Where the Shadows Lie

by Sheila Paulson

            "I've gotta say, if there's a bright center to the universe, New Jersey is the place it's farthest from." Peter Venkman looked around, his thrower in hand. Newark. People actually lived here by choice. He couldn't get it.

            "Be careful, Peter. I'm detecting impossibly strong readings," Egon announced without looking up from his PKE meter. "It may resent your attitude."

            "Well, I resent his," Peter muttered. "It's about a hundred degrees out. Is this Global Warming, Spengs, or is it your new pet demon?"

            "Hardly mine, Peter." Egon glanced up from the meter. "Winston? Ray?" he called.

            Ray's voice echoed back from the next room. They were searching an old abandoned hotel that was scheduled to be torn down in the next week. Over the past few days, weird red lights had shown in the window, and mysterious smoke that smelled like sulfur had wafted from the windows, but the Fire Department had been unable to find a trace of fire. The firemen had all reported sensing a mysterious presence that every one of them claimed felt evil, and one or two of them had sworn they heard a deep, threatening voice calling their names. Newark's bravest had sworn they would let the place burn if the smoke ever proved real. But at the mention of weird and spooky voices the fire chief had said, "Who ya gonna call," and now the Ghostbusters stood in the basement of the hotel, longing for air conditioning. The readings came from somewhere below street level.

            "It's lower, I think, Egon," Ray called back. "I bet there's a sub-basement here somewhere."

            "Yeah, and it probably opens directly into the worst level of hell." Winston sounded definitely disgruntled. "It smells like that."

            Peeeeterrr Venkmannnn.

            The voice made Peter's teeth ache. He could tell Egon hadn't heard it because he didn't react at all. But Peter jumped. "Egon! Egon! Somebody with a weird voice is talking to me."

            "Are you certain, Peter? I hear nothing."

            "Oh, yeah, right, Egon, I'm making it up. Do you know what they do to people who hear voices? The guys in white coats come for them with jackets that fasten in the back. It's not like I'd make up a story like that."

            Egon's meter focused on Peter. "Hmm," he said. "This is definitely not good. I'm getting readings comparable to a major Class Seven. Possibly even higher." He checked the meter again. "Much higher."

            "Well, it's talking to me, Egon, and I don't like it." Peter looked around, half expecting an eerie great creature to step out of the shadows and grab him. He didn't want to go the Watt routine ever again.

            "Can you tell where he's coming from?" Egon asked.

            "There." Peter pointed to the corner. He walked over without hesitating--did he really want to do that--and pushed aside an empty box big enough to hold a washing machine. There, behind it, was a little door, about three feet high.

            "Stand back, Peter. The readings are coming from there."

            "No, I gotta, Egon." He wasn't sure why, but he felt a fierce need to open the door. And what better way than with Old Betsy? He blasted away and the door shattered.

            To his relief, nothing came boiling out except a cloud of sulfurous vapor and a wave of heat. "Egon, you don't think there's a volcano under Newark, do you?" he asked as Ray and Winston came running into the room to investigate the sound of a thrower.

            "If there is, geologists have reported nothing of the sort," Egon replied. "Peter, I forbid you to go in there."

            He lunged for Peter to stop him, but Peter didn't go in. He just reached in and came out with something clutched in his hand. It had glittered in the light and caught his eye. Was it money? Maybe somebody hadn't realized you couldn't take it with you and died with his hoard.

            Yanked back by Egon, Peter caught his balance and opened his hand.

            There on his palm lay a golden ring. From the weight of it, it was probably the highest quality gold, and worth a mint. He'd have to convince Egon to let him go back in there for the rest of the treasure.

            "Wow, gold," Ray said, bouncing on his toes to see past Egon. "Gee, maybe the fumes are from a dragon guarding his horde."

            "In New Jersey?" Winston radiated skepticism.

            Peter traced the ring with his fingertip. There was writing on it, or a design, or something. He couldn't read it, which meant it was probably written in some weird language Egon and maybe two other people in the world could understand. If he polished it up, a jeweler would probably give him major bucks for it. Maybe it was old enough that a museum would want it.

            "It's got writing on it," Ray cried. "Cool."

            "Not cool," said Winston. "You know what that looks like, Ray?"

            "Hey, yeah." Ray's face lit. "Wow, Peter. No, wait! Don't put it on."

            "The readings emanating from that ring are off the scale, Peter," Egon cried. "Throw it away, quickly."

            Peter caught it between thumb and forefinger and squinted at Egon through it.

            Peeeterrr Venkmannnn.

            There it was again. Peter looked around, only to see Egon reaching for the ring.

            No way. It wasn't Egon's. It was Peter's. Nobody could take it away from him. It was special. He'd been meant to find it. It was his. "It's mine!" he yelled and backed away from the guys. "It's mine."

            "No, Peter, don't," Ray cried, his face white.

            "Mine," Peter said. "My own. My precious."

            He slid it onto his finger.

*****

            Even as the other three Ghostbusters jumped for him, Peter Venkman vanished without a trace.

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