Emily

Emily Grace slumped back in the squeaky rolling chair behind the front desk of the old firehouse, her chin resting in her hands. Rain tapped steadily against the big front windows, turning the streets outside into a blur of gray puddles and shiny sidewalks. Her khaki coveralls—short-sleeved and cut off at the knees—were wrinkled from hours of sitting around, and the Ghostbusters patch on her chest looked like the only part of her outfit still standing at attention. A ghost trap sat unplugged by her feet, thoroughly cleaned and already inspected twice this morning. The proton packs were charged, the logs were updated, and the phones? Silent.

She gave a long sigh, twirling the office chair in slow, lazy circles. “I thought being a Ghostbuster meant more… busting,” she mumbled, staring up at the ceiling pipes. The buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant gurgle of the ancient firehouse plumbing were the only sounds keeping her company. A half-eaten marshmallow from her emergency boredom stash sat on a napkin nearby, alongside a doodled-on notepad with names like “Specter Steve” and “Gooey Gwen.”

Beneath her dangling feet, the radio crackled once—false hope. She sat up straight for a second, eyes bright, before it fizzled back into dull static. She flopped back dramatically, arms spread. “C’mon… just one floating chair, a haunted shoebox, something,” she pleaded to the ceiling, then chuckled a little to herself. “I'd even take a friendly ghost asking for directions.”

She pushed herself away from the desk and wandered toward the old fire pole, looking up at the sealed-off upstairs floor. For a second, she imagined it creaking open, green mist pouring out, and a ghost wearing a fedora floating down with unfinished business from 1932. But, no—just silence. Again.

“Alright, HQ,” she muttered, grabbing her notebook, “you leave me no choice.” With a determined grin, she flipped to a fresh page, titled it "Emergency Ghostbuster Training Mazes," and began sketching a wild, twisting path. If the ghosts weren’t coming to play today, at least her imagination was still fully charged.

Emily Grace stepped lightly down the long corridor of the upper deck, the soles of her boots squeaking faintly against the polished but dusty floor. The halls of the old cruise ship were quiet—too quiet—and the only sound was the faint creak of the ship’s hull and the occasional distant hammering from renovation crews far below. Most of the workers had cleared out early once the ghosts started acting up. Now it was just the Ghostbusters… and whatever was left behind.

She adjusted the compact proton pack strapped snugly to her back, feeling its hum vibrate faintly between her shoulder blades. It wasn’t as big or as heavy as the ones the full-timers carried, but it still made her feel official. This was her first real call outside of training, and though she was supposed to just observe and support, her heart thudded with excitement. And maybe just a little nervousness. Her flashlight cut across old signage, faded carpets, and a room service cart that looked like it had been untouched since the 1980s.

“Upper deck is clear so far,” she whispered into her walkie-talkie, her voice a little shaky but steady enough. “No visual yet. Just… weird vibes.”

No answer yet. The veterans were checking the lower decks, where the main activity had been reported. That left Emily with the eerily empty promenade. A place that once echoed with laughter and footsteps now felt hollow and cold, as if the ship itself had exhaled and never quite breathed in again.

She rounded a corner near the old ballroom—now boarded up for repairs—and froze as her EMF meter gave a faint beep. Emily held her breath. The air felt… different. Colder. She tightened her grip on the device and swallowed hard. “Okay,” she whispered to herself, heart racing just a bit. “Show me what you got, spooky boat.”

Emily Grace sat on the steps inside Ghostbusters HQ, arms crossed, khaki coveralls already speckled with green ectoplasmic goop. Her bangs were stuck to her forehead, and she let out a long, exaggerated sigh as she glared across the room at her new assignment—Slimer. The ghost hovered near the kitchen, stuffing half a sandwich into his mouth and smearing slime across the fridge handle like it was some kind of art project.

"This is so unfair," she muttered to herself, resting her chin in her hand. “It was one little mistake! How was I supposed to know the lady liked her ghost husband?”

She gave a defeated groan as Slimer let out a wet, gurgly burp and then zipped over to the ceiling light, doing lazy circles and flinging bits of mustard as he spun. Somewhere upstairs, Ray had said something about “learning responsibility” and “understanding ghost relationships” before handing her the assignment. Emily suspected it was more of a punishment disguised as a lesson. Either way, it was now her job to keep Slimer from wrecking the place.

She grabbed a towel, wiping her hands and eyeing the trail of goo forming under Slimer’s float path. “You know, you could try not being the grossest ghost in the entire dimension for, like, five minutes,” she called up to him.

Slimer let out a giggle and hurled a pickle at her. Emily ducked just in time.

"Great," she grumbled. “Just me, a towel, and a flying stomach with no manners.” But even as she said it, a small smile tugged at her lips. It wasn’t busting ghosts, but she had to admit—looking after Slimer wasn’t boring.