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{ The season is spring and Dipper Pines is twenty-one years, three months, two weeks, and four days old. He has wavy brown hair, a face that looks no older than sixteen, and a birthmark of a famous constellation on his forehead. His hair, at this exact moment, is being blown back by the wind coming in through the open window of the minivan – one that is painted with stripes: red and blue. It’s very American, he thinks.
Outside there is a meadow that stretches so far that Dipper can only imagine how long it would take to skip around the whole place. He sees dandelions and daisies planted near the road. He sees a little wooden house from afar; it looks almost like a wigwam.
The boy beside Dipper busily driving while ignoring visions of men with greenish hues is of the name Norman Babcock, of the Massachusetts Babcocks. He has black hair that defies gravity and, as suggested by his visions, eyes that can see a little more than normal eyes provide. He is also exactly one year, one month, and one day younger than Dipper: a fact that is always rubbed into Norman’s face.
This particular day of driving to who-knows-where is one of many days of wandering that will come to pass. The words “let’s go somewhere” is how it all started. Dipper is the one who said it, months ago. Norman just agreed without question.
+
Dipper is five years, seven months, one week, and one day old when he solves his first mystery.
His height is three feet, seven inches. Not enough to grab that cookie jar shaped like Cookie Monster’s head kept high up in the kitchen cupboard. He always stares at it, longing, drooling, with his tiny fingers fixed on the counter. His mother usually ends up giving him a piece, and it always gets him jumping.
Today, Dipper goes into the kitchen to discover that the cookie jar is not in its proper place.
He wants to ask his mother about it, but she’s busy talking to Mrs. Fernandez at the dining table. He is pulling the hem of her shirt. He doesn’t say anything; he just keeps pulling.
“Not now, Dipper,” his mother says, ruffling his hair.
Dipper obeys, like the obedient child that he is. He crosses his arms and sits under the table without his mother noticing. He just sits there, contemplates.
Catching his eye, though, are those crumbs leading out of the kitchen. Cookie crumbs, from the looks of it. Dipper’s mouth falls open.
Of course he follows it. He follows the trail until he reaches a dead end. There are no more crumbs in the living room. The culprit must have stopped eating.
He’s figured it out, though. There’s little to think about when he sees the broom closet half open.
He opens the door, fully, in an abrupt motion.
“Cookie!” he yells, seeing his twin sister whose mouth is smothered with crumbs and cream.
Mabel giggles.
+
Norman is but a few seconds old, and already he’s been dubbed as one of the biggest mysteries that has ever sprung out of Blithe Hollow.
When he lets out his first cry, his mother’s heart monitor starts going haywire and breaks. When the doctor yells out, “It's a boy!” the fluorescent lights spark; they turn on and turn off, snappishly, like lightning. Dogs then start howling all around the town as soon as his mother cradles him for the very first time.
What is most curious, however, is that rainbow in the sky – the one shaped like a question mark. The clock has just struck one. A couple of guys are locking up Witchy Weiners after a hard day’s work. They see it: A sudden light piercing; dark clouds giving way to colors; a punctuation mark matching the expression on their faces.
No one has ever solved Norman’s case, and probably no one will.
} { Norman puts on his shirt before he opens the door to get sout of the van. He had woken up to see a note on their windshield. It’s a pink paper with letters cut up from a magazine pasted on it to spell the words: “Guess who.”
Dipper is still dozing off, his snore loud enough to hear from the outside. They are in California, some distance away from Los Angeles. They’re sleeping at a stopover, a dreary place with a water station for cars and a bathroom for patrons.
Norman scratches his head, thinks. “Who the hell—“ he mutters. He hears a car engine start. He turns his head to see a red car rushing off. Norman’s eyebrows furrow. He looks at the paper, double takes at nothing, and again says, “—who the hell.”
+
} { 001. Cases in Full Bloom
+
Their first mystery earns them about $25 000. They never intended to solve any sort of case, at first, but the opportunity was too tempting to resist. For Dipper, at least.
When they hear about the island of the werewolf, Dipper immediately demands that they go there. Norman tries to convince him otherwise. “I dunno, man,” he says. “Werewolves are supposed to be freaky.” Dipper glares at him, puts a hand at the side of Norman’s stomach, and squeezes. “That is exactly why we have to go.”
Lupo Island is located somewhere off the coast of Mississippi. Dipper and Norman arrive there with their van via ferry. Immediately, they see the towers, covered partially by a multitude of trees.
All the cars are led to the castle by a black SUV. It takes about twenty minutes for them to get through the woods.
“No ghosts so far, Norm?” Dipper asks, as they get down the van with their duffel bags.
“None,” Norman says. He studies the place, worried. He sees the castle made of dark red bricks. He sees the sign made of stone that says: “Welcome to Lupo Island Hotel.” He sees the patrons, most of whom are either older couples or families of four. They are all getting down from their cars, readying their digital cameras to take some tourist typical pictures.
Dipper takes Norman’s hand. “C’mon,” he says, pulling. “We don’t wanna miss Mr. Jacobson’s story.”
Today there is a full moon, and during the days when there’s a full moon, Lupa Island Hotel’s owner, 50-year-old bachelor Mr. Evan Jacobson, holds a special gathering in one of their many function rooms. There, he recounts to all his benefactors the story of the werewolves.
“I heard Jacobson’s good friends with one.”
“I heard he was good friends with a lot of them.”
“I heard that at midnight, you’ll hear the wolf howling.”
“I heard it walks the halls trying to look for something to eat.”
“I heard it’s poppycock.”
“No, no! It’s true!”
Everyone is sitting on an assigned table in the function room, which is an extravagant sight, with its chandeliers, its elaborate bejeweled decorations, and its weaponry displays. “This is so cool,” Dipper says, talking right into Norman’s ear.
“Yeah, sure,” Norman says.
They all wait. Murmurs cover the room like a swarm of bees.
“What if Jacobson’s a werewolf? What if he comes out and eats us?”
“Do werewolves eat people?”
“I don’t know!”
“I heard they suck up your blood.”
“Aren’t you talking about vampires?”
“Vampires! Are there vampires here too?”
“Everyone settle down!” one of the butlers says, as he speaks through the microphone at the center of the room.
Getting impatient, Norman keeps his eyes on the pathway leading out of the room. He notices a bearded man dressed in a suit come in. He thinks that it is probably Mr. Jacobson, but then he hears a butler say: “Good evening, Mr. Murphy.”
A man and a woman enter. The man is dressed in a tightly fitted brown suit, while the woman is dressed in a purple cocktail dress. “Mr. Sharpton, Mrs. Sharpton,” a butler says.
“Pfft,” Norman complains.
They sit there for about an hour. Dipper keeps himself busy with the book he bought entitled “Lycanthropy.” He blurts out random “did-you-knows,” which Norman listens to attentively, as he has nothing better to do.
One of the butlers keeps going in and out of the function room, Norman notices. One of the older butlers is sweating. He is shaking his head. “Dear God,” he says, as he wipes his forehead with a white handkerchief.
He looks hesitant when he starts speaking on the microphone again.
“Dear guests,” he says, with a gulp. “I am—I regret—“
“Whatever is the matter, Willford?” the man called Mr. Sharpton says.
“I—“
Dipper leans into Norman’s ear, whispers: “What’s up with that guy?”
“I—“ Willford gulps again. “I regret to inform everyone that tonight’s event will not push through.”
“Why not?” Mr. Sharpton exclaims, prompting several murmurs from several of the other guests.
“Mr. Jacobson has—Mr. Jacobson has passed on.”
Norman’s eyebrows furrow. “What he say now?” Dipper says.
“He is in his room—“ he pauses, gulps, falters. “Dead.”
Norman’s eyes widen.
The whole room erupts.
+
There are mysteries like that: ones they don’t see coming. There are those, though, that they walk right into, with full consent.
They were recently involved in a very ghostly scenario in Pennsylvania. They first come across it when they stop for rations at a gas station, right beside a small town called Tristeville. It’s here that Dipper listens in to a couple talking a little too loudly about a “horror house.”
Dipper picks out gummy worms and biscuits while Norman is outside filling the tank. The couple has gone into the store, looking drunk, laughing hysterically. The guy has his arm around the girl. They are both in red athlete’s jackets and skinny jeans. Their cheeks are red; their cackles are deafening.
“I—“ she hiccups. “I told you Jas would get herself killed. I tooooold you.” She pokes her boyfriend’s chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” the boy says, while they stumbled through the toiletries aisle. “She never—“ he hiccups. “She never should’ve gone into that fucking horror house in the first place.”
The girl giggles. “Yeah,” she says, with a deep breath. They walk towards the beverages. The guy grabs a six-pack of beer, while the girl continues talking about how this Jas girl was “fucking stupid.”
Drawn to the conversation, Dipper approaches them, cautious. He pretends to be looking at the bottles of green tea.
“Uh,” Dipper says, when he finds the never. “Hey—If you, uh—If you don’t mind me asking—“
The couple looks at him, each with an eyebrow arched.
Dipper laughs, nervous. “When you say ‘horror house’—“ he does a double quote with his fingers – “What exactly do you mean?”
The guy and the girl glanced at each other. They both smile and turn back to Dipper to stare him in the eye.
There would be many versions of the events that have taken place in the horror house, but the facts are these—
Only very few have gotten out of the house alive. Those few surviving were there for not more than five minutes. The majority was never heard from again.
The house is found at the dead center of a suburb; it stands out from all the clean, god-fearing homes. It used to be a beautiful mansion, owned by a rich family who lived during the Civil War. Now, from the inside and out, the house seems to do its best to live up to the name “horror house.” Outside, it has gates that are rusty and bent. It has a garden full of dead bushes and tress. Inside, it is infested with rats and dust and battered furniture. It is the wet dream, truth be told, of any horror enthusiast like Jasmine Chang. She is the most recent of the horror house disappearances. Several came before her: an old basket case who had nowhere else to go, a group of teenagers who had too much to drink, a little girl who liked to wander around the streets, a housekeeper named Arlene. They all ventured into the house, and they have melted away, without a trace.
Dipper and Norman try knocking first before they decide to just waltz in. No one lives here, they assume. Nothing but spiders, rats, and decaying old junk should be in this place. They are quite sure.
They keep their hands together as they enter. Dipper is clutching tight. He isn’t afraid. He really isn’t. He tells himself he isn’t, at least. This is his idea, after all.
The door creaks. They hear wings flapping. Tiny creatures are crawling back into the cracks on the walls. Dipper purses his lips and scratches his head. “Hm,” he says. “W—What do you make of that?”
What “that” refers to is a phrase written on the dust-covered floor, big giant letters with jagged lines.
PLEASE STAY
“Err,” Norman falters. “It’s something a ghost would write. For sure.”
“Well, do you see any?”
“Uh—“ He eyes every corner of the room, from the tall staircase to the open doors leading to what used to be parlors and lounges. He says “no,” and then he shakes his head.
“Well then—“ Dipper says, with a sigh. “We better get looking.”
And that is exactly what they do: They scour the rooms in the first floor, the parlors where every couch has its springs jutting out of it, and the game rooms where billiard tables and wooden chairs lie dilapidated. They check the bedrooms upstairs. They check the master bedroom, which is creepy sight, with all the old paintings with eyes that seem to be following you and the old mattresses with bloodstained sheets.
They are stumped when they reach the last bedroom, which appears to have belonged to a little girl. They sigh and sit on the small bed. Dipper pulls out a candy bar and starts eating.
“What are we gonna do now, Dipper?” asks Norman.
Dipper looks at him. He bites the inside of his lip. “I really don’t know, “ he says. “It’s like whatever’s taken those people makes sure nothing’s left of them.”
“I don’t exactly feel any ghosts though. Not right now, at least. It’s like—like—“
“Like what?”
Norman doesn’t get to answer that.
Something slams.
A door? A wall crumbling?
There are footsteps – loud, nearing.
Dipper and Norman’s eyebrows wrinkle. Dipper feels his heart skip a beat. They stand up. “Stay here,” Norman tells Dipper. “I’ll check it out.” Dipper nods.
Flashlight in tow, Norman leaves for the corridor. Dipper stays, throws his candy bar wrapper onto the floor. He flicks his flashlight back on. He doesn’t see his wrapper anywhere near him. It must’ve been blown under the bed. He takes some glances around the room. He takes a peak out the cracked window. Even with his flashlight, he can’t see much but the outlines of the tress. He can barely make out their minivan by the gate.
“Norman!” he yells, turning around. “Did you see anything?”
There is no answer. Dipper tries to yell again, but the result is the same. He decides to walk out to the corridor.
Norman is nowhere in sight. Dipper yells out his name again, but nothing replies to him but silence. He keeps on yelling while he walks to the direction of the staircase.
Dipper squints. ‘What the—“ There is a tiny light some feet away from where he is. “Norman? That you?” he says. “Norman?”
Dipper tries to approach the tiny light, slowly. “Norman?” he says again. “He laughs, nervously. “Stop it, Norman. Stop—“
Someone taps his shoulder.
“Nor—“
The next thing he sees is total darkness.
} { A day later, still parked by the stopover, Dipper finds another note. The first one, given to him by Norman, is kept folded in his pocket. This time the note has a drawing: a star shape, etched with a charcoal pencil. Below it, the note reads: “Follow the trail.”
“What is this supposed to mean?” Dipper says, to Norman who’s drinking up his morning coffee from a paper cup.
They find out when they see it: a trail of star-shaped pieces of yellow paper.
The trail disappears at the bus stop, several feet from where they are parked.
Across the street, they see a girl in a black trench coat and sunglasses. She waves, and when the bus passes by, she disappears.
} { 002. Conflicts in Motion
+
Morning comes and the whole castle is empty except for a few selected guests who refuse to leave.
Dipper Pines is a paying customer, and he will not get on that ferry until he gets his money’s worth. Norman will just have to bear with it.
Dipper is also just a little bit certain a werewolf is involved in this whole business. He is also certain that there are people who know about it. The man called Mr. Murphy, for one, left running when Mr. Jacobson was announced dead. The Sharptons, meanwhile, were a little bit too dramatic, with their screams and their unhinged sobbing.
They are all hiding something, Dipper is sure.
Dipper doesn’t want to spend the day just waiting for the police to leave, so he decides to do a little exploring. Norman wants to stay in bed, though. He tries to pull Dipper in. He tries to get Dipper’s clothes off, to no avail. Instead, Dipper pulls Norman out of bed and into an expedition.
The castle is like a maze, they discover. They’ve gone in a circle by the time they find the right way to the stairs. They find the lobby empty except for one lady named Angela at reception. They have to go through several more pathways before they find the dining hall.
Dipper figured someone significant would be there. He turns out to be right because sitting at a table eating a plate of salad is Mrs. Sharpton, who this time is wearing a summer hat and a floral dress that flows down to her legs.
When they ask for her time, she agrees, though her eyes are unfriendly. When asked whether or not she’s seen a “werewolf,” her mouth falls open. She says, “I beg your pardon?”
This is definitely not the right person to interview.
They continue exploring the castle, afterwards. They check every unlocked door they could find. They interview Mr. Sharpton, who they perceive as a very amiable man. He was inside one of the reading rooms, and they ask him if he knew what exactly happened to Mr. Jacobson. He says he doesn’t. Mr. Murphy, meanwhile, is nowhere to be found, even though Dipper is sure the man hasn’t left.
Night arrives and they haven’t found anything of significance. The police have left, though, and Dipper knows it’s his chance to sneak to the peak of the tallest tower, where Mr. Jacobson’s office was.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Norman asks him.
He is sure. Completely.
Alone, he sneaks into Mr. Jacobson’s room at exactly 12-midnight. He’s made sure no one’s seen him.
He looks for a switch. When he finds it, he discovers the room is full of firelights.
The place is full of books. Shelves surround the walls. A table is found at the center of everything, and behind which is a tall window that lets in the glimmer of the full moon. Between two shelves, there is also a light machine, and a computer connected to big speakers.
Dipper skims through the books. He finds a lot of Edgar Allan Poe, a lot of Anne Rice, and a lot of books about wildlife. Specifically, books about wolves seem to be plenty – white and brown paperbacks with pencil sketches of wolves in the winter.
Dipper is scanning through the book entitled “Wolfsbane” when he hears a rather loud grunt. His attention shifts, and he surveys the room. He sees nothing of significance, but he decides to put the book back into the shelf.
He draws himself towards the computer. He examines it. He doesn’t notice anything special about it.
Then, Dipper looks down and he sees two shadows.
He doesn’t move.
He hears that grunt again.
“Don’t be afraid,” he hears a voice say. It’s rough, like when someone has phlegm stuck in his throat.
Slowly, Dipper tries turning his head. He keeps his eyes closed, first. But he bucks up, turns around fully, opens his eyes.
Dipper can hardly remember what happens next. The next he knows, he’s jolted, running, yelling Norman’s name.
“I thought you wanted to see a werewolf?” says Norman, back in their room.
“Yeah, well, it’s different when you actually see it.”
There’s a knock on the door.
“That must be the wolf,” says Dipper.
“What? Why would a werewolf need to knock?”
“I don’t know!” Dipper grabs onto his hair. “Just—Can you take a look?”
“W—Why me?”
“Please? I’ll stay right behind you.”
What convinces Norman is Dipper’s puppy face, which comes at a perfectly inappropriate time.
Norman holds the doorknob. “I love you,” Dipper says. “If we die today, just know that, please.” He pulls on Norman’s t-shirt, says nothing more.
It is only a man they discover, behind the door. A man whose back is turned. A man who then turns around upon noticing the door had been opened. Dipper and Norman have seen this man before, last night at the event.
“Mr.—uh—“ Dipper struggles to find a name.
“Murphy. Reginald Murphy.”
“Oh—uh—hello?” says Norman.
“Yes, hello,” says Mr. Murphy. He reaches out his hand, and Norman takes it. They both linger; they take a little time to let go. Dipper wonders why this is so.
Mr. Murphy eyes Norman, eerily. He wipes his hand swiftly on his suit. Afterwards, he goes on to say, “I only wanted to ask why I saw one of you running out of Evan’s study?”
Dipper flushes. “That was me—I, uh—“
“Mind if I come in?"
“S-sure,” Dipper says.
They take their seats, on those red armchairs set by the beds. “It has come to my attention,” Mr. Murphy says. “—that you are interested in Evan’s murder.”
“Murder? Who—who said it was a murder? No one ever said it was murder,” says Dipper.
“It was murder,” the man says. “There is no doubt about it. Do not play dumb.”
“Why are you here?” Norman blurts out.
“You see, Evan was a close friend of mine,” says Mr. Murphy. “Very, very close. He is my caretaker, in a manner of speaking. He gave me a home.” He sighs, and massages his temples with his index fingers. “Pardon,” he says. “I’m a little out of sorts.”
Dipper keeps silent. He notices how Norman’s eyes do not leave their guest.
“I was very, very upset when Evan died,” the man continues. “I don’t even think upset is enough of a word to describe how I felt. I think—I think devastated would be better. Yes. But—I was even more devastated to find out who killed him—Wait—No—Scratch that. I was angered when I heard about his killer. Not devastated. Yes.”
“How are you sure you know who did it?” inquires Norman.
“Simple deduction.”
“Simple my ass.”
“He has also threatened to kill me.”
“Do you have proof?”
“Sadly, I do not,” says Mr. Murphy. “But I do have a plan to make him confess.”
“How do we know you’re not lying?” Dipper finally says, catching the nerve.
“Change,” Norman says. “I want you to change.”
Turning to Norman with an eyebrow raised, Dipper stutters, says, “W—What do you mean?”
The man transforms before their eyes. Teeth. Nails. Fur. And they don’t even affect the suit.
Then he transforms back. Just like that. And Dipper is left dumbstruck.
“You’re a were—A were—“
“A werewolf.” Norman does not seem surprised.
“Yes, that is what I am,” says Mr. Murphy, whose suit is still as neat as ever.
“You’re a werewolf,” Norman says. “But you’re not a werewolf.” He smiles, at that. Dipper is surprised when he sees it.
“Y—yeah—Full moon—“ Dipper says.
“A mere myth,” the man says. “Now will you help me with my plan or not?”
Dipper nods, with so much brisk and so much jest. Norman says, “by all means,” simply.
Mr. Murphy tells them what to do.
+
Dipper remembers that day fondly. And at this very moment he is hoping whatever’s in this house is a nice type of creature like Mr. Murphy.
First, there is nothing but darkness.
When he tries to open his eyes, he sees only that faint glimmer of light he saw in the corridor.
He’s sitting, he realizes. He’s sitting and he’s tied up, with a rope from the feel of it. He tries to move his arms to no avail. He moves his legs around and he becomes aware that the chair is stuck to the floor, like it’s nailed. He thinks of shouting Norman’s name, but he dismisses the idea.
Suddenly, light blares.
Dipper has to squint. His head starts to hurt. He starts to hear music: a slow accordion tune with soft piano accompaniment.
He is at the center of a room with couches, chess tables, dartboards, and bookshelves. It’s almost like a common room for a home for the aged or a rich boarding school.
There are people, Dipper sees. Actual people. There is a girl with pale skin, black hair, and red highlights playing chess with a blonde woman wearing a maid outfit. There are three boys and two girls sitting on the couches, each with a book in front their faces. An old man is playing darts. A little girl is sitting on the floor playing with her doll.
“What the—“
Something is odd.
Their eyes: pitch black and inexpressive. Dipper double takes at each of them. They’re all stoic and silent. “Hey!” Dipper yells, and not a single person take notice of him.
Dipper can hardly breathe. “Norman!” he screams. “Norman! Norman!”
What replies to him sends several shivers down his spine: Laughter – deep, loud, haunting.
Dipper stares up, eyes wide open. He does not know where the voice is coming from.
Right now, he is almost a hundred percent certain he is going to die.
“You’re toast,” another voice says.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Dipper says, in a whisper, while he lowers his head.
“Leave,” says the first voice, the one that was laughing.
“Not without Dipper I won’t.”
“Leave.”
“Shut up.”
Dipper lifts his head. He hears a bump. In the mirror, he sees a hand, and from that hand: a green light. It starts to cover the room.
“Leave,” the deep voice continues to say.
There he is, a clear image behind the mirror: Norman Babcock in his red hoodie. Norman Babcock whose hair is disheveled, strands sprouting to different directions. His eyes are green, but not in that ‘I’m losing all control’ way. He’s smiling, and he’s talking. He’s talking to Dipper.
“Hiya,” he says. “Sorry for the lateness.”
} { They drive off, towards L.A. The whole time, they are passing theories on who the note sender could be.
They think it might be someone looking for revenge. They’ve solved quite a few cases, angered quite a few people, so it wouldn’t exactly be a surprise. Dipper thinks it could be that woman who stole that diamond ring from her friend. He thinks it might also be possible, though, that the sender is the identity theft expert they exposed in Florida. Norman thinks it’s the wife of the man who kidnapped the mayor’s kids in Beaumont.
None of their theories are right.
} { 003. Resolutions in Full Speed
+
It’s a full proof plan.
Mr. Murphy, sans fur and teeth, keeps the staff busy, away from where the plan shall commence.
Dipper sets up the lights. Tiny speakers are also set up on different parts of the castle.
Norman takes care of something else. He doesn’t need any equipment.
First comes the shadow in the room: the wolf peering through the window.
“What in heavens—“ Mr. Sharpton almost has a stroke. He falls to the floor, rear first. He drags himself out of his room.
Mr. Sharpton goes running, running, running.
He hears a lady scream, and he thinks it’s his wife. He runs through the hallways, shouts her name.
The wolf roars. It roars through the halls.
He runs and runs and runs, and then suddenly it seems to be getting darker. The light in the hallway gets dimmer and dimmer.
Footsteps. Soft grunts. “Don’t come any closer!” the man demands.
“Pay—“a whisper goes. “You must pay.”
He runs again, like the wind. He runs until he reaches the staircase. He is walking up, briskly, until he sees a figure standing still. It has green, glowing eyes.
He squints. “Who—“
“Mr. Sharpton,” the figure says. “Mr. Sharpton.” The man starts to see the figure clearly. He recognizes it as one of the young, pesky boys.
“You—You there!”
“Mr. Sharpton—You must pay.”
Then comes the roar.
Then comes the shriek.
Mr. Sharpton faints.
+
Norman screams.
“You let him go!”
“Leave,” is all the ghost says.
He is in front of the mirror, the large mirror that reflects everything in this room. He was also taken here, to the basement, but the ghost’s power does not affect him.
The ghost is a boy whose face is in a permanent sad face.
“Let him go or—or—“
“Leave,” is all the ghost says again. It is enveloping the room, with its green hue. It cannot take Norman into the mirror.
“You’re toast.”
} { They are in Los Angeles when they get the call. They’re eating at this restaurant and the waitress says that someone’s on the phone for them.
Dipper answers it, and he hears a deep, machine-altered voice
What the voice says makes Dipper grin.
“Have you guessed yet, Dippy?”
} { 004. Cases in Culmination
+
Mr. Theodore Sharpton confesses to the murder of Mr. Evan Jacobson on a Thursday morning. The police come and handcuff him. Mrs. Sharpton does not cry nor does she express any type of objection. She cannot even look at her husband.
The facts are these—
The Sharptons are not a rich family. They used to be, and now they only pretend to be. They are, in truth, the relatives of Mr. Jacobson, three times removed. They are also the only ones who are in the line to inherit this hotel, because Mr. Jacobson has neither a child nor a female lover to bear him one. It’s information that they’ve only found out recently. It leads a very desperate Mr. Theodore Sharpton to poison Mr. Evan Jacobson.
Dipper and Norman leave the island with $25 000 in tow. Mr. Murphy says it’s the least he can do for helping him with the case.
“That was awesome,” Dipper says.
Norman agrees. They got to meet a real live werewolf, after all. It’s a refreshing change from all the ghosts he sees. The fact that Dipper saw it too makes it all the better.
“I wonder if we’ll ever get to do anything like that again?” Dipper says.
“Don’t count on it,” Norman says.
Dipper sighs. “Yeah, what are the odds?”
+
Norman explains everything to Dipper only after they drop off some disoriented people down by the hospital. Jasmine Chang, the horror enthusiast with red highlights on her black hair, is the only one who seems to still have sanity. She is the only one asking questions, and she is the only one who asks to be dropped off at her home.
“She’s one tough cookie,” Norman says. “I bet she tried fighting off the ghost before it kidnapped her.”
“Why was the ghost trying to kidnap people in the first place?” Dipper finally asks. “And was up with those eyes?”
“He wanted some friends,” Norman explains. “He just had a crappy way of getting ‘em.”
“Friends?”
“I almost felt sorry for the guy,” Norman says. “But—you know—he needed a scolding.”
“You gave him a scolding?”
“Sure did,” Norman says. He shakes his head and starts laughing.
Dipper arches an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Norman says.
Dipper falls quiet. He sits still, looking forward, hands at his sides. They have not yet moved their van from the hospital parking lot. It is three in the morning, and Dipper is exhausted.
He feels a finger, and then a whole hand rest on top of his own.
“I was afraid it’d do something to you,” Norman says.
Dipper returns Norman’s gaze.
They smile.
“Just start the car, Norm,” Dipper says. “We have places to go to.”
Norman follows, switching on the ignition. He breathes in deep, a little bit exhausted and a little bit full of adrenaline. He starts backing up, swerving, and with Dipper’s hand still in his, he drives off into the road.
} { They find her soon enough.
Norman’s never met her in his life. He’s only heard of her from the many stories Dipper’s told of their childhood.
She giggles when Dipper sees her, leaning back against the minivan. She’s wearing a pink sundress and star-shaped earrings. Her voice is playful when she says, “Hey Dippy.”
“You are fucking sneaky,” Dipper says, giving her a tight hug. “I knew I never should’ve told mom I was coming here.”
“Can’t hide anything from me, brother,” she says.
Norman stays quiet the whole time the siblings catch up.
“This is Norman,” Dipper says, taking Norman’s hand in his.
Norman smiles and says, “hi.”
“I’ve heard you’ve been taking care of my brother. In more ways than one.”
Norman flushes. “I guess I have,” he says, with a laugh.
Dipper punches Mabel’s arm.
“Ouchie,” she says.
They laugh, the three of them do, and after a while, they say their goodbyes. “Take care,” Mabel tells them, which she follows with a wink. “Make sure the Dipster’s thoroughly satisfied.”
} { “Fuck,” Dipper says, voice soft and hoarse. “Fuck.” Norman pushes him onto the seat. They have but little space here, at the back of their minivan. Their legs are tangled together, and so are their clothed bodies. Norman bites Dipper’s neck; Dipper gasps. “That was some case we solved there,” Dipper says, panting. A low and breathy “yeah” is Norman’s reply. Dipper turns his head to catch Norman’s lips. They are chewing on each other, making marks, bruises. Norman tastes like wheat bread.
“I need—“ Norman says, heaving even harder. “I need—“ Dipper cuts him off with another kiss that has quite a lot of tongue. It’s his way of saying, “Yeah, I know exactly what you need, but you’re not getting it that easily.”
} { P&B, they call themselves. Pines and Babcock: Private Investigators. Totally Dipper’s idea.
They get it painted on their van – white letters, written in a curvy balloon-like fashion.
That these mysteries have become normal occurrences gives Dipper the idea to make their partnership an official business. They are the traveling private investigators, solving any crime, however ghostly or non-ghostly they may be.
On the road they are, yet again. Northward they go, to the cold terrain of the Northern states. Now, Dipper is twenty-two years old. His birthday was yesterday, and for that he is granted driving privileges.
Norman’s got the map in his hands. He’s decided to embrace their traveling sleuths business, so he’s taken the liberty to plan out their destinations. He wouldn’t exactly call randomly pointing to a town “planning,” though.
If they’re lucky, the next mystery will be a real moneymaker. If it isn’t, they’ll just be glad to help, they guess.
The season is autumn, and Dipper Pines is twenty-two years, one month, three weeks, and two days old. Norman Babcock is one less all of Dipper’s numbers. They see, at this very moment, an expanse of pine trees stretching till who-knows-where and they go ahead and drive into it.
This is just one of many more days like this to come.
} fin.