The Haunting of the Holy Mackerel

4: Call for Help

(August 13, 2016)

Stan drove over to the Lodge early, arriving around five-twenty. He planned to grab a sandwich before the meeting and supplement that with chili and then snacks as the evening went on, but more important, as the chief assistant to the Supreme Wahoo, he always helped to set up the chairs and inspect the meeting hall. The first rule for meeting halls in the Royal Order of the Holy Mackerel Handbook was "The Mackerel is the cleanest of fish, and the waters where it swims must be immaculately maintained. Before each meeting, pick up litter, sweep and if necessary mop the floor, and make sure things are tidy."

So the tidying up fell to Stan, who really didn't mind it. As he hauled folding chairs out of the storage room and into the Lodge hall, Stan reflected that if he could finagle Soos in as a member, Soos would cheerfully accept some phony-baloney title, like Small Fry of Cleanliness, in exchange for doing all the grunt work.

If his persuasion had worked, they should have at least twenty-five guys at the meeting, but to be safe, he got thirty of the chairs in, six rows of five and well spread out (the seats had to have a comfortable clearance from each other, as Mackerels tended to be wide loads). Then he brought in the Wahoo Throne, which was another folding chair that he set up in the front of the room, behind the Desk of Authority.

That done, and the rows straightened, Stan spread the Banner of Solemnity, a tablecloth embroidered with the Lodge emblem, on the D. of A., which was really a rickety pine card table, and then placed the Gavel of Attention on the Round Wood Block of Gavel Rapping, hung over the Throne the Drape of Office, a heavy blue woven cotton throw to make the folding chair marginally more comfortable in case a Supreme Wahoo suffered from hemorrhoids, and then put out a couple of spare ballpoints in case the Scribers of Scribing that Secretary Woody brought to record the minutes ran dry.

Then, let's see, the water pitcher and glasses. Stan tromped downstairs—a few patrons had come in for beers and sandwiches, but no other Mackerels had showed up yet, because they all knew that Stan might draft them into service if they did, the slackers—and got the Sacred Ewer of Mackereldom from the shelf behind the bar, picked up a couple of probably clean glasses, and stopped for some ice cubes before going back up.

He put the glasses on the table, filled the Ewer at the drinking fountain near the johns, and then couldn't find the Doily of Protection, so he picked up three outdated menus from the early nineties—there were stacks of old menus in the storage room—and put them on the table. He said, "I dub thee temporary Doilies of Protection, so don't let no water rings get on the table, OK?"

He took one last look around, and behold, it was all OK. He walked back into the middle row of the chairs to straighten one up. Then he shivered a little and muttered, "What the hey?"

Experimentally, he huffed out a short breath. Then he want downstairs. "Hey, Tats, talk to you for a minute?"

Tats stood with folded arms in his usual post by the door. They went just outside, where Tats screened the incoming customers to make sure they were neither minors nor miners—that's complicated, one time a bunch of miners came into the Skull Fracture carrying picks, and when they got into a disagreement, the damage was so great that the riled-up ownership banned miners henceforward and forever—anyway, Stan asked, "What's the deal with the hall? You guys put in air-conditioning?"

Tats blinked in evident surprise. "What? Air-conditioning? No! Only commercial places in the Falls with air-conditioning are the mall and the fancy-pants restaurants, you know that."

That was true. Though the Valley had hot spells, sometimes excruciating ones, every summer, few homes and small businesses bothered with air-conditioning. The Shack still didn't have it, though Soos was talking about pricing out a HVAC system come fall. On the other hand, Ford's and Stan's homes had been built with central heating and air because, one, they could afford it, and two, they were married and it seemed a nice touch that their wives would appreciate. Still, Stan and Sheila turned the AC on only when the outside temp climbed up past ninety, which would mean maybe ten or fourteen days out of the whole year.

"Well," Stan said to Tats, "it's damn cold up there. You can see your breath, no kidding. I just noticed it a minute ago while I was setting up."

"Shouldn't be cold," Tats said. The outside temperature stood at ninety-one, not what anybody would call broiling, but far from cool. "Aw 'ight, let's go check it out."

They went upstairs, Tats in the lead—narrow stairway—and to the Lodge Hall. Stan directed him to the place, and they stood in the middle row of chairs for thirty seconds. Tats was wearing a short-sleeved tee shirt, and he rubbed his biceps. "Huh," Tats said. "Is kinda cool up here, at that."

"Wonder what's causin' that?" Stan said.

Tats shrugged. "Dunno. I'm gonna open the window."

Now, that was ridiculous, opening a window in August to let some warm air in, but Tats went to the back of the room, anyway. The building was an old one, and the sole window, in the side wall at the back and overlooking the parking lot, was the antique double-sash deal, where if you pulled up the lower sash, the top one automatically lowered. It took Tats a little banging, because the window had been painted shut years before, but he finally cracked the seal of dried paint and heaved the window exactly halfway open. "There. I can feel the cool air goin' out through the bottom." He stretched up a hand. "Yeah, warmer air's comin' in the top. Be better in a couple minutes. Why don't you come downstairs and have a beer while we wait for the other guys?"

By then it was a minute or two past six. Stan sat at the bar and had a Rimrock and told Johnny Beluga about how cold the upstairs room was. "Huh," the bartender said, obviously unimpressed. That was his standard response to most questions and statements. He wasn't paid for conversation, after all.

Milt Befufftlefumpter came in, waved from the front door, and joined Stan. "How you doing? I made it this time!" he said.

"Yeah, so I see," Stan told him. "I'm doin' OK, and I'm expectin' about twenty-four, twenty-five tonight. The date thing, the thirteenth deal again, you know."

"Huh," said Johnny.

"Well, I'll go ahead and pay for thirty," Milt said, taking out his wallet. That was the nice thing about Milt, and it was the factor that had made him the leader of the Mackerel school: The paving business was lucrative, and he always provided the refreshments. He handed Johnny Beluga six fifty-dollar bills. "Anybody goes above five beers, it's on them," Milt said. "Use ten of that for snacks, OK? I'll have one of the guys stop and bring them up. Otherwise, keep the tab running and anything left over, put it down for next meeting. And this is for you." He handed Johnny a spare fifty.

"Huh," Johnny said, but he was smiling.

At that exact moment, Wendy was driving herself and Dipper over to Hirschville, kind of a long way to go for a meal—it was about thirty minutes to Des Friandeses. It had opened at the beginning of the summer and so far word of mouth said it was a good restaurant, not great, but good. "This place may be kind expensive, Dip," she warned.

"That's OK," he said. Wendy had changed to a nice outfit, slacks and top, and he had even dressed up a little bit, black trousers instead of jeans, no tie, but a dark gray sports jacket that felt a little too warm on such a hot afternoon. "I've got some cash, and we both got paid today."

"Oh, yeah, make your date pay, real classy, Dip!" Wendy teased.

"Only in an emergency," Dipper said. "That was one thing Grunkle Stan taught me: A gentleman always pays for a lady's meal, preferably after secretly rifling the lady's purse for the dough."

Wendy laughed. "Yep, that's Stan Pines!"

They had hardly left the Valley when Dipper's phone chimed with Stan's ring tone. "Speak of the devil," he said. "Hi, Grunkle Stan. What's up?"

He listened for a few seconds. "Cold spot? How cold? You sure it wasn't just a fluke? Still cold? Well, it could be several things. A difference in humidity can cause one spot in a room to feel cooler than the rest of the room, or it could be convection—cool air sinks, warm air rises—or maybe—what? Um, well, yes, right, that's supposed to be one mark of a ghost. The theory is that ghosts have to pull heat energy from the air in order to manifest, but more often than not a mundane explanation is—No, I'm not trying to sound like Grunkle Ford. Huh? Now? Uh, wait a minute."

He put Stan on hold and said, "Wen, Grunkle Stan wants us to come over to the Skull Fracture right now."

"Why?" Wendy asked. "Does he think he saw a ghost?"

"How did you know—" Dipper chuckled. "You just overheard what I was saying, I'm dumb. Should I tell him we can't come?"

Wendy sighed. "Nah. Stan's been a good friend to me and he's family to you. I guess we owe him, so we'll give up on the escargot for tonight. Maybe we can just grab burgers at Yumberjack's. Think this'll take long?"

"Probably not," Dipper said. "Odds are against it being a ghost, but you know, it's Gravity Falls." He said it the same way the cop in the movie told Jack Nicholson, "Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown."

Then he took Stan off hold. "Hi, Grunkle Stan? We were on our way to dinner, but we'll be there in—" he paused and estimated. "Fifteen or twenty minutes. See you then." He pushed the END button and said to Wendy, "He wants us to get there before seven if we can do it."

"I'll turn around in the Eats 'n Gas lot," Wendy said, nodding at a presumably non-haunted convenience store off to the left of the highway. "I hope this isn't a ghost. I wanted us to have a memorable movie night!"

"We'll probably take care of it in ten minutes," Dipper said confidently. "Then it's burgers and movies."

"Très élégant," Wendy said.

And at that moment, Mabel's phone rang. She told Teek, "It's Grunkle Stan. Hi, Grunkle Stan! What's up? Huh? Um, yeah, I think it's up in his room. In the Invisible Wizard's closet. Huh? Couldn't Grunkle Ford take care of this for you? Why, where is he? Oh. Well—" she put the phone against her side and asked Teek, "Do you mind if we run back to the Shack and pick up something for Stan?"

Teek, at the wheel, asked, "What?"

"Some stuff of Dipper's that he wants to borrow. We can do that and then go straight up to Lookout Point."

"Sure," Teek said. "As long as it won't take too long."

"Fifteen minutes, tops," Mabel said, and Teek turned around in Circle Park to head back to the Shack. "OK, Grunkle Stan, we'll be there in a few minutes. See ya!" She hung up.

Teek asked, "What's he want to borrow?"

"Well, Dip has this paranormal activity kit. It's got like anomaly detectors and a book of incantations and, I don't know, anointed water and junk like that. He hardly ever uses it, because every time something weird happens, he's away from home. It's like the stuff Grunkle Ford uses, but he's off in Washington, D.C., this weekend for some meeting with his Agency or some deal. Anyway, Grunkle Stan says he might need Dip's kit at the Skull Fracture."

"We can't get in there!" Teek said. "You have to be twenty-one!"

Mabel shrugged carelessly. "No problem. I'll call Grunkle Stan when we get to the parking lot. He'll get us in. Why'd you stop?"

"Logging truck," Teek said as the overloaded truck sped past, at least ten mph over the speed limit.

"You could have beat it," Mabel said.

"I'm not taking any chances when I've got something important in the car," Teek told her as he made the turn back onto the highway.

"Huh?"

"You," Teek said.

"Aw," she said, grinning, and thinking, I'm gonna be extra-nice to him up at Lookout Point.