Busted on Christopher Street

 

There are days when you just wait for that alarm to go off, or the phone to ring, or to hear Janine yelling out addresses and details as we struggle into our gear. You spend the whole day with one ear tuned for those specific sounds, never quite relaxing, and you go to bed edgy when they don't happen. Ray, Winston, hell, even Egon will tell you the same.

This, however, was not one of those days. It was March and a cold hard rain had been beating at the firehouse windows since dawn. This was a day to curl up in front of the TV with a mug of hot chocolate and watch whatever drek was on until you sank into a comfortable, rain-induced stupor. Only for a Geraldo fistfight would I crack an eyelid before supper.

Or at least that was my plan.

I was well into the dozing stage by mid afternoon when the shrill ring of the alarm lifted me off the couch. I was halfway to the pole before I woke up completely. How's that for Pavlovian conditioning?

For once I was the first one downstairs. "Whatcha got for us, Janine?" I asked, running for my locker.

"Haunted building site on Christopher Street," she told me between gum snaps. "Something big and invisible tossed some construction guys around when they tried to start renovations."

Ray caught the tail end of all this as he came sliding down the pole.

"A feisty one, huh?" He was already grinning. "Are they still there?"

"No, it happened yesterday. Apparently the owners weren't too happy about having to call us in. The architect in charge of the project is meeting you there. His name is Steinmetz and he's already on his way."

She gave us the address and Ray arched an eyebrow in my direction. "Christopher Street?"

Back in our college days, not too long after he moved in with Egon and me, Ray ran into me down there very unexpectedly. For both of us. He was on his way to a new occult shop a few streets over. I was coming out of a bathhouse with one of my experimental-stage pickups. It might not have been such a big deal if I hadn't gone into such detail bragging up the totally stacked, totally fictitious girl I was supposedly going out with that night. It took a while to calm him down, but in the end I discovered that he was more hurt that I'd lied to him than anything else. Keeping up a macho image wasn't something Ray Stanz ever worried about, even back then. He couldn't care less who I was sleeping with, only that I'd assumed he'd write me off as a friend because of it. I convinced him to keep my secret for me, and as far as I know, he has. Not too long after that AIDS really took hold and I stopped hanging out down there. I hadn't been back in years.

Rain sheeted off Ecto's windshield as Winston drove south on Fifth Avenue. Traffic was more fouled up than usual and even with our sirens blaring, we still got caught in two cab jams.

It was nearly four o'clock by the time we turned onto Christopher. There weren't too many people out on the street yet, but the place was already lit up, just like I remembered it. The stores were still open, displaying everything from luggage and fine art to vibrators and full bondage suits in their big, lighted windows.

Egon was in back with me and I grinned to myself as I watched him taking in the scenery with his usual detached interest.

"Ever been down this way, Spengs?"

"No." He turned to stare at a mannequin wearing a particularly complex and uncomfortable-looking combination of straps and buckles. "Fascinating. Almost tribal in its use of cultural significators expressed as dress."

"People could say the same thing about us," Winston noted, giving Ray's shoulder patch a poke with his finger.

The place had changed a lot since my last trip down here. I recognized a few clubs and stores, but most had changed hands and names, or shut down altogether.

The address we'd been given turned out to be an abandoned club I didn't remember. I was surprised no one had tried to reclaim it before now; it the kind of fancy facade that usually drew developers. A new sign hanging askew on the door announced: "Coming soon! Erique's Eatery."

In this day and age, that probably really did mean a restaurant. Ah, for the old days.

On second glance, I could see that this place was going to take some serious fixing up. At the moment it featured large plate glass windows and doors painted black on the inside and a rusted metal light fixture over the door that would have looked trendier on the front of a gas station.

A shiny black BMW was parked in front. As we pulled up behind it a middle aged suit climbed out with a blueprint tube under his arm. He looked at us, then checked his watch pointedly, not looking like a happy camper. Winston glanced back at me in the rearview and winked.

"Ray, you want to do the honors?" I asked. Attila the Hun on a bad day couldn't stay mad in the face of the patented Stanz charm.

"You bet." Ray clambered out. "Hi, Mr. Steinmetz, I'm Dr. Ray Stanz. Sorry we're so late but you know how crazy traffic gets in rain . . ."

By the time the rest of us had our gear on, Ray had Steinmetz calmed down, or at least calmer. Anger at us had given way to what looked like a bad case of nerves. The rain was pouring down harder than ever now, but he didn't seem in any hurry to get us into the building.  His hands shook as he unlocked the door.

The minute we stepped into what had been a large bar area I began to sympathize. The place had a vibe unlike anything we'd run into. Ever.  And we've stumbled into some pretty weird shit.

No wonder I didn't remember this place; it hadn't been the sort of establishment I'd have gone into on a bet. The walls, windows, exposed ductwork, and industrial light fixtures were all painted out in flat black, the only exception being the long, faded mural on the left wall. Very kinky, in a Tom's of Finland kind of way.

Dusty shackles hung from rings here and there on the walls and an upright X-shaped pillory stood on a raised platform near the mural. A long curving bar stood opposite the door, tastefully done up in cracked mirror tiles and peeling red Formica. On either side of us, just inside the door, a bunch of power tools and sawhorses lay where they'd been dropped.

Looking around, I knew it wasn't the decorating that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Even with all the lights on, the place had a menacing feel that had nothing to do with bad decor.

Steinmetz had stopped just inside the door. "You've got your work cut out for you here," I remarked. "It's going take some major work just to bring this place up to awful. How about the nickel tour?"

"Not for a million nickels, Dr. Venkman. But I've got the floor plans here."  He handed Ray the roll of blueprints and edged closer to the door.

I could tell Ray and Winston were feeling the weird vibe, too. Winston eyed the pillory with obvious disgust. Ray, usually Mr. Enthusiasm, was blushing and fidgeting as he tried not to look at the mural.

Egon was still his usual cool egghead self, though. With his PKE in one hand and his thrower in the other, he made a circuit of the room, looking like a very bookish Marine on point.

He made a careful check of the raised platform and a broken wooden paddle he found lying in a far corner, then came to a stop in front of a door at the back of the room. The words "This Way To Nirvana" were crudely hand lettered across it in white paint. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he studied that a moment, frowning. "What a curious statement."

Steinmetz chuckled nervously. "I think this falls a bit outside your usual area of expertise, Dr. Spengler. During its heyday, this was The Top Hand, one of the wildest rough trade bars in Manhattan."

"So, Mr. Steinmetz, can you describe what happened, exactly?" Ray asked, visibly squeamish now.  "With the ghost, I mean."

The architect pointed to the abandoned tools. "This is about as far as we got before something grabbed the foreman and tossed him across the bar. A carpenter's apprentice, young kid named Sweeney, got dragged across the floor by his feet to that door-" He pointed at "Nirvana".  "It just flew open by itself. He was half way in before the other men got hold of him and pulled him free. After that everyone bolted and I haven't been able to get them back in since."

"Can't say I blame 'em," muttered Winston. "This place would give Charles Manson the creeps."

"Did you see any kind of shape?" Ray asked, launching into our usual diagnostic spiel. "Full or partial torso? Head and arms? Misty outline? Did the temperature drop?"

"No, none of that. At least not that I saw. It all happened so fast! But it did seem very deliberate."

"Deliberate?" Ray nodded. "Well, that and the apparent physical strength certainly rules out anything below a class two, along with minor free floating repeaters. I'd say we're dealing with a conscious entity, one that doesn't like having its territory invaded. Picking up anything, Egon?"

Egon was still peering down at the PKE readout. "Hmmm. There's definitely something here, gentlemen, but it seems to be dormant at the moment. Given the building's history, I'd say there's a good chance this is the result of some serious and highly unusual residual ectoplasmic resonances trapped in the structure itself. Your assumption that the entity is territorial is probably quite correct. Tell me, Mr. Steinmetz, has this building had any history of vandalism or squatters since it was abandoned?"

"Actually, no," the architect told him. "I checked with the police when I first got this project. It's been remarkably free of trespassers."

"Color me amazed," I muttered. You'd have to be one desperate bum to spend a night in here.

Egon was nodding as if he'd expected the same answer.

This was all making me antsy. The sooner we got this job underway and saw what we were really up against, the better I'd like it. "OK, sir, we'll have a look around and get back to you with our initial findings later this evening."

"Can you get rid of it, Dr. Venkman? It took months to line up the investors and if they hear about this . . ."

"Don't worry," I assured him. "I'm guessing all we have here is a regular who didn't hear the bartender shout 'last call'."

That was complete bull, of course, but I didn't think, "Holy shit, wish you'd called someone else" would inspire the proper level of wallet-opening confidence.

Steinmetz gave me a hopeful look and bolted out the door. I unholstered my thrower.

"Do you really think that's all this is, Peter?" Ray asked, doing the same.

"Since you asked? No."

Winston checked out the shadowy exposed rafters overhead. "Do I even have to say it?"

"No," muttered Ray. "Rough trade? What the heck is that all about?"

"Oh, you know," I told him, "Whips, chains, collars, pain, humiliation. It's a lot like grad school, only you're more likely to get pissed on or laid. Possibly both."

Egon shot me a deadpan look. "You suddenly know a lot about this."

I grinned at him. "Back off, man, I'm a psychologist. If it hadn't been for all those spicy human sexuality courses I'd never have made it through my undergrad. Ok, men, let's make some investors happy."

Ray went to the bar and spread out the floor plans on top of it. "Well, at least it's not a huge place. Looks like we've got two finished floors, maybe a thousand square feet each, plus an attic and a basement. I say we stick together."

Egon tapped the PKE meter. "Given the readings thus far, I believe we'll be safe enough in pairs."

"And take half the time," I agreed. "Don't worry, Ray, I'll take you to that new Disney store on Times Square when we're done here, fill us up with some good wholesome energy."

"Ha ha. Very funny," growled Ray. "Come on, Winston, we'll take the upstairs. Dr. Smartass here can have the nice dark cellar."

"Sounds good to me." Winston followed him toward the stairs behind the bar. "Stay in radio contact, guys. This shouldn't take long."

"Right." I checked my headset and throat mike, then turned to find Egon staring at the Nirvana door again. "Whaddya say, Spengs? Upstairs or down first?"

"I think it would be wise to secure this level before proceeding, since this is where the manifestation originated."

"Sounds like a plan." Frankly, I fervently hoped we'd run into our Ghost of Floggings Past up here, rather than in some dark, smelly basement. I've had too many nasty experiences in basements already.

A quick check of the main room turned up nothing but contractor footprints and an empty K-Y tube.  I tossed it over to Egon.  "Don't leave home without it." 

He ran the PKE over it. "No activity. The expiration date stamped on the end expired 12 years ago, though."

"So our spook hasn't gotten lucky in awhile."

He set the tube carefully on a window ledge. "I hardly think a noncorporeal being would have any need of-"

I stifled a laugh. That's our Egon: tall, blond, cute as hell, and 100 per cent business.

Just then we caught the sound of proton fire from upstairs. I hit my throat mike. "Yo, Ray, you guys OK up there?"

"Yeah, just a couple of class ones on the second floor. Winston got 'em. No sweat."

"OK, but keep your eyes open. That doesn't sound like what Steinmetz described."

"Right, Peter. We're heading for the attic now."

Behind the Nirvana door we found another, larger room divided up into open cubicles. The walls here were covered in cheap dark paneling, the floor with stained vinyl flooring. There were no lights here and no windows. I pulled out my flashlight and investigated the first two cubicles: stained cots, couple of torn Trojan wrappers, and more K-Y.

"Not exactly a honeymoon suite in the Poconos," Egon observed.

"Hardly. But that's not the point, is it?"

He gave me that odd, questioning look again over the tops of his glasses. "Care to elucidate, Dr. Venkman? I find myself quite out of my depth here."

This didn't surprise me. If you could use spores, molds or fungus as a sexual aide, Egon might have shown some interest, but for the most part, things nookie-related just didn't register on his radar. Such a waste, too. If I didn't love the guy so much as a friend, I'd have been tempted to try and clue him in. Those buttoned-down academic types just beg have their hair mussed, Egon more literally than most.

"Well, I'm betting people didn't come here for the food. There's a proven correlation between pleasure and pain for some people, with a great deal of variation within the psychological subset. Some folks like the occasional spanking to warm them up for vanilla sex. Others crave heavy pain. Carefully administered, it induces a hormonal rush similar to--"

Egon cut me off with an impatient snort. "I am quite familiar with the concept of sexual masochism, Peter. I was referring to the depressing surroundings. I wouldn't wait for a bus in here, much less- Well, anything. Hardly my idea of Nirvana."

I caught him in the flashlight beam. "So the "Lower Depths" motif doesn't turn you on? Why, Dr. Spengler, I had no idea you were such a romantic!"

He threw a hand up to shade his eyes. "I'm going to do something quite unromantic and very in keeping with our surroundings with that flashlight if you don't get it out of my face."

"Promises, promises," I chuckled and got a very startled look in reply. I hastily turned the light on a nearby door and went to investigate whatever horrors lay beyond. This place was getting to me.

The door opened into a small bathroom fitted with stained porcelain sinks and urinals.  "Jeeze, this is cleaner than ours."

"That would suggest that it's been your turn to clean it some time in the past month," Egon muttered, waving his own light around across the room.

More proton fire came from upstairs. "Just more low level squatters," Ray assured me over the com. "You guys got anything yet?"

"Need any K-Y?"

"Finding plenty up here," Winston chimed in. "These upstairs goopers are all small fry, guys. You don't suppose the big nasty was just passing through?"

"I doubt it," Egon replied. "I'm getting a shift in energy down here. I think I can adjust the meter to focus more clearly on the source."

"How long will that take?" I asked.

"Approximately ninety eight seconds."

 "Do it, before things start hopping. But keep your head up, Egon. This is no time for you to drift of to theory land."

The mumble I got in reply told me he was already at work.

Another small door near the bathroom let into a storage cupboard, currently stocked with a few dusty leather straps, a box of K-Y, and a plastic salad spinner.

"Check this out, Egon. I'm not sure I want to know why this is here.  Egon?"

No answer.

I turned around and found myself alone in the room. Egon wasn't in the bar either, or outside on the sidewalk.

Shit.

"Ray, Winston! Is Egon up there with you?" Stupid question. No way had he had time to get up there.

Winston's voice came in, already tense. "No, man, I thought he was with you."

"Get down here. We have a situation."

I rushed back into the Nirvana room and started a second search, looking for another door. Nothing!

Suddenly I heard a muffled cry that might have been my name. I whirled around, thrower ready, and heard it again. It was Egon and it was coming from beneath my feet, very muffled. He was in the basement, and he was in trouble.

"Ray, Winston, hurry!"

"We're coming down now-" Winston's voice was cut off by a loud slam. "Damn, it won't open!"

"What won't open?"

"Peter, we're trapped on the second floor!" This time it was Ray and he was frantic. "The door won't budge!"

"Blast it!"

"It's a metal fire door. It may take some time."

"Head for the basement when you get down," I ordered.

"Wait, Pete!" Winston called. "It's splitting us up!"

I knew that, but another cry came from below and this time there was no mistaking the sound. Egon was hurting.

"Basement, basement, basement . . ." I searched both downstairs rooms for a way down and came up empty. Running to the bar, I grabbed the plan for this floor. Maybe there was a bulkhead outside, but that didn't explain how a six-foot four scientist and fifty pounds of heavy gear had disappeared without me hearing anything.

I got myself oriented on the blueprint and immediately spotted a door and stairway marked at the far back corner of the Nirvana room, an area I was certain I'd already searched. I ran back anyway, thrower in one hand, flashlight in the other.

Upstairs I could hear the buzzing whine of a thrower on full power, but no break through explosion.

As I ran into the last cubicle, my foot came down on something crunchy. Lifting my boot, I saw the shattered remains of Egon's glasses. A few feet away, next to the wall, lay his flashlight, switched off.

Desperate now, I searched the back of the cubicle and found what I'd missed before; the outline of a door set flush into the wall, covered with paneling. It looked like one of those that you pushed on to release a hidden catch. I tried it but it didn't give. I knew I was on the right track, though. I could hear Egon yelling more clearly now, along with some sort of rhythmic thudding noise.

Swearing under my breath, I blasted the flimsy door off its hinges and charged down the rickety wooden stairs beyond. They shook like they were going to go out from under me at every step but held long enough for me to get down into a long, low room at the bottom. A single bare bulb overhead lit it well enough for me see that it had been fitted out with a weird collection of gym equipment and S&M toys. The PKE meter lay in the middle of the room, like a breadcrumb for me to follow. Another door stood slightly ajar at the far end of this room and through it I could hear that loud, rhythmic slapping noise and cries for help rapidly rising to strangled shrieks.

In hindsight, sure, it could have been a trap, but the sound of Egon's bass voice climbing rapidly into the alto range drove out all thoughts except making whatever was happening to him stop. Bursting into the room, I registered only two things: Egon, tied face down and naked over an old pommel horse, and the hulking black specter-Class Four at least-wielding a broad leather paddle across his red, up-turned backside.

The thing had the general shape of a body builder with a skull for a head. It just had time to turn to me before I hit it full stream and knocked it across the dank brick-walled chamber.

It fought like a hooked marlin. The backlash threw me across the room and knocked my headset flying, but somehow I managed to hang on to it long enough for Ray and Winston to arrive and join the roundup. Someone threw out a trap and we wrestled Skullface into the beam.

The specter fought to the last gasp before disappearing, paddle and all, into the trap. The lid snapped shut and for a moment the only sound was Egon's raw, panicked breathing.

The thing had trussed him up tight, and strapped a cracked old rubber ball gag in his mouth. Ray and Winston were still by the door, looking shell-shocked by the scene now that they had time to take it in.

I stepped in front of Egon, shielding him from view as best I could. "Go see if any more of these creeps are lurking around, OK?"

Winston gave me a knowing look as he pulled Ray out. "We will, Pete. You take as long as you need here." He shut the door quietly behind him.

Turning back to Egon, I undid the rusty buckle of the gag as gently as I could. Egon kept his eyes squeezed shut as I worked, but that didn't stop the tears from coming.

"Get me loose!" he begged as soon as the gag was out. "I can't-" He thrashed furiously against the ropes that held his wrists and ankles. "Damn it, Peter, get me loose before anyone sees!"

Before? I thought. Ray and Winston had already had more than an eyeful. And it wasn't like we hadn't all seen each other in the altogether more than once, either. But the desperation in Egon's voice told me that this situation had mortified the normally stoic man beyond what he could bear.

The knots were hopeless; Skullface had definitely been a Top Hand regular in life. I dug in the pocket of my jumpsuit and found my jack knife.

"Egon, you've got to hold still so I can cut the ropes without hurting you. Can you do that, buddy? I'll have you loose in no time, I promise."

He stopped thrashing and pressed his face to the pommel horse's leather surface, trying to stifle the frantic sobs wracking his thin body.  He must have known he was safe now, but he seemed to be getting more agitated by the minute, rather than less.

"It's ok, buddy, it's all right," I babbled nervously, freeing his ankles first, then his hands. I tried to help him up but he slid away from me, collapsing in a heap on the far side of the horse. I came around to help him but he pushed me away, remaining crouched where he was.

"My clothes," he whispered. "Hand me my clothes."

"You OK in there, guys?" Ray called through the door.

"Hurry!" Egon begged.

Snagging his jumpsuit, I tried to help him into it, but he grabbed it and turned away. His narrow ass was as red as a Winesap apple, and so was his face.

"Take it easy, Egon. It's just you and me here. There's nothing to be--"

He staggered trying to pull on the legs of his jumpsuit and I got a glimpse of something I hadn't seen before; a rock hard, purple-headed, fine upstanding Spengler hard on. Under other circumstances, I'd have been impressed, intrigued even, but this was Egon and he was clearly on the verge of total meltdown. He got his jumpsuit zipped to the waist, then fell to his knees again, face buried in his hands.

He wasn't crying now, but I could hear his breath hissing fast through his fingers. Kneeling down beside him, I leaned in close and gripped his shoulder firmly. He was shaking so bad it was a wonder he could stay upright at all.

"It's ok, Egon. Listen to Dr. Venkman here, it's just a stress reaction. It doesn't mean anything."

He made a choked sound and hunkered lower.I got an arm around him and pulled him against me. He allowed that, barely, and wiped angrily at the tears that streaked his face.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, buddy, we bagged the bastard. It's over. Let's get you home."

He drew in another hitching breath, then nodded. "Yes, by all means. Hand me my other clothes, will you?"

"That's all right. Ray can-"

He looked up at me, his reddened eyes imploring. "Please, Peter. Hand me my clothes. Something. Anything. Please."  He looked hastily away again, blushing more furiously than ever.

Holy cow, I thought, realization dawning. He's still hard, and ashamed as hell.I reached back under the horse and found his discarded trousers. He clutched them in his lap as if his soul was in the right front pocket.

 I got an arm around him again and tried to help him up but his legs wouldn't support him.

I called the others in and Winston got his other side. Ray slung Egon's pack and boots over his shoulder and gathered the rest of his things. Between the three of us we got Egon up the creaking stairs and out to Ecto 1. Egon crawled into the back seat and curled up against the far door, arms wrapped around his knees, head down, eyes tightly shut. His hands were balled into fists so tight his knuckles were white. Jesus, even his bare toes were clenched. I slid in beside him, wishing I knew what to say. Ray looked back from the shotgun seat but I shook my head.

"He's ok, guys. Just drive."

But we all knew I was blowing smoke. I was not exactly a virgin when it came to strange sexual experiences and this would have had me screaming and crawling under the furniture. I couldn't begin to guess what it had done to Egon.

We drove home in silence. As soon as the car stopped he lurched out and bolted up the stairs.

"What's wrong?" Janine demanded from behind her desk.

"It was a bad one," Winston told her, motioning for me to follow Egon. "He got slammed bad and he's still pretty shaken up."

"Oh no!"  She started for the stairs.

"No! Thanks, Janine, but not now, OK?" Leaving the others to hold her off, I took the stairs two at a time. I checked the bathroom first, and then went straight on to the bunkroom. Egon was a quivering heap under his blankets. I sat down and felt for his shoulder again. "It's just me, Egon. You're safe now, you hear? It's all right."

The lump under the blanket curled up into a smaller ball, quite a feat for such a tall man. "No, it's not," he managed. From the sound of it, he had his face buried in a pillow.

"Why don't you come up for air, buddy? I think you need to talk-"

A tear stained face emerged for a moment from beneath the covers. "Thank you, Peter, but I'd prefer not to," he grated out between clenched teeth, glaring myopically up at me. "What I need is to be left alone for awhile. I'll be fine. I just need to be alone for a while."

"No, you don't. But I'll go over on my bed, OK?"

This got me a grudging nod before he disappeared under the blankets again. Winston and the others peered in around the open doorway, Slimer floating over their heads. I waved them off, and then lay down on my bed with my hands under my head, listening to Egon's muffled weeping.

It was heartbreaking to hear. This man had faced horrors most people couldn't begin to imagine and come back calm and sane. He'd bounced back faster after falling off the World Trade Center.

Obviously danger was one thing, pain and abject humiliation quite something else. As the weeping went on and on, I couldn't stand it. Kicking off my boots, I peeled off my uniform and slipped in under the covers with him. He was turned away on his side, making it easy to spoon in behind him and get an arm over his chest. I expected another argument, but he just went limp against me and cried. I could feel heat rolling off him through our clothes, and the back of his uniform was soaked through with sweat. That was a good sign, in a way. At least he wasn't cold and shocky.  But he could still be in pain. Maybe he was hurt worse than I thought.

"Egon, if it's that bad, maybe I should have a look."

He pulled away a little, trying to get his backside away from my lap. "No! It doesn't hurt anymore."

"Well, something's wrong." A terrible possibility hit me as I said it, and for a moment I thought I was going to lose my lunch. "Jesus, Egon, it didn't rape you, did it?"

He gave me a horrified look over his shoulder. "Of course not!"

"Thank God! But there's still something really wrong. Can't you try to talk a little?"

He was quiet for a long time. "I- I don't know," he managed at last. "It was all so-"

For a minute all I could hear was his labored breathing as he tried master his shaking voice again. "So overwhelming. One minute I was standing there with you in that awful room--the next I was grabbed up by something so- so big! It threw me around like I was a ragdoll. There was nothing I could do! And then-and then---"

He pushed his face into the pillow again, shoulders shaking. I knew I hadn't heard all of it, but it was a start. He felt for my hand and held on tight. I tightened my arm around him, feeling his heart hammering under my wrist.

"I think you're having a panic attack, Egon. Breathe in, nice and easy. In and out. In and out."

He struggled to do as I said and after a few difficult moments he calmed a little, though he was still shaking badly.

"That's it, buddy. Keep breathing nice and easy. What say you turn over? I think we'd both be more comfortable and I plan to be here for a good long while."

I shifted with my back against the headboard. He turned over with a groan and settled his head against my side. I got both arms around him again and started stroking his back and hair.  To my surprise he moved closer, throwing one long leg over mine as he drifted off to sleep. To my even greater surprise, I was pretty certain I felt another Spengler Special pressing against my leg. It took care of itself after a few minutes, as Egon drifted deeper into sleep.

Now that Egon's crisis was over, I began to feel the day's impact and did some shaking of my own.

That thing had grabbed Egon with me standing less than two yards away. In what had to have been less than five minutes it had stripped and bound him and gotten a good head start on-

On what?

Suddenly the scene in the basement flooded back in my mind's eye. Egon naked--long legs pulled taut over the side of the horse, arms stretched out over his head. Every knob of spine and arch of rib standing out in fine relief. From the doorway, I'd had a perfect voyeur's view of that narrow waist and the tight, slight swell of his buttocks. The way they'd jiggled just the slightest bit as the huge paddle rebounded off them, the way Egon had strained and fought against the ropes, the way he tried to cry out to me through the gag . . .

I came out of a waking doze with a start and a woody of my own. Someone had turned off the bedroom lights, but I could feel Egon's long body still wrapped around mine, and the warm, even brush of his breath against my throat.

Down boy! I ordered my hardon. That is no way to respond to your best friend's worst nightmare.

Petey Junior wasn't listening. A hasty retreat was called for, but try as I might there was no way to get untangled from Egon without waking him. I gave up finally and thought unsexy thoughts: Slimer's breath, Ray's cooking, old women in bathing suits on Coney Island, Janine's voice, our insurance premiums.

As I dozed off again, however, my last thoughts were of Egon stretched over that horse.

It was still dark when I woke again, but this time I was alone and chilly. Light came in faintly from the hallway outside the bunkroom, enough for me to make out the sleeping forms of Ray and Winston across the room. My bed was still empty and there was no sign of Egon anywhere.

Alarm bells went off in my head. Having Egon disappear unexpectedly had always been on my top ten list of things I hated; as of today, it was number one with a bullet. I went out into the corridor and saw that the faint light was coming from the open doorway of Egon's workshop down the hall. I was barefoot and he didn't hear me come in. He was standing at the workbench in his ratty old flannel bathrobe, spare pair of tape-mended glasses perched on the end of his nose. He had his PKE meter in hand again, and this time he had it trained on himself-or more specifically on the considerable erection tenting the front of his robe.

"What are you doing?" I asked softly, hoping not to startle him.

No such luck. He almost jumped out of his skin and the meter went flying. "Peter!"

"Yeah, just me." I walked over and picked up the meter. "What in the world are you doing with this?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, grabbing for it, but I held it out of reach.

"Here, let me." I pointed it at him again and took the reading. "Yup, just as I suspected. Nothing registering but 100 percent scared-to-death physicist."

He sagged into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "I don't care what the meter says. I think I'm possessed!"

I leaned on the bench beside him and folded my arms. "And you think this why?"

He let out a long groan. "You saw why. It-it won't go away."

"Well, Egon, some guys wouldn't consider that a bad thing," I said, trying to make light. I reached to pat his shoulder. "And there are certainly plenty of things you can do--"

He leaped out of his chair. Freezing me with a baleful glare, he snapped, "We are NOT having this conversation!" With that, he stalked off back to the bunkroom.

It's a good thing I'm a trained psychologist, or I might have been hurt.

 

The next day life went back to normal, but Egon didn't. He tried to go through the motions, but he was twice as butter-fingered and absent-minded as usual, something I hadn't thought possible until I saw it.

In the space of twelve hours he managed to explode an empty trap, drop a thrower down the stairwell, burn himself on the toaster, release the catch on the day's only bust, smash the medicine cabinet mirror, and drop a cup of hot coffee on Ecto-1's hood about five seconds after Ray finished waxing it. The rest of us watched in silent amazement and found excuses to keep him away from the more dangerous equipment after that.

That night he turned in early and was asleep by the time the rest of us came to bed. That never happened unless he was seriously ill.

Ray paused by Egon's bed, his round face lined with concern. All we could see of Egon was the top of his head.

"He's having a rough time with this, Peter," Ray whispered. "Do you think he should go talk to someone? A doctor, maybe?"

"Yes, but I dare you to suggest it to him."

"He'll be all right," Winston said from his bed. "Egon's tougher than the rest of us put together. Just give him some time."

I wanted to believe that, but the minute I fell asleep I was right back at the Top Hand again, hearing Egon calling me, begging me to help him, and this time I couldn't find the basement door.

I woke up in a cold sweat, still hearing him. That really jumped me, until I realized that it was him, talking in his sleep. It must have gotten into my dreams.

There was just enough light from the hall for me to make out Egon lying face down, face half buried in his pillow. He was muttering my name as he struggled through some nightmare of his own. I watched him for a moment, wondering if I should wake him. The way he was moving-if this had been anyone else but Egon Spengler, I'd have said he was humping the mattress. After a moment he went still.

Shaking my head, I lay back again and listened until he started snoring softly.

 

Over the next week or so Egon managed not to burn the place down, but he still didn't seem himself.  He was slower off the mark than ever during busts and at night he continued to thrash and moan in his sleep, begging me to help him. We took turns waking him up after a while, or no one would have gotten any sleep at all.

During the day, he spent a lot of time in the bathroom and lab, and watched afternoon game shows with Ray and Winston. He even out went for long walks, and this the man who, for as long as I'd known him, had considered carrying a cup of coffee upstairs a sufficient daily workout. I hadn't seen him this restless since exam weeks back at Columbia.

He kept himself going somehow, though, and even seemed to cheer up now and then, but he was losing weight and looking darker under the eyes by the day.

 

On Day Nine, things got really weird. He got up early, showered for what seemed like hours, then cleaned his lab for the first in recorded history. The resulting pile of overstuffed trash bags and discarded debris at the curbside posed a serious threat to traffic.  Then he took another walk, came back with groceries, and cooked supper-- a great supper: chicken stew with dumplings, steamed green beans with slivered almonds, an honest to God scratch cake with broiled coconut frosting.  That he knew how the oven worked was a revelation to all of us. The fact that he didn't burn, break, or blow up anything in the process was another one for the record books.  We all had two helpings of everything and no one showed any signs of food poisoning. Well, not everyone had two helpings.

Despite our enthusiastic raves and ribbing, Egon just chased his food around his plate with his fork, off in his own world. From the woebegone expression on his long face, that didn't appear to be a very happy place these days. After supper he quietly excused himself and disappeared back into his lab.

"I don't like this, Peter," Ray whispered as we did the dishes. "I mean, I appreciate him making supper and all, but it's not-normal!"

"If he starts reshingling the roof tomorrow, we'll have him committed."  Ray sighed and I took a hand out of the dishpan long enough to give him a reassuring punch on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Dr. Venkman is on the job. I think it's time Egon and I have another talk, whether he wants to or not."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah, tonight."

We finished up the dishes and I headed for the lab, only to find the door shut and the lights off. I went across the hall to the TV room, where Winston was reading a book in front of an Andy Griffith rerun. "Seen Egon?"

"He was just here a minute ago, but he got restless and said something about a walk."

"Again with the walks!" I glanced out the window. It was dark, cold, and rainy out there.

"He won't go too far in that," said Winston.

I wasn't so sure. "I think I'll go see if the absent-minded professor remembered his umbrella. Be back in a while."

I grabbed a cell phone and a coat and got outside just in time to catch a glimpse of Egon turning a corner under a streetlight a few blocks down. He did, in fact, have his umbrella, which was more than I could say, as well as his dingy old overcoat. Ray or Winston would have been a lot harder to pick out of a crowd, but Egon? Piece of cake.

I ran to the corner, fully intending to catch up with him and drag him home for The Talk. By the time I got him in my sights again, though, it occurred to me that it might be useful to find out where he was going. So, feeling like a total fool and a bit of a traitor, I shadowed him instead. I assumed he'd head for a coffee shop or maybe even a movie, considering the weather. But he strode on, coat flapping around his long legs. I had to hurry to keep up.

After about an hour we ended up at the south of to Central Park. If he'd tried to go in there alone at night I'd have grabbed him and dragged him home, but he didn't, just kept going to Columbus Circle and on to Ninth. He began to make more turns after that. I was beginning to think he was running away from home when we turned off Bleeker onto Christopher. Things began to fall into place.

He slowed down finally and I had to blend into the thin, weeknight crowd to avoid being seen. He paused in front of a few shops, gazing pensively at the displays, then moved on. I checked out what he'd been looking at as I passed. Yup, you guessed it.  S&M gear. As I expected, his ultimate destination was the Top Hand. The contractors had been busy since our bust. Plywood covered the windows now, and the rusted light fixture over the door had been replaced by an expensive frosted globe. The facade had been steam cleaned, and the place already looked a hell of a lot more welcoming than it had before. I hung back, watching as Egon stared up at the new light for a moment, then took something from his pocket, and let himself in.

Where the hell had he gotten a key to the place? And when? Not to mention why?

I gave him a minute, then followed, hoping he'd shown his usual level of self-preservation and forgotten to lock the door behind him again.

He had.

I opened the door slowly and peered in, not wanting to scare him as I had the other night.

The lights were on, but the bar was empty. I shot the deadbolt and looked around.

The builders had made a good start on this floor. The S&M shit was gone and the mural had been painted over with Kilz.  That was a step in the right direction right there. The back area where the cubicles had been was totally gutted, taken right down to the brick. The door leading to the basement was gone, too, though I could still see the scorch marks my thrower had left on the woodwork around it. The creepy vibe was gone, too, courtesy of Ghostbusters, Inc. but it still felt strange being here at night.

Wet, size thirteen footprints lead from the door to the basement steps, but I'd already guessed where he was.

The basement stairs had been replaced, too, and made no sound as I walked down. The place was quiet. Too quiet. My imagination fired up a replay of the awful sounds I'd followed down here last time.

The dungeon had been cleaned out and more lights installed. Nothing was left down here but a strong smell of Lysol.

The door at the far end stood open this time and through it I could see Egon standing where the pommel horse had been, tears streaming down his long, sad face. He had a handkerchief in one hand, a PKE meter in the other.

He must have heard me coming this time. He didn't even look up as I joined him there. "Hey, Egon. Whatcha doing?"

He dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief and shook his head. "I called Steinmetz a few days ago, told him I wanted to check for residuals. He gave me a key."

"That much I figured out." I took the PKE from him and checked the dial. "Nothing. No residuals. But you knew there wouldn't be, didn't you?"

He nodded miserably.

"So why are you really here? Alone. At night. Here."

He took a shaky breath. "I thought it might help me understand what's happened to me, but-"

"But it hasn't."

More tears. "No, Peter. I think I must be going mad."

I took his arm and tried to draw him into the next room, away from that spot, but he wouldn't go. "You're not crazy, Egon, just traumatized. Who wouldn't be? Hell, you'd be visiting me in Bellevue right now if it had happened the other way around. Look, I know you haven't been sleeping well, and it's been hard to get back into the regular swing of things . . ."

"Hard?" He let out a bitter laugh as he pulled his arm away. "You just said a mouthful, Dr. Venkman." His coat fell open and I could see the outline of yet another erection straining through his trousers.

He'd finally managed to shock me. "Jesus, Egon! Here?"

His blue eyes were wild with desperation behind his glasses. "It's like I never left here. Like that moment just goes on and on and on in my head!"

"What moment?" I asked, although the penny had already started to drop-finally, and I could have kicked my own ass. Tinkering, cleaning, walks, showers-cold ones, no doubt, tossing and turning all night-- cooking, for God's sake? I should turn in my psychologist's diploma and tell them to change the secret handshake. Can we say "sublimation," boys and girls?

"What exact moment?" I amended.

Egon wrapped his arms around himself and hung his head. "Please, Peter, don't ask me that. Not ever. This will pass, I'm certain-"

"No, Egon. Here and now."

He shook his head again, looking like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. And we both knew how unpleasant that could be, but I digress.

"Egon, in case you've forgotten, you're my best friend. You've saved my life more times than I can remember and always been there when I needed you. There's nothing, absolutely nothing you can say that's going to change that. Now spill it! Doctor's orders. What moment?"

He still couldn't look at me, but he did start talking. "When that specter grabbed me, I couldn't do a thing to resist. It was as if it put me in some sort of trance state. I could see, hear, feel, but I couldn't move. The next thing I knew, my clothing was being torn off and I was being thrown down and tied and-"

I clasped his shoulder. "It's OK, Egon. I know, remember? I saw what it did. That wasn't your fault. There's nothing for you to feel guilty about."

"No?" He shook his head again, blonde hair falling over his forehead. "I was terrified, outraged, shocked beyond anything I'd ever experienced in my life. Then-then you were there. You-you- saw me. Like that. I saw you looking at me. I saw your face when you saw what it was doing to me. And-"

I waited, not quite knowing what to expect. It certainly wasn't what he said next.

"And suddenly I was more sexually aroused than I'd ever thought possible. Not that that's saying a lot, in my case, but this-" He gestured helplessly with the handkerchief, as if he still couldn't quite grasp what had happened to him. "The pain was already gone, replaced by-" He blushed to the roots of his hair. "Well, if it hadn't been for the immediate wave of crushing shame, the secondary sensations would have been extremely pleasurable. Ah, who am I kidding? It was extremely pleasurable and it only got worse as you worked to free me. You were so steady, so kind, so-I don't even have words for it. If you recall, I was in a great deal of distress by the time you finished, although you did not understand the actual cause and implication."

He paused, looking as if he expected me to take a swing at him or something. "That's the moment, Peter. I can't escape it, and I can't forget. I dream it every night, and think of it a hundred times a day, no matter what I do! And then this happens." He waved at his erection. "Every damn time!"

I thought of all those showers, all that time shut up in his lab. How did one delicately ask one's best friend and professional colleague if he jerked off? "So, have you been able to-ah, deal with the problem as it's come up?"

To my surprise, he looked relieved. He really had expected me to be offended, the poor dope.

"I'm not the complete naif you seem to assume, Peter. I have tried everything humanly possible short of actual intercourse, but nothing affords any relief. None at all, leaving me with what I believe you would call 'blue balls'."

Hearing those words come out of that man, and spoken in such earnest tones, I totally lost it.  Professional? No. But I'm only human and stunned, to boot. But in a good way.

"Oh Jesus, Egon!" Laughing helplessly, I threw my arms around him and tried to smother myself against his chest. "I'm sorry! I'm not laughing at you, I swear to God. It's just-Oh, I am so sorry! Why the hell didn't you just tell me?"

I could feel him bridle at this. "Oh yes, why not?" he growled, voice rumbling deep in his chest. "I can just picture us all at breakfast as I announce that I'm unable to stop fanaticizing about you finishing what that sadistic creature started! Perhaps I should have just dropped my pants and bent over the table? Would that have been the more therapeutic approach, in your professional estimation?"

"Whoa!" This really was my day for surprises. I took a step back to get a good look at his face, but kept a good grip on his arms all the same. "Probably not. But you're doing great here. Keep talking. Get it all out where we can deal with it."

He stared down at his feet and let out a little moan. "I-I never wanted you to know! If that thing hadn't grabbed me, done what it did? You never would have known, I swear to you. It's been years, really-- I never, ever wanted to put you in such an awkward position." He stopped and slapped a hand over his eyes. "Oh, this isn't coming out right at all!"

"Egon, am I understanding you right? Because what I think you're saying is that this fantasy of yours goes back a lot longer than a week ago."

"Being attacked like that was never my fantasy, not until-well, you know that. But my attraction to you, well--Since we met at Columbia, actually. But it's not important, Peter. Being your friend is, more than anything else I can think of and right now I'm terrified that I'm losing that, along with any respect you ever had for me."

"Hey, slow down, Mr. Know It All, and listen for a minute, OK?" I got a hand under his chin and made him look at me, making sure I had his full attention. "First of all, I'm bi. As in bisexual. As in 'been there, done that, lost the tee shirt, socks, and boxers.' OK, so it's been a while since I knocked any boots bigger than my own, but the candle's still in the window. But nothing you've just told me shocks me in the least. Surprise? Yes. Shock? That's a big no. You with me so far, buddy?"

Egon nodded, though he was getting that deer in the headlights look.

"Good. Second of all, your lanky blond charms have not gone unnoticed by me, either. Far from it, actually. So it appears we've both been the perfect gentlemen for about the same length of time. Still with me?"

The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Egon's mouth. "Yes, Peter, I'm starting to get the picture."

"Excellent. So, about your little-  Scratch that. About your very impressive problem? If you need some help with that, I'm your man."

He was totally agog now. "You're joking."

"Hell, no! I'd be honored. But not here." I got a firm grip on his arm and propelled him out the door and up the stairs. "As your doctor, I declare that to be an exceptionally unhealthy way of exorcising these particular demons. Besides, I happen to know that you're a romantic at heart and frankly, this place is just not you. Or me. Erique can bring in track lighting, a platoon of gypsy violinists, a shitload of ferns, even give me a lifetime pass, but I ain't coming back. And neither are you."

We were at the front door now. I held out my hand for the key and he gave it to me with a strange and very un-Egon-like smile. Then he leaned closer, tilting his head to kiss me. In a supreme act of will power fueled by my ever-increasing hatred of this place, I ducked out of the way. "Not here, Egon. I mean it." I snapped off the lights and pushed him out the door.

"You can be very domineering, Dr. Venkman," he said, standing close behind me as I locked the door and pocketed the key.

"That's right. And don't you forget it."

"Peter?"

"What?" I turned and right there, under a street light on Christopher Street in the rain, he grabbed me by the collar and kissed me really, really well.

"I take it back," I gasped when he let me up for air. "I think you may be possessed after all."

He pulled out the PKE and showed me the dial. "No, everything appears to be normal. Relatively speaking, at least."

"Oh yeah? Well, then how come I'm not leading this dance, huh?"

I felt a shiver go through him and his eyes positively glazed. "Yes, Peter, I agree. You should most certainly take the lead."

Looking back, that should have been my first warning, but as I've often demonstrated, when it comes to Egon, I'm not always as quick on the uptake as I should be. Too close to the subject, I guess. Close enough to kiss at the moment, which I did with a great deal of determination, concentration, and zeal.

Egon growled into my mouth as I reached inside his ridiculous coat and grabbed his ass, pulling him against me. Yup, his "problem" was still there, but I was going to make it my business to put things in a different perspective for him very soon.

It would have been so easy to lean back against the wall behind me and pull him along with me, but superstition and stubbornness wouldn't let me use even the outside of the damn place. Pulling him the ten feet it took to lean on another building, I pinned him against wet brownstone and reclaimed his mouth and ass, pressing against him to make my own interest perfectly clear.

That mouth of his tasted so damn good: toothpaste and Egon, with just the slightest undertone of broiled coconut frosting. And those full lips! I drank him in like twenty-dollar wine and he wrapped those long, strong arms around me and groped me for dear life, whimering deep in his throat and grinding his hardon against mine as the cold rain ran down our necks. Another ten seconds or so and I think both of our problems would have been solved.

"Shit, dude, get a room!" someone laughed, bringing home the fact that we were in a public place under a street light, even if it was Christopher Street.

The comment came from a dark-haired guy in a leather jacket and very tight jeans who himself was comfortably wrapped around a tall drink of water in Armani.  The guy in the suit looked back over his shoulder as they passed and I heard him say, "Hey, wasn't that--?"

"Uh oh, we're busted!" I giggled into the wet curve of Egon's throat.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he sighed. "So unless your romantic designs on me include the two of us being 'outed' in next week's tabloids, perhaps we should take the gentleman's advice."

"Well, free publicity is free publicity--- Nah, what I plan to do to you should not be on display on supermarket news racks. Ray reads those things. Got your wallet?"

"Uh, no. Why?"

"Rooms cost money, babe. So you remembered your umbrella, but not your wallet?" I shook my head. "Egon, Egon, Egon. Roaming the streets of New York at night with no money, no ID-"

He pulled back enough to give me a wry look over the tops of his glasses. "Excuse me, Peter, but having just explored your back pockets rather thoroughly, I could be giving you the same lecture."

"Well, as it so happens, when I went running out after you it was under the assumption that I'd be saving your ass, not making sweet love to it."

"I see. So it would appear that between the two us, we don't even have cab fare home."

I fell back against the wall beside him and banged my head against it a couple of times. I gave brief consideration to the alley across the street, and just as quickly dismissed it.

Wrong night, wrong man, wrong situation.  "You wouldn't by any chance consider making out in the park romantic, right?"

He looked up at the sullen brown glow reflecting off the rain clouds and sighed again. "On a warm, moonlit summer night? Maybe."

We were interrupted by the ringing of the cell phone in my pocket.

"Damn. That's gotta be Ray, wondering if you're OK. Only Stanz would have this kind of lousy timing." I pulled out the phone. "Yeah, what?"

It was my night for being wrong. "Peter, did you find Egon?" Winston demanded, sounding worked up about something.

"Yeah, he's fine."

"Good, 'cause we just got a call and it's a four-man job, minimum. You close to home?"

"No."

"We'll pick you up on the way. Where are you?"

I glanced at Egon and grimaced. "We're over on Christopher, Winston. A little café across from that job we did the other day. Don't ask."

There was a noticeable pause, then, "Who's asking?  Be there in ten."

I put the phone away. "Looks like we'll be resuming this counseling session at a later time."

Egon reached for my hand, oblivious to the knot of party boys whistling at us from across the street. "Perhaps it's for the best, Peter. Given the suddenness of tonight's revelations, it might be better if we didn't-well--"

"Go off half-cocked?" I smirked up at him. "I don't think that would be a factor. Last I saw, you're fully--"

"Peter!"

"Amused outrage from Egon! By George, we have made some progress tonight."

"I heartily concur." Egon chuckled and wrapped an arm around my waist as we crossed the street to the cafe. "So, Doctor, what is my prognosis?"

I checked out the front of his pants. "Still a code blue situation, I'm afraid, but I'd say we've turned an important corner. With a little physical therapy--"

Egon stopped short in the middle of the street and raised a pale eyebrow. "A little?"

"OK, a lot, and lots and lots of long term care. I think you'll make a full recovery in time."

Egon smiled, looking genuinely happy for the first time since the bust went bad. "I think I can live with that."

"Ah, yes," I replied, grabbing his ass again under his coat. "But will you still cook?"

"That depends. Will you continue to refer to me as 'babe' again if I do?"

 "Absolutely. Except in front of clients."

 "Fair enough."

  

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