Car Haunt

(August 24-25, 2018)

8

The salesman, Mr. Wevell, claimed to know nothing about the car's history. Mr. Motter, the manager of the lot, backed him up. The Manitou was just another car, one of the regular deliveries they got from the factory. It had been on the lot for almost exactly a year, and—nobody had bought it. Not until Wendy and Dipper had showed up.

But the two young people didn't settle for that. Dipper finally said, "Mr. Motter, we know there's something strange about that car. And because you were so hesitant about selling the Manitou to us, we know you were aware of that. OK, we bought it. We intend to keep it. You won't lose anything by just being honest with us."

It was nearly noon on Friday, and they'd all four gathered in Motter's office. The hot summer day wasn't great for business—through the window they could see the lot, with nobody out there walking around car-shopping, just waves of heat rising off the pavement and making the used and new cars seem to jiggle like gelatin.

Dipper and Wendy waited. Wevell talked in low tones to Motter. Motter talked to Wevell the same way.

Finally, Motter said, "I can tell you something, but it doesn't make sense."

He didn't say anything else, just sat behind his desk with his hands clasped and his face pale. Finally Wendy broke the silence: "How long have you two lived in Gravity Falls?"

The manager said, "I will have been here five years next month. Why?"

"You weren't here in August of 2012, then," Dipper said. "How about you, Mr. Wevell?"

"All—all my life," the salesman said, looking a little sick. "Born here. Brought up here, lived here my whole, except for right after high school, when I was away for two years in the Army."

Wendy asked him, "Do you want to tell your boss what happened in August 2012?"

"We don't talk about that," a squirming Wevell said. "The Mayor—"

"—is a different man now," Dipper said. "This one time, tell your boss about Never Mind All That."

"Well—" Wevell looked imploringly at his boss—"this is going to sound crazy."

However, an impassive Motter listened to the story of Weirdmageddon, as far as Wevell recollected it—he had been among the first citizens turned to stone by Cipher, so that wasn't very much—and just nodded.

"You're taking this pretty calmly," Wendy observed.

"Mr. Wevell, go mind the showroom," Motter said. "It's Al's lunch time."

"You're not mad?" Wevell asked.

"No. I've known for a while that this town's a little different. I'm going to take Mr. and Mrs. Pines for a drive."

"You mean to—"

"Just go give Al his break. We'll talk about it later. And yes, your job's safe."

"Thank you."

Motter had a brand-new Drudge Contender, a muscle car with social aspirations. It was deep blue and tricked-out. "I get a new one every other year," he said. "It's good advertising to let folks see me driving one of our own cars. All right, buckle in. I'm going to talk as we drive. This goes back to last summer or early fall. When we get a car in, one of us always test-drives it. I decided to take the Manitou out for a spin. That was my mistake. That started it. . .."

The year before, Motter had Frankie, the head of Service, check out every newly delivered car, and the Manitou was the first he cleared. Motter liked to start out in driving a car around town, then go climbing a few hills, and then maybe take it out of the Valley and see how it did on highways.

The town part had gone well. Then he'd driven way up Gopher Road, up into the hills, and the handling worked fine, the engine hummed along, and he felt satisfied, at least until he started back to town, again taking Gopher Road.

"I was heading downhill when the engine started to sputter," he said. "I knew the car was gassed up. Frankie had done it, and the gauge still showed nearly full. But it was exactly like the engine was starved for fuel. So I pulled into the parking lot of the Mystery Shack."

In the back seat, Wendy and Dipper held hands Uh-oh, Dip.

—Star Wars time. Got a bad feeling about this.

"The place was closed—I think it was a Sunday, late, nearly sunset," Motter said. Anyway, I pulled into the lot, got out and popped the hood and checked. Everything looked OK. I mean, I'm no top-flight mechanic, but I know my way around a car. Anyway I somehow felt there was something, you know, wrong. Not mechanically, I mean, something in—in the air. Something just off. Then someone whispered in my ear."

"Who?" Dipper asked.

"Nobody," Motter said. They passed the driveway to the Shack and Motter headed on up the hills, toward the overlook where you could see four waterfalls at the same time. "This is the route I took. But—well, I heard a voice, but there was nobody close to me, nobody in the parking lot."

"What did he say?" asked Wendy.

"I don't even know if it was a guy," Motter admitted. "Just a real quiet, whispery voice. And it said, 'I can't get in.'"

"Into the Shack?" Dipper asked.

"I don't know. It creeped me out. OK, I've lived here a while, I have a contract with the Gnomes for pest control, I've seen a Manotaur or two, I know this place is different, but voices from thin air?"

"Mr. Motter," Wendy said, "you don't have to drive us the whole route. Turn off at the picnic area and take us back to the Mystery Shack for a few minutes, OK?"

"I still feel strange about it," he said, but he slowed, looking for the picnic area. "All right, I said, 'Who's there?' you know, the way you do. And I heard it again: 'I can't get in. I can't get back.' At least I think that's what it was. It was like the same voice, saying both things, but in sync."

"I can see why you felt strange," Dipper said.

"So I slammed the hood and got back in the Manitou and—and locked all the doors. And I tried to start it, but the engine wouldn't even turn over. It was dead. And the voice kept right on."

"What else did you hear?" Wendy asked.

"Oh, Lord, now I can't remember it all. It was stuff like so lonely and cast out and hold it together, but mostly can't get back in and let me in. And the whispers—well, still it was like just one speaker, but the speaker, uh, multiplied. Like the same person recording a sentence, then recording another one over it, and another one, until finally it was dozens at once, all just a jumble of hissing sounds, not even words. And I yelled, 'For God's sake, let me go!' And they fell silent, and I tried the car and it started, and I crept it out of the parking lot and back to the dealership."

Dipper asked, "No more trouble?"

"No more engine trouble," he said. "And back at the dealership, we couldn't find a thing wrong with the vehicle. But—but—" he made the turn and headed back down in the direction of the Shack again. "All right, let me just say this. Don't judge me. When I was fifteen, my grand-dad died. Heart attack, really sudden. My mom's dad. My parents used to let me spend a month or so at his farm every summer. Great old guy. But—he died, you see? And I was in bed that night close to midnight and before I even learned that he was gone—Granddad walked into my room. He spoke to me—'Hi, Sport.' That's what he always called me. 'Do me a favor? Tell Mitch and Carolyn that I'm OK. I'm cleared to shoot through, and I'll see them again one day.'"

"And who are they?" Wendy asked.

"Carolyn is my mother. Mitch was my uncle, her brother. He was a soldier, died in the Middle East nearly twenty years ago now. But—well, my granddad had just died. I didn't know that, and I didn't know what he meant, but anyway before Mom gave me the news the next morning, I told her about it, and she told Mitch, but she said not to say anything to anybody else. Uncle Mitch just thought it was a dream, but me—no, I can't accept that. It was too real, you know? Anyway, because I promised Mom to keep quiet about it, I never told Dad. But, there it is," he said. "I've seen at least one ghost."

"Turn here," Wendy said as they approached the Shack driveway.

Author's Note: I have fallen into a gigantic time sink with a project I have to undertake. But I will to keep the updates a little more frequent! Thanks for your patience.

And, oh, yes—

To be continued