The voice of the House - and, thus, the voice of Cankerblight - rang out once again.

"What did I tell you? You see, Northwest, Bill is chaos-"

"Tell us something we don't know, you swine!" Ford shot back, before an inky black tendril wrapped around his mouth.

"Shut up, Sixer." Curzon hissed.

"Hey!" Stanley barked. "Only I get to shut the poindexter up, ya jerk!"

"As I was saying. Bill is chaos. This is like a…" Curzon paused as he chose his words, clicking his tongue. Wherever that tongue currently was. Probably in the wine cellar or something. "... Chapel. A Chapel dedicated to that chaos. Every horrible thing the Northwests have done is in the name of Bill's love of chaos. The idea was to try and summon him through tributes."

"But Dad said they'd never-"

"Bit of a white lie, kiddo. Should be used to that from your bloodline. Your Dad might be better than your ancestors, but he's still a liar."

Pacifica shrank back and furrowed her brow.

"Bill had some fun with them. Egged them on via his little telephone, found it all hilarious. Was never actually interested in joining them, though. He needed a physicist, not some jerks with a ton of money. So your family just kept on being scum for nothing. A tiny little ant farm for Cipher's amusement. A pathetic dust bowl of insignificant dirt trying to be important."

She clenched her fists and teeth as Curzon continued his little exposition to her, Dipper and the Grunkles - every word still chosen to mock and belittle her. To anger her. And he was enjoying every moment.

She could feel tears coming to her eyes again. She was just so tired. She felt nauseated, she felt disgusted, she felt ashamed…

Dipper held her hand, but she barely had the spark to hold it back. She wished the ground would swallow her up. Was this really it? This was what her family had done?

Maybe they damned well deserved it. Maybe they should just surrender to Curzon and let him carry on. What was the point? This was how much she was worth? Some bearded psycho's plan to dance for a geometric shape in a top hat?

These people made her Dad seem like a good person.

Her dad!

"And then, we came to Tobias. Poor old Tobias Determined. Darling of the press. Prized citizen of Gravity Falls. Did you ever read through those last pages of that notepad, Pacifica? You may as well, now. I have all the time in the universe. Literally."

"I'm not going to-"

Curzon glowered. He was getting increasingly impatient with his audience, captive though it was. "You are. Read it."

Pacifica looked at Dipper, who just shrugged, completely at a loss. Neither were exactly expecting their captor to force them to read.

She frowned. "But why would I-"

"You want answers, don't you?"

"Yeah, but, like, right now?!"

"Read it, Northwest, or watch me crush your new family. I'll spare you just for the fun of watching your heart break."

The roof rumbled, adding credence to the threat.

Pacifica squirmed. "W-why can't you just tell m-"

"Because his own words are so, so much better… and I can illustrate them."

She really, really didn't like the sound of that, but, faced with the threat of seeing a Dipper pancake (not a pancake shaped like Dipper, which she had tried briefly after watching a 7,000 Femtosecond Crafts video online,) She saw precious little alternative avenue.

She flipped through the pages frantically, watching that rattling, rumbling ceiling with no small amount of panic. If she had to appease him, so be it. Part of her was desperate to just grab the Stanford Dynamo and throw it at him. But she knew there had to be a reason behind the Grunkles' hesitation. Even if it was just to gather more knowledge from the back of Cankerblight's love for himself.

July 23rd, 1883.

Yesterday, the Pacific North-Woodsman crashed. Plummeted off of the bridge like a cannonball from a ship. The carnage is unbelievable. Many people hurt, and worse. Just as my Whistleblower informed me.

Rumours have it the driver and conductor were both blinded by a 'flash of light' and hit an obstruction. Sounds very strange to me. My experiences with the railroad staff have always been mixed. I don't believe there's a strong culture of health and safety on our trains, and the men themselves seem barely aware how to drive them.

The fire has been burning for the entire evening. I'm afraid any witnesses I could interview have been lost to the disaster or have been signed to silence by strange men in velvet suits.

I fear this may be what I've always feared. Could Nathaniel have gotten so unhinged he wanted an accident to take place? Could this be the most… grotesque action his family has taken yet?

I must find Cornelius Northwest.

There is no world I'd less like to raise my son within than a world where these events could be pre-planned by such maddening evil. I sincerely hope I can bring the world to rights.

Pacifica grimaced. She was only more horrified when she looked up. In place of the tapestry, a black, curling stream of shadow slipped through the mortar of that looming, gothic roof - wrapping into a circular frame that swirled and twisted into a gigantic window, the pitch black centre slowly fuzzing into life.

Dipper tried to pull Pacifica back, but she remained steadfast, staring, open mouthed, as the giant cavern started to display imagery of time past. Curzon was illustrating, alright. There, before their eyes, was the burning wreck of the Pacific North-Woodsman. The components she recognised from the Diner were all too clear. The smoke and cinders flying up into the air, the hellish sound of screams and shouts of anguish.

She was 14 years old and watching a real life train wreck take place in real time, as if she had been stood at the perfect vantage point over a hundred years ago. The smell of burning wood, scalded metal and scorched earth filled the Cathedral with incredible strength, so much it burnt their eyes. Smoke poured in from the scene.

"How… how is he doing that?" Dipper stared in awe and horror.

"Dad was right… he is like a wormhole with legs."

Curzon cackled as the locomotive's boiler exploded in a burst of flame and steam, shrapnel flying through his window to the past and clattering to that solid stone floor, still smouldering at their feet, still stinking of burnt oil and disaster. "'Ow does it feel, Pacifica? This is your family's legacy."

Ford adjusted his glasses as he stared into that enormous, swirling whirlpool of sepia toned railroad calamity, his eyes no less wide and eyebrows no less peaked. He had resigned himself to having seen everything, but this? The potential. The scientific opportunity. His mind was already reeling at the concept, his fear being replaced by a deep seated excitement.

He tried to hide it, but couldn't resist his natural, inquisitive urge to get a sample of Curzon's 'essence'. As… uncomfortable as that sentence made him.

"Keep reading, Pacifica. You have more to learn."

"B-but I-"

The ceiling creaked menacingly once again. Her hands were shaking. She was no longer sure if it was fear, tension, or the trauma of seeing a train wreck. She just knew she hated every second of it.

The two Grunkles and Dipper both read over her shoulder as she flipped the page.

July 26th 1883.

Following my publication of the Gossiper regarding the Pacific North-Woodsman railroad disaster, Cornelius Northwest - my unexpected whistleblower - has gone suspiciously quiet. I find this incredibly disconcerting, and only grow more worried to hear that Nathaniel Northwest has started selling all of his company shares.

My interview with him was meant to disavow his fears of being caught. I spent extensive focus on him disavowing family ties, stating there was no evidence, downplaying the possibility, giving the impression of me as the major trouble causer. With my golden career of investigative reporting, it's only right that they should suspect me instead.

I will always protect my sources. It's my duty.

What I find concerning is that when I asked about the triangular, one eyed creature, Cornelius was more shocked and paranoid than ever. He told me not to ask further questions and to keep quiet about the Ciphernauts.

What is a Ciphernaut? Clearly the organisation Nathaniel has established. It's the only answer I could think of.

I have a headache. My poor wife is growing increasingly worried about us both, as she, too, is feeling unwell. I keep insisting that she leave the housework to me with our child being due. However, even I am growing crippled by this sudden swathe of illness.

The strange warp began to gyrate and rattle, swirling into another scene. This time, it was a familiar one to them - The Crawlspace. There Nathaniel was, walking, debecked in a dark hood with his prodigious beard tucked into his tunic, his eyes darting back and forth in a manner befitting of an insane, paranoid man who believed he was being spoken to by a dream demon.

Pacifica knew what was coming next. He rapped his knuckles on the diminutive wooden door that lead to Curzon's curse stall, clutching a copy of the Gravity Falls Gossiper. Curzon answered to his regular customer and confidant erratically pointing and jabbing at the miniature portrait of Tobias Determined at the Gossiper's header, enunciating with his arms in a manner that betrayed how… strange and furious he was.

The younger - and substantially less terrifying - Curzon grinned and agreed, slipping out a series of pictures and displaying them to his client eagerly, his eyes glowing a ghostly ruby red.

Nathaniel recoiled, before giving a devious grin and nodding.

The two exchanged a slippery, shook tendril of agreement, before the scene fell to black.

"You?" Stanley stammered. "You're the reason that Toby Determined is so…"

"Such a freak?!" Dipper interrupted his Grunkle.

Pacifica elbowed him fiercely in the ribs with a scornful look. As much as she had very little time for Toby herself, she was beginning to realise how much more there was to his story. In fact, she was beginning to feel outright sorry for him.

She was beginning to pity him more than she'd ever hated him. As grotesque, bizarre and strange a man as he was. A man with weird cat whiskers and an annoying voice and terrible fashion sense and-

"Keep reading." Curzon hissed, now seemingly on the brink of laughter. "The tension is killing me."

28th July 1883

My headache is getting worse. No idea why. However, my son is due within the next few days, and I'm ecstatic.

The excitement is an immense motivator. I must finish this research. I believe I have uncovered a grand secret under Northwest manor, something that may lead to these mysterious Ciphernauts.

I must keep digging. I only wish this migraine would leave me.

We have decided on Terence Determined.

The swirling vortex continued to warp and mutate before their eyes. Before long, it had turned to a portrait of Tobias himself, staring in shock and horror at his newborn child having whiskers, a protruding jaw, and a misshapen nose.

The next page was markedly different to the others in that tattered notepad. The handwriting had changed from a fine calligraphy to a messy scribble, in what looked irresistibly like wax crayons.

The tone was naturally panicked and scrawled hurriedly, crumpling the paper with numerous smears and smudges.

15th August

Something is happening to me

Strange cat whiskers like my boy's keep growing on my face

I feel like I have grown shorter and am developing a strange odour

Pacifica felt sick again. She grimaced as she looked at the final sentence on the bottom of the page. It had clearly been written at a different time. Clearly pieced together in a hurry. Clearly done with a man no longer carrying the same coordination or verbose manners he had when starting his memoirs.

Surrounding it were crude drawings of Bill Cipher, Curzon Cankerblight and all-seeing eyes.

It was enough to send shivers up their spines.

It was the worst, possible thing they could have hoped to read from the man. It was the sort of thing that brought perverse, undying pleasure to the sinister, twisted mind of their shadowy captor.

There it was. The last written words of Tobias Determined.

OH MARBLES.