The Haunting of the Holy Mackerel

(August 14, 2016)

12: A Ghost Hunter Prepares

Before they reached the Dalles, Ford nodded off, his head on Lorena's shoulder. "Let him sleep for forty-seven minutes," she whispered, and they all maintained silence.

That was an odd request, but Dipper had read Ford's Journals recording his thirty years spent in alternate dimensions, some silly, some terrifying, and he recognized the reference—by experience, Ford, who couldn't always safely rely on bedding down for a full night's sleep, had discovered it was possible to keep going and function well for days if he peppered his activities with cat-naps.

By long experimentation, typical of Ford, he had learned that, for him, the ideal length of a nap was precisely forty-seven minutes. Anything longer put him into slow-brainwave sleep, and if that happened, he needed to get in at least 95 minutes of sleeping, or else he would wake up groggy and slow. They didn't have that long left before reaching Gravity Falls Valley, so Ford was grabbing what rest he could.

Dipper remembered reading about Ford's sleep experiments in Journal 4—there were about six pages recording them. Ford had summed up: "I find that if I can catch five quick naps of forty-seven minutes in a twenty-four-hour period—roughly 3.9 hours, all told—I can function at near-peak alertness and ability for up to a week. Past that, and my need for deep REM sleep catches up with me and I must find somewhere safe to sleep for at least six straight hours. My efforts to push beyond this with naps show me that I rapidly lose mental acuity and muscular efficiency, until by the tenth day I am prone to bad judgment."

However, just because he couldn't talk didn't mean Dipper couldn't converse. Wendy draped her arm back on the top of the front seat, and Dipper put his hand on her skin.

-I hope he gets enough rest.

It's amazing the way your uncle can zonk out like that. What's his secret, Dip?

-Practice. Some of the alternate dimensions he explored were incredibly dangerous, and he was on the run all the time. He'd gave to grab what sleep he could in little snatches, so he kind of trained himself. I gather it's a kind of autosuggestion, like when I go into the Mindscape consciously.

You'll have to teach me that, Dip. Might come in handy sometime.

-I'll do it right now. Ready?

Shoot!

So he sent her the mental instructions he gave himself whenever he wanted to drop into the Mindscape, that strange world of dreams and visions. However, he also sent her a warning:

-There you go, Wen. But don't try it! It can be scary and disorienting, so let me team-dive with you a few times before you go solo.

You got it. Huh. Seems simple now that you laid it out.

-It's not difficult after you get used to it. When I first started, I'd get scared and that would jerk me back out of the moment and I'd have to start all over again. But the Mindscape isn't bad as long as you remember three things: First, what you see there can't physically harm you. Second, they CAN do tremendous mental and psychic damage to you. But third and most important, if you keep your sense of self and purpose steady, you can do practically anything in the Mindscape. Change your shape, fight off terrors, make horrible monsters evaporate. You have to learn to concentrate and visualize what you want to happen.

Ford taught you all this, huh?

-Actually, no. Stan.

Get out of town!

-No, really. Here. Look at this. Dipper replayed his memory of the time Li'l Gideon had sent Bill Cipher—this was back before they knew what he was, or how dangerous—into Stan's mind, seeking the combination to the Mystery Shack safe, and how he had spied on a memory of Stan's that—he thought—showed how contemptuous of him Stan was. That got straightened out, and also—Anyway, Bill had blasted a hole right through my chest, but that was my, um, astral body, I guess it was, and it can't be physically hurt. But Stan fixed it up by pointing at it and made it heal, and then he said, "Word to the wise, kid. We're in the mind! You can do whatever you imagine in here!"

When she got a glimpse of Mabel pummeling Bill Cipher, aka "The Triangle Guy" to her, with kitten heads, Wendy giggled.

Stan glanced at her. "What?"

"Nothin'," she whispered. "Thought of something funny. Tell you some other time."

And that was the last time they spoke before Stan parked in the Mystery Shack lot.

"Ford, dear," Lorena said, "we've arrived."

Stanford's eyes popped open and he looked around. "Excellent! Stanley, please take Lorena down to our house and unload our bags for me. She'll need a nap, too. Dipper, come with me to the labs. I may need some help carrying things."

Dipper had noticed that Melody's car and Teek's were both back in the lot, and he was not surprised—it was past three in the afternoon, and Mass had long been over. He, Wendy, and Ford went into the Shack as Stan took Lorena to their house. Tripper came running and danced around them excitedly, wagging his tail and yipping a little.

"Dudes!" Soos said, looking from the doorway as Ford operated the code on the vending machine. "I thought I heard you guys come in. Welcome back, Mr. Dr. Pines! Where's Mr. Pines?"

Dipper explained and asked, "Has everything been OK here?"

"Oh, yeah, Dip," Soos said. "No ghosts or monsters or anything."

Wendy said, "I'll go tell them about the trip, dude. You and your uncle take care of business here."

So Dipper and Ford went down to the first lab level, where Ford's storage lockers were. Ford was like a busy shopper in a grocery store, opening lockers, surveying what they contained, and making decisions: "Anomaly Detector Mark 2.3, this is critical—here, take two. They're a little heavy for their size, careful." Down the row to another locker. "These haven't been tested, but I think they should be at least eighty per cent effective, if not more. Here, one for you, one for me, one for Mabel—is Wendy coming, too?"

"And Teek, probably," Dipper said.

"One for Wendy, one for Stanley, and one for Teek, and that leaves me with only one spare. Oh, sorry, should have told you—put them all on the lab table for now, and I'll get boxes to carry them upstairs."

Dipper did as he was told, gratefully, because in about another two seconds he was going to drop something. He held up one of the last items, a black arch with two small silver spheres on either end. "What are these?" he asked. "They look sort of like earphones."

"They are headsets," Ford said, going to another wall, opening another locker, and pulling out a flat drawer packed with small vials, "but not for music. The bands fit around your head and the interceptors—those titanium spheres—rest against your temples. These are anti-possession shields. Vitally needed if your opponent can seize control of your mind, a hundred times as efficient as a tinfoil helmet, and, I think, more chic in appearance. Let me see, let me see . . . did you have a chance to try anointed water?"

"No," Dipper said. "I have a little, an ounce or so, but—"

"Here, these are thirty-milliliter bottles. Three should be sufficient—they may not work, but we must be as fully prepared as possible."

"How about a quantum destabilizer?" Dipper asked.

"No, not effective against non-corporeal entities," Ford said. "If this is a ghost, however, we have dire need of something I'm out of-Guaiacum sanctum wood, preferably at least twenty-five centimeters in length."

"Uh—can we get that at a lumberyard?" Dipper asked.

Ford shook his head. "No, it's from an endangered tree native to the Caribbean. It's also called lignum vitae, or 'wood of life.' Exceptionally hard and dense. One of the few species of wood that won't even float in water."

"Wait!" Dipper said. "I've heard of that. Here in Gravity Falls—what was it, what was it?" He racked his brain, but his brain was as stubborn as a martyr being racked by the Inquisition and simply refused to cough up the information. "Gah, I hate it when that happens!" he said.

"Never mind," Ford advised. "I'll use the next hour to memorize the most potent anti-haunting incantations in the book. The lignum vitae has special properties, but we can do without it. Probably. Now let's get a couple of boxes and take this stuff upstairs. Oh, have I had lunch?"

"Um—not that I know of," Dipper said.

"Good, because I'm hungry. Let's get in a quick snack."

While they had a lunch of sandwiches—Wendy had considerately already started to prepare them—Mabel went through one of the boxes like a ten-year-old on Christmas morning. "Do we drink these?" she asked, holding up a vial.

Ford glanced over. "That would be inadvisable. That solution is from a slightly different dimension and has the power of dispersing autonomic activity in vaporous manifestations, leaving them without will or comprehension. It could conceivably dissolve your mind."

"Might be an improvement," Dipper said before biting into his Reuben sandwich, sharp with sauerkraut and tangy with Russian dressing.

Mabel stuck out her tongue and modeled one of the anti-possession headsets. "I think I hear Venus calling me," she said.

Teek, who had changed from his church clothes to jeans and tee shirt, said, "I wouldn't mess with that, Mabel."

"Come on," Mabel said. "This is gonna be fun!"

"Please," Ford said, "take it seriously."

The door opened, and they heard footsteps, and then Stan came into the dining room. "That smells good," he said. "Got enough for me? I missed lunch."

"I'll make it, Mr. Pines," Teek said, springing up. "Mabel and I ate already. A Reuben OK?"

"Sounds great," Stan said, settling down at the table. "Thanks, Teek. Hey, Pumpkin, do your old uncle a favor and bring me a beer, OK?"

Mabel went to the fridge and brought back a Rimrock, but one in a silvery-blue can. "Here you go."

"Aw, lite beer?" Stan asked.

"You promised Graunty Sheila you'd watch your calories," Mabel reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, I guess. Oh, Poindexter, Lorena's gonna sack out for a while. Sheila's gone down to be with her in the house, just in case somethn' happens. That unicorn voodoo will hold against ghosts, won't it?"

"I think so," Ford said. "It's an extremely powerful protective charm. Anyone within one of the mystic barriers ought to be safe."

Dipper was frowning. Something was tickling at his memory: sharp stick, sharp stick, something about that wood Ford said he needed . . . dang, what was it?

"Here you are," Teek said, setting down a sandwich for Stan.

"Thanks, Teek. Looks good! Wonder why they call them Reubens, anyway?"

Absent-mindedly, Ford said, "Named for its creator, Reuben Kulakofsky, a Jewish grocer in Omaha, Nebraska, who used to make the sandwich for his poker-playing friends. One of them owned a restaurant and got permission to put it on the menu as 'Reuben's Sandwich.'"

Stan stared at his brother. "One of these days, Poindexter, you're gonna stuff one fact too many in that big head of yours an' it's gonna explode."

"Unlikely," Ford said. "Thoughts don't have mass or volume."

"So when we gonna go after this ghostie?"

"As soon," Ford said, "as you finish eating. And may good be on our side."

"Rak chazat," Stan said with a grin. When Mabel gave him a puzzled look, he said, "Learned about that in Hebrew school when I was about eight years old, Sweetie. Ancient battle cry. For the glory of the Lord, and may he be on our side."

"He used to yell it in high-school dodge-ball games," Ford said with a smile. "Most inappropriately."

"You're only sayin' that 'cause I yelled it before knockin' you out cold with a shot to the head in ninth grade!" Stan said with a chuckle.

"Say it again," Mabel told him. "I wanna learn that."