Free Ghostbusters by Richard Mueller

suddenly polarized air. The hair went up on Venkman’s neck and he felt a crawling sensation on his scalp, as if a thousand lice had begun a breakdown competition among the roots of his hair. He swallowed uncomfortably, noticing that Stantz had curled his lips back and away from his teeth.
    “Ray, you okay?”
    Stantz shook his head. “Egon, the fillings in my mouth are beginning to heat up.”
    “That’ll stop when you cut in your own accelerator,” Spengler announced. Stantz nodded and switched on. Venkman’s eyes were starting to hurt. Here goes nothing, he thought, and kicked in his own unit. Immediately the symptoms subsided as he was surrounded by the proton generator’s field. Maybe these things will work. The door opened and they stepped out on the twelfth floor, instantly alert for any sign of trouble, but the floor was brightly lit, tastefully appointed, and quiet.
    “What do you think?”
    Spengler consulted the aurascope on his belt. “Definitely something here.”
    “Stay on your toes. Don’t let it surprise you.”
    Suddenly a squeak and a clank from behind them. They froze, and then Stantz and Spengler whirled and fired, multicolored streams of supercharged particles ripping out of the induction nozzles. They struck the walls, shearing great ribbons of flaming wallpaper into the air, blowing holes in the carpet, exploding a light fixture. A doorknob spun through the air, striking and then going cleanly through a solid wall. The streams struck a maid’s cart, twisting the metal, rebounding in flashes of uncontrolled energy. A box of soap burst into flames and a dozen rolls of toilet paper dispersed, hitting the walls and the terrified maid who crouched screaming on the floor. “Cease fire!” Venkman cried.
    “What the devil you doin’?” called the maid in the sudden silence, slapping at bits of burning paper that were drifting down around her. “You crazy?”
    “Sorry, ma’am.”
    “We’d better adjust the streams,” Spengler suggested.
    “Yeah,” Venkman added disgustedly. “And let’s split up. We can do more damage that way.” He turned and stalked off down the hall. Spengler and Stantz set off in the other direction.
    “I’m getting high readings near the air vents. It must be using the duct system to get around. I told you we’d find something. You head that way and I’ll go north. And keep your radio on.”
    Why not? Spengler thought as he shouldered the induction nozzle and reached for his trusty plasmatometer. Valences, that’s the key. Ghosts leave an ethereal spore, but I can track them. He edged along the wall, tapping gently, watching the lights flashing on the little detector. He came to a door, tapped his way across it, then examined the crack at the top, sides, along the floor. The easiest way for them to get in, he figured: cracks, vents, keyholes. The door opened. He looked up to see a tall, beautiful woman in a bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a turban of wet toweling. Careful, Egon, he thought. They can be devious, like the one in the library. Still, she seemed pretty solid and she certainly had legs.
    “Yes?”
    He stood up. “Were you recently in the bathroom?” he asked, running the plasmatometer across her front. No response there.
    “What on earth gave you that idea?”
    “The wet towels, the residual moisture on your lower limbs and hair, the redness in your cheeks indicating—”
    “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes. Now, what do you want? And get that thing out of my face.”
    Spengler withdrew the detector. “When you were in the bathroom, did you notice anything that was yellow and unusually smelly?”
    The woman stepped back and slammed the door in his face. Spengler shrugged and moved on.
    On a lower floor, Venkman, induction gun held protectively before him, was moving cautiously down the hall, feeling stupid. Dressed up like Buck Rogers, hunting ghosts. Is this any life for a grown man? He stopped beside an unattended room-service cart and