Author: The God of Ink PM
Demons and black magic stalk the streets of 19th century London, drawing a novelist, a nobleman, a priest, and an inventor together. In the face of evil, who should you call?Rated: Fiction T - English - Supernatural/Suspense - Chapters: 9 - Words: 8,513 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 3 - Updated: 01-05-13 - Published: 12-04-11 - id: 7608839
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Fighting the Good Fight
Inspector Holt of Scotland Yard was a large, portly man, with a walrus mustache and long, flowing brown hair he keep neatly packed under his uniform cap. He was a man who prided himself on being able to assess a situation simply by looking at it, and never shying away from a fight. He had come to the hotel to finish things quickly and neatly; what happened was quite different.
The Inspector had led his men into the ballroom where the disturbance was reported, and were promptly blown out of the room by some sort of spectral wind, which was the Inspector could only describe it as. Every time someone tried to go in, a different thing happened to keep them out. Glasses were thrown. Columns of fire appeared shot down from the ceiling. Finally, Holt had remembered what Lord Winston had talked to him about over the telephone. So he sent for the so- called 'Ghost Hunters'.
And here they were; four grown men with some type of ridiculous machine tied onto their backs. Straightening his cap, Holt approached them.
"My Lord Zeddmore," he said, bowing slightly. "Thank you for coming."
Winston waved his hand. "Don't thank us just yet, Thomas. You still haven't told us what's happened here."
The Inspector led them to the large doors leading to the ballroom. "A charity gala this evening. Rich philanthropists trying to improve the workhouses. According to what I've gathered, something appeared right in the middle of the room during one of the waltz's. It's been holed up in there ever since."
Peter bobbed his head. "Any descriptions of what it looked like?"
Holt shook his head. "Most of the witnesses went into shock right after the hauled out of there. Your guess is as good as mine, Mr…?"
"Venkman. Also, the short one is Stantz," Egon said. "And I am Father Egon Spengler, of Westminster Abbey."
The Inspector snorted. "Well then, padre, you'll need all the holy aid you can get for whatever's in there." He strode over to the doors, and pushed them open with a mighty heave. "Although I don't expected you to get in there."
"Really?" Peter smirked. He walked up to the door, and put his hand in the doorway. He withdrew it immediately, and proceeded to take a vial from his pocket.
"Oh spirit whom I exert my mastery over," he whispered, "seek the source, and break the bonds so that we may bring justice." And with that he pooped the cork on the vial.
A hazy gray mist rose out of the vial, and wisped into the room. It sat as a cloud in the center of the ballroom, and subsequently exploded into a shower of sparks. Peter waited a few seconds, then skipped into the room. "It's all good" he said, doing a small twirl.
Egon twitched slightly, and motioned for Ray and Winston to follow him. "Close the door," he instructed Holt, "And don't let anyone in until we come out." The three men walked into the room, and the doors slammed shut behind them.
The four men gathered in the center of the room. "So, whot exactly is it that we're looking for?" Ray asked.
"The fact that I have the sudden urge to feel in terror suggests something very powerful" said Peter. Egon immediately took out the cross he kept in his coat.
Suddenly, FWOOSSH! A great column of fire spat up from the floor, right in the center of where they men were standing. Something flew out of the column, and proceeded to dive-bomb the four Ghost Hunters.
"Shoot it!" Egon yelled, and immediately began to wildly blast at the red blur making its way around the room. The three others did the same, taking pot-shots at their spectral foe. One shot from Winston connected, sending the spirit flailing through the air.
The ghost stopped spinning, and turned to face the Hunters. It was red in colour, with the body of a muscular man. But beneath its waist was nothing but a tail that looked like it was made of bones. At the end of the tail sat a skull that growled and snapped at the air. Its face was hideous; bloodshot eyes and crooked teeth that jutted from orange, wrinkled gums. Devilish rams horns spiraled down from its forehead.
The creature sniffed the air like a dog, and growled at its attackers. Suddenly, its tail whipped around and grew, extending longer and longer as it made its way to where Egon was standing.
The tail slammed into Egon, knocking him against the wall. He held onto the skull, hooking his fingers into its eye sockets. The skull itself snapped and growled, trying to get a hold of his flesh. "A little help, if you don't mind!" Egon shouted.
Ray ran up to Egon. "What do I do?"
"I dropped my cross, but there's another one in my pocket! Grab it!"
"…..It's not 'ere!"
"It's my coat pocket!"
"….Still not 'ere!"
"MY OTHER COAT POCKET!"
At last, Ray got a hold of the cross. He raised it high, and brought it down on the tail. The bones cracked and disintegrated, turning into dust. The spirit howled in pain, which gave Winston and Peter a chance to get a good shot. Their beams wrapped around the spirit, putting it in a strangle hold. Egon joined them, while Ray took the opportunity to slide the box into place.
"Fire in da hole!" he yelled, and pushed the button. The box opened up, and strange smoky ropes wisped up out of the box and grabbed hold of the spirit, dragging it down, down, down until it was contained in the box. The box's doors slammed shut, and everything went eerily quiet.
Peter went and picked up the box. "A good first day, wouldn't you say, chaps?"
The other three men just stared at him, then laughed. They made their way to the giant double doors, greeted by joyous policemen and writers from the London Times, eager to get the scoop on these 'Ghost Hunters'.
No one ever saw the small, spider like creature detach itself from the wall, and crawl out of the shadows it was hiding in. It watched the four men walk to their automobile, receiving handshakes and slaps on the backs. These four were a threat, it realized, and threats were to be reported. It waited until everyone was gone, and when the hotel was quiet once more, it stretched its bat-like wings and took off into the air, making its way back to its master. The Collective would want to hear about this…