The Big Con
Chapter 5: Backtalk
This time they stopped for burgers and sodas at Greasy's Diner before traveling on to the Admiral's home. As they sat in a window booth in the back, away from the other customers and out of earshot, Wendy asked, "So what you got, Dip? Some voodoo root or somethin'? Are we gonna pound that sucka into powder? Boosh!"
"First," Dipper said, "we're just going to see if it can tell us what it's here for. See, usually ghosts have some kind of unfinished business on earth. Like the two old folks in the convenience store still held a grudge against all teens, even in the afterlife. When we went into their store, their resentment brought them back. If we hadn't found that out, I couldn't have—you know. Done the . . . lamby dance."
"You gonna eat your fries?" Mabel asked him.
"Yes."
"Too late!" she said through a mouthful of potato.
Wendy leaned across the table and nearly whispered: "Dude, the ghost doesn't talk. Or if it does, it doesn't make sense, the old guy says."
Dipper rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, if I can get it to speak at all, I'll try to record what it says. It may not even work—ghosts and vampires don't have any reflection in a mirror, and it's nearly impossible to photograph them. I don't know if it works the same with any sounds they make, but I'll give it a try." He pulled the digital camera out of his pocket. "I've got this set for movie mode. It captures sound, too."
"You gonna finish your burger?" Mabel asked him.
"No. You can have it." Dipper shoved his plate toward her.
But after looking at it, she pushed the quarter of a burger away. "Aw, don't just give up like that, Dip. I mean, what's the fun in that?"
Wendy grimaced. "If the ghost shows up, I hope it's not, like, hacked off at me for trying to axe it."
"Well, you pretty much didn't do anything to it, so I don't think it'll be too mad," Dipper told her. "What ghosts usually want is just to settle something that's left undone. Once they do that, they can move on to wherever their next place is. I'm hoping we can send the Admiral's haunt into the light, as they say."
"And that's like a one-way ticket out of the world?"
"You got it," Dipper told Wendy.
They paid the check and left, Lazy Susan bidding them a cheery goodnight. It was already dusky-dark outside. They drove up to the iron gate, it opened, and they rolled through the collection of military memorabilia. Dogget opened the door when they rang the bell.
"Come aboard," he said.
"Dogget, dude," Wendy said, jerking a thumb back over her shoulder, "what's the Admiral gonna do with all this hardware? Just use these things as really impressive lawn ornaments?"
Dogget shrugged. "He wanted to create a military museum here. Endow it so that after he passes away it will be open to the public. However, what with the ghost and all, that plan's on hold."
"Make a heck of a museum," Wendy said. "I'd pay to tour through it."
The Admiral, now in civvies—khaki pants, a white shirt and black bow tie, and a Navy blue sports jacket—met them in the sitting room. "Good evening, sir," Dipper said. "Has, uh, the ghost appeared tonight?"
"No sign of him so far," the Admiral replied. "Mind, it doesn't show up every single night, so we may have no luck this evening."
Mabel said, "I've been wondering, Mr. Admiral, does the ghost always fade into that picture in the hall when it disappears?"
"Frequently, but not always," the Admiral said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, I'd say it exits that way more often than any other, though. And he appears there pretty often, too."
"Let's take a look at the picture," Dipper said.
They went down the hall. The Admiral switched on a small but bright picture light over the framed photo. It was a big one—sixteen inches by twenty or thereabout. It must have been taken from another, larger ship, or maybe from a helicopter. The angle was looking slightly downward at the ship as it cut a wake through what looked like open seas.
"That was taken in the South China Sea during the 1960s," Admiral Skipper said. "The USS Mistral, a patrol boat. Then she was being used as a communications vessel during the Vietnam War. By the time I knew her, she had been decommissioned from active service but was recalled to duty and used for the experiment I spoke about in the waters south of San Clemente. Complete debacle, as I told you, and the end of my career. She's decommissioned again now, I know, but I haven't heard what's become of her."
"I wonder if the ghost has anything to do with the experiment," Dipper said. "Can you tell us anything about it?"
The Admiral looked troubled. "Well, my boy, it's probably still classified. If I said too much, they might hang me at the yardarm. But some word of it got into the news even back then—supposed to have been an explosion on board, heavy loss of life, and so on and so forth, so I suppose I could tell you at least the bare facts. What really happened was that the machine that was supposed to make it possible for the Mistral to travel rapidly and invisibly from one position to another hundreds or thousands of miles away malfunctioned. There was some kind of—I don't know, energy flare or something. Pulsating globe of purple light around the vessel, streaks of white-hot static electricity bursting from it. The crewmen's deaths came from that, not from an ordinary explosion. That's all I'd better say."
"Maybe the ghost blames you for its death," Mabel said.
"Can't think why. I didn't build the blasted machine, didn't design the experiment, and certainly didn't order anyone to participate. Wasn't even in charge of the vessel, come to that. I was just a Rear Admiral sailing a desk, and I had a knack for writing things clearly, so I was attached to the operation as an observer and reporter, that's all." The Admiral looked sadly at the photo. "If the ghost wanted to haunt someone who had real responsibility, it should go after the man who designed the experiment. Inventor fellow, civilian, what was his name—Mc-something."
"Oh, man," Mabel said. "Not McGucket?"
"Might have been. Might have been. Though that doesn't sound quite right."
"What year was this?" Dipper asked.
"It happened in July of, let me see—it was five years ago, or will have been in a week."
"Couldn't have been him," Dipper said. "The McGucket we know was crazy at the time."
"Well, maybe the name will come to me," the Admiral said. The recorded bells chimed loudly four times. "Four bells," the old man said, tilting his head to one side like an inquisitive dog. "Ten p.m. in civilian time."
"Want to wait 'til midnight, Dip?" Wendy asked.
"I . . . don't think so," Dipper told her. "I want to see if I can summon him and command him to talk."
"Are you even sure it's a guy?" Mabel asked.
"I'm not even sure it's human," Dipper said. He had brought in a satchel. He borrowed a small table from the Admiral, set it up in the hallway not far from the photo, and laid out his notes on it. He took his materials from his satchel. First he arranged three white candles and as he lit them, right to left, he read out the Latin chant: Turbati mortuum vocat . Dic agedum nobis angustiae . Et omnis spiritus, ut consoleris.
"You think he's French?" Mabel whispered.
"Shh. I've called any troubled, restless spirit and offered to help solve any problem it has. I think something's happening," Dipper said. "Anyone else feel that strange electricky sensation in the air?"
On the table, left to right, the candles poofed out, one by one. The electric lights flickered, then died into stark darkness. "It's here, dudes," Wendy said, her voice sounding uneasy.
Wishing he still had light to read by, Dipper repeated what he remembered of the chant that was supposed to request ghosts to speak: Loquere ! Dic nobis de vestra tristitia ! Loquere, quaeso.
"I know that means cheese," Mabel said, her tone frightened and shaky. "What, are you offering it a midnight snack?"
Dipper didn't respond. He suddenly felt as if he were standing outside, without a coat, on a frosty winter night. Cold spots, he remembered from his reading. A ghost's presence is often first noticed when its presence causes a sudden chill in the atmosphere.
Then the pale blue light suddenly billowed, a flower of silent, cold illumination blooming in the hallway, and in its midst floated the dismembered ghost. It seemed to struggle to open its mouth. Dipper had whipped out his camera and was recording—or he hoped he was.
But then when the ghost did produce sounds, they were inhuman, sounding like nothing any of them had ever heard before—something like "Ssuh ploich t'nemkseh uth poh-ts sdurl neew'teb rra eew! Ssuh ploich!"
The voice was reedy, and it seemed to come not just from one speaker, but from a chorus of small voices speaking in unison, as thin and buzzy as the drowsy murmur of summer bees in a hive.
"Can you speak English?" Dipper asked desperately. "We don't know your language! We want to understand and help you."
The specter writhed as if in agony or anger. "Rrrrahhh!" it screamed, thrashing its arms. They all took a step away from it.
"We don't understand," Dipper told it. "Look, we want to help you! Show us what you need. Please, let us help you!"
The ghost suddenly raised both of its arms over its head, straight up, like a referee signaling a touchdown. Then it swept its hands—trailing several inches behind the faster-moving wrists—around and down, sketching a glowing blue disk in the air. It flared and flashed and flickered, and Mabel yelled as some force pulled her up and toward the ghost. Her foot caught on the table top, and the little table crashed to the floor. Wendy scrambled forward and grabbed Mabel's leg—and was pulled along, kicking and screaming. Dipper lunged forward and just managed to seize one of Wendy's boots—
Only the Admiral was left behind.
All three of the kids screamed as they shot forward, tumbling into the glare of uncanny light—
And a moment later it swallowed them up and everything changed.
To be continued . . . .