PART 2: INVESTIGATION
“I thought you were fixing this,” Cecelia said through strained breaths. Her small frame struggled to hold the front door an inch off the ground so it remained aligned with the newly drilled hinge holes.
“Use your body weight,” Hud suggested as he rummaged through an empty ice cream container full of assorted screws.
“Can’t I set it down until you find the right screws?”
“Best you don’t,” he said, his face curtained by his hair. He casually sorted through metal as if her torso weren’t moments away from a population of hernias.
“Couldn’t you have held this and I found the screws?”
“Toned-looking girl like you must go to the gym,” Hud said, upending the bucket of screws onto her kitchen bench with a loud clatter.
“I don’t do weights!” she groaned. Sweat coated her body, and her muscles began to quiver.
“Is working out easier when you talk the whole time?”
“Are you seriously telling me to shut up?”
“Not that bluntly,” Hud stated. Then, glimpsing her about to put the door down, added, “You’ll set us back if you do that. Crooks could be lurking; this is the Goldy, remember.”
“Then get over here!”
“Not much point of that without the right screws.”
“It’s slipping!” Strands of hair were escaping her bun and falling into her face, exacerbating her discomfort.
Pausing his search, Hud turned towards her and frowned. “You said you had the correct-sized screws. You didn’t mention they were mixed up among all this shrapnel. I expected this to be quick.”
“Forget it…” she said, sweat stinging her eyes and hoping she wouldn’t squash her toes with the heavy fire door when it landed.
In three quick steps, the broad-shouldered, six-foot-two vagabond caught the door and lifted the weight off her. Cecelia stumbled and collapsed onto the carpet, her fingers stiff from how long they’d been folded around the door’s edges. Meanwhile, Hud propped the door up on his bare foot, kept it in place with one hand, and used a power drill with the other to affix the appropriate side to the doorframe.
“You could have held it yourself?” she sputtered, her urge to slap him tempered by her exhaustion.
“Again,” Hud said and assisted Cecelia up, “we needed the correct size screws first.” She watched him test his handiwork by swinging the door back and forth a few times. “Ain’t no locking this,” he said, playing with the strip of doorjamb wrenched free when he’d kicked his way in. “But if we close it and lean something heavy against—”
Flashing patterns of blue light faded up on Hud’s face, the bright glare intensifying in tandem with the hefty rumble of an approaching engine.
“No siren,” Hud mumbled. “Bummer.” He sulked away from the door, crashed onto Cecelia’s sofa and stared mutely at the blank TV. With the overhead lights in the lounge off, he was all shadows. It matched his mood, which had worsened since she’d reported the attack to the Ghostbusters’ Gold Coast branch. Hud had sniped about the organization in general terms yet been unwilling to give a specific reason for his dislike.
Cecelia studied him curiously and recalled their chat about it immediately after she’d called the branch. Hud had only begun drilling the new hinge holes for the door then. “You don’t even like the ads?” she’d asked him. “Who ya gonna—”
“Keep singing and the next hole I drill is through my head.”
Rolling her eyes, she’d said, “Well, the news has shown them helping tons of people. Just because they fired you doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t be grateful for them, especially now that ghosts have spread into more neighbourhoods.”
Hud had merely grunted. In retrospect, it might have been her mix of prying, assumptions and singing that caused him to assign her door-holding duty.
She flexed her fingers as the recollection ended. “You think Ectomobiles are ambulance or hearse conversions?” Cecelia asked Hud as the company’s trademark white 1959 Cadillac pulled into the driveway. If the guy was a former employee, he should know.
“Don’t care,” Hud grunted from the couch. Then, with less snark, he said, “But I can admit to digging the siren.” Petulantly, he added, “Whoever they sent couldn’t even get that right.”
“Are you going to be like this all night?”
Hud paused. “Probably.”
Radiant bursts from the rotating roof lights infiltrated the apartment, periodically bathing everything inside blue. At such close proximity, Cecelia needed to shield her eyes. “They’re not going to blast the neighbourhood with the siren when it’s not an emergency. The demon is already gone.”
Instead of listening to her, Hud’s fingers vigorously searched the area below the sofa’s armrest.
“It’s not a recliner,” she informed him.
He groaned and fell against the rear cushion, yelping as the CNW dug into his back. Complaining louder, he slid the weapon off its V-Hook and laid it beside him.
“My deepest apologies none of this matches your usual high standards,” Cecelia said.
The gruff engine waned, but the lights remained on, keeping the person who exited the vehicle silhouetted. Cecelia opened the door wider in preparation for the field operative, startled when the blue glow died, and her foyer fluorescents sharply defined him.
He cut a slim figure in his uniform: a flight suit the colour of Hud’s, complimented with an army-style pistol belt, black leather jump boots and grey elbow pads. The rest of him was bulked with gear, and she wondered how someone so thin managed to carry it all. Hooked to the man’s left shoulder was a two-way; over his right and hanging like a handbag was a medium-sized box with a cord connected to a long, burnt mahogany-coloured rod. A Proton Pack was strapped onto his back, a traditional Neutrona Wand fastened along the right side. Clipped to his belt at the hip was a black, oblong-shaped device with a handle and folded silver wings. Much of this paraphernalia she’d seen in ads, though she couldn’t recall what they all did.
“Cecelia Winterstone?” The man asked. Except for his clean-shaven, severe countenance, the paranormal investigator had the appearance of a local: tanned with sun-lightened hair.
“Yes,” she said, surprised at the break in her voice. It was suddenly hard to believe this man was at her property. It was like having a fully armed cop standing there on official business: a little intimidating.
“My name is Gene Riscraven,” he said, supporting the red and black surname patch stitched across the left breast of his coveralls, just below his two-way. “I’m with the Gold Coast Ghostbusters. You called in a supernatural disturbance?”
“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat and mining confidence. “Please, come in.”
He stepped inside and tried to close the door behind him. With the latch and doorjamb demolished, it wouldn’t comply.
“Your assailant did this?” Riscraven asked, helping her position a pair of kitchen bench stools against the door to prevent it from swinging open.
“Tangentially,” she replied and felt her face redden.
“Interesting,” Riscraven said and followed her to the base of the stairwell. He removed his Proton Pack and the grey box with the wooden-looking rod and leaned them against the newel post.
Cecelia swallowed against the persistent thickness in her throat. “Should I take you to the crime scene?”
“Shortly,” he replied. “Let’s review what happened first.” He indicated a chair at the dining room table. She moved to it while he pulled out the chair opposite her.
She sat and marvelled at his demeanour. The Ghostbuster made Hud, who was probably ten years older and more typical of the guys she knew, seem positively juvenile.
Riscraven paused before sitting, head turned in Hud’s direction as he noticed him for the first time. “You involved in this, sir?”
Still slumped on the couch and obscured by the lounge’s darkness, Hud sighed. “Intimately,” he said and sprang up. He prowled to the dining room table and drew the chair nearest Cecelia, sliding it closer to her. Sand cascaded off his tattered flight suit as he sat, littering the table.
“How you wanna spin this disc, Gene?” Hud asked Riscraven, sweeping the sand onto the carpet. Cecelia frowned but elected to withhold her rebuke. Hud had already spread enough sand around; what was a sprinkle more?
The paranormal investigator sniffed blatantly as he sat with them, probably expecting a smell to match the vagabond’s unkempt appearance. He reviewed Hud’s outfit, which was plainly recognisable in this well-lit area. “A CWU-27/P coverall,” he noted.
Hud grinned as if he weren’t under suspicion. “A fellow patron of Pacas op shop. Great selection there, huh?”
“Interesting,” Riscraven said, retrieving a small digital recorder from one of his many pockets. Turning it on and situating it on the table between them, he stated the date and time and gave a brief scene summary. Then, “I’m sitting here with resident Cecelia Winterstone, aged…?” He lifted his eyebrows to her.
“Oh,” she cleared her throat and leaned closer to the recorder. “Twenty-six.”
“Race?”
“Indigenous Australian.”
Riscraven shifted his eyes to Hud. “Also present is…?”
“Yes, present.”
“Your name,” the Ghostbuster stated patiently.
“Hud.”
“Full name, please.”
“Hud,” he repeated. “Singular, like Banksy, Prince or Coolio.” He crossed himself in respect to the deceased.
“Interesting,” Riscraven said.
“Interested in a lot, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Riscraven remarked. “What’s your relationship to Miss Winterstone?”
“Saviour.”
“No,” Cecelia said. “That’s not his… we don’t have a….” She frowned at Hud and tsk’d. “I mean, technically, he arrived at a time when I was—”
“She’s worried about the optics,” Hud mentioned to Riscraven as if confidentially. “If you want to document my race as Afro-Cuban, we can avoid the whole white saviour issue.”
“You’re Afro-Cuban?” Riscraven asked, taking him seriously.
Hud laughed.
“He didn’t save me,” Cecelia said, frustration mounting. “Hud interrupted the attack.”
“Semantics,” Hud said.
“Saved implies the danger is over,” she told Hud. Back to the recorder, she stated, “I won’t be safe until that thing is contained.”
“Thing being a demon,” Hud said.
“We won’t know the class or species until I’ve conducted my investigation,” Riscraven said.
“Class seven demon,” Hud said.
Riscraven studied him closely. “Interesting.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to consult—”
“Thesaurus dot com?”
“Hud!” Cecelia snapped.
The snipe didn’t seem to discourage Riscraven. “The Tobin Spirit Guide app,” he stated. “Can you please describe what you saw, Miss Winterstone?”
“I could simply tell you which demon,” Hud said.
Riscraven’s gaze shifted to Hud. “We follow protocol for a reason, Mr Hud. And that means we don’t guess.”
“It’s Spitswapper.”
“How do you…?” The Ghostbuster frowned and his eyes narrowed. He swiftly composed himself and told Cecelia, “Don’t let him influence you, ma’am. Please, in your own words, what did you see?”
There was no risk Cecelia could be swayed by Hud; she couldn’t name a single demon. She scrunched her face and tried to visualise her assailant. “It was really foggy when it appeared.”
“It produced vapours?” Riscraven asked, using the app to input her response.
“No,” Cecelia said. “I’d been in the shower.”
“I see,” Riscraven stated. “And it’s guise?”
“Guise?”
The Ghostbuster looked up from his phone. “Most entities are ethereal. Transparent. However, when it serves them to be seen—if it serves them—they conjure a guise: visual and often accompanied with sonic cues. Some species do this by possessing a living host. Others self-manifest the guise.”
“Like a fake appearance?” Cecelia asked.
“More like an exaggeration. It’s akin to deimatic displays—commonly called ‘startle displays’ in the natural world. Like when a mantodea—commonly called a praying mantis—produces rasping sounds and reveals bright colours, simulating eyes and an open mouth. Or the Chlamydosaurus kingii—commonly known as the frill-neck lizard—which gapes its actual mouth, lifts its tail and expands its frill.”
Hud raised a finger to interrupt. “It might save time if you stick to the common names.”
“I wasn’t facing it,” Cecelia said, lowering her gaze. “It was hard to see properly. But in the mirror, before I was… pinned, I saw a purplish skull with red eyes. They crackled.”
“Sure did,” Hud agreed.
“Interesting you say pinned,” Riscraven observed, lifting his attention from the app. “Had it tried this before?”
“A couple of occasions in bed.” She described the incidents, anticipating a critique similar to Eric’s. She looked to Hud when she was done, who she was surprised to see had dropped the facetious act to listen carefully.
“Didn’t see it during the bed assaults,” Riscraven summarised. “What about its grip? Was it firm or soft? Did it feel like a single appendage or multiple? Was there any residue?”
“It felt like a pair of firm hands. No residue.” She furrowed her brow. “There is some kind of gunk in the bathroom, though.”
“But not on the bed?”
She shook her head.
“Anywhere else in the home?”
“No residue. But sometimes I hear noises. Different from the crackling.”
“The crackling you heard from its eyes?”
“Yes. The other noises could have been anything, though. Explainable, even.” Really? Or was that Eric talking?
“What sort of noises?” Riscraven asked.
Cecelia’s lips compressed into a line while she gathered her words. “In the walls—or on them. Scratching. More often tapping noises, like tiny feet running around. We thought it might have been rats or bugs.”
“We?” Riscraven queried. His confused gaze flicked between Cecelia and Hud.
“Not me,” Hud said. “I know bugs can’t pin you to the bed. Not unless there are a million of ’em.”
“My ex-boyfriend,” Cecelia clarified and sank a little in her chair.
“He witnessed these occurrences?” Riscraven asked.
Cecelia shook her head.
Riscraven kept typing into his phone. “Any other unexplainable phenomena?”
“Just tonight,” she answered, happy the Ghostbuster dropped her ex from the discussion. “On my mirror, a second before it attacked, the thing wrote: Tonight, you’re mine.”
“Interesting.”
Hud raised a finger to interrupt. “Could any of this be intriguing?”
“A statement of capture and/or ownership,” Riscraven noted, blocking Hud out. “This does help narrow down the class. It’s a shame you don’t have a better visual description.”
“I know exactly what it looks like,” Hud said. “I’ve seen it heaps of times.”
Only Riscraven’s slightly wilting shoulders clued them to his feelings about this. “Very well, Mr Hud,” he said, waiting for the man to proceed.
“It’s Spitswapper.”
The corners of the Ghostbuster’s mouth twitched. “No conclusions yet.”
“You don’t even want to look it up?”
“We don’t start with conclusions,” Riscraven stated, “because it can taint our memories of what we actually saw. Suddenly, we’re changing things to fit a hypothesis instead of reaching it scientifically.”
Hud sighed and threw his hands up. “It’s an ocean dweller. That’s not a hypothesis; I’ve seen it there.”
“I presume you reside at the beach?” Riscraven sniffed him again.
“For now.”
“At Surfers Paradise? I saw a yellow Free-2-Rent electric scooter out front.”
“Off Old Burleigh Road,” Hud said.
“Address?”
“Just gave it.”
Without a shred of empathy, Riscraven stated, “To be clear: you’re homeless.”
Embarrassed though she was for Hud at this question, Cecelia leaned in, curious to hear him confirm the conclusion she’d already made.
“It’s not illegal to be homeless,” Hud stated. “Provided you don’t breach the Summary Offences Act of two-thousand and five.”
Cecelia’s eyes widened. As if reading her mind, Hud said, “Pays to research while you’re able. Also, if you’re going homeless, don’t waste money on booze and smokes. Buy a toothbrush, soap, hair and fingernail clippers. Maintain some dignity.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Cecelia said, as if ‘going homeless’ was a lifestyle choice she’d ever consider.
As though deaf to Hud and Cecelia’s exchange, Riscraven placed his palms facing outwards. “Mr Hud, I’m not a lawmaker or a police officer. I’m simply gathering facts.”
“Because you think if I’m homeless, my testimony won’t be credible or reliable.”
“For the moment, my opinions don’t matter. Now, please describe whatever you can about the entity. Stick only to what you saw.” Riscraven’s thumb was poised above his phone’s screen, ready to enter whatever Hud told him.
The scruffy yet clean vagabond contemplated continuing. A look from Cecelia motivated him to plough forth. “When it materialises, its guise is bald, with no ears or nose. Red eyes that occasionally electrify, like she said,” Hud motioned to Cecelia. “Its head, when you see it, exists purely from crown to upper jaw, which ends jagged like a row of sharp teeth. No lower jaw. It has a long tongue that whips out from the neck when it’s ready to attach itself to a host.”
“Attach to a host?” Riscraven queried, pausing from looking at his phone to study Hud.
“Best way to describe it,” Hud stated.
“We’ll return to that soon,” Riscraven said, back on the app. “Can you complete the physical description—the body shape and colour?”
“Body is uniformly narrow at the top and flares at the base, like a thin person wearing a wire-frame dress from centuries ago.”
“It’s clothed?”
“No, that’s its shape. Doesn’t have legs, just a cone-shaped bottom. It floats, so it probably doesn’t need legs.” He took a deep breath. “Arms are sinewy but strong. It has two hands, each with three fingers and a thumb, all ending in yellow claws. Overall colour is a purplish-pink and it’s covered in protruding veins.”
“Veins?” Cecelia asked, a sour taste flooding her mouth. Imagining this thing in her house and touching her brought an urge to vomit.
“It doesn’t look smooth,” Hud continued. “Just a series of pulsing cords.”
“What else?” Riscraven asked.
“That’s not enough?” Hud asked with a flare of impatience. “Fine, it looks like a giant dick in a dress!”
Riscraven looked up momentarily and then began swiping his finger on his phone.
“You should get yourself checked,” Cecelia told Hud and gave a minor tip of the head to his crotch.
“I didn’t say my dick,” he replied.
“Let’s move along,” Riscraven suggested. “Anything you can add regarding its behaviour?”
Hud sighed. “It’s fast. If I had to guess, maybe, fifty or sixty K’s. It slows during attack, though. Leaves goo behind.”
“That’s the residue I mentioned in my bathroom,” Cecelia told Riscraven.
“I’ll take a sample during my field review,” the Ghostbuster assured her. “It’s likely ectoplasmic. However, it’s worth testing in case it’s psychomagnotheric.”
“Common terms, professor,” Hud reminded him.
“Ghost or else mood slime,” Riscraven said, voice tinged with irritation.
Hud reacted like a naughty child, pleased to have evoked an emotive reaction from the teacher. “The slime is pink,” he told Riscraven, “which often presents as psychomagnotheric. However, since I’ve never seen anything coated by the goo reacting to emotional states, my guess is ectoplasmic.”
A new emotion danced on Riscraven’s face: astonishment. It faded quicker than a reality TV show celebrity. “Let’s move on to its behaviour. You said you’ve seen it attach to a host when it corporealises. Can you explicate?”
“I’d love to explicate,” Hud said. “Anything to drag this out.” He took a deep breath as if deep in serious thought. “The tongue,” he stuck his own out and grabbed it between his fingers, “hickths ou’ an’ lathooths—”
“Speak clearer, please?” Riscraven asked.
Hud leaned closer to the digital recorder, tongue still gripped, “Lathoethsss—”
Clearing his throat, Riscraven said, “Mr Hud, another way this will go faster is sans the theatrics.”
Hud released his tongue and straightened his posture. Motioning to Cecelia, he said, “Bet she understood.”
Goaded into the bet, Riscraven looked to Cecelia. She acquiesced, but only to keep the peace. “The tongue flicks out, and lassoes… was as far as he got.”
Giving her a wink, Hud turned to Riscraven and leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “I’ll use small words for you. Once the tongue has wrapped around a victim, it pins them and…” Something passed over Hud’s face, and he dropped his hands to the table. The subsequent detail seemed to remind him of the seriousness of this case, and the sarcastic facet of his personality evaporated. “The demon… fills them with some kind of poison. I think.”
“Why do you think that?” Riscraven asked.
Jaw clenched, Hud said, “Because I’ve seen a victim and she appeared bloated, almost like a drowned body.”
“Interesting,” the Ghostbuster said, either oblivious or indifferent to Hud’s emotional state. “Is there anything else you can share?”
Hud shook his head, “Nope.”
Turning off the little recorder and pocketing it, Riscraven sat in contemplation.
“Anything you might want to share?” Hud asked. “We didn’t just invite you here to listen.”
Instead of responding, Riscraven returned to his phone. “Hmmm,” he said, eyes darting back and forth as he read.
“Useful, isn’t he?” Hud asked Cecelia, mordancy wholly resumed.
Riscraven spun the face of his phone their way to reveal what he’d been studying. “Is this what you saw?”
Hud’s mouth twisted in recognition. “You know it is.”
Presented with high-definition images of the monster (detailed close-ups of the long tongue being particularly grotesque), Cecelia shuddered for the millionth time that evening.
“I need to examine the bathroom to be certain,” Riscraven said, “but I’m almost convinced your accoster is a class seven, semi-corporeal, free-roaming Metaspectre.”
“Phew.” Hud feigned wiping sweat from his brow. To Cecelia, he said, “Feels better to know, right?” Then, to Riscraven, “So we’re clear, what’s this Metaspectre called?”
Riscraven’s lips thinned. “Reponere Furantur.”
“More commonly called…” Hud’s eyes flicked to Cecelia as he awaited the Ghostbuster’s reply.
“Spitswapper,” Riscraven conceded.
Hud winked at her, but his charm fell to the wayside as the demon’s moniker crystallised in her mind. Somehow, Riscraven’s acknowledgement of the name connected it to the monster in a disturbingly real way. “I’m definitely going to puke,” Cecelia said, her stomach turning.
“Let it out,” Hud told her, casually keeping the stray hairs from her bun off her face as if her throwing up all over the table was perfectly acceptable.
“I wouldn’t do it here!” she said, anger diverting her nausea.
“You do you,” Hud said as if she needed his permission.
“If it is Spitswapper,” Riscraven said, “it’s extremely dangerous. We’ve been chasing it for decades. The total of its victims is relatively small given how long it’s been active, but when it strikes, it’s lethal.” He stood from the table. “Please excuse me while I secure another piece of equipment from the Ectomobile.”
“Can’t fault his manners,” Hud said as the Ghostbuster departed the home. “You think this guy knows what he’s doing?” he asked Cecelia. “I told him I knew what we were hunting and because of this,” he indicated his shabby appearance, “he ignored me. Then he spends most of the time on his phone. Anybody can Google.” His wavy black hair swayed across his face as he shook his head. “It’s all the franchising they did; diluted the service.”
“Rant out of your system?” Cecelia asked.
Hud chuckled. “My rant don’t expire, Cece; I’ve got the lifespan of a Proton Pack.”
Clattering at the home’s tiny foyer as Riscraven re-entered interrupted their conversation. “Franchising was unavoidable,” he said as he resealed the door and strode back to the dining table.
Since Hud maintained his confident poise despite being overheard, Cecelia shrank a little on his behalf.
“Closing the gateway opened at Central Park West in ’eighty-four,” Riscraven explained, “didn’t prevent supernatural seepage and a substantial increase in paranormal activity worldwide. It wouldn’t be feasible for the founders to globe-trot from North Moore Street to catch them all.”
“Of course not,” Cecelia agreed.
“As for a layperson Googling or even using the TSG app,” Riscraven proceeded, “that’s akin to a sick person researching their malady on Web MD: a recipe for misdiagnoses. Understand that there are hundreds of supernatural species within the seven paranormal classes. They can appear similar but be vastly different in temperament. Some of your descriptions—if not interpreted correctly—could have us thinking we’re dealing with,” he waved his hands as if pulling an example from thin air, “a succubus. Hence, we follow protocol.”
“Does a textbook accurate label mean you’ll bust it any differently?” Hud asked with a condescending glare.
Riscraven scrunched his face as if the question was absurd. “It adjusts how we approach it.”
“Which makes sense,” Cecelia emphasised to Hud so he’d forfeit. His perpetual belligerence was not the asset he presumed it was.
Shutting his lids and raising his eyebrows as if to say, whatever, signalled Hud’s surrender. This was good enough for Cecelia, who hopped up to stand with Riscraven.
The Ghostbuster had slung the grey box with the wooden-coloured rod over his shoulder again. He also ported new arsenal. On his head were a pair of green goggles with protruding black and silver lenses, which could be flopped down onto his face when required. In his hand was a transparent cylindrical device about three feet long and with the circumference of a pizza. A strip was cut out an inch from the top of one side to create a handle. At the bottom, the cylinder was joined onto a two-inch thick transparent disc, wider in diameter than the cylinder. Atop this disc flashed various coloured lights; its base sported small multidirectional wheels.
“Confirmation we’re dealing with Spitswapper will bring good news,” Riscraven said. “By all accounts, the demon can only conduct a physical assault once per twenty-four-hour cycle. Then it needs a recharge.”
“Recharge?” Cecelia asked.
“It’s to do with how it burns and replenishes its energy. Flying saps a portion of its stamina. The intense burst of an attack drains the rest.”
“Doesn’t burn much dancing on my walls,” Cecelia noted. “It can do that for hours.”
“It remained incorporeal when this occurred, yes?”
She nodded.
“This requires much less energy and can be prolonged. In fact, because of the energy it drains when striking, Spitswapper can spend months taunting intended victims in advance. Prey incapacitated by fear is easier to snare.”
“Prey,” Hud remarked, joining them at the stairs after a quick visit to the couch. “And this was the good news,” he said to Cecelia.
“Please show me the crime scene,” Riscraven asked Cecelia. The pair climbed the stairs; Hud followed at their rear.
At the entrance to the ensuite, Riscraven set the cylindrical transparent unit on the carpet and fitted the Ecto-Goggles over his face. He turned on the grey box attached to the strap over his shoulder and unhooked the long wood-coloured rod, holding it out like a magic wand. It made little puffing sounds. Next, he unclipped the curved rectangle with the silver wings from his belt; gripping it by the handle, he turned it on. This device emitted beeps. Using all his gear simultaneously, he paced Cecelia’s bedroom.
“I heard a person can’t do multiple things at once with a hundred per cent effectiveness,” Hud said from the bedroom doorway.
“The readings will alert me to anything worth paying attention to.”
“Really?” Hud said. “When your Sniffer is missing its hand pump?”
Cecelia gently elbowed him.
The Ghostbuster chuckled briefly as he examined the dresser. “We haven’t needed those for years. It works automatically now.”
“What is that thing, anyway?” Cecelia asked.
“It’s just one of their little toys,” Hud answered.
“Cute,” Riscraven said. “But Ghostbusters don’t ever refer to our equipment so flippantly. This is a Bacharach Ghost Sniffer. Five-hundred model.”
“Mustn’t think laypersons can read, either,” Hud muttered, pointing at the clearly visible label on the side.
“What does it do?” Cecelia asked Riscraven.
“Filters spectral articles in the air. The main unit draws them through the tube for analysis. Right now, the Sniffer is providing me with a detailed breakdown of any supernatural activity exhibited here; as opposed to the PKE,” he said, lifting the other gadget, “which purely measures psychokinetic energy.”
“I’ve seen you guys using that smaller one in your ads,” Cecelia said. “Shouldn’t the wings rise?”
“They will if the meter detects anything.”
“Ghost vibes,” Hud said and winked again.
“I got it,” she said and returned the wink with exaggerated posturing.
After circling the room and checking the walls, roof and various bits of furniture, Riscraven neared the bathroom. The PKE’s wings rose, and the lights running across them pulsed faster.
“This is where it happened,” Cecelia said. “You can see the goo.”
“The tapping in the walls,” Riscraven said before entering her bathroom, “happens in the bedroom and ensuite. What about the other rooms in the home?”
“I hear it in the downstairs toilet, too.”
“What about the kitchen?”
“No,” she answered.
“I didn’t see the second toilet when I came in. Where is it located?”
“Behind the kitchen,” she said. With her hands, she plotted a visual schematic for him. “It goes: the entrance where you came in, kitchen to the right—you would have seen that.”
Riscraven nodded.
“And then behind where the kitchen sink is, there’s a small laundry, and off that is the toilet.”
“That’s very helpful,” Riscraven advised her. “If you and Hud can wait out here, I’ll take more readings and sample the slime.”
“Careful of the glass,” she warned the Ghostbuster, though undoubtedly he saw it all over the floor.
“Won’t cut through these,” he said, stamping his boots for show. Then he reattached the PKE and rod to his belt, freeing his hands to activate the cylinder. It hummed like a low-voltage vacuum, and when he set it on its wheels and let it go, the thing acted like one, a forward-facing laser scanning and targeting globules of slime and sucking them up into the storage unit above. While it worked, Riscraven resumed scanning the bathroom using the Sniffer and PKE.
When the humming stopped, all the slime had been collected. “You got it all!” Cecelia exclaimed, relieved she’d not need to mop the goo up herself.
“Usually, we’d only use the Ecto-Vac to sample evidence,” the Ghostbuster said, flipping his goggles up again, “but I figured the lab would appreciate extra for testing purposes.”
“Would’ve got more points pretending you were being helpful,” Hud stated.
Riscraven cleared his throat. “More good news—”
“Good as last time?” Hud said, earning a harsher elbow from Cecelia that caused him to grunt.
“Indeed,” Riscraven said, oblivious to Hud’s sarcasm and noting Cecelia’s physical rebuke with mild confusion. “My Ecto-Goggles are an extension of the E-Vac and PKE meter. Converting the data into visual information, I was able to analyse the slime. It’s definitely ectoplasm. Then, I checked the density of negatively charged particles in your bathroom. The speed of molecular decay and the Sniffer’s readout authenticate our theory that your problem is, indeed, Spitswapper.”
Hud slapped his cheek and opened his mouth in mock amazement.
“If Spitswapper,” saying its name soured Cecelia’s mouth, “succeeded, how would it have…” she swallowed, curious to ask her question but terrified to know the answer. “Hud said,” she turned to him, “you said you saw a body, and it was bloated?”
“Maybe we should save this for daylight,” Hud suggested. “No point scaring yourself now when it’s not coming back tonight.”
“Spitswapper has declared ownership,” Riscraven stated. “While not tonight, it will be back. It doesn’t stop until it’s completed its goal.”
“Nice bedside manner,” Hud said.
“Tell me,” Cecelia demanded. “What does it do?”
Hud took a step back to let Riscraven explain. Worry painted his face. “I warned you,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the bedroom wall opposite the bathroom.
Cecelia expected a long-winded and detailed answer, so she was taken aback by Riscraven’s bluntness. “It swaps spit with you.”
Shaking her head less in incredulity and more from a refusal to believe, Cecelia opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “Come again?”
“Its common name should make it obvious,” the Ghostbuster said. “Its tongue is a proboscis that drains saliva from your body while simultaneously pumping its own into you. Hence, spit swapping. That’s why you only find its ectoplasm,” he lightly kicked the goo-filled cylinder, “when it’s actually attacking. It’s essentially drool.”
Like a zombie, Cecelia stumbled to the staircase.
“You good?” Hud asked and took a step towards her.
A perplexed-sounding Riscraven called after her. “Miss Winterstone?”
From an amble to a gallop, Cecelia tore down the stairs, flew through her kitchen and laundry and emptied her stomach into the second toilet.
When she returned to the top floor, portions of Cecelia’s face, hair and t-shirt dripped from where she’d clumsily drunk and splashed water onto herself post-vomit.
“I had the same reaction when I found out,” Hud told her while Riscraven continued to study her curiously. Hud next turned to the Ghostbuster. “Something I never learned is why it lives at the ocean?”
That the discourteous vagabond was finally consulting him seriously elevated Riscraven’s pride. “Excellent question. Salt molecules are made of sodium ions and chloride ions. Hence, salt water is a good conductor of electricity.”
Collecting herself, Cecelia frowned at them. “Mind involving me in what you’re talking about?”
“Spits recharges there,” Hud told her, then consulted the Ghostbuster again. It was strange for Cecelia to see him suddenly taking this professional seriously. “You said correctly identifying ghosts adjusts how we catch them. Well, now you’re satisfied with what we’re after, what’s the plan?”
Riscraven stared blankly. “Another sensible question, thank you, Mr. Hud. According to the Ghostbusters Field Manual,” he retrieved his phone and opened another app. He started reading it. With his finger, he swiped the screen and kept reading. This went on for minutes. Hud and Cecelia shared an unimpressed side glance.
“Indeed,” Riscraven stated when he was done. “It’s a team job. Spitswapper’s preternatural reflexes have proven too quick for a single exterminator in past encounters. However, through flanking and an effective series of feints and parries, our scientists theorise the demon can be boxed and trapped.”
“Easy,” Hud said, dusting his hands and smiling at Cecelia.
“Not easy,” the literal-minded Ghostbuster interjected. “But, given the trouble this thing has caused Ghostbusters over the decades, I should have no shortage of volunteers desirous to return with me tomorrow to end its terrible reign.”
“I’m desirous to see that, too,” Hud told Cecelia, which she knew meant he planned to catch it before the Ghostbusters did.
“One thing that I haven’t been able to determine,” Riscraven said, interrupting her thought, “is why it broke your mirror. You didn’t mention that in your report.” It was not a rebuke as much an observation. “Property destruction isn’t really this entity’s MO.”
Cecelia flushed. “Oh,” she said, suddenly worried about getting Hud into trouble. “Maybe it wanted to up the scare factor?”
“Possibly,” Riscraven stated. “Have there been any other violent interactions?”
She shook her head.
“Things moving on their own? You may be infested by a secondary spirit—poltergeists being a common example.”
“Guess that makes me a noisy ghost,” Hud said, raising his hand in confession. With a look, he reassured Cecelia he knew what he was doing.
“You did this?” Riscraven asked him.
“Yep.”
“You thought the writing meant the demon was in the mirror,” Riscraven concluded. “And tried to punch it.”
After snickering at the Ghostbuster, Hud said, “I saw it in the doorway. And as for punching it…” he shook his head. “Gene,” he tsk’d him. “You, of all people, should recognise the work of a proton stream.”
Like a reproachful parent, Riscraven’s chin sank to his chest, his eyes peering up at Hud. “What do you mean a proton stream? There’s no way you have a Proton Pack.”
“No, no, no,” Hud said, waving the idea away.
“No,” the Ghostbuster reiterated, emitting a relieved chortle. “Of course not.”
“It’s a CNW.”
Riscraven seemed to require a moment before this registered in his brain. “A what?” He examined Hud up and down, searching for evidence. “How do you have a… you fired a Particle Thrower at this young lady?”
“It’s called a Neutrona Wand,” Hud schooled. “Compressed model.”
“I know what it’s called! I was using layman’s terms!”
“Ghost-catching gun would have been more layman.”
“Where is it?” Riscraven took a giant step forward.
“What’s the big deal? It’s not like you have to be licensed to use your gear.”
“Of course you do! These days, anyway,” he added thoughtfully. “If nothing else, you have to be trained to use it.”
“Really?” Hud said through a half-smile. “I’ve seen footage of your co-founders back in the late twentieth. They used to tear. Shit. Up.”
Outraged like mooned royalty, Riscraven scoffed. “Nonsense. They were completely professional.”
“If that’s what you call professional…”
“The co-founders’ conduct is beside the point,” Riscraven snapped. “What were you planning to do if you hit your target? The positively-charged subatomic anti-particles fired from your wand only temporarily incapacitate ghosts, spectres, revenants, shades, wraiths, apparitions, spooks, demons,” he emphasised the latter as if to say, like in this case. “Need I go on?”
“Please do, it’s a fascinating list.”
“My point,” Riscraven said, “is that without a Muon Trap, all you would have done is chuff the thing off. Soon as you released your wand, it’d be loose again and sore as hell.”
“Is this a penis metaphor?” Hud asked, then mouthed sorry in response to Cecelia’s stern look. “Anyway, where’s your ghost trap?” he asked Riscraven.
“In the Ectomobile!”
Hud looked at him patronisingly. “What good is it in there?”
“I don’t need it here; we’ve established the culprit is Spitswapper and won’t be back tonight!”
“You were only confident about that after your examination. Meanwhile, you brought in your Proton Pack—which you left downstairs, by the way. What would you have done if Cece’s attacker hadn’t been Spits and had hung around up here? Punched it?”
Riscraven sputtered for a reply. When he managed to speak, his arms flailed wildly. “My pack is still in the property and the ghost trap in the driveway!”
“Muon Trap.”
“You said ghost trap,” Riscraven’s arms flailed wider. “It is a ghost trap; commonly called a Muon… not commonly…” He exhaled and slammed his balled fists into his thighs. “It’s the same thing!” Sweat beaded on his temple and dripped beneath the Ecto-Goggles. “But you had no trap nearby. A-a-and!” He wagged his finger at Hud. “Even if you had a trap, how long did you plan to keep it in there? They have a limited battery life, and if the positively charged laser protection grid within it goes off…” he laughed hysterically.
“Is that a question?”
“Not for a cretin like you!”
“Name calling is beneath us, Gene.”
“Where did you plan to transfer the entity?” Riscraven barked, crossing his arms and glaring intensely. “You got an ECU on the beach?”
Hud frowned. “Emergency Control—”
“De Ecto Containment Unit!”
“Shouldn’t that be DECU?”
Well, Hud’s broken him, Cecelia thought as the Ghostbuster stormed up to Hud and tried to spin him around.
“A lesser man might call this assault,” Hud said as the Ghostbuster he greatly outweighed feebly swayed him. The attempt was, however, enough for Riscraven to glimpse the CNW hanging from the V-Hook affixed to Hud’s back.
“Gozer’s Minions!” Riscraven cried, staggering from the sight. “It’s true. You’re not permitted to have that!”
“It was a gift,” Hud stated, amused at the mess he’d made of the previously stoic field agent.
“Impossible. Official Ghostbusters tech is proprietary and not for sale, which means,” a lightbulb seemingly lit in his head, and he unfastened the two-way from his shoulder. “You’re under arrest for theft.”
“Hold your gavel there Judgey McJudgerson. You can report this, but you’re the one who’ll be busted.”
“Ha!” Riscraven cackled with increased hysteria.
“Laugh all you want, but I have ownership papers for this thing under Hudgins.”
Riscraven’s attention was torn from the two-way. “Hudgins?”
“Happy now?”
Evidently, this did make Riscraven happy. A measure of the stoicism Cecelia feared had been obliterated returned. “Authenticating your claim is a simple task.”
“Go for it,” Hud said, not a twitch or flinch suggesting a lie. Of course, he could also be a superb bluffer.
Riscraven fixed the two-way back upon his shoulder, curiosity allowing him to regain the rest of his calm. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he asked, “So you were a Ghostbuster?” He inspected Hud’s coveralls again and, before waiting for an answer, asked, “Why are you wearing a female-cut uniform?” Again impatient for an answer: “Which branch? Not ours here; I know every Gold Coast employee.”
“Sydney,” Hud said. “Three years ago.”
“That’s national HQ,” Riscraven said and sniffed haughtily. “You must have been fired. There haven’t been redundancies in the industry since the nineteen-nineties.”
Hud’s eyes narrowed.
Treating the shaggy-haired man’s silence as confirmation, Riscraven continued. “They ripped your insignia off,” he pointed to the holes in fabric at Hud’s right arm and left pec, “so you couldn’t misrepresent us.” Nodding as if he had it all figured out, he concluded, “Disgraced, you weren’t able to find work and conceded to a life of vagrancy.”
“Field workers don’t need PhDs in psychology anymore,” Hud said, “but you…” he offered a slow clap. “You’re a legit mentalist.”
Misreading the compliment as genuine, Riscraven said, “Well, parapsychology is required; I attained my doctorate earlier this year. Psychology is optional.” He paused as if building suspense and then pumped his eyebrows with pride. “I opted.”
“Dr Gene,” Hud said and clapped again.
“It’s Dr Riscraven, but I don’t like to insist on the title. Some might argue, ‘Why not? You spent years earning it?’ What they don’t realise is it doesn’t serve a field agent to sound arrogant. So, unless my credentials are questioned, I let my work speak for itself.”
Hud’s eyes turned slowly to Cecelia and then slid back to Riscraven. “No, we wouldn’t want you sounding arrogant.”
An awkward silence followed that Cecelia was keen to end. When it did, she regretted having wished for it.
Behind them came the sound of tiny feet, pattering along the walls and growing steadily louder.
To be continued in PART 3: DEMON IN PARADISE
“I thought you were fixing this,” Cecelia said through strained breaths. Her small frame struggled to hold the front door an inch off the ground so it remained aligned with the newly drilled hinge holes.
“Use your body weight,” Hud suggested as he rummaged through an empty ice cream container full of assorted screws.
“Can’t I set it down until you find the right screws?”
“Best you don’t,” he said, his face curtained by his hair. He casually sorted through metal as if her torso weren’t moments away from a population of hernias.
“Couldn’t you have held this and I found the screws?”
“Toned-looking girl like you must go to the gym,” Hud said, upending the bucket of screws onto her kitchen bench with a loud clatter.
“I don’t do weights!” she groaned. Sweat coated her body, and her muscles began to quiver.
“Is working out easier when you talk the whole time?”
“Are you seriously telling me to shut up?”
“Not that bluntly,” Hud stated. Then, glimpsing her about to put the door down, added, “You’ll set us back if you do that. Crooks could be lurking; this is the Goldy, remember.”
“Then get over here!”
“Not much point of that without the right screws.”
“It’s slipping!” Strands of hair were escaping her bun and falling into her face, exacerbating her discomfort.
Pausing his search, Hud turned towards her and frowned. “You said you had the correct-sized screws. You didn’t mention they were mixed up among all this shrapnel. I expected this to be quick.”
“Forget it…” she said, sweat stinging her eyes and hoping she wouldn’t squash her toes with the heavy fire door when it landed.
In three quick steps, the broad-shouldered, six-foot-two vagabond caught the door and lifted the weight off her. Cecelia stumbled and collapsed onto the carpet, her fingers stiff from how long they’d been folded around the door’s edges. Meanwhile, Hud propped the door up on his bare foot, kept it in place with one hand, and used a power drill with the other to affix the appropriate side to the doorframe.
“You could have held it yourself?” she sputtered, her urge to slap him tempered by her exhaustion.
“Again,” Hud said and assisted Cecelia up, “we needed the correct size screws first.” She watched him test his handiwork by swinging the door back and forth a few times. “Ain’t no locking this,” he said, playing with the strip of doorjamb wrenched free when he’d kicked his way in. “But if we close it and lean something heavy against—”
Flashing patterns of blue light faded up on Hud’s face, the bright glare intensifying in tandem with the hefty rumble of an approaching engine.
“No siren,” Hud mumbled. “Bummer.” He sulked away from the door, crashed onto Cecelia’s sofa and stared mutely at the blank TV. With the overhead lights in the lounge off, he was all shadows. It matched his mood, which had worsened since she’d reported the attack to the Ghostbusters’ Gold Coast branch. Hud had sniped about the organization in general terms yet been unwilling to give a specific reason for his dislike.
Cecelia studied him curiously and recalled their chat about it immediately after she’d called the branch. Hud had only begun drilling the new hinge holes for the door then. “You don’t even like the ads?” she’d asked him. “Who ya gonna—”
“Keep singing and the next hole I drill is through my head.”
Rolling her eyes, she’d said, “Well, the news has shown them helping tons of people. Just because they fired you doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t be grateful for them, especially now that ghosts have spread into more neighbourhoods.”
Hud had merely grunted. In retrospect, it might have been her mix of prying, assumptions and singing that caused him to assign her door-holding duty.
She flexed her fingers as the recollection ended. “You think Ectomobiles are ambulance or hearse conversions?” Cecelia asked Hud as the company’s trademark white 1959 Cadillac pulled into the driveway. If the guy was a former employee, he should know.
“Don’t care,” Hud grunted from the couch. Then, with less snark, he said, “But I can admit to digging the siren.” Petulantly, he added, “Whoever they sent couldn’t even get that right.”
“Are you going to be like this all night?”
Hud paused. “Probably.”
Radiant bursts from the rotating roof lights infiltrated the apartment, periodically bathing everything inside blue. At such close proximity, Cecelia needed to shield her eyes. “They’re not going to blast the neighbourhood with the siren when it’s not an emergency. The demon is already gone.”
Instead of listening to her, Hud’s fingers vigorously searched the area below the sofa’s armrest.
“It’s not a recliner,” she informed him.
He groaned and fell against the rear cushion, yelping as the CNW dug into his back. Complaining louder, he slid the weapon off its V-Hook and laid it beside him.
“My deepest apologies none of this matches your usual high standards,” Cecelia said.
The gruff engine waned, but the lights remained on, keeping the person who exited the vehicle silhouetted. Cecelia opened the door wider in preparation for the field operative, startled when the blue glow died, and her foyer fluorescents sharply defined him.
He cut a slim figure in his uniform: a flight suit the colour of Hud’s, complimented with an army-style pistol belt, black leather jump boots and grey elbow pads. The rest of him was bulked with gear, and she wondered how someone so thin managed to carry it all. Hooked to the man’s left shoulder was a two-way; over his right and hanging like a handbag was a medium-sized box with a cord connected to a long, burnt mahogany-coloured rod. A Proton Pack was strapped onto his back, a traditional Neutrona Wand fastened along the right side. Clipped to his belt at the hip was a black, oblong-shaped device with a handle and folded silver wings. Much of this paraphernalia she’d seen in ads, though she couldn’t recall what they all did.
“Cecelia Winterstone?” The man asked. Except for his clean-shaven, severe countenance, the paranormal investigator had the appearance of a local: tanned with sun-lightened hair.
“Yes,” she said, surprised at the break in her voice. It was suddenly hard to believe this man was at her property. It was like having a fully armed cop standing there on official business: a little intimidating.
“My name is Gene Riscraven,” he said, supporting the red and black surname patch stitched across the left breast of his coveralls, just below his two-way. “I’m with the Gold Coast Ghostbusters. You called in a supernatural disturbance?”
“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat and mining confidence. “Please, come in.”
He stepped inside and tried to close the door behind him. With the latch and doorjamb demolished, it wouldn’t comply.
“Your assailant did this?” Riscraven asked, helping her position a pair of kitchen bench stools against the door to prevent it from swinging open.
“Tangentially,” she replied and felt her face redden.
“Interesting,” Riscraven said and followed her to the base of the stairwell. He removed his Proton Pack and the grey box with the wooden-looking rod and leaned them against the newel post.
Cecelia swallowed against the persistent thickness in her throat. “Should I take you to the crime scene?”
“Shortly,” he replied. “Let’s review what happened first.” He indicated a chair at the dining room table. She moved to it while he pulled out the chair opposite her.
She sat and marvelled at his demeanour. The Ghostbuster made Hud, who was probably ten years older and more typical of the guys she knew, seem positively juvenile.
Riscraven paused before sitting, head turned in Hud’s direction as he noticed him for the first time. “You involved in this, sir?”
Still slumped on the couch and obscured by the lounge’s darkness, Hud sighed. “Intimately,” he said and sprang up. He prowled to the dining room table and drew the chair nearest Cecelia, sliding it closer to her. Sand cascaded off his tattered flight suit as he sat, littering the table.
“How you wanna spin this disc, Gene?” Hud asked Riscraven, sweeping the sand onto the carpet. Cecelia frowned but elected to withhold her rebuke. Hud had already spread enough sand around; what was a sprinkle more?
The paranormal investigator sniffed blatantly as he sat with them, probably expecting a smell to match the vagabond’s unkempt appearance. He reviewed Hud’s outfit, which was plainly recognisable in this well-lit area. “A CWU-27/P coverall,” he noted.
Hud grinned as if he weren’t under suspicion. “A fellow patron of Pacas op shop. Great selection there, huh?”
“Interesting,” Riscraven said, retrieving a small digital recorder from one of his many pockets. Turning it on and situating it on the table between them, he stated the date and time and gave a brief scene summary. Then, “I’m sitting here with resident Cecelia Winterstone, aged…?” He lifted his eyebrows to her.
“Oh,” she cleared her throat and leaned closer to the recorder. “Twenty-six.”
“Race?”
“Indigenous Australian.”
Riscraven shifted his eyes to Hud. “Also present is…?”
“Yes, present.”
“Your name,” the Ghostbuster stated patiently.
“Hud.”
“Full name, please.”
“Hud,” he repeated. “Singular, like Banksy, Prince or Coolio.” He crossed himself in respect to the deceased.
“Interesting,” Riscraven said.
“Interested in a lot, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Riscraven remarked. “What’s your relationship to Miss Winterstone?”
“Saviour.”
“No,” Cecelia said. “That’s not his… we don’t have a….” She frowned at Hud and tsk’d. “I mean, technically, he arrived at a time when I was—”
“She’s worried about the optics,” Hud mentioned to Riscraven as if confidentially. “If you want to document my race as Afro-Cuban, we can avoid the whole white saviour issue.”
“You’re Afro-Cuban?” Riscraven asked, taking him seriously.
Hud laughed.
“He didn’t save me,” Cecelia said, frustration mounting. “Hud interrupted the attack.”
“Semantics,” Hud said.
“Saved implies the danger is over,” she told Hud. Back to the recorder, she stated, “I won’t be safe until that thing is contained.”
“Thing being a demon,” Hud said.
“We won’t know the class or species until I’ve conducted my investigation,” Riscraven said.
“Class seven demon,” Hud said.
Riscraven studied him closely. “Interesting.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to consult—”
“Thesaurus dot com?”
“Hud!” Cecelia snapped.
The snipe didn’t seem to discourage Riscraven. “The Tobin Spirit Guide app,” he stated. “Can you please describe what you saw, Miss Winterstone?”
“I could simply tell you which demon,” Hud said.
Riscraven’s gaze shifted to Hud. “We follow protocol for a reason, Mr Hud. And that means we don’t guess.”
“It’s Spitswapper.”
“How do you…?” The Ghostbuster frowned and his eyes narrowed. He swiftly composed himself and told Cecelia, “Don’t let him influence you, ma’am. Please, in your own words, what did you see?”
There was no risk Cecelia could be swayed by Hud; she couldn’t name a single demon. She scrunched her face and tried to visualise her assailant. “It was really foggy when it appeared.”
“It produced vapours?” Riscraven asked, using the app to input her response.
“No,” Cecelia said. “I’d been in the shower.”
“I see,” Riscraven stated. “And it’s guise?”
“Guise?”
The Ghostbuster looked up from his phone. “Most entities are ethereal. Transparent. However, when it serves them to be seen—if it serves them—they conjure a guise: visual and often accompanied with sonic cues. Some species do this by possessing a living host. Others self-manifest the guise.”
“Like a fake appearance?” Cecelia asked.
“More like an exaggeration. It’s akin to deimatic displays—commonly called ‘startle displays’ in the natural world. Like when a mantodea—commonly called a praying mantis—produces rasping sounds and reveals bright colours, simulating eyes and an open mouth. Or the Chlamydosaurus kingii—commonly known as the frill-neck lizard—which gapes its actual mouth, lifts its tail and expands its frill.”
Hud raised a finger to interrupt. “It might save time if you stick to the common names.”
“I wasn’t facing it,” Cecelia said, lowering her gaze. “It was hard to see properly. But in the mirror, before I was… pinned, I saw a purplish skull with red eyes. They crackled.”
“Sure did,” Hud agreed.
“Interesting you say pinned,” Riscraven observed, lifting his attention from the app. “Had it tried this before?”
“A couple of occasions in bed.” She described the incidents, anticipating a critique similar to Eric’s. She looked to Hud when she was done, who she was surprised to see had dropped the facetious act to listen carefully.
“Didn’t see it during the bed assaults,” Riscraven summarised. “What about its grip? Was it firm or soft? Did it feel like a single appendage or multiple? Was there any residue?”
“It felt like a pair of firm hands. No residue.” She furrowed her brow. “There is some kind of gunk in the bathroom, though.”
“But not on the bed?”
She shook her head.
“Anywhere else in the home?”
“No residue. But sometimes I hear noises. Different from the crackling.”
“The crackling you heard from its eyes?”
“Yes. The other noises could have been anything, though. Explainable, even.” Really? Or was that Eric talking?
“What sort of noises?” Riscraven asked.
Cecelia’s lips compressed into a line while she gathered her words. “In the walls—or on them. Scratching. More often tapping noises, like tiny feet running around. We thought it might have been rats or bugs.”
“We?” Riscraven queried. His confused gaze flicked between Cecelia and Hud.
“Not me,” Hud said. “I know bugs can’t pin you to the bed. Not unless there are a million of ’em.”
“My ex-boyfriend,” Cecelia clarified and sank a little in her chair.
“He witnessed these occurrences?” Riscraven asked.
Cecelia shook her head.
Riscraven kept typing into his phone. “Any other unexplainable phenomena?”
“Just tonight,” she answered, happy the Ghostbuster dropped her ex from the discussion. “On my mirror, a second before it attacked, the thing wrote: Tonight, you’re mine.”
“Interesting.”
Hud raised a finger to interrupt. “Could any of this be intriguing?”
“A statement of capture and/or ownership,” Riscraven noted, blocking Hud out. “This does help narrow down the class. It’s a shame you don’t have a better visual description.”
“I know exactly what it looks like,” Hud said. “I’ve seen it heaps of times.”
Only Riscraven’s slightly wilting shoulders clued them to his feelings about this. “Very well, Mr Hud,” he said, waiting for the man to proceed.
“It’s Spitswapper.”
The corners of the Ghostbuster’s mouth twitched. “No conclusions yet.”
“You don’t even want to look it up?”
“We don’t start with conclusions,” Riscraven stated, “because it can taint our memories of what we actually saw. Suddenly, we’re changing things to fit a hypothesis instead of reaching it scientifically.”
Hud sighed and threw his hands up. “It’s an ocean dweller. That’s not a hypothesis; I’ve seen it there.”
“I presume you reside at the beach?” Riscraven sniffed him again.
“For now.”
“At Surfers Paradise? I saw a yellow Free-2-Rent electric scooter out front.”
“Off Old Burleigh Road,” Hud said.
“Address?”
“Just gave it.”
Without a shred of empathy, Riscraven stated, “To be clear: you’re homeless.”
Embarrassed though she was for Hud at this question, Cecelia leaned in, curious to hear him confirm the conclusion she’d already made.
“It’s not illegal to be homeless,” Hud stated. “Provided you don’t breach the Summary Offences Act of two-thousand and five.”
Cecelia’s eyes widened. As if reading her mind, Hud said, “Pays to research while you’re able. Also, if you’re going homeless, don’t waste money on booze and smokes. Buy a toothbrush, soap, hair and fingernail clippers. Maintain some dignity.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Cecelia said, as if ‘going homeless’ was a lifestyle choice she’d ever consider.
As though deaf to Hud and Cecelia’s exchange, Riscraven placed his palms facing outwards. “Mr Hud, I’m not a lawmaker or a police officer. I’m simply gathering facts.”
“Because you think if I’m homeless, my testimony won’t be credible or reliable.”
“For the moment, my opinions don’t matter. Now, please describe whatever you can about the entity. Stick only to what you saw.” Riscraven’s thumb was poised above his phone’s screen, ready to enter whatever Hud told him.
The scruffy yet clean vagabond contemplated continuing. A look from Cecelia motivated him to plough forth. “When it materialises, its guise is bald, with no ears or nose. Red eyes that occasionally electrify, like she said,” Hud motioned to Cecelia. “Its head, when you see it, exists purely from crown to upper jaw, which ends jagged like a row of sharp teeth. No lower jaw. It has a long tongue that whips out from the neck when it’s ready to attach itself to a host.”
“Attach to a host?” Riscraven queried, pausing from looking at his phone to study Hud.
“Best way to describe it,” Hud stated.
“We’ll return to that soon,” Riscraven said, back on the app. “Can you complete the physical description—the body shape and colour?”
“Body is uniformly narrow at the top and flares at the base, like a thin person wearing a wire-frame dress from centuries ago.”
“It’s clothed?”
“No, that’s its shape. Doesn’t have legs, just a cone-shaped bottom. It floats, so it probably doesn’t need legs.” He took a deep breath. “Arms are sinewy but strong. It has two hands, each with three fingers and a thumb, all ending in yellow claws. Overall colour is a purplish-pink and it’s covered in protruding veins.”
“Veins?” Cecelia asked, a sour taste flooding her mouth. Imagining this thing in her house and touching her brought an urge to vomit.
“It doesn’t look smooth,” Hud continued. “Just a series of pulsing cords.”
“What else?” Riscraven asked.
“That’s not enough?” Hud asked with a flare of impatience. “Fine, it looks like a giant dick in a dress!”
Riscraven looked up momentarily and then began swiping his finger on his phone.
“You should get yourself checked,” Cecelia told Hud and gave a minor tip of the head to his crotch.
“I didn’t say my dick,” he replied.
“Let’s move along,” Riscraven suggested. “Anything you can add regarding its behaviour?”
Hud sighed. “It’s fast. If I had to guess, maybe, fifty or sixty K’s. It slows during attack, though. Leaves goo behind.”
“That’s the residue I mentioned in my bathroom,” Cecelia told Riscraven.
“I’ll take a sample during my field review,” the Ghostbuster assured her. “It’s likely ectoplasmic. However, it’s worth testing in case it’s psychomagnotheric.”
“Common terms, professor,” Hud reminded him.
“Ghost or else mood slime,” Riscraven said, voice tinged with irritation.
Hud reacted like a naughty child, pleased to have evoked an emotive reaction from the teacher. “The slime is pink,” he told Riscraven, “which often presents as psychomagnotheric. However, since I’ve never seen anything coated by the goo reacting to emotional states, my guess is ectoplasmic.”
A new emotion danced on Riscraven’s face: astonishment. It faded quicker than a reality TV show celebrity. “Let’s move on to its behaviour. You said you’ve seen it attach to a host when it corporealises. Can you explicate?”
“I’d love to explicate,” Hud said. “Anything to drag this out.” He took a deep breath as if deep in serious thought. “The tongue,” he stuck his own out and grabbed it between his fingers, “hickths ou’ an’ lathooths—”
“Speak clearer, please?” Riscraven asked.
Hud leaned closer to the digital recorder, tongue still gripped, “Lathoethsss—”
Clearing his throat, Riscraven said, “Mr Hud, another way this will go faster is sans the theatrics.”
Hud released his tongue and straightened his posture. Motioning to Cecelia, he said, “Bet she understood.”
Goaded into the bet, Riscraven looked to Cecelia. She acquiesced, but only to keep the peace. “The tongue flicks out, and lassoes… was as far as he got.”
Giving her a wink, Hud turned to Riscraven and leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “I’ll use small words for you. Once the tongue has wrapped around a victim, it pins them and…” Something passed over Hud’s face, and he dropped his hands to the table. The subsequent detail seemed to remind him of the seriousness of this case, and the sarcastic facet of his personality evaporated. “The demon… fills them with some kind of poison. I think.”
“Why do you think that?” Riscraven asked.
Jaw clenched, Hud said, “Because I’ve seen a victim and she appeared bloated, almost like a drowned body.”
“Interesting,” the Ghostbuster said, either oblivious or indifferent to Hud’s emotional state. “Is there anything else you can share?”
Hud shook his head, “Nope.”
Turning off the little recorder and pocketing it, Riscraven sat in contemplation.
“Anything you might want to share?” Hud asked. “We didn’t just invite you here to listen.”
Instead of responding, Riscraven returned to his phone. “Hmmm,” he said, eyes darting back and forth as he read.
“Useful, isn’t he?” Hud asked Cecelia, mordancy wholly resumed.
Riscraven spun the face of his phone their way to reveal what he’d been studying. “Is this what you saw?”
Hud’s mouth twisted in recognition. “You know it is.”
Presented with high-definition images of the monster (detailed close-ups of the long tongue being particularly grotesque), Cecelia shuddered for the millionth time that evening.
“I need to examine the bathroom to be certain,” Riscraven said, “but I’m almost convinced your accoster is a class seven, semi-corporeal, free-roaming Metaspectre.”
“Phew.” Hud feigned wiping sweat from his brow. To Cecelia, he said, “Feels better to know, right?” Then, to Riscraven, “So we’re clear, what’s this Metaspectre called?”
Riscraven’s lips thinned. “Reponere Furantur.”
“More commonly called…” Hud’s eyes flicked to Cecelia as he awaited the Ghostbuster’s reply.
“Spitswapper,” Riscraven conceded.
Hud winked at her, but his charm fell to the wayside as the demon’s moniker crystallised in her mind. Somehow, Riscraven’s acknowledgement of the name connected it to the monster in a disturbingly real way. “I’m definitely going to puke,” Cecelia said, her stomach turning.
“Let it out,” Hud told her, casually keeping the stray hairs from her bun off her face as if her throwing up all over the table was perfectly acceptable.
“I wouldn’t do it here!” she said, anger diverting her nausea.
“You do you,” Hud said as if she needed his permission.
“If it is Spitswapper,” Riscraven said, “it’s extremely dangerous. We’ve been chasing it for decades. The total of its victims is relatively small given how long it’s been active, but when it strikes, it’s lethal.” He stood from the table. “Please excuse me while I secure another piece of equipment from the Ectomobile.”
“Can’t fault his manners,” Hud said as the Ghostbuster departed the home. “You think this guy knows what he’s doing?” he asked Cecelia. “I told him I knew what we were hunting and because of this,” he indicated his shabby appearance, “he ignored me. Then he spends most of the time on his phone. Anybody can Google.” His wavy black hair swayed across his face as he shook his head. “It’s all the franchising they did; diluted the service.”
“Rant out of your system?” Cecelia asked.
Hud chuckled. “My rant don’t expire, Cece; I’ve got the lifespan of a Proton Pack.”
Clattering at the home’s tiny foyer as Riscraven re-entered interrupted their conversation. “Franchising was unavoidable,” he said as he resealed the door and strode back to the dining table.
Since Hud maintained his confident poise despite being overheard, Cecelia shrank a little on his behalf.
“Closing the gateway opened at Central Park West in ’eighty-four,” Riscraven explained, “didn’t prevent supernatural seepage and a substantial increase in paranormal activity worldwide. It wouldn’t be feasible for the founders to globe-trot from North Moore Street to catch them all.”
“Of course not,” Cecelia agreed.
“As for a layperson Googling or even using the TSG app,” Riscraven proceeded, “that’s akin to a sick person researching their malady on Web MD: a recipe for misdiagnoses. Understand that there are hundreds of supernatural species within the seven paranormal classes. They can appear similar but be vastly different in temperament. Some of your descriptions—if not interpreted correctly—could have us thinking we’re dealing with,” he waved his hands as if pulling an example from thin air, “a succubus. Hence, we follow protocol.”
“Does a textbook accurate label mean you’ll bust it any differently?” Hud asked with a condescending glare.
Riscraven scrunched his face as if the question was absurd. “It adjusts how we approach it.”
“Which makes sense,” Cecelia emphasised to Hud so he’d forfeit. His perpetual belligerence was not the asset he presumed it was.
Shutting his lids and raising his eyebrows as if to say, whatever, signalled Hud’s surrender. This was good enough for Cecelia, who hopped up to stand with Riscraven.
The Ghostbuster had slung the grey box with the wooden-coloured rod over his shoulder again. He also ported new arsenal. On his head were a pair of green goggles with protruding black and silver lenses, which could be flopped down onto his face when required. In his hand was a transparent cylindrical device about three feet long and with the circumference of a pizza. A strip was cut out an inch from the top of one side to create a handle. At the bottom, the cylinder was joined onto a two-inch thick transparent disc, wider in diameter than the cylinder. Atop this disc flashed various coloured lights; its base sported small multidirectional wheels.
“Confirmation we’re dealing with Spitswapper will bring good news,” Riscraven said. “By all accounts, the demon can only conduct a physical assault once per twenty-four-hour cycle. Then it needs a recharge.”
“Recharge?” Cecelia asked.
“It’s to do with how it burns and replenishes its energy. Flying saps a portion of its stamina. The intense burst of an attack drains the rest.”
“Doesn’t burn much dancing on my walls,” Cecelia noted. “It can do that for hours.”
“It remained incorporeal when this occurred, yes?”
She nodded.
“This requires much less energy and can be prolonged. In fact, because of the energy it drains when striking, Spitswapper can spend months taunting intended victims in advance. Prey incapacitated by fear is easier to snare.”
“Prey,” Hud remarked, joining them at the stairs after a quick visit to the couch. “And this was the good news,” he said to Cecelia.
“Please show me the crime scene,” Riscraven asked Cecelia. The pair climbed the stairs; Hud followed at their rear.
At the entrance to the ensuite, Riscraven set the cylindrical transparent unit on the carpet and fitted the Ecto-Goggles over his face. He turned on the grey box attached to the strap over his shoulder and unhooked the long wood-coloured rod, holding it out like a magic wand. It made little puffing sounds. Next, he unclipped the curved rectangle with the silver wings from his belt; gripping it by the handle, he turned it on. This device emitted beeps. Using all his gear simultaneously, he paced Cecelia’s bedroom.
“I heard a person can’t do multiple things at once with a hundred per cent effectiveness,” Hud said from the bedroom doorway.
“The readings will alert me to anything worth paying attention to.”
“Really?” Hud said. “When your Sniffer is missing its hand pump?”
Cecelia gently elbowed him.
The Ghostbuster chuckled briefly as he examined the dresser. “We haven’t needed those for years. It works automatically now.”
“What is that thing, anyway?” Cecelia asked.
“It’s just one of their little toys,” Hud answered.
“Cute,” Riscraven said. “But Ghostbusters don’t ever refer to our equipment so flippantly. This is a Bacharach Ghost Sniffer. Five-hundred model.”
“Mustn’t think laypersons can read, either,” Hud muttered, pointing at the clearly visible label on the side.
“What does it do?” Cecelia asked Riscraven.
“Filters spectral articles in the air. The main unit draws them through the tube for analysis. Right now, the Sniffer is providing me with a detailed breakdown of any supernatural activity exhibited here; as opposed to the PKE,” he said, lifting the other gadget, “which purely measures psychokinetic energy.”
“I’ve seen you guys using that smaller one in your ads,” Cecelia said. “Shouldn’t the wings rise?”
“They will if the meter detects anything.”
“Ghost vibes,” Hud said and winked again.
“I got it,” she said and returned the wink with exaggerated posturing.
After circling the room and checking the walls, roof and various bits of furniture, Riscraven neared the bathroom. The PKE’s wings rose, and the lights running across them pulsed faster.
“This is where it happened,” Cecelia said. “You can see the goo.”
“The tapping in the walls,” Riscraven said before entering her bathroom, “happens in the bedroom and ensuite. What about the other rooms in the home?”
“I hear it in the downstairs toilet, too.”
“What about the kitchen?”
“No,” she answered.
“I didn’t see the second toilet when I came in. Where is it located?”
“Behind the kitchen,” she said. With her hands, she plotted a visual schematic for him. “It goes: the entrance where you came in, kitchen to the right—you would have seen that.”
Riscraven nodded.
“And then behind where the kitchen sink is, there’s a small laundry, and off that is the toilet.”
“That’s very helpful,” Riscraven advised her. “If you and Hud can wait out here, I’ll take more readings and sample the slime.”
“Careful of the glass,” she warned the Ghostbuster, though undoubtedly he saw it all over the floor.
“Won’t cut through these,” he said, stamping his boots for show. Then he reattached the PKE and rod to his belt, freeing his hands to activate the cylinder. It hummed like a low-voltage vacuum, and when he set it on its wheels and let it go, the thing acted like one, a forward-facing laser scanning and targeting globules of slime and sucking them up into the storage unit above. While it worked, Riscraven resumed scanning the bathroom using the Sniffer and PKE.
When the humming stopped, all the slime had been collected. “You got it all!” Cecelia exclaimed, relieved she’d not need to mop the goo up herself.
“Usually, we’d only use the Ecto-Vac to sample evidence,” the Ghostbuster said, flipping his goggles up again, “but I figured the lab would appreciate extra for testing purposes.”
“Would’ve got more points pretending you were being helpful,” Hud stated.
Riscraven cleared his throat. “More good news—”
“Good as last time?” Hud said, earning a harsher elbow from Cecelia that caused him to grunt.
“Indeed,” Riscraven said, oblivious to Hud’s sarcasm and noting Cecelia’s physical rebuke with mild confusion. “My Ecto-Goggles are an extension of the E-Vac and PKE meter. Converting the data into visual information, I was able to analyse the slime. It’s definitely ectoplasm. Then, I checked the density of negatively charged particles in your bathroom. The speed of molecular decay and the Sniffer’s readout authenticate our theory that your problem is, indeed, Spitswapper.”
Hud slapped his cheek and opened his mouth in mock amazement.
“If Spitswapper,” saying its name soured Cecelia’s mouth, “succeeded, how would it have…” she swallowed, curious to ask her question but terrified to know the answer. “Hud said,” she turned to him, “you said you saw a body, and it was bloated?”
“Maybe we should save this for daylight,” Hud suggested. “No point scaring yourself now when it’s not coming back tonight.”
“Spitswapper has declared ownership,” Riscraven stated. “While not tonight, it will be back. It doesn’t stop until it’s completed its goal.”
“Nice bedside manner,” Hud said.
“Tell me,” Cecelia demanded. “What does it do?”
Hud took a step back to let Riscraven explain. Worry painted his face. “I warned you,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the bedroom wall opposite the bathroom.
Cecelia expected a long-winded and detailed answer, so she was taken aback by Riscraven’s bluntness. “It swaps spit with you.”
Shaking her head less in incredulity and more from a refusal to believe, Cecelia opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “Come again?”
“Its common name should make it obvious,” the Ghostbuster said. “Its tongue is a proboscis that drains saliva from your body while simultaneously pumping its own into you. Hence, spit swapping. That’s why you only find its ectoplasm,” he lightly kicked the goo-filled cylinder, “when it’s actually attacking. It’s essentially drool.”
Like a zombie, Cecelia stumbled to the staircase.
“You good?” Hud asked and took a step towards her.
A perplexed-sounding Riscraven called after her. “Miss Winterstone?”
From an amble to a gallop, Cecelia tore down the stairs, flew through her kitchen and laundry and emptied her stomach into the second toilet.
When she returned to the top floor, portions of Cecelia’s face, hair and t-shirt dripped from where she’d clumsily drunk and splashed water onto herself post-vomit.
“I had the same reaction when I found out,” Hud told her while Riscraven continued to study her curiously. Hud next turned to the Ghostbuster. “Something I never learned is why it lives at the ocean?”
That the discourteous vagabond was finally consulting him seriously elevated Riscraven’s pride. “Excellent question. Salt molecules are made of sodium ions and chloride ions. Hence, salt water is a good conductor of electricity.”
Collecting herself, Cecelia frowned at them. “Mind involving me in what you’re talking about?”
“Spits recharges there,” Hud told her, then consulted the Ghostbuster again. It was strange for Cecelia to see him suddenly taking this professional seriously. “You said correctly identifying ghosts adjusts how we catch them. Well, now you’re satisfied with what we’re after, what’s the plan?”
Riscraven stared blankly. “Another sensible question, thank you, Mr. Hud. According to the Ghostbusters Field Manual,” he retrieved his phone and opened another app. He started reading it. With his finger, he swiped the screen and kept reading. This went on for minutes. Hud and Cecelia shared an unimpressed side glance.
“Indeed,” Riscraven stated when he was done. “It’s a team job. Spitswapper’s preternatural reflexes have proven too quick for a single exterminator in past encounters. However, through flanking and an effective series of feints and parries, our scientists theorise the demon can be boxed and trapped.”
“Easy,” Hud said, dusting his hands and smiling at Cecelia.
“Not easy,” the literal-minded Ghostbuster interjected. “But, given the trouble this thing has caused Ghostbusters over the decades, I should have no shortage of volunteers desirous to return with me tomorrow to end its terrible reign.”
“I’m desirous to see that, too,” Hud told Cecelia, which she knew meant he planned to catch it before the Ghostbusters did.
“One thing that I haven’t been able to determine,” Riscraven said, interrupting her thought, “is why it broke your mirror. You didn’t mention that in your report.” It was not a rebuke as much an observation. “Property destruction isn’t really this entity’s MO.”
Cecelia flushed. “Oh,” she said, suddenly worried about getting Hud into trouble. “Maybe it wanted to up the scare factor?”
“Possibly,” Riscraven stated. “Have there been any other violent interactions?”
She shook her head.
“Things moving on their own? You may be infested by a secondary spirit—poltergeists being a common example.”
“Guess that makes me a noisy ghost,” Hud said, raising his hand in confession. With a look, he reassured Cecelia he knew what he was doing.
“You did this?” Riscraven asked him.
“Yep.”
“You thought the writing meant the demon was in the mirror,” Riscraven concluded. “And tried to punch it.”
After snickering at the Ghostbuster, Hud said, “I saw it in the doorway. And as for punching it…” he shook his head. “Gene,” he tsk’d him. “You, of all people, should recognise the work of a proton stream.”
Like a reproachful parent, Riscraven’s chin sank to his chest, his eyes peering up at Hud. “What do you mean a proton stream? There’s no way you have a Proton Pack.”
“No, no, no,” Hud said, waving the idea away.
“No,” the Ghostbuster reiterated, emitting a relieved chortle. “Of course not.”
“It’s a CNW.”
Riscraven seemed to require a moment before this registered in his brain. “A what?” He examined Hud up and down, searching for evidence. “How do you have a… you fired a Particle Thrower at this young lady?”
“It’s called a Neutrona Wand,” Hud schooled. “Compressed model.”
“I know what it’s called! I was using layman’s terms!”
“Ghost-catching gun would have been more layman.”
“Where is it?” Riscraven took a giant step forward.
“What’s the big deal? It’s not like you have to be licensed to use your gear.”
“Of course you do! These days, anyway,” he added thoughtfully. “If nothing else, you have to be trained to use it.”
“Really?” Hud said through a half-smile. “I’ve seen footage of your co-founders back in the late twentieth. They used to tear. Shit. Up.”
Outraged like mooned royalty, Riscraven scoffed. “Nonsense. They were completely professional.”
“If that’s what you call professional…”
“The co-founders’ conduct is beside the point,” Riscraven snapped. “What were you planning to do if you hit your target? The positively-charged subatomic anti-particles fired from your wand only temporarily incapacitate ghosts, spectres, revenants, shades, wraiths, apparitions, spooks, demons,” he emphasised the latter as if to say, like in this case. “Need I go on?”
“Please do, it’s a fascinating list.”
“My point,” Riscraven said, “is that without a Muon Trap, all you would have done is chuff the thing off. Soon as you released your wand, it’d be loose again and sore as hell.”
“Is this a penis metaphor?” Hud asked, then mouthed sorry in response to Cecelia’s stern look. “Anyway, where’s your ghost trap?” he asked Riscraven.
“In the Ectomobile!”
Hud looked at him patronisingly. “What good is it in there?”
“I don’t need it here; we’ve established the culprit is Spitswapper and won’t be back tonight!”
“You were only confident about that after your examination. Meanwhile, you brought in your Proton Pack—which you left downstairs, by the way. What would you have done if Cece’s attacker hadn’t been Spits and had hung around up here? Punched it?”
Riscraven sputtered for a reply. When he managed to speak, his arms flailed wildly. “My pack is still in the property and the ghost trap in the driveway!”
“Muon Trap.”
“You said ghost trap,” Riscraven’s arms flailed wider. “It is a ghost trap; commonly called a Muon… not commonly…” He exhaled and slammed his balled fists into his thighs. “It’s the same thing!” Sweat beaded on his temple and dripped beneath the Ecto-Goggles. “But you had no trap nearby. A-a-and!” He wagged his finger at Hud. “Even if you had a trap, how long did you plan to keep it in there? They have a limited battery life, and if the positively charged laser protection grid within it goes off…” he laughed hysterically.
“Is that a question?”
“Not for a cretin like you!”
“Name calling is beneath us, Gene.”
“Where did you plan to transfer the entity?” Riscraven barked, crossing his arms and glaring intensely. “You got an ECU on the beach?”
Hud frowned. “Emergency Control—”
“De Ecto Containment Unit!”
“Shouldn’t that be DECU?”
Well, Hud’s broken him, Cecelia thought as the Ghostbuster stormed up to Hud and tried to spin him around.
“A lesser man might call this assault,” Hud said as the Ghostbuster he greatly outweighed feebly swayed him. The attempt was, however, enough for Riscraven to glimpse the CNW hanging from the V-Hook affixed to Hud’s back.
“Gozer’s Minions!” Riscraven cried, staggering from the sight. “It’s true. You’re not permitted to have that!”
“It was a gift,” Hud stated, amused at the mess he’d made of the previously stoic field agent.
“Impossible. Official Ghostbusters tech is proprietary and not for sale, which means,” a lightbulb seemingly lit in his head, and he unfastened the two-way from his shoulder. “You’re under arrest for theft.”
“Hold your gavel there Judgey McJudgerson. You can report this, but you’re the one who’ll be busted.”
“Ha!” Riscraven cackled with increased hysteria.
“Laugh all you want, but I have ownership papers for this thing under Hudgins.”
Riscraven’s attention was torn from the two-way. “Hudgins?”
“Happy now?”
Evidently, this did make Riscraven happy. A measure of the stoicism Cecelia feared had been obliterated returned. “Authenticating your claim is a simple task.”
“Go for it,” Hud said, not a twitch or flinch suggesting a lie. Of course, he could also be a superb bluffer.
Riscraven fixed the two-way back upon his shoulder, curiosity allowing him to regain the rest of his calm. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he asked, “So you were a Ghostbuster?” He inspected Hud’s coveralls again and, before waiting for an answer, asked, “Why are you wearing a female-cut uniform?” Again impatient for an answer: “Which branch? Not ours here; I know every Gold Coast employee.”
“Sydney,” Hud said. “Three years ago.”
“That’s national HQ,” Riscraven said and sniffed haughtily. “You must have been fired. There haven’t been redundancies in the industry since the nineteen-nineties.”
Hud’s eyes narrowed.
Treating the shaggy-haired man’s silence as confirmation, Riscraven continued. “They ripped your insignia off,” he pointed to the holes in fabric at Hud’s right arm and left pec, “so you couldn’t misrepresent us.” Nodding as if he had it all figured out, he concluded, “Disgraced, you weren’t able to find work and conceded to a life of vagrancy.”
“Field workers don’t need PhDs in psychology anymore,” Hud said, “but you…” he offered a slow clap. “You’re a legit mentalist.”
Misreading the compliment as genuine, Riscraven said, “Well, parapsychology is required; I attained my doctorate earlier this year. Psychology is optional.” He paused as if building suspense and then pumped his eyebrows with pride. “I opted.”
“Dr Gene,” Hud said and clapped again.
“It’s Dr Riscraven, but I don’t like to insist on the title. Some might argue, ‘Why not? You spent years earning it?’ What they don’t realise is it doesn’t serve a field agent to sound arrogant. So, unless my credentials are questioned, I let my work speak for itself.”
Hud’s eyes turned slowly to Cecelia and then slid back to Riscraven. “No, we wouldn’t want you sounding arrogant.”
An awkward silence followed that Cecelia was keen to end. When it did, she regretted having wished for it.
Behind them came the sound of tiny feet, pattering along the walls and growing steadily louder.
To be continued in PART 3: DEMON IN PARADISE
Statistics: Posted by Xajacity — June 10th, 2024, 4:52 am