nothing makes sense without it
The woman on the doorstep is staring down at Mabel like she's some kind of sugar-fueled, besweatered alien. Dipper is doing his best to look competent and, well, older than he actually is.
"So… you're here to hunt the ghost?" the woman says for the third time.
"Yes, ma'am!" Mabel loudly confirms. "Dipper, show her your awesome professional journal! You won't believe it, it's so professional," she tells the lady confidently.
Dipper isn't sure Mabel understands that nobody else has any context for why a journal would mean something. And Journal A doesn't, unfortunately, because aside from a few starter notes, it's blank. Whatever the case, he's let her speak for them long enough. He stands up straighter.
"Hi, I'm Dwipper— Dipper— and this is my sister, Mabel. We saw the article about the ghost problem you're having and we're here to help."
The woman takes long enough to mull that over that Dipper begins to wonder if he needs to give it to her in writing. "You're here to help," she slowly repeats.
"Yes. We're here to help," Dipper reiterates. He's trying so hard to look taller that his neck is starting to ache.
"I see. Well, no offense, but we were hoping for someone with a little more experience—"
"Pshht! Experience?!" Mabel interrupts. "Lady, my brother's hunted super nightmare-fuel ghosts that straight turn people into wood! Which, I can tell you, feels pretty weird," she adds with a tone that implies it's some sort of fond memory. "Plus, he's a mega smart turbo nerd. Trust me, this guy is the only guy you want to bust your ghosts."
"Just give me a chance," Dipper says. "I'm not charging you anything. At least let me see if I can find out what kind of ghost it is."
The fact that Dipper's impromptu consultation is free seems to be what finally sways the woman. "I just came back to water the flowers, but if you want, I can show you around," she finally agrees.
She takes them into the dining room, a small rectangular space with an overabundance of lace and fake electric candles. A brass chandelier hangs over a table that's been set, but the plates and silverware are in disarray. Dipper glances down at the thick white carpet where several forks are scattered. He can see what looks like the glittery dust of something glass that was shattered there.
"It usually happens in here," the woman says. "Last time everything was rattling and that was it, we'd had enough."
"Look at all these doilies," Mabel enthuses, rubbing the fabric between her fingers.
"So what happens, exactly?" Dipper says seriously, ignoring Mabel's fondling of everything decorative and delicate.
"At first the lights flicker. Then things start to move; just one or two things to start with," the woman says. "They fall over, sometimes they float and then fall. When it's really bad it all shakes and rattles. Just the plates and things, though, never the house."
"Have you ever heard voices, or seen any writing?"
"No, nothing like that. I've often felt that someone was watching me, or close to me when I was in here," she says.
"Category Two, maybe," Dipper mutters to himself. He starts making notes in his journal. "Hmmm… Is it just in this room?"
"The things moving around, yes. But I've felt a presence elsewhere." The woman appears to be slightly confused as to why she's humoring him. Dipper barely notices; he's in the zone.
"Dipper, look!" Mabel calls out laughingly. He turns to see she's draped herself in no less than ten different doilies. "How fancy am I, one to a thousand? Just kidding: I know it's a thousand!"
The woman is not happy. "Okay, I think you kids need to—"
There is a sudden gust of air, cold and bracing. It rushes through the room like the edge of a storm, sending the doilies flying off Mabel as she tumbles to the floor.
"Mabel!" Dipper exclaims. He dodges a tacky plastic candlestick and runs to her side. "Are you okay?"
"I hit my butt," Mabel says, looking dazed. Then she sits up excitedly, no worse for wear. "Did you hear it?"
"I heard the wind," Dipper says, confused.
"No, the voice! The voice knocked me over—which was totes rude—and said, 'trouuuuuuut,'" Mabel intones.
"Trout?" Dipper says skeptically.
Mabel shrugs. "Or 'get out.' I think he was talking with his mouth full."
"That would make more sense. Unless this ghost really hates trout? Did you guys eat a lot of fish, in here…?" he asks the woman.
Mabel's eyes widen. "Maybe it is a trout. A ghost trout! A GROUT!"
The woman, meanwhile, has been backing towards the door, her face pale. "Not this again," she says tremulously, and then flees.
Dipper and Mabel stare after her. "…Did she just leave us alone in her house?" Dipper says.
"It's our house, Dipper. We live here now," Mabel tells him, slinging an arm over his shoulder.
"Then a ghost isn't doing our equity any favors." Dipper flips his journal open and begins to scribble furiously. "Okay, so the ghost wanted us to leave. Or, maybe just you. Why just you, why didn't it knock all of us down?"
"It's probably a boy ghost. He pushed me down, so he likes me but doesn't know how to say it."
At the top of the page, Dipper writes 'REMEMBER: THEY ALWAYS HAVE A REASON.' He adds a dubious question mark nearby, uncertain of the veracity of that statement. As he recollects, Ford may have repudiated the fact; or partially, at least. Dipper really wishes he had the actual Journal 3 to doublecheck.
"There have to be some clues around here," Dipper says. "We need to make the ghost reveal itself… Maybe— what are you doing?"
Mabel has pulled off her headband and is rapidly braiding her hair. "I'm making some pigtails for him to pull."
"Mabel, it's a ghost. I really don't think it's into you."
"Come on, Dipper," she says, not stopping her braiding. "Jeff? Mermando? Those cute vampires? I'm irresistible to supernatural super-hunks. Not that the gnomes were really hot or anything, but when you're as adorable as I am, you gotta take the bad with the good. I cast a wide net, bro."
Dipper wants to tell her she's crazy, but the evidence is surprisingly strong. "Okay, that's plan B. Plan A is to determine the reason behind the haunting. Every ghost must want something, right? It's just a matter of what."
Mabel holds out her fists. "Yeah! Mystery Twins?"
Dipper grins and presses his fists to hers. "Mystery Twins."
They rotate their clenched hands in opposite directions and then back, making the sound of a gun cocking, and then pull them apart with an explosion noise. When their customized fist pound is completed Mabel smiles at him so widely that she almost looks deranged.
Dipper can't help but laugh. "What?" He lifts his hat and runs a hand through his hair. "Do I have something on me, like from the ghost—"
"Nope! Just with you a hundred and fifteen percent, bro-bro." She makes finger guns in his direction. "Let's bust this vapor dweeb."
The search begins in the most likely place: the basement. There's a lot of boxes and an ironing board and some very old workout equipment that Dipper contemplates for a moment, wondering if the woman would be willing to part with it as payment (assuming he succeeds). Mabel happily dives into the mess like it's a rummage sale.
For his part, Dipper is trying to be precise, considered. If he's going to do this sort of thing professionally, then he needs to be professional. No more counting on Journal 3 for all the heavy lifting, no more getting tricked and accidentally freeing his quarry. He needs to follow Great-Uncle Ford's example and start using his head to its full capacity. He's on his own this time. No notes from a mysterious author to guide him.
Well, he's not actually on his own. He observes as Mabel pulls a long piece of golden tinsel out of a Christmas storage box and drapes it over her shoulders like a scarf. He can always count on her.
"Wow, what a spooky room," Mabel says loudly, finding a walk-in closet for the sump pump in the far corner. "I sure hope there's not any cute ghosts in here!" She steps in and twirls around beguilingly.
Dipper isn't completely sold on her theory, but he still stops and watches just in case. Mabel had been kind of a creep magnet in Gravity Falls.
There's no response. She bats her eyes at nothing in particular for a few more seconds; unsuccessful, her shoulders slump in disappointment.
"Hey, it was worth a shot," Dipper tells her.
Mabel shrugs it off. "Like I want some dumb old ghost mackin' on me anyway. Besides, it wasn't a total waste. I found this!" She raises a dusty light-up disco ball, complete with a rotating stand.
"Whoa, party people," Dipper says with a grin.
Mabel sets it on a nearby box and checks the battery compartment. Finding it empty, she raids a few double As from a plastic robo-dog and slaps them in. The disco ball bursts into sudden illumination; the shimmering colors are brilliant in the darkened room, dancing rainbow flecks gliding across the clutter. It's sort of disorienting. Dipper squints and has to look away.
"That's better," Mabel says with satisfaction, content with her impromptu atmospheric makeover. She begins bobbing her head and humming 'Taking Over Midnight.'
Without warning, the disco ball goes flying off the box and crashes to the floor. It breaks on impact, instantly plunging the basement back into gloom.
"My glamorous lifestyle!" Mabel laments, reaching for the broken toy.
"Wait, don't touch it!" Dipper warns her. "Sometimes spirit kinesis can do weird things. It could be dangerous."
Mabel stands back as Dipper approaches the ball. He slowly nudges it with his foot, then holds his hand near it, checking for any severe temperature variance.
"Is it all ghosty?" Mabel asks.
Dipper drops his hand and purses his lips. "…I don't know. I wish I still had my EMF meter."
"This ghost is a real party pooper," Mabel observes.
"It's just knocking over random things. Is that really its deal?" Dipper says, standing back up.
But as he looks at the shattered disco ball, he notices that the battery compartment in the bottom has sprung open and he remembers the fake candles upstairs. He sees the segmented plastic shards of its reflective surface and thinks of the ground glass in the dining room carpet.
"Mabel," he says slowly, the pieces coming together, "I think I have an idea."
Mabel smiles, braces glittering in the dark. "I knew you would," she says, confident.
What follows is an afternoon adventure involving a lot of running, a little bit of screaming, and the supercilious, highly unpleasant spirit of a former interior decorator who hates everything about the taste of the current homeowners and doesn't much care for Mabel's treatment of doilies. It ends with a whole lot of broken glass and a pentagram drawn with mustard and ketchup.
"Just let me even out the tablecloth!" the ghost pleads as it bangs its insubstantial fists against the invisible barrier of its condiment cage.
By this point, Dipper's heard it all before. "No way, man. You need to move on and stop obsessing over salad forks because that is not healthy, even if you are dead."
"But have you seen those dollar store fake candles? How can they sleep at night?" the ghost howls.
"Hey, these are neat!" Mabel defends the candles, pulling one out of her pocket. "You can fight evil living wax statues with them."
The ghost seems stumped by that non-sequitur and momentarily falls silent. Dipper recites a low-level incantation from memory while he can still get a word in edgewise. With a bright flash, the spirit is banished from the dwelling and sent on its way.
Dipper closes his new journal with dramatic relish. "Another ghost successfully banished. That's two down. Just the two. …It was a lot more impressive before I said it out loud."
He wishes he could count the ghosts from the Dusk 2 Dawn, but he had given them what they wanted, not banished them. Of course, if that's his standard then his count should probably be one and a half, given the lumberjack ghost had escaped. Not a great record, really. Hopefully he's improving.
"I could really go for a hot dog right now," Mabel says, looking at the pentagram.
Dipper looks around the kitchen, for the first time noticing just how much of a mess they've made. "…We should probably get out of here."
They put a few things back where they think they might have gone before giving up and leaving a note on the counter, written by Mabel and complete with an illustration of Dipper holding his journal aloft triumphantly over a sheet ghost with Xs for eyes while Mabel punches it (WE BUSTED YOUR GHOST. SORRY ABOUT THE KETCHUP. 3 3 PS—MYSTERY TWINS 4LYFE!).
That night, Dipper spends the entire family dinner with his nose in his new journal, scribbling away. Their parents seem no less concerned for him, but Mabel can't stop smiling.