Hi everyone,
Great to meet you all; it’s exciting to be part of the community!
Terror In Paradise is a story that’s set in a world where the Ghostbusters have franchised globally. It introduces all new characters, but remains closely connected to GB lore.
Other than the fun in watching this story unfold in my head, my aim when writing it was to honor the tone and spirit (pun intended) of the Ghostbusters Universe. Whether you think I achieved this or not, I’d appreciate any feedback. If enough people find it engaging, I’ll publish the final parts of the narrative.
Thanks in advance!
Lee.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART 1: TOUCH OF EVIL
Steam enveloped Cecelia as she stepped from the shower and stretched for her towel. Wrapped in the soft, bronze-coloured cotton, the young woman leaned forward to wipe fog from the bathroom mirror and froze. The noise was louder than ever before, almost like a gunshot. It vibrated the walls and trembled up her feet from the tiles.
Damn, she thought. Always when it’s most awkward.
She pinpointed the disturbance instantly. The townhouse was modest: two bedrooms with an ensuite upstairs, a second toilet, kitchen, laundry, lounge/dining room and a small patio downstairs. Opposite the base of the stairs was the front door—the source of the bang.
Mysterious noises had plagued her for weeks and were now a daily occurrence. Worse, they always happened when she was alone and vulnerable: showering, using the toilet, or about to fall asleep in bed. When she cleaned the house or did her laundry, she heard nothing. Not a peep while she read on the patio or worked on her laptop in the dining room. Cemeteries weren’t as peaceful as her second bedroom, a space she’d planned to turn into a work office but remained unfurnished. Her lounge was a den of serenity, though her parents would argue their housewarming gifts made that room, if not a private area, a personal one. Ancestral shells and rocks from the Yugambeh people made it so; a collection any indigenous Australian would be proud of.
Cecelia’s breath caught. Footsteps tramped methodically up the stairs. In addition to the ferocity of the downstairs blast, staircase activity was abnormal.
Snap out of it, Cecelia! Nothing about these noises is normal!
From the top of the stairs, one could turn left and down the hall towards the empty second room or right towards hers. The intruder veered her way. Whatever stranger stalked her home would soon be at her ensuite door.
She shivered beneath her towel.
Why did she listen for so long? Naked beneath that towel or not, she should be hightailing it down the street.
Yeah right! On the broken legs she’d earn leaping out the bedroom window? Escaping her home was only possible via the front and rear patio doors, both of which were impossible to reach when the hallway was blocked by a massive-sounding assailant!
Or was none of this real, as her recently dumped ex-boyfriend Eric had claimed whenever she’d voiced concerns about the noises? “Probably imagining it,” he’d said, never having heard them himself. “Or a rodent problem.” During their final argument about it, a frustrated Cecelia emoted that he wasn’t being supportive enough. He’d called her crazy, and that had been the end of them.
The problem was that Eric’s words had instilled doubt, and consequently, she’d done nothing to discover the sounds’ origins. Not because she’d agreed with his assertions. Her inaction was practical. Getting somebody to check the wall spaces meant calling the rental agency. They’d deem the matter non-urgent since no tangible damage or physical evidence existed. Past experiences with non-urgent issues had resulted in waiting forever for responses. Hell, getting the lounge’s air-conditioner fixed had been a six-month ordeal!
Yet there were occasions she'd deemed the matter urgent. These incidents occurred while she was alone in bed and drifting off to sleep. Confessing them to Eric had been a tipping point, fuel for his unfair criticism. “Of course that’s when it would happen!” he’d declared. “You were probably dreaming!” But she was positive she’d been awake when those unseen hands had begun caressing her. On one occasion, they’d actually grabbed her and pinned her to the mattress. Podcasts Eric had insisted she listened to labelled similarly described reports as ‘sleep paralysis’—a neural mix-up where your body is in sleep mode but your brain is awake. Granted, that was a possible explanation for the bed attacks. However, it didn’t explain the noises she heard while she was up and fully conscious.
Scratching or pattering across the walls was most common, though you’d be hard-pressed to label these as phenomena. As a teenager, she recalled watching TV when a similar-sounding rhythm had caught her attention. The culprit had been a giant, hairy-legged spider, startling at the time but comprehensible. Critters in the drywall could be the case again here.
Except that her gut told her it wasn’t.
And now, the true culprit had smashed in her front door and thudded up her staircase.
A frightening idea arose: What if it was Eric, sore at being dumped and wild for retaliation? What if he’d always been responsible and was gaslighting her?
The footsteps halted as if the intruder (Eric?) read her mind.
Patter patter patter. Along the ceiling, across the skirting boards and down the walls.
Could whatever was in her hallway be simultaneously inside the roof and bathroom walls? Her ex didn’t seem capable of such an elaborate scheme.
Pitter-patters crisscrossed the large frameless mirror in front of her. Swirls in the steam, thick in the small ensuite, attracted her attention. Cecelia blinked, squeezed her eyes tightly and shook her head to clear the impossible. Nothing changed the vision.
You’re not crazy you’re not crazy you’re not crazy, she thought, for the first time unsure if this was accurate.
Patterns emerged upon the mirror like a dozen invisible fingers, cutting through the condensation with an irritating and protracted series of squeaks.
Too shocked to flee, Cecelia’s mouth twitched, a scream locked in her throat, the key to release it missing.
This was not Eric or a random intruder. No human intruder.
Cecelia’s shivering became a racking tremor as the shapes on the mirror connected to form letters and then a simple, terrifying phrase:
Tonight you’re mine.
Cold air wafted across her face from an unseen source, clearing the foreground and drying the mirror. A pinkish-purple-coloured skull appeared in the reflection, which parted the background fog as it advanced from behind her. Its glowing red eyes crackled and sparked as if charged with electricity. Clawed hands shoved her forward and pinned her against the basin. Violently, those claws ripped the towel away. Feeling utterly defenceless, the key found its way to her throat, and Cecelia released her trapped scream.
The door to her ensuite crashed open. A flood of cold air buffeted her exposed body, which was now damper from sweat than her recent shower.
God save her; what else had come to participate in this horror?
A new noise was introduced: something powering up. A red glow—probably the monster’s eyes—intensified in her peripheries. Restrained and unable to turn her head, she couldn’t be certain. All she could do was pray that when the demon killed her, it would be quick and painless.
Glass exploded beside her face, shards propelled everywhere, a few grazing her cheeks. Heat like she couldn’t imagine licked her skin. Smoke infiltrated her nostrils. There was a churning electrical buzz and flashes of orange and blue. Inside the bathroom, the echoing cacophony was deafening. Screaming again, she kicked forward against her vanity cupboard to escape, movement possible now those beastly hands had released her. A deep and guttural roar joined the discordant mix, a cry of rage.
It might have been seconds or minutes before Cecelia reopened her eyes; the preceding events were a blur. Crouched and cowering beneath the sink, she had no recollection of dropping there. Her face was sore, cut and possibly scorched. Littering the tiles around her were bits of broken mirror and globules resembling pink hair gel.
What the hell had just happened?
“Let me know when you’re decent,” a baritone said from around the corner.
The intruder!
“Are you hurt?” the voice asked.
It was too much base for her ex, nor was it a voice she recognized. “Whoever you are,” she said, “I’m calling the police.” It was a bluff easily undone. All it would take is a notification to reveal her phone beneath her pillow. Meanwhile, if she could stand and lock herself inside the bathroom without cutting her feet on the glass— Shit! Lock what? The door was hanging halfway off its hinges.
“Glad to know you’re not dead,” the hiding person stated.
“Who are you, and what do you want? Try to touch me, I dare you! I’ll rip it off, for real!”
“Rip it off?”
“Your penis!”
“I got what you meant.”
“Well, believe it!”
The intruder hesitated before continuing. “Is that shrill tone because I singed you or wrecked your bathroom?” He paused, and after considering it, said, “I guess it could be both.” The voice was getting closer. “When you report this, mentioning it happened while trying to save you might be helpful.”
A large man appeared in her splintered doorway. He wore an undersized khaki tan jumpsuit (the sleeves and pants legs were sheered to accommodate his size). The fabric above the outfit’s left breast was torn, exposing a hairy nipple she found as unappealing as the man’s black hair, which, upon his head and around his face, hung long and unkempt. The man held one hand up as if surrendering; his other was draped across his face. “Not looking,” he said, “in case your bits are still showing.”
Using her arms to cover herself, she reached for the bronze-coloured towel.
“I wouldn’t use that,” the man warned. “Glass shards might have stuck to the fibres.”
“You said you weren’t looking!” she snapped, noticing the gap between his fingers.
“You weren’t responding and I was worried.”
“Well, stop worrying and get me some clothes!”
The man vanished into her bedroom. As he disappeared, Cecelia caught the second tear in his outfit: a small patch below the right shoulder. Given the stranger’s state, she was shocked he didn’t reek or look filthier.
A baritone voice drifted from the direction of her wardrobe. “Can I get you some Betadine? Band-Aids?”
Mindful of her footing, Cecelia stood and reviewed herself in the fragment of mirror still attached to the wall. She washed the scrapes with soap. Merely grazed, her wounds had already coagulated. “I’m fine,” she said. “Clothes are what I need.”
“There are a few choice dresses here,” the man said. “A flashy little yellow number or—hey, this blue one with the white dots is—”
“Those are clubbing dresses! Just get me jeans and a T-shirt!”
“Pretty casual,” he stated, sounding unimpressed.
Exasperated, she was tempted to leap out naked and try her luck in the dirty clothes hamper downstairs. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she could escape her house and scream for help.
Then again, if this guy wanted to attack her, would he be trying to find her clothes to wear?
“I said jeans and a T are pretty casual,” he called out.
“Have you seen what you’re wearing?” she snapped. “Anyway, why would I want to… impressing you is not a priority!”
“Ow, ow, shrill again,” he remarked as if in pain. “Even from here, that’s piercing.”
She heard the rustle of wardrobe coat hangers followed by sliding wood as he rummaged through drawers. “Ok,” he said at last, “I’ve got jeans and a white t-shirt that says,” he paused, presumably to read it. “It says, ‘Crazy? I prefer the term hilariously unstable.’ Shit, I hope that’s not true.” More to himself, he muttered, “That shrill voice though.”
“Just pass them in here!”
“Let me find some panties.”
Picturing that stranger’s grubby fingers rifling through her delicates caused Cecelia’s stomach to tighten. Grinding her teeth, she said, “I’ll get them when I’m dressed.”
“You planning to wear them on the outside?” the man said, thrusting his choices from around the corner.
Shaking her head that he should select a white novelty shirt (one joking about her mental stability, no less), she was thankful that at least she was dry enough that it wouldn’t become instantly transparent. Her long black hair was still damp, so she wrapped it into a bun.
“Stay where you are,” she called out before exiting, peeking around the corner to spy precisely where he was. Moderate as the room was in size, it was large enough that some of her tensions were alleviated when she spotted him by the bedhead. She could dart out and slam the room’s door if needed, closing him inside long enough to sprint down the stairs and out to freedom.
“If you can hurry with your panties so we can debrief and I can be on my way,” the man said. “We need to get our stories straight so you don’t get confused and tell the cops I was the attacker.”
“For all I know, you were!” She didn’t believe this and wasn’t sure why she said it.
“You think I resemble that hairless dick?”
“How do I know that’s not a wig and fake beard?” she accused. “Your jumpsuit has enough pockets for countless disguises!”
He stared at her blankly. “So your shirt is accurate then.” Then he tugged at his hair and beard to demonstrate their verity.
Cecelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. Who was this guy to snipe at her? He looked like… She racked her brain for a comeback. “Well, you look like Charles Manson.”
Confused more than affronted, the man crossed the room to examine himself in the mirror above the dresser he’d been digging through. “Huh,” he said. “Fair. But in my defence, there aren’t many reflective surfaces where I shower.”
“Where is your shower? A swamp?”
After frowning at her for a moment, his face ultimately morphed into its standard look of ambivalence. “Good luck when that demon returns,” he said. “Like I said, try to remember things accurately when you talk to the po-po.”
She backed up at his approach and struck a defensive pose in anticipation of attack. “I know Krav Maga.”
“That the one that teaches penis-ripping?” Without breaking stride, the man progressed to the stairs, a beachy scent lingering in his wake. “Maybe threaten the monster with that next time,” he said, descending the staircase. “Not that demons have genitalia for you to tear off. But if you say it scary enough—I know Krav Maga!—Who knows? Worth a shot.” He paused at the first-floor landing directly opposite the busted front door. “I’ll lean the door, and maybe you can drag something heavy against it.”
Cecelia’s fists remained on guard, watching from the balustrade as the man crunched over the splintered wood, placed the front door at a skewed angle over the entrance, and vacated her premises.
“Good riddance,” she muttered, surprised to feel guilt over how she’d treated the guy. Since he was obviously homeless, the whole swamp thing was a low blow. Besides, he was surprisingly clean and not unpleasant-smelling. Most illogical was that there’d been something comforting about him. It must be his eyes, she mused, which were a warm hazel.
The night air was cool and carried a hint of pine as she sprinted into the street after him. “Hey, you,” she said, chasing the stranger to the dark side of the street.
“Hud,” he said, not stopping.
“Fine, grunt at me; way to sulk.”
“My name,” he said, pausing and tapping his chest as if talking to a non-English speaker, “is Hud.”
“Fine, Hud. Look, you said demon. You saw that, too? A ghost, like on the news?” Searching his face for truth and confirmation she wasn’t crazy uncovered a new thought. His jumpsuit no longer appeared a random choice. “Wait, are you… do you work for the…? I’ve seen ads warning of growing incidents, and the Gold Coast branch seems to be constantly recruiting.”
“I definitely don't work for them. Well,” he tilted his head from side to side as if weighing options. “Not officially.”
“But you did? Or you know someone in the compan—”
“I’m familiar with what attacked you because I’ve been tracking it. Trust me, ‘They’ don’t know shit about what’s after you.”
“Why are you tracking it if you’re not an employee?” She grabbed the tatters of his sleeve. “And why would you be wearing their uniform?” She circled to his rear and tried to angle him towards the streetlights for a better inspection. Secured to his back was a Compressed Neutrona Wand, a tool the company advertised increased fieldworker manoeuvrability. She stepped back and reviewed his attire again. “Did you steal all this?”
“It was left to me.” He waved the topic away. “Look, all I want to do is bust that creep. If you can do me a solid and not call the so-called professionals, I’ll solve our problem.”
Flustered, she said, “You’ve multiplied my problems!”
“Come again?”
“You broke my door! I don’t own that place; damage gets deducted from my bond.” She threw her hands up. As if Hud cared. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have the means to reimburse her. “Forget it, I’m going to my Mum’s.”
“Oooh,” Hud said, spoiling her getaway. “I’d avoid visiting loved ones for now. When that thing latches onto someone, it tends to follow them around.” He paused while she processed this, and when he spoke again, his voice was genuine. “With the proper tools, I can fix something temporary with your door. In return, please don’t interfere with my hunt.”
“It’ll follow me to my Mum’s?” Cecelia asked, stomach sinking.
“Worse is if it fancies her.”
“Then, I’ll go to a motel,” she said.
“Perfect, no big deal if you lure it there to kill them; who are they to you?”
Cecelia shivered. Was she trapped at home until this thing was caught?
“And you’re not worried it’ll target you?” she asked Hud.
A bitter smile touched his face. “If only it would.”
Inviting Hud into her home was not high on her list of desirables, but his authenticity affected her. “Fix my door,” she told him, “and you can patrol all you want after that.”
“Deal,” he said. “But keep your expectations reasonable. I can’t mend it like new without proper material. What I can do is enough to stop crooks waltzing in.”
The trees flanking the road rustled in cheer, and the breeze carried another waft of pine her way. It mixed pleasantly with the ocean aroma Hud exuded.
“Come on,” she said and steered him back towards her home. “But look, while you’re fixing the door, it’s the law that I report what happened so you know I have to call them. I won’t rat you out,” she added when he turned to flee. “I’ll even give you some food.”
The man’s lips smacked as he weighed her offer.
“Consider it this way,” Cecelia persisted, “sharing what you know could help bust the demon.” She didn’t tell him it was also to have someone official record the man’s presence, just in case her instinct about him was wrong.
“This,” Hud said, thumbing the CNW on his back, “is what will bust the demon.”
She scoffed, already feeling way too comfortable with the guy. “If another mirror needs exploding, you can use it.”
He shrugged, seemingly unoffended. “You make an omelette…” He raised his hands as if to say, ’nuff said.
“Well, not to make you feel bad, but those reflective eggs aren’t cheap. And like the door you’re sort of but not really fixing, they’re not likely to be covered by my insurance.”
“Get the materials, and I can fix the bathroom, too.”
This was probably an empty boast, but she’d let him prove himself with her door and then consider future repairs. If he was capable, the savings in labour would go a ways towards repaying his debt. “I’m happy you’re prepared to fix what you destroyed,” she told him.
“You should be,” he said. “Not only because the damage was done to save you, but because you’re forcing me to deal with them. It’s only because we’re bonding so hardcore that I’m sacrificing all this dignity.”
She halted him in front of the door he’d shattered off its hinges. “Listen, Hud, we’re not bonding. You’re here for carpentry and to help with a supernatural matter. That’s all.”
He tilted his head. “Is that a practised coy, or have I brought it out in you?”
As condescendingly as she could, Cecelia patted him on the chest. “I’ll fix the door myself.”
“Kidding, kidding. Fine, there’s no bonding.” Hud raised his hands in defeat. “I’m just here to help.”
“Good,” she stated, noting again how disarming the man was. She should be careful of that. Charming men with kind eyes weren’t necessarily kind people. Plus, charm went a long way, but there were limits to what she’d accept in a rebound relationship. Unemployed, homeless people were off limits.
She nodded at her resolution and tightened her emotional shield against another unhelpful observation: beneath all that hair was a potentially handsome guy.
What a waste, she mused.
“Sacrificed your dignity,” Cecelia muttered as they crossed the smashed threshold of her home.
“You joke,” Hud said, “but only because you’ve never dealt with a Ghostbuster before.”
To be continued in PART 2: INVESTIGATION
Statistics: Posted by Xajacity — May 23rd, 2024, 6:51 am