Ghostbusters Movie Novelization Read online

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  PROLOGUE

  “The Aldridge Mansion is the only nineteenth-century home in New York City preserved both inside and out,” the tour guide said, leading his group through an old townhouse. The tourists gawked and snapped photos as he pointed toward the dining room.

  He stopped in front of a thick wooden door. “Now I’m going to tell you something a little . . . spooky.” All eyes focused on the guide. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “As you can see, this basement door is sealed shut.” For effect, he tugged on the knob. It didn’t budge.

  “One morning, Sir Aldridge awoke, furious when his breakfast wasn’t waiting for him. He called to his servants but none of them responded. Why?” Big pause. “Because during the night, one by one, they had each been stabbed to death in their sleep. It was later discovered they were murdered by his eldest daughter, Gertrude Aldridge.” The guide knew he had captured their attention. He pointed to an oil portrait of Gertrude—she looked terrifying.

  “To spare the family public humiliation, instead of turning her in to the police, Sir Aldridge locked her in the basement and fed her through this slot.” He indicated a small opening in the door. “Years later when a new owner moved in, they dug out her remains. But after repeatedly hearing strange sounds emanating from the basement, he sealed it shut.” The guide paused again. “That’s right. No one has opened this door since. I can’t imagine what Gertrude Aldridge would look like after all these years.” In order to lighten the tension in the room, he added, “She wasn’t looking too good before.”

  The group took another look at the portrait, and as he anticipated, they laughed.

  Suddenly a candlestick fell off the mantle.

  The group gasped. But not the guide. This candlestick was his trick, more of his show’s drama. Once the group left, he’d set it back up for the next gaggle of tourists, each more gullible than the last.

  That night, when the tours were done and the prop candlestick was back on the mantle, the guide took one last look around before closing. Everything looked good. He grabbed his backpack and headed toward the front door when a strange rattling sound came from behind him. He looked. No one was there.

  When he started out again, the rattle repeated—ca cha, ca cha, ca cha—causing him to turn. It was coming from the basement door. He stepped in closer to investigate.

  “What . . . ?”

  The knob shook as if someone or something was trying to open it. Then . . . it stopped.

  BAM! Something crashed against the door.

  Terrified, the tour guide bolted out of the room. The thrashing behind the door grew louder and fiercer.

  Out of breath, he finally reached the front of the mansion, but the door handle refused to budge. The knob grew red hot and burned his hand. He jumped back.

  Suddenly, the entire house was quiet. The guide slowly turned to discover that the sealed basement door was open.

  He rushed into the living room. The candlestick he’d set up on the mantle flew at him—and this, the guide knew, was not part of his act.

  He threw a nearby chair toward the window, thinking he could crawl through the glass and escape. But the chair froze midair and then flew backward, knocking him over.

  He scrambled under the old dining room table and pulled the lace tablecloth down to cover himself. A moment later, the dining room table shot across the room. He looked up. Ectoplasm had begun to ooze out of the walls.

  The guide was terrified. He ran through the nearest doorway and down the stairs. In shock, he realized he’d entered the basement. “Oh no . . .,” he mumbled. Slime coated the stairs, and it was now too slippery to get back up. His foot fell through one of those termite-eaten boards he’d joked about not too long ago. The entire staircase collapsed, but as he fell, he grabbed the landing and started to pull himself up. He kept pulling. . . . He was almost there. . . . He was so close . . . and that’s when his face was suddenly illuminated from below.

  He looked down toward the light and screamed.

  CHAPTER 1

  Erin Gilbert was getting dressed for her day. The TV in the corner was playing a familiar song. It was the opening to a ghost-chasing reality show called Ghost Jumpers. Erin gave a sarcastic snort as the show’s intense yet cheery host walked down the dark hallway of an abandoned mental ward.

  “Who you gonna call? Ghost Jumpers!” The host introduced the program, adding, “Tonight on Ghost Jumpers we are locking ourselves into this abandoned mental ward for seven days straight, only allowing ourselves out to eat, sleep, and run general errands—”

  Erin straightened her skirt and blouse. She checked her hair in the mirror. Once she determined that she looked respectable, she made a face at the TV.

  “Uch. So stupid,” Erin said, turning it off.

  She opened her closet where several similar-looking plaid blazers hung in a neat row. She chose one and put it on, glancing in the mirror one last time. Yes. Respectable.

  Erin grabbed her messenger bag and left the apartment.

  On the front lawn of the Columbia University campus, students sat outside debating what they’d learned. Erin walked proudly through the school, nodding at a few colleagues as she passed by. She was happy. This was her dream job.

  Inside Alumni Hall, members of the academic elite milled about in conversation. Erin ran a hand over the dark polished wood. She belonged here. She was respected here.

  Her boyfriend, Phil Hudson, saw her come in. “Erin. Sweetheart,” he said.

  There was an awkward miscommunication—was Phil was going to kiss her on the lips or cheek?—but Erin was used to awkward. She brushed off the incident and allowed him to lead her across the faculty lounge.

  “Did you hear?” Erin asked Phil. “I’m lecturing in the big hall today.”

  “Darling, that’s wonderful.” He took in her shirt, blouse, and jacket. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  Erin felt a little rattled by his question. “What? Why?”

  Phil shook it off. “No, you look fine. I have someone I want you to meet.” A stuffy looking woman didn’t smile as they approached.

  “Phyllis Adler, I’d like to introduce you to Erin Gilbert. She specializes in theoretical particle physics.” Phil stood between the two women. He told Erin, “Phyllis is guest lecturing in Daniel’s Astrophysics and Cosmology today.”

  “I’m a huge fan of your work,” Erin said. “It’s such an honor.”

  Phil told Phyllis, “Erin just learned she’s being published in Nature.”

  Erin beamed. “Yes, I am very proud.”

  Phyllis, however, shook her head. “I don’t allow my lab to submit to journals anymore. I think that journals tamper with the process and ultimately hurt scientific research.”

  Erin struggled with how to respond. “Yes, that’s true,” she said, no longer smiling. “I was conflicted about the whole thing.”

  “It becomes more about the splash than good science,” Phyllis replied. “They’re completely self-serving, and the effects on science are nocuous.”

  Erin said, “I see what you’re saying. It’s like when scientists get caught up in winning some dumb award—”

  Phyllis dismissed her, saying, “Oh, awards are massively important.”

  “Absolutely. Absolutely.�
� Erin nodded like a bobble-head.

  “It’s unfortunately the only way you can draw attention to good science,” Phyllis said.

  “That’s an excellent point.” Erin checked her watch. “Well, I better get going. Lecturing in the big hall today. Give my ideas room to really spread their wings.” She laughed, but Phyllis remained stone-faced.

  When Erin turned to say good-bye to Phil, it was another awkward miscommunication and instead of kissing his cheek, she kissed his shoulder.

  “Good luck on your tenure review!” Phil said, not seeming to notice the not-quite-a-second-kiss incident.

  “Thank you. Fingers crossed,” Erin said. “Not that there’s anything to crossing your fingers, of course.”

  “I couldn’t disagree more,” Phyllis said. “It’s been proven that superstitions can have a tremendous performance benefit.”

  Erin sighed. “Exactly.”

  After a quick walk across campus, Erin took her place at the front of a large modern lecture hall.

  An older man entered the room and stopped behind her.

  “Aahhh!” Erin screamed when she discovered him there. Trying to regain composure, she picked up a file as if she’d been reading it all along. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for interrupting,” the man said. He introduced himself as Ed Mulgrave. “I need to speak with you about something you wrote.”

  Erin began to pack up her things. “All right. Which publication?”

  “I’m talking about your book,” he said.

  Erin froze for a second, then played it off. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You’re Erin Gilbert?” He held up a thick tome and read the title. “Co-author of Ghosts from Our Past: Both Literally and Figuratively: The Study of the Paranormal.”

  Erin continued to pack up. “I’m sorry, that must be a different Erin Gilbert.”

  Ed squinted at the photo inside the flap. “This really does look like you—” He turned the book toward her, then raised it next to her face.

  Erin batted his hand away. “Listen, Mr. Mulgrave. That book was just sort of a joke. No self-respecting scientist really believes in the paranormal. That was a long time ago, just a gag between two friends.”

  Ed weighed the book in his hands. “A four-hundred-and-sixty-page gag?”

  “What do you want?” Erin gave up.

  “I’m the historian at the Aldridge Museum, and I believe it’s haunted,” Ed told her.

  “Don’t you give ghost tours? Isn’t that the whole point?” Erin slipped her bag over her shoulder for a quick getaway.

  “Yes, but that’s just for fun. And ticket sales,” he admitted. “But this has never happened before. It scared my tour guide nearly to death. Can you just take a look? I tried the police, but I sound crazy.”

  “I’m sorry, but that book you’re holding is nonsense,” Erin replied. “I don’t know how you found it anyway. I thought I burned both copies.”

  “Oh, I bought it online,” Ed told her. “It’s on Amazon. Both hard copy and e-book.”

  Erin’s eyes registered both shock and rage as she took in that information. She tried to hide her feelings. Very slowly she said, “Is it now?”

  The instant she was alone, Erin booted up the computer in her office. She clicked on the book link.

  “NO!”

  It was on Amazon.com. Underneath the title were two names: hers, and the other author’s, Abigail L. Yates. A big picture of Erin filled the screen with the words “Ghosts are Real!” above her head in huge letters.

  Erin would have exploded in anger if there hadn’t been a knock at the door. It was the head of her department, Harold Filmore, coming into the small room.

  “Erin—”

  “What?” She quickly rotated the monitor away from him. “Yes. How is your day faring?”

  “Erin . . .” Filmore was always serious. “We’re set for the final review of your tenure case on Thursday, but I saw that you had a recommendation letter from Dr. Brennen at Princeton.” He looked appalled. “Their science department just isn’t what it used to be. I’d consider getting a referral from a more prestigious school.”

  Erin furrowed her brow. “More prestigious than Princ—?” She stopped herself from arguing. “Yes, of course. I can’t believe I almost did that.”

  “I think you are an asset to modern physics and I’d hate to see you throw it down the drain.” Filmore turned to leave, taking a last look at Erin before he exited. “Oh, and about your clothes.”

  Erin sighed. “Um . . . what about them?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Never mind.”

  The instant he was gone, she turned back to the computer. “Abigail L. Yates,” Erin read aloud, glancing at the biography. “ ‘Abigail continues her passion for the study of paranormal at the Kenneth P. Higgins Institute of Science.’ ” She grunted. “Ooof.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Erin paid her taxi driver at the entrance to the Kenneth P. Higgins Institute of Science in the Bronx and marched into the building and down the stairs to the basement. She didn’t stop until she reached a door marked PARANORMAL STUDIES LABORATORY—DR. ABIGAIL YATES AND DR. JILLIAN HOLTZMANN.

  A piece of paper was taped up. It read:

  DO NOT WRITE STUPID THINGS ON THIS DOOR!

  Erin took a dread-filled breath and knocked.

  A female voice called from inside the room, “Enter!”

  Erin did. The messy lab had two side offices. In the center of the room, Erin noticed some strange equipment on a long counter. And just beyond that . . . there it was. The book, on display like a trophy!

  “I’ve been waiting a long time.” The sound of that familiar voice behind her made her swell with guilt. Erin turned. She had to say something.

  “Oh, Abby. That’s exactly what I was afraid of—”

  “I hope I got more than one wonton out of you!”

  “Excuse me?” Erin looked around. Abby Yates hadn’t been talking to her. She was talking to a Chinese food deliveryman.

  Abby stepped forward. She was wearing a complicated antennalike piece of scientific equipment on her head. She spotted Erin and a slow fire appeared in her eyes.

  “Well. My old friend Erin Gilbert . . .”

  Erin wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have come. The room was suddenly filled with awkward tension.

  “What’s on your head?” the deliveryman asked.

  “An advancement in science,” Abby replied, paying for her lunch and taking the bag. “That’ll be all.” She pointed to Erin. “And please show her the exit. I’m sure she was already looking for it.”

  The confused deliveryman started to show Erin to the door, but she refused to go, following Abby instead.

  “Abby, we need to have a conversation,” Erin said.

  “I’m trying to have a conversation with the constant frequency signal I’m relaying through spectral foam. If you can be more interesting than that, be my guest,” Abby said bitterly.

  “You put the book online without my permission,” Erin told her.

  “I wasn’t aware I needed your permission.”

  “Yes, you do, Abby. I really need you to take it down,” Erin said.

  “Absolutely not.” Abby sat down and opened her lunch. “It’s a great book. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Look, I’m up for tenure right now,” Erin explained. “This”—she held up the book—“comes up if you Google my name. If my colleagues see it, I will be the laughing stock of Columbia University.”

  Abby pulled out several food containers. “So?”

  “So, there is no experimental backing for anything in that book. No one has ever been able to prove the existence of the paranormal!” Erin lowered her voice. “That book just makes us look crazy.”

  “Guess what? If all theories had to have experimental backing we wouldn’t be anywhere! You tell Columbia University that! You give them that message from me.” Abby looked down into her soup. “There is only one wonton!
Unbelievable!”

  Abby stormed to her office phone and hit speed-dial. “What kind of business are you running?!” she shouted into the phone. “You won’t get away with this—”

  Erin sat down to wait for Abby to come back. There had to be a way to convince her to take the book down! The photo on the back cover was so embarrassing. In the picture, she and Abby stood together looking very serious. They were both wearing black turtlenecks. Erin cringed at the memory.

  Erin’s head snapped up when she heard a woman’s voice say, “You keep a lot of tension in your shoulders.”

  Erin hadn’t noticed the woman behind the worktable, hidden behind piles of scavenged electronic components. She had her feet up and was playing with a small blowtorch. There were odd homemade weapons hanging on a pegboard behind the woman’s head.

  “Who are you?” Erin asked.

  Abby came in from the office. “Holtzmann works with me in the lab. She’s a brilliant engineer. And loyal. Would never abandon you, unlike some people I know.”

  “Yes, I get it.” Erin was resigned to her guilt. She no longer tried to sweep it away.

  Abby explained, “She specializes in experimental particle physics. She almost got hired by CERN.”

  “Almost?” Erin glanced at Holtzmann.

  “There was a lab incident,” Holtzmann said casually.

  “He’ll wake up.” Abby was encouraging.

  Holtzmann nodded. “They said he moved a finger yesterday.”

  “Oh, good!” Abby smiled before turning back to Erin. “She and I are bringing the ideas in our book to life. We’re close on a hollow laser for the reverse tractor beam.”

  Erin wasn’t impressed. “Terrific.”

  Abby didn’t let her get away with the sarcasm. “It is terrific.”

  Holtzmann said to Abby, “Why don’t you just let her listen to the EVP?”

  “Absolutely not,” Abby said.

  “What EVP?” Erin was a little curious.

  “Let her listen,” Holtzmann told Abby. “It’s the only way she’ll know.”