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"I knew this was going to happen," grumbled Peter, glaring out of the window of Ecto-1 at the traffic sliding by in the light drizzle, his head propped on one arm.
"You always say that," pointed out Winston as he blew through an intersection on yellow.
"And I usually mean it. Really, though - it's a curio shop that specializes in 'unique' items, by which they really mean 'things that will eventually cause the Ghostbusters trouble.' " Peter watched a neon sign flash past, the red light scattered into glowing confetti by the droplets on the windshield. "I mean, Ray goes by there once a month or so to look at what they've picked up, and he comes home with something that registers on the meter a couple of times a year."
"Well, yeah, but most of those were either grimoires or altar tools," objected Ray. "They'd never picked up something that had a trapped spirit in it before."
"It's not entirely clear from the description the proprietor gave Janine that that is, in fact, what happened," objected Egon, turning around in the front seat. "It may be the case that the appearance of the specter is unrelated to any of the artifacts recently procured by the store."
"Possible, sure," Peter sniffed dismissively, "but how likely is it?"
"That's impossible to tell without more data," Egon explained patiently. Peter rolled his eyes and continued scowling out of the window. Contrary to Winston's previous comment, he didn't have premonitions that often (although they'd been coming more frequently lately; he really ought to do some research on that), and he definitely had one tonight. Unfortunately, it was too vague to get Egon to take it seriously. Ray would, if he brought it up explicitly, but the excitable engineer probably wouldn't play it any cooler because of it, either.
Peter shook his head. So, he'd be a little extra-protective tonight. Probably no one would notice.
Ecto-1 pulled up to the curb next to a tiny shop, crammed between a renovated electronics boutique with a window full of tiny screens and flashing lights, and what had once been a corner video store but had long been shuttered. The curio shop was marked by a small, hand-painted oval sign that read "Marco Polo Antiques & Curiosities," and beaded curtains in the windows made of tiny shells. A tall, skinny woman with frazzled hair stood on the stoop, smoking a cigarette with such nervous energy she was almost chewing it as she stared into the shop's dingy window.
"Hey, Mrs. Gabiz, we're here," Ray greeted the woman as he bounced out of the car. He ran around to the back and pulled out the equipment rack as the others followed, with slightly less boundless enthusiasm.
"Oh, good, Ray, I've been waiting for you," she hailed him back, in a voice that rattled like the gravel in a dry fish-tank. "I got everyone out. Not that there were that many customers, but anyway." She took another long, shaky drag on her cigarette. "Right now, it's just waiting in there, like it's guarding something."
"What does it look like?" asked Winston, as he fastened the belt on his pack.
"It's about twice as long as the shop is wide, it's a really dark green, and it has red eyes and white fangs. I wasn't looking too hard after I saw the fangs." The shopkeeper shuddered. "When it first appeared, it started knocking things over, but I think it stopped once everyone left."
"Under what circumstances did it first make its appearance?" Egon inquired, aiming his PKE meter carefully at the shop window.
"There were three customers in the shop, which is kind of busy for me. I was ringing one of them up; she was buying a couple of saris and an African mask. I might be forgetting something else, but I know she had those because I remember writing them on the receipt. Anyway, the other two were a guy, had to be in his sixties, and a girl, maybe in her twenties, a little young to be his daughter but too old to be a granddaughter unless he was really well-preserved, y'know?" She paused to bring the cigarette to her lips again and found it had burned itself out. She flicked the butt into the gutter, earning a glare from Peter, and fumbled in her pocket for another one. "I'd gotten a shipment of wicker baskets from India, you know, the type with lids, and he was picking them up and shaking them one at a time while the girl poked around in some of the Asian ceramics. He found one that rattled, and asked if I knew what was in it. I said I hadn't opened any of them, but right then the girl dropped one of the China dolls. I told her she broke it, she bought it, and she turned to the guy and started to whine, and then all of a sudden this thing came roaring up from the middle of the store. I told everyone to get out, locked the door, and called you guys from next door." She flicked her lighter and took a long puff. "That's all I know."
Peter edged closer to the physicist and whispered, "What have you got, Egon?"
"Class Six, lower end of the spectrum for its class. Very large, easily over twenty feet long. And it has some interesting harmonic vibrations in its ectoplasmic signature." Egon thumbed one of the side knobs on the meter.
"Will it fit in one trap?" asked Ray, trying to peer through the smoky glass of the door.
"Yes, unless it's made of much denser ectoplasm than these readings suggest." Egon unshipped his thrower and powered up. "I'll need to get closer to be sure."
"That's our cue," sighed Peter. "All right, guys, it's gonna be tight in there. Everyone watch your streams and try not to block anyone else's route to the exit."
"Try not to break stuff if you can avoid it," Mrs. Gabiz added, unlocking the door and backing away. "I mean, I'm insured, but I'd like my premiums not to go through the roof."
"Of course," Ray replied, sounding faintly offended. Peter repressed a snicker, then powered up and flung the door open with his free hand.
The shop was so dark, even compared to the drizzle-spattered twilight outside, that it took a moment for Peter's eyes to adjust. As soon as they did, he regretted it.
"Yaaaah!" He stumbled backwards - directly into Egon, who was watching the meter instead of his feet again. Winston caught Peter's arm in time to keep them from both going down.
"What is it, Peter?" Egon asked as he regained his footing.
Peter swallowed. "It's - it's a 20-foot ghost snake."
"A cobra, to be precise," added Ray, his voice betraying excitement and fear in equal measure. The spectral viper turned towards them and regarded them with slitted red eyes, glowing balefully in the dim light. Its hood flared, nearly blocking the isle.
Ray didn't move, clearly fascinated. Winston took a step back; he glanced nervously towards Egon, muttering "Can a ghost's bite be venomous?"
"Not in the usual sense," Egon answered, going a little pale under the spectral serpent's red gaze himself. "Its ectoplasm could potentially be toxic, and it's just possible that it could carry the same sorts of neurotoxins that a cobra's venom would contain. But it would only be a serious problem if the skin were broken and ectoplasm were introduced into the wound."
"I suspect those fangs can break skin," whimpered Peter. The phantom snake opened its mouth, displaying the teeth in question quite prominently, and hissed.
"Retreat!" commanded Ray, suddenly springing alert and stumbling backwards, but the cobra was faster; it reared up and slithered across the ceiling, dropping back to the floor in front of the door and blocking the way they'd come.
"This is it. I knew it. I never liked Nature. I always knew the animals would get me in the end," Peter mumbled. The cobra raised its head as if to strike; Peter let off a crackling proton stream, strafing its hood. It hissed again and fell back, slightly.
"It's gonna take more than one stream to hold that thing," Winston called as he took cover behind a shelf of tin soldiers and brass knicknacks.
"It might take more than four. It shook that off way too easily," Peter cried back from behind a bookcase. "Any ideas from the genius squad?"
"Look for the basket it came from," replied Egon. "It might have some clues pertaining to its original capture."
"Great," Peter groaned, but he scanned the ground for the baskets. There they were - more or less where the snake had been when they came in. He glanced from side to side; Ray and Winston were firing again, and while the streams didn't seem to be containing the specter, they did seem to be annoying it enough to hold it off, at least for the moment.
He broke from his cover and ran across the floor, weaving from shelf to display to counter, landing at the end of the isle where the wicker containers had once been stacked. They lay scattered in every direction, lids knocked aside.
"What am I looking for?" he yelled, over the crackling hum of Egon's stream joining Ray's and Winston's.
Egon shook his head. "Anything out of the ordinary." Three streams weren't pinning it in place at all, although the phantasmal serpent seemed to dislike the sensation enough to keep it from charging them. It had good hunting instincts, but didn't seem terribly intelligent. Possibly it assumed it could wear them down.
"Right." Peter swore under his breath as he grabbed baskets and flung them aside. Some of them appeared to be full of shredded raffia; the rest were empty. Scooping them up off the floor and tossing them behind him, he was just about to run out when a dark object fell out of the next to last one with a clatter.
"I got something!" he shouted, diving for it. The phantom cobra screeched, and tried to break away from the other three; they fell back, shoulder to shoulder. It writhed, coils slithering out to either side, as if it were trying to surround them.
Ray chanced a backwards glance. "What is it?"
Peter picked it up. "I'm not sure. It's a musical instrument. A flute, maybe?"
"Swap," ordered Ray. Peter looked at the struggling snake-spirit, shivered, and joined his stream to the fight. He was right; four wasn't enough to contain it, although it did drive it back against the front counter again. Ray raised his thrower, gave the specter one last blast, and dropped back to join Peter, who stepped into Ray's place in line.
"Oh, crud," murmured Ray. "Yeah, it's a musical instrument, but it's not a flute. It's a double-reed, like an English horn. I can't play it."
"You were going to take a jam break?" Peter asked, disbelieving.
"What?" Egon's head snapped up. He shot Ray a brief look. "Ray, change places with me."
Winston snorted, "We're dancing a regular quadrille, here." But he covered as Ray and Egon repeated the maneuver. The giant cobra gathered its coils again and began inching forward against the pressure of the streams.
"Hmm. It's closer to an oboe than an English horn," Egon commented dryly. The phantom snake raised its head and threw its hood open, filling their field of view.
"Um, Egon? We could use a little help up here," gulped Peter, as the specter pushed forward another foot against their combined efforts.
Instead of a fourth proton burst, what came from behind them was a high-pitched squeak, followed by Egon's voice muttering "oh, damn," and then a low, whining note.
The spectral serpent stopped its forward undulation and reared upright, eyes opening slightly.
The droning tone wavered, and then resolved into a slow, simple three-note tune. The spectral cobra wove gently in place.
The tune hit a sour note, stumbled, and stopped. "Nuts," grumbled Egon. The snake's eyes narrowed and it began pressing towards them again, with a greater sense of urgency.
"Just keep going," Ray said in a rush. "I don't think it matters if it's pretty or not."
"A very good thing, if so." The same low droning tone rang out, louder this time, and then a different tune started, still simple but more rhythmic.
The phantom viper's eyes opened wider, almonds of gleaming red, and again it stopped, as if rooted to the spot, as it swayed slowly in time to the music. Its head lowered, as if to look its charmer in the eyes. Ray raised his thrower and stepped towards it, shielding Egon, and Peter followed.
"Quick, while it's not moving," barked Peter, reaching for the trap on his belt.
Ray didn't budge; he was staring back into the snake's vermillion orbs. His eyes were wide, and beginning to drift out of focus. His stream flickered out as his finger fell off the trigger button.
Peter nudged him. "Ray? We're here to capture Mr. Scaly here, not for mutual music appreciation, remember?"
"I got it, Pete - trap out," Winston called, the blue-and-yellow box hitting the floor and skating out beneath the ghostly serpent's coils.
"I can't tell if Ray's being mesmerized by the cobra or by Egon's playing," Peter mused. Ray's mouth went slack, and the thrower tumbled from his hands. Peter waved his fingers in front of Ray's face, and got no response.
Winston stomped on the pedal. "It won't matter in a minute," he said, as the cone of white light flashed out; the snake was drawn in without a struggle, still undulating lightly to the strange instrument's music.
As soon as the trap snapped shut, Ray's head came up, and he blinked. "Ah! What hap - oh, Peter, there you are." His face was calm, almost eerily so, but he clutched for his older friend, and his hands made white-knuckled fists in the folds of Peter's uniform; Peter curled a protective arm around Ray, bewildered.
"What happened?" Emerald eyes met amber, probing for any lingering sign of paranormal influence.
Ray shook his head and pressed his forehead against Peter's shoulder. "I was stupid. I looked in its eyes. It just - it kind of sucked me in." He shuddered.
The music trailed off, and Egon's long hand settled on Ray's back. "Are you all right now?"
Ray breathed deeply and let go of Peter. "I'm fine. I just wasn't thinking. Snakes do that to birds all the time; I used to watch corn snakes catch chickens that way."
"This really shouldn't have worked," Egon noted, holding the wooden instrument up to look at it. "Snakes can't hear music; they're deaf."
Ray nodded, his gaze more steady now. "Sure, but this wasn't a real snake - maybe it's based on a serpent archetype. And an archetype would follow the myths as though they were real. I mean, it sure looks like that's what someone used to trap the specter in the first place."
Winston carried the smoking trap over to where they stood. "Egon, m'man, I didn't know you played oboe."
"Yeah, I've seen you play piano, but I didn't realize you knew anything else," Ray added, glad for the distraction from his moment of weakness.
Egon shrugged. "Piano, viola, cello, oboe, English horn, and a little bit of classical guitar. Although Father wasn't happy about that last one."
"Great," Peter grinned. "We should form a band."
Winston grimaced. "Pete, you can't play anything. You scare Slimer when you try."
"I can noodle around on keyboards okay," protested Peter. Ray smirked behind one hand. The psychologist turned back to Egon. "But I - "
The bell at the door jingled, and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the shop. "Did you get it? I saw the bright light," Mrs. Gabiz asked, peeking around the doorframe.
"We got it," Peter boasted, waving one hand at the trap. "Now, about our fee - "
"Ray already covered that with me on the phone," she answered, heading towards the cash register and digging out an old-style checkbook. "Five thousand for capture and containment, and he said he'd waive the recharging fees for an old friend."
"Did he now?" Peter asked, one eyebrow sliding upwards as he fixed Ray with a piercing glare.
"But we think this might have occult properties," Ray broke in, hastily looking away from Peter and pointing at the instrument Egon still held. "We'd like to take it with us, if that's okay."
She glanced over it. "Keep it. If it's cursed, I don't need it in my shop, and I didn't know it was there anyway, so I don't even have it on the inventory."
Peter's mouth was a thin line as he glanced back at Ray. "Then I think we're all done here."
The store owner carefully tore out the check and handed it to Peter. "And the windows are even all in one piece. Man, I gotta get the insurance guy out here."
They loaded the car in awkward silence, Peter still occasionally spearing Ray with a pointed stare. Once they were buckled into Ecto, though, he sighed, looked at the roof of the vehicle, and said "Ray, no more specials for your friends, I mean it this time."
"Sorry," Ray squeaked.
Peter's expression shifted abruptly. "Hey, Tex, I'm not trying to shout at you, I just -"
"I know, I know." Ray's head lolled back against the seat. "I got carried away on the phone. I just - I'm just tired, Peter."
"And your aura's still scrambled by whatever Big, Green, and Scaly was doing to you," Peter added, more gently.
"I concur," Egon chimed in. "Your electrometabolic readings are not completely normal, Ray. You're not showing signs of possession - "
"Thank God," Winston muttered.
" - But you're reading as if your subconscious mind is still psychokinetically open. You might even be in a state of extreme suggestibility," the physicist concluded.
"How could you tell, on me?" Ray shrugged, grinning. The others chuckled at the joke, but Peter still looked concerned - self-deprecating humor was not entirely safe, for Ray.
Peter decided to change the subject. "So how is it that I've known you for fifteen years and I never knew you played anything but piano, Spengs?"
Egon's eyes darkened. "It's . . . a long story."
"We'll hit traffic on the bridge. We've got time," Winston assured him.
The physicist glanced back at Ray, then looked straight ahead. "Father assumed that, as an intellectual prodigy, I should also be outstanding in other areas as well. Mother suggested music would be a natural area to try. So from age four onwards, I received music lessons from a variety of local tutors." He sighed. "I wasn't good enough."
Ray frowned slightly. "What I heard tonight sounded pretty good for someone at least fifteen years out of practice."
"And with no embouchure to speak of," Egon nodded, rubbing his lower lip; a thread of blood came away on his hand, and Peter winced slightly. "I'm . . . not embarrassed by my level of talent. It was an interesting experience. Everything else either came trivially easily to me, or it didn't come at all." The physicist's eyes were unfocused, his gaze lost in his memories. "Everything intellectual was no challenge at all. Ancient languages, biology, mathematics, the other sciences, even history and literature, all were simple. I never had to try; any effort at all on my part was sufficient to be successful."
"Except for things like social skills," Peter jabbed gently.
"Exactly." Egon's eyes returned to the present and flicked to Peter's reflection in the window. "Those were impossible no matter how much effort I brought to bear. That, and . . . the Bogeyman." He swallowed, his long throat tightening. "Those were both things that no amount of trying on my part ever brought me any measure of success at."
"Music was different. I was . . . talented, but not prodigiously so. It required real effort on my part to improve, to master new pieces and techniques. I had to practice." Egon shook his head. "That was when I learned how to study."
Peter smirked. "Maybe I should have tried it."
"Perhaps," Egon responded drily. "But if I hadn't learned it then, I might well have panicked when I started my master's research at MIT. That was the first time merely reviewing my notes wasn't sufficient to make a perfect score on a test. Instead, I remembered having to practice on the cello, and I understood that I would need to do something similar, as my academic peers had been doing around me since before it occurred to me to notice. Without that experience, I might have simply decided I'd reached the limits of my intellect."
"Perish the thought," Ray murmured, grinning.
"But Father wasn't interested in my personal development, at least not in that sense. He wanted someone who could compete, who could make him proud by defeating everyone else." Egon frowned, the crease that only appeared when he discussed his family tracing across his forehead. "My being quite good, when I practiced, wasn't good enough for him. I was one of the top five pianists in my age group in the Cleveland area at age seven, but 'one of the top five' was insufficient. I had to be the best performer, or not perform at all. That's one of the reasons I know several instruments; he switched me around, trying to find the one I could be 'competitive,' as he put it, at." He let out a tight breath. "He declared, when I turned fourteen, that he would no longer finance my endeavors in an area I clearly lacked sufficient aptitude in."
Peter looked away. He'd made his opinion on the elder Spengler clear enough before; voicing the same opinion again wasn't going to change anything.
Ray spoke up, softly. "I think I should start practicing harmonica again."
Winston glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. "Yeah, I could stand to get the old guitar out once in a while, myself."
Egon looked at the carved ebony in his lap. "It did feel good to play again, although if I am to continue on this particular instrument, I shall have to change out the reed. This one is quite old, and . . . splintery."
"So should I take up drums or voice lessons?" Peter smirked at Ray. Whatever nightmare his momentary entrancement had dropped Ray into, his concern for Egon seemed to be distracting him nicely.
The engineer looked up, thoughtfully. "Well, if our choices for a lead vocalist are you, Janine, and Slimer . . . gee, that's a tough call."
Peter dove for him, fingers jabbing for the ticklish spot under his ribs. Ray retaliated with the insides of Peter's elbows, and they laughed and squirmed until Winston yelled at them not to stress out Ecto's shocks, grinning in spite of himself. Egon spread his hands over the finger-holes on the smooth wooden surface, a gentle smile at his lips.