The Haunting of the Holy Mackerel Chapter 8, a gravity falls fanfic

The Haunting of the Holy Mackerel

(August 13, 2016)

8: . . .Now You Don't

The Yumburgers were, meh, OK, not real high on the yumminess index. As usual, the fries were pretty good, especially when briefly crisped in the oven. Dipper and Wendy munched their way through their not-so-romantic dinner. The only French cuisine in sight were the fries, and as Dipper observed, the French didn't invent them, even.

"No kidding?" Wendy asked, holding a french-fried potato between thumb and index finger. "Where'd they come from, then?"

"Belgium," Dipper said, reaching for the ketchup. He bit into his burger and chewed for a few seconds, then gulped. "See, in World War I, the American troops met up with Belgians. As the story goes, the Belgian peasants loved fried fish, but when the fish got scarce in the winter, they sliced up potatoes and fried them in the same way instead. When the American soldiers tasted the potatoes and liked them, the Belgians told them they were frites—fries, a French word. So the Americans figured they were French and when they came back home, they taught the recipe to everyone and called them French-fried potatoes."

"Huh. 'Want some of my Belgians?' Sounds dorky. Probably just as well," Wendy said.

The teens ate at the Corduroy table, but with an absolute minimum of mess. When they finished, they had to wash two glasses and—well, wipe down the table and toss the trash, that was it. Movie night seemed more attractive than cleaning up after themselves.

"Time is it?" Dipper asked, switching on the TV.

"Five 'til nine," Wendy called to him from her room. "We can just catch Creature Feature on 14."

"Where's the remote?"

"Look under the sofa cushions."

"Got it." He clicked to channel 14 and then lounged back on the sofa. The bearded, hyper-enthusiastic Bobby Renzobbi was hawking something called the Frog Bog, a plastic habitat for newts, salamanders, toads, frogs, mudpuppies, cyrptobranches . . ..

"Who even needs one?" Dipper wondered out loud.

Then Wendy returned. She had changed clothes from her French-Restaurant dressy casual to short cut-off jeans and a green tee shirt. She was barefoot. "Shove over, Dip," she said cheerfully. "Give a girl a place to sit."

Dipper scooched over and Wendy plopped down beside him and stretched out her long legs. "Well, I always give Dad a fudge factor of an hour and a half, so he and the boys might be back anytime between eleven and two. I guess we just watch the movie. We don't have enough safe time to get into anything real interesting!"

As the commercial ended and the "Coming Up Next: Creature Feature!" title card came up, Dipper put his arm around her and nuzzled her hair. "Mm. I don't know that we really need more than two hours."

She shoved him playfully. "Nope! Not gonna happen. This is gonna be done right when we get around to it. Darn it, every time I stock up on scented candles, body wash, and massage oil, something comes along and screws up my plans. Maybe next time."

"But my regiment may be called up at any moment!" Dipper said in a pretty bad imitation of an old-time movie star like maybe Ronald Colman. "Dearest, would you send a soldier into hell without giving him a taste of heaven?"

Wendy shrugged. "Dunno, let's see how bad the movie is. I may get bored and you may get lucky."

Another short commercial rolled, and then an off-screen announcer, trying hard to sound like Boris Karloff and succeeding in sounding more like Don Knotts, read the intro: "In England, the foggy bogs of Dartmoor have seen some strange and supernatural sights, but none stranger or, um, supernaturaler—Dave, that can't be right! What? Calm down, who watches this crap anyhow—where was I? Stranger or more supernatural than The Killer Will o' the Wisps!" The canned music went dun-da-DUNNH!

"Haven't seen this one," Dipper said.

"Aw, black and white!" Wendy complained, imitating Mabel.

"Black and white has its own aesthetic," Dipper assured her, and she turned and nipped his ear between her upper teeth and lower lip. "Ow!"

On TV, a black screen faded into semi-visibility, dark gray, showing a misty, dim landscape of low rounded hills. Artificial-looking fog drifted by. Dipper thought to Wendy, —They're not even using a fog machine. That's a strip of film with splotches just printed on it rolling across the camera lens.

The movie music had snuck in—skittery, wavering flutes and lugubrious oboes dominating—and the white title fluttered into view in ragged-looking letters:

The Killer Will o' the Wisps

Then the credits:

Starring

Ralph Chomondeley-Ffthafter

Verona Desiree

Sir Marcus Minchen

Anna Naan

Adapted from the novel

Hard Cheese in Devonshire, by Ernest Wriothseley

Screenplay by

Marietta Ingenue-Creekley

Music by

Harmon Izinger

Performed by the Lower Upper Framptonshire Symphony Orchestra

Produced and Directed by Albert Hatchplot

Wembly-Frobish Motion Pictures, Ltd.

"Why don't they use real numbers? Wendy asked.

Dipper leaned his head against hers. "Dunno. Maybe Roman numerals are hard to read and they extend the shelf life of the movie?"

"Shh."

On screen a British train, puffing smoke and tooting a shrill whistle, pulled into what looked like a small country station in the middle of the night. A trim man in a soft wool hat and trench coat stepped off the train onto the platform, then turned and accepted two suitcases, all straps and buckles, from an elderly railroad attendant. The traveler set the suitcases down, put a pipe—somehow already lit—between his teeth and with a puff said, "So this is Weerdley Common, is it? Not much to look at."

"Blimey, sir," said the corpulent railway man, consulting a pocket watch, "Not much to look at, as may be, but you can take my word for it, sir, there's plenty to scream at. Good night to you, sir, and saints preserve you!"

The train pulled out with a hiss and billow of steam, the traveler hunched his shoulders, looked around, and muttered, "What a dismal place! Well, this is a fine beginning to a fellow's precious two weeks' holiday!" He puffed his pipe again.

The music did an eerie sting, and the camera pulled back to show that another dark, shadowy figure, completely out of focus, stood in the gloom watching the man. It stepped forward and revealed itself as a woman in a long tweed coat and wearing a kind of Robin Hood hat with a bobbing, curved pheasant feather. She trilled out, "Oh, Inspector Doughty? Is that you?"

With his suitcases in hand, the traveler said, "Well! This is more like it!" He dropped one bag to tip his hat. "Hullo, mum, yes, I'm Reginald Doughty of Scotland Yard. And who, pray, are you?"

"Welcome to Dartmoor, Inspector! I'm Millicent Nibbley-Doowell," she said. "I was your late brother's secretary."

Wendy whispered, "Betcha ten bucks she's a bad guy."

"No bet," Dipper said.

The movie began. The first thirty minutes were pretty much a snooze, not much happening—Millicent ("Call me Milly") bundled Reginald ("Call me Reggie, everyone does") into a car and they got in and pretended to drive to Doughty Manor. Since it was night, the movie director didn't even bother with back projection. Milly just sat at the wheel and twiddled it aimlessly as they talked exposition.

Then, after the third commercial, the plot finally woke up, found its slippers, made some coffee, drank it, scratched its butt, and ambled into the movie. An elderly shepherd with a scruffy beard and an unlikely mustache ("Call the zoo and see if they're missing a walrus," Wendy said) roamed the hills and coombes—whatever they were—looking for a lost ewe in the middle of a fake-foggy night. Leaning on a staff, he wandered around—"Dude," Wendy said, "you passed that same rock three times now!"—until flickers of white light played over his craggy old face and squinting, he muttered to himself, "Wazzit? Summat white, innit? Oy! Izzat you, Lucy? Who's a naughty sheep, then? Coom! Coom to me! Don't 'ang aboot! Wait—no, no! Arrrggghhh!"

And whatever got him did not put in a personal appearance as he sank, screaming, out of the frame. However, the soundtrack had gobbling sounds, as if they'd recorded a pit bull slurping up a bowl of chopped raw liver. "Dumb," Dipper said. "Will o' the wisps don't attack you."

"You know what does, though?" Wendy asked seriously.

He glanced at her, surprised. "What?"

"Girls! Wauggh!" She pounced on him and they wrestled off the couch and onto the floor, laughing like loons. On the TV, a woman servant from the Manor happened across a bundle of rags lying on the ground—it was morning now—and she nudged it with her foot while talking to herself.

"Funny. 'Ere somebody's gone an' dropped a good wool cloak wot looks like old Shapton's, the crazy shepherd. 'Old on, summat's under it. Let's 'ave a look. Lawks! Eeee! Help! Help!"

Wendy had Dipper pinned, and he joined in, laughing "Help! Help!"

Suddenly Wendy stopped just as she was about to collect a kiss. "Geeze Louise!" she said. "I hear Dad's truck! I'm gonna be in the bathroom—tuck in your shirt, quick!" She jumped up and dashed.

Dipper took care of the shirt and then hopped onto the sofa and leaned back. The door banged open, and Dan yelled, "Wendy!"

Dipper looked around. "Oh, hi, Mr. Corduroy, she's in the bath—"

"In the can, dad!" yelled Wendy. "Be there in a second." The toilet flushed, and then Wendy, wearing her green plaid flannel shirt over the tee—and her shoes, Dipper noticed—came in. "You guys're sure home early!"

Dan and the twins had all piled in, the two boys shoving at each other and quarreling in the did-too-did-not way of mid-teen siblings, until their dad bellowed, "Quiet!" He opened his bowling bag and took out two halves of a ball. "Look here, I busted another'n. They don't make these things right! What are you two up to?"

Wendy gestured to the TV. "Watchin' a horror flick. It's not that great, though."

"OK. I won't bother you none."

But of course . . . he did, just by being there. When the movie ended at ten-thirty, Wendy said, "Hey, Dad, I'm gonna run Dipper back home, OK?"

"Take the truck," Dan said from the armchair. "I parked in behind you. Wait a minute." He reached in his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a green credit card. "Here, you don't mind, stop at Wildas Gas and fill it up. Regular, not premium!"

"I know, Dad," she said with a sigh. "Keys?"

"You go put on some britches!" Dan said as he handed the keyring over. "Ain't right to go round showing off your legs thataway!"

"Who's gonna see me this time of the night?" Wendy asked, but she told Dipper, "Be right back" and went to her room.

As soon as she was gone, Dan leaned toward Dipper and rumbled a question: "You two behaving yourselves?"

Dipper looked him in the eye. "Sir, you don't have to worry about it. We're not, um, misbehaving."

"Ha! I like your moxie," Dan growled, and Dipper realized where Wendy had picked up the strange phrase. Though he sounded more cautionary than threatening, Dan added, "You just remember now, no serious stuff until you're older!"

"I'm nearly seventeen," Dipper pointed out. "But don't worry. We promised each other."

"Good man."

"C'mon, Dip," Wendy said, breezing in, now wearing jeans and boots. "You and Dad can plan out my love life later."

"Baby girl—" Dan began.

Wendy cut him off. "Later, Dad. Be half an hour or so."

They got into Dan's pickup, Wendy started it, and with great skill she backed it out of the drive. "Sorry about this, Dip," she mumbled, sounding ticked-off. "I really did want us to have a romantic evening together."

"It's OK," Dipper said. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"You're probably gonna be busy helping Ford," Wendy said. "Tell you what: I'll come over in the afternoon and help or whatever and after, maybe we can squeeze in some alone time. Deal?"

"Deal," he said. After a second, he said, "You know, when we were wrestling, I was letting you win."

"Yeah, yeah, tell another one," Wendy shot back, but she was giggling.

Up on Lookout Point, Mabel and Teek broke their kiss and Mabel murmured, "This has been so nice!"

"Yeah . . . ." agreed Teek in a dazed and dreamy voice.

"But it's nearly eleven now, and you'd better take me back. Let's do this again tomorrow."

"That's a date!" Teek said, starting his car.

Mabel's clothing was a bit disarranged. She squirmed to adjust it. "Probably we'll have to get together late tomorrow afternoon," she said. "I know Dipper's gonna need me for this ghost thing. Between you and me, he wouldn't be able to do anything without me there to help."

"OK," Teek said. "I'll come over to the Shack around, oh—what, one o'clock? And we can go downtown together."

"Great!" Mabel said happily.

The highway down from Lookout Point was a convoluted series of sharp hair-pin turns, and Teek had to take it slow. But then, when they were nearly all the way down to the route back into town, Teek had to pull the car sharply to the right as a roaring motorbike blasted past. "Man! That jerk must be turnt!"

"Did you see that?" Mabel asked in a shaky voice.

"Yeah, biker nearly ran us off the road—what is it?"

"Teek," Mabel said, "first, where did it come from? This road ends at the Point, and no bike was up there! But worse, didn't you notice? No one was riding that motorcycle!"