Two Homeland Security agents appear outside a Brooklyn apartment, holding a small steel cremains-vault. This is the worst part of their job. They knock.

Answering the door is a young woman that looks hauntingly like Nan, in her early twenties at most. She's dressed like a musician. When she sees the two officials, she turns and yells for her mother. Her mother appears—a short woman with age lining her face. Every time the door's opened, some little part of her hoped it was her eldest daughter. She sees the men, and her face falls.

The sound of drills and tech-talk fades from the Mercado basement. It takes just a second to stop ringing down the concrete halls, but when it's done, the only sound left is a soft electrical hum. Eventually it'll just be part of the building, like the sounds of the air conditioner or the death-echoes in the lobby. The tangle of wires and machinery strung around the old electricians' office is a permanent addition to the Mercado—sealing the ley-line intersection for good.

Abby and Erin stand in front of the old furnace. They've peeled off the main group, promising to meet up with the rest of the Ghostbusters for drinks in 10 minutes. There's something they've got to take care of.

"Ready?" Erin asks.

Abby nods and speaks into her borrowed walkie-talkie. "All right, guys, turn it on!"

"Copy." Cam chimes.

In a few ticks and a whoosh, the pilot light catches and the furnace is aflame. Erin pulls a thick book out of her bag.

"Well…any last words?" Dr. Gilbert asks.

"Yeah. Suck ass in hell."


"Thanks. You?"

"…Good riddance."

Erin tosses the book in, with no further ceremony.

For a moment, they watch the pages curl. (It's almost physically painful to get rid of their book, their baby—but they have a box full of 'em at the firehouse.) (Books, not babies.)

They should've closed the furnace door…but it wouldn't have helped.

Smoke curls into the room in a sheet. No amount of arm-waving can stop the assault.

"WHAT did you two do?!" Cam's voice comes out of the walkie. Smoke has come billowing through the vents, too.

Coughing, Abby just shouts, "Shut the door! Shut the door!"

Late that night, after the worst day of her life, Amy Chen's finally fallen into a dreamless sleep. Her eyes are still red. In her messy room (clothes scattered here, a guitar leaning there) the atmosphere suddenly…changes. Amy's too far asleep to notice. She wouldn't anyway, if she was awake—dissociation's been creeping into her mind lately. It's been a weird year. Thankfully, she isn't awake to feel the veil between worlds tear just a little bit, to hear a quiet promise spoken from one spirit to another.

Play nice. Don't touch my family. Or I'll take your teeth.

Static electricity stirs loose papers by her desk…and air (warm; carrying the scent of a familiar shampoo) drifts over the bed. Something invisible pulls Amy's pink duvet over her sleeping form. Tucks her in, like her big sister used to do eons ago…

Then the room returns to normal.