Wanderers from the Weird Side

(August 15, 2017)

5: Who Goes There?

I really don't want to do this.

But, being Dipper, he held the child-sized handset to his ear. "Hello?"

He heard a thrumming, an odd buzzing. Very faint, it sounded a little like the doomsday device or clanky robot sound effect in one of those cheap old movies: woom, woom, woommmm . . . .

Then a whispery, nearly inhuman male voice of indeterminate age: Mabel. Mabel. Help us, babe. Help us . . . .

Trying not to sound as scared as he felt, Dipper said, "Who is this? Who's calling?"

He was talking to a dead line. Not even the bizarre buzzing answered him.

It was stupid—the handset had a microphone, but the speaker part was in the base of the toy, and anyway, the thing didn't even have batteries—but he carefully hung up the phone. He didn't replace it in the game box but set it on his nightstand.

He spent the next couple of hours awake, waiting for a ring that never came. At about twenty before seven, someone tapped on his door. "You awake, man?"

"Come in, Wendy," he said, swinging his legs out and sitting on the side of the bed. When she did, and after she had kissed him and then nudged him over with a twitch of her butt, she sat next to him. "Fifty-fifty for our run," she said. "Still drizzling out there, but I think it's gonna clear up. What do you say? Run into town and back or give it a miss?"

"That toy phone rang," he said.

"Huh?"

"That's part of a pre-teen dating game that Mabel used to play with—"

"Oh, yeah, I remember the commercials on TV. Dream guy Kevin, right?"

"Yeah, but early this morning it rang. Someone asked for Mabel. Wendy, it doesn't even have batteries in it."

Wendy sat up straighter. "Oh, man. Is this tied in with those phantoms or whatever?"'

"Don't know. I'd guess it is, though. Something strange is going on. You think—no, that's crazy."

"Try me."

Dipper swallowed. "Do you think some, I don't know, force or spirit or something is trying to keep us from getting married?"

Wendy thought about that, leaning against Dipper—he was sitting up now, too, still in tee shirt and underwear, but she was wearing her flannel shirt and jeans. "Dude, I don't think so. The only one who might have a grudge against us is Bill Cipher, and he's mostly faded away. Seriously, what kind of ghost or demon or whatever would want to break us up? You say somebody asked for Mabel?"

"Not so much asked to talk to her," Dipper said. "More like they wanted her to help them in some way. I don't know how."

"Guy or girl?"

"Guy, I think," Dipper said. "There was a lot of interference, and the voice was all—I don't know. All wrong. Raspy but real soft."

Wendy got up and brought his laptop over. "Before we do anything else, write out a description of what happened. Everything you remember, including what the voice was like and the words it said. We'll ditch our run for today—that'll make Dr. P happy, anyway, he's worried about something getting us if we go outside of the Shack. While you're writing—" she picked up the toy phone, inspected it and then said, "Be right back."

She left and Dipper spent about five minutes typing out the short account of his experience with the phone—the weak ringing, his discovery that the source was the toy, and then what the voice had said and a description of the vocal quality. After a moment's thought, at the end he added, I didn't really recognize the voice. I don't know if the speaker was trying to disguise it, or if it was caused by interference, or if that's just the way he (?) normally sounds.

Wendy came back holding something. "Three triple A's," she said.

"Wait," Dipper told her, saving the file. "Let me take a quick shower and get my clothes on before you try anything."

"OK."

Dipper grabbed a change of underwear from a drawer. "If it rings, don't answer it," he said.

"Go, I'm a big girl."

"Yeah," he said. "But this is something an axe can't cut."

"Never know until you try!"

Dipper was in and out of the shower in record time, no more than three minutes, if that. He dried off, put on fresh underwear, and then went back to his room. Wendy, sitting on the edge of his bed, watched him get dressed. "You've got a much firmer butt than Robbie ever had, man."

"Robbie didn't run four miles every morning," Dipper said, pulling on a clean pair of jeans. He added a Mystery Shack tee shirt and belt and, carrying his socks, came over and sat on the bed next to Wendy. "What are you planning to do?"

Wendy inserted the three small batteries, clicking them into place and then closing the battery compartment. "Gonna try making a call."

"Maybe I'd better do it."

"Let me. This is a girly toy. What do you do?"

Dipper gave a small laugh. "I never played it! But as I remember, you just sort of randomly turn the dial?"

"Really small dial, too little for my finger," Wendy said, but she managed to put her fingertip into the hole for three and spin it as if she were dialing.

The speaker—not really in the handset at all, but in the base of the phone—gave a dial tone, and then a ring. And then the mechanical-sounding voice said, "Hey, babe, this is Kevin. Want to take a ride in my new convertible?"

Wendy looked at Dipper.

"I think you just say something into the handset," he said. "Yes or no or something."

"You're a dork!" Wendy said into the phone.

"I'll pick you up in an hour. Wear something pretty," Kevin said. "Buh-bye."

Wendy hung up. "Kevin won't take no for an answer. I guess that wasn't the voice you—"

"No," Dipper said. "Completely different. You can tell this is an artificial machine voice. And an old one. I mean, with a Sherri or an Electra, they sound like a person, and this is so fake. Anyway, the guy I heard sounded at least like he was real. Kind of . . . spooky, but not like a robot."

"I suggest we let Mabel try to call," Wendy said.

Dipper shook his head. "I don't know. She went through a real hard time over the weekend. Let's tell Grunkle Ford what happened first and get his advice."

"Yeah, I guess that's best," Wendy said. "Well—since we're not gonna run—and it's so early—want to go make breakfast? Or just fool around a little bit?"

"I'm not hungry yet," Dipper said.

Tripper, who was sort of a doggy alarm clock, licked Mabel's face around seven-thirty, waking her from a dream about—something. Not anything scary. She couldn't quite remember, but it was an OK sort of dream, she knew that.

She got up, put on jeans and a shirt, and went out onto the museum porch. Tripper went down the steps—it was still drizzly, so Mabel, barefoot, stayed on the porch. Out in the grass, Tripper looked wary. He lifted one paw as if he were pointing and sniffed the air. Then he trotted to the edge of the woods, not far from Waddles's old sty, and did his business before running back and scuttling up the steps.

"Go over there first!" Mabel said, pointing.

With an apologetic look, Tripper went to the far side of the porch before shaking a spray of water off his fur.

"Now wipe your feet!" Mabel said.

Soos had put a big doormat just inside the museum entrance, brown with a darker brown question mark embossed on it. Tripper carefully wiped his front paws and then his back. Mabel closed the door and said, "Good boy," but before she could walk back to her room, Tripper seized the hem of her jeans and tugged.

"What's up with you?" she asked. "Let go!"

Tripper did, but he woofed and ran back to the door. He stood on his hind legs, his front paws against the door, and woofed again.

"Come on, you just went out!" Mabel said. She opened the door for him.

Tripper nudged it shut with his head and woofed again.

"What is it?" Mabel asked.

He stood up again, stretching his paws way up. He looked at her over his shoulder.

"What?" she asked. "Are you pointing at the door handle? What? Wait, are you telling me to lock the door?"

Tripper barked, dropped back to the floor, and sat staring up at the deadbolt.

"OK," Mabel said. She took the keyring off its hook and re-locked the door. "There. Satisfied? You weird dog!"

She took her shower and then, dressed, came into the kitchen, where Dipper and Wendy had prepared their own breakfast—eggs, sausage, and hash-browns—and asked, "Anything left?"

"Plenty of hash browns," Wendy said.

"I'll cook some sausages and your egg. Two links?"

"Four!" Mabel said. "And two eggs."

"How do you want them, scrambled or fried?"

Mabel thought it over. "Umm . . . remember when we were kids? Egg in a hat?"

"We haven't had those in a long time!" Dipper said. "OK, egg in a hat. Two?"

"Please! And don't overcook the yolk!"

Dipper said, "You know, I could let you do it yourself."

"But, Brobro," Mabel said, giving him the big puppy eye routine, "I can never make them taste as good as you do!" She glanced at Wendy. "You picking up tips on how to handle him after the wedding?"

"Maybe," Wendy said. "I'll warm up the potatoes in the oven."

Dipper took two fairly thick slices of whole-grain bread, used a biscuit cutter to cut circles into the centers and then buttered the grill. He popped down the bread slices, together with the circles, and broke an egg into each hole. Mabel at least poured her own coffee and doctored it with sugar and milk. "Tripper was real weird this morning," she said.

"How?" Dipper asked. He slipped a spatula under each slice of bread and flipped it, careful not to break the egg yolk.

"Seemed to be sniffing around out on the lawn for something," Mabel said. "Then when we came back in, he practically forced me to lock the door." She sipped her coffee. "That smells good."

Dipper had also cooked her some turkey sausages, with one extra for Tripper—though Mabel was adamant that no one else ever give him people food, she almost always snuck him a breakfast treat. He plated the two eggs, put the grilled circles of bread on top of them—they were the hats—added the sausages and a portion of hash browns, and served Mabel. "Your highness," he said.

"Thanks, Broseph!" Mabel cut into the first serving with her fork, and the yellow yolk oozed out. "Just right!"

That was where the hats came in handy—they were perfect for soaking up the yolks. Tripper, who knew very well that he had a sausage coming, came and sat near Mabel, watching her eat. He looked like a spectator at a tennis game. Mabel cut the extra sausage into five small bites and tossed them to him one at a time. Tripper expertly fielded each one.

Soos and Melody showed up, and though Wendy offered to cook for them, Soos said, "What you could really do, with Woodstick and all I kinda let the inventory thing slide. Could you take like an hour and do a quick one on what we got on the shelves? I'd appreciate that, dawgs! I'll fix breakfast for us and the kids. Mabel, have you eaten yet?"

"Nope!" Mabel said. "I could go for some pancakes."

And if that had led into the workday, it would have been just another typical sales day at the Shack.

It very nearly did. But though it seemed nearly almost normal, like the zombies in a bad movie, it wasn't quite.

Because while Dipper was noting how many postcards they had left on the revolving stand, and which ones needed to be replenished, something caught the corner of his eye.

"Who's that?" he asked Wendy. "We've got forty minutes until we open."

"Who's who?" Wendy asked.

"Somebody parked and got out of the car, I guess," Dipper said. "I think I saw a couple of people, but they're out of sight now."

Wendy crossed to the door and looked out through the diamond panes. "Nobody there now. You think we ought to keep a few of these USB memory sticks out? We got like dozen left—no, eleven."

"Maybe somebody would buy them for the logo—" Dipper started.

A knock at the door—not a tap, a solid knock—cut him off. He looked at Wendy, then strode over to the door. "We're not open yet!" he yelled. He could just see someone standing to the side of the door, just an elbow and hip, very close to the building.

From outside came a low, imploring word: "Mabel?"

Dipper grabbed the key and unlocked the door. "I said we're not—"

He threw open the door.

"Oh, man!" he exclaimed. "Wendy, come and—"

"Right here," she said from his side. "Huh. Nobody there?"

"You heard him, right?"

"Yeah, somebody asking for Mabel."

The two of them stood in the open doorway. No one was on the porch. No one was on the lawn, no cars in the lot. "A ghost?" Dipper asked.

Wendy took out her phone. "Looks like two of them," she said. "Step back a little."

She snapped a photo. And then Dipper saw them—wet footprints on the wood porch, off to the side. Two sets, four feet.

Toes almost touching the wall.

Definitely guy-sized.

And—the weirdest thing—just those four. No footprints leading up to or away from them.

Beyond the porch—nothing but a misty, drizzly day. Not a soul in sight.

Not a soul.