The Pines walked - slowly, and hesitantly - to the bizarre sight that lay ahead. It was drowning in the white, drenching glow of the floodlight, rocking in the soft motion of the water, creaking and swinging gently as it moved.

It was a sailing vessel; one that was completely dilapidated, yet maintained a layer of distinguished outline in its masts, stems, ropes and planks. Every piece of the great wreck was seemingly stripped from another, peppered with the occasional plank that struck in a fine, rich redwood, that outclassed its decrepit nature.

The family was stunned into silence.

They stood at the foot of its sloping, maroon shape, its soft ropes and tattered sails flapping idly in the breeze, watching in awe as the sizable ship groaned to itself, quietly. It was quite a discovery - an untouched, chequerboard piece of woodwork that combined the grandiose with the worn and torn - a strange combination of smooth shapes and creaking, fractured masts.

Stan, being the would-be grizzled sailor, was enraptured. He had a thing about ships. "Hell, it's a whole freakin' Brig!"

"Wouldn't trust it to be seaworthy." Ford replied, rubbing his chin - less impressed and more sceptical of the ship's purpose. If it particularly served one. "One stiff wave on the Atlantic and it'd be driftwood."

"Guess on the lake it's not so much of a problem." The old crook shrugged, scratching his head, a single, grey eyebrow firmly raised. "She's a beaut'."

The scientist chuckled. "I guess there's a certain style to her."

Pacifica cocked her head as she took in the bizarre, creaking pile of planks and canvas. The Northwests were yacht owners, sure, but they didn't really sail the yacht anywhere - much to her chagrin. She was fascinated. "How long has this thing been here?"

Dipper didn't particularly know much about ships. Truth be told, he was never much of the seafaring sort. A little too prone to nausea. But to him, this ship seemed old. A little bit too old, and unnervingly empty - silent, yet moored, ready and waiting for something to happen. "I mean, it must have been here for years, right?"

"At least." Ford said, adjusting his glasses and crouching. "But someone's working on it. There's holes filled with tarpaulin. Looks like lining from a duck pond or something."

"What, someone's repairing it?"

"It's not a very good restoration job, I grant you, but it is one." Ford replied. "Not by someone with a speciality in woodwork, but-"

"Hey, Grunkle Ford?" Mabel asked, swinging from the ship's bowsprit as if she wasn't fifteen feet above the lake's inky black water.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Whatcha think this is?"

Ford peered around and blinked. Below Mabel's feet, and the piercing shadow of the wooden bowsprit, there was a large, tattered Vellum label. It wasn't a very obvious label, and had faded with age, but it was legible. A soft, yellowed paper, lacquered against the boat. Perhaps a century ago. A stubborn remainder of a past life.

The print was a dull red, with large typeface - but it was in such an odd place that it seemed unlikely anyone would notice it. Outside of the people brave enough to go swinging around from bowsprits.

THIS LABEL CERTIFIES THAT WE HAVE BOUGHT YOUR BOAT

You will receive a payment of $7 each within the next 28 days.

What are you going to do about it? You're poor.

Yours truly

N. NW.

All in his name.

The old men, Mabel and Dipper looked to Pacifica, who only rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips.

"Great."

Ford smiled reassuringly and patted her back. "I'm not massively surprised... You can sit this one out if you'd like."

"No way." Pacifica huffed. "But I really thought we were done with this stuff. My family owned a sailing ship? For what? Showing off?"

"I mean, that wouldn't be too out of the question, right?" Dipper asked. "It's not too different to owning a yacht."

"So why didn't they get a yacht?!"

"I mean, they were pretty crazy." Mabel chirped, swinging back onto the jetty. "It probably made sense then, right?"

The group murmured quietly in agreement, shrugging and nodding their heads.

"Question." The young socialite said, interrupting the quiet chorus. "If it's Northwest property, what's it doing here?"

Stanly glanced out across the lake, around the dock, towards the waterfalls. He had polished his sailor's ability pretty nicely over the past few months, and liked to think he knew more than a touch about navigation. "Could your Pops be workin' on it?"

"Do you really think my Dad would do woodwork? I'd be surprised if he did any work."

The snarky reply made Stan cackle. "Well, someone's gotta b-"

Ford shushed them all of a sudden and pulled out his Vengeful Spirit Detector, which was bleeping in its irritatingly jolly refrain and scrolling through numbers on its little LED screen merrily.

The family grimaced and paused as they recognised what this meant. They huddled closer. Dipper wrapped his arm around Pacifica's waist. Mabel ate a gummi koala she had found in her pocket. Stan chugged from his hip flask cautiously and readied his brass knuckles.

Tension rose. They all went silent as Ford's brilliant mind - albeit one that could have just made the device write in English - worked to decode what was happening.

Dipper craned his neck to try and read it, but it was - predictably - a load of coded technobabble, something fairly standard to the work Ford did during his time of investigation in the town. Paranoid and imperfect.

He could relate, to be fair.

"Sixer, you said these damn things only came out at night. How the hell can there be ghosts now?"

"I- I don't know. It senses all anomalies, it's just meant to report on the more subtle stuff, it's-"

Pacifica, Dipper and Mabel backed away slowly. "Guys…"

"Well, what the hell is up with it?! I get it's like thirty years old and made outta junk, but it can't be-"

"Guys!"

The two Grunkles looked at the kids, then back behind them.

Beavers. Simple, ordinary beavers, going about their simple-minded little business, frolicking towards the kids in the hope they had a picnic basket or some nuts, their paddle-like tails flapping behind them wildly as they waddled along contently. Their coarse horse-hair coats and beady little eyes were not exactly the most threatening visage, despite their aggressive behaviour the previous night. They were more like giant walking coconuts with flaps and claws.

"Yer weirdness alarm's playin' up, Ford."

"It must be-"

"Pfft, I dunno guys." Mabel beamed. "Look at them! Beavers are super anomalololous. They're weird as heck!"

"I mean, Mabel's right. Who looks at a beaver and thinks it's normal?" Pacifica chuckled, patting one on its head. "They're kinda cute when they're not screaming little shadows of death."

"Probably full of fleas." Dipper grinned.

Pacifica recoiled and punched him in the arm. "Jerk."

"What?! They probably are!"

"Welp." Stan rubbed his nose. "Guys we better get back to town and ask McGucket a few things, huh? Maybe he knows somethin' about this sailboat business."

Ford agreed eagerly. "There's a lot to be said about a man who's been living on the streets for decades. Always had his ear to the ground."

"Literally."

"Gross." Pacifica mumbled as they walked back to the Stan O'War, trying her damnedest to compute the fact that Scuttlebutt Island had a freakin' harbour and a little pirate ship… thing in it. The last thing she wanted was to encounter more of her family's past.

All the same, she couldn't help but glance back at the old vessel with an eyebrow raised...