Tucker suppressed a yawn as he stumbled into the offices of The World Chronicle, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other. Grace met him at his desk, smiling.

"Guess what happened to me yesterday?" she said, sounding rather smug.

"What?"

"I met this guy in a store that wanted me to audition for a job on his news show. I said no, of course, but dontcha think that's kinda cool?"

"Yeah, great," Tucker responded listlessly, the words nearly swallowed in another yawn.

"Having trouble sleeping?" Grace asked brightly. "Wes got a new girlfriend again?"

Tucker sipped his coffee, shook his head. "Nah, worse."

Grace raised an eyebrow, and Tucker pointed mutely at the door just as Wes burst in, dressed as if it were the middle of winter in the South Pole.

"I'm dying," announced the photographer, and sneezed violently.

"He's got a cold," Tucker confided.

Wes heard him and protested, "This is no cold, bro! This is pneumonia! I shouldn't even be at work, but I figure I wanna die among friends, you know?"

Tucker leaned across his desk to Grace and said, "He kept me up all night by coughing and sneezing and moaning about his impending death as loudly as he could with his door open, all because I refuse to pamper him. He's a total baby when he's sick."

"Is a little attention too much for a brother to ask for when he's dying?"

"You're not dying!" Tucker shouted.

"Hey, man, don't be gettin' all up in my face like that."

"You just have a cold, Wes, for crying out loud!"

"I didn't know you had a doctor's degree," Wes sulked.

"I don't need to be a doctor to see you're hamming it up way beyond reasonable boundaries!"

"Oh, now I'm faking? What would you know about it?"

"Drama queen," Tucker muttered.

"Cheap dime-store hack!" Wes responded, outraged.

"That was uncalled for," Grace said, raising an eyebrow.

Wes blinked at Tucker's hurt expression, and sighed. "I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry, Tuck-B, it's the sickness talkin'."

"No problem," Tucker said, unconvincingly.

"Wes, Grace, Tucker, Donald's office, now." Vera, looking annoyed at being forced to move from her desk, wheeled around and stamped back to it.

"What's up?" Grace asked, when they were all assembled.

"Got a story for you," the editor announced, and held up a paper. The headline read, MYSTERIOUS STRING OF SUICIDES CONTINUES. "A whole bunch of people have jumped to their deaths from the eighth floor window of one particular building, for no apparent reason. Ten in the last three months - half of those in the last three weeks."

"Maybe it's just a place that attracts suicidal people?" Tucker suggested.

"No," Donald said, managing to convey a great deal of scorn for "boring" theories in that one word. "By all accounts these people were happy and well-adjusted. Well, most of them."

"What's your theory?" Wes asked.

"Alien hotspot? Mind-altering worms? Demon possession? Homicidal ghosts? You find out." Donald was, for whatever reason, feeling short-tempered. "The place is called Recreation Central. It's fairly isolated, in the middle of a big plot of land, gets a lot of business from management types. The three of you together should be able to stop each other from getting into trouble." The editor busied himself with his computer. After a few seconds he looked up to see his reporters – and photographer – still watching him expectantly. "'Bye, now," he said pointedly.

"Oh," said Grace. They looked around uncertainly, shrugged, and left.

Shortly thereafter, the trio were driving down an absurdly long dirt road, past open fields (small ones) and clumps of trees (big ones).

"Ooh! Ooh! There it is! Right ahead!" Grace pointed excitedly to a hint of a building through the trees. "Told you we weren't lost!"

Wes sneezed, and the car swerved slightly. "I'm driving on the way back," Tucker announced, clinging to his seat.

Wes parked neatly in front of the Recreation Central building, which was a tall brick affair surrounded by trees, with a wing spreading out on either side of and some distance behind the part that held the main entrance. Before they entered, Wes acquiesced to the weather enough to remove two of his layers of clothing, then repeated the plan for clarification. "Okay, so we go in and hope we get someone cooperative, and if we don't, we cause a distraction and sneak up to the eighth floor ourselves to look around."

"That's our usual method," Grace agreed.

"Hi," said Tucker. Grace and Wes looked at him, and followed his gaze to a girl, fourteen or fifteen, wearing a pink shirt with a bunny on it, standing a few feet away.

"Who are you?" the girl asked bluntly, immediately answering her own question. "You're here about the suicides."

"Um-" Tucker glanced at his companions, back at the girl. "Yeah. Do you know something?"

The girl nodded. "Can't tell you, though," she said. "You should go." Before any of them could respond, she turned and ran, disappearing into the trees.

"Wait!" Tucker called, and started after her.

"Hey, wait for me! Damn it, I hate dirt parking lots!" Grace followed her fellow reporter, trying to shake a stone out of her shoe as she ran.

"I ain't runnin' anywhere," Wes muttered. "I'll go in and start findin' things out!" he shouted after his comrades, and, grumbling about attempts to force him to exercise when on the verge of death, turned back to the building.

Wes entered the foyer of Recreation Central, ignored the waiting area, headed straight for the reception desk, and gave the woman sitting behind it his most charming smile. Unfortunately, the effect was somewhat marred by a violent sneeze, which luckily had exactly the right result.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said, sympathetically, "the flu's been going around. Why don't you sit down," she added, ushering him to one of the extremely comfortable-looking chairs in the open waiting area. "I'll make you a nice lemon drink."

Wes grinned delightedly before putting on his best expression of abject misery. "If you like," he said, sadly.

Grace and Tucker were poking around the trees and bushes, feeling increasingly frustrated. "I think she went this way - aargh!"

The shout was because a man in army fatigues, carrying a rifle, had just popped up in front of them, obviously having hidden himself in the undergrowth. The rifle was pointed at them.

"You're not wearing an armband. Give me one good reason I shouldn't shoot you," the man spat.

Tucker eyed the band around the man's left arm, and blinked. "We're civilians?" he suggested.

"Militia," the man deduced, disgust in his tone. He stared at them for a split second, then lowered the weapon. "Where are your guns?" he snapped.

"Um, uh, we're not, we were just, uh..." Tucker stammered.

The man cut him off with a gesture. "Ah. I got you, son. Can't really blame you, she's a real looker, but you need to be more careful." His tone was much kinder now. "Stick with me, I'll make sure you're okay until we can find you another weapon."

"But, what-"

"Stay down!" the man hissed, dropping into a crouch and then reaching up and pulling them down with him.

Obediently staying down, Tucker tried to finish his question. "I'm sorry, sir, but-"

"Call me Colonel while we're on the field," the man hissed.

Tucker gave a slightly disbelieving chuckle, but said, "Okay, Colonel, what's going on?"

The colonel looked at him in astonishment. "What's going on? What's going on? A war, that's what's going on! Now get moving! You'll come with me if you want to live." With that, he dropped onto his stomach and leopard-crawled away.

Grace caught Tucker's attention and mouthed, "Time warp?"

Tucker blinked at her. She wanted him to dance? Oh! No, she thought maybe they had dropped through some kind of tear in the space-time continuum, into the middle of a war. He shook his head and shrugged. She shrugged back, and started crawling along after the colonel. With a heavy sigh, he followed.

After a great deal of uncomfortable crawling through the forest – Grace's trousers were ruined! Ruined! – the colonel signaled that they could stand up, as long as they stayed in a crouch. After a few more minutes, around the time their backs were starting to hurt from the stupid crouching, Tucker heard a twig snap to one side. He stopped, straightened, stepped around a tree, and found himself face-to-face with another man in army clothes. This one had no armband. The man jumped, startled, and pulled his trigger reflexively. To his astonishment, Tucker found himself lying on his back, unable to breathe, a spreading red stain on his shirt. The non-armband guy turned tail and ran.

"Tucker!" Grace rushed over and knelt by him, frantically checking him over as he coughed and gasped for air.

"Aw, hell," the colonel groaned, leapt over Tucker's prone form, took careful aim at the fleeing figure, and pulled the trigger.

The guy stumbled against a tree, cursing, a stain spreading on his shoulder.

"Alien," Grace whispered, her face a picture of terror, because the stain on the man's shirt was green.

Tucker shook his head, coughed, struggled to say something but couldn't quite manage it.

The alien turned around, fury in his eyes, opened his mouth, and said, "Jesus, Colonel! I thought you never shot anyone in the back!"

"You shot this young man at point-blank range, Frank. You know that's against the rules," the colonel said, coolly, then glanced down at Tucker and added, "Sorry about that, son. You'll have a nasty bruise, but you should be all right." Tucker managed a thumbs-up.

Grace looked at Frank, at the colonel, at Tucker, whose face was regaining some colour. "Not an alien?" she said quietly.

Tucker shook his head again. "Paintball," he wheezed, and started laughing. After a second, Grace laughed along with him.

The colonel stared at them. "Of course it's paintball," he said. "You sound surprised."

"So, what is it that you do here, Kim?" Wes asked, smiling at the secretary as she fussed around ensuring his comfort.

"I'm a sec- oh, you mean the company. We offer recreational opportunities for businessmen, and also the chance to learn real teamwork." Kim beamed. Wes' mind boggled at the possibilities, but Kim saw his expression and shot him down. "Sports opportunities. We arrange hikes, bungee jumps, hang-gliding, parachute jumps, surfing and the like. Also seminars, which is why we need such a large building. And of course, there's the only thing that we do on premises-"

The door chimed, and Wes turned toward it as Grace entered, waving a handkerchief that was serving as a white flag and leading Tucker, who was hobbling along, hunched over.

"About time you two got here," Wes said. "Guess you lost her, right? I've been doing all the reporter- Oh my God!" he yelped, noticing the paint on Tucker's shirt, and immediately started freaking out. "Tuck! You've been gut-shot! Why is he walking? Why are you walking? Don't panic! Lay him down! Call 911! Put pressure on the wound! Call-"

"Wes," Tucker interrupted quietly, then louder, "Wes! Paintball! Paintball, man. This place is a paintball field."

"Paintball?" Wes repeated.

"Paintball," Grace affirmed.

Wes relaxed, dropped his arms, which he had been using to make frightened gestures, and said, "Damn, man, why you wanna go scaring me like that?"

"So what'd you find out?" Tucker asked, smiling at Kim, who was eyeing him suspiciously.

"Uh – businessmen pay these people to arrange for 'em to do all sorts of crazy-ass things," Wes summarised.

"Including jumping out of windows?" Grace directed the question at Kim, smiling in a friendly fashion.

"Oh," said Kim, looking distressed. "That has been awfully bad for business. We've had to close down the eighth floor entirely. Fortunately none of our biggest lecture venues are on that floor, but the bad publicity alone... Of course," she added, "if we get any more negative publicity people will start coming to look at the place, like vultures, and then all we have to do is open a gift shop, with maybe models of little people jumping out of buildings, and we'll be..." Her voice trailed off as she noticed the reporters staring at her. "Um, sorry."

"Can you tell us anything about these suicides?"

Kim shrugged. "They were all clients. None of them seemed really depressed – well, maybe a couple were a little... off... but none seemed suicidal. I can't really be sure because they were all alone when they jumped – it's always out of one of our offices, you see, that hasn't been used in a couple of years, so there's no one in there. I mean, a lot of our offices aren't used, it's an awful waste of space if you ask me, but the owners bought the building as-is and they can't exactly go knocking down sections, if you know what I mean. After the second jumper we locked the door to the room, but somehow they always get in, and as I said, we've had to close down that floor."

Tucker nodded. "Thanks for the exposition. Mind if we look around up there?"

"Well, yes, actually. As I said, the-"

"Yeah, closed down, uh-huh. Will it help if I tell you we're reporters?" Wes asked, raising his camera and snapping a picture of the secretary.

She scowled. "Which paper?"

"New York Times," said Tucker promptly, at the same time as Grace said, "Business Weekly," and Wes said, "World Chronicle."

Kim focused on her favourite. "The Chronicle? Ooh, you guys totally save my sanity when I have to work here on a slow day. Some of your stories are so funny!" She bit her lip, looked around nervously, then leaned forward and whispered, "Okay, I'll get you up there, but if anyone asks, you lured me outside with your wily ways and got in while I was distracted. The office you're looking for is straight ahead, fifth door on your right, but don't leave each other alone, okay?"

Wes grinned. "Not a problem."

part the second

The trio stepped out of the elevator and peered from side to side, taking in the sideways T-shape of the corridors, with passages branching to either side and straight ahead, that seemed to indicate the building as a whole was roughly cross-shaped. The floor was gloomy, shrouded in shadow, and eerily silent.

"Spooky," Wes whispered, before having a quiet coughing fit.

"Fifth door on the right," Grace murmured, patting Wes on the back.

"Let's see if the lights work," Tucker said, at normal volume, causing his companions to jump. He crossed to the opposite wall, located a switch, flicked it. Fluorescent lights flicked on down the long passage in front of them, their quiet buzzing somehow highlighting the silence rather than breaking it. "Come on," Tucker said, his voice sounding strangely hollow, and set off, counting doors, footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. It would have been altogether a scene straight out of a horror movie, had it not been for the paintings of fuzzy baby animals adorning the walls.

Tucker stopped at a door beside a picture of a fuzzy duckling, and tried the door while he waited for his friends to catch up. It opened.

"She said it would be locked," he said ominously.

The group exchanged glances, shrugged, and entered the office.

The room was big, half again the size of Donald's office, with large windows, starting at about knee height and extending almost to the ceiling, on one wall, which gave it an airy feel. The windows looked out on an enclosed garden area, and they had a clear view of the offices in the right-hand branch of the passage from the elevators. A large, heavy desk had been pushed against the wall, out of the way; the chair that went with it was across the room, next to a really awful green set of filing cabinets. The reporters took in the layers of dust over most of the room, a clear indication that it had not been used in some time. This was offset by two indications that someone had at least been inside it recently: there were numerous footprints in the dust on the floor, and one of the windows was open. They stared at this last item uneasily.

"I'm just going to close that, if no one minds," Tucker said, moving across to the offending window.

Wes nodded agreement as Grace said, "Please do," and began examining the footprints. Wes went to the desk and started poking around.

"Wow, this view is pretty cool," said Tucker, leaning out of the window with one hand on the ledge, just far enough to look straight down to the ground below.

"Just be careful," Grace admonished, before resuming her perusal of the floor. "Looks like at least three sets of prints," she said, thoughtfully, "one quite a bit smaller than the others." Suddenly she sighed heavily and stood up. "What exactly are we hoping to find here, anyway? This dust is ruining my brand-new outfit. Whose idea was this?"

Wes did his best to tune out Grace's chatter while he inspected the desk. It had a flip-up top, which was firmly locked, with odd scrape marks around the keyhole. He quickly discovered the cause of these marks when he opened the top drawer: a crowbar was lying innocently in the otherwise empty space. He picked it up, looked it over, found nothing unusual, shrugged, put it on top of the desk, and continued checking around. His attention was caught and held by a strange greasy patch of... something... near one corner of the desk. It looked engine oil. But what, he wondered, would engine oil be doing in an office on the eighth floor of a building that offered recreation to bored businessmen? He touched the spot gingerly, rubbed his fingers together, cautiously sniffed his index finger as best he could, what with his blocked nose and all. "Smells like... lighter fluid," he muttered. He had just made up his mind to move the desk for a better look when Grace's voice abruptly refused to be tuned out any longer.

"Hey!" she shrieked. "Tucker! What the hell are you doing?"

Wes looked around to see Tucker balancing precariously on the window ledge, leaning out, his face blank. He leapt to his feet, jumped to the window and pulled Tucker inside by the shirt. "What the hell, Tucker?" he sputtered.

Tucker stepped back toward the window, and said dreamily, "It's not that high."

"Oh, no, you don't." Wes grabbed Tucker's arm and manhandled him out of the office. "What were you thinking?!" he shouted, once they were safely in the hall.

Tucker looked straight through him with glazed eyes, ignoring him completely, and tried to get back into the office, starting to struggle when Wes held him back.

"Grace! A little help here!"

With Grace holding on to one arm and Wes holding on to the other, they managed to manoeuvre Tucker down the passage and into the elevator. Grim-faced, they kept a secure hold on him until they reached the lobby, marched him silently past a surprised-looking Kim, all the way back to the parking lot, shoved him firmly into the car, got in themselves, and locked the doors.

After a brief pause, Wes, who was in the front, turned around to face Tucker and, in a tone of obviously forced calm, said, "You wanna explain yourself, man?"

Tucker stared at him for a second, blinked. The distant expression on his face faded, replaced with one of confusion. "I, uh, I... What?"

"He wants to know why you tried to jump out a window eight stories up," Grace clarified from next to him.

Tucker looked at her, shook his head slowly. "Did I... uh... wha..." He stopped, visibly got a grip on himself, and tried again. "I don't know. It just... suddenly it wasn't so high anymore. It... It looked like the ground was right there, and I wanted to see the garden."

Grace and Wes exchanged looks.

"You're just way too vulnerable to paranormal influences, you know that, Tuck?" Wes tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, then pulled out his cellphone. "I'm calling Donald."

"So you and Grace weren't affected at all?"

"Nope." Wes was holding his phone in such a way that if they put their heads very close together, all three of them could just hear Donald's gruff voice. Right now, the voice was hesitating.

Finally, Donald said, "I'm tempted to tell you to get out of there."

"Yeah, but, Donald, if there's something in this place that's making people kill themselves, we have to stop it."

"As someone who almost jumped, I have to agree with Wes," Tucker put in.

Donald quickly relented. "Okay. Try and find out what it is, then call me and we'll come up with a way to get rid of it. And see if you can get a picture."

"What about the girl we saw?" Grace asked. "She said she knew something."

"Probably just some angsty teen looking for some attention," Donald said dismissively. "Forget about her."

"But she ran away," Tucker objected. "Why would she do that if she wanted attention?"

"You followed her, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but-"

"There you are, then. There are more important things to concentrate on. I'll be expecting your call when you know more."

Before Tucker could protest further, Donald hung up.

"So, I guess we're going back up to the eighth floor..."

"'We' nothing, Tucker. You're staying right here," Grace ordered. "We don't want you being unduly influenced again."

"But-"

"But nothing!" Wes interrupted. "Cold or no cold, Tuck, you take one step out of this car and I'll kick your ass, y'dig?"

"I dig," Tucker agreed meekly.

"Tell you what," Grace said, falling for his puppy-dog look of sadness. "Call Sal and find out who the first guy to jump was, and when. Maybe we're dealing with a ghost."

Tucker nodded and reached for his cellphone, watching forlornly as Grace and Wes headed back to Recreation Central.

Kim the secretary was standing nervously behind her desk, addressing a tall, well-groomed man in a suit. She spotted Grace and Wes standing in the doorway, and her face flooded with relief. "Oh, hello!" she said brightly. "You're back! I was just telling my boss here how I went to make you a lemon drink and when I got back you'd disappeared." She inclined her head slightly toward the elevator and gave them a pleading look.

"Uh- yeah, we were just lookin' around the place, you know," Wes said.

"To, uh, see if we should recommend it to our company," Grace agreed.

The suited man, who had turned toward them when Kim spoke, gave a friendly smile and stepped toward them, holding out his hand. "Mark Anderhill," he said, shaking hands with each of them in turn. "I'm afraid we don't allow unauthorised tours of this building, due to recent regrettable events. I'm sure you understand. However, I would be pleased to tell you all about my little company, and perhaps I can show you around properly a bit later on."

Grace said, "Actually-"

"Splendid," Mark broke in smoothly, steering them gently to the waiting area with a hand on their shoulders. "Why don't you have a seat. Kim, dear, won't you make some tea? Don't worry, I'll make sure they're here when you get back." Pleased with his joke, he winked conspiratorially at them as Kim hurried off, and settled himself into an armchair. "Right, then. Where shall I begin?"

After securing a promise for a call-back from Sal, Tucker sat in the back seat of the car and twiddled his thumbs. After two minutes he was restless. After five he was bored and impatient. After ten he was quite sure he was going out of his mind with the lack of interesting stimuli. He hated doing nothing while his friends had all the fun...

Gazing out of the window with his chin on his hand, he noticed that theirs was the only car in the parking lot, although there had been several others when they had arrived. After a moment's thought, Tucker concluded that the paintball game that had caused the ruin of one of his most comfortable shirts had ended, and the participants had headed home, taking their vehicles with them. The faintly smug feeling at the shrewd deduction of his thinking abated when he poked the sore spot on his stomach with one finger. He winced, sighed, and resumed his observation of the forbidden world outside the car. After a second, movement near the end of the right wing of the building caught his eye. Relieved to have something at which to look, he tilted his head to see better, and realised with a jolt that it was the pink-jerseyed girl from earlier. His hand was on the door handle before he remembered the threat of an ass-kicking from Wes, and Donald's orders to leave the girl alone. He hesitated, torn. Donald had ordered... and Grace and Wes had insisted... On the other hand, since when had he ever listened to Donald, Wes and Gace? He had just made up his mind to follow the girl when his phone rang.

"And so you see, putting teams of office personnel in situations that force them to work together can be beneficial to their relations when at work." Mark beamed proudly as he finished his spiel.

Grace suppressed a yawn. "Very nice," she said unconvincingly.

"Where is Kim with that tea?" Wes asked, looking around, desperate for a distraction. "It's been almost half an hour."

Kim entered from a previously unnoticed side door, looking distraught. "I'm so terribly sorry, the power's out. I've been trying to boil water with a lighter I found in the kitchen but I have to heat the water in a teaspoon and by the time I get the mug half-full it's cold again, and now the lighter's run out of gas."

"I have matches," Wes said helpfully.

"Wes!" Grace admonished. "We don't need tea that badly."

"I didn't mean she should use them to heat water," Wes objected. "I just –"

They were never to hear the photographer's reason for sharing the fact that he owned matches, because at that moment there was a very loud explosion from just outside. Everyone leapt to their feet, hurried to the door, and stopped short.

For a moment they stared in silence at the burning pile of rubble where Wes had parked his car. A flaming piece of debris falling in front of their feet broke the stillness. Wes looked down at the object, which appeared to be part of a door. His mouth dropped open.

"My car!" he said, stunned, then repeated it. "Oh, man, my car! What the hell happened to my car?!"

"Oh, God," Grace whispered. "Tucker was in that car."

Wes treated her to a vacant stare, then slumped against the wall. "Oh, man. Oh, no. What... What the hell... What do we do?"

Kim made a tiny sound of distress and fainted dead away. Mark promptly knelt next to her, calling her name gently, rubbing her hand. Completely ignoring them, Grace and Wes walked hesitantly toward where what was left of the car crackled merrily, stopped in front of it, and stared.

"Guys! Hey, guys!"

They turned toward the call and, to their astonishment, saw Tucker standing next to an open door near the right wing of the building, beckoning them urgently.

Wes gave a tiny high-pitched scream. "It's Tucker's ghost!"

Grace's eyes widened. She glanced toward the entrance of the building, where Mark was currently waving his hand near Kim's face, trying to fan her back to consciousness, before pulling a protesting Wes over to Tucker.

"Guys, listen – why are you looking at me like that?"

Wes cleared his throat nervously. "Tucker," he said, in a quiet, haunting, talking-to-a-ghost voice, "Is there something stopping you from moving on? Something you haven't done?"

"Moving on? What are you talking about?"

Wes and Grace exchanged glances. "He doesn't know," Grace whispered.

"Know what?" Tucker asked, exasperated. The tone of sorrow mingled with sympathy that Grace had used was enough to freak him out.

"You're dead, man," Wes said, bluntly.

Tucker gaped at him. "Wes... you idiot, I'm not dead. Do I look dead?" He glared at Wes and Grace's dubious expressions. "Well, I'm not. What made you think that?"

"Dude, my car blew up!" Wes explained, reluctant to believe that Tucker's ghost wasn't a ghost, and pointed to the still-burning wreck to prove his point. Grace nodded and pointed emphatically at the same thing.

Tucker looked at him blankly, then blinked as realisation dawned. "Oh, is that what that noise was? Your car blew up?

"With you in it!" Wes paused, frowned, narrowed his eyes. "You were in it, weren't you?"

"Uh... Not exactly," Tucker admitted.

There was a moment's tense silence, then Wes relaxed. "In light of recent events, I think the ass-kicking can be postponed," he decided.

"Thanks."

"What were you doing if you weren't in the car?" Grace wanted to know.

"Well, Sal called and said the first guy to jump was apparently a well-adjusted, happy guy, which may or may not negate the ghost theory, so that helped, like, not at all, and I was getting really bored just sitting there, so after I hung up I saw - oh, yeah." Tucker reached through the open doorway into the murky darkness beyond and pulled out a sulky-looking young girl in a pink bunny jersey. "Cassandra here is ready to talk to us now."

"It's you!" Grace said, delightedly. "You made me ruin my trousers!" she continued less delightedly, gesturing to a leg as emphasis.

"Sorry," the girl muttered. "I told you to leave. Now you're stuck here," she added, indicating the poor dead car.

"We can always get a lift," said Wes.

The girl raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"You wanted to tell me something a minute ago," Tucker reminded her gently.

"I have to show you."

Kim's voice floated around the over to them. "Hello! Where did you go, nice people from The Chronicle?" She was peeking out of the door, in entirely the wrong direction, scratching her head thoughtfully.

"Quick!" the girl whispered, pulling Tucker through the door. The other two followed hastily.

Cassandra led them through a confusing maze of passages and doorways, until after ten minutes they found themselves going up stairs.

"Hold it," Grace said, suspiciously, "where are we going, exactly?"

"Eighth floor," the girl said shortly.

"Whoa, wait a second." Tucker stopped short, hands out in front of him, palms up, in a double helping of the universal "stop" gesture. "Last time I went up there I nearly jumped out a window!"

"You won't this time," Cassandra assured him. "Not with me there. Not right away. Promise."

They hesitated despite her guarantee, until Wes shrugged. "We were going up there anyway, G. We'll just be sure and keep an eye on Tucker."

Grace nodded, Tucker looked resentful, and they all followed when Cassandra set off again.

part the third (and last)

Another ten minutes and eight floors later, three out-of-breath adults and one teenage girl entered the supposedly off-limits office that had somehow caused the demise of ten presumably unwilling people.

Cassandra stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, head turning from side to side, and eventually pointed to the desk. "He's under there today."

Moving by unspoken agreement, without bothering to wonder what she was talking about, Tucker and Wes each took one end of the desk, picked it up and set it down underneath the window, which was still open, before turning back to see what the desk had been hiding.

"What the hell is that?" Wes asked, sounding decidedly shaken.

"He's a demon of sorts," Cassandra replied matter-of-factly. "The owner of this building summoned him three months ago – note the weird markings on the wall behind him. The deal was if we all help him grow to full power we get to help him rule the world. See, he feeds off death, so the owner lures people in here once in a while, as often as is safe – a bit more often in fact – and he makes them jump."

"Lures people?"

"Well, see, he hints at valuables hidden in the desk and they kinda sneak in of their own volition and try to steal them. So, technically so far the only dead people have been, well, dishonest. And pretty stupid."

"Hence the crowbar," Wes nodded. "And it makes them jump?"

"Yep."

"How does it make them jump?"

Cassandra didn't miss their use of the pronoun "it", and did the same. "It's psychic. Really good at making people do stuff. It's kinda cool, really..."

Wes, Grace and Tucker drew together, looking with disgust at the quivering thing against the wall. It had no eyes, but it seemed to be looking at them nonetheless, and it didn't like them; they could feel the waves of malevolence flowing from it. It moved slightly, making a "gloop" sound. Grace pulled an "ew" face and shuddered.

Wes said, curtly, "It's a blob." The fact that it looked like someone had animated a really big pile of black jello didn't stop him from producing his camera and taking a picture of it.

"Well, sure, for now it's a blob."

"An evil blob," Tucker added.

"Yeah," Cassandra agreed, not appearing the least bit troubled by the concept. "So, anyway, if he – it – gets to full strength there's gonna be some trouble. For now it's possible to kill hi- it, but, see, they're planning this big thing where they get a whole group of businessmen and lock them in here overnight. They won't last an hour, probably, and with that much death-energy to feed on it'll be, well, pretty much invincible. Or at least a whole lot bigger."

"Why are you telling us this?" Grace asked, voice steeped in suspicion.

Cassandra shrugged. "I've never really been big on the demon-worshipping thing, and whole-sale slaughter kinda sucks. Anyway, I bet we wouldn't be ruling the world so much as watching while he eats everyone. Figured maybe you could kill him. It."

Wes transferred his camera to his left hand and whipped out his cellphone with his right. "Reinforcements," he announced, hitting speed-dial.

"Not so fast!"

The group clustered in the middle of the office turned to the door, which – rather foolishly, they now decided – they had left open. Mark the owner stood dramatically framed in the doorway, Kim the secretary behind him. Mark was pointing a gun at them – a pistol; no paintball gun this.

"What are you doing here, Cassie?" the newcomer asked harshly.

"Sorry, Dad. Hi, Mom."

"Dad?" Wes repeated. "Mom? These demon-summoning, gun-toting freaks are your parents?"

"Dad believes in doing things as a family," Cassandra non-explained.

There was a strangely awkward pause while everyone pondered this, broken by Mark addressing Wes. "I'll need your camera."

"You'll have to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers!" Wes said, defensively clutching the camera to him with his free hand.

"If you insist. Hang up the phone, please, and give it here."

Wes was willing to hang up to keep from getting shot, although he returned the phone to his pocket rather than giving to Mark, who had stepped closer, hand held out expectantly.

"You realise it's usually best to obey a man with a gun," Mark said irritably, retracting the hand.

"I don't do anything for a guy who blew up my car," Wes sulked.

"Oh, come now," Mark soothed patronisingly. "How could I have done that? I was talking to you."

"Besides," added Kim, who had entered the room to fix her protesting daughter's hair, "it wasn't your car. You left it open, you know, so I moved it into our garage and parked our old heap, same colour, where it had been. A lit cloth in the gas tank, and who can tell the difference? You're going to be dead anyway; no sense wasting a pretty car like that."

Wes brightened instantly, despite their peril. "My car is intact? Well, that almost gives me enough energy to do this!" On the final word, Wes decked Mark with a well-placed fist to the jaw, caught the gun as the evil entrepreneur crumpled to the ground, and pointed it at Kim.

"Nice one, Wes!" Tucker exclaimed.

Grace put a hand on Cassandra's shoulder, pulling her attention from her father's prone form. "How do we kill the blob?"

"Cassie," Kim warned, "Don't you dare."

Cassandra glanced at her mother, rolled her eyes, looked back to Grace. "I don't know... He smells like lighter fluid or something; I guess he – it – could be flammable."

Kim watched in outraged silence as Wes fumbled in his pockets with one hand, finally locating his box of matches.

"Say goodbye to your pet demon, crazy lady," he said, nastily, which was entirely the wrong thing to do, since it caused Kim to give a howl of fury and fling herself at him, clawing, scratching, and generally keeping him busy. Her weight combined with the fact that she was quite out of her mind managed to bring Wes to the ground, where she immediately tried to pin him, judo-style. The matches flew from his hand and skittered under the desk. Cassandra prudently removed herself to the doorway while Tucker spread himself flat beside the desk, fumbling underneath it for the box.

It only took him ten seconds to get hold of the item in question, so when he scrambled to his feet Wes was still rolling on the floor with Kim, unable to get the upper hand despite his superior strength, since he wasn't a demented demon-worshipper with world domination at stake. He spared his friend a glance to ensure he wasn't in imminent danger of death, then headed to the other side of the room, where Grace was standing in front of the blob.

"Grace, get out of the way," he said impatiently.

Grace turned toward him with a look in her eyes so strange that he retreated a step.

"Grace?" he repeated uncertainly. She walked past him without replying, stopped at the desk, and just stood there, arms folded. When it became clear that she wasn't about to jump out of the window, Tucker shrugged and, spurred on by muffled curses and calls for help from Wes, turned back to the blob and struck a match. Nothing happened.

"Aw, hell," he groaned, dismayed, and tried again. This time he got a spark, but the match refused to catch fire, stubborn piece of wood that it seemed to be. Third time lucky, he thought hopefully, and he was right: the match flared up. He fumbled with the box, trying to open it (he had closed it when he pulled out the first match, much to his current chagrin) so that he could light all the matches inside to ensure a decent chance of setting the blob alight. His efforts were interrupted when a blunt object struck him hard on the shoulder, close to the neck.

For the second time that day he found himself on the ground, looking up through a haze of pain, to see Grace standing above him. This time, however, she was holding the crowbar Wes had found earlier, waving it threateningly, and obviously intending to hit him with it again. As she brought it down toward his head as hard as she could, he rolled out of the way, twisted, and kicked at her hand. She dropped the weapon, scowling.

"You hit me with a crowbar!" Tucker said, disbelievingly, from his position on the ground. Grace dropped onto him without a sound, and he found himself joining Wes in the leagues of Those Trying Not To Get Their Eyes Clawed Out By Homicidal Maniacs.

Cassandra observed the chaos from the doorway for a full minute, noting that no one appeared to be gaining the upper hand, and that the blob appeared to be enjoying itself. Finally, she sighed heavily, muttered, "If you want something done right...", closed the door so no one – and, more importantly, nothing – could escape, cautiously stepped around her father and the four people wrestling on the floor, picked up the matches, lit one, dropped it into the box and threw the resulting mini-torch onto the blob.

Everyone immediately stopped fighting and clamped their hands over their ears as a high-pitched, screechy wail filled the room. Unfortunately, blocking their ears made no difference, since the noise seemed to be inside their heads. By the time the noise died away, everyone had blacked out.

Wes slowly uncurled himself from his foetal position and peered hesitantly at the blackened patch of wall and small patch of soot on the floor marking where the demon-blob had so recently been. He tried sitting up, groaned, and slumped back down. This was the cue for everyone else to join him in his state of reluctant wakefulness, as they all stirred and mimicked his movement of a few seconds ago. The only one who reacted differently was Kim, who jumped up, rushed to the sooty spot, collapsed to her knees in the middle of it, and started mumbling incoherently. Mark still hadn't moved after the punch from Wes, although for the last few minutes he had been faking to avoid another one.

Cassandra stood, went over to Wes, and helped him up.

"What took you so long?" he muttered irritably. "Your crazy-ass mother was trying to slash me to death bare-handed!" This appeared to be true; nasty scratches ran the length of one side of his face, a few more appeared on his neck, and numerous others would be apparent on his back and chest as soon as he took off his shirt. Added to this was a steadily blackening eye and a split lip. Wes was already thinking of the story he would tell his co-workers at The Chronicle, about how he had single-handedly defeated a gang of five men trying to steal his film. The thought of film moved him to take a picture of Kim, who was currently rocking back and forth on her knees, making sure to get in the wall and floor around her.

Tucker struggled painfully to his feet, keeping his right arm as still as possible, and offered the other hand to Grace. "This is not the kind of recreation I enjoy." A thought occurred to him as he pulled Grace up, and he gave her a severe look. "Now who's vulnerable to paranormal influence?"

Grace looked suitably chastened. "I'm so sorry, Tucker, I don't know what came over me. Actually, I do know," she corrected herself, gesturing in Kim's direction. "How's the shoulder?"

Tucker tried moving it and almost passed out. "Ow," he gasped, clutching at Grace for support.

"Damn, Tuck, are you okay?"

Tucker glanced at Wes and nodded. "I'm okay. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Wes nodded back.

Tucker was silent for a moment, a troubled expression on his face, then said suddenly, "Hey, man, you know I'm not a cheap dime-store hack, right?"

Wes nodded again. "Of course I do. I didn't mean that, just like you didn't mean it when you called me a drama queen. Right?"

Tucker hesitated. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Okay. I didn't mean that at all."

Wes and Tucker grinned at each other across the room.

Grace's rising conflicting feelings of horrible guilt at inflicting damage on one friend and extreme annoyance at the corny behaviour of both of them, were put on hold when the door burst open and Donald rushed in, closely followed by Vera, both wielding extremely threatening guns from the Archives and both obviously feeling very gung-ho.

"Everybody hold it!" shouted the editor.

"The cavalry has arrived!" Vera announced.

The two of them looked around the room and sagged.

"Too late again," Vera complained. "What a let down. Couldn't you three not handle the situation, just for once?"

Mark opened one eye, took in the guns, and hurriedly closed it again.

"Good morning, campers!" Grace entered the morning meeting with an above average amount of good cheer, causing instant resentment among most of those present.

"What's eating you?" queried a random extra, folding her arms.

"Oh, I don't know..." Grace held up the latest Chronicle issue, a smug grin on her face. "We saved the world again! Or at least New York. And got another cover story." The headline agreed: STAR REPORTERS SAVE NEW YORK (AGAIN).

"Editor's pets," muttered the extra.

Tucker, his right arm in a sling, protested. "Hey! We were in real danger, people. And we did save you all from being eaten by a slimy demon thing."

"Not to mention rescuing a teenager from parents like those," Wes added. His cold was completely gone, but the black eye and scratches proved even better for gaining sympathy, and he had procured quite a few dates over the last couple of days.

The extra pouted, but said nothing.

Donald arrived in his usual blustery manner, dumped his usual pile of blue folders on the desk, and handed them out with a few explanatory remarks: "Haunted painting, three columns for Monday... Mickey Mouse nightlight spreading gospel, a thousand words by Friday... Aliens trying to restructure the fashion world, call it two thousand words for Monday..."

"That explains this season's hideous new outfits!" Grace exclaimed.

Tucker stared at his folder. "Gee, Donald, I'd love to do this one, but I can't type properly since your head reporter almost broke my collarbone..."

"Oh, come on!" Grace whined. "Not this again. I apologised, I typed out the story almost exactly as you dictated it, I let you have your name first in the by-line, what more do you want from me?"

"I want you to take this story?" Tucker said, hopefully. "Knowing how you love clothes, and all."

Grace thought about it. "Well, I do love fashion. Okay, you got it. But, no more guilt-trips from you, mister!"

"No, no, no," Donald put in. "I have a different story I want you to do, Grace."

"So," said Tucker, ignoring the editor completely, "Can I buy you breakfast to make up for shamelessly manipulating you?"

"Already had breakfast."

"Early lunch?"

Grace grinned. "Okay!"

"Work, people!" Donald shouted

"Wes? You in? My treat."

"Can we get pizza?"

"Anything you like," Tucker agreed magnanimously.

Wes, Grace and Tucker walked out of the meeting chattering cheerfully, leaving their blue folders behind, completely oblivious of Donald's outraged yelling behind them.

"Guys! Hey! You three! Am I talking to the wall here?" Donald gave up, throwing his arms in the air in frustration. "One of these days I'm not going to run to the rescue when they need me," he vowed ominously.

"They never seem to actually need you," the random extra pointed out.

Donald glowered at her, sank into his seat, pushed aside the urge to either sulk or fire the offending staff members (if he did that every time he was annoyed, he'd have exactly one employee left), and pulled the remaining folders toward him. "Okay," he growled. "What's next?"

END