The night scene of a quiet street was a collage of stark blue moonlight and bottomless shadows. But one shadow did not stir with the wind as did the tree shadows, and neither did it stand still as did the building shadows. It crawled, quivered an moved across the street, while any light it crossed seemed to sink into its blackness, as if it were a breach torn in space. But this shadow had a shape, an animated creature-like shape, and from it, faint sounds could be heard; the scratching of claws along the ground, the faint rustling of breeze blown, membranous wings wafting just above the creature's shadow.

It had arms and legs, but it seemed to move without them, crossing the street and mounting the porch steps of a house. Its leering, bulbous eyes reflected the stark light of the full moon, throwing out their own jaundiced glow. The gnarled head protruded from hunched shoulders, and wisps of rancid red breath seethed in labored hisses through rows of jagged fangs.

It either laughed or it coughed – the wheezes puffing out from deep within its throat could have been either. From its crawling posture, it reared up on its legs and looked about the quiet neighborhood, the black leathery jowls pulling back into a hideous death-mask grin. It moved towards the front door. The black hand passed through the door like a spear through liquid; the body hobbled forward and penetrated the door, but only halfway.

Suddenly, as if colliding with a speeding wall, the creature was knocked backward and into a raging tumble down the steps, the glowing red breath tracking a corkscrew trail through the air.

With an eerie cry of rage and indignation, it gathered itself off the sidewalk and stared at the strange door that would not let it pass though. Then the membranes on its back began to billow, enfolding great bodies of air and it flew with a roar headlong at the door, across the foyer – and into a cloud of white hot light.

Framed against the doorway was the outline of a man sitting in a wheelchair, muscular arms clutching an archaic weapon, the source of the disturbance. The creature screamed and covered its eyes as it was forcefully seized by the brilliance, hurling through space like a rag doll, forcefully ousted. The big man let out a whoop of joy as he wheeled himself forward through the door's wooden archway, trained eyes following the creature's arcing path.

The wings hummed in a blur as it banked sharply in a flying turn and headed for the door again, red vapors chugging in dashes and streaks from its nostrils, its talons bared and poised for attack, a ghostly siren of a scream rising in its throat. Like an arrow through a target, like a bullet through a board, it streaked toward the man -

And instantly felt its insides tearing loose.

Garrett Miller barked another yelp of exhilaration. This was what he lived for, why he turned up for work. Squinting against the glare created by the ionized particle beam, he braced the particle thrower in his right hand, grabbing for the two way radio that hung limply at his belt with his left.

“Ky! Third house up the street! Need you here! I've got… WHOA!”

Sensing his distraction, the yowling mass of creature had strained itself against its captor in a desperate bid for freedom. Thrashing itself around wildly within the luminescent shackles that held it, the aberration tugged frantically with otherworldly strength.

“Garrett?!”

“Get over here! I can't hold it!” He felt the muscles in his arm bulge against the strain, heard the gradual creak of his wheelchair against the floor as it imperceptibly twisted forward. Dropping the radio to the floor with a clatter, he seized the positron thrower with his free hand, dragging at the ethereal bindings that confined the living nightmare. As sweat pooled across his forehead, he blinked the drops away, struggling against the drag.

Where was Kylie?

Somewhere behind him, he heard the pounding of boots on concrete, the sound oddly comforting. He savored the moment, allowing himself to shoot the entity a grim smile.

The smile died the moment he felt himself begin to move.

Glancing down, he realized he was rolling. Its leering face a malicious grin, the spirit turned to face its hapless victim, then with a shriek of triumph, the creature tore away, dragging with it the stunned Ghostbuster, helplessly tugged along like an passenger in a carriage with a screaming ethereal engine shooting off the tracks.

“Mother Puss Bucket!”

With a resounding crash, he came undone as his wheelchair went over the porch steps. Unceremoniously upended, Garrett slammed face first into the cold pavement, weapon clattering out of reach. Cackling with glee, his quarry shot skyward, first out of range and then finally out of sight.

Slamming his fist against the paved ground, Garrett Miller swore.


***

Nursing the cuts on his forehead, Garrett Miller stared blankly out the back of the Ecto-1 as it rounded the corner. Proton Packs rattled against their restraints and something unsecured slid across the floor of the vehicle.

“Busted”, he muttered.

His back seat companion glanced up from the dirty brown mud stain he was inspecting on his prized work boots, his features twisted in disgust.

“Hey amigo, you say something?”

“Nothing, Eddie. Nothing.”

The lanky Latino obviously didn't know when to take the hint. “Funny. Cos' I could have sworn you…”

“Let it drop.” He let a touch of agitation bleed into his voice.

“Hey man, what is your problem?”

That was it. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “You guys can't even close a perfect bust, and you still have the cheek to ask me what my problem is? Well this,” he rolled down the sleeve of his right arm and gestured at the livid purple bruises that lined his arm, “THIS IS MY PROBLEM!”

She shot him a glance from the front seat and sniffed dismissively. “Well, if you hadn't gone in solo ahead of the team, we'd be heading back with a check instead of an empty trap!”

“Kylie's right, Garrett. You went in without backup against orders! What kind of macho stunt was that?” Eduardo chimed in.

“Don't lecture me on macho stunts Eddie,” he spat the words out as if they were distasteful, “If I hadn't gone in, someone might have gotten hurt!” He paused to let the words sink in. “Someone besides ME! Last time I checked, that meant something in this line of work.”

“Alright. That's enough.” Roland's voice boomed from the driver's seat, his voice gratingly calm against the discord.

“If you lot can't keep up, that's just fine.” Almost petulantly, he added “I'll do it myself. Heaven knows I'm good enough…”

“I said enough.” It was Roland again.

The rest of the journey was carried out in silence.


***

Beside the thin whir of the eternal cycling of the monitoring equipment, the Firehouse was silent. The front desk was unmanned, Janine's vigil ended until the following dawn. The Ecto-1 sat coldly silent in the front garage, Roland's careful ministrations abandoned for the night. In the gloom of unlit rooms, nary a soul stirred, certainly not an aging physicist, nor his long departed ectoplasmic pet. Not at this hour at least.

Graveyard shift. He hated graveyard shift.

He stared up at the statue striking a heroic pose, a monument to one man's ego entombed within glass. With a trembling hand, he undid the lock. The casing door swung open with the dry creak of unoiled metal.

The likeness of Peter Venkman seemed to stare down at him disapprovingly.

“I'm sorry Dr. Venkman, but I think I need this more than you.”

Somewhere in the rooms beyond, Egon Spenglar, Firehouse caretaker and Original Ghostbuster stirred in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible. For several long seconds, he froze, listening to the scientist ramble on incoherently. Finally, the slurred speech dropped off again, and he let out a short sign of relief.

With a sharp tug, the Ghost Trap came unfastened from it's clip at the statue's belt, the thin layer of dust rubbing off against his hands as the the device's long cord spilled from the tight loop it had originally been fastened in. With a nervous glance, he stuffed it into his backpack, shutting the glass door behind him with a click.

If they wanted a one man show, he'd give them a one man show.


***

Eduardo peered over the edge of the railing as Garrett let himself in through the Firehouse front door. As per usual, the Ghostbuster moved with a cocky air of confidence, wheeling his chair across the garage towards the access lift. From her usual perch at the front desk, Janine Melnitz, long suffering secretary extraordinaire, glanced up from the paperwork swamping her limited table space, nodding a greeting as he passed. Moments later, Garrett's path cut beneath the overhang of the second floor and he disappeared from view. Sinking back into his seat, he awaited the boisterous voice that always heralded Garrett's arrival.

That was the problem with Garrett. You always heard him before you saw him.

He was still waiting when almost eerily silent, the metallic click of a wheelchair leaving the lift platform indicated the presence of his companion.

He was still waiting when Garrett inaudibly breezed past him to occupy the spot on the couch next to him.
“Something on your mind?” For a moment, he didn't recognize the sound of the words as the shattered silence fell away, almost tangible. Garrett was eying him, an expectant look plastered across his smug face.

“Huh… What?” Caught flatfooted, that was the best he could blurt out.

Garrett shot him a bland smirk, like a cat watching a trapped mouse. “Apparently not.” he murmured.

“Hey!”

With a chuckle, his antagonist settled back in his seat. “Eddie,” he shook his head with mock sorrow. “If you can't keep up, we may have to replace you.”

He blanched at the comment. For all the hardships he had endured over the course of duty, he had come to enjoy the job. Then there was also the matter of his attraction to Kylie, but he'd yet to admit it to himself, let alone Garrett of all people.

His comeback however, was interrupted by the jarring ring of the firehouse siren and the metallic pounding of boots on the stairs as the Firehouse exploded into action.

“Are you going to stand there with your jaw lowered all day?” Garrett was already off the sofa and wheeling for the lift.

Conceding this round of their never ending verbal battle, Eduardo started for the stairs, determined to beat him to the car at the very least.


***

The dockworker screamed as he was bodily lifted from the floor by a skeletal arm, each finger as long as a man's arm. Writhing in agony at the crushing pressure, he screamed again as he found himself staring through empty eye sockets, their terrifying glow casting shadows across his face as ancient teeth gripped together tightly in a rictus grin. Dark grey translucence sheathed writhing organs running up what passed for arms and legs and fleshy, pustular slime sloughed across its surface dripping in gobbets to the floor.

The scream died as the creature opened its mouth. The man's head snapped back, his limbs spasming wildly. With a cry of triumph, the creature smashed the ruined body to the ground. An afterimage of his terrified visage, his eyes wide and his mouth agape remained, remained trapped within the creature's claws, a wan golden aura of life left stranded trembling and naked to the world.

“Why…”

“Why do you take your next breath? Because it is sweet and good. And without it you will perish. So it is with the Vexshana.”

Fleetingly, the image remained for a second longer, before vanishing into the entity's cavernous maw, like so much bathwater down the drain.

With a muffled thump, the warehouse door slammed open, light steaming into the gloom within. Slowly the entity turned to face the disturbance, almost petulantly kicking aside the dessicated body. Four figures awaited at the door, illuminated by the sunlight pouring through the formerly shut gate. The tallest of them stepped forward and unslung a weapon from his back. The rest followed suit.

“Four mortals. Hardly a snack.”

“Snack on this.”

Coruscating streams of energy lashed out, man made streams of lightning to strike down a God. The demon let out a snarl and leapt aside, narrowly avoiding the sweeping burst of energy.

“Who dares strike the Vexshana?”

“We're the Ghostbusters, dumbass.”

It had tasted resistance across the eons, from sword wielding warriors to spell flinging inquisitors, each now a screaming fragment of soul savored over the centuries, yet none fought it with such a casual gait, such brazen confidence, such deadly precision. But they would break. They would cry out. And then they would die. Such was the way with all things.

Such was the way of the Vexshana.

This really is just a sampler in what I hope will be a semi-longish work, inspired by my irritation at the fact that the EGB team only carried a SINGLE trap on a bust.

I mean, what could go wrong, right?

And then the idea sort of bloated. When it grew to involve a soul-eating daemon and the Venkman statue in the first few paragraphs and inspired strange thoughts of Ghostbusters versus the Cthulhu mythos, I rather decided I had a winner.

It's not even vaguely close to done, and I haven't even figured out where it goes from here, but I decided to post it anyway. Skim some ideas from people in the know.

Or something like that.

So… yeah…

Comments, Criticism and Unmarked Bills?

I think it's a good start. Garrett's potential problems are something the show itself glossed over in the interests of diversity. How dare they suggest a guy in a wheelchair might be at a disadvantage catching ghosts–just because he really would be? (And I'm an amputee who's been confined to a wheelchair at times myself, so I think I know what I'm talking about there)

You get some brownie points just by using the EGBs. They're not exactly the most popular characters the mythos has ever created, though they do have their fans, myself included. I thought it was brave of the animation producers to actually say some time had passed since RGB just like it had in real life, instead of basically staying stuck in the same place the property was in 1984 or 1991.

But I digress.

This really is just a sampler in what I hope will be a semi-longish work, inspired by my irritation at the fact that the EGB team only carried a SINGLE trap on a bust.

Yeah, that was a bit odd at times, especially after RGB in which everyone had a trap lashed to their proton packs. Though I guess the counterargument is that in the movies, most of the time Ray was the only one to bring a trap. Still, an interesting insight

He stared up at the statue striking a heroic pose, a monument to one man's ego entombed within glass. With a trembling hand, he undid the lock. The casing door swung open with the dry creak of unoiled metal.

The likeness of Peter Venkman seemed to stare down at him disapprovingly.

You know, I don't think egbfan (another writer fond of the EGBs) or I ever even mentioned that, mostly because I don't think we had any thoughts as to why there was a statue of Venkman in GBCentral. It's not like he was dead or something. I like this idea–he ordered it himself. :-)