Chapter 37

Disclaimer: Alex Hirsch owns Gravity Falls, not me.

"Fiddleford?" The homeless man was curled up into a ball, with a threadbare blanket wrapped around his figure, only his face peering out. He grasped the material of the blanket tightly and his eyes widened at the sight of the Pines. Stan realized with a jolt, that behind the glasses, his eyes were welling with tears. He buried his face back into the blanket, sniffling aloud. After feeling as though his feet had been glued to the floor, Stan found himself striding across the length of the room, and to his best friend. His joints creaked in protest, as he settled himself beside the elder man. He tentatively licked his lips, before reaching out, hands shaking, to the blanketed figure. "Fid-"

Fiddleford tensed at the hands nearing him, shoving the other away. Stan's body scarcely moved a inch, the weakness of the ex-curator's limbs barely affecting him. "D-Don't!"

"Hey, hey, I ain't gonna hurt yo-" Stan raised his hands, meaning to exhibit he wasn't planning on touching him, but Fiddleford flinched violently, as though he thought he was about to be struck.

"I-I DON'T KNOW W-WHO YOU ARE!" The homeless man cried out, eyes squeezed shut. The elder Pines began to realize, that Fiddleford was unstable, incoherent, compared to how he was when he came to the Mystery Shack. He released a choked noise, tears leaking from his eyes. He muttered, barely aloud to himself, causing Stan to feel concerned."S-Stanley...S-Stanford...I-I don't know...just...I..."

"...Hey, hey, it's ok...you do know me...I...us...Stanley is my brother...I'm Stanford..."

Fiddleford's eyes snapped open, breathing raggedly. "...Stan...ford?"

"Yeah, I'm Stanford...Stan, you know, the much more handsome version of my twin brother?"

"...handsomer..."

"What?"

"That's...n-not proper English...you don't need to say 'more'...y-you..." He trailed of, burying his face into his knees.

"Jesus, you sound just like when you were young-"

"I've...I've wronged you..."

"Wait, what? What the hell are you talking about?"

Fiddleford's arms wrapped tightly around his knees, voice muffled, yet clearly haunted. "I r-remember...what I d-did to you..."

~1972, The end of January~

"Hey, Fiddles?" Stanley Pines peered into the curator's office, having lurked through the museum's hallways near closing time, avoiding eye contact with the security guard as he had bypassed him. He hadn't been able to go near police officers or security guards, without growing afraid, ever since he had returned from Colombian prison, though he would attempt to remain emotionless on the outside. In the darkened hallways though, the guard watching from a distance, had nodded at him, recognizing him to be a friend of one of the employees. He hadn't halted though, hastily continuing pass him, eyes downcast. Most of his fear had faded, by the time he had peeked his head in Fiddleford's office though. "Fiddleford?"

The man wasn't in his office, as he usually was around eight at night, though the light was on. He had to be nearby that meant, perhaps in one of the back rooms, reading through files. Stan frowned, beginning to back out, only to stumble into someone behind him. He nearly toppled over the figure, as the other scrambled to pick paperwork scattered across the floor. He bent over, on his knees, assisting in the retrieval of paperwork with his unbroken arm. "Sorry about that, Fid-"

He paused, as he realized the individual wasn't his best friend. His platinum blond hair was sprucely parted to the side, his prominent chin, and deep green eyes presented a handsome face to Stan. His waist-high dark slacks, were belted up, over a windsor tan button-up, his lab coat over top. He appeared to be at least in his early adult years, younger than Stan's 27-years-of-age. He frowned deeply at Stan's face, then at his cast, causing the other begin to feel uncomfortable. He hated when people stared at him, the prisoners would always stare, when the guards would beat him in the courtyard. "What are you doing in here? Who are you and how did you get past the guard?"

"Uh...Uh..." He stuttered out awkwardly, the authoritative voice causing him to tense.

"Ivan, what was all that nois-?" Fiddleford came around the corner, files underneath his arms, appearing surprised at the pair on the ground. "Stan? What are you doing here right now?"

"I...uh, I-I should go..." He mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

"No, no, you can stay. I was simply surprised. You usually are accompanied by your brother nowadays and don't really come around at night. Was there something you wanted? I told you both I would come by in the morning."

"Excuse, Mr. McGucket, who exactly is this?" The younger man questioned, the files now gathered into his arms, eyes narrowing at Stan.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ivan. This is my dear friend, Stanford Pines. Stan, this is Ivan. He's my new assistant."

"Pines? He's the brother of Stanley, correct? You've spoken of them much."

"Oh, yes he is."

"I apologize if I was offensive, Mr. Pines, I simply didn't expect to run into someone I didn't know around this time of night." Ivan explained, reaching out to assist Stan in standing. When he tensed further, Ivan's hand froze, before retracting.

He scrambled to his feet, attempting to remain calm, despite the urge to fly into a rage. He would be skittish and awkward around others, until they attempted to touch him. If they did, he would typically flip to the other end of the spectrum of emotion, the urge to beat the shit out of those he thought meant him harm high. Stan licked his lips, the feeling fading, testing his hands at small talk. "No, uh, it's ok...uh, Ivan...uh, what's your last name?"

Ivan bit his lip, hands tightening over his paperwork. "Oh...My name is, uh...Ivan Northwest."

"...Fiddles...could I, uh, speak to you?" He grasped onto the the arm of the curator, nails digging into the lab coat the other wore. Fiddleford frowned at him, glancing down at the hand digging into his hand, beginning to open his mouth. "Now...uh, please..."

His mouth closed, nodding, as he realized Stan was perhaps on the edge of having an episode. He would break down completely, sobbing, and raging away in Spanish. He had only been present once for this (though Stanley had told him it usually occurs when he wakes up from a nightmare), but he had thought they had been reduced to nearly nothing now. "Ivan, could you perhaps make the three of us coffee?"

"Of course, how would you like your's?"

"The usual. Stan will take the same."

"Alright, well, I'll be back momentarily." Ivan readjusted his grip on the documents, eyes staring intently into Stan's. The brunet glanced away, gulping thickly, before the assistant began to leave. He only spoke, when he was positive that the blond was far enough away to not overhear their conversation, though he decided to keep his voice low.

"...What the hell, Fiddles?" He hissed.

The curator raised an eyebrow. "I should be saying that to you, Stan. Would you mind retracing your nails?"

Though his grip lessened, he continued to dig his nails into the arm. He had been feeling restless for most of night, though he couldn't go to his brother, as he had gone to work in the basement with Bill Cipher. He didn't want to be around his brother, when he was being friends with the dream demon, constantly wary of the triangle's behavior. He decided heading to the museum, for Fiddleford, would calm his nerves. Ivan Northwest had ruined that though, nearly sending him into a fit of rage. "Why did you hire a Northwest to be your assistant? You know they're all assholes and will stop at nothing to get what they want."

"Stan, he's not like his family."

"Did you hear me? Assholes. Assholessss."

"Yes, I hear you! The reason I hired him though, is because he came to me about my advertisement I put in the newspaper, interested in the position. He had excellent grades in the fields I needed, when he was attending this boarding school in France. I was impressed and hired him from those results. He isn't like the rest of his family though, in fact, he was meant to be the heir of the Northwest estate, but decided he didn't want to. His brother, Preston, is now going to the head of the estate, when he reaches the age of eighteen. Ivan doesn't approve of his family's business though."

"God dammit, you sound like Stanley, when he talks about Cipher!" He hissed, sweat beginning to form on his temple, hands clenching tighter.

His best friend sighed. "Stanford, you know that's not quite the same. I understand your qualms with Bill and I have the same ones. I honestly don't trust a demon being around Stanley so often, however he seems to be fine, so I don't foresee any immediate harm for the time being. Ivan isn't a demon though and having him work for me isn't going to kill me."

"F-Fiddleford, I really don't like th-" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Stan, are you alright?"

He released a choked laugh, shaking his head. "I-I...don't...why would y-you think I'm n-not ok...?"

"Stan, you look like you're about to have another one of your episodes. Is this about when you were in pris-?"

He didn't want to hear the word, if he did he would completely go over the edge. His other hand grasped on the curator's shoulder, shaking him violently, to the point where Fiddleford would have lost his balance, if it wasn't for Stan's hands keeping him standing. "¡Cállate!"

"S-Stanford!" Stan immediately released him, causing the curator to stagger back, into the hallway's wall. He steadied himself, before glaring at his obviously regretful friend. "What in the name of God's green earth is wrong with you?!"

"I-I'm sorry, F-Fidd-" He cut himself off, the the voices of his abusers overwhelming him. He wasn't quite aware of how it occurred, but he was suddenly on the floor, head in his unbroken hand, sobbing feebly. He felt as though he was choking on his own breath, each sob suffocating him. The only times this had happened, was when he had woken from a particularly bad nightmare, though this reaction had never been triggered from simply hearing the beginnings of the word he dreaded. He felt a hand grasp his forearm and he jerked away. The guards used to grab him there, when they would drag him from his cell, in the dead of the night, to let the prisoners mess with him. "¡NO PARES!"

"Stanford, snap out of it!" Fiddleford shouted at him, grasping onto his shoulder, shaking him. He blinked at his friend, realizing he wasn't where he believed he had been.

"...I-I need..." He panted, feeling overwhelmed by his emotions. "C-Carla...I..."

"You know she's still visiting her family."

"I-It's been t-two weeks though and...and she h-hasn't even called me b-back..."

"I know, she hasn't seen them for years tho-"

"I KNOW THAT, BUT I HAVEN'T SEEN HER IN WHAT FEELS LIKE A THOUSAND YEARS!" He exploded, before grasping his hair.

"...Stan, I know that last time your brother made this suggestion, you reacted explosively, but...I really do believe you need to see a psychologist."

He glanced up with teary eyes. "...I-I think I do, t-too..."

"Um, I-I got the coffee..." The pair were startled to reveal Ivan awkwardly standing a few feet away, holding steaming cups. His eyes shifted between the both of them, licking his lips. "Do...Do you need help with anything?"

Stan lurched up from the floor, waving his cast towards the 18-year-old, snarling. "Fuck off!"

Ivan appeared startled by his aggressive behavior, nearly dropping the mugs. Fiddleford immediately stepping in-between them, causing Stan to cease the cast waving, and his best friend hissed back into his face. "If you don't get yourself under control, I'm going to have to send you out."

"Don't bother, because I'm already leaving, you damn hick." He snarled back, feeling as though Fiddleford trusted the assistant more than him now. He stormed out of the museum, tears leaking down his face. When he had arrived home, he wrapped a pillow around his head, attempting to block out the Spanish words he could hear, echoing throughout his mind. If he hadn't been distracted by that, he would of heard the insane laughter of Bill Cipher, echoing throughout the building.

~1975, July 5th~

Stan groaned aloud, his body aching from head to toe. He gulped thickly, opening his eyes, revealing the blinking emergency light. He squinted his eyes, finding the glow painful to his retinas. He wasn't sure why the emergency lights to the portal were on. They had only been on once, as a test. Was this a test? Did he fall asl-There was rubble beside his arm, he realized, twisting his neck to squint at what he was clutching. He released his hold, his hand trembling, stomach feeling completely empty. Jesus, he hadn't felt this hungry in his entire life. It was as though he was completely hollow on the inside, a gaping mass of nothing where his stomach was meant to be. He couldn't cease his shaking, his bloodsugar unbelievably low. He frowned, rolling over as he attempted to remember why he had more pressing matters than hunger. Stan gasped aloud, suddenly realizing what had occurred. "Stanley!"

When he struggled to sit up, observing the deaden portal, he nearly collapsed back down. The portal had been blown to pieces, his body traumatized by Bill, and Fiddleford had been inju-"Fiddleford!"

He attempted to stand, but the world spun dangerously around him. The brunet was on his hands and knees, momentarily losing consciousness. The brunet's eyes roved around the destroyed room for his best friend. A gasp escaped his mouth, as he spotted the curator, curled up in a ball. He was leaning up against the door of the portal's room, rocking back and forth. No tears were leaking from his eyes, yet they were red rimmed and bloodshot. Stan wasn't aware of how long he had been unconscious, but he knew it must of been awhile, judging from the haunted eyes Fiddleford had. He crawled, ignoring how his hands scraped painfully across the rumble. He witnessed black spots dancing in front of his eyes and he shook them away. "F-Fiddles?"

"You killed him." He froze at the words, inches in front of the rocking curator.

"Wha...n-no...it was Cipher...he t-tricked me an-"

"You made a deal with him."

"Well, y-yeah, but I-"

"Then, you're responsible for his death," He felt panic beginning to overwhelm. He was a murderer. He killed his brother. His brother was lost forever. Stan's nails dug into the rumble beneath his hands, mouth silently moving, as he attempted to form words. Then, Fiddleford stated what he feared most, Stan couldn't breathe. "You're a murderer."

Stanford Pines realized his friendship with Fiddleford McGucket would never be the same.

~1975, The End of July~

After three weeks, he had finished off the stash of food his brother had kept in the Shack. When he realized he hadn't ate for two days, Stan decided to go into town for grocery shopping. He didn't know why he bothered to continue to let himself live, though he supposed it was in hope, that he could perhaps be able to live long enough to ever see his nephew, again. And, perhaps, he hoped Susan would answer back to the messages he had left the first week after the portal incident. As he tugged on a pair of rugged jeans, over his boxers, he ran a hand through his greasy hair. He hadn't showered since before Bill Cipher had used his body, so he supposed he smelt rank after nearly a month. He couldn't bothered to care though. He tugged on a maroon zip-up jacket, to cover his filthily shirt. He counted the money in his wallet, before heading out of the house. The 30-year-old squinted into the darkness, grumbling about the heat. Stan approached the Stanley Mobile, before abruptly bursting into a mess of tears. He stood there, tears leaking into his beard, screaming into the air. The episode he experienced ceased within seconds and he unlocked the door of the car. He settled himself into the driver's seat, before driving into town, tears drying on his face.

When he entered the "Dusk 2 Dawn" convenience store, he headed to the back of the store, plucking up the first sliced bread he noticed, then headed down to the junk food aisle. He plucked up the entire box of Twinkies, before making his way to the coolers. He swung open the freezer door, cool air licking his exposed skin, as he chose a case of beer. He had plenty of those at home, yet he had been chugging them until he would lose consciousness, so he wanted to be prepared if he had been close to running out. He headed to the front, dropping his groceries onto the counter. "H-Hello, h-how are you tonight, sir?"

Stan froze at the voice, hand hovering above his back pocket, reaching for his wallet. He gazed up, finding himself face-to-face with Fiddleford McGucket. His hair was a mess, glasses crooked, and he had a bruise formed over his left cheek bone. "F-Fiddleford?"

The curator frowned, eyes squinting at Stan. "Ah, y-yes, that what my n-name tag says..."

"What...what are you doing here?" He asked, completely stunned.

"Um...w-working...?"

"Yeah, but why here?"

"Um, because I-I need money..."

He glared at Fiddleford. "What are you playing at? You don't answer the phone when I try to call you and then you go and disappear on Susan for almost a month! And then she stopped answering my calls!"

The curator's bottom lip wobbled. "H-How do you k-know a-about my ex-wife?"

"What the hell do you mean...ex-wife?"

"We...divorce three days...a-ago..."

"W-What? What about Tate?"

"How d-do you know about m-my son?"

Stan felt a cold sweat form across his body. "I've known...the three of you, for seven years."

"...I...don't k-know you t-though?"

He nearly collapsed in front of the counter at these words. "...What?"

"I...haven't m-met you before?"

"I-It's me, Stanley!"

Fiddleford frowned at him, appearing apprehensive. "I...thought they took c-care of you...y-you're not supposed to remember w-who you are..."

"What are you talking about? And, why you acting like you've only heard of me?"

"We...I wrote d-down your name, s-so...we know that we needed to take care of y-you...I needed to w-write it down, so I could wipe m-myself clean..."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

He gulped, glancing around the empty store, leaning across the counter to him. "L-Let's talk outside..."

"I hope you're planning on explaining all of this shit, because I have no clue what you're talking about."

"I-I...y-yes...just, go to the back door, and we can talk outside...I n-need to make a p-phone call first, so, uh...s-someone can watch my s-shift..."

"Just hurry up though, because I'm gonna be honest, you're weirding me out," He strolled through the first aisle, to the exit door. He glanced up at wall clock, reading the time to be 11:45 PM, the store closing in 15 minutes. He stepped outside, a street light illuminating the back lot, forest spread out beyond that. A minute or two later, Fiddleford joined him, appearing jittery. He raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong now?"

"N-Nothing, just...how much have y-you seen? I read the l-letter I wrote myself and...it j-just said y-you've seen a lot..."

"God even knows...I mean, the shit I had to put up with, because of Le..." Stan trailed off, eyes full of tears, unable to finish off the name. He was startled, upon feeling a presence behind him. He whirled around, revealing a group of hooded figures, emerging from the underbrush behind. He immediately thought they were as fishy as hell, as though they were a type of group involved with witchcraft. He had seen a ton of strange sights in Gravity Falls, but this scared him more than any supernatural creature he had encountered. He backed away, partially covering his best friend. "What the hell do you guys want?"

They seemed to be murmuring a chant in unison, causing him to begin to feel terrified of what they could do. "Get the fuck away from us!"

"I'm sorry, S-Stan, but you n-need help...t-that's what I-I had written the letter...b-before I erased you and your b-brother from my mind." Fiddleford muttered behind him, before stepping around him, and joining the hooded figures surrounding him.

The hooded figures surrounded the ex-curator, one of them donning him in a maroon cloak. A memory gun was handed to him, from one of the figures to his left, and he immediately recognized it from a design his brother had drawn. Fiddleford and Stanley had never gotten around to a prototype, bu the idea behind the gun, was to erase memories of the supernatural that haunted people. They had agreed the idea was a risk though, messing with another's mind could destroy anyone, and scraped it. Or, at least the Pines brothers had though, yet it seemed as though Fiddleford kept the design. Stan glared at the group before him, realizing this group wasn't a normal type. "W-What is this?"

"The Society of the Blind Eye...we'll make all your bad memories of the supernatural go away...including those of your brother." Fiddleford explained, beaming at what he had created, revealing a missing tooth.

"Is this part of that memory wipe experiment you and Stanley were working on? Are you gonna mess up my head, just like your's?" He bellowed, spit flying from his lips.

"No, no, nothing like that!" He attempted to further explain, appearing distressed at such a notion. "I simply heal your broken mind!"

"You're a goddamned liar!" Fiddleford frowned as he was continued to be yelled at, obviously not receiving the reaction he expected. Stan felt his throat close up, silenced, as Fiddleford punching in the word "Brother" into the gun. He aimed the weapon at the brunet, face full of pity for Stan.

Apprehension danced across his face, before shaking his head, hissing at him, and pointing a finger at the memory gun. "I swear to God, if you shoot me with that thing, I'll ki-"

"Don't worry, everything will be fine, my friend!" Fiddleford's lips stretched into a smile, waving it around as tears rolled down his face. He frowned, touching his tear stricken face in confusion. "Huh? W-Why am I c-crying?"

"Or, for Pete's sake, Fiddleford! This is taking far too long, and if you can't do it yourself, then I will!" A voice to his left cried out, sliding off his own hood. Stan gaped at the revealed Ivan Northwest, who had gone missing after the portal incident. His tattooed head, and sunken facial features, aged him, appearing older than his 21-years-of-age. He rolled his eyes at the brunet. "Oh, don't look so shocked, Stanford! What else did you expect from a...now, who was I again? Hm... Oh, I'm a Northwest! What else did you expect from a Northwest!?"

"You bastard, this is your fault!"

"No, I wasn't the one to start this; Fiddleford was. He simply decided to introduce me to what...the other Pines brother was too foolish to accept! This is the perfect solution to the terror that has been spread throughout this town for decades! We've even made it so that there is only one Pines to the citizens! The unnatural rumors surrounding his death are gone for good! You should be thankful for what we're about to do, because all of your pain is going to vanish from your mind! You'll simply be Stanford Pines, never to be burdened by your brother's presence ever again!"

He felt the hooded figures grasp his frame, as he struggled to comprehend the situation he was in. They erased the entire town's memories of his twin, Stanley Pines, leaving him to be an only child in the mind's of others. The mailman that would always complain about Stanley's experiments producing bright flashes of light into town, would no longer recall such details. Ma and Pa of the "Dusk 2 Dawn" convenience store, wouldn't compliment how well he had been at fixing appliances in their store. Susan would never question Stanley, about when he would get a wife and embarrass him, but telling him all his good qualities. Tate would never laugh with "Uncle Stan", about how nerdy "Uncle Lee" was. The memory gun was pressed to his forehead, tears leaking from his eyes. He would never remember the love he held for his brother and how much he had sacrificed for him. "NO!"

Stan elbowed one of the figures on the stomach, causing them to release their hold. He thrust his head backwards, into the face of another, and ducked as the gun went off. The beam blasted into a dumpster, reflected off, and hit Ivan directly in the face. He tumbled backwards, the memory of Preston Northwest fading from his mind. The gun lay across the ground, cracked from the impact, the words "Brother" blinking at those to view it. The last image of his younger brother to flutter through his mind, was of him erasing his mind, leaving him to believe he was on only child. He laid, spread-eagle across the floor, as Stan socked someone in the face, causing their hood to fall off. He was shocked to be faced with the young Sprott Jones, local farmer on the opposite end of town. "Jones?! What the hell?! This is a cult, isn't it!?"

"S-Stan, now, this isn't quite what y-" Fiddleford was beside him, the other hooded figures lined up behind him. He staggered away, tripping over the cracked memory gun Ivan had had. The ex-curator reached out to help him up from the lot, but he thrust the memory gun into his face. Fiddleford froze, hands in a placating gesture. "N-Now, Stan, you don't want to do anything hasty!"

He punched in the date "July 31st, 1975", tears streaming down his face. "I-I have to do this...I-I have to...H-He might be a-alive..."

Fiddleford's eyes widened, trembling as he opened his mouth. He released the trigger, before he could speak, the beam blasting his ex-best friend in the forehead. Stan was blinded though, when the broken memory gun imploded, leaving his hands in a semi-burnt state. He howled, as the the rest of the hooded figures were caught in the blast, their minds being wiped as well. Stan would of counted himself lucky, that he had been on the opposite end, or he would of forgotten what had occurred today. He was in an extreme amount of pain though, on par with the phantom pain he used to have in his leg from the motorcycle accident. He squeezed his hands shut, his mouth twisting into a scowl, as he attempted to block the pain. He needed to finish what he started. He needed to erase who he was from the other members of town, so they wouldn't let his name slip, causing the Society to remember that Stanford Pines needed to be taken care of. "Ughhh...my h-hands..."

He staggered over to the collapsed figures, reaching underneath one of their cloaks, for their memory gun. He didn't dare reveal any other faces, afraid of who he would view next. He didn't need to know all the people he trusted in Gravity Falls, were secretly out to get him. Stan realized he needed a way to be able to broadcast this further out, so that everyone could have their minds wiped. He couldn't do it by hand in one night. His brother had a type of radar, that could echo waves throughout the entire town if he desired. He had originally sent it up, for broadcasting emergencies to the town people, in case of the end of the world. Stan never did understand that obsession exactly, but he surmised it stemmed from Bill Cipher.

His hands felt numb, possibly his body in a type of shock. Stan entered his brother's vehicle, starting the ignition. He swerved back and forth across the road, hands trembling violently, though he couldn't feel them. He glanced down at the memory gun, in the passenger seat, the street lights reflecting light off of it. He could vaguely notice the radio was on, playing Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir", though he couldn't recall ever turning it on. When he arrived back home, he glanced down at the clock, the time being 12:15 AM. Half an hour. The entire events had been only half an hour, yet he felt as though a lifetime had passed. Stan was out of it completely, finding himself on the staircase leading to the basement suddenly, heading down to erase who he was.

When he would wake, he would return to the "Dusk 2 Dawn" convenience store, re-introducing himself as Stanley Pines to Pa and Ma Duskerton, a new citizen of Gravity Falls. He hadn't been aware until months later, when his sister-in-law came to the Shack, that she had been away, visiting her own family. She had been the only one in town, to know the truth. The Society never came after him again, though he would spot them, sometimes late at night, years later. He would observe the maroon color, lurking out of the corner of his eyes, overtime, finding it to be a comforting and familiar sight. He would ignore the local crazy in the town's dump though, afraid of becoming friends with that stranger. After all, how could one forget that not everyone can be trusted?

Chapter 37 End

Spanish Translations:

¡Cállate!=Shut up!

¡NO PARES!=NO, STOP!

Whoops, it's been two and half weeks since I last updated (I'm sorry, but I've been super busy with college and work!). Aside from that though, I've been planning to another flashback chapter, for quite awhile. That lends me to a question for you readers; how would you feel about a Mystery Trio fanfic? It would be a type of prelude to this story, so Grunkle Stan would be Stanford and Grunkle Ford would be Stanley in that (just like in this story). I don't know if I would actually go through with it, but I thought someone might be interested. Anyways, notes for this chapter is just an explanation, in case anyone was confused. In my story, Fiddleford and Stanley came up with the mind erasing device. They deemed it a dangerous tool, scraping it, but Fiddleford decided he needed to go through with it. He suggested the idea to Ivan, who had already experienced a few supernatural events, agreeing it would be excellent idea. They created the Society of the Blind Eye together, before completely delving into it, after Stanley disappeared through the portal. Things had gotten out of hand though, Ivan beginning to overtake the group. Fiddleford wrote a letter to himself, describing what he believed needed to known later, before erasing his own mind, about the Pines brothers. As always, reviews, favorites, and follows are appreciated!