- March 28th, 2024, 11:44 am#4995690
EDIT: Accidentally left out a chunk in chapter one that actually sets up the story 
Fixed now!
While waiting impatiently for Frozen Empire to release recently, I started playing around with some ideas of what the gap between the films would have looked like and maybe how I would have liked that story to be told. So I picked up the laptop, opened a Word doc, started hammering some story ideas out... and then saw FE on opening night and immediately had to rewrite half of my story to fit the continuity.
NOTE: Yes, I know Back in Town is supposed to be the actual canon telling of this exact story. I was just too dang impatient for it to hit shelves.
Please enjoy the first chapter of my prequel story Ghostbusters: Nuclear Family and check back for more chapters soon!
Prologue
“Winston Zeddemore - Millionaire financial guru - Pays to have our old gear pulled outta storage, puts in an offer on our old digs, whisks us out here by private jet… But can’t spring for a decent limo?”
The back of the Summerville taxi was cosy, to say the least. The three former ghostbusters sat almost on top of each other; Winston on the left with a proton pack on his lap, Ray Stantz on the right hunched over the partially disassembled neutrona thrower, and Peter Venkman in the middle with his shoulders up around his earlobes.
“We’re lucky we even found this cab, Venkman,” Winston retorted. “The whole town was tearing itself apart in a panic - All hell’s breaking loose out there.”
Ray nodded, still not looking up from the thrower. “Small wonder; Spectral manifestations, psychokinetic weather anomalies, reanimated corpses… All the makings of a classic four-fold crossrip.”
It was clear that all of Egon Spengler’s doom-filled predictions were coming frighteningly true. From the small town in Oklahoma, a Sumerian demigod was once again attempting to fulfill an ancient prophecy to bring about the end of the modern world, with only a select few holding the knowledge and tools to prevent it. In the matter of hours since Ray had received the news of Egon’s passing, he had made the call to the other two remaining ghostbusters, and the trio - along with their dusty old equipment - had made the flight from Laguardia airport to an airstrip near Summerville, all courtesy of Winston’s generous expense account.
A curious Venkman peeked over Ray’s shoulder.
“And you really think these old tinker toys still pack enough of a punch?”
“They’re all we’ve got,” Ray lamented, squinting at the innards of the thrower. “The other two in the trunk seemed okay, this one just needs some minor realignment… And a little luck that the radiation shielding is still holding firm.”
Venkman’s eyes went wide for a moment.
“Swell. But if my back fat starts melting, I’m gonna sue. Just a heads up.”
Winston stared out of the window at the darkening sky above, watching the clouds spin and swirl into a familiar vortex of malevolent foreboding. The last time any of them had experienced something like this, they were a mile up in the sky atop a grand Manhattan apartment building, facing the same threat with Egon Spengler right there next to them.
This time it would be different.
In truth, Winston had thought about reaching out to Egon a dozen times over the last couple of decades, but the moment never seemed to present itself. He wasn’t sure if the blame lay with his busy schedule or his pride, but right now in this single moment, neither of those two things meant anything to him.
He looked down at the Spengler-built pack in his arms.
“Guess Egon was right about this all along,” he said slowly. “We just… didn’t wanna listen.”
“Yeah,” Venkman agreed sombrely. His voice was strangely quiet, and heavy with regret.
Ray said nothing. The guilt he had felt since he’d first learned of Egon’s death had almost doubled with every passing hour, and now it felt like the knot in his stomach may just about explode.
The three men stared straight ahead in silence for a moment.
Venkman sniffed, adjusted his knees to get the blood flowing back into his feet, and nudged his elbows outwards into the sets of ribs on either side of him.
“So - The Goze, huh? This chick wants a rematch with the champs? You two killers ready to go a few rounds?”
“Miller time,” Winston grinned. The two low-fived in what little space they had free between them.
Venkman turned to Stantz.
“Ray, how much further? I’m starting to get a hunchback over here.”
“Not far now,” he replied, slotting the barrel of the wand back in place, “Spengler’s house is only a couple more miles outside of town… Old place the locals call ‘The DIrt Farm.’“
“Cute. Whadd’ya say we stick around after we wrap this up and open up a hippie commune?”
Winston shook his head, smiling to himself. He had almost forgotten how easy Peter made it look to turn a dire situation into something to just be shrugged off.
Ray sighed.
“I just wish we had time to round up some more help. We’re not getting any younger, y’know.”
Winston turned his gaze back to the dark clouds above, but his thoughts were on Ray’s words. Even with his focus having been on his finance corporation in the years since Ghostbusters Inc. had shut down, he had quietly been keeping an ear to the ground, staying apprised of any news on the paranormal - And the facts were clear. Regardless of Gozer’s resurgence in Summerville, reports of supernatural events were still rising steadily around the country over the last few years.
If the world survived the night, it was still going to face new threats. And it was going to need someone new to defend it.
Part I
A Bite of The Big Apple
“It has firepoles?!” Trevor Spengler yelled excitedly as he took his first footsteps into the aged firehouse.
“It’s a fire station. Why wouldn’t it?” Phoebe said dryly, waiting impatiently for him to move out of the narrow hatchway built into the large entrance doors so she could set down the heavy box of clothes.
They were lucky to have made the trip from Summerville without killing each other. It had been a long, stressful journey from their grandfather’s farmhouse in Oklahoma to his old place of business in New York, but they had all agreed the chance was too good to pass up. For Phoebe, it was a place she could belong, learn, grow, and make a difference; For her mother, it was a potentially steady job. And for both it was also to form a connection with the life of Egon Spengler.
For Trevor, it was all these things too. But mainly about the return to civilization.
“I can't wait to check out Times Square,” he said, plopping down his suitcase in the vacant spot the Ectomobile once proudly stood. He already had several tabs on his phone open, all listing the latest NY hotspots. “Hey - did you know there’s a roving rave every Wednesday in a different part of an old, abandoned subway line? So cool.”
“Do they even allow seventeen year olds at raves?” Phoebe asked, already getting distracted by the various outdated bits of equipment dotted around the firehouse's garage area.
“Can the sex and drugs and rock n’ roll wait until after our belongings have actually made it into their new home, please?” Callie said, stepping sideways through the door to allow for the wide box of kitchen appliances she carried. “Thanks for the hand with the heavy stuff, by the way - Very considerate. Super proud of my parenting right now.”
“I think I turned out pretty great actually, given your lack of experience,” Trevor assured her sarcastically.
“Me too,” Phoebe said, picking up an old blowtorch with a glint in her eye.
“Well that makes me feel safe. How ‘bout you two stop scaring your mom for a sec and go pick a room.” She nodded toward the staircase.
Trevor picked up his suitcase and began marching towards the stairs leading up to the next floor.
“I call the biggest one.”
“Too late, Trev,” came a voice from above. “Already called it - First come, first claimed.”
Gary Grooberson descended from the top of the stairs, bouncing down to meet the Spenglers. He had arrived several hours earlier, and the excitement of moving into the ghostbuster’s old headquarters wasn’t about to wear off anytime soon.
“But we do have something of a rustic linen closet with your name on it,” he added, clasping a hand on Trevor's shoulder as he slipped past on the stairs.
“Great,” Trevor replied, “As long as the door’s thick enough to keep out any possessed science teachers.”
Gary winced. I’m never gonna live that down, he thought to himself. He greeted Callie with a kiss.
“So how was the trip?”
“Well, I managed to drive all the way here without murdering my own children, so… successful?”
“I’d say that’s pretty commendable,” Gary confirmed, taking the box of kitchen appliances from her arms. “In fact I think you’re a shoe in for a humanitarian award.”
“Mother Theresa’s got nothin’ on me.”
Phoebe couldn’t help but interject.
“Mother Theresa was a known child abuser, so she has that on you,” she said, head buried deep in Doctor Venkman’s old uniform locker.
“It’s never too late to start playing catch up,” Callie threatened. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the family van outside the firehouse. “Go lift something, phebes.”
Phoebe was about to stomp back out to the car to retrieve more boxes when she caught sight of two familiar figures stepping in through the doorway - The impeccably dressed Winston Zeddemore, the financier of their relocation, and the less-impeccably dressed Doctor Raymond Stantz. Ray was carrying a large cardboard box, but it wasn’t one Phoebe recognized from their car. It was far too new and undamaged.
“A fine New York morning to you all,” Ray said with a warm smile. “Hope you don’t mind us dropping by with a housewarming gift.”
“Winston! Doctor Stantz!” Phoebe was elated to see them.
“Hi, Phoebe.” Winston embraced her with a hug. He turned to the others, happy to see so much life back in the firehouse.
“It’s been too long since there was a Spengler in this building. Now we have three of them.”
He looked around with a sense of pride at the new recruits, before realizing his numbers were a little off.
“Wait - Where's Trevor?”
The sound of screeching metal signaled his return as the young man came shooting down one of the aged, tarnished fire poles. He hit the floor at tremendous speed, the bottoms of his feet starting to throb almost instantly.
“...ouch.”
“Gonna have to work on that landing, kid,” Ray remarked with less than a little sympathy.
Winston winced as he watched Trevor check his forearms for friction burns.
“Well, now that the gang's all here, we can welcome you properly,” he said, gesturing to Ray's box.
“If you're going to be joining the business, you might need some of these...” Ray said, gently placing the large cardboard box on the reception desk. The family stepped in closer.
Phoebe regarded the box curiously. New ghostbusting equipment? Memorabilia belonging to her grandfather?
“What is it?”
Ray winked at her, and nodded towards the box. She reached out slowly and opened the flaps, carefully lifting an item from inside.
“Congratulations, Spenglers… Gary…” Winston beamed at them all. “And welcome to the ghostbusters.”
Phoebe stared down at the muted khaki uniform in her hands. She ran her thumb over the red and black ‘Spengler’ name tag stitched onto the chest.
“It’ll do,” she said with a smirk. “Thanks, Winston… Doctor Stantz.” Her bright eyes looked twice as big through her large, round spectacles.
Winston and Ray both exchanged proud smiles.
Callie and Trevor each picked up their Spengler-labelled suits from the box in turn. Trevor grinned as he held his up, letting the length of the legs unfurl to the floor.
“Cool… Hey, does it come in black?”
His mother thought back to the last time she’d been provided a name tag by a workplace. A run-down firehouse in New York was still a step up from a run-down waffle house in Chicago, she told herself. Still, the gesture was not lost on her. Life as a ghostbuster meant being the last line of defense between the world she knew and the untold terrors that lay beyond it, and even though she didn’t understand that growing up, she had certainly experienced it first hand in Summerville.
She knew she was following her late, estranged father’s legacy, and this felt like another step closer to being a part of each other’s lives.
Gary watched them eagerly, giving Callie an excited look. He stepped forward, rubbing his hands together. He was almost on the verge of pinching himself. He lifted out the fourth set of dull-coloured coveralls and held them up, proudly admiring his own name tag.
His face soon shifted from excitement to confusion and then swiftly to disappointment.
“...Rookie?”
Phoebe failed to stifle her laugh.
“It’s, ah, just until we get you your own uniform made up,” said Ray. “It used to belong to an intern of ours a long time ago - Lotta history in those threads.”
“The stitching place had a bit of trouble with ‘Grooberson’ on the first run,” Winston tried to explain as gently (and inoffensively) as possible. “They’ll send out another batch as soon as their delivery guy gets back from vacation.”
“Well… Couldn’t it have just said ‘Gary’?”
“We’re scientists, not auto mechanics,” Ray said, wiping some dirt off his hands with a nearby oil-stained rag. Gary shook his head, still staring upsettingly at the overalls.
“Bummer,” was all Trevor could offer in the way of support. “Check it out, Phebes. You outrank your own science teacher.”
Callie stepped up next to him, cocking her head to look at the uniform.
“Bad luck, Rookie… Because I’m pretty sure that makes me your supervisor.” She chided, patting him condescendingly on the shoulder. “So grab a broom, will ya? I want my office cleaned by the end of the day.”
Ray and Winston moved off with the others to help collect the rest of the Spengler's belongings, leaving Gary standing alone in the firehouse hall.
“I still get a proton pack though, right?” He called out.
*****
Winston followed Ray down the metal staircase that led into the dimly-lit firehouse basement. The familiar room was as they’d left it years ago, the dust sheets even still hanging over the equipment shelves and workbenches opposite the cobweb-ridden containment unit.
“Aw, It’s been a while since I’ve seen this baby,” Ray said warmly, holding a palm against the front of the unit. He felt the familiar gentle thrumming of the laser system inside, still keeping the inhabitants at bay. He had long since lost count of how many specters, phantasms and ghouls were held within, but he was well aware of the dangers if there were ever another breach.
“Thing always gave me the creeps,” He chuckled. “Any word on your retrieval operation?”
“I just heard from Lars this morning,” Winston replied, “The team in Summerville’s just finished digging up the traps at the farmhouse. As soon as they’re sure it’s safe to move them, they’ll start bringing them home.”
Ray gave a satisfied nod. “And Gozer will finally be locked away forever,” he said eagerly. He glanced back at the containment unit, looking it up and down with a raised eyebrow.
“You think this old box can take a pissed-off demigod?”
“She’ll hold,” Winston reassured his concerned friend. “And just wait ‘til you see the next one,” he added slyly.
He gave Ray a knowing smirk, who shot back one of his own. They would both agree that these were certainly exciting times to be a ghostbuster.
*****
Doctor Hubert Wartzki sighed as his fingers found nothing but crumbs at the bottom of the Doritos bag. He scrunched up the packet and dropped it lazily towards the already-overflowing garbage can under the museum’s modest front desk before turning back to his eBay hunting. He was nearing the end of the pages upon pages of search results with little to no luck for a decent find, and he was starting to think there were no more haunted items left in the country.
The Museum of Occult Antiquities had been open a few months now, and the steady trickle of visitors was shrinking every week. He would still get the odd horror fan popping in every now and then, and sometimes a passerby would be drawn in by the offbeat vibe whilst mooching around the city, but none ever stayed long enough to fully appreciate the displays and pieces in the way Wartzki would demand they do.
The small, basement-level space might soon be for the chopping block if Wartzki’s leaseholders had their way. The place would be turned into a vape shop before he could even roll up the Sumerian prayer mat.
At least he still had his part-time hours at the public library to keep his bills paid at home.
He sat back and sighed, tilting his head back and turning his gaze towards the ceiling to give his eyes a break from the screen. He didn’t even notice the man standing at the desk until he brought his head back down.
“Jesus!” He exclaimed with a fright, “You scared the pants off me.”
The man was tall and shockingly thin, and in the dim light of the museum he looked as pale as a ghost. Wartzki leaned over and flipped on the lamp, casting a warm yellow glow over the man’s face.
He almost wished he had left the light off.
“Forgive me,” Said the gaunt, expressionless stranger in a strange, vaguely eastern European accent. “This is the Museum of Occult Antiquities?”
Wartzki was still catching his breath.
“Yeah… But you’re a little late,” he panted. We, ah, closed a few hours ago I’m afraid.”
“I believe you have in your possession a rather rare and interesting item.” Said the man, ignoring Wartzki’s closing hours completely.
“Well, I mean…” Wartzki gestured vaguely at the various strange obscura and gothic statues surrounding them. “...Take your pick.”
The man continued staring directly at Wartzki.
“Something more obscure. One of a kind.”
“Buddy, everything in here is one-of-a-kind. We’ve got dozens of one-of-a-kinds.” Wartzki lifted his can of Coke to his mouth. Any other time, he would have talked this man’s ear off about every single item in the museum’s inventory like a hyper-fixated toddler. But at the end of a very long week, at midnight on a Saturday, was not the moment to be playing mind games with creepy eurotrash.
“I’m looking for the Weeping Blade of Majus-Ka.”
Wartzki stopped mid-sip. He raised an eyebrow at the man. He’d certainly done his research… That really was a one-of-a-kind item.
“That’s not something most people come here to see,” he said, trying to hide his sudden excitement at meeting another human being who had actually heard of it.
“I have a keen interest in such things.”
Wartzki looked the man up and down before sliding off his stool and moving to the back corner of the room.
“Most people just want to see the ‘Haunted America’ kitsch - Hook hands, taxidermied jackalopes and monkey paws, shrunken pygmy heads… You know, generic horror film memorabilia. So we keep the good stuff - the really good stuff - back here.”
He slowly, dramatically, creaked open the door on the back wall.
“Welcome… To the Esoteric Collection,”
The back room was a good size, though the bizarre grouping of dozens of different objects filled the space with little room to manoeuvre around them. The pieces in here went back centuries, some behind glass cabinets, some framed on the brick walls, some on pedestals of various heights.
Wartzki led the man through the small maze of ancient curios.
“You might be interested to note some of our exhibits here; Over here we have a statuette of the Celtic demon-god Khalil, carved from the skull of what we believe is some sort of rodent of unusual size… Here, a cape belonging to Count Vostok… This is a Carpathian chamber pot from the Von Homburg Deutschendorf dynasty… And here is the piece I believe you’re looking for.”
Framed on the wall was an ancient-looking dagger. It was flat and wide with a leatherbound handle, and forged from a strange pearlescent metal.
The tall man stepped in closely to examine it on the wall, almost appraising the piece like an expert, viewing it from all angles. Wartzki grinned when he could see how impressed the man was with his collection.
“The Weeping Blade. Said to hold the eternal tears of anyone slain by it. Legend says it was forged by ancient cultist blacksmiths using dark, forbidden blood magic for a demon-queen of the undead, if you believe the folklore…“
He leaned in close to the strange man’s ear, partially on tiptoes.
“...And I always believe the folklore.” He whispered, raising his eyebrows for effect.
The man hadn’t yet taken his eyes off of the artefact.
“Lilithea,” He eventually spoke with a sense of great reverence. “The consort of Surtr and mother of the daemon hordes of Hob Anagarak.”
The doctor’s face lit up again upon hearing those words spoken.
“You know your stuff! Not many people have even heard of the Hob, let alone get the pronunciation right.”
“The Witchqueen of Majus-Ka, lama plangatoare…” The man continued, “She who will return to bleed the world dry.”
Wartzki’s smile began to drop slightly. He recognised that last phrase from some cultist writings he had come across years ago whilst researching the blade. It was just before a particularly bad night’s sleep, one with nightmares he had long since forgotten.
“Uh… Yeah.” He became acutely aware of the late hour again. “So, ah, there it is. No photographs, please.”
“I will take it.” the man said, smiling for the first time since he had entered the premises. Wartzki winced slightly when he caught sight of the mouthful of yellowed, rotting teeth.
“It’s, uh… not for sale,” he laughed nervously.
The man turned to him, slowly. Wartzki swallowed hard.
A scream and a giggle from the street outside broke the menacing silence, and the man quickly took a step back from the perspiring doctor.
“My apologies, Doctor Wartzki. Thank you for the tour… Most enlightening.”
He bowed slightly, which Wartzki returned awkwardly to avoid seeming rude. In a flash, the man strode swiftly to the exit, sweeping up the stairs to street level and disappearing out into the night.
Wartzki was left standing in the middle of his backroom in dumbfounded silence.
“What a weirdo.” He said to himself, licking the remaining Doritos crumbs off his fingertips.
He returned to the front desk, shaking his head and plopping himself back on the tall stool at the desktop computer. He didn’t even notice the blade behind him - The Weeping Blade at the far end of the backroom - begin to bleed.
A single drop of dark red blood formed on the edge of the blade, sliding down to the pointed tip.
*****
The alleyway running alongside the firehouse wasn't the cleanest. Or the most spacious. And it certainly didn't have the nicest odors. But it made for an adequate shooting range, enough for the Spenglers to get to grips with the basics.
Trevor stared down the three crudely-drawn wooden ghosts at the far end of the alley, gripping the particle thrower tightly. He planted his feet wide, kept his knees firm, and braced his shoulders for the recoil…
“Two eggs, a sausage, and a pancake walk into a bar…”
Trevor huffed, dropping the wand to his hip.
“Maybe not the best time, Phebes,” he sighed. “Kinda trying to focus on a nuclear accelerator here.”
“I'm putting you at ease with humor. Wink.”
Phoebe watched him give her the side eye. She hopped up on an old crate next to the firehouse’s side entrance and began unfolding a collection of papers in her lap.
“What's that?” he asked, leveling the thrower at the ghosts again.
“Some schematics Doctor Stantz brought over. Did you know the ghost traps employ a muon field to nullify the negative electrons of a ghost?”
“Great!” he said, a little too enthusiastically to be genuine. He exhaled slowly, and let rip a stream of protons that shattered the head right off the first ghost and left the torso a flaming, splintered mess. The garbage dumpster behind fared slightly better, sporting a new scorch mark where the paint had been burnt off in an arc across the front.
“Careful, hotshot,” Ray said from the firehouse doorway, “Mayor Peck doesn't take too kindly to us destroying city property.”
“Peck?” Trevor snorted at such an unflattering name. Poor guy, he thought, going through life wearing an easy target like that. “Well he's welcome to have ghosts running riot all over Manhattan, if that's what he wants - Anyway, aren't you, like, retired or something? Shouldn't you be wearing slippers and queuing for an early bird special?”
Ray chuckled.
“Not on your life, Hoss. Besides, we're only here on a consultancy basis, just until we know you've had the necessary training to handle the job. As soon as you're qualified we'll be out of your hair; back to our boardrooms and book stores.”
A flash of something Phoebe recognised as sadness came over his face. She was about to ask why Ray wasn't joining Doctor Venkman teaching at the university when a shrill ringing came from somewhere within the firehouse. They exchanged concerned looks as the pair headed inside, Trevor waddling behind trying to awkwardly re-sheathe the wand over his shoulder.
*****
The team all formed a wide huddle around the reception desk as Ray picked up the ringing phone and held it to his ear.
“Ghostbusters…” He said tentatively. “Yes, we’re still in business. Uh-huh… Yeah… Got it...”
Winston and the new recruits watched the one-sided conversation intently, hardly daring to breathe. Ray turned to them, phone still pressed to his ear, starting to sound more confident now.
“Not a problem. We’ll send someone right out.”
He plopped the receiver back down.
“That…” He announced to the silent group, “...was a call.”
“A call… Like, a call call?” Gary asked. “A ghost call?”
Ray nodded.
“A security guard at the Fulton Fish Market, up in the Bronx. Sounds like a class four manifestation.”
Winston smirked, but there was a seriousness to his voice. “You think they can handle it?”
“Are you kidding? We used to eat class fours for breakfast and still have room left for pancakes.”
Ray looked at each of the new recruits in turn, then gave Winston a satisfied nod and an excited grin.
“They can handle it.”
*****
Trevor and Gary, now zipped into their uniforms, were hurriedly loading the packs and traps into the back of the recently repainted Ecto-1 while Ray imparted some final words of advice to Phoebe.
“You’ve all been getting to know your equipment, so you’re already familiar with the basics of zapping and trapping, and these refurbished packs were fitted with all-new emitter coils so there's less risk of overheating during capture - But you'll still wanna keep your stream output down to around forty-two kilowatts in a confined space or you're liable to lose a couple fingers. Got it?”
“Got it,” she replied, tugging her elbow pads up her slim arms. Phoebe looked up at him with a face of pure determination.
“Good. And remember; Don't cross the streams.”
She nodded sharply and moved off to help the others finish loading the equipment.
She was a good kid, Ray thought to himself, if a little headstrong at times. He looked over to see Winston walking Callie around to the front of the Ectomobile, away from the others. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but he knew perfectly well what was being said.
“You're sure Phoebe's ready for this?” Winston kept his voice low.
“I think she’s been ready for this since she was rewiring our apartment at age six,” Callie sighed. “She’s smart enough. She's strong enough. She's the only one that knows how to fix a proton pack.”
Winston agreed with all these things. But she was still a child. Trevor had barely even turned seventeen himself, and sending them both out into the field to face potentially hazardous supernatural phenomena was not something that sat right with Winston. Now that the moment for them to leave the relative safety of the firehouse was finally here, he found himself thinking twice about his decision to bring them on board.
“Besides, how many other thirteen-year-olds do you know that have taken down a demigod?”
He would admit that the number did seem low.
“If there's any problems - Any problems at all - You get the kids out of there.”
“We're Spenglers, remember?” she said, climbing into the passenger side of the Ectomobile. “We already are problems.”
Winston mused on the thought for a moment. Would he have even let them take the reins if they weren’t Spenglers? He worried the decision to recruit them permanently was the result of his guilty conscience paying reparations to his late friend and colleague.
Ray moved beside him, sharing his concerned expression. The two men watched solemnly as the Ecto-1 roared to life, the familiar wheezing siren filling the firehouse once more as the new generation of ghostbusters erupted out onto the street.
*****
To be continued!
Fixed now!While waiting impatiently for Frozen Empire to release recently, I started playing around with some ideas of what the gap between the films would have looked like and maybe how I would have liked that story to be told. So I picked up the laptop, opened a Word doc, started hammering some story ideas out... and then saw FE on opening night and immediately had to rewrite half of my story to fit the continuity.
NOTE: Yes, I know Back in Town is supposed to be the actual canon telling of this exact story. I was just too dang impatient for it to hit shelves.
Please enjoy the first chapter of my prequel story Ghostbusters: Nuclear Family and check back for more chapters soon!
Prologue
“Winston Zeddemore - Millionaire financial guru - Pays to have our old gear pulled outta storage, puts in an offer on our old digs, whisks us out here by private jet… But can’t spring for a decent limo?”
The back of the Summerville taxi was cosy, to say the least. The three former ghostbusters sat almost on top of each other; Winston on the left with a proton pack on his lap, Ray Stantz on the right hunched over the partially disassembled neutrona thrower, and Peter Venkman in the middle with his shoulders up around his earlobes.
“We’re lucky we even found this cab, Venkman,” Winston retorted. “The whole town was tearing itself apart in a panic - All hell’s breaking loose out there.”
Ray nodded, still not looking up from the thrower. “Small wonder; Spectral manifestations, psychokinetic weather anomalies, reanimated corpses… All the makings of a classic four-fold crossrip.”
It was clear that all of Egon Spengler’s doom-filled predictions were coming frighteningly true. From the small town in Oklahoma, a Sumerian demigod was once again attempting to fulfill an ancient prophecy to bring about the end of the modern world, with only a select few holding the knowledge and tools to prevent it. In the matter of hours since Ray had received the news of Egon’s passing, he had made the call to the other two remaining ghostbusters, and the trio - along with their dusty old equipment - had made the flight from Laguardia airport to an airstrip near Summerville, all courtesy of Winston’s generous expense account.
A curious Venkman peeked over Ray’s shoulder.
“And you really think these old tinker toys still pack enough of a punch?”
“They’re all we’ve got,” Ray lamented, squinting at the innards of the thrower. “The other two in the trunk seemed okay, this one just needs some minor realignment… And a little luck that the radiation shielding is still holding firm.”
Venkman’s eyes went wide for a moment.
“Swell. But if my back fat starts melting, I’m gonna sue. Just a heads up.”
Winston stared out of the window at the darkening sky above, watching the clouds spin and swirl into a familiar vortex of malevolent foreboding. The last time any of them had experienced something like this, they were a mile up in the sky atop a grand Manhattan apartment building, facing the same threat with Egon Spengler right there next to them.
This time it would be different.
In truth, Winston had thought about reaching out to Egon a dozen times over the last couple of decades, but the moment never seemed to present itself. He wasn’t sure if the blame lay with his busy schedule or his pride, but right now in this single moment, neither of those two things meant anything to him.
He looked down at the Spengler-built pack in his arms.
“Guess Egon was right about this all along,” he said slowly. “We just… didn’t wanna listen.”
“Yeah,” Venkman agreed sombrely. His voice was strangely quiet, and heavy with regret.
Ray said nothing. The guilt he had felt since he’d first learned of Egon’s death had almost doubled with every passing hour, and now it felt like the knot in his stomach may just about explode.
The three men stared straight ahead in silence for a moment.
Venkman sniffed, adjusted his knees to get the blood flowing back into his feet, and nudged his elbows outwards into the sets of ribs on either side of him.
“So - The Goze, huh? This chick wants a rematch with the champs? You two killers ready to go a few rounds?”
“Miller time,” Winston grinned. The two low-fived in what little space they had free between them.
Venkman turned to Stantz.
“Ray, how much further? I’m starting to get a hunchback over here.”
“Not far now,” he replied, slotting the barrel of the wand back in place, “Spengler’s house is only a couple more miles outside of town… Old place the locals call ‘The DIrt Farm.’“
“Cute. Whadd’ya say we stick around after we wrap this up and open up a hippie commune?”
Winston shook his head, smiling to himself. He had almost forgotten how easy Peter made it look to turn a dire situation into something to just be shrugged off.
Ray sighed.
“I just wish we had time to round up some more help. We’re not getting any younger, y’know.”
Winston turned his gaze back to the dark clouds above, but his thoughts were on Ray’s words. Even with his focus having been on his finance corporation in the years since Ghostbusters Inc. had shut down, he had quietly been keeping an ear to the ground, staying apprised of any news on the paranormal - And the facts were clear. Regardless of Gozer’s resurgence in Summerville, reports of supernatural events were still rising steadily around the country over the last few years.
If the world survived the night, it was still going to face new threats. And it was going to need someone new to defend it.
Part I
A Bite of The Big Apple
“It has firepoles?!” Trevor Spengler yelled excitedly as he took his first footsteps into the aged firehouse.
“It’s a fire station. Why wouldn’t it?” Phoebe said dryly, waiting impatiently for him to move out of the narrow hatchway built into the large entrance doors so she could set down the heavy box of clothes.
They were lucky to have made the trip from Summerville without killing each other. It had been a long, stressful journey from their grandfather’s farmhouse in Oklahoma to his old place of business in New York, but they had all agreed the chance was too good to pass up. For Phoebe, it was a place she could belong, learn, grow, and make a difference; For her mother, it was a potentially steady job. And for both it was also to form a connection with the life of Egon Spengler.
For Trevor, it was all these things too. But mainly about the return to civilization.
“I can't wait to check out Times Square,” he said, plopping down his suitcase in the vacant spot the Ectomobile once proudly stood. He already had several tabs on his phone open, all listing the latest NY hotspots. “Hey - did you know there’s a roving rave every Wednesday in a different part of an old, abandoned subway line? So cool.”
“Do they even allow seventeen year olds at raves?” Phoebe asked, already getting distracted by the various outdated bits of equipment dotted around the firehouse's garage area.
“Can the sex and drugs and rock n’ roll wait until after our belongings have actually made it into their new home, please?” Callie said, stepping sideways through the door to allow for the wide box of kitchen appliances she carried. “Thanks for the hand with the heavy stuff, by the way - Very considerate. Super proud of my parenting right now.”
“I think I turned out pretty great actually, given your lack of experience,” Trevor assured her sarcastically.
“Me too,” Phoebe said, picking up an old blowtorch with a glint in her eye.
“Well that makes me feel safe. How ‘bout you two stop scaring your mom for a sec and go pick a room.” She nodded toward the staircase.
Trevor picked up his suitcase and began marching towards the stairs leading up to the next floor.
“I call the biggest one.”
“Too late, Trev,” came a voice from above. “Already called it - First come, first claimed.”
Gary Grooberson descended from the top of the stairs, bouncing down to meet the Spenglers. He had arrived several hours earlier, and the excitement of moving into the ghostbuster’s old headquarters wasn’t about to wear off anytime soon.
“But we do have something of a rustic linen closet with your name on it,” he added, clasping a hand on Trevor's shoulder as he slipped past on the stairs.
“Great,” Trevor replied, “As long as the door’s thick enough to keep out any possessed science teachers.”
Gary winced. I’m never gonna live that down, he thought to himself. He greeted Callie with a kiss.
“So how was the trip?”
“Well, I managed to drive all the way here without murdering my own children, so… successful?”
“I’d say that’s pretty commendable,” Gary confirmed, taking the box of kitchen appliances from her arms. “In fact I think you’re a shoe in for a humanitarian award.”
“Mother Theresa’s got nothin’ on me.”
Phoebe couldn’t help but interject.
“Mother Theresa was a known child abuser, so she has that on you,” she said, head buried deep in Doctor Venkman’s old uniform locker.
“It’s never too late to start playing catch up,” Callie threatened. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the family van outside the firehouse. “Go lift something, phebes.”
Phoebe was about to stomp back out to the car to retrieve more boxes when she caught sight of two familiar figures stepping in through the doorway - The impeccably dressed Winston Zeddemore, the financier of their relocation, and the less-impeccably dressed Doctor Raymond Stantz. Ray was carrying a large cardboard box, but it wasn’t one Phoebe recognized from their car. It was far too new and undamaged.
“A fine New York morning to you all,” Ray said with a warm smile. “Hope you don’t mind us dropping by with a housewarming gift.”
“Winston! Doctor Stantz!” Phoebe was elated to see them.
“Hi, Phoebe.” Winston embraced her with a hug. He turned to the others, happy to see so much life back in the firehouse.
“It’s been too long since there was a Spengler in this building. Now we have three of them.”
He looked around with a sense of pride at the new recruits, before realizing his numbers were a little off.
“Wait - Where's Trevor?”
The sound of screeching metal signaled his return as the young man came shooting down one of the aged, tarnished fire poles. He hit the floor at tremendous speed, the bottoms of his feet starting to throb almost instantly.
“...ouch.”
“Gonna have to work on that landing, kid,” Ray remarked with less than a little sympathy.
Winston winced as he watched Trevor check his forearms for friction burns.
“Well, now that the gang's all here, we can welcome you properly,” he said, gesturing to Ray's box.
“If you're going to be joining the business, you might need some of these...” Ray said, gently placing the large cardboard box on the reception desk. The family stepped in closer.
Phoebe regarded the box curiously. New ghostbusting equipment? Memorabilia belonging to her grandfather?
“What is it?”
Ray winked at her, and nodded towards the box. She reached out slowly and opened the flaps, carefully lifting an item from inside.
“Congratulations, Spenglers… Gary…” Winston beamed at them all. “And welcome to the ghostbusters.”
Phoebe stared down at the muted khaki uniform in her hands. She ran her thumb over the red and black ‘Spengler’ name tag stitched onto the chest.
“It’ll do,” she said with a smirk. “Thanks, Winston… Doctor Stantz.” Her bright eyes looked twice as big through her large, round spectacles.
Winston and Ray both exchanged proud smiles.
Callie and Trevor each picked up their Spengler-labelled suits from the box in turn. Trevor grinned as he held his up, letting the length of the legs unfurl to the floor.
“Cool… Hey, does it come in black?”
His mother thought back to the last time she’d been provided a name tag by a workplace. A run-down firehouse in New York was still a step up from a run-down waffle house in Chicago, she told herself. Still, the gesture was not lost on her. Life as a ghostbuster meant being the last line of defense between the world she knew and the untold terrors that lay beyond it, and even though she didn’t understand that growing up, she had certainly experienced it first hand in Summerville.
She knew she was following her late, estranged father’s legacy, and this felt like another step closer to being a part of each other’s lives.
Gary watched them eagerly, giving Callie an excited look. He stepped forward, rubbing his hands together. He was almost on the verge of pinching himself. He lifted out the fourth set of dull-coloured coveralls and held them up, proudly admiring his own name tag.
His face soon shifted from excitement to confusion and then swiftly to disappointment.
“...Rookie?”
Phoebe failed to stifle her laugh.
“It’s, ah, just until we get you your own uniform made up,” said Ray. “It used to belong to an intern of ours a long time ago - Lotta history in those threads.”
“The stitching place had a bit of trouble with ‘Grooberson’ on the first run,” Winston tried to explain as gently (and inoffensively) as possible. “They’ll send out another batch as soon as their delivery guy gets back from vacation.”
“Well… Couldn’t it have just said ‘Gary’?”
“We’re scientists, not auto mechanics,” Ray said, wiping some dirt off his hands with a nearby oil-stained rag. Gary shook his head, still staring upsettingly at the overalls.
“Bummer,” was all Trevor could offer in the way of support. “Check it out, Phebes. You outrank your own science teacher.”
Callie stepped up next to him, cocking her head to look at the uniform.
“Bad luck, Rookie… Because I’m pretty sure that makes me your supervisor.” She chided, patting him condescendingly on the shoulder. “So grab a broom, will ya? I want my office cleaned by the end of the day.”
Ray and Winston moved off with the others to help collect the rest of the Spengler's belongings, leaving Gary standing alone in the firehouse hall.
“I still get a proton pack though, right?” He called out.
*****
Winston followed Ray down the metal staircase that led into the dimly-lit firehouse basement. The familiar room was as they’d left it years ago, the dust sheets even still hanging over the equipment shelves and workbenches opposite the cobweb-ridden containment unit.
“Aw, It’s been a while since I’ve seen this baby,” Ray said warmly, holding a palm against the front of the unit. He felt the familiar gentle thrumming of the laser system inside, still keeping the inhabitants at bay. He had long since lost count of how many specters, phantasms and ghouls were held within, but he was well aware of the dangers if there were ever another breach.
“Thing always gave me the creeps,” He chuckled. “Any word on your retrieval operation?”
“I just heard from Lars this morning,” Winston replied, “The team in Summerville’s just finished digging up the traps at the farmhouse. As soon as they’re sure it’s safe to move them, they’ll start bringing them home.”
Ray gave a satisfied nod. “And Gozer will finally be locked away forever,” he said eagerly. He glanced back at the containment unit, looking it up and down with a raised eyebrow.
“You think this old box can take a pissed-off demigod?”
“She’ll hold,” Winston reassured his concerned friend. “And just wait ‘til you see the next one,” he added slyly.
He gave Ray a knowing smirk, who shot back one of his own. They would both agree that these were certainly exciting times to be a ghostbuster.
*****
Doctor Hubert Wartzki sighed as his fingers found nothing but crumbs at the bottom of the Doritos bag. He scrunched up the packet and dropped it lazily towards the already-overflowing garbage can under the museum’s modest front desk before turning back to his eBay hunting. He was nearing the end of the pages upon pages of search results with little to no luck for a decent find, and he was starting to think there were no more haunted items left in the country.
The Museum of Occult Antiquities had been open a few months now, and the steady trickle of visitors was shrinking every week. He would still get the odd horror fan popping in every now and then, and sometimes a passerby would be drawn in by the offbeat vibe whilst mooching around the city, but none ever stayed long enough to fully appreciate the displays and pieces in the way Wartzki would demand they do.
The small, basement-level space might soon be for the chopping block if Wartzki’s leaseholders had their way. The place would be turned into a vape shop before he could even roll up the Sumerian prayer mat.
At least he still had his part-time hours at the public library to keep his bills paid at home.
He sat back and sighed, tilting his head back and turning his gaze towards the ceiling to give his eyes a break from the screen. He didn’t even notice the man standing at the desk until he brought his head back down.
“Jesus!” He exclaimed with a fright, “You scared the pants off me.”
The man was tall and shockingly thin, and in the dim light of the museum he looked as pale as a ghost. Wartzki leaned over and flipped on the lamp, casting a warm yellow glow over the man’s face.
He almost wished he had left the light off.
“Forgive me,” Said the gaunt, expressionless stranger in a strange, vaguely eastern European accent. “This is the Museum of Occult Antiquities?”
Wartzki was still catching his breath.
“Yeah… But you’re a little late,” he panted. We, ah, closed a few hours ago I’m afraid.”
“I believe you have in your possession a rather rare and interesting item.” Said the man, ignoring Wartzki’s closing hours completely.
“Well, I mean…” Wartzki gestured vaguely at the various strange obscura and gothic statues surrounding them. “...Take your pick.”
The man continued staring directly at Wartzki.
“Something more obscure. One of a kind.”
“Buddy, everything in here is one-of-a-kind. We’ve got dozens of one-of-a-kinds.” Wartzki lifted his can of Coke to his mouth. Any other time, he would have talked this man’s ear off about every single item in the museum’s inventory like a hyper-fixated toddler. But at the end of a very long week, at midnight on a Saturday, was not the moment to be playing mind games with creepy eurotrash.
“I’m looking for the Weeping Blade of Majus-Ka.”
Wartzki stopped mid-sip. He raised an eyebrow at the man. He’d certainly done his research… That really was a one-of-a-kind item.
“That’s not something most people come here to see,” he said, trying to hide his sudden excitement at meeting another human being who had actually heard of it.
“I have a keen interest in such things.”
Wartzki looked the man up and down before sliding off his stool and moving to the back corner of the room.
“Most people just want to see the ‘Haunted America’ kitsch - Hook hands, taxidermied jackalopes and monkey paws, shrunken pygmy heads… You know, generic horror film memorabilia. So we keep the good stuff - the really good stuff - back here.”
He slowly, dramatically, creaked open the door on the back wall.
“Welcome… To the Esoteric Collection,”
The back room was a good size, though the bizarre grouping of dozens of different objects filled the space with little room to manoeuvre around them. The pieces in here went back centuries, some behind glass cabinets, some framed on the brick walls, some on pedestals of various heights.
Wartzki led the man through the small maze of ancient curios.
“You might be interested to note some of our exhibits here; Over here we have a statuette of the Celtic demon-god Khalil, carved from the skull of what we believe is some sort of rodent of unusual size… Here, a cape belonging to Count Vostok… This is a Carpathian chamber pot from the Von Homburg Deutschendorf dynasty… And here is the piece I believe you’re looking for.”
Framed on the wall was an ancient-looking dagger. It was flat and wide with a leatherbound handle, and forged from a strange pearlescent metal.
The tall man stepped in closely to examine it on the wall, almost appraising the piece like an expert, viewing it from all angles. Wartzki grinned when he could see how impressed the man was with his collection.
“The Weeping Blade. Said to hold the eternal tears of anyone slain by it. Legend says it was forged by ancient cultist blacksmiths using dark, forbidden blood magic for a demon-queen of the undead, if you believe the folklore…“
He leaned in close to the strange man’s ear, partially on tiptoes.
“...And I always believe the folklore.” He whispered, raising his eyebrows for effect.
The man hadn’t yet taken his eyes off of the artefact.
“Lilithea,” He eventually spoke with a sense of great reverence. “The consort of Surtr and mother of the daemon hordes of Hob Anagarak.”
The doctor’s face lit up again upon hearing those words spoken.
“You know your stuff! Not many people have even heard of the Hob, let alone get the pronunciation right.”
“The Witchqueen of Majus-Ka, lama plangatoare…” The man continued, “She who will return to bleed the world dry.”
Wartzki’s smile began to drop slightly. He recognised that last phrase from some cultist writings he had come across years ago whilst researching the blade. It was just before a particularly bad night’s sleep, one with nightmares he had long since forgotten.
“Uh… Yeah.” He became acutely aware of the late hour again. “So, ah, there it is. No photographs, please.”
“I will take it.” the man said, smiling for the first time since he had entered the premises. Wartzki winced slightly when he caught sight of the mouthful of yellowed, rotting teeth.
“It’s, uh… not for sale,” he laughed nervously.
The man turned to him, slowly. Wartzki swallowed hard.
A scream and a giggle from the street outside broke the menacing silence, and the man quickly took a step back from the perspiring doctor.
“My apologies, Doctor Wartzki. Thank you for the tour… Most enlightening.”
He bowed slightly, which Wartzki returned awkwardly to avoid seeming rude. In a flash, the man strode swiftly to the exit, sweeping up the stairs to street level and disappearing out into the night.
Wartzki was left standing in the middle of his backroom in dumbfounded silence.
“What a weirdo.” He said to himself, licking the remaining Doritos crumbs off his fingertips.
He returned to the front desk, shaking his head and plopping himself back on the tall stool at the desktop computer. He didn’t even notice the blade behind him - The Weeping Blade at the far end of the backroom - begin to bleed.
A single drop of dark red blood formed on the edge of the blade, sliding down to the pointed tip.
*****
The alleyway running alongside the firehouse wasn't the cleanest. Or the most spacious. And it certainly didn't have the nicest odors. But it made for an adequate shooting range, enough for the Spenglers to get to grips with the basics.
Trevor stared down the three crudely-drawn wooden ghosts at the far end of the alley, gripping the particle thrower tightly. He planted his feet wide, kept his knees firm, and braced his shoulders for the recoil…
“Two eggs, a sausage, and a pancake walk into a bar…”
Trevor huffed, dropping the wand to his hip.
“Maybe not the best time, Phebes,” he sighed. “Kinda trying to focus on a nuclear accelerator here.”
“I'm putting you at ease with humor. Wink.”
Phoebe watched him give her the side eye. She hopped up on an old crate next to the firehouse’s side entrance and began unfolding a collection of papers in her lap.
“What's that?” he asked, leveling the thrower at the ghosts again.
“Some schematics Doctor Stantz brought over. Did you know the ghost traps employ a muon field to nullify the negative electrons of a ghost?”
“Great!” he said, a little too enthusiastically to be genuine. He exhaled slowly, and let rip a stream of protons that shattered the head right off the first ghost and left the torso a flaming, splintered mess. The garbage dumpster behind fared slightly better, sporting a new scorch mark where the paint had been burnt off in an arc across the front.
“Careful, hotshot,” Ray said from the firehouse doorway, “Mayor Peck doesn't take too kindly to us destroying city property.”
“Peck?” Trevor snorted at such an unflattering name. Poor guy, he thought, going through life wearing an easy target like that. “Well he's welcome to have ghosts running riot all over Manhattan, if that's what he wants - Anyway, aren't you, like, retired or something? Shouldn't you be wearing slippers and queuing for an early bird special?”
Ray chuckled.
“Not on your life, Hoss. Besides, we're only here on a consultancy basis, just until we know you've had the necessary training to handle the job. As soon as you're qualified we'll be out of your hair; back to our boardrooms and book stores.”
A flash of something Phoebe recognised as sadness came over his face. She was about to ask why Ray wasn't joining Doctor Venkman teaching at the university when a shrill ringing came from somewhere within the firehouse. They exchanged concerned looks as the pair headed inside, Trevor waddling behind trying to awkwardly re-sheathe the wand over his shoulder.
*****
The team all formed a wide huddle around the reception desk as Ray picked up the ringing phone and held it to his ear.
“Ghostbusters…” He said tentatively. “Yes, we’re still in business. Uh-huh… Yeah… Got it...”
Winston and the new recruits watched the one-sided conversation intently, hardly daring to breathe. Ray turned to them, phone still pressed to his ear, starting to sound more confident now.
“Not a problem. We’ll send someone right out.”
He plopped the receiver back down.
“That…” He announced to the silent group, “...was a call.”
“A call… Like, a call call?” Gary asked. “A ghost call?”
Ray nodded.
“A security guard at the Fulton Fish Market, up in the Bronx. Sounds like a class four manifestation.”
Winston smirked, but there was a seriousness to his voice. “You think they can handle it?”
“Are you kidding? We used to eat class fours for breakfast and still have room left for pancakes.”
Ray looked at each of the new recruits in turn, then gave Winston a satisfied nod and an excited grin.
“They can handle it.”
*****
Trevor and Gary, now zipped into their uniforms, were hurriedly loading the packs and traps into the back of the recently repainted Ecto-1 while Ray imparted some final words of advice to Phoebe.
“You’ve all been getting to know your equipment, so you’re already familiar with the basics of zapping and trapping, and these refurbished packs were fitted with all-new emitter coils so there's less risk of overheating during capture - But you'll still wanna keep your stream output down to around forty-two kilowatts in a confined space or you're liable to lose a couple fingers. Got it?”
“Got it,” she replied, tugging her elbow pads up her slim arms. Phoebe looked up at him with a face of pure determination.
“Good. And remember; Don't cross the streams.”
She nodded sharply and moved off to help the others finish loading the equipment.
She was a good kid, Ray thought to himself, if a little headstrong at times. He looked over to see Winston walking Callie around to the front of the Ectomobile, away from the others. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but he knew perfectly well what was being said.
“You're sure Phoebe's ready for this?” Winston kept his voice low.
“I think she’s been ready for this since she was rewiring our apartment at age six,” Callie sighed. “She’s smart enough. She's strong enough. She's the only one that knows how to fix a proton pack.”
Winston agreed with all these things. But she was still a child. Trevor had barely even turned seventeen himself, and sending them both out into the field to face potentially hazardous supernatural phenomena was not something that sat right with Winston. Now that the moment for them to leave the relative safety of the firehouse was finally here, he found himself thinking twice about his decision to bring them on board.
“Besides, how many other thirteen-year-olds do you know that have taken down a demigod?”
He would admit that the number did seem low.
“If there's any problems - Any problems at all - You get the kids out of there.”
“We're Spenglers, remember?” she said, climbing into the passenger side of the Ectomobile. “We already are problems.”
Winston mused on the thought for a moment. Would he have even let them take the reins if they weren’t Spenglers? He worried the decision to recruit them permanently was the result of his guilty conscience paying reparations to his late friend and colleague.
Ray moved beside him, sharing his concerned expression. The two men watched solemnly as the Ecto-1 roared to life, the familiar wheezing siren filling the firehouse once more as the new generation of ghostbusters erupted out onto the street.
*****
To be continued!
Last edited by ShandorMiningCo on April 7th, 2024, 2:47 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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