Car Haunt
(August 19-20, 2018)
3
The rest of the week passed without much incident. The tourist trade remained hectic—the run-up to Labor Day had been underway for three weeks, and August-to-Labor-Day accounted for 30% of the Shack's annual profits. Dipper and Wendy drove the Manitou for limited runs, nothing long-term or large-scale, and had no problem with it. In fact, it ran more quietly than Dipper's first car, and it had somewhat more cargo space and similar acceleration and braking power, with a tighter turn radius.
All in all, they were satisfied. Their first extended trip began on Sunday morning. "We might as well go to the house and stay overnight," Wendy said. "We need to check up on things, anyhow, and we'll take care of the license plates and all on Monday."
That sounded good to Dipper. Mabel and Teek had planned a shopping trip, maybe all the way to Portland, maybe just the Dalles, but she told Dipper, "Be sure to check the doggy door. I keep thinking I forgot to lock it, and if I did, we may have a family of raccoons living there by the time we go back to college."
They took the alternate route, down to Medford and then to Crescent City via highway 199. Everything went fine until they were between Klamath Falls and Medford on 140, the scenic rather than the most direct route. They had been driving a long downward grade with a sharp left turn as it bottomed out. "Whoa!" Dipper said, fighting the wheel.
"What's wrong?" Wendy asked.
"Pulling right!"
Wendy grabbed the wheel and helped steer. Dipper braked—not jamming the pedal, but pumping it—until they slowed and could safely pull off on the unpaved shoulder. "That was scary," he said. "Thanks."
"Something wrong with the steering?" Wendy asked.
"I don't know. It was like somebody else had hold of the wheel and wanted to make me run off the road."
"Let's trade places," Wendy said. "It's not so bad for the next few miles, and I'll take it real slow. We got time."
She drove with Dipper, tense, riding shotgun. Nothing weird happened. They got to Medford, had lunch, and then drove the two-hours-and-a-bit to the house they lived in during the university year. Stan, who co-owned it with Ford, employed a yard service that kept the lawn in good condition, and all the mail was being forwarded. Dipper, at the wheel again, parked in the garage and he and Wendy took their overnight bags in through the mudroom, Dipper pausing to disarm the security system. "Hot in here," Wendy said.
They had left the air conditioner ramped up to 85. Dipper edged the thermostat down and noted that it was suggesting a change of air filter. "I'm pretty sure we've got a couple of spares," he said. "I'll go change it out."
He went down to the utility room and took out the dirty filter, changing it for a fresh one. The basement didn't look particularly different—little dusty, but no signs of animal or human intruders. Upstairs he looked out into the back yard—fence sturdy, lawn clipped. He remembered to check the doggy door, too. It was latched.
"Where are you?" he called from the great room.
"Here!"
Dipper followed Wendy's voice to the bathroom, where she was standing next to the walk-in shower, the water already streaming. She was dressed for it. "Figured it's a quick way to cool off a little," she said with an impish grin. "Care to cool off with me?"
"With both of us in there, I'm not sure it would have a cooling effect," he replied. But he stripped down, they stepped in, and they had a nice long slippery time with the body wash and with each other.
I'm surprised at how much this place feels like home now, Wendy thought to Dipper. They had plenty of skin-to-skin contact to carry on a telepathic conversation.
—Well, we spent so much time here.
Mm, yeah, rub my back, that feels so nice. You're sure you want to overload next term?
—Gotta catch up to you! Wendy had entered Western Alliance University as a sophomore, having earned more than enough transfer credits in community college to qualify. Dipper had exempted a few courses, three with credit, but he still lagged behind his lovely redhead. I'm planning on taking two extra courses a term, online. They shouldn't be difficult—Fundamentals of Documentary Filming and Science Writing.
Wendy turned to face him and hugged him tight, the pleasantly tepid water hitting his back and keeping their bodies seal-smooth and frictionless. "You seem to like this," she whispered in his ear, doing a little naked close dance movement against him.
"You're hard to resist," he whispered back.
"Mm, yeah, hard, I can tell. Then turn off the water and let's make sure our bed still works."
It did. The air conditioner gradually got the heat in the house down into the mid-seventies, and they lay at last side by side, holding hands, sharing a deep feeling of contentment.
The Shack's not bad, Wendy thought. I love sneaking out into some out-of-the-way meadow or cave and doin' it there, too. But this, here in our own bed, just feels—so nice. This great big bed, quiet house, Mabel not anywhere near, just the two of us.
—Want to fill the hot tub for later?
Not worth it. But when the stars come out, I wouldn't mind taking a pile of blankets out on the back deck. Be nice to do some star-gazing with the completely naked eye.
—I do like the sound of that.
Dip, tomorrow morning let's go take care of the car paperwork as early as we can. Then I want to pull the car out into the driveway and take a good look at the steering and suspension. I'll check tire pressures and look at the tread. Sometimes a new tire has this thing called tread conicity that makes a car pull to one side or the other. Not likely, but I'll check it. Brake wear shouldn't be a factor. But before we start back, I want to make sure there's not something mechanical that caused that swerve.
It took Dipper a long time to respond. —Sure. But I have a rotten feeling that it's not something physical.
Yeah. She sighed. Dammit, it's just our luck to buy a car with a ride-along ghost.
Stan parked the El Diablo on the shoulder of the road—a narrow, winding one, so he waited until he found a grassy margin that probably meant a logging truck wouldn't come along and wipe out his classic car.
From there he had to hike back to the bridge, about a quarter of a mile. It was one of the short bridges, concrete piers, wood deck. It didn't look in bad shape, and in fact Fiddleford had passed it as up to code. For a little while Stan puzzled how to descend the embankment just far enough to see beneath the bridge without slipping and tumbling another twenty feet down to the rushing stream below.
"How the heck did McGucket do it?" he grumbled to himself. Finally he decided that on the far left side the slope was less steep. Wishing he'd thought to bring along a coil of rope, he half-stepped, half-slipped low enough so he could duck beneath the bridge.
It was dark under there, and at first he couldn't see much of anything. But then a darker blob of shadow on the far side made him suspicious. "Hey there!" he called out. "How's it hangin'?"
The shape shuffled a little but did not reply. "You a troll?" Stan called. "You like goats?"
No response. "So . . . you like bridges, do you?"
Moments passed. Stan could hear birdsongs and the rush of water down in the stream bed. Sighing, he started to scramble back up, slipped, flailed a little, and at last crept up on all fours. "Gotta be a way to talk to this clown," he muttered.
He crossed the bridge, walked all the way back to the Stanleymobile, climbed in, and drove to the Shack, where he collected some junk and some food. Then back to the bridge, back to the inconvenient pull-over, and a trudge down the slope. This time he'd brought rope. He secured it to one of the guard rail stanchions, tied the other end round his waist, and then precariously slipped down the steeper bank.
He'd brought a flashlight this time and shone it on the huddled form. It squeaked and turned away from the light. Huh. It had a face that was a cross between a panda's and a sloth's, who would've guessed? It was basically earth tones, shaggy reddish-brownish gray, and as far as he could judge in the uncertain light, about the size of an adult German Shepherd, though pudgier.
"Ya like donuts?" Stan asked. He held one out. "Here ya go. Try this."
A squeaky voice, like a character in a 1929 cartoon, before voice actors had realized they could speak for animated characters without sounding like a suffocating squirrel, complained, "Go way, ugly man thing."
"Yeah," Stan agreed. "I'm pretty ugly."
"Fat thing."
"I'm a little big, too," Stan admitted. "You got me."
"You scare little kids. You smell like outhouse."
Yep, it was a troll, all right.
"Look, I just want to talk to you," Stan said. "I got a donut here. People food. Come and take it, I can't lay it down or it'll roll into the water."
"Nasty donut."
"You don't even know what one is. Here, I'm stretchin' out my arm. Just come up and sniff it and see if it smells good."
"Stinks like bear poo."
"OK, you're scared to come close."
"Not scared! You scared!"
"I can't hold my arm out like this forever. I'm lookin' away. Just come over and sniff it."
The creature was quiet. Stan didn't hear a sound from it, but he felt the donut being taken from his hand. Then he heard sniffing and some muted gobbling sounds.
"There, not so bad, huh?" Stan asked.
"Taste like buzzard puke." A pause. "Another?"
"What? Why?"
Another long pause. "Cause I like buzzard puke?"
"I got one more left," Stan said. "You can have it, but I want to have a look at you. No tricks. I won't try to grab you."
"You big liar."
"Yeah, you nailed it, but I don't lie about stuff like this. Here's the donut. You don't have much time."
Stan leaned down and saw the creature come over. It hung from the underside of the bridge deck—again like a sloth—and it reached out a skinny, long, shaggy arm, its four-clawed paw tentatively reaching. The claws closed on the donut.
Stan watched it cram the donut in its strangely circular mouth and watched it eagerly consume the treat. "You like it, huh?"
"People should all go distinct."
"Yeah, I think you mean extinct, buddy. My name's Stan."
"Stupid name."
"Not the greatest," Stan agreed amiably. "You're troll, right?"
"No. Tryllun."
"Trillun?"
"Stupid human Stan. Tryllun! Tryllun! Like yew. Tr-yew-ull-un."
"That's a beautiful word."
"No! Stupid ugly word!" The troll blinked its huge, pale, round owl-like eyes and said, "Uh."
Stan chuckled. "Nasty word!"
"Uh. Yah. Uh." The creature chirred, then shyly asked, "You troll?" It gave troll that strange, foreign-sounding pronunciation.
"Not full-blooded. Look, I'm hangin' here and about to slip. Could you come out from under the bridge so's we can chat?"
"Don't like stupid sun!"
"Yeah, that's a problem, then. How about I sit on the edge of the road and we just talk?"
"More donut?"
"I don't have any with me, but I promise I'll bring you some more. Deal?"
"No deal!" Pause. "What is deal?"
"It's where we both get something we want. You want more donuts. I just want to learn a little about you. Just talk, get to know each other sort of thing."
"I don't not agree!"
"Good, great," Stan said. He hauled himself up until his butt was perched on the edge of the asphalt road. "There, that's better. My name's Stan, yeah, ugly name, stupid, I know. You got a name?"
"No!" Pause. "Name is not not Neeahpik."
"Say it again."
"Nee-ah-pik."
"Neeahpik."
"No! That is not not right."
"When they handed out the double negatives you musta got back in line twice," Stan said. "OK, you're not a wood troll or a mountain troll or a cave troll, and based on where you are, I'm guessin' you're a bridge troll."
"I not not like bridge."
"Yeah, fine. That's OK with us humans. You're not gonna do something bad like dig under the bridge supports or chew through the wood?"
"That silly. Not have place to live then."
"OK, fine. Look, this is a human bridge, you understand? We humans build them so we can get across the river. Every so often, we gotta do a little work on the bridges. Repair. You know what repair is?"
"Like fix? Nails, boom boom, pour rockstuff, slush?"
"Wood and concrete, right. This bridge might need some work in two or three years. When guys come to fix it, you ain't gonna eat 'em or scare 'em, right?"
"Why?"
"'Cause if you're nice, I'll give you lots of donuts."
"That like a deal?"
"More like a protection racket, but broadly, yeah. Is it a deal?"
"OK. Deal."
"Hey, Knee-ah-pik, any other trolls around?"
"No. Not for long way every way."
"You lonely?"
Long, long pause. "Little bit."
"Will being in the sun, like, hurt you? Kill you?"
"Just don't like."
"Huh," Stan said. The sun, lowering off in the west, had vanished behind the mountain's shoulder, and the roadway stood in shadow. "By any chance," Stan asked carefully, "would you like to go for a ride in a car?"
To be continued