Disclaimer: I don't own Gravity Falls.
Oh, God.
Oh, God, for the third time that week, it was happening again; constricted breathing, lead-heavy limbs, and a ringing too loud to think over. His eyes are open, wide and watering at the corners, straining to see the familiar shapes of his room's furniture. The stucco ceiling seems to be closing in on him ever so slightly, inch by inch, texture turned to lethal spikes, and blackened walls following close behind.
He wants to cough, choke out whatever it is that is clogging his throat, but his arms are glued to his mattress. Every sense is heightened, and if he wasn't busy panicking over his loss of breath, the bed springs jabbing into his back would have him writing a reminder to buy a new bed. He really wishes he had gone home earlier to see his parents for the break month his college had graced him. He wishes his sister had stayed a few more days during her random visit earlier that week. He even wishes he had gone to see the Doc about this sooner rather than just writing a memo in the corner of his busy schedule.
His eyes are the only part of him that can move. Out of his peripheral is all that he can see. And boy, he wishes he had closed his blinds before he crawled into bed.
Thanks to the moonlight, he can see the dark, bubbling mass to his left. Eyes of all sizes litter its form, black pupils moving spastically across sickly yellow sclera.
And the smell emitting from it is unbearable; fresh tar and rotting meat meld together at the corner of his room. He's afraid to screw his eyes shut for fear that the mass would move closer, even in the split seconds of his blinks. Nothing has moved so far, his desk chair blocking much of the creature. He blinks again, reluctantly.
Blink, he counts the seconds until his eyes are screaming for relief.
Blink, he keeps his eyes pinned on the thing, and he swears he can hear it squelch and groan under presumed weight.
Blink, oh, Lord, it's gone. He tries to swallow, but to no avail. The stench remains.
He blinks again, once, twice, thrice—
A triangle.
A golden triangle with a gaping eye surrounded by elongated eyelashes at its centre, donning a snappy top hat and bowtie. Its form glows brightly, like a nightlight that surely did not bring him any comfort, illuminating the room in an unfitting soft yellow tint. Its spindly arms and legs hanging limp while it floats ominously in the corner where the mass was.
His mouth is hung agape in a silent scream, too terrified to let the sound ring out into his sparse apartment. The only thing he can do is blink.
Blink, the triangle is still there.
Blink, it's gone.
Blink, he gathers the courage to move his gaze to the ceiling, and decides to not move it until morning.
Blink, one last time, and the ceiling is now an eye; the same eye as the triangle.
He lets the scream out this time.
If a mouth-less triangle could grin, he swears it would reach the corners of its eye. It shifts backwards slowly and, over his screams, he can hear the tar-like substance has returned, and with it the putrid smell. This triangle must only be its facade.
The triangle raises it arms slow to outstretch them from its sides and the eyes covering its true form, once rolling around wildly, now stare unblinking at him. His screams fall to shuddering gasps, the rest of his body still paralysed.
He chokes. The stench is in his nostrils.
Blink. He watches in terror as the black substance crawls over him, coating his bare arms with both heat and ice, weighing down on his chest like an anvil. The tar is seeping into his nose, ear canals, and mouth, pouring down his throat. It sticks like syrup and he gags to try and cough it up, but it only forces its way down faster.
Blink. Tears cloud his vision, and the triangle is still above him, watching him try to squirm with rock solid limbs. Its gaze is mocking, unwavering, and that wide eye is the last thing he sees before his mind is consumed by static and frayed edges of a golden vignette. It's taken over his body and now his brain.
Blink. Everything is nothing. It all belongs to this creature that managed to creep its way to his fifth story apartment. He breathes no longer. His once rigid body goes slack. His eyes remain open from their last wink, now rolled back to stare into himself.
Over the white noise and flickering static, an eye with stringy lashes opens.
Inspired by a few kinda-silent-hill!Bill forms floating around; I call 'im BlobBill.