Raymond Stantz

November 2, 2007
14 North Moore Street
Manhattan

The jumpsuit was in the wash, and the last of the pinkish yuk had come out of Ray's hair under the onslaught of the strongest concentration of Dr. Bronner's available. Slimer had been fed on copious quantities of big-box store brand chocolate cereal and spiced sugared watermelon seeds. Veggie Heaven was delivering the evening's order of Egon-approved Chinese food sometime in the next twenty minutes. Life, overall, was good.

Then came the rap at the door. "I'll get it," called Venkman from downstairs. Ray just sighed; once, just once, it would be nice to have an evening undisturbed by-

"Guys?" called Venkman up one of the poles. "We've got lawyer sign!"

Oh, crap. They'd been promised that the legal end of the matters in Poughkeepsie would be settled by the federal government. This couldn't be good.

The lawyer, when Ray and Egon and Winston arrived, was one of those people who looks as if they were constructed from a single too-flawless piece. From his slick black hair to his impeccably tailored suit to shoes that could not possibly have walked on the streets of Manhattan and escaped that unscathed, he was exactly the kind of person that Ray knew instinctively must not be allowed to speak to Venkman. Egon must have noticed the quality too, because as Ray stepped forward on Venkman's right, Egon did the same on Venkman's left. "Is there a problem, sir?" Egon asked.

"No, Dr. Spengler, no problem at all," said the man with a smile too symmetrical to be human, in a voice oddly familiar but not quite identifiable. "I represent the legal firm of Wolfram and Hart-"

"Oh, no," said Ray suddenly. "Oh, hell no. I remember you guys-"

"And we remember you, Dr. Stantz," said the man, unperturbed. "Rest assured I am not empowered to practice law in your continuum. We have no branches anywhere on this Earth or its close affiliates. No, I've been contacted by certain... powers, shall we say... to ensure that the document they wish to bestow upon you is completely air-tight according to local law and tradition."

He reached into his briefcase (which was made of a leather so black it gave back only enough light to inform the eye that it was there in the first place) and withdrew a folder resembling a diploma case.

Venkman started to reach for it; Ray and Egon moved to cut him off. Ultimately Winston accepted the article instead and flipped it open. His brows drew together sharply, and he looked up. "Be it known, for value received, the undersigned entities, including but not limited to Haborym, Earl of Theft and Destruction; Geryon, Personification of Fraud; Shax, Great Marquis who- waaaait a minute-" Winston flipped through several of the pages. "This is all just names and titles!"

"Not entirely, Mr. Zeddemore. Please have a look at the last page."

"-permanently and without dispute, for the remainder of existence of the space-time continuum, all right, title, and interest in and to the following: one (1) soul-"

Venkman, who had been reading over Winston's shoulder, blurted out, "This is the contract for Walter Peck's soul??"

"Not a contract so much as a transfer of any claim thereon, Dr. Venkman. A contract would imply that something was being traded in exchange for said soul. So far as Pandemonium is concerned, the value received is more than fulfilled by the act of taking that burden off our hands."

"So what you're saying-" Ray glanced over his shoulder at the fishbowl on Janine's desk.

"That's correct, Dr. Stantz. Whatever might happen to him otherwise, Hell does not want Walter Peck."

Winston broke the silence with, "So what do we do with him?"

"Change his water every few days?"

"Besides that, Peter."

"I'm sure you gentlemen will think of something," said the attorney smoothly. "While I can't say anything for our counterparts on the other side of the ideological fence, I doubt they'll be claiming him any time soon, given his predilections and prior behavior. Just don't breed him, and we should be all right."

Four simultaneous expressions of 'ew' struck the Ghostbusters; the attorney smiled. "I do wish you gentlemen luck. It's been an interesting experience, in all honesty- and I can't say that I want to go through it again. I've had more than enough humiliation for one age of the world; the possibility of getting this transfer wrong-"

Humiliation? Ray thought- and then leaned forward to peer at the attorney. "Yes?" said the attorney, lifting one eyebrow. "Was there something?"

"Morgannon?" Ray asked, astonished. "Is that you?"

The attorney merely smiled, holding up one finger to his lips in a 'sh' gesture; then he looked to the others. "Do take care, gentlemen. There are far, far bigger things afoot in this world than you have ever dreamed, and they mean neither you nor us well."

And with that he was gone, leaving only a faintly lingering odor of brimstone behind.

The piecing together of wildly dissociated knowledge has in the past been accused of driving strong men mad, and sometimes this is so. On the other hand, sometimes it's just a prelude to a bout of drinking.

The ad for a used Peterbilt truck in the Bozeman, Montana newspaper that got answered by a skinny, sallow-looking redhead who paid in cash? Meh, that could've been a drug dealer. It happens. His money wasn't counterfeit and didn't match up with any serial numbers from bank hauls, so it was good.

The identity theft cases that suddenly sprang up in five different Midwestern states, all the victims being men in their late thirties but not sharing much else in common? Someone was probably planning on rotating through faked ID cards. The police would keep an eye out for any of the names on the list.

The massive midnight robbery at a Wyeth Consumer Healthcare factory in southern Ohio, where most of the factory's computers and other expensive equipment went untouched but a person or persons who managed to conceal themselves from the security system's cameras succeeded in walking off with several hundred boxes of Preparation H? ... yeah, we got nothin'. Although it did make a lot of stand-up comedians very happy for a while.

Friday, June 1, 2007
Hornet, Missouri
Gum Road and E-50
Late Evening

"This ain't the first time the government's come out here to check on the Spooklight," said Jill Janovic, a woman in her seventies with the springy step of a thirty-year-old. "Matter of fact, the first time you boys showed up, I wasn't much more than five years old."

"That'd be the Army Corps of Engineers, right?" Jim Eichler picked his way down the sloping shoulder, away from the sun-whitened asphalt. "Back in 1942?"

"You got it. Said it was Route 66 and not a whole lot else." Janovic shook her head. "Never mind that folks were seeing the Spooklight years before the highway went through. Wave an explanation in front of an engineer and poof, good old common sense goes right on out the window."

"Hey!" Jim protested. "I know plenty of engineers-"

"Just winding you up, son. You and that red-headed feller last week." She laughed. "I gotta hand it to you, though, you got a way better sense of humor than him. That boy didn't want to listen to a damn thing I said. Just wanted to get out here and see if he couldn't make the Spooklight happen. Damned if I know why, though."

"Make the-" Jim shook his head. "But the whole point of the Survey's to get a sense of paranormal activity as it stands. Not to make more of it."

"I don't think that boy was with the Survey, Mr. Eichler," said Janovic. "But if he was, you'd better call your bosses back in Washington. He's got a temper on him like nothing I've ever seen, and he spent his whole time here setting up all kinds of poles and spikes and designs on the ground. Damn near put his foot through the side of his car when the light didn't show up. That Peck fella's bad news."

"Huh," said Jim. "I'll let them know. Thanks, ma'am."

Janovic nodded, and then pointed across the state line into Oklahoma, where a gleaming ball of orange light had begun darting back and forth.

December 1, 2006

To-Do List:

1. Finish reading The Book Of The Law
2. Read the three other Thelema reference books that came in the same package
3. Go through the books with a pen and cross out all the parts that don't make sense
4. Memorize everything else
5. Start practicing

December 4, 2006

Shouldn't've used a pen. Revised To-Do List:

1. Get new copies of inked-up books
2. Reread them all, slowly
3. Practice as I read
4. Achieve visible results in the physical world
5. Indulge in suitably impressive laughter

December 8, 2006

Maybe it's just me, or maybe it's that I have more reason to be really dedicated about this stuff, but I have a very distinct feeling that something big and potent is in the offing. Something enormous is about to happen and I think I know what it is...

December 9, 2006

Nothing. Damn.

Back to reading.

December 10, 2006

The other inmates in this part of the prison are beginning to grate on my nerves. What does it take to get a man who's been convicted of massive amounts of mail fraud sent into the general prison population? That should shut him up.

Still reading. Some of this practice and observance is going to be more than a little difficult under the current circumstances. I may have to branch out in order to get results after all. Where'd I put those bilge volumes again?

December 11, 2006

All right, something is going on. I'm going to see if I can't get some sort of viable divination or something with what little I have on me right now.

... that can't be right. According to the book, this kind of behavior from a pendulum means there's some issue either in the diviner- which isn't it- or directly above the diviner, and there's nothing up there but the roof.

I'm going to sleep on the other side of the cell if I can manage it, just in case something collapses.

December 12, 2006

WHAT THE HELL.

WHAT THE- Here the text of the diary breaks off into incoherent scribbling for a page and a half.

That's it. That's absolutely, positively IT. SCREW the careful development of inner perfected power. I want results and I want them NOW.

Those four IDIOTS aren't getting away with this, no matter WHAT the President and NASA think of them!

Friday, May 11, 2007
JB Stouts Bar and Grill
Wakarusa Drive
Lawrence, KS

"Welcome back, Agent Frankel," said Meg, the woman behind the bar. "That was quick. What can I getcha this time?"

Frankel, a stout balding man of middle years, shook his head grimly and held up a sheaf of faxed pages. "Nothing big. I've got some dinner reading to do."

"Stuff from Washington?" Meg guessed as she signaled the kitchen to start putting together a chicken sandwich. "Don't they brief you folks before they send you out on these survey things?"

"This isn't really part of the national paranormal survey," said Agent Frankel. "Or it wasn't supposed to be. I don't know if it counts as a data point or not. This is from my colleague, Agent Fonstad. She ran across something in Stull and figured I should have a look before she got back."

"Honey, everything even remotely interesting in Stull's probably one of your data points," Meg said. "Nothing else around the place is worth mentioning but that graveyard of theirs."

Frankel glanced up from the paper. "This wasn't something that belonged in Stull," he said. "Agent Fonstad thinks she's found an escaped convict's diary."

Meg blinked a few times. "Huh," she said, straightening up. "Okay, that's different. What'd he do?"

"Kidnapping, conspiracy, illegal detention, accessory to involuntary servitude- you just don't get Thirteenth Amendment prosecutions these days, that must've been fun for the judge- and a bunch of other related crimes," says Frankel. "He broke out of Camp Yankton back in March."

"Call me crazy," said Meg slowly, "but I don't think that sounds like the kind of man who keeps a diary."

"You'd think that," said Frankel. "But this guy- oh, thanks-" She'd handed him a glass of pop. "-anyway, this guy ... he's different. Really different. As a matter of fact, it looks as if he's going to wind up in the paranormal survey himself."

"Huh," said Meg. "Do I wanna know how?"

Frankel blew out a tired sigh. "Turned himself invisible."

"Oh." Meg thought about that, then shook her head and went to get the man his sandwich. "So what brings a guy like that to a place like Stull?"

"Apparently," said Frankel as he thumbed through the faxed pages, "the invisibility wore off and the un-smellability he'd worked up to hide from the prison dogs went away. It looks like he figured he could take a couple of shortcuts to serious magic."

Meg shook her head. "He's in for a world of trouble," she said. "You don't fool around with the kind of stuff they've got in Stull."

Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Federal Prison Camp Yankton
Yankton, South Dakota

The car from the airport pulled to a stop; Ray peered out the window at the buildings heaped up next to each other. "Unappetizing place," he said.

"It's a federal prison, Ray. The general idea is for them to be unappealing," said Egon.

"True. Well, let's see what they've got for us. I'd like to go home as soon as we can. The whole thing gives me the creeps."

There were several prison officials waiting for the two Ghostbusters as they got out of the car. The foremost was a harried-looking redheaded man who nonetheless managed a smile and a strong handshake. "Hi there, Dr. Stantz, Dr. Spengler. I'm Jack Mulroe," he said. "Glad you could come out here. We've got a problem."

"So we've been told," said Egon dryly. "Would you mind filling us in on exactly what the FBI investigators think constitutes grounds for outside consultancy?"

"Sure thing." Mulroe started up the path to the prison's main building. "Basically, sometime between two-forty-five and two-fifty-nine AM last Friday, one of our inmates stopped being in his cell."

"Interesting choice of words," said Ray. "Stopped being in his cell how?"

"Wish I could say, gentlemen, but the video records don't give us any kind of clue. There are about six different cameras covering all possible entrances and exits from that section of the prison, and there were no disturbances to any parts of the HVAC system or the plumbing that we could see. There were no signs of tampering with any of the locking mechanisms or restraints, and the guards on duty were all the kinds of men who- well, they all hated this particular inmate's guts enough that he couldn't have bribed them to do so much as hold back a sneeze."

"Wow," said Ray. "That's impressive. What'd he do, eat somebody?"

Mulroe laughed. As they continued down the corridor to his office, he said, "No, no, this was in the non-violent offenders' wing. Still maximum security, you understand, but inmate number 35712-165 was in for a stack of paper felonies. I've got his file in my office. He was just the kind of person who could irritate somebody five miles away by looking at them funny."

"You still haven't mentioned why you called for us, instead of invoking some of the other federal agencies qualified to handle this kind of situation," said Egon.

Mulroe sobered, his hand on his office's doorknob. "It's very common for prisoners convicted of certain types of crime to take an interest in the occult," he says, "but usually it's the cheap, sensational form of devil worship that you see on the news. Our former inmate's had someone on the outside sending him books on ceremonial magic for a while now- I asked for a list of his reading materials as soon as the investigation started. There's been a lot of interest in Thelema, which I'm not very familiar with- I just saw the word repeated on his reading list. Most of his books weren't on our list of forbidden material, so we just noted them and let them pass."

Ray and Egon exchanged glances as they stepped into Mulroe's office.

"Normally I wouldn't take that as anything in particular, but the FBI guys swept his cell with blacklights and he'd managed to cover every single flat surface in ceremonial glyphs and diagrams," Mulroe added. "Totally invisible without the blacklight, you understand. I'm not sure how he pulled that off, because we restrict the amount of fruit our inmates get to avoid people saving it up to make pruno." He started rummaging through the folders on his desk. "The one in the middle of the floor looked like it was pulsing. Anyway, here's his file."

He held out a manila folder. Ray reached out for it, but as his eyes fell on the tab near the top his hand froze as if he were being asked to grab a snake by the head. "Something wrong, Dr. Stantz?" asked Mulroe, puzzled.

Egon took the folder from Mulroe instead. His eyes narrowed, and he looked up at the redheaded man. "You might've warned us that inmate 35712-165 was Walter Elias Peck," he said.

Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Federal Prison Camp Yankton
Yankton, South Dakota

"Huh," said Horace Weston, pausing in his sorting of the incoming mail. "Hey, boss?"

"What?" called Mr. Gage in return. He didn't bother looking up. Weston tended to come up with the weirdest questions and he'd about gotten to the point of answering them on autopilot by now.

"Got an Amazon package here I don't know that I like the looks of."

"Porn?" said Gage.

"No."

"Nazis?"

"No."

"Manchurian Candidate on DVD?"

"It's a handbook, boss."

". . . tell me it's not Worst Case Scenario Survival Manual: Prison Edition or the Action Hero Handbook or something."

"More like How to Be a Villain: Evil Laughs, Secret Lairs, Master Plans, and More. And three exclamation points."

Gage paused, his coffee halfway to his mouth. Finally, he said, "It's not on the shit-list. Let it through."

Weston shrugged and slid it into the appropriate basket. Not like Peck got much in the way of mail anyway.