Slowly, shakily, Dipper drew his hand away from the doorknob. He took a deep breath and turned around, ready to face Mr. Mason.

And he saw no one. He was alone in the room.

"M-Mr. Mason?" he said, hating the tremor in his voice as he called out the name. Silence. You're hearing things, Dipper, he thought in a panic. He whipped back around to the door and shook the unyielding knob, no longer concerned about remaining quiet. But as he did so, a hand dropped down onto his own.

Dipper's eyes followed up the arm of a hand to see its owner, and stood stunned. The sculpture of the hooded hunchback had shifted positions, and now was no longer holding out its lantern as though exploring by its light, but had let the arm holding it fall to his side, while the other reached out and joined Dipper's at the doorknob. And his face was turned toward Dipper in a bizarre, broad grin.

"Well, you certainly won't unlock it that way," the hunchback said. But his voice didn't match his wizened appearance. Instead, the voice that left the sculpture's mouth was one Dipper had heard before. From Mr. Mason.

"Gyaah!" Dipper cried out, tearing his hand away. The hunchback laughed, and Dipper fell back onto the floor as he darted back from the statue. He scooted away, and ended up bumping up against the wax woman in the frilly dress.

To his horror, he felt the thin and feminine shape of her hand rest on his shoulder. "Oh, come now, Dipper," the woman said softly into his ear, and Dipper shivered as her voice was once again that of Mr. Mason. "Your sister told us you've encountered living art before. There's no reason for you to be so shocked.

His scream got lost somewhere in his throat as he scrambled away from the woman. As he did, the statue of the woman went still again, and Mr. Mason's voice was taken over by a large charcoal drawing of a suited man on the wall, laughing lightly. "Aw, would you look at that? The poor creature's terrified."

Dipper stared up at the charcoal drawing, now the only piece of art displaying signs of life. He backed away until he reached the wall hosting the miniature fireplace, then felt around the space without taking his eyes off the drawing. "Stay back, all of you," he said, as he found what he had been searching for and wrapped his hand around the metal poker that leaned up against the bricks. "I've dealt with things like you before and I'll do it again."

Suddenly, he felt a sharp hot sting in his hand. He let out a loud yelp and released the poker, then turned around to see a tongue of flame seeping back into the fireplace, and the poker glowing a faint red.

"Ah ah ah, Dipper," the suited man said, smirking. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to play with fire?"

"What do you want?!" Dipper cried. He gripped tightly onto the burnt hand, trying to ignore the sting.

"Would you listen to that? Now he actually wants to know what I want. And only minutes before, he wouldn't listen to a word I said."

Dipper stared at the drawing, baffled. "What are you talking about? I've never talked to you before!"

"True, you've never talked to that drawing," piped up a statuette depicting an old woman in a bonnet. "Not surprising, as very few see sense in speaking to the art around them. But you did talk to that stiff downstairs. So, yes, you have spoken to me before."

"You're crazy, all of you!" was the only thing Dipper could think of to say.

The woman in the frilly dress laughed. "All of us? You're really not that much of a detective, are you, boy? I see you're going to need it all spelled out for you." She flashed a smile, and in an instant, every sculpted and painted faced turned to Dipper and matched the grin. "There's only one of me," chorused a multitude of Mr. Mason's voices.

Dipper felt his jaw drop. "Wha- how did-?"

"You know," interrupted a watercolor fisherman, twiddling with his line as he sat on a pier with his feet dangling over the side, "There was an interesting little belief in an old Native American tribe, that when an artisan crafts an object, a little piece of his spirit, of his life, goes into that object, and lives on inside it."

"Of course-" and here the old lady in the bonnet took over- "I'm certain the man who built me wasn't aware of that old belief. A pity, for him. Less so for me."

The charcoal man smiled. "If he had lived, I wouldn't have. One door closes, another opens. Ah, but not that door, boy," he added, and the hunchback tripped Dipper as the latter had begun edging along the wall toward the bedroom door, then planted his foot on top of the boy to pin him to floor. "Isn't the little mystery hunter even a bit curious as to the secrets of his wicked old neighbor?"

Dipper scowled up at the drawing. "Fine," he snarled. "Talk, then let me up."

The frilly-dressed woman smiled. "You're an angry one, aren't you? He was too, you know. Patrick Mason, I mean. Very passionate and driven, too. I believe that's why he took up art in the first place. A sort of outlet for him."

She leaned down toward Dipper. "And what fortune that he did. You see, boy, the noble sacrifice of my creator may have given me life, but there is a wide difference between being alive and truly living. So imagine my joy when I realized that the life Patrick put into his art while within me gave me the strength that it did." She held up her arms and examined them fondly. "Extraordinary, isn't it? It is as though I am a brain, and these, all these creations, have become my body. Anything made by the sweat and hands of humankind, a bit of spirit goes in, and goes straight to me."

"Well, sadly, life is not a limitless resource." The suited man picked up the narrative. "The more I lived through Patrick's sculptures, the more quickly my supply was depleted. Oh, the man was more than willing to resupply me, but that could only last so long. He began to fade, after a time. He ignored it all, of course, attributed the fatigue to old age. Then, halfway through a sculpture, he drops dead to the floor. Poor fool." He added that last almost with affection, the sort that an owner would show to a pet. "But at least I was able to add a bit to my body. He lived in me, and now, I could live in him."

"But it wasn't as if that was the only source of life out there," said the hunchback. Dipper craned his neck upward to try to see the man's face from his position on the floor. "As long the artwork was created inside me, it was mine to live through. And I was always careful. I would never take so much life that an artist wasn't always left with a little extra to give, and I was cautious to use the life only when necessary, to conserve it for later."

Dipper could tell by as much as he could see in his peripheral vision that the hunched man was shaking his head. "Alas, it was not enough. You have no idea what it's like, Dipper, when the only part of the world you can ever see is yourself and what's inside you. I will admit, I became greedy. One artist came to me only a few years ago, a girl younger even than your sister; in fact, you may have seen the sculpture she made of herself on display in my kitchen. You would be astounded, boy, by the amount of life possessed by little girls, dormant and ready for use." He sighed. "I took too much. Hastiness, on my part. Quite a waste, but at least for a moment, I was more alive than ever before."

"And, Dipper, I very much enjoyed being alive," said the fisherman. He reeled in his line, frowned at the fake fly attached to the end, then tossed the bait back into the water. "So when one of my artists claimed to be rather well-versed in the world of the paranormal, and told me he could find a way for me to live outside of my own four walls, it sounded too good to be true." He tilted his head. "He was a curious man, an adult version of you, Dipper. Although not so stubborn. And much more trusting."

The lady in the bonnet sighed. "Sadly, my little sorcerer didn't last. I had allowed him access to all the resources he would need, and near the end, he told me he was so close to the answer, to giving me the life I needed. And then, one day, he stops. Says he refused to help me with my problem any further, and that he'd sooner destroy me than allow any part of me to leave my four walls. Naturally, I had to dispose of him. But it left all of his work tragically unfinished."

The woman in the frilly dress knelt down in front of Dipper, took his chin firmly in her hand, and tilted his head back so he was looking straight into her sculpted eyes. "And that," she said, Mr. Mason's voice bizarrely dissonant in her delicate features, "is where you come in."

Dipper gaped at her. "Are you out of your mind?!" he cried. "You go around draining people of their lives, my sister included, and you expect me to help you do it more?"

She smiled. "Ah, so you're not completely stupid. Dipper, the people I drained all were given ample opportunity to live good lives, if not long ones. I have not. I am only asking that you help to give me that chance. I was so thrilled when your sister told me you possess knowledge of this little town's magic. I don't know when another such mind will come along, and I'm rather reluctant to let it go."

"Forget it," Dipper growled. "There, I listened to you, and I gave you my answer. Now get your statue off me so I can leave."

The woman went still, and Dipper felt the weight of the hunched man's foot lift off of his back. He stood up, and was just getting his bearings, when his felt something wrap around his neck and yank him to side. The back of his head slammed against a bedpost, leaving stars dancing across his vision. He looked up to see what had gotten a hold of his neck, and his eyes followed the path of a thick drapery cord that held up the bed's canopy and now pinned him to the post by his throat.

The hunchbacked man walked forward and looked at Dipper. "It's almost cute, that you thought this was optional," he said. "When I said I was reluctant to let you go, I'm afraid I may have been understating a bit. I won't take no for an answer."

"You're insane!" Dipper yelled. He grabbed the drapery cord and tried to pull it away, but it wouldn't yield.

"Not the answer I was looking for," the hunchback said calmly. "But I'll wait. It shouldn't take more than a minute or two for you to come to your senses."

"What do you-" Dipper began, but his question was cut off as he let out a choked gasp. The cord around his neck had tightened suddenly, crushing his windpipe and blocking out all air. The back of his head throbbed as it was pushed more firmly into the edge of the post.

Dipper's fingers scrambled at his neck, trying to get a grip on the cord. The effort seemed futile, and slowly his vision began to blur and his head to feel light. All the while, the art stood stoically about the room, coolly watching the ordeal. "Anytime you're ready to change your mind, Dipper," came Mr. Mason's voice from one of the works; Dipper couldn't tell which.

He felt blood start to make its way along his neck from where his fingernails had scratched into his skin in an effort to take hold of the cord. His sight was turning to fog, and a ringing had begun building in his ears. He opened his mouth to try to shout, but all that came out was a choked gulp.

"What's that, Dipper?" He heard Mr. Mason's voice lightly say as through from a mile away. "Are you trying to say something?"

"Fine!" Dipper managed to gasp out. Immediately, the drapery cord relinquished its hold, and he dropped to the ground, gasping and retching. He rubbed his bleeding neck gingerly, waiting for the world to stop spinning around him, then glared up at the room. "Fine," he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "I'll help you."

The charcoal man smiled broadly. "Now, then, that wasn't so difficult, was it? See? There was no need for you to be so afraid of me."


A/N: So, I recently took a mission trip down to Pensacola to work on some houses for Habitats for Humanity. Afterward, I came back home, then left again for my college orientation. Anyway, that's why it took so long to update. For a while, I'm going to be busy finishing up everything at home and then beginning my life at college, so updates may be kinda sporadic. But I promise, cross my heart, hope to die, that nothing I write will ever become a dead fic. Every story I begin, I do so already knowing how it will end.

In the meantime, review, favorite, follow, send me chocolate, draw fanart, and vote for me in the general election of 2016.