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The old man had been removed, as had the man-child and the ax girl. The family was pacified. All these primary supports to the obstacle were gone, but an accidental one might arise by a chance encounter if people were allowed to wander about town during their vain search for those who had been taken away.
It was, therefore, time to make the fifth ripple.
On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.
****
“Did you search down Rocky Mountain Road?”
Wearily, the response came, “Yes, O Keeper.”
“You . . . really need not call me that any longer,” Samuel Turley reminded the goth before him.
The only response that received was a shrug. After all, once a Keeper of the Precepts . . .
“And, um . . . What does this map say? ‘Appalachian Avenue’? Did you search down that, too?”
“Yes, we did. And we ran into Joseph and Josephine on it.”
“Then what about—”
“Yes, O Keeper,” the goth cut in impatiently. “Whatever you’re about to say, we looked there. And probably one of the other pairs of goths, too. And probably those adults in, like, clothing from Costmo or Trawlmart or whatever store. We’ve looked freakin’ everywhere, and . . . and I’m just done. We’ve spent all day—all freakin’ day—doing this, and I’m just done.”
There was a murmur of assent from the circle of goths surrounding them. A weary one, for most had spent over eight hours that day tramping up and down all the streets in Gravity Falls. But to no avail; Kennedy Jenkins (aka Ebony Ravenspath, aka the Former Grand Goth) remained unfound—him/her, and all the others who had vanished that week. Which made a failure of that long and weary day.
“But . . . But we must have missed someplace!” the no-longer-but-still Keeper of the Precepts affirmed desperately. “We must have, or we would have found her/him!”
Even steadfast Paul Oftarzis was flagging fast. “Samuel . . . They have searched everywhere. You and I were the ones to organize and assign them. Remember?”
You will never find the ones you seek. They are all dead already. You should just give up hope.
“We’re wasting our time . . .” someone grumbled. “She/He is long gone . . .”
“Yeah. No way the kidnapper would just, like, keep all those kids locked up in a basement in the middle of suburbia.”
“I bet they killed all the kids. Probably ate them, too.”
Samuel Turley stamped his foot in impotent fury. “NO! I refuse to believe that’s true! We just have to keep looking!”
“Where? Where haven’t we searched already?”
“Us and those adults with, like, the police.”
“One of ‘em fell over when they saw me. Must be the fog—makes people jumpy.”
“Yeah, well, you got off lucky. One of the cops, she—”
“WE CANNOT GIVE UP!” Samuel Turley burst out angrily. “WE CANNOT JUST ABANDON ONE OF OUR OWN! WE . . . We . . . we have to . . .”
All the goths looked at the boy in the long cloak pityingly. It was like watching a balloon (a black one, with skulls on it) deflate. Slowly, his shoulders hunched, his knees buckled, and he just . . . sort of sagged onto a bus bench and buried his face in his hands. It was painful to watch.
For a long moment, no one said anything. Then one person cleared their throat. Another murmured, “Awwwkwwward . . .” And another (then another and another) began to shuffle away from the group.
A few looks and meaningful nods back to the parking lot were exchanged with Paul Oftarzis, and he signaled his understanding. Then, stepping up to Samuel Turley and laying a hand on his shoulder, Paul Oftarzis said, “We have done all we could. It just . . . There was just never anything we could do . . . He/She is almost certainly . . . um . . . F-for that, I am truly sorry. For your loss. But now, I need to lead my consortium back home.”
“And, uh . . . I’m just . . . gonna go home now, too,” someone from Gravity Falls added.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“And me.”
“Sorry K.P., but . . . yeah.”
On his park bench of regrets, Samuel Turley looked up to see everyone walking away. To their cars or to their homes. In less than a minute, they had all disappeared into the fog.
Then, he was alone . . .
He buried his face his in his hands again and wept.
****
The standard set by the old family saying “A Northwest must look their best” had certainly been lowered in recent days; with hair that was almost unkempt (and barely kempt as it was), faces that were not receiving their daily moisturizer, and the same set of clothes they’d put on after breakfast that day (without taking the time to change them after lunch—like savages), both Mister and Missus Northwest looked haggard. Relatively speaking. Granted, their haggardness could not hold a candle to that of Sheriff Blubbs’ or Deputy Durland’s, but it was still pretty haggard for people with a live-in combination beautician and masseur (who, naturally, was named Sergiorgio Pavoloreal). If asked to account for this only relative haggardness, they no doubt would have said something testy along the lines of, “We might have lowered our standards this week, but we still had some to begin with.”
One would have to forgive them their testiness, though. After all, it had been five days since their business operations had completely halted while still costing them full employee salaries across the board (plus overtime); they were positively hemorrhaging money.
Oh, yes, and it had been five days since their daughter had disappeared. That, too. Of course.
And, to top it all off, the town had suddenly been overrun with goth teenagers. The coordinated police-Northwest search parties couldn’t search down an alley without tripping over two pairs of them. Which had been highly unsettling for everyone involved, given how this annoyingly persistent fog seemed to lend itself to accidental jump scares (his adult employees being frightened by the goth teens, and the goth teens apparently being frightened by the looming specter of social conformity represented by working adults in jeans and jackets purchased from mainstream retailors . . . and also occasionally having a firearm drawn on them by a startled, sleep-deprived police officer). And unsettled employees were NOT efficient employees.
“Benjamin,” Mister Northwest snapped. “Remind me: How close is the weather machine project to completion?”
“Last I checked with your scientists, sir, they assured me that they’re still at least five years away from effective control of the weather.”
“Blast it! What’s the point of being rich if we cannot bend the forces of nature to our will? Well, no matter. Get me the walkie-talkie; I wish to speak with the Sheriff.”
“Very good, sir.”
Benjamin’s hands shook ever so slightly as he proffered the device on a silver tray. The past days had been especially hard on him. He had barely slept, and been so full of nervous energy that he had sharpened the cutlery so often that most of the knives were half their original width … but twice their original sharpness; he had accidentally sliced through the cutting board while preparing cucumber sandwiches for Friday’s search party meeting.
The second Mister Northwest was on the line, he demanded, “Blubbs, why is my town overrun with goths today?”
The crackling response that came back was, “They seem to be conducting an independent search for Kennedy Jenkins, sir.”
“Well, they’re impeding our search for Pacifica. And the other children, I suppose. Can’t your people do something about them?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not?! What do you think I’m paying you for?!”
“Technically, you don’t. We’re allocated funds by the City Council out of local and state taxes—”
“And whose taxes make up 51% of all revenue received by this town, do you think?!” Mister Northwest burst out dragonishly. “That means I pay a controlling majority of your ‘allocated funds’! And might just decide to move my operations to Woodbury!”
“. . . You make a compelling legal argument, Mister Mayor. What would you like me to do?”
“Have them detained! Get them out of the way!”
“On what grounds? They’re not breaking any laws, Mister Mayor.”
“Surely you can trump up some charges.”
“Against dozens of teens?”
“If that’s what it takes! My people keep tripping over them all over town and—”
The children are not in town. They must be being held somewhere deep out in the woods.
Removing his finger from the walkie-talkie’s call button, Mister Northwest disconnected. For a lone moment, he stood there in deep in contemplation.
Then, behind him, Benjamin cleared his throat drily. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if I might take the liberty of suggesting an idea I just had?”
“Hmm?”
“It seems to me, sir, that Miss Pacifica must not be held captive in town or about the outskirts. Else we surely would have found her by now—after five days of intensive searching, sir.”
His employer’s jaw dropped. “Benjamin, you marvel, I was just thinking that!”
“So it would stand to reason, would it not, that she (and the other poor barins) must be captive somewhere further out of town?”
“Yes! Yes! Deeper in the woods!” Mister Northwest deduced. “But still not too far, because whatever monster is responsible for this has continued to abduct a child a day!”
“And they couldn’t risk leaving the children unsupervised for long, sir—”
“Because they might get loose and escape, or someone might pass by and notice something!”
“Exactly, sir! Unless . . .” And Benjamin trailed off at that, thinking it was best not pursue the train of thought that whomever was responsible might have already guaranteed in a permanent way that the children would not cause any trouble. He simply could not bear such a thought at that time.
Fortunately for him and his awkward pause, Missus Northwest came bursting in at the moment. “I just had an idea!” she shouted excitedly. “What if we’re wasting our time searching in town? What if we need to search—”
“Deep in the woods?” Mister Northwest finished her sentence. “Yes, I had just thought of—”
Suddenly, the walkie-talkie crackled into life, and Blubbs excited voice was shouting, “My darling Durland here just had the most genius idea! They must not be in town—the kids must not be in town—because then we’d already’ve found them! So they must be hidden somewhere in the woods!”
“My thoughts precisely!” Mister Northwest exclaimed into it. “Blubbs, get on the search party frequency at once! We need to inform all parties out there to move outward into the woods! At once! Not just around the outskirts of town, but further afield! Special priority for searching any structures or cabins or what have you! They are authorized to kick down the doors!”
“. . . Um, I think we’d need a search warrant to do—”
“I’m not paying you to think, Blubbs. Besides, I’ll handle any legal entanglements.”
“But ifen we find ‘em durin’ a unlawful search ‘n’ seizure, the perp walks!” Durland protested into the walkie-talkie. “I saw it on a episode of ‘CSI: Oklahoma City’, so it must be true!”
“I said I will handle any legal entanglements!” Mister Northwest barked. “Now get out there and get them out there!” Then, with that, he disconnected the call and slammed it back onto Benjamin’s silver tray.
Not a sound filled the room—not a sound, save for his heavy, shallow breathing.
Eventually, Missus Northwest ventured, “The deputy makes a good point. Do we want to risk letting the monster that dared kidnap our daughter escape justice?”
“That animal will not escape justice,” her husband answered in a low, quiet voice. Like the growl of a feral beast from within a gilded cage (which hadn’t yet received its weekly polishing). “I’m sure someone will . . . take the liberty . . . of making sure they don’t.”
Missus Northwest gulped. She stole a glance at the family butler, who had just set the silver tray with the walkie-talkie within his employer’s easy reach.
Benjamin’s preamble was as imperturbable as had been all of his actions seven short days ago. Before . . . all this unpleasantness with Miss Pacifica’s disappearance. “If you will excuse me, sir, ma’am. I must go and see to my preparations for this evening . . . ’s meal.”
Mister Northwest nodded curtly once.
Seemingly in the blink of an eye, Benjamin had vanished from the room.
****
When Dipper reentered the kitchen, he had blood on his hands and a broad smile on his face. “Heh. If Gideon were half as clever as we are, there’s no way he would’ve been taken.”
“Finished your blood seals? Took you a while,” his sister commented.
“Yeah, well, they’re kinda intricate. You gotta get them just right, so you have to be careful when you paint them. They’re drying now, but should be ready to use in a few minutes.”
“Huh . . . Makes you wonder who first thought them up, and how,” Norman voiced aloud. “Like, was there this one guy who kept being plagued by demons and ghosts so regularly, he could sit down and experiment with different . . . What are they, even?”
Washing his hands at the sink, the behatted boy shrugged. “Formulas? Incantations? Designs? Whatever they’re called, it was probably Solomon who figured hem out.”
{Solomon? As in “King Solomon”?} Elaine asked, even as she claimed a spot in the corner and resumed her knitting. {From the Bible?}
Once the Medium had relayed that inquiry, Mabel stipulated, “Or the Torah. GooOOOO, Jews!” she added like a cheerleader. “But yep. That Solomon.”
Norman looked from one twin to the other in mild surprise. “You guys are Jewish?”
Dipper shrugged. “Never really been a big deal for us. Anyway, what’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“We have fro-mage paninis de Norman-dee, and a sizzling gazpacho a la Chef Mabel!”
“Or, in other w-words,” Norman translated shyly, “just grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
“Yum. Just what a man gets in the mood for after working with a bowlful of blood for an hour.”
The taller boy’s eyes widened. “I am so st-stupid! Of course you wouldn’t want tomato soup after all that blood! S-sorry, I’ll get a different can—”
“Norm, it’s fine,” Dipper hurriedly assured him. “I was just joking. This is great. Let’s all sit down and . . . Why is Waddles in my seat?”
“If he’s sitting there, it’s not your seat,” Mabel countered.
The pig grunted something that was either “snuggle up” or “my seat, fool”.
“Whatever,” Dipper muttered, pulling up a different chair. “Tell me what you guys came up with during your back-up planning.”
Ladling soup and handing sandwiches around to everybody (including the pig), Mabel answered, “Mostly that we get weapons ready and carry them around with us. That way, we can fight our way back to Norm-Norm’s house. Y’know, if need be.”
“And . . . what weapons exactly do you think would work against the Slender Man?” her brother inquired skeptically before taking a bite of crunchy and crusty (yet also creamy) sandwich. “I mean, you saw how all the ghosts hitting it didn’t stop it.”
His eyes downcast, Norman answered, “Y-yeah . . .”
They didn’t stop what’s coming; now they’re gone. You can’t stop what’s coming; you’ll be—
Under his breath Norman, muttered, “Crumbs on Dipper’s fa—wiping crumbs off Dipper’s face.”
“What did you say?”
“I s-said they didn’t stop the Slender Man, maybe, b-but they did s-slow it down. Enough for all us to escape, at least. S-so, if we got something that’ll slow it down, we should be able to make it.”
“Especially if we take the golf cart,” Mabel interjected.
“Oh, yeah! That’s a good idea, Sis-Sis. It’s still plugged in, right?”
She shrugged as she took a spoonful. “I haven’t checked, but Soos always plugs it in.”
“Good ol’ dependable Soos,” Dipper agreed. “At least, when he’s not being kidnapped . . . Still, we should double-check on that after dinner. We want that fully powered, in case we have to use it.”
{Wouldn’t that entail going outside?} Elaine pointed out. {Where the Slender Man might be?}
Her grandson gulped. Then masked his fear by taking another spoonful of soup.
Insistently, Dipper then said, “But that brings me back to these weapons. What do we think would be effective against it? Or him? Whatever.”
“L-light. Right? Light s-seems to work. So I was th-thinking . . . a flashlight,” Norman suggested. “A really strong one.”
Mabel grinned. “When he told me that idea, I said it sounds . . . BRIGHT! Yuck yuck yuck!”
Her brother nodded thoughtfully. “I think we got just the thing in Stan’s office: One of those big lights you can also use as a club—THWAM! I think it’s called a ‘tag light’ . . . I guess because you can really tag someone with them. THWAM! Anyway, we should have fresh batteries for it in the gift shop.”
Patting a bulge on her hip, Mabel stated, “I’m sticking with my grappling hook.”
“Good idea.” Dipper slurped down the rest of his bowl, then refilled it before continuing, “Not only can we use it to clear obstacles, but the propulsion from that would be like a super punch—especially if you get him or it in the stomach or the face.”
“Plus, it’s an iron compound,” she added. “And I coated it in salt!”
“Not this again!” Norman groaned in exasperation.
Dipper looked from one to the other, then cocked an eyebrow at his sister. “Explicate, please.”
“Well, y’know how iron and salt repel spiritual things—”
“No, they don’t,” the Medium interjected dismissively.
“—according to a lot of reputable sources? Well, I was thinking—”
This time, Dipper broke in. “What reputable sources?”
“Well, um, like certain . . . wellresearchedhorrorcomedydramas,” she added in a mumbled rush. “As well as general Celtic mythol—”
“What ‘well-researched horror-comedy-dramas’?” Dipper broke in again.
“Ones . . . you’re not a fan of.”
“Such as?”
“Such as . . . ‘Preternatural’.”
Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking monster-hunting advice from that arch-weasel Pared Jadaleki?”
“I’m taking it from the writers of a show in which he happens to play a character.”
His eyes narrowed even further; they were practically closed. “You’re taking monster-hunting advice from writers who think plot development means finding a new species of shark to jump?”
“Technically, you’re not jumping a shark if you never come back down,” Mabel retorted. “And, anyway, you really need to get over this bizarre prejudice against Pared Jadaleki.”
“THERE’S NOTHING BIZARRE ABOUT IT, MABEL! HE BROKE NORI’S HEART!”
Both grandmother and grandson exchanged glances. Neither was clear what was going on, but the grandmother ventured, {Is he . . . talking about . . . the show “Gilman Gals”?}
“Correction. The character he played broke Nori’s heart. Because Pared Jadaleki is an actor.”
“Whatever,” Dipper grumbled, angrily munching into another sandwich. “Nyam! Nyam! Nyam!”
“Is this about . . . ‘Gilman Gals’?” the Medium asked, with a glance of confirmation to the ghost.
Mabel nodded. “Yep. It’s a soap opera Dipstick here—”
“It is a comedy-drama with extremely witty dialogue,” her brother interrupted petulantly.
“—got hooked on back home—”
“I HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO GET HOOKED! MOM WAS ALWAYS PLAYING IT WHEN I WAS TRYING TO DO HOMEWORK!”
Closing her mouth, Mabel gazed long and hard at her brother. Her brother, who suddenly blushed—though with personal embarrassment, or out of concern for the taboo topic he had broached by accident, it was impossible to say.
“S-sorry . . .” he eventually murmured.
“N-no . . . It’s alright,” she replied quietly. “It’s . . . It’s alright. I promise.” She cleared her throat. She wiped at her eyes. She looked away. She took a spoonful of soup. She took a deep breath, then said, “I didn’t realize that was a special thing for you and . . . you and Mom.”
Her brother nodded. “Yeah. Um . . . Like ‘Preternatural’ was for you and Dad, I guess.”
She nodded in turn at that.
The silence was only broken by Elaine (which meant that it was only broken for her grandson). {Well, it doesn’t matter how sentimentally attached we are to a series or to its actors. It they’re wrong, they’re wrong.}
“Y-yeah!” the Medium agreed. When both twins then looked his way, he stammered, “I mean, G-Grandma says if they’re wrong, then they’re . . . like, w-wrong. And the show—‘Preternatural’—is.”
“What do you mean?” both asked.
“I m-mean that iron and salt and . . . and w-whatever physical thing you want don’t actually affect ghosts.” And then, Norman even poured some salt into his palm and threw it at his grandmother. “See? No affect.”
{Normy, don’t throw food at people. Especially me.}
“Um . . .” Both twins exchanged a glance. They hadn’t actually seen anything, but decided to take his word for it. “Sure, okay.”
“D-do I need to prove it with the frying pan? That looks like it’s made of iron, too.”
{Normy, don’t hit people with iron skillets. Especially me.}
“Nah, we believe you,” Dipper assured him, turning back to his soup.
“But then . . . why does a blood seal work on them?” Mabel asked incisively.
Norman shrugged. “P-probably has more to do with the seal than the actual blood.”
“I think the blood strengthens it. Represents, like, a fricative personal sacrifice for power,” Dipper surmised. “Or maybe ‘vital sacrifice’ would be more accurate. In the old sense of the word. It’s some life force. Those kinds of sacrifices mean a lot in magic.”
“Well, either way, I’m taking my grappling hook. And it’s already coated in salt, so . . . I’ll just leave it like that. Less work than cleaning it up. Plus, it can’t hurt. And, y’know, you never know . . . maybe the salt will matter with the Slender Man.”
{Heh. Pretty sure you and I already do know that it won’t. Eh, Normy?}
The Medium smiled into his soup at the comment.
Gesturing at her backpack in the corner, Mabel continued, “I’ve also got my backpack right there full of other additional supplies you should always have with you on a monster hunt.”
Dipper looked at her skeptically. “Like what? Because if we gotta run again, we don’t want a lot of extra weight on our backs . . . Again. Like last night.”
“Mostly just—”
“How much does your goth sweater even weigh?”
Mabel waved her hand carelessly. “Not that it matters, since I’m no longer wearing it, but . . . Several ten-pound packages worth of bezazzle beads.”
“Holy ship . . .”
“Anyway, the stuff I got in my bag doesn’t weigh more than ten pounds total. And it’s all useful; it includes (but is not limited to) a couple glitter-smoke bombs, that compact silver mirror, and your canteen of holy water.”
Dipper relented at that. “Fine. Okay. Sounds good. Just keep it handy.”
“I can’t do that, Bro-Bro,” Mabel stated solemnly. “Because then it wouldn’t be a backpack . . . It’d be a HANDbag! Ba-dum chee!”
{Ugh . . . Kill me again now . . .}
“But then who’d kill me?” the Medium quipped.
Dipper chose to just ignore that objectively hilarious pun. Instead, he counted off, “Grappling hook and backpack full of the supernatural equivalent of grenades, tag light, and . . . Well, how about I take a shovel and the leaf blower?”
Elaine’s expression and tone went flat. {A leaf blower?}
“That way, I’ll have the ultimate melee weapon—think about it: a shovel is equal parts spear, axe, and sword!—and a piece of transportable wind to match Norman’s transportable light,” Dipper elaborated. “Both the Slender Man’s known weaknesses in our hands—”
{Meaning . . . a leaf blower?}
“—plus some regular weapons with which we’ve already proven ourselves fairly dangerous.”
Mabel snorted. “Name one instance you’ve proven yourself dangerous with a shovel.”
“Against the Gnomes,” Dipper answered at once.
Making the “iffy wave” gesture with her hand, Mabel replied, “Not sure the shovel part qualified as dangerous.”
“Well, I was pretty handy with a sword against Sherlock Holmes. Ergo—”
“Wax Sherlock Holmes,” she added emphatically. “And he disarmed you.”
“Okay, but I dismembered the Trickster with a sword. That was just a plastic, costume sword.”
“And then it seized you and held you captive. Dismembering it did nothing.”
“Fine, yes, but I bagged the Gremloblin.”
“Yeah, but with a morningstar, not a sword. Or a shovel, for that matter.”
“Look, I don’t have to prove my combat prowess,” Dipper snapped back. “I fought the Multibear to submission. The fracking Multibear—he named me a warrior. And that was with a bone spear, too. So when I say I’m dangerous with a shovel, we can take it as factual.”
{But is he just as dangerous with a leaf blower?}
The behatted boy continued confidently, “And, let me tell you, the Multibear has a lot more muscle and fangs and claws (and jaws and limbs, for that matter) than the Slender Man does. If it comes to a fight, I doubt I’ll have a problem holding my own.”
“You mean you doubt ‘we’ll have a problem holding our own’, right?” Mabel snarked.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you didn—”
Norman cleared his throat. “N-not to argue with your optimism, but . . . The Slender Man b-beat the Multibear. Remember? Or he must’ve, since the whole c-cave vanished.”
“Oh, right . . .” Some of the wind visibly went out of Dipper’s sails. There a shadow of doubt in his eyes. But then he straightened his back again (whether for himself, or for his sister and friend, no one could say, though it was perhaps for all of them) to confidently assert, “That just means our fight’ll be a clash of champions—the winners of the last round-robin competing to see who the number one winner will be. Except we already know it’ll be us, so . . .”
{Thanks to the leaf blower, no doubt.}
“Y-you really think a leaf blower will stop it?” the Medium finally asked for his grandmother. “I mean, for s-serious? It’s just a leaf blower.”
Mabel handed Waddles another sandwich, then shrugged. “Worked pretty well against the combined might of the Gnomes.”
“True, true,” Dipper concurred. “Plus, worse comes to worst, we can just use it like a club.”
Putting her spoon back into her near-empty bowl, Mabel asked, “Isn’t it out in the shed? And the shovel, too? Shouldn’t we go get those while we still got a little daylight left?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dipper said as he pushed himself up from the table. “Good thinking. I’ll get it now.”
{Alone?}
“N-not alone, you won’t!” Norman stated at once, jumping to his feet.
“We’ll all go,” Mabel declared, joining the boys. “Except Waddles. He needs to finish his dinner.”
A moment later, they were crossing the susurrus stretch of long grass between the Shack proper and the shed. Perhaps it was only Norman’s imagination, but it seemed to him as though the fog was curling around them. Trying to latch onto them—seize them and hold them there, out in the open. He shivered. The gloaming was upon them, and soon the sun would be completely set. Only a few minutes more daylight, and then . . .
With a creak, the shed door opened. Dipper flicked the switch, and the bulb flickered back. On. Off-on-off-on-off. On. Off-on. With each flicker, Dipper seemed to vanish from reality. Swallowed by darkness. Here. Gone-here-gone-here-gone. Here. Gone-here. But that didn’t seem to perturb Dipper; he just kept moving through the shed, looking for the shovel and the leaf blower he was so sure could help save them.
Unable to stand the flickering anymore, Norman turned away from the shed; it hurt his eyes to look inside it . . . made that nagging headache that had been bothering him all day pulse harder, too . . . Instead, he looked back at the darkening sky. The clouds were moving fast across it . . . which was strange, as there was no wind . . . And were they blowing up higher, away from the earth? But if so, the same backdraft had caught the fog, for it was also rushing upward. Enveloping the earth. Enveloping them all. Swallowing them whole.
Except . . . that wasn’t how weather behaved, was it? Was it? The headache was getting worse, making it harder to think, but still . . .
“We . . . We n-need to get back to the Shack . . .”
But the Shack seemed so far away all of a sudden. And the shed. And Mabel, even though Norman could feel her reaching out to him across the foggy space . . . Her mouth was moving now, but no sound came out . . . What could she be trying to say? She seemed worried about something . . .
No, not worried . . . Afraid.
There was another creak. Or more like a screech. Felt like it was cutting into his head. The shed? No, too distant to have come from the shed. Too unearthly, too. Familiar—so familiar . . . too familiar . . . But so horrible he couldn’t possibly have heard anything like it ever before. Not in the waking world, at least . . . But while not waking? While seeing, but not seeing? Like a door opening, it was, but no door that should ever be opened.
Which meant that it was—
LONELINESS
“Oh no . . .” he whispered.
For suddenly, he was there on Main Street. And the Cursed Door loomed open before him. Cold. So cold. So very cold. And not just before him, but before Mabel and Dipper, too.
“No . . . No no no!”
TAKE AWAY
And on the other side of the door—in side it—hanging high on the wall with heads hanging low, were all the missing kids from all the towns. And the four lost ghosts. And the Slender Man, too. Hanging from the wall, but with cadaverous hands outstretched. Reaching for the three of them.
“Nononononono!”
FOREVER
It reached through the door and seized the twins on either side of him, no matter how hard Norman tried to pull them back. His head hurt so much, too much to get full strength to pull them back. It yanked them through to join the others hanging high on the wall. Beside the Slender Man. From beneath the faceless expanse, another face seemed to push out. Shrieking? Cheering? Weeping?
“NO! GIVE THEM BACK!”
Norman tried to dive through. He had to save him—had to save them. All of them. But the fog had wrapped around his arms. So cold . . . The fog was pulling him down, holding him down, pressing him into the cold, wet grass. He struggled, moistening his neck and his cheek and his chin.
And then he remembered that Main Street was paved; there was no grass before #13.
“This . . . This isn’t real. Not real . . . Not real . . . Just a vision . . . Need to . . . to snap out of it!”
And when he looked up, he saw Dipper and Mabel. Heard their voices, and his grandmother’s. All shouting his name, all begging him to snap out of it.
“I think . . . I think he’s coming out of it!” Mabel shouted in relief.
{How many fingers am I holding up, Normy?! Can you see how many?! Let him breathe, you two, for heaven’s sake!}
“Norm?! Norm, are you alright?! It looked like you were having a seizure!”
The Medium shook his head (or tried to, but it was hard to do so while being pressed down, and the ache in made it hard to move). “Just . . . a vision . . . But, listen, we—”
{Get off of him, you two! Norman, tell them to get off of you!}
“Are they always like that?!” Mabel demanded. “You had us worried sick!”
“You started, like, convulsing around,” Dipper explained in a still panicky rush. “But while standing. And screaming. It was—”
Speaking as forcefully as he could, Norman declared, “We need to get inside . . . Now!”
That will not save you.
“Wha—”
“It’s coming! The . . . The Slender Man is coming!”
And you will be taken. Like all of the others.
Both twins fell silent, then an instant later, they were both heaving Norman onto his feet. Slinging his arms around their shoulders to help him walk. Meanwhile, his grandmother was zipping about above the three of them, surveying the trees for any sign of impending danger. {It’s . . . It’s not here yet! At least, I don’t think so—}
“I can . . . walk on my own . . .” Norman insisted breathlessly.
“You’re sure?” Dipper asked hurriedly.
{—but it’s impossible to tell with this . . . this goddamned fog!}
“Grandma! But y-yeah,” Norman reaffirmed to his friend. “I can walk.”
“Okay. You walk. I’ll get the shovel and leaf blower to cover you. Mabel, you run inside and get the defenses switched on.
“Got it, Bro-Bro!”
“Alright. Break!”
Norman took his own weight, and just stood until he had fully recovered his equilibrium. Fortunately, the headache was starting the recede, and the cold with it—he felt normal again. Meanwhile, the behatted boy spun back around to grab his weapons (tucking the shovel down the back of his vest while cocking the leaf blower at the ready like a flamethrower) and the besweatered girl bolted forward for the back door of the Shack. One second later, she was out of sight. Five seconds later, there was a flash of blinding white light and a great revving roar from the left; the spotlights and industrial-sized fans had been activated.
{Keep going, Normy dear!} Elaine shouted over the whirring din. {You can rest inside!}
Once they reached the porch, Dipper steered his friend inside before slamming the door and throwing every bolt and reinforcement he could find. Mabel was muscling furniture in front of it as a barricade before he had even started the last one. And Waddles was running around squealing, not sure what was going on, but just as effected as everyone else.
And then, Mabel looked to her brother. As did Norman. They were both pale and breathing fast, but so was he. “N-now what?” Mabel quavered.
“Now . . . we wait for the Slender Man to come.”
You will not wait long. You do not have much time left.
“He—it—is c-coming . . .” Norman stammered.
Dipper set his jaw, then nodded once. “Let. Him. Come. Or . . . it. Whatever. Let. It. Come . . . This would probably have sounded more badass if I knew whether it’s ‘him’ or ‘it’ . . .”

Description
The old man had been removed, as had the man-child and the ax girl. The family was pacified. All these primary supports to the obstacle were gone, but an accidental one might arise by a chance encounter if people were allowed to wander about town during their vain search for those who had been taken away.
It was, therefore, time to make the fifth ripple.
On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.
****
“Did you search down Rocky Mountain Road?”
Wearily, the response came, “Yes, O Keeper.”
“You . . . really need not call me that any longer,” Samuel Turley reminded the goth before him.
The only response that received was a shrug. After all, once a Keeper of the Precepts . . .
“And, um . . . What does this map say? ‘Appalachian Avenue’? Did you search down that, too?”
“Yes, we did. And we ran into Joseph and Josephine on it.”
“Then what about—”
“Yes, O Keeper,” the goth cut in impatiently. “Whatever you’re about to say, we looked there. And probably one of the other pairs of goths, too. And probably those adults in, like, clothing from Costmo or Trawlmart or whatever store. We’ve looked freakin’ everywhere, and . . . and I’m just done. We’ve spent all day—all freakin’ day—doing this, and I’m just done.”
There was a murmur of assent from the circle of goths surrounding them. A weary one, for most had spent over eight hours that day tramping up and down all the streets in Gravity Falls. But to no avail; Kennedy Jenkins (aka Ebony Ravenspath, aka the Former Grand Goth) remained unfound—him/her, and all the others who had vanished that week. Which made a failure of that long and weary day.
“But . . . But we must have missed someplace!” the no-longer-but-still Keeper of the Precepts affirmed desperately. “We must have, or we would have found her/him!”
Even steadfast Paul Oftarzis was flagging fast. “Samuel . . . They have searched everywhere. You and I were the ones to organize and assign them. Remember?”
You will never find the ones you seek. They are all dead already. You should just give up hope.
“We’re wasting our time . . .” someone grumbled. “She/He is long gone . . .”
“Yeah. No way the kidnapper would just, like, keep all those kids locked up in a basement in the middle of suburbia.”
“I bet they killed all the kids. Probably ate them, too.”
Samuel Turley stamped his foot in impotent fury. “NO! I refuse to believe that’s true! We just have to keep looking!”
“Where? Where haven’t we searched already?”
“Us and those adults with, like, the police.”
“One of ‘em fell over when they saw me. Must be the fog—makes people jumpy.”
“Yeah, well, you got off lucky. One of the cops, she—”
“WE CANNOT GIVE UP!” Samuel Turley burst out angrily. “WE CANNOT JUST ABANDON ONE OF OUR OWN! WE . . . We . . . we have to . . .”
All the goths looked at the boy in the long cloak pityingly. It was like watching a balloon (a black one, with skulls on it) deflate. Slowly, his shoulders hunched, his knees buckled, and he just . . . sort of sagged onto a bus bench and buried his face in his hands. It was painful to watch.
For a long moment, no one said anything. Then one person cleared their throat. Another murmured, “Awwwkwwward . . .” And another (then another and another) began to shuffle away from the group.
A few looks and meaningful nods back to the parking lot were exchanged with Paul Oftarzis, and he signaled his understanding. Then, stepping up to Samuel Turley and laying a hand on his shoulder, Paul Oftarzis said, “We have done all we could. It just . . . There was just never anything we could do . . . He/She is almost certainly . . . um . . . F-for that, I am truly sorry. For your loss. But now, I need to lead my consortium back home.”
“And, uh . . . I’m just . . . gonna go home now, too,” someone from Gravity Falls added.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“And me.”
“Sorry K.P., but . . . yeah.”
On his park bench of regrets, Samuel Turley looked up to see everyone walking away. To their cars or to their homes. In less than a minute, they had all disappeared into the fog.
Then, he was alone . . .
He buried his face his in his hands again and wept.
****
The standard set by the old family saying “A Northwest must look their best” had certainly been lowered in recent days; with hair that was almost unkempt (and barely kempt as it was), faces that were not receiving their daily moisturizer, and the same set of clothes they’d put on after breakfast that day (without taking the time to change them after lunch—like savages), both Mister and Missus Northwest looked haggard. Relatively speaking. Granted, their haggardness could not hold a candle to that of Sheriff Blubbs’ or Deputy Durland’s, but it was still pretty haggard for people with a live-in combination beautician and masseur (who, naturally, was named Sergiorgio Pavoloreal). If asked to account for this only relative haggardness, they no doubt would have said something testy along the lines of, “We might have lowered our standards this week, but we still had some to begin with.”
One would have to forgive them their testiness, though. After all, it had been five days since their business operations had completely halted while still costing them full employee salaries across the board (plus overtime); they were positively hemorrhaging money.
Oh, yes, and it had been five days since their daughter had disappeared. That, too. Of course.
And, to top it all off, the town had suddenly been overrun with goth teenagers. The coordinated police-Northwest search parties couldn’t search down an alley without tripping over two pairs of them. Which had been highly unsettling for everyone involved, given how this annoyingly persistent fog seemed to lend itself to accidental jump scares (his adult employees being frightened by the goth teens, and the goth teens apparently being frightened by the looming specter of social conformity represented by working adults in jeans and jackets purchased from mainstream retailors . . . and also occasionally having a firearm drawn on them by a startled, sleep-deprived police officer). And unsettled employees were NOT efficient employees.
“Benjamin,” Mister Northwest snapped. “Remind me: How close is the weather machine project to completion?”
“Last I checked with your scientists, sir, they assured me that they’re still at least five years away from effective control of the weather.”
“Blast it! What’s the point of being rich if we cannot bend the forces of nature to our will? Well, no matter. Get me the walkie-talkie; I wish to speak with the Sheriff.”
“Very good, sir.”
Benjamin’s hands shook ever so slightly as he proffered the device on a silver tray. The past days had been especially hard on him. He had barely slept, and been so full of nervous energy that he had sharpened the cutlery so often that most of the knives were half their original width … but twice their original sharpness; he had accidentally sliced through the cutting board while preparing cucumber sandwiches for Friday’s search party meeting.
The second Mister Northwest was on the line, he demanded, “Blubbs, why is my town overrun with goths today?”
The crackling response that came back was, “They seem to be conducting an independent search for Kennedy Jenkins, sir.”
“Well, they’re impeding our search for Pacifica. And the other children, I suppose. Can’t your people do something about them?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not?! What do you think I’m paying you for?!”
“Technically, you don’t. We’re allocated funds by the City Council out of local and state taxes—”
“And whose taxes make up 51% of all revenue received by this town, do you think?!” Mister Northwest burst out dragonishly. “That means I pay a controlling majority of your ‘allocated funds’! And might just decide to move my operations to Woodbury!”
“. . . You make a compelling legal argument, Mister Mayor. What would you like me to do?”
“Have them detained! Get them out of the way!”
“On what grounds? They’re not breaking any laws, Mister Mayor.”
“Surely you can trump up some charges.”
“Against dozens of teens?”
“If that’s what it takes! My people keep tripping over them all over town and—”
The children are not in town. They must be being held somewhere deep out in the woods.
Removing his finger from the walkie-talkie’s call button, Mister Northwest disconnected. For a lone moment, he stood there in deep in contemplation.
Then, behind him, Benjamin cleared his throat drily. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if I might take the liberty of suggesting an idea I just had?”
“Hmm?”
“It seems to me, sir, that Miss Pacifica must not be held captive in town or about the outskirts. Else we surely would have found her by now—after five days of intensive searching, sir.”
His employer’s jaw dropped. “Benjamin, you marvel, I was just thinking that!”
“So it would stand to reason, would it not, that she (and the other poor barins) must be captive somewhere further out of town?”
“Yes! Yes! Deeper in the woods!” Mister Northwest deduced. “But still not too far, because whatever monster is responsible for this has continued to abduct a child a day!”
“And they couldn’t risk leaving the children unsupervised for long, sir—”
“Because they might get loose and escape, or someone might pass by and notice something!”
“Exactly, sir! Unless . . .” And Benjamin trailed off at that, thinking it was best not pursue the train of thought that whomever was responsible might have already guaranteed in a permanent way that the children would not cause any trouble. He simply could not bear such a thought at that time.
Fortunately for him and his awkward pause, Missus Northwest came bursting in at the moment. “I just had an idea!” she shouted excitedly. “What if we’re wasting our time searching in town? What if we need to search—”
“Deep in the woods?” Mister Northwest finished her sentence. “Yes, I had just thought of—”
Suddenly, the walkie-talkie crackled into life, and Blubbs excited voice was shouting, “My darling Durland here just had the most genius idea! They must not be in town—the kids must not be in town—because then we’d already’ve found them! So they must be hidden somewhere in the woods!”
“My thoughts precisely!” Mister Northwest exclaimed into it. “Blubbs, get on the search party frequency at once! We need to inform all parties out there to move outward into the woods! At once! Not just around the outskirts of town, but further afield! Special priority for searching any structures or cabins or what have you! They are authorized to kick down the doors!”
“. . . Um, I think we’d need a search warrant to do—”
“I’m not paying you to think, Blubbs. Besides, I’ll handle any legal entanglements.”
“But ifen we find ‘em durin’ a unlawful search ‘n’ seizure, the perp walks!” Durland protested into the walkie-talkie. “I saw it on a episode of ‘CSI: Oklahoma City’, so it must be true!”
“I said I will handle any legal entanglements!” Mister Northwest barked. “Now get out there and get them out there!” Then, with that, he disconnected the call and slammed it back onto Benjamin’s silver tray.
Not a sound filled the room—not a sound, save for his heavy, shallow breathing.
Eventually, Missus Northwest ventured, “The deputy makes a good point. Do we want to risk letting the monster that dared kidnap our daughter escape justice?”
“That animal will not escape justice,” her husband answered in a low, quiet voice. Like the growl of a feral beast from within a gilded cage (which hadn’t yet received its weekly polishing). “I’m sure someone will . . . take the liberty . . . of making sure they don’t.”
Missus Northwest gulped. She stole a glance at the family butler, who had just set the silver tray with the walkie-talkie within his employer’s easy reach.
Benjamin’s preamble was as imperturbable as had been all of his actions seven short days ago. Before . . . all this unpleasantness with Miss Pacifica’s disappearance. “If you will excuse me, sir, ma’am. I must go and see to my preparations for this evening . . . ’s meal.”
Mister Northwest nodded curtly once.
Seemingly in the blink of an eye, Benjamin had vanished from the room.
****
When Dipper reentered the kitchen, he had blood on his hands and a broad smile on his face. “Heh. If Gideon were half as clever as we are, there’s no way he would’ve been taken.”
“Finished your blood seals? Took you a while,” his sister commented.
“Yeah, well, they’re kinda intricate. You gotta get them just right, so you have to be careful when you paint them. They’re drying now, but should be ready to use in a few minutes.”
“Huh . . . Makes you wonder who first thought them up, and how,” Norman voiced aloud. “Like, was there this one guy who kept being plagued by demons and ghosts so regularly, he could sit down and experiment with different . . . What are they, even?”
Washing his hands at the sink, the behatted boy shrugged. “Formulas? Incantations? Designs? Whatever they’re called, it was probably Solomon who figured hem out.”
{Solomon? As in “King Solomon”?} Elaine asked, even as she claimed a spot in the corner and resumed her knitting. {From the Bible?}
Once the Medium had relayed that inquiry, Mabel stipulated, “Or the Torah. GooOOOO, Jews!” she added like a cheerleader. “But yep. That Solomon.”
Norman looked from one twin to the other in mild surprise. “You guys are Jewish?”
Dipper shrugged. “Never really been a big deal for us. Anyway, what’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“We have fro-mage paninis de Norman-dee, and a sizzling gazpacho a la Chef Mabel!”
“Or, in other w-words,” Norman translated shyly, “just grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
“Yum. Just what a man gets in the mood for after working with a bowlful of blood for an hour.”
The taller boy’s eyes widened. “I am so st-stupid! Of course you wouldn’t want tomato soup after all that blood! S-sorry, I’ll get a different can—”
“Norm, it’s fine,” Dipper hurriedly assured him. “I was just joking. This is great. Let’s all sit down and . . . Why is Waddles in my seat?”
“If he’s sitting there, it’s not your seat,” Mabel countered.
The pig grunted something that was either “snuggle up” or “my seat, fool”.
“Whatever,” Dipper muttered, pulling up a different chair. “Tell me what you guys came up with during your back-up planning.”
Ladling soup and handing sandwiches around to everybody (including the pig), Mabel answered, “Mostly that we get weapons ready and carry them around with us. That way, we can fight our way back to Norm-Norm’s house. Y’know, if need be.”
“And . . . what weapons exactly do you think would work against the Slender Man?” her brother inquired skeptically before taking a bite of crunchy and crusty (yet also creamy) sandwich. “I mean, you saw how all the ghosts hitting it didn’t stop it.”
His eyes downcast, Norman answered, “Y-yeah . . .”
They didn’t stop what’s coming; now they’re gone. You can’t stop what’s coming; you’ll be—
Under his breath Norman, muttered, “Crumbs on Dipper’s fa—wiping crumbs off Dipper’s face.”
“What did you say?”
“I s-said they didn’t stop the Slender Man, maybe, b-but they did s-slow it down. Enough for all us to escape, at least. S-so, if we got something that’ll slow it down, we should be able to make it.”
“Especially if we take the golf cart,” Mabel interjected.
“Oh, yeah! That’s a good idea, Sis-Sis. It’s still plugged in, right?”
She shrugged as she took a spoonful. “I haven’t checked, but Soos always plugs it in.”
“Good ol’ dependable Soos,” Dipper agreed. “At least, when he’s not being kidnapped . . . Still, we should double-check on that after dinner. We want that fully powered, in case we have to use it.”
{Wouldn’t that entail going outside?} Elaine pointed out. {Where the Slender Man might be?}
Her grandson gulped. Then masked his fear by taking another spoonful of soup.
Insistently, Dipper then said, “But that brings me back to these weapons. What do we think would be effective against it? Or him? Whatever.”
“L-light. Right? Light s-seems to work. So I was th-thinking . . . a flashlight,” Norman suggested. “A really strong one.”
Mabel grinned. “When he told me that idea, I said it sounds . . . BRIGHT! Yuck yuck yuck!”
Her brother nodded thoughtfully. “I think we got just the thing in Stan’s office: One of those big lights you can also use as a club—THWAM! I think it’s called a ‘tag light’ . . . I guess because you can really tag someone with them. THWAM! Anyway, we should have fresh batteries for it in the gift shop.”
Patting a bulge on her hip, Mabel stated, “I’m sticking with my grappling hook.”
“Good idea.” Dipper slurped down the rest of his bowl, then refilled it before continuing, “Not only can we use it to clear obstacles, but the propulsion from that would be like a super punch—especially if you get him or it in the stomach or the face.”
“Plus, it’s an iron compound,” she added. “And I coated it in salt!”
“Not this again!” Norman groaned in exasperation.
Dipper looked from one to the other, then cocked an eyebrow at his sister. “Explicate, please.”
“Well, y’know how iron and salt repel spiritual things—”
“No, they don’t,” the Medium interjected dismissively.
“—according to a lot of reputable sources? Well, I was thinking—”
This time, Dipper broke in. “What reputable sources?”
“Well, um, like certain . . . wellresearchedhorrorcomedydramas,” she added in a mumbled rush. “As well as general Celtic mythol—”
“What ‘well-researched horror-comedy-dramas’?” Dipper broke in again.
“Ones . . . you’re not a fan of.”
“Such as?”
“Such as . . . ‘Preternatural’.”
Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking monster-hunting advice from that arch-weasel Pared Jadaleki?”
“I’m taking it from the writers of a show in which he happens to play a character.”
His eyes narrowed even further; they were practically closed. “You’re taking monster-hunting advice from writers who think plot development means finding a new species of shark to jump?”
“Technically, you’re not jumping a shark if you never come back down,” Mabel retorted. “And, anyway, you really need to get over this bizarre prejudice against Pared Jadaleki.”
“THERE’S NOTHING BIZARRE ABOUT IT, MABEL! HE BROKE NORI’S HEART!”
Both grandmother and grandson exchanged glances. Neither was clear what was going on, but the grandmother ventured, {Is he . . . talking about . . . the show “Gilman Gals”?}
“Correction. The character he played broke Nori’s heart. Because Pared Jadaleki is an actor.”
“Whatever,” Dipper grumbled, angrily munching into another sandwich. “Nyam! Nyam! Nyam!”
“Is this about . . . ‘Gilman Gals’?” the Medium asked, with a glance of confirmation to the ghost.
Mabel nodded. “Yep. It’s a soap opera Dipstick here—”
“It is a comedy-drama with extremely witty dialogue,” her brother interrupted petulantly.
“—got hooked on back home—”
“I HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO GET HOOKED! MOM WAS ALWAYS PLAYING IT WHEN I WAS TRYING TO DO HOMEWORK!”
Closing her mouth, Mabel gazed long and hard at her brother. Her brother, who suddenly blushed—though with personal embarrassment, or out of concern for the taboo topic he had broached by accident, it was impossible to say.
“S-sorry . . .” he eventually murmured.
“N-no . . . It’s alright,” she replied quietly. “It’s . . . It’s alright. I promise.” She cleared her throat. She wiped at her eyes. She looked away. She took a spoonful of soup. She took a deep breath, then said, “I didn’t realize that was a special thing for you and . . . you and Mom.”
Her brother nodded. “Yeah. Um . . . Like ‘Preternatural’ was for you and Dad, I guess.”
She nodded in turn at that.
The silence was only broken by Elaine (which meant that it was only broken for her grandson). {Well, it doesn’t matter how sentimentally attached we are to a series or to its actors. It they’re wrong, they’re wrong.}
“Y-yeah!” the Medium agreed. When both twins then looked his way, he stammered, “I mean, G-Grandma says if they’re wrong, then they’re . . . like, w-wrong. And the show—‘Preternatural’—is.”
“What do you mean?” both asked.
“I m-mean that iron and salt and . . . and w-whatever physical thing you want don’t actually affect ghosts.” And then, Norman even poured some salt into his palm and threw it at his grandmother. “See? No affect.”
{Normy, don’t throw food at people. Especially me.}
“Um . . .” Both twins exchanged a glance. They hadn’t actually seen anything, but decided to take his word for it. “Sure, okay.”
“D-do I need to prove it with the frying pan? That looks like it’s made of iron, too.”
{Normy, don’t hit people with iron skillets. Especially me.}
“Nah, we believe you,” Dipper assured him, turning back to his soup.
“But then . . . why does a blood seal work on them?” Mabel asked incisively.
Norman shrugged. “P-probably has more to do with the seal than the actual blood.”
“I think the blood strengthens it. Represents, like, a fricative personal sacrifice for power,” Dipper surmised. “Or maybe ‘vital sacrifice’ would be more accurate. In the old sense of the word. It’s some life force. Those kinds of sacrifices mean a lot in magic.”
“Well, either way, I’m taking my grappling hook. And it’s already coated in salt, so . . . I’ll just leave it like that. Less work than cleaning it up. Plus, it can’t hurt. And, y’know, you never know . . . maybe the salt will matter with the Slender Man.”
{Heh. Pretty sure you and I already do know that it won’t. Eh, Normy?}
The Medium smiled into his soup at the comment.
Gesturing at her backpack in the corner, Mabel continued, “I’ve also got my backpack right there full of other additional supplies you should always have with you on a monster hunt.”
Dipper looked at her skeptically. “Like what? Because if we gotta run again, we don’t want a lot of extra weight on our backs . . . Again. Like last night.”
“Mostly just—”
“How much does your goth sweater even weigh?”
Mabel waved her hand carelessly. “Not that it matters, since I’m no longer wearing it, but . . . Several ten-pound packages worth of bezazzle beads.”
“Holy ship . . .”
“Anyway, the stuff I got in my bag doesn’t weigh more than ten pounds total. And it’s all useful; it includes (but is not limited to) a couple glitter-smoke bombs, that compact silver mirror, and your canteen of holy water.”
Dipper relented at that. “Fine. Okay. Sounds good. Just keep it handy.”
“I can’t do that, Bro-Bro,” Mabel stated solemnly. “Because then it wouldn’t be a backpack . . . It’d be a HANDbag! Ba-dum chee!”
{Ugh . . . Kill me again now . . .}
“But then who’d kill me?” the Medium quipped.
Dipper chose to just ignore that objectively hilarious pun. Instead, he counted off, “Grappling hook and backpack full of the supernatural equivalent of grenades, tag light, and . . . Well, how about I take a shovel and the leaf blower?”
Elaine’s expression and tone went flat. {A leaf blower?}
“That way, I’ll have the ultimate melee weapon—think about it: a shovel is equal parts spear, axe, and sword!—and a piece of transportable wind to match Norman’s transportable light,” Dipper elaborated. “Both the Slender Man’s known weaknesses in our hands—”
{Meaning . . . a leaf blower?}
“—plus some regular weapons with which we’ve already proven ourselves fairly dangerous.”
Mabel snorted. “Name one instance you’ve proven yourself dangerous with a shovel.”
“Against the Gnomes,” Dipper answered at once.
Making the “iffy wave” gesture with her hand, Mabel replied, “Not sure the shovel part qualified as dangerous.”
“Well, I was pretty handy with a sword against Sherlock Holmes. Ergo—”
“Wax Sherlock Holmes,” she added emphatically. “And he disarmed you.”
“Okay, but I dismembered the Trickster with a sword. That was just a plastic, costume sword.”
“And then it seized you and held you captive. Dismembering it did nothing.”
“Fine, yes, but I bagged the Gremloblin.”
“Yeah, but with a morningstar, not a sword. Or a shovel, for that matter.”
“Look, I don’t have to prove my combat prowess,” Dipper snapped back. “I fought the Multibear to submission. The fracking Multibear—he named me a warrior. And that was with a bone spear, too. So when I say I’m dangerous with a shovel, we can take it as factual.”
{But is he just as dangerous with a leaf blower?}
The behatted boy continued confidently, “And, let me tell you, the Multibear has a lot more muscle and fangs and claws (and jaws and limbs, for that matter) than the Slender Man does. If it comes to a fight, I doubt I’ll have a problem holding my own.”
“You mean you doubt ‘we’ll have a problem holding our own’, right?” Mabel snarked.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you didn—”
Norman cleared his throat. “N-not to argue with your optimism, but . . . The Slender Man b-beat the Multibear. Remember? Or he must’ve, since the whole c-cave vanished.”
“Oh, right . . .” Some of the wind visibly went out of Dipper’s sails. There a shadow of doubt in his eyes. But then he straightened his back again (whether for himself, or for his sister and friend, no one could say, though it was perhaps for all of them) to confidently assert, “That just means our fight’ll be a clash of champions—the winners of the last round-robin competing to see who the number one winner will be. Except we already know it’ll be us, so . . .”
{Thanks to the leaf blower, no doubt.}
“Y-you really think a leaf blower will stop it?” the Medium finally asked for his grandmother. “I mean, for s-serious? It’s just a leaf blower.”
Mabel handed Waddles another sandwich, then shrugged. “Worked pretty well against the combined might of the Gnomes.”
“True, true,” Dipper concurred. “Plus, worse comes to worst, we can just use it like a club.”
Putting her spoon back into her near-empty bowl, Mabel asked, “Isn’t it out in the shed? And the shovel, too? Shouldn’t we go get those while we still got a little daylight left?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dipper said as he pushed himself up from the table. “Good thinking. I’ll get it now.”
{Alone?}
“N-not alone, you won’t!” Norman stated at once, jumping to his feet.
“We’ll all go,” Mabel declared, joining the boys. “Except Waddles. He needs to finish his dinner.”
A moment later, they were crossing the susurrus stretch of long grass between the Shack proper and the shed. Perhaps it was only Norman’s imagination, but it seemed to him as though the fog was curling around them. Trying to latch onto them—seize them and hold them there, out in the open. He shivered. The gloaming was upon them, and soon the sun would be completely set. Only a few minutes more daylight, and then . . .
With a creak, the shed door opened. Dipper flicked the switch, and the bulb flickered back. On. Off-on-off-on-off. On. Off-on. With each flicker, Dipper seemed to vanish from reality. Swallowed by darkness. Here. Gone-here-gone-here-gone. Here. Gone-here. But that didn’t seem to perturb Dipper; he just kept moving through the shed, looking for the shovel and the leaf blower he was so sure could help save them.
Unable to stand the flickering anymore, Norman turned away from the shed; it hurt his eyes to look inside it . . . made that nagging headache that had been bothering him all day pulse harder, too . . . Instead, he looked back at the darkening sky. The clouds were moving fast across it . . . which was strange, as there was no wind . . . And were they blowing up higher, away from the earth? But if so, the same backdraft had caught the fog, for it was also rushing upward. Enveloping the earth. Enveloping them all. Swallowing them whole.
Except . . . that wasn’t how weather behaved, was it? Was it? The headache was getting worse, making it harder to think, but still . . .
“We . . . We n-need to get back to the Shack . . .”
But the Shack seemed so far away all of a sudden. And the shed. And Mabel, even though Norman could feel her reaching out to him across the foggy space . . . Her mouth was moving now, but no sound came out . . . What could she be trying to say? She seemed worried about something . . .
No, not worried . . . Afraid.
There was another creak. Or more like a screech. Felt like it was cutting into his head. The shed? No, too distant to have come from the shed. Too unearthly, too. Familiar—so familiar . . . too familiar . . . But so horrible he couldn’t possibly have heard anything like it ever before. Not in the waking world, at least . . . But while not waking? While seeing, but not seeing? Like a door opening, it was, but no door that should ever be opened.
Which meant that it was—
LONELINESS
“Oh no . . .” he whispered.
For suddenly, he was there on Main Street. And the Cursed Door loomed open before him. Cold. So cold. So very cold. And not just before him, but before Mabel and Dipper, too.
“No . . . No no no!”
TAKE AWAY
And on the other side of the door—in side it—hanging high on the wall with heads hanging low, were all the missing kids from all the towns. And the four lost ghosts. And the Slender Man, too. Hanging from the wall, but with cadaverous hands outstretched. Reaching for the three of them.
“Nononononono!”
FOREVER
It reached through the door and seized the twins on either side of him, no matter how hard Norman tried to pull them back. His head hurt so much, too much to get full strength to pull them back. It yanked them through to join the others hanging high on the wall. Beside the Slender Man. From beneath the faceless expanse, another face seemed to push out. Shrieking? Cheering? Weeping?
“NO! GIVE THEM BACK!”
Norman tried to dive through. He had to save him—had to save them. All of them. But the fog had wrapped around his arms. So cold . . . The fog was pulling him down, holding him down, pressing him into the cold, wet grass. He struggled, moistening his neck and his cheek and his chin.
And then he remembered that Main Street was paved; there was no grass before #13.
“This . . . This isn’t real. Not real . . . Not real . . . Just a vision . . . Need to . . . to snap out of it!”
And when he looked up, he saw Dipper and Mabel. Heard their voices, and his grandmother’s. All shouting his name, all begging him to snap out of it.
“I think . . . I think he’s coming out of it!” Mabel shouted in relief.
{How many fingers am I holding up, Normy?! Can you see how many?! Let him breathe, you two, for heaven’s sake!}
“Norm?! Norm, are you alright?! It looked like you were having a seizure!”
The Medium shook his head (or tried to, but it was hard to do so while being pressed down, and the ache in made it hard to move). “Just . . . a vision . . . But, listen, we—”
{Get off of him, you two! Norman, tell them to get off of you!}
“Are they always like that?!” Mabel demanded. “You had us worried sick!”
“You started, like, convulsing around,” Dipper explained in a still panicky rush. “But while standing. And screaming. It was—”
Speaking as forcefully as he could, Norman declared, “We need to get inside . . . Now!”
That will not save you.
“Wha—”
“It’s coming! The . . . The Slender Man is coming!”
And you will be taken. Like all of the others.
Both twins fell silent, then an instant later, they were both heaving Norman onto his feet. Slinging his arms around their shoulders to help him walk. Meanwhile, his grandmother was zipping about above the three of them, surveying the trees for any sign of impending danger. {It’s . . . It’s not here yet! At least, I don’t think so—}
“I can . . . walk on my own . . .” Norman insisted breathlessly.
“You’re sure?” Dipper asked hurriedly.
{—but it’s impossible to tell with this . . . this goddamned fog!}
“Grandma! But y-yeah,” Norman reaffirmed to his friend. “I can walk.”
“Okay. You walk. I’ll get the shovel and leaf blower to cover you. Mabel, you run inside and get the defenses switched on.
“Got it, Bro-Bro!”
“Alright. Break!”
Norman took his own weight, and just stood until he had fully recovered his equilibrium. Fortunately, the headache was starting the recede, and the cold with it—he felt normal again. Meanwhile, the behatted boy spun back around to grab his weapons (tucking the shovel down the back of his vest while cocking the leaf blower at the ready like a flamethrower) and the besweatered girl bolted forward for the back door of the Shack. One second later, she was out of sight. Five seconds later, there was a flash of blinding white light and a great revving roar from the left; the spotlights and industrial-sized fans had been activated.
{Keep going, Normy dear!} Elaine shouted over the whirring din. {You can rest inside!}
Once they reached the porch, Dipper steered his friend inside before slamming the door and throwing every bolt and reinforcement he could find. Mabel was muscling furniture in front of it as a barricade before he had even started the last one. And Waddles was running around squealing, not sure what was going on, but just as effected as everyone else.
And then, Mabel looked to her brother. As did Norman. They were both pale and breathing fast, but so was he. “N-now what?” Mabel quavered.
“Now . . . we wait for the Slender Man to come.”
You will not wait long. You do not have much time left.
“He—it—is c-coming . . .” Norman stammered.
Dipper set his jaw, then nodded once. “Let. Him. Come. Or . . . it. Whatever. Let. It. Come . . . This would probably have sounded more badass if I knew whether it’s ‘him’ or ‘it’ . . .”