again, calling for Winston.

"At least he didn't try to eat it," Ray said with a fond grin, shaking his head over Slimer's proclivities. He stood up. "You're right, Egon. I'm going to search for Peter. I hate the thought of him out there alone feeling bad about me. Want to come?"

Egon's eyes narrowed as he studied Ray. The younger man's comment had been so out of character that the flash of hurt was even now being replaced by suspicion and curiosity. If Ray had laughed at Peter, and perhaps he really had, why shouldn't he take a swipe at Egon, too? More important was discovering the cause of it. Were Ray's malicious moments supernatural in origin? A ghostly influence? The physicist felt his interest growing.

"Why should I?" he asked, testing the waters carefully. "I have no feelings, remember?"

Ray's mouth fell open in surprise. "Why would you say that?" he demanded, eyeing Egon worriedly. "You wouldn't have been sitting here fussing about Peter if you didn't have feelings, or stayed here with him while he slept. That was nice of you."

"You just said..." Egon began, his mind working rapidly. Was this what had happened to Peter while in the cockroach pit? A momentary episode of unnatural behavior from Ray, one Ray didn't appear to remember? Peter had been right after all. Would it do more harm than good to challenge Ray over the incident? At least Slimer had witnessed this one, though he had ignored the remark. Still, Egon could verify it if he needed to do so.

The next step would be to test him for paranormal influence. Then it would be necessary to detect a pattern to Ray's actions. He had been quite normal on the way to the bust at the warehouse. His usual excitement had displayed itself. He had been normal after the incident, too, worrying about Peter. He had seemed completely in character until just now. When he had first sat down, Egon had wondered briefly but it was not until Ray had made his remark about feelings that he was really unlike himself. Then, immediately afterward, he was Raylike again. What had changed?

"I just said--what?" Ray prodded anxiously. "Come on, Egon, is everybody mixed up today?"

"I'm beginning to suspect we might be. Would you object, Ray, if I took some P.K.E. readings of both of us?"

"No, go ahead," the auburn haired man replied, bouncing up. "Let's go to the lab and you can run them properly. You took tests last night, though, after my dream. Do you think this is connected with what happened at the warehouse?"

"I'm not certain. However, I'd like to repeat the tests." He rose, his mind working at lightning speed. "I see you found your button," he observed in a casual tone. "You thought you'd lost it in Ecto."

"No, the one I lost was a different one," replied Ray. "I wore one earlier, but I must have lost it on the bust. I couldn't find it in the car so I got out this one. There's enough for everybody. Want one?"

"No, I'll pass." Strange. Egon had begun to suspect that the button had caused the problem, since one had been in Ray's bed last night. Perhaps it had been cursed or reacted adversely to ectoplasmic energy. But if this were a different one... "Hmm," said Egon, trying to reason it out.

"Hey, guys, listen to this." Winston came in with the day's paper folded to reveal a certain story. "You know that gang you meet with to talk about science fiction, Ray?"

"The Friday Night Irregulars?" Ray echoed with interest. Sometimes he went to their club meetings, and had once or twice dragged Winston along with him. "What about them?"

"Seems like they had a different kind of meeting last night."

"What kind?" asked Ray, snatching the paper and scanning the headlines until he found the right one. He started to read, pausing to breathe, "Wow!"

"Winston?" prodded Egon.

The black man turned to him. "Last night they wound up in a major league fist fight," he explained. "Everybody lost their tempers at everybody else and started punching each other out. I thought you said you went last night, Ray?" he asked over his shoulder, while Ray finished scanning the article.

"I did go, but I only stayed about ten minutes," Ray explained. "We had that bust last night, so I came home in time to head out to Jersey and that Class 5."

"What did you do while you were there?" Egon asked. "Did anyone behave in a hostile or difficult manner or out of character in another way at the meeting?"

Ray shook his head. "Everybody was fine. They were talking about the con they're sponsoring at the end of next month. I just gave them the buttons and left."

"Buttons!" Egon pounced on the word. "Like the button you just gave Slimer? Like the one you lost at the warehouse? Like the one in your bed last night?"

"Oh, man, why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna like the answers to any of those questions?" Winston moaned. "What are you doing, Ray? Passing out buttons with a jinx on them?"

"The studio wouldn't have sent us jinxed buttons," Ray protested hotly. "What are you trying to say, Egon, that Columbia Pictures is out to get us? You sound paranoid, do you know that?"

"Well, you sound defensive as hell," Winston accused. He jerked the paper from Ray's hand and jabbed a finger at the article, shoving it under Ray's nose. "What about that? You think you gave them the buttons and left and everybody decided on a little recreational gang violence? Get real, will you? Take your head out of the clouds and face the facts."

"My head's not in the clouds," Ray snarled in return. "What right have you got to blame me for anything? You're not even a scientist. Back off and let the people who understand what's happening do something about it." He grabbed the paper from Winston and flung it on the floor.

"I've had enough of you," cried Winston. "So I'm not a scientist. I damn well pull my own weight around here. If you didn't have me, the three of you would have gone head first into major trouble years ago. Who do you think reins you in and keeps you from losing your heads. I've had it. For all the appreciation I get around here, I might as well be Slimer."

"Shut up, Winston," bellowed Ray. "So now we treat you badly, is that it? What're you gonna do about it, file a grievance?"

"Ray!" Egon intervened sharply. He'd just seen a clear example of what must have happened at the meeting last night. This argument had gotten out of hand so fast that Egon could hardly believe it had happened. Yet Ray had given away his button.

"Son of a bitch," growled Winston and swung at Ray, who flung up his fists, ready and willing to defend himself and get in a few licks of his own. "I've had all I can take from creeps like you."

Egon grabbed Winston's arm and yanked on it with all his strength. The blow missed Ray, but Winston was strong enough to throw Egon off balance. Struggling to regain his footing, he was unprepared to meet Winston's next blow, which took him full on the chin. His head snapped back, his knees lost their firmness and he sat down hard, his glasses flying to one side.

"Leave him alone," cried Ray and waded in, attacking Winston with a flurry of savage, if ill directed, blows. Winston, by far the more experienced fighter, fended them off easily enough then cocked his fist to slam Ray in the face.

"The buttons!" Egon shouted at the top of his lungs. "If you have Ghostbusters buttons, dump them. Empty your pockets. This is insane. You're being controlled. Do it NOW!"

So compelling was his tone that both men obeyed automatically. Ray produced a button from his shirt pocket and Winston hauled one out of the pocket of his jeans. They tossed them aside and stood breathing hard, then blankness ran across their faces and they gaped at Egon. His speculation had been right. However it had happened, the buttons were the focus of the problem.

"Egon?" Ray cried. "Why did Winston hit you?"

"Why did you attack me?" Winston objected.

Interesting. They didn't remember everything that had happened. Ray claimed to remember everything about Peter's fall and the roaches, but he didn't remember laughter. When he gave away one of his buttons to Slimer just now, he seemed to forget his remark about Egon's feelings. But he had another button and had given one to Winston. It was lucky Peter didn't have one. In his present state of mind, it would take very little for him to lose his temper.

"All right, what's going on up here?"

At the suspicious question, the three men spun like guilty children to find Janine in the doorway. She was staring at them in disbelief, her red hair matted down with the remnants of Slimer's affection. Egon squinted at her as he fumbled for his glasses and put them on again.

"Slimer's been acting crazy downstairs," she continued accusingly, waving her hand in that direction. "He wrecked all the invoices I typed this morning and ate my apple and when I complained, he hit me. Something's not right there," she added darkly, trying to scrape away the ectoplasm. "I thought I'd come up here and see what was going on, and I find you've been punching each other out. Is everybody in this place crazy today?"

"Janine. You don't have one of the movie buttons, do you?" Egon asked her as he struggled to climb to his feet.

"In my purse. Ray gave it to me. Why?" She took a step closer, staring at him in alarm. "Oh, Egon, you should see your chin." She clutched his arm as if to steady him, reaching up to finger the point of impact. Egon winced.

"I'm quite sure I would rather not," he replied, fending off her hand.

"What happened to you?"

"Winston hit him," Ray explained, then caught himself when Winston stared at him in shocked disbelief.

"I never--well, I guess maybe I did. Sorry, big fella." He held out a hand to Egon, who clasped it briefly.

"I know neither of you intended any such action," Egon returned.

"What did I do?" asked Ray in a small voice.

"Tried to pound me into the floor, man," Winston explained. "Called a few names. Never mind," he added hastily when Ray's mouth fell open in guilt and horror. "Wasn't your fault."

"I don't remember it. I remember everything else, but not hitting anybody. I remember you yelling at me, but not me yelling back. This is really weird, Winston." He brightened slightly in his interest in the phenomenon then grew sad again. "It means I laughed at Peter after all, doesn't it?"

"I'm afraid so, Raymond," Egon told him quietly. He patted Ray's shoulder before turning to the secretary. "Let's determine what we actually know about the situation. Janine, this is very important. I suspect that the Ghostbusters buttons that were sent to us, presumably from the studio, might cause violent behavior, or at the very least bad tempers and other problems, similar to the effect of the psycho-reactive slime we dealt with once before. Winston and Ray had buttons in their pockets just now and it made them attack each other." He rubbed his chin absently with his free hand. "And me. Ray was wearing another one earlier."

"Wow!" burst out Ray. "You think that's why I had that nasty dream last night, too? Because that button had got into my bed? I laughed at Peter..." His face fell as the implications of that fact struck him. "That's terrible, Egon. I laughed at him when he was in bad trouble and now he thinks I lied to him about it. He must really hate me." His voice was full of self-loathing. Winston promptly patted him on the back.

"It wasn't your fault, man. You couldn't help it."

"Peter doesn't know that." He frowned as further complications struck him. "I've been giving these buttons out to people all week. You mean people all over the city are using each other as punching bags because of me?" He bowed his head, his shoulders slumping. "My friends at the meeting, too. This is all my fault." He rubbed his scraped knuckles without realizing what he was doing, the picture of abject misery.

"Hardly your fault, Raymond," Egon told him gently, deciding there was no point in repeating what Ray had said to him about his lack of feelings. Ray had enough to worry about without a further reason to blame himself. "I suspect these buttons were sent to us for a purpose."

"You mean the studio is after us?" Winston asked in disbelief, gaping at Egon as if he'd just grown a second head. "Oh, man, why would they do that?"

"Hey, maybe they want to do a third movie," Ray burst out in surprise and the beginnings of excitement.

"It had better be more accurate than number two," groused Janine, drawing herself up a little straighter in her outrage. She had made no secret of the fact that she disapproved of being paired with Louis Tully in the second Ghostbusters film. That had been the least of Hollywood's inaccuracies, but right now that couldn't be allowed to matter.

"I very much doubt the studio would dabble in cursing buttons," Egon returned, the voice of reason in a confusing situation. "We don't know how far the buttons' effects would go. No film studio could afford that kind of bad publicity. Either they were intercepted and doctored en route or they didn't come from the studio at all."

"I opened the box when it was delivered," Janine reminded them all, frowning and pushing her glasses into place on her nose, a gesture Egon suspected she had unconsciously copied from him. "That was the day I got steamed and went home early because I said nobody appreciated me. Egon!" she realized. "They've been affecting people all along. Remember Peter came in and looked at them and snapped at everybody? You don't think they were affecting us just from sitting on my desk? Just little things, making us grouchy?"

"I think it entirely possible." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Can you remember the letter that accompanied the buttons, Janine?"

"I sure can. I can even get it for you. It's in the files." She hurried toward the stairs. In minutes she was back with a single sheet of paper which she passed to Egon.

At first glance it seemed to be genuine, with the Columbia Pictures' letterhead at the top of the sheet. Egon read it over several times, trying to determine the possibility of a hidden meaning in the text which said simply that the buttons had been located and that it might be a useful promotional device for the Ghostbusters to distribute them to clients. The public relations benefits would be valuable both to their business and to the studio, possibly boosting the sale of video tapes.

"I'll telephone them," Egon decided, heading for the nearest phone. "There may be a very simple answer to all of this."

"I don't know how it could be simple," Winston objected, trailing behind. "Looks to me like somebody's out to get us."

"Or even the studio," Egon returned and picked up the receiver.

Ten minutes later, after being passed from person to person, he was talking to a harassed executive who listened to Egon's explanation in growing shock. "You're kidding, right?" he demanded. "You're saying we sent you haunted buttons? It's a joke. If anything's wrong with them, it probably happened at your headquarters. We don't keep witches and sorcerers on our payroll."

"Whose idea was it to send the buttons in the first place?" Egon queried, shaking his head slightly at the others before they could flood him with questions.

"I don't know. One of the stock people found them and brought them out. I think he was hoping we'd let him have them so he could sell them, but I intercepted them. Figured it would be better for everybody if we just shipped them to you."

"When you handled them, did you lose your temper?" Egon asked suggestively.

The man was silent a minute. "You know, you're right. I blew up at my secretary, gave her hell. She yelled back and went storming out. Came back sheepishly the next day and we both ate crow. You think it could have been the buttons?" he ventured.

"It sounds likely. Now think. Their sudden appearance is rather suspicious. Can you try to find out who might have had access to them?" He shifted the receiver to his other ear.

"Well, sure, Spengler, but you're making it sound like a deliberate plot against us or you. I'm the one who decided to send them to you, and I didn't have anything to do with zapping the buttons."

"Are you sure someone didn't suggest that you send them to us?" Egon persisted. "I know it's a logical idea, based on the nature of the buttons, but perhaps someone made the suggestion and you thought it was a good idea. Can you remember?"

"God, no, that was almost two weeks ago. I'm lucky to remember who came to see me yesterday. I can ask the stock boy, though. It seems a lot of work with no guarantee of success, if you ask me. Even if somebody did something to the buttons and put them where the stock boy would find them, there's no guarantee we would have done anything with them but shoved them into storage."

It didn't sound like he could give them any real help, but Egon persisted anyway. "True, but would you try to reconstruct that particular day? It would be helpful if we knew if this were a deliberate attack. Also, should a corruptive substance be on the premises, you might want to locate its source."

"You mean we might have more publicity items and props with curses on them?" The man's voice rose in dismay. "So far, nothing like this has happened to anyone else. Yeah, Spengler, I'll check with the rest of the people I see regularly and try to remember what might have happened. I'll get back to--wait a minute."

"You've got something?" At Egon's eager question, the others pressed closer, demanding explanations, and he waved them back, gesturing for silence.

"Yeah. The kid had just dumped the boxes on my desk when Darren Valentine popped in. I don't know if you remember him, but he was directing a horror film for us when you and your friends came out to serve as advisors for the first Ghostbusters film."

"I should know that name." Egon thought for a moment. "He's the man who fought with Peter," Egon replied, recalling the way that tempers had grown hot around him before. "He and Peter actually came to blows."

"That director guy?" Winston echoed. "Man, he would have liked to feed us to his monster--if it hadn't fallen apart. Yeah, he might have it in for us. Did he do it?"

"That was years ago," objected Ray, shaking his head. "Why would he wait so long to get revenge?"

"Maybe he's been brooding over it ever since," suggested Janine, "and he finally reached the boiling point. He might have found the buttons when he was looking for something for a new movie and decided to go for it." She grimaced. "When I get my hands on him..."

Egon shushed them. "He had an altercation with Dr. Venkman," the physicist reminded the studio executive. "Hmm. Perhaps it's possible that he took some steps against us, but it seems unlikely he would wait so long to seek revenge. I could talk to him. Do you know where I might reach him?"

"Sure. He's in New York, directing a new film about subway monsters that we're doing. He's probably shooting down in the subways somewhere. I don't have his daily schedule, but I can give you the phone number of the production company in New York."

Egon jotted down the number and promised to call back if anything new occurred, soliciting a similar promise from the man at the studio. Turning to the others, he quickly explained what he had learned.

"Hey, maybe the thought of coming to New York reminded him he had a grudge against us," Winston suggested. "He might have hauled out those buttons and put some kind of curse on them."

"He might put a curse on a movie simply by directing it, but I seriously doubt the man has the ability to do such a thing," Egon disagreed. "Unless, of course, he deliberately set out to learn the process. Maybe he got the idea from one of his horror films. I'll take readings of the buttons for testing and see if they put us further along."

The others followed him up to his lab, curious to see the test results. Egon studied them, with Ray hanging over his shoulder. No one wanted to touch the buttons until they were declared safe. Egon's chin was showing signs of a classic bruise and Winston and Ray both sported contusions on their faces and scraped knuckles. Knowing what the buttons were capable of made them all uneasy. "Hmm," Egon remarked, watching the needle jump and dance as he moved the meter closer to the buttons.

"What have you got, Egon?" demanded Ray, leaning anxiously nearer.

"The readings are similar to that of concentrated psycho-reactive slime, only more potent," Egon replied. "I will need to do a chemical analysis and run some microscope samples. I believe these buttons could have been doctored with a concentrated substance that reacts to body heat. That's why until someone was actually touching one or carrying it in a pocket, little happened. Janine reacted after handling a box of them, and any time we picked one up in passing, we might have a slight reaction. Putting them down breaks down the effect. Of course it could be something entirely different, a spell. You're the occult expert, Ray. Can you think of anything that might make them behave as they have?" He fetched a pair of tongs and picked up one of the buttons, holding it at arms length.

"Yeah, I can think of a couple of things," Ray replied, frowning as he dredged his memory for the right information. "Infusing an item with an emotional trigger isn't very complicated. It might take nothing more than the knowledge of the appropriate spell and the belief that it will work. Many curses arose out of primitive and superstitious cultures and worked because the people they were used against believed they would. Knowing there was a curse on them was enough to make it work."

"But we didn't believe the buttons were cursed," Winston challenged, shaking his head skeptically. "We didn't know anything about it."

"True, but the belief of the person casting the spell was often enough to make it effective, if the spell was genuine and not a primitive form of psychology. Sometimes those old spells derived their reality entirely from belief, and sometimes they existed because the caster of the spell made them real. If this is a spell rather than a chemical substance applied to the badges it's one that works whether we know about it and buy into it or not." He grimaced at the badges they had cast aside. "Most people today aren't generally superstitious enough for the old tricks to work on them, even though people avoid walking under ladders and toss salt over their shoulder when they've spilled it. Peter and I have gotten going on this subject a lot of times. You should hear him..." His enthusiasm trailed away at the reminder of the problem that still confronted them.

"I'll start an examination now," Egon announced. "If nothing else, I can eliminate the possibility of a chemical contaminant applied to the devices. While I do that, I think you should hunt for Peter, Ray. The longer he goes without an explanation, the harder it will be to reconcile him."

"Maybe he won't reconcile," Ray mumbled unhappily.

"But when we explain..." Winston began, then he shook his head. "Yeah, I forgot how stubborn Pete can be. Tell you what, if he won't listen, we'll just pound it into him. We'll make him see sense or know the reason why." He clapped Ray on the back. "Come on, homeboy. He'll listen."

"I'll go right now." Ray's voice faltered slightly then he started purposefully toward the door. "I hate having Peter think I trashed him on purpose."

Janine's mouth fell open and she gasped in sudden horror. "Wait, Ray! Oh, Egon, I've just remembered," she burst out, her face full of guilt. "I saw him on his way out. He really looked down and I tried to cheer him up. He didn't buy it, so I grabbed one of the spare buttons and handed it to him. At first I thought he was going to throw it at me, but then he shrugged and put it in his pocket."

"Bad move, Janine," Winston murmured but not unkindly. "The mood Pete's in, that button could really be dangerous."

"We have to find him before anything happens," cried Ray and ran from the room.

"Want I should go after him?" Winston volunteered, taking a few steps in that direction.

"I think it's something Ray has to do on his own," Egon replied, his brows drawing together as he considered all the implications. "They'll resolve it better without an audience. Ray blames himself for everything that's happened."

"It was hardly his fault if somebody sent us cursed buttons," argued Janine.

"No, but he passed them out," the physicist reminded her. "Reason enough for Ray to assume blame. Think of this, though. What does Peter do automatically whenever Ray starts acting guilty?"

Winston brightened abruptly. "Talks him out of it. Convinces him it's not his fault."

"Precisely," returned Egon with his first feeling of optimism since this had begun. "I should say that's exactly what both of them need." He smiled and started gathering the equipment needed for his tests. "Janine, you phone the film company. I want to find out where Valentine is right now. If he's really behind this, we'll need to be prepared--in case he tries something worse."

Janine returned in ten minutes, her face grim and worried. "Egon, he's missing," she explained, gesturing unhappily in the direction of the telephone to indicate whom she meant. "Well, not missing, really, but not where he's supposed to be. He dumped everything in the hands of his assistant director the last couple of days and hasn't even checked in except for a phone call or two." Her eyes narrowed. "When one of the cast asked him where he was going, he said he had to check out a fire house."

"Say what?" Winston, who had dragged up a chair beside Egon's table and was passing him equipment, leaped to his feet. "Okay, that does it. I'm going after them. If he's hanging around here, he might have gone after Peter. Pete could be in serious trouble."

Peter had stormed out of Ghostbuster Central in a fury, pushing away from Janine and storming past the hapless Winston, who was leaning against Ecto reading the newspaper. He ignored Winston's call and banged the door to indicate that he didn't want company. Bad enough that Ray, of all people, had decided to dump on him, now he'd spilled his guts to Egon and probably looked like a fool. Maybe the best thing was to get away from the guys for awhile. They hadn't believed him about Ray, either--thought he'd imagined it because of the damn roaches. Peter shuddered at the memory. They believed he was hysterical. Well, maybe he had been, but not enough to start imagining things.

He was so caught up in his anger and misery that he didn't see a big, bulky man step out of a car that had been parked across the street from headquarters and start to follow him, a smile on his florid face.

Peter wandered the streets for awhile, his anger simmering like a pot on a low flame. At any minute, it could erupt into a full boil. He had a quick temper and right now he believed his grievance was valid. If Ray arrived, he'd take real pleasure into beating him into a pulp.

That thought startled Peter into momentary rationality. Beat Ray? What was the matter with him? He wouldn't hurt Ray and nobody else better try either.

But Ray had hurt him. Peter stopped walking and let the pain swell in his soul. That it was magnified all out of proportion didn't occur to him. The one person he had never expected to turn on him had done it, and Peter wanted revenge. Maybe he couldn't beat him into a pulp, but there were other ways to trash Ray, ways that were even more affective. You could make him wallow in guilt and unhappiness. You could take away his self-esteem with just a few well chosen words. Influenced by the button in his pocket and his own ready temper, Peter reveled in his plans, every minute feeding the button-induced anger. Hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, he stalked along, his head bowed as he planned and schemed.

He paid no attention to where his feet were leading him, thinking instead of the pleasures of revenge. Occasionally other, more sensible thoughts intruded, but he didn't let them take over. He knew that he was overreacting, but for once, he didn't care. Just let him get his hands on Ray, and the other man would pay.

Suddenly he noticed the street, realizing he had walked into a bad neighborhood. In the back of his mind he remembered hearing footsteps match his own for some time. He was being followed. Probably Ray, coming to take another swipe at him. Peter spun around and peered up and down the street--no, it was an alley. No wonder he hadn't met anyone or seen a car go by in the past few minutes. Instead there were trash containers and a few parked cars, and at the distant head of the alley, people were walking by.

No one was behind him. Except for him, the alley was deserted. He lifted his head and stared at the buildings around him, realizing that the nearest ones were derelict, windows boarded up, doors blockaded. Probably intended for demolition so that new office buildings or apartments could be put up in their place.

Something moved near his foot and he jerked aside in alarm as he saw the rat. "Yaaa!" he blurted, jumping in the opposite direction. The creature slunk away unimpressed and skittered behind a garbage pail.

The footsteps were almost upon him before he realized. He started to turn only to stagger when something slammed into the side of his head. Collapsing to the filthy pavement, he groaned at the pain that ran through his skull, but he didn't lose consciousness. The buildings above him did a brief cartwheel but his awareness held.

Stunned and helpless, Peter felt himself lifted and dragged a short distance before he was cast aside. He clasped his head in both hands to keep it from exploding and squinted up at his attacker, seeing only a blurry figure involved in prying wooden planks off a doorway of one of the abandoned buildings. Peter could think of a number of reasons for a potential mugger to take him inside instead of just snatching his wallet and running, and not one of them was pleasant. He had to pull himself together. This son of a bitch wasn't gonna try anything on him and get away with it.

Rage pounded over him like a giant wave at the beach, giving him the adrenalin rush he needed to propel himself to his knees. He gathered himself silently, breathing deeply and blinking a few times to steady his vision. Give him another minute and he could get up and give this guy what he deserved. Peter's hands curled into anticipatory fists in preparation for the attack. In the distance, he thought he heard a shout of, "Peter!"

Before he could launch his strike, the big man grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him into the abandoned building, where he landed on his belly and his chin. This time consciousness faded for a minute, and when he finally forced his eyes open, he found himself sitting slumped on an old broken-down plush sofa while his captor finished looping a strand of twine around his wrists.

Peter didn't hesitate. He swung his bound hands into the enemy's face with every ounce of force he could muster.

Unfortunately, his timing was off. The violent movement made him lose his precarious balance and he slid sideways on the couch, only vaguely satisfied with the cry of rage and pain his adversary blurted out when Peter's fists impacted with his chin. He reeled backward, a hand against the injury, then he caught himself and backhanded Peter with enough force to make Peter's head ring.

"Try that again and I'll kill you," he growled.

Peter lay sideways on the couch, squinting up at his captor. Surely he knew him. He just couldn't remember where he'd met him before. It wasn't recently. He did know that they had not been fond of each other, even then, and in the interval, this man's hatred must have grown.

"Not that you wouldn't prefer death," the man told him happily, and raised both his hands. "How did you like my little present?"

"Present?" prompted Peter. "Funny, but you don't look like the present type."

"You don't know, even now. These." He pulled a Ghostbusters movie button from the pocket of his sports jacket and waved it in front of Peter's face. "Oh, don't worry. This one is clear."

"Clear?" echoed Peter. Had he really heard Ray shout his name, or had he imagined it? Was Ray searching for him right now? Should he stall? He had a vague, blurred memory of plotting against Ray, but it was gone now. He couldn't remember it. Ray had laughed at him, but... Damn it, he might have forgiven that of anyone else, even Egon or Winston. It was the fact that it was Ray who had done it that made it harder to endure.

"Clear," the man repeated. "As in not cursed. I hope you and your friends have been unfriendly of late. I planned it that way. A few fights, a few hurt feelings, a few bad tempers, even a few nightmares? Yes, that's what I planned. But you--you'll be my real triumph, my masterpiece."

"What have you got against me?" Peter demanded.

"You don't even remember." The man hauled him into a sitting position again and backhanded him a second time. Peter fought to stay upright, shaking his head as if that would clear it. "You wrecked my picture," he reminded Peter. "Came out to Hollywood so cocky you thought you could do no wrong. Never mind who you screwed over in the process. Now I'm taking my revenge."

"Picture?" Yeah. Peter remembered him now, that jerk director who had caused them all that trouble when they had gone to Hollywood to act as advisors for the first movie that had been based on them. What was his name? Valentine? "Yeah, I remember you," he admitted. "I notice you haven't improved with time."

That won him another blow and this one tipped him sideways again. He landed hard, his cheek pressing against a round and metallic object that he realized blurrily must be the button that had been in his pocket. Valentine had spoken of curses and claimed his own button was clear. The implication was that Peter's--and the ones Ray had been wearing and carrying--were not. A number of things began to make sense to Peter. Without the button, his rage had faded to the normal anger anyone who had been attacked and confined might experience, but now, feeling it dig into his cheek, he let the stronger rage well back. He was going to need it.

"Your smart mouth will not help you where I'm sending you," the director gloated, striking a dramatic pose in front of Peter. "I thought the best revenge would not be to bankrupt you, as you nearly did me, or even to kill you--I have no desire to serve time. Instead I've found something that can't be proven in any court in the land."

"What, the fact that your brain's on vacation?" Peter challenged with a snarl. "You're loony tunes, bunky. What makes you think you can get away with this? My buddies'll figure it out and you'll be toast."

"No they won't because I won't do you any additional physical harm. Instead I'll do with you what I did with the buttons. I'll curse you. I've been studying and I know what I have to do. I know the right words and I know the element of belief that must accompany them. You, who value your friends so much, will never see them again."

"If you hurt my friends..." Peter bellowed, erupting from the couch with renewed fury that had nothing to do with buttons or minor curses.

"If I do, you won't be there to stop me. You'll be far away, and you will be alone."

Peter froze as he studied the man, his eyes narrowing while he tried to understand the threat. It did not sound good

"Aha. I thought that would bother you. I've made a study of you, Venkman. The life of the party, aren't you? Always in the center of anything? You need people around you, don't you? You crave company. Where I'm sending you, there won't be any. You will be solitary--until you die."

"Oh yeah. Think I'll make it easy for you?" Peter pulled himself to his feet, but his head still hurt too much to allow him real control. He staggered dizzily and nearly fell, and when Valentine pushed him back to the couch, he lacked the strength to rise again. The director chuckled, then he composed his face and began to mutter the words of the arcane spell, making mysterious passes with his hands. Peter blinked up at him dazedly. He tried to edge toward the button in hopes of an anger-induced adrenalin burst, but it slid off the couch and landed at his feet. He prodded for it with his toe, and missed.

"Say goodbye to everything you know," his adversary told him and raised his hands to complete the final gesture.

In the background, someone shouted, "NO!"

Though he didn't know it Ray had been lucky. Despite Peter's healthy lead, he had not traveled in a straight line but had wandered around Lower Manhattan with no real goal in mind. Therefore, when Ray set off purposefully, he took a direct route and cut down on the time without even realizing he was doing it.

Ray felt miserable. Now that he knew he had really laughed at Peter, guilt flooded his soul. He'd hurt Peter when he was down, and the fact that he hadn't meant it didn't lessen the deed. Peter had still suffered from it, and now he thought Ray a liar who would turn on him when the chips were down. Ray would never have acted that way deliberately, especially to Peter, but it had happened. Now Peter was wearing one of the buttons, and in his present frame of mind, he might has well have been waving a red flag in front of a bull. He was a fight looking for a place to happen, and in this kind of neighborhood, he could be jumped by some very nasty dudes.

Ray paused at each intersection, scanning the cross streets as far as he could see, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar figure in jeans and a sweatshirt, but he couldn't find him. He had brought along a P.K.E. meter which he used frequently, testing for Peter's biorhythms or for traces of the button's readings. For all he knew, Peter could have hopped a bus, sought the nearest subway stop or grabbed a cab. He could be in the Bronx by now or as far away as Coney Island. Ray heaved a sigh. He couldn't search all five boroughs. He could only search the area around Ghostbuster Central, hoping to spot Peter so that he could take the button away from him, explain what was going, on and apologize.

Rounding a corner the occultist came to an abrupt stop, his mouth falling open in horrified disbelief. Before him stood a comic book shop; maybe not the identical one from his dream but one very like it. This wasn't West 4th Street, but when Ray approached on hesitant feet, he saw a Captain Steel comic displayed prominently in the window. Shivering uneasily, he leaned closer to read its number. It wasn't the one he had lost. He felt a momentary relief but it didn't last. The coincidence bothered him, even if it were only that, a coincidence.

The proximity of an endangered Peter to a comic book store chilled Ray's blood. Suppose his dream had been a premonition, enhanced by the button that had been under his pillow? What if it meant that Peter was about to die?

"It'd be my fault," Ray muttered to himself, fear twisting his stomach. He backed away from the shop as if it might attack him and hurried down the street in the direction he'd run in last night's dream. He was terrified that he would come too late and find Peter's lifeless body shoved into a trash compactor or sprawled in front of a speeding car.

"Peter!" he cried at the top of his lungs. People glanced at him in brief curiosity then turned away again, dismissing him. No one responded.

Okay, maybe the comic book store meant the dream was a premonition. If so, Peter must be nearby. Ray had to hurry. He couldn't endure the knowledge that he might cause his best friend's death. He had to find Peter quickly. Drawing the P.K.E. meter out of his pocket again, he activated it.

This time, there was a faint reading just ahead and to the right. Pursuing it, Ray found himself at the mouth of an alley. He peered around the edge of a building and froze when he saw Peter, sprawled, unconscious or hurt--oh, God, please, not dead--at the feet of the director from the horror movie, Darren Valentine. While Ray watched, stunned, the man tore the last board off a blocked doorway just as Peter erupted into feeble, but determined, movement.

Involuntarily Ray cried his friend's name, but the director didn't notice. He dragged Peter into the building and slammed the door after him.

Ray's heart plunged into his boots. Snatching his belt communicator, he called Egon and gave his location, but he knew he couldn't wait for his friends to arrive. Egon promised to call 911 and the police but Ray couldn't delay until their arrival, either. Without much hope, he glanced around for a cop, but there was never one around when you needed one. No one paid any attention to him, and the difficulty in soliciting help from a stranger would only delay a rescue attempt. Peter needed him right now, but he'd have to be very careful.

"Don't do anything foolish, Ray," Egon's filtered voice cautioned him.

"I have to, Egon. Peter can't wait." He signed off in the teeth of Egon's protests and darted into the alley.

The director had appeared to be alone, but Ray crept down the alley nervously, hugging the buildings, taking what shelter he could in case the man had backup. He felt a sudden longing for his proton pack and thrower. Knowing that the man might have killed Peter the instant the door was shut was agony, and he paused long enough to grab a board to use as a weapon in case he needed it to defend Peter. It wasn't as good as a proton rifle, but it was better than nothing.

The door was closed but not locked. Ray tested it carefully, pulling it open an inch at a time, braced for any indication that he was being observed. Nothing. Cautiously he poked his head around the edge of the door and saw a hallway that ran from the rear to the front of the building. Several doors opened off it, and the nearest one stood ajar.

Ray tiptoed closer, freezing when he heard Peter's voice yelling, "If you hurt my friends..." Ray winced. Peter was injured and a prisoner and he was worrying about them instead of himself. He thought he had every reason in the world to be angry at Ray, but when it came right down to it, he didn't hesitate to fight on his friends' behalf. His defense might not have included Ray this time, but the occultist knew, without any proof, that it did. "I'm sorry, Peter," he breathed. "I'll stop him for you."

He strained his ears to find out what he was up against. Peter was alive; there was that to be thankful for. Then his relief faded as he realized what the man proposed. He intended to put a curse on Peter, one that would isolate him from his friends, from people in general. Peter could never stand that. He needed people around him just as Ray did, though in a sightly different way. Peter was not comfortable as a solitary. He would often seek out strangers rather than stay alone. With Ray, it was different. He had enough hobbies and interests that he could enjoy solitude, but he feared being left out, excluded, abandoned. It wasn't usually a conscious fear, but he knew himself well enough to understand that it was there.

The spell the director was attempting was one Ray recognized. Peter might not really believe in it, but by now he must know that the button curse had worked and that would make him wonder about the potency of this one. His belief would make it all the more potent.

Ray had studied the occult all his life. He knew more about spells, charms, and potions than the others did, though he never cast spells himself. Knowledge didn't make him a practicing sorcerer any more than Peter's knowledge of mental illness made him crazy. A part of Ray's restraint was because he didn't really believe in it, not for him, and another reason was that he believed that to use it for gain was wrong. It gave him an unfair advantage that he wouldn't use against an innocent. Against a ghost was different and if the situation warranted it, he would use his knowledge to defend his friends and protect them from threats. It might not work, even though the desire was there, for Ray had never tried to cast spells though he knew the principles behind a few of the major ones.

The threat to Peter was immediate, and Ray knew he had to act fast. He struggled to recall a counter spell, but the one Valentine was using was very powerful. Ray had no time to pull out the pocket reference he always carried. Instead he tried a mirror spell, one that would reflect the curse back upon the director instead of Peter. Ordinarily he would never turn a spell so dangerous against anyone, even anyone like this man, but, to save Peter, he never hesitated.

He braced himself, composing the words in his mind, then, as the man started to speak the fatal words, Ray cried, "NO," jumped between him and Peter, and spoke the words of his own spell with careful, measured inflection.

"NOOOO!" moaned the director in dismay. "You mustn't stop me!" In a flash he raised his hands and recited words that Ray recognized, the same words he had spoken himself, with minor variations. Another mirror spell. Too late. He felt the original spell impact on his shields, saw the director stagger as his own nearly gave way when it bounced back, then blinding light surrounded Ray as his own barricades, too hastily contrived to withstand two blasts of power, shattered before the force and potency of the original curse. Ray cried Peter's name and heard Peter scream his. Suddenly he was somewhere else.

He blinked dazedly at his surroundings, wondering where he was and why he was there. Memory distorted momentarily, leaving him reeling as he gasped for breath, then he found his balance. Looking around he saw nothing but solid, unbroken whiteness in every direction even lacking a clear division at the horizon. It was like being trapped within a cloud, one that supported him as he stood but which revealed no detail. He revolved slowly, seeking a break in the white monotony, but he found nothing: no shape, no sound, no movement. He was utterly alone, trapped in the spell that no one but Valentine knew how to break. Worse, an injured and bound Peter was trapped with him. The director might be activating a second curse this very minute, and Ray could do nothing to help him.

Or could he? He was far away, beyond their world--or was he? Might he be with Peter, simply unable to see him? If so, could he give Peter the necessary information by talking?

It was worth a try. Sucking in a stabilizing breath, he started to speak.

Peter blinked a couple of times to rid himself of the afterimage from the brilliant burst of light, then he saw Ray standing blankly before him, his face empty of expression, his arms hanging limply at his sides. It was as if only his body remained while his mind had gone far away.

Something twisted in Peter's stomach. "RAY!"

No response. He didn't even blink at Peter's anguished shout.

Shit! This was bad. Peter stared past him to Valentine, who stood groggy and drained, an expression of confusion on his face. Venkman didn't know exactly what had happened but one thing was perfectly clear; the director had meant to cast a spell against Peter, but Ray had taken it instead. Valentine had talked about sending Peter to a place where he would be alone. Was that what he'd done to Ray? Peter's friend might be here physically, but he was no longer aware of his surroundings.

The adrenalin Peter had hoped to gain from the mood-influencing button was nothing like the rush that charged up his body now. Pain forgotten, he lunged for the director, his bound hands catching him with full force directly on the chin. With a choked off cry, Peter's enemy toppled backwards, his eyes rolling up into his head. He collapsed in a heap on the filthy floor and lay still.

Peter spared him one glance to make sure he wasn't going to get up and cause any further trouble. When he didn't stir, Peter forgot him completely, turning to his friend and shaking him lightly, chafing his cheek with a gentle touch.

"Ray? Come on, guy, talk to me. Snap out of it, pal." He pulled at the twine that held his wrists but it wouldn't give, so he grasped Ray's arm awkwardly in both hands and guided him to the couch. Ray came docilely, allowing himself to be steered, turned, and seated. Then he simply sat, his arms resting limply against the sagging cushion.

Waving his hands in front of Ray's eyes elicited no blink, no automatic withdrawal. Whatever Ray was seeing, it wasn't this abandoned room.

"Come on, Ray, talk to Peter," he pleaded. Somewhere along the line, he had lost his distrust and resentment completely. This was his own Ray again, not a hostile stranger, and Peter would have happily kicked Darren Valentine into total oblivion but for one thing. He was the only one who knew how to bring Ray back.

A distant siren suddenly grew closer and Peter was surprised when it pulled up just outside. Great. He needed help. Ray must have sent for them before he came to the rescue. Knowing Ray, he wouldn't have waited for backup, not if he thought Peter needed him. Venkman sighed. He'd been a damned fool. He should have known that Ray wouldn't have mocked him, at least not in his right mind. Peter had already gone to Egon about the possibility that something was wrong with Ray. Why hadn't he remembered that when Ray had denied his laughter?

He raised his voice to call, "In here!" just before two armed policemen burst into the room. They stopped when they saw Valentine on the floor, Ray sitting zombie-like on the sofa, and Peter, hands still bound, the bruises darkening on his face, rising to meet them. Two guns centered on him then lowered.

He went to meet them, holding his hands before them to show he held no weapons. "I'm Dr. Peter Venkman of the Ghostbusters," he explained quickly. "I want to press charges against that character for kidnaping, assault and battery." He pointed awkwardly at Valentine. "He attacked me and tied me up."

"Oh yeah, he looks pretty vicious," one of the cops, a dark haired young guy with a baby face, muttered sotto voce.

"He was. The bastard tried to put a spell on me," Peter accused. When both cops looked skeptical, he grimaced. "I suppose there isn't any law in the books against that, but there is about hitting me over the head. Check out these bumps."

"So what happened to him?" asked the second cop, an older black man with a lot of grey in his hair.

"He attacked Ray," Peter burst out, pointing to his colleague. "Putting spells on people sounds crazy to me, too, but we've encountered stranger things in our line of work. Can't you send for the paramedics? I'm not sure what he did to Ray, but when he did it, I slugged the bastard."

The older cop put his gun away and went to Ray, which pulled Peter after him like a magnet. He watched suspiciously, prepared to guard Ray even against the good guys.

The younger cop checked Valentine. "He's out for the count," he muttered. "Here, Dr. Venkman, let me get those ropes off."

"Finally," Peter breathed in relief, holding out his hands.

Two paramedics arrived then. Ray must have called them too. The place was starting to resemble Grand Central Station. Vaguely Peter remembered hearing his name called just before he was dragged into the building. It must have been Ray. He'd called for help but hadn't waited for it to arrive. If he had, Peter would now be in the state that Ray was in.

As the bonds came loose, Peter rubbed his wrists and sat beside Ray opposite the paramedic who had begun an examination. She was a tall woman with very red hair and a figure to die for, but, for once, Peter scarcely noticed. "Is he gonna be all right?" he asked anxiously.

"I'm not sure what's wrong with him," she replied. "It appears to be a type of mental trauma or even a trance state. He hasn't been hypnotized, has he?" When Peter shook his head, she continued, "His vital signs are normal, though his respiration is slightly slowed as if he were sleeping." She shone a small light in his eyes. "He isn't conscious, but there should be an automatic response to the light. There isn't. Now watch this." She pointed at Ray's eyes and Peter blinked. After a moment, they moved as if he were watching something they could not see.

"It was the mirror spell, Peter," he said suddenly.

"Ray? That's it, guy, come back. What mirror sp--."

Before he could complete the final word, Ray continued. "Tell Egon to look it up. I tried to turn it back on him, but he knew what I was doing and it rebounded again. I'm not used to casting spells and the shield I threw up to protect you didn't hold the second time. Egon will understand."

"Even I understand, buddy," Peter replied. "Don't worry, Egon will fix--"

"I don't know where I am," Ray continued. "It's a place without any sensory input. Everything is white, but there are no horizons, no outlines of anything. I can't tell if it's far away or everywhere. It's like being inside a cloud." He heaved a vast sigh. "I don't know even know if you can hear me."

"Of course I can hear you, Ray. You're only a few feet away." He fell silent, exchanging a look of dismayed realization with the paramedic. "He can't hear me, can he?"

"No, Dr. Venkman. He doesn't know if you can hear him, either, but he feels he must take a chance. Was it really a spell?"

"You believe in that?" Peter asked her in surprise and relief. That would make it a lot easier.

"I once had a friend who had knowledge of voodoo," she explained. "I know that there are more things in heaven and earth than we can easily explain. Besides, I see him sitting there and not reacting when you speak to him."

"I don't know if you realize the buttons were cursed," Ray continued. "I was wearing one when I laughed at you. I still don't remember doing it, but it was because of the influence of that director's curse. Please, Peter, I need you to believe I would never hurt you. You're my friend."

Peter draped his arm around Ray's shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Yeah, pal, I know," he returned, though Ray couldn't hear him. "I figured that out. I should have guessed something was making you do it, but I was a little out of it at the time."

"He doesn't hear you, Peter," the woman told him gently.

"He might," Peter snapped. "I have to try, don't I?"

That made her stare at him carefully. "You should be examined yourself. You look much worse than he does."

"I'm fine," Peter claimed instinctively, but her reminder had brought back his headache with a vengeance. Closing his eyes, he reached up to massage his temples. "That is except for the bell chorus in my head. That bastard whacked me with a board and punched me out a few times."

"You should have for x-rays."

He waved that away. "Maybe later. We have to take Ray to the fire station so Egon remove the spell."

"If that character put the spell on him, he should know how to take it off," she replied practically. "My partner's working on him right now. When he wakes up, we'll ask the police to order him to remove the spell."

"Hey, man, we can do that," agreed the younger cop, who had listened to their conversation and Ray's words with a growing sense of confusion. If he hadn't become a believer, he now suspected that there was more to reality than he had previously believed, and he didn't seem to like it.

"Thanks, pal," Peter told him. He turned his eyes on Ray, who sat unmoving in the circle of Peter's arm and past him to the redheaded woman. "You've been great," he told her. "I'm Peter Venkman. And you are..."

"Jane O'Connor." She smiled at him. "Try not to worry about Dr. Stantz. I know his condition must seem frightening, but I've read a bit about you Ghostbusters and I'm sure you'll find a way to reverse the spell."

"Hey, this dude is waking up," the older cop announced. He pulled out his Miranda card. When the director groaned and half sat up, the policeman rested a hand on his chest to restrain him and proceeded to read him his rights. "You have the right to remain silent..."

The director listened, half dazed, then he burst into loud protest. "What did I do?" he demanded.

"This, for starters." Peter pointed to his bruises. "And Ray." He tightened his grip around the silent man's shoulders. "You've got to lift the curse. Your fight was with me, not Ray. Undo the spell."

"I can't do that." The smug tone in his voice made Peter want to deck him again, but he could hardly do that in front of two police officers. He fought down the urge to slam his fists into the man's face.

"You better," the black cop told him. "Look, I know a few things about this kind of shit. My granny used to do stuff us kids never understood. She always taught us not to mess with things we didn't understand and not to do any harm we couldn't make right. I say you make this right. Take off the curse and do it fast."

"I can't," insisted the director, a self-satisfied smile curling his lips as he sat up. "I'm not really a sorcerer. I did endless research, but I only learned two spells. The first one is the one I used to make him like that. The second is a shield to protect me from another person's spell. That's what I used against him, the mirror spell. It reflects a curse back at the person who made it. When I tried to zap Venkman, that character got in the way with a mirror spell." He smirked. "I bounced it back with my own mirror and his shields couldn't take it. Even if I knew the way to remove the original spell, I couldn't do it now. It's been mirrored twice. That means it's twisted. I don't know how to lift it."

"You son of a bitch!" Peter lunged for him, a red rush of fury before his eyes. The two cops and Jane O'Connor all jumped for him, catching him and restraining him.

"That won't help Ray, Peter," Jane told him. "If he doesn't know how to do it, hitting him will make no difference."

"It will make me feel so much better," Peter replied, but he stopped fighting them and turned to his friend. Not even Peter's lunge at the director had made a difference in Ray's blank stare.

"Peter?" Jane asked him in alarm.

"What do I do now?" Peter asked, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "If he can't bring Ray back..."

"Then maybe Dr. Spengler can," she reminded him, putting her hand on his arm and squeezing gently. "You mustn't give up, not even for a minute, not when Ray is relying on you."

He squared his shoulders, determination returning. "Hey. You're right. You're one smart lady, Jane O'Connor. Maybe when this is all over you and I can get to know each other better."

She dimpled at him. "I think I'd like that. It would certainly never be dull."

"Peter! Ray!" Egon and Winston erupted into the room, both wearing proton packs. Winston's thrower was firmly in his hands and Egon held an activated P.K.E. meter. He aimed it first at Peter and then at Ray. The minute it was pointed at the occultist, it started to beep.

"Hmm. This appears very bad. Ray?" Egon prodded, kneeling before Ray and moving his hand in front of the tranced man's eyes. "Talk to me, Raymond."

"He doesn't hear you, Egon," Peter informed him sadly. "He got cursed."

"Oh, man, Pete, you look like shit. Are you hurt?" Winston caught him by the upper arms. "What the hell happened to you?"

A sudden wave of dizziness ran over Peter that nearly upended him. It was okay to let go now. Egon and Winston were here. The cavalry had arrived. "He cursed Ray, and he doesn't know how to take it off," he explained and astonished everyone, himself included, by pitching forward unconscious in Winston's arms.

Egon glanced up from the volume of major spells he had been perusing and frowned. In the past several hours their progress had been very small. Peter had revived from his momentary blackout frantically as if he had decided he didn't have time to be unconscious. He was explaining what he knew about Ray's state almost before Winston eased him down on the couch and the red-haired paramedic wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and stuck a thermometer in his mouth.

"Don't talk yet," she cautioned him. "Let me take your temperature first."

"Egon, Ray's been cursed," Peter had mumbled around the thermometer. "Jerkface over there did it, bashed me over the head and generally deserves feeding into the containment unit." He batted at the woman's hand when she reached to steady the thermometer. "He says he doesn't know how to take it off," Peter finished, his eyes filled with pain and worry. "Tell me you can, you boy genius you."

Egon pondered. "I believe we can do it, Peter," he returned. "It might take a great deal of research, however. In the meantime, you should have x-rays. A loss of consciousness is not a good sign and should be treated with care."

"I'm fine, Egon. Ray's the one in trouble."

"Tell you what, Peter," the paramedic had interrupted. "We'll take you in for x-rays, the police will arrest that creep and your friends will go to work on Ray. How does that sound?"

Obviously it had not sounded good at all. Peter's eyes smouldered. He wanted to be there to take care of Ray himself. It didn't take a person of Egon's intellect to realize that Peter had forgiven Ray for the roach incident.

"Peter, is Egon there yet?" Ray said clearly, causing everyone to stare at him.

"He does that," Peter mumbled over the thermometer. "He must have guessed his body was still here. Listen to him. He's got a lot of good ideas."

"Peter, you have to tell Egon what to do," Ray continued.

Egon went to Ray, rested his hand on the younger man's shoulder and said as matter of factly as possible, which wasn't very, "I'm here, Raymond. Tell me anything you want to. We'll solve this."

"He's right, man. We'll bring you back," Winston avowed.

Peter patted Ray's other shoulder. "Hang in there, buddy. It's okay. Egon and Winston are here. The cavalry's arrived."

"Will you stop talking," the paramedic burst out in exasperation.

"Man, that's like asking for rain to fall up," Winston told her.

Peter's x-rays had revealed no evidence of a skull fracture, and the doctor said there was no concussion. He theorized that the recent injuries on top of the bruising from Peter's earlier fall and the danger to his friend had simply caught up with him, and he discharged Peter with orders to take it easy for the rest of that day and the next and to return immediately if he exhibited any of the symptoms on a printed sheet the doctor gave him. Egon had appropriated the sheet as soon as Peter came home, determined to keep an eye on him, since he doubted Peter would complain about anything more serious than a hangnail until Ray was restored.

Once Peter had returned home with a clean bill of health, he joined the others in the lab, where Egon had been studying the book of spells, periodically assisted by theories from Ray. Whenever the auburn-haired man spoke, all three of his friends and Janine stopped whatever they were doing and stared at him hopefully but he was still trapped in the prison world where the spell had sent him.

What worried Egon most was that Ray had several times mentioned sensory deprivation. It wasn't complete because Ray could, presumably, hear his own voice, but how long could a person endure with nothing but that? He asked the question aloud, and Peter, who lay stretched out on the couch, a heating pad on his still-sore shoulder and an ice pack on the side of his head, stared at him thoughtfully.

"There have been a lot of sensory deprivation tests conducted," he offered. "Remember the one I ran once at Columbia."

"That wasn't valid, Peter. Wiring yourself up to listen to nonstop heavy metal music is hardly sensory deprivation."

"Oh, I don't know," argued Janine, who didn't care for that type of music. "It sounds that way to me."

Peter's eyes had never left Ray. Now he glanced briefly at Egon. "Even with the music it was weird, Egon," he said. "I kept wanting to move and run and yell and I couldn't. I don't think Ray can move in there or he'd be walking around the lab. He might feel it if we move him, but I don't know. For all we know, he might not be able to hear himself talk. Come on, Spengs, haven't you found any answers in that book? There are spells in there for everything. Turning people into doorknobs and making dogs meow. There has to be something in there to take spells off."

"There is," Egon replied.

"Say what?" Winston cried, grabbing Egon by his shirt front and pulling him to his feet. "You know how to help Ray and you didn't say anything? What's the matter with you, man?"

Peter propped himself up on one elbow and threw a reproachful glance at Egon and Janine's eyes widened.

"Calm down, Winston," Egon replied, detaching his grip. "The spell I located is a generic one, intended to lift simple curses. I do not believe the curse on Ray is simple."

"I don't know, Egon. The character who put it on him was pretty simple," argued Peter, settling the dislodged ice pack into place as he stretched out again.

"That's beside the point. Even an idiot can learn one or two spells, if he is determined enough. I hesitate to use this one because it requires not only the words but the determination--and the belief that it will work. I would be the wrong person to attempt it because of my innate skepticism. I prefer science to sorcery. I realize something has happened to Ray, but I would be inclined to try hypnosis."

"Come on, Egon," Peter challenged. "Until the principles behind hypnosis were understood, people thought it was sorcery. One culture's science is another culture's magic."

"I believe it," Winston replied. "I see the results of it. I know what can happen when people believe in things. You can accomplish a heck of a lot more than you'd have imagined otherwise."

"Then maybe you should try the spell, Winston," Janine suggested. "I hate seeing Ray like that. I think we should try. It won't make it worse, will it, Egon?" she asked anxiously, leaning against his back as he sat at the table, and peering over his shoulder.

"I do not know." He turned to the others. "I see no reason why such an attempt should do further damage, but Ray is the expert. He would know what to do."

"He's been telling us what to do all along," Peter reminded him. "If you think we've found the right spell, we should try it." His eyes lingered on Ray, who sat staring blankly ahead of him, his eyes devoid of all expression. He wasn't examining his surroundings any longer. He didn't blink and he didn't move. Egon saw the concern in Peter's face and realized they had little choice. They had to try.

"Want me to do it?" Winston volunteered. "I think I believe it."

"Not good enough," argued Peter. "Thinking you believe it won't do. I saw the spell work. I damn well believe in it. Let me try it, Egon."

The determination in his eyes might be enough. Egon nodded and carried the book over to Peter, who cast aside heating pad and ice pack and sat up to receive it on his knees. He read the words silently, then glanced up.

"Do I get points off for pronouncing them wrong?" he asked.

"Of course not." Egon wasn't certain whether he would or not, but if Peter believed he might, the spell was certain to fail. This entire process disturbed Egon. He had never liked the idea of superstition and this reeked of superstition to him. Peter's remarks about magic and science might be valid, but Egon distrusted magic even as it fascinated him. He knew it would fall upon him to solve it scientifically if this attempt failed, and for once he felt completely at a loss. He hoped it didn't show.

"Then stand aside. I want to do this right." Peter braced himself, muttering a few of the difficult words to himself to get the feel for them, then he pointed a hand at Ray and recited them.

There must be a validity to the spell after all: perhaps the words created a resonance that triggered a response in Ray. Power built in the air and the lights dimmed slightly. Ray quivered and blinked.

"It's working," breathed Janine, clutching Egon's arm.

"Go, man," urged Winston fiercely as if he could give Peter power by willing it to him.

Peter spoke the last words of the spell, his voice rising, then he brought his hands together and clapped them once. Ray blinked again. Everyone held their breaths.

Then, Ray's body stilled and his eyes glazed over. Egon's heart sank.

"Shit, shit, shit," growled Peter, sagging back against the couch, his face falling. "It didn't work. Why didn't it work, Egon?"

Everyone turned to stare at him, Peter reproachfully, eyes full of guilt at his failure and rage at the lost chance, Janine and Winston expectantly. They all believed he knew the answer.

Perhaps he did. Thinking furiously he considered the possibilities. "We're scientists," he said slowly. "We live in the latter part of the 20th century. For modern man, even for us, who have witnessed any number of bizarre and nearly unbelievable things, there would always be an element of unbelief, of doubt. We might come closer than most non-practitioners to believe, but in the back of our minds a hesitation lingers. Peter came very close, but could not quite step over the edge."

"Come on, Egon, I believed in it," Peter disagreed. "I saw it work."

"Yes, but there must have been a lingering element of doubt in your mind."

Peter jumped to his feet. "Egon, it's for Ray. Don't you think I'd do anything to bring him back, even walk barefoot across hot coals if I had to?" He meant it literally; Egon could hear the sincerity in his voice. There was nothing Peter wouldn't do to help Ray now. His earlier distrust had vanished without a trace and Egon was grateful for it.

"I think you would do anything in your power to help him. As it stands, this was not within your power. What we need is a stronger motivation."

"Stronger motivation?" Peter echoed in rampant disbelief. "Come on, Egon," he insisted fiercely. "There isn't any stronger motivation."

"I'm sorry," Ray said in a quiet voice. "You nearly had it. Please, don't stop now. I heard you, Peter. I know how hard you tried. If you can't do it, I'll understand. I won't blame you."

"Aw, shit," muttered Winston, gazing at Ray uneasily.

"It's okay," Ray continued softly. "I know you won't give up. Just remember, I love you. I love all you guys. I know you can do it. I trust you."

Egon felt a hard lump in the pit of his stomach. There had to be a solution but his mind was blank. Or was it?

"Damn it, Egon, give me that book again," cried Peter, grabbing for it. "I'm gonna get it right this time."

"Wait, Peter."

"I'm not waiting. You heard him. I have to bring him back."

"I have an idea."

That made Peter pause, his anger fading. "No electric shocks, Egon," he cautioned.

"No, I was thinking of adrenalin. Anger. Motivation. Perhaps Valentine may have given us an advantage he wouldn't have expected us to have. I'm thinking of the buttons."

"They make us lose our tempers, Egon," Winston reminded him. "What good would that do?"

"If Peter was mad enough, I think he could do anything," Janine ventured, still clinging to Egon's arm. "But do you think he'd know to read the spell?"

"I could do it," Peter replied. "I'd just have to drop the buttons as soon as the spell worked."

The note of confidence in Peter's voice convinced Egon more than anything else that it might work. He went over to the table where the buttons he'd been studying earlier lay. "Come on, Peter. I suggest you take one in each hand. Recite the spell holding them and then let them go. You must let them go when you finish. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, Egon. You'll have to hold the book and you'll have to tell me what to do. If I lose it and don't read the spell, you'll have to stop me."

"We'll stop you, m'man," Winston promised. He took Peter's arm. "You can count on us."

"Thanks, guys." Peter took a deep breath and snatched both buttons, closing his fists around them.

Egon knew that the buttons did not always manifest themselves. Perhaps it depended on the wearer's state of mind. Now Peter was so keyed up that they kicked in immediately. His mouth twisted into a snarl and he spun on Ray. Egon clasped Peter's other arm and braced himself to hold him.

Egon could almost feel the churning of Peter's emotions as he read the spell. He spat out each word as if it tasted foul, his anger adding depth and resonance to every syllable. Some of the mood carried over to him and Winston and he worried that he would lose contact with reality if this went on much longer. The muscles in Peter's arm bunched tightly as he spoke the final words. Instead of dropping the buttons he jerked free of his two holders with all his strength.

Egon stared from him to Ray in despair. Ray was blinking but not moving and Peter had not completed the spell. Then with a cry of fury and pain, Peter flung the buttons away from him so hard that they rebounded off the walls, and smacked his palms together. The lights flickered and went off and everything was silent.

Ray wasn't sure how much longer he could endure this place. The everlasting whiteness was getting on his nerves and no matter how hard he tried to keep his courage up, he was starting to believe that it wasn't just his awareness that was trapped here but his body as well. If true, there was no point in speaking, but he had to try. He couldn't give up. If he did, there was no point in anything.

So he kept it up, encouraging the others, making suggestions as if they could actually hear him, straining after any response be it as slight as a feather touch. There was nothing.

"I hate this," he muttered through clenched teeth. He had discovered early on that, while he could talk, he could do nothing more that than except occasionally force a cramped muscle to relax. He had no compulsion to blink, and after awhile, his eyes started feeling dry and grainy and burning as if he'd been staring at the sun. For all he knew, he might be staring at the sun. This whiteness could be the first stage of blindness.

His heart clenched with fear at the thought. "I want to come home," he whimpered, but the panic in his voice made him start and he fought for control. If the others could hear him, he had to be braver than that, or he would only make it worse for them. Mentally squaring his shoulders as he accepted the burden of protecting his friends, Ray concentrated on the theoretical aspect of lifting spells. He was sure he could have come up with an answer, words he could have fed to Egon to repeat to him and free him from the curse, but his brain tended to fuzz around the edges, leaving him feeling dull and confused and very frightened.

He was alone, utterly alone, and it terrified him. The only good thing was that he had stopped it from happening to Peter. Peter would have hated this as much as he had hated the cockroaches, maybe more. He had found the courage to fight off the roaches but how could he have fought this off? He would have been helpless, like Ray was now, and Peter hated being helpless.

Suddenly Ray thought of something that made him feel sick to his stomach. He had deflected the curse away from Peter onto himself, but that had left a bound and injured Peter at the mercy of his enemy. Ray had no guarantee that Peter had escaped. He might have been next in line for the curse and might, even now, be trapped in another section of this blank whiteness. Ray shivered in horror at the possibility. All along, ever since this had begun, he had feared that Peter would be endangered, and now he was. Ray had tried to save him, but what if he had failed? What if, in attempting to defend him, he had left him helpless with his enemy? He might have made it worse.

Had he been capable of it, he might have wept with frustration and despair.

Peter might never know that Ray had been helpless during the roach incident. He would be trapped in another white prison still believing that Ray had turned against him. The only hope Ray had was that Peter would understand his arrival and his actions had been meant to rescue him.

From deep in the nothingness that engulfed him came a voice, uttering unfamiliar and portentous words that made the whiteness quiver like tattered rags on the verge of ripping away.

It was Peter, speaking the words of the counterspell.

Ray's heart thudded in his chest as he listened. Around him, power built, surging higher and higher, allowing the nothingness to thin to transparency, so that Ray could dimly see his friends. They were gathered in the lab and he was with them. Only his mind was trapped in this place. They must have heard him, after all. Then the power ebbed and the whiteness thickened, closing around him like an intangible wall that may have been inches from his eyes or many miles away. Peter had failed.

But he was alive and safe. Ray's greatest fear eased and he caught his breath in relief. Peter was alive and safe and uncursed. He might have failed this time, but he would succeed eventually. Ray was sure of that. Peter wouldn't give up after one attempt. He was too stubborn for that. He'd keep trying, and Egon and Winston would help, and then everything would be all right again.

He hoped.

"I'm sorry," he told them now that he was almost certain they could hear him. "You nearly had it. Please don't stop now. I heard you, Peter. I know how hard you tried. If you can't do it, I'll understand. I won't blame you."

Imagining the stricken expression on Peter's face as he spoke he added quickly, "It's okay. I know you won't give up. Just remember, I love you. I love all you guys. I know you can do it. I trust you."

Desperate for any response, he struggled to picture their faces. They wouldn't abandon him now.

Time dragged. Without stimulus he couldn't measure it properly. He tried to count off minutes in his head. One, two, three, four... Amazing how often he lost count and had to start again.

This time, Peter's voice roared like thunder. The power built, higher and faster than before, and Ray gasped breathlessly as he felt it swirl around him like a strong wind blowing the clouds away. Peter sounded furious as if he meant to batter away the borders of the curse with the force of his rage. Ray smiled. Anger could always motivate Peter. He knew how to use it when he had to, in order to direct himself. He might not even realize he did it, but Ray had figured it out. Good, Peter, he thought, urging him on.

The words rolled over him as if they could wash him out of his prison, and Ray gasped as he felt himself blinking again. His eyes stung and burned. He struggled to move, feeling his muscles quiver with the effort.

The words stopped. There was a heartbreaking period of nothing in which Ray suspected Peter had failed once more, then a thunderous clap of sound. Ray opened his eyes, not to the whiteness of his prison but to the darkened lab. Peter stood before him, leaning forward in exhaustion, hands braced against his thighs, sucking in shuddering breaths of air. Beyond him, Egon and Winston stared at him in alarm, grabbing his arms to steady him.

"Peter? Yo, Pete, come on back," Winston urged as his fingers closed around Peter's wrist. "You with us this time, homeboy?"

Peter lifted his head as if it weighed a hundred pounds. "I didn't trash you, did I? I could hardly make myself let go of the buttons. I can't remember... You guys okay?" He stared at Ray. "Did it work? Egon..." His voice trailed off as his eyes met Ray's, and Ray smiled at him. There was a stunned silence while Peter assimilated the fact that Ray was conscious and aware, then he whooped with triumph and jumped at him in a desperate demand for confirmation.

"Ray? Talk to me, buddy. Come on, Ray, tell Peter you're okay?" He grasped Ray's chin and tilted his face for a better look. The sudden sensation after so long without anything made him feel dizzy and he gasped.

"P-peter?" he faltered in a shaky voice. "I-I'm home?" In spite of the pins and needles that prickled his entire body, he wrapped his arms around Peter's neck and clung with all his strength. "Thanks, Peter," he breathed as Egon, Winston and Janine converged on him, greeting him and patting him on the back and shoulders, hugging both of them. The pressure of Peter's embrace nearly suffocated Ray, but he wouldn't have freed himself for the world.

Peter closed his eyes, clinging to Ray as if he'd never let go. It had worked, somehow it had worked, and Ray was safe. The nightmare was finally over, and Peter couldn't believe he'd done it. He could hear Ray's ragged breathing against his ear and loosened his grip just enough to allow his friend to breathe. "You with us, pal?" he asked softly.

"I'm here, Peter."

"Yeah, and you're staying here, too," Winston said from the vicinity of Peter's left shoulder. "That jerk who put the curse on you is in jail and likely to stay there." His voice was rich with satisfaction.

"He didn't curse you, too, Peter?" Ray asked anxiously.

"No way. He was so drained by whatever he did that I was able to take him out." Peter grinned at the memory of that beautiful moment when his clenched fists had impacted with the creep's chin. Now that Ray was safe, he could appreciate it. "I'm fine, other than a few dents. You're the one who scared us. Don't do that again. I can't take the strain."

Ray chuckled softly. "I'll try." He caught his breath as if a memory had struck him. "Peter--I'm sorry about everything. I know it was my fault."

At the astonishing, yet predictable, words, Peter pulled back and stared at him. "What do you mean, your fault?" he demanded, refusing to loosen his grip entirely. This had to be settled right now.

"You wouldn't have been out there if I hadn't treated you so badly," Ray insisted earnestly, his brown eyes dropping when Peter stared at him in disbelief. "It was just like my dream. You went out and got in trouble and I wasn't there in time to help." He raised one hand and touched Peter's bruised face, his expression full of pain. "You look terrible, and it's all my fault. Are you sure you're okay? You look like you belong in the hospital."

Peter braced himself to set this straight. "Ray. Listen to me, Ray. None of this was your fault. In case you didn't get a scorecard, it was that jerk Valentine who cursed the buttons we were sent. He planned it to make us all turn against each other. He was probably watching the fire house so that if I ever went out alone, he could grab me. That's what happened today. I went out alone and he was waiting. I had one of those buttons in my pocket and I wasn't thinking clearly."

"What a surprise," Winston murmured in the background. Peter shot him a dirty look before turning back to Ray.

"Listen to me, kiddo. This whole thing was managed by that creep. He was directing a new movie, one called 'Trash the Ghostbusters,' or more likely, 'Trash Peter Venkman.'"

"He's right, homeboy," Winston concurred, slapping Ray on the shoulder. "Your mind's probably a little messed up from wandering around in zombieland. We were the victims this time around, but you stopped him."

"Yeah, and took the backlash meant for me," Peter reminded him. "It sounded like it was rough. I'm not sure I could have handled it. Thanks, pal."

"You can handle anything, Peter," Ray returned, but a thoughtful look filled his eyes as he considered it. "Okay, maybe it wasn't my fault, but about the roaches..."

"Hey, no mention of roaches," Peter cut him off, grimacing. "You were wearing a button then, too. I halfway remember tearing it off when I grabbed you. I just hope you can forgive me for dumping on you like I did. I should have known it wasn't really you. My Ray Stantz doesn't pull that kind of crap, and my brain must have been on vacation not to realize it."

"Your brain was on vacation, Peter," Egon cut in, but gently, as if he knew that reminding Peter of his near collapse would hurt but felt it was necessary to make the point.

"Egon's right, Peter. You weren't in any condition to think of things like that." Relaxing, Ray leaned comfortably against Peter's shoulder. "None of us was our normal selves anyway if those buttons were making us lose our tempers and treat each other badly."

"Yeah, but I should have known..." Peter drew back once more and peered at Ray, studying him carefully. "I should have trusted you."

"Do you trust me now?" Ray asked hesitantly, lowering his eyes as if afraid of the answer. He must still doubt his worth.

Peter felt his eyes burn with unshed tears at the very thought of that. "God, Ray, you took that spell for me. You had to know it might happen when you jumped in and fought him. You did it for me. I'd have to be a world class s.o.b. not to trust you after that. Course I do. I always did. How about you?"

Ray smiled shakily and nodded. "I sure do. Then everything's okay, isn't it?"

"Everything's fine," Peter replied with relief. "Except you look like you could use a week's sleep, and I know I could. The only good thing about it all is that I met a great lady. Wish you could have seen her, Ray. She was pretty special." He felt the urge to throw something relatively neutral into the conversation in an attempt to lighten the mood. It worked. Winston groaned and Egon's mouth twisted in a grimace.

"Trust Peter," Janine mocked lightly. She reached out and rumpled Ray's hair. "Welcome home, Ray."

"Yes, welcome back." Egon detached Ray from Peter and gave him a hug. "I'm only sorry it took so long to break the spell," he admitted as he released the occultist.

"Wow, you guys must have come up with a winner," Ray exulted, his enthusiasm returning as he considered the matter. "I want to hear all about it. This is really great. I didn't know you had it in you, Peter. You did a fantastic job."

Peter laughed in pure delight. Ray sounded so normal that Venkman was sure the crisis was past. "Yeah, I was great, wasn't I?" he asked.

"That's what you always say, Pete," Winston retorted, grinning. "Sit down, though. Ray's right. You look battered. We can use you to scare ghosts away for the next week or two."

"Oh, thanks Winston. Appreciation. I love it."

"Well, I think you deserve it for bringing me back," insisted Ray. "You did a good job."

"See. Somebody really does appreciate me." Peter caught Egon's eye and winked. "This has not been the best of days, though. At least the worst is over now."

He spoke too soon. Suddenly the lab doors crashed open and Slimer swooped into the room, a radically changed Slimer. The little ghost's face was twisted into a horrible caricature of his normal eager smile, and his yellow eyes had narrowed with fury. He snarled at the Ghostbusters and Janine, jumbled words that were full of hate and rage, and flung ectoplasm at them in great, sloppy bursts. One of them caught Peter full in the face, making him reel back with an anguished, "Sliiiimerrrr!".

"Oh my gosh," cried Ray, his face horrified. "I forgot! I gave Slimer one of those cursed buttons. He's been wearing it ever since." He pointed to the little Ghostbusters pin still affixed to the ghost's chest. "We've got to get it off him quick. Catch him!"

"Catch him?" echoed Peter in appalled disbelief, ducking as Slimer pounded him with another gob of ectoplasm. His hair dripping green goo down his face, he scrambled away as the green ghost made another dive at him, and scrubbed at his eyes with his fists. "Can I use a trap?" he asked hopefully.

Winston lunged for Slimer, missed him, and landed on his stomach across the couch. Gasping for breath, he struggled futilely to stand up, only to blurt out a startled protest when Slimer zapped him on the back of the neck.

With a cry like a martial artist about to strike a blow, Egon pounced, grabbing for the button Slimer wore. The ghost saw him coming and lobbed slime at him, smearing his glasses. Egon semaphored his arms for balance and blundered sideways into Janine, who put her arms around him to keep him on his feet. He scraped ineffectually at his glasses.

Catching Peter's eye, Ray made a gesture and they started to sneak up on the ghost from opposite directions. Slimer saw their stealthy approach, his eyes shifting back and forth as he tried to watch them both at the same time. He bared his teeth at them.

"Stay away," he growled. "Slimer hurt you."

"Yeah, just try it, Spud," spat Peter. "I've been wanting for the opportunity to blast you for years and now's my chance. Just give me a thrower and--"

"We can't blast him, Peter," Ray objected hastily as Peter spotted a thrower in one corner and started edging in that direction. "The evil forces present in the button will blend with his molecules in the trap and he'll be like this forever. That's not the answer."

"No, but it might have been soooo much fun," Peter returned, regretfully abandoning the idea as he advanced on the ghost again.

"Slimer, come to Ray," the occultist coaxed in his most soothing, affectionate tones. "You know I'm your friend." He might have succeeded with someone easy, like an axe murderer or Saddam Hussein, but Slimer snarled at him and backed up--right into Egon.

Without a second's hesitation, the physicist reached right through Slimer, grabbed the button and pulled it free. When his fingers curled around it, it was so charged from being used by Slimer for so long that Egon's lips curled into a twisted frown and he backed up against the wall as if to defend himself against an enemy--or his friends.

"Not again!" cried Janine, and before anyone else could react, she dashed the button from his hand. It hit the floor and rolled under the couch where it landed with a little plop.

Egon heaved a noisy, "Whew," and took off his glasses to clean them better. "That was far too close."

"Ray, Ray," wailed Slimer unhappily and flung his arms around the occultist's neck. Peter was glad he hadn't been the object of the spud's affection this time around. "Slimer scared. Slimer doesn't remember..."

"I know, Spud. It's okay now," Ray consoled him, patting him gently on the head. He heaved a sigh of relief that was echoed by everyone in the room. Over the ghost's body, he looked for Peter and grinned at him, and Peter saw the old, familiar twinkle in his eyes. Ray was himself again. "And you said it was over," Ray accused, the amusement on his face so contagious that, this time, they all burst out laughing.

To return to the main page, click here.

To return to (or to visit for the first time) the RGBSmarm Archive, click here.