June 18, 1869

I'm afraid that this is the last letter I will ever write to you. I am aware that you will never receive this, but I'm writing it anyway. But if somehow you do get this, I want to warn you-you are in danger. You may keep reading, but please, do not mention this to anyone. I don't want to put anyone else in as much danger as I am now. Please leave my death a mystery.

Of course you know of the small, ragged town I live in named Gravity Falls, Oregon, which was founded in 1863. I was among the first to settle here. My wife was optimistic about moving here. She said that it would be a great place to start over and let go of the past. She also thought that it would be a great environment for the kids to grow up in. I thought moving was a great idea. We lived in the city and I never was the city kind of person. Oregon sounded like a beautiful place to live. Within a week we packed our things and rode out to Oregon.

I don't remember every detail of this beautiful town before everything went...mad. All of these events happened six years ago. I do remember riding in on our covered wagon and being in awe when I got my first look. The tall pine trees made the air smell of sap. There was fertile soil and a seemingly endless supply of water. The one thing that did catch my eye was the fresh water lake completed with its own waterfall. This place was beyond perfect. It almost felt to good to be true.

We found a small, quite little field that was right outside the woods at a surprisingly low-cost. We knew we couldn't pass up a deal like that. My wife said it was one of those "once in a lifetime" opportunities. I could tell she adored the town, and I did too. Almost instantly, we stared building, and before long, we had our own little cottage. I was proud of our hard work and I thought that we would be very happy here. That everything would turn out just fine. But it all went downhill from there.

One morning, I woke up and climbed out of bed. It was early and the birds were singing their summer song. I stepped into the kitchen and looked out the window. The sun was still low in the sky, painting everything around it it a beautiful orange-red. But something was wrong with that picture, like something just didn't seem to belong. I squinted and tried to make out a dark figure in the distance. It was an old, extremely small shack that looked like it has been sitting in that field for as long as time itself.

This startled me. Had that shack been sitting there that whole time, or was I just going nuts? And why was it so old? This town was just settled! I was sure that the shack was not there before, but if it was, how did I not notice it?

I sighed and told myself to not worry about it. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation behind all of this. I am known to be slightly paranoid, but that shack mysteriously appeared there, and I'm going to catch it if it did anything else.

I ran into me and my wife's bedroom and woke her up. She groaned and said something like "It's too early," or, "Go away," then she rolled over. My wife was not a morning person. I shook her once more. This time she sat up. "Go back to bed!," she said and hit me with her pillow. She placed it back under her head and fell back to sleep.

Eventually, I got her out of bed and dragged her to the kitchen window. She rubbed her eyes, as if to clear her vision, then yawned. She stared out the window for a while then said, "What am I supposed to be looking at again?"

"The shack," I said, placing my finger on the window. "Has that always been there?"

She looked sleepily at me then out the window, as if she didn't care.

"Probably has been," she said flatly as she walked back to bed. I watched her go then I sighed. I couldn't help but to feel a little childish. Why was I making a big deal out of it anyway? At least I had a witness. She knows that that shack is there; if it ever disappears, at least she could say that it was there before.

As the day went on, I found myself staring at the shack. Occasionally, I got strange looks from my wife. She just sighed and muttered something under her breath. She seemed vexed, but I had no idea why. I guess it was bothering her to the point that she practically kicked me out of the house to go see if anyone lived there. "Just go over there, meet the person that lives there, and stop staring. Its rude." Then she closed the door behind me.

I couldn't help but to laugh. She knows me so well. She knows that I wont stop at something until I've figured it out, especially when it comes to secrets. That's probably why my wife tells me everything so I don't get too involved in what's going on. When It looks like something's bothering her and she wont tell me what's wrong, I start looking for clues, even if it means going through her things. I remember this one time when she made me sleep outside when she caught me reading her diary...

The shack looked even older up close. Weeds took over the entire perimeter and found their way into every crack and crevice the shack's walls held. Vines were warped tightly around the front porch's railings and woven themselves into the rotten floorboards, making it seem like the vines were the only thing that was keeping the entire place together.

I felt childish for thinking that an old, rotten storage building could just appear out of nowhere. It was obvious that it had been here a long time, but something still felt wrong. Like I was being watched...

My first fan fiction! I'm so excited! I know the beginning is realllly slow but I promise it will get better. If you want me to continue, tell me. Besides, there's no point in posting something that no one likes. Also I want to give a shout out to my friend for encouraging me to put this up. You know who you are, so thank you! :D