Chapter 19

If there are ghosts to raise,

What shall I call,

Out of hell's murky haze...

- Thomas Lovell Beddoes (Dream-Pedlary)

It wasn't difficult to find his way into the building. He ghosted inside, senses alert for any sign of human or spectral occupants. In the stillness of a deserted lobby, Peter hesitated, the manic energy of the Crow draining from his body and mind. Impulse had brought him this far, but now his logical mind was raising its objections at last. Was it such a good idea to come here alone, without even letting the guys know what he was up to? Then again, if he had warned them, they would've insisted on coming with him. And the last place Peter wanted his friends was anywhere near the creeps who had engineered the mess they now found themselves in. With renewed determination, he began to explore, slinking along the dim hallway where he'd found himself.

The interior of the building wasn't particularly interesting, as buildings went. Like the exterior, it was a generic office tower that appeared to have been constructed sometime in the late '60s or early '70s and not updated much in the intervening years. The lobby was bland and functional, dimly lit, with the most exciting bit of interior design being the odd mixed-metals modern art hanging on the wall above the reception desk. There were pots of dusty and neglected-looking houseplants here and there, and a few pieces of outdated furniture. There was no visible directory, so he figured he'd have to keep winging it.

Bypassing the elevators, Peter started up the stairs. Looking up the twisting stairwell reminded him of climbing what had, at the time, felt like endless flights of stairs in Dana Barrett's apartment building during the Gozer incident. This time, at least, he knew he wouldn't feel like throwing up before he reached the top.

The first floor he checked needed only a cursory look, consisting as it did of a cubicle farm. The second was more of the same. Things were only slightly more interesting after that, with the usual private offices one might find in any business. He gave them a quick look, but found nothing useful. He ducked back into the stairwell and hurried up another set of stairs.

When he stepped out onto the next floor, he knew that he'd found something, even if he had no idea what it was. Here, the decor had changed from 'generic office' to 'Victorian gentleman's club.' Blandly painted walls gave way to walnut paneling. Utilitarian beige carpet became hardwood floors topped with antique Persian rugs. Buzzing flourescent panels in the ceiling were replaced by crystal chandeliers and wall sconces that looked as if they had only recently been converted from gaslight to electric. It was like stepping back in time.

There were doors at regular intervals along both sides of the corridor that led away from the stairs. All of the doors were closed and - when he tried the knobs - locked tight. He figured he could kick the doors in easily enough, but that would probably set off an alarm, and he wanted to avoid company as long as inhumanly possible. So, instead of forcing open the doors, he settled for pressing his palm to the center of each wooden panel, hoping for a flash of Sight to let him know if he'd stumbled across anything he needed to find.

The first hallway yielded nothing. The same was true of the next. The last hall held nothing of interest but another stairwell, this one separate from the one he'd been using. That alone was reason enough to investigate. He tilted his head and looked up, noting that there were only a couple of turns to these stairs, and they only went up. Unlike the modern utility of the main stairs for the building, these were of the same oddly Victorian design as the hallways on this floor. What, he wondered, was at the top? Now would be an excellent time for a certain feathered pain in the ass to show up. Which, of course, was why Edgar was no where in sight.

Looks like you're on your own, Dr. Venkman. With a sigh, Peter shut the door behind him and started up the staircase. Might as well check it out, since he was here and all. If it was a dead end (no pun intended), he'd make his way back down and try again with the main stairs.

o0o

The space at the top of the stairs appeared to be some kind of reception area, dark and uninhabited, even by ghosts. The only light came from the uncovered windows opposite the stairs. A corridor opened out behind an antique desk that blocked the way as if guarding the way. Peter could almost picture a dragon of a receptionist sitting there during the day, snorting smoke and guarding the portal and demanding to know if he had an appointment. Lucky for him he'd decided to skip the formalities. He headed down the new hallway.

Instead of locked doors, this time he found several open rooms, empty of furniture, but with strange, eye-watering patterns painted onto the bare wooden floors. These, he gave a careful berth. He wasn't certain if the arcane patterns could do anything to him, but they felt like they'd do something to someone and he'd rather not take the chance. He drifted along like one of the shadows, peering into each room as he passed but making sure not to put so much as a finger through the open doorways.

As he reached the end of his current hall, a soft voice called out, "Who's there? Hello? Is someone there?"

Backtracking to the last doorway, Peter looked inside. Where before the room had appeared empty, he now saw a wavering shape, translucent in the light from the single window. The ghost hovered above the center of the pattern, one thin, faintly-glowing arm stretched toward the door. It's pale eyes focused on him at once and it seemed to strain to reach him. Whatever held it to the room (the pattern on the floor?), prevented it from coming closer.

"Hello," Peter said, keeping his voice low. He wondered if these rooms - these cages - were monitored. A hasty glance around didn't reveal any cameras, but that didn't mean they weren't there. "Who are you?"

"I... I don't ...know." The shape rippled, fading a little before it regained some of its substance, and then a bit more besides. Now it had a more defined human shape, the silhouette of a woman, Peter thought, though the finer details were still missing. "Who are you?"

"A friend." Better it should think that, anyway, and right now he bore it no ill intentions.

"Oh?" The ghost seemed intrigued by the notion. "I don't think I've had a friend in... some time."

"How did you wind up here? Do you remember?"

The spirit faded again, as if remembering - or trying to remember - took up all of its energy, leaving none for manifestation. When it reappeared, it was less opague than before and wispier. "N-no... It's been so long..." The ghost rallied, its shape growing clearer, and pressed its hands against an invisible barrier on the inner circle of markings. "Can you let me out?"

"Sorry, I don't know how." Not that Peter was sure it would be a good idea to do so even if he did know how to do it. Something about the ghost seemed off, and Peter had learned the hard way to trust his instincts when it came to spooks. "Got any idea where I could look for answers?"

The ghost nodded. "There are files. Lots of them."

"Where?" It came out more sharply than he'd intended, and the ghost shrank away from him, darting back to the center of its prison. "Sorry. Do you know where the files are?"

"N-no." It was fading again.

"Wait!" Peter started to lunge after it. He caught himself just before he would have breeched the threshold. "Please, don't go. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

Slowly, the ghost re-solidified. He still couldn't make out its face, but he got te distinct impression that it was glaring at him.

"Look... Is there anything you can tell me? Anything that would help me help you?" More flies with honey, he reminded himself.

The spirit lost its human seeming, though the shifting mass of ectoplasm remained visible and opaque this time. "Break the circle."

"What?"

The shadows in the room seemed to coalesce, lapping at the outside of the pattern painted onto the floor. At its center, the ghost was a roiling mass of white fog, its shape shifting too quickly for any single form to register. Its voice went staticky, like bad radio reception. "B-break the cir-c-cle. The c-circle, the circle... Break it!"

Yeah, that sounded like a peachy idea. Peter was going to get right on that. Not. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he backed away from the door. At his retreat, the ghost lunged toward him, its attack halted only when it was thrown back by the limits of the binding circle between them. Peter eyed it thoughtfully. Whatever that design meant, it was clearly working to contain this particular ghost.

He couldn't help wondering what would happen to him, if he were caught in a similar trap.

"Let me out, let me out, let me out!" The spirit's shriek rose in volume and pitch until the windows rattled. The sound sent icy fingers clawing down Peter's spine. The pattern on the floor lit up, yellow light shooting up to form a blinding dome that hid the ghost from view.

Realizing that someone was probably going to come along to check on the disturbance sooner rather than later, Peter jogged down the hallway, taking quick peeks into the open doorways without stopping for a more detailed look. Even this cursary examination showed him that most of the "empty" rooms had similar patterns painted in the center of the floor. A few held some kind of visible ectoplasmic form, often just a wisp of color, floating listlessly in the center of the circle. The more of this place that he saw, the creepier it felt, especially since he knew that the people who worked here were the ones who had set up his murder.

He heard a soft ding as the elevator arrived and the door slid open. Shit. Not waiting to see who had arrived with it, Peter ducked into the nearest open doorway. Unlike the sparce holding cells, this one was clearly an office of some sort. Dark wood paneling on the walls, a carved plaster ceiling complete with chandelier, heavy velvet drapes on the windows, thick layer of antique carpets underfoot, and the kind of massive furniture that looked as if it would last forever, whether you wanted it to or not.

Hearing rapid footsteps approaching from down the hall, Peter dove behind the mahogany desk, which seemed large enough to land small aircraft on. Hopefully, it was big enough to conceal him from anyone who thought to peer inside the open doorway. He considered doing his disappearing act, but then one of the newcomers spoke, and he figured he'd stick around long enough to see if they dropped a clue or two for him to pick up.

"...shut the damn alarm off, Jenkins!" The voice was agitated, out of breath, and female. Maybe speaking into a phone or walkie, since he didn't hear a response. "We're handling it, just shut it off!"

"Y'know, this'd be easier if the circles didn't play merry hell with the security cameras," grumbled a second voice. This one sounded male, younger than the woman's, and vaguely Southern. "The circles I can see from here look to be holdin'."

"Check entity twenty-two," the woman ordered. "It keeps fighting the seal. That's probably what set off the damn alarm in the first place. Marsh said they were up here four times just last night with the damn thing."

"Sure. Light a fire under Jenkins and see if you can get the idiot to turn off the caterwaulin', will ya? I can't hear myself think." Footsteps thumped quickly away, slightly muffled by the carpets.

The woman didn't seem to have moved from her spot outside the office, and Peter hoped she stayed there. If she came inside, she might spot him before he could get away, but he wasn't ready to leave just yet.

"Jenkins-" She practically growled the name.

The alarm abruptly cut off. The resulting quiet was almost deafening.

"Thank fuck," the woman muttered, just loud enough for Peter to hear. "Yes, everything seems fine. ...Riley's checking it now."

Approaching footsteps announced Riley's return. He sounded distinctly calmer when he spoke. "Twenty-two's secure. Could see where it's been pushin' on the seal, though."

"Damn. We'll have to get the team in to reinforce the circle, then." She huffed out a loud breath. "Might as well do 'em all while we're at it. ...Come on, let's head back down." Two pairs of footsteps, moving away. The woman's voice faded as they departed. "I'll call everyone in tomorrow and we'll make sure that fucking ghost stays where we-"

Peter slumped against the desk he'd hidden behind, and pondered what he'd learned so far. Which, admittedly, wasn't much. He mostly just had more questions. What kind of sick-o experiments were these yahoos conducting here? Because he didn't think they were doing anything as benign as the standard Ghostbusters' zap and trap. After all, the Ghostbusters might lock up ghosts in the containment unit, but they didn't go out and make them ghosts in the first place. He thought of the little girl ghost's missing parents. If he could find and free them, reunite the family, then all three would be able to move on. The Crow stirred inside him, but didn't try to take the wheel.

Peter spent a few seconds reassuring himself that he was in control of his dark passenger. Then, cautiously, he pushed himself back to his feet and looked around the office. He wasn't sure how much tme he'd have before someone else came up here, so he'd better get to work. He needed to find those mysterious files and see if he could figure out what these people were up to, besides the obvious. He was especially curious what they had to say about Entity 22.

But when he located the filing cabinet, the first file he opened was all about Crows.