Northwest Manor was - ultimately - one of the few places in town that stood above any level of fog that might descend upon town. The tailor-made lair of Nathanial Northwest was practically orchestrated to resist the town's paranormal influence - unless it was on his own terms.

Now, a century and a half later, it still stood, leering over the area with a sinister grandeur. Of course, it was no longer quite so consistent on the inside. The gates were open, the doors unlocked, half of the rooms unused.

Even the relative light of Fiddleford McGucket and his family had little effect on its sinister facade, its cruel lines and terrible past. The manor would never not be foreboding. And, after the Pines' experiences there, seemed to act as a constant, haunting reminder of just how crooked the town could be - how much terrible, unpleasant history they had learnt.

They stood before the looming, glaring manor, surrounded as they were by perfectly preened plantlife, in a place entirely well kept - in stark contrast to the disarray down below. Pacifica bit her lip as she looked up at her childhood home, wincing in a very real, visceral fear of being back at the enormous building.

All the same, there was no other option. After all, McGucket only left his Hootenanny Hut when there was a sale at the chewin' tobacco parlour or when he was required by some kind of hugely well paying contractor, the government or a mixture of the two.

They walked through the leering doors into the colossal parlour; the grand ballroom that McGucket seemed to maintain as the only real room he used (outside of his walk-in bacon closet, the kitchen, the pool and the bathroom) - the large, airy space - grotesquely outsized as it was - still carried only a giant beanbag as its centrepiece, filled by Fiddleford playing a banjo, surrounded by blueprints and joined by a spittoon.

He paused and broke into a wide, relatively well-kept smile as he met them - standing up and embracing his old friend with glee. "Stanford, how are ya?"

"It's good to see you, Fiddleford." The scientist smiled, patting his back. "Business visit, I'm afraid."

"You finally makin' money with your monster hunts?"

"Well, not this one-"

He laughed and slapped Ford's back enthusiastically. "So it ain't a business visit, it's a hobby visit! What's yer trouble?"

"Scuttlebutt Island is the trouble." Ford replied, simply. "Anything you can tell us?"

McGucket's face dropped, as did he - straight back into his pillow. "Well, dang. You went there? Pretty foolish to go wandering around that island, Ford. Ain't the safest spot."

"From what the kids have told me, you were there plenty-"

"I was as foolish as they came, Ford. But yer right, that's where mah Gobblewonker came to life." He said, as Stan resisted the urge to make an inappropriate joke. "That place is danged near perfect fer submarine-single-man-robotic manufacturing. That harbour, all those warehouses, the floodlights…"

The kids were still somewhat surprised to see Fiddleford not only so lucid, but capable of remembering so much. He was still a bit of a kook, naturally - and in Pacifica's mind no man should be wearing sandals and brightly coloured Oxford shirts so incessantly - but McGucket's head, for the most part, was a hell of a lot better put together than it was. The man mostly made sense.

He strummed away on his banjo as if he was a guru playing the sitar, surrounded by enamoured followers. "Hell, so long as you don't bother the beavers or their ship none, you'll be golden. Ever tried eating tree bark? I tried it to fit in. Wasn't bad."

Mabel blinked. "You know about the crazy boat thing?"

"Sure do. Them beavers are very protective of it. They live aboard it, I reckon. Why, that boat's wood is worth hundreds an' thousands alone."

Dipper licked his pencil and prepared his journal. Then wondered why he had just licked his pencil. "How come?"

"Built fr'm the same wood as this mansion, and there ain't any of those trees left anymore. The Northwests got the Corduroys to chop down every one of those things in the state for the Manor an' stole the wood from that boat to make good on it."

"Now, hang on." Stan said. "How the hell do you know all this? Ain't the Northwest history all a state secret thing?"

"You think I didn't read while I was dumpster divin'? The museum threw out some interestin' junk while I was on the street, I kin tell ya. Matter of fact, I've bin lookin' at the railroad-"

Ford interrupted him. "So you're saying this wood is extinct?"

"Sure is, Stanford. Ain't never seen another apart fr'm my walls."

Mabel blinked and looked down at her sweatshirt. "Has uh… Kevin visited you lately?"

"The Corduroy kid with the gap? Sure has! Dan comes every so often to do some maintenance and make sure my joists aren't moist. A bit of planin', a bit of drillin', a bit of this an' that. The Northwests just coated this place in varnish, didn't care for the wood none. This place's wood is about as luxurious as lumber comes."

Mabel held her cheeks. It was clear that the tree bark she had been brought was the equivalent of a rare orchid or mountain flower. In Lumberjack terms, anyway. She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes blissfully as she let the romance settle in her mind.

The romantic gesture didn't make such an impact on the others; truth be told, in Ford and Dipper's mind, it was opening up a particularly dangerous situation. If the beavers were looking for that specific kind of wood, and this was the only source-

The Pines looked to eachother worriedly. "So, say if a group was trying to restore that ship-"

"Only place they'd be able to do it is tryna knock down this joint. An' they'd have to go through me first." McGucket scratched his beard intently as he thought things over. "Y'know, come ta think of it, Tate came in last night hootin' an' hollerin' about ghost boats."

Mabel frowned. "You could've, y'know, said that first."

Dipper blinked. "You didn't even make that connection?"

"My memory's still not workin' perfect." McGucket replied, rubbing his head. "I figured he wus jus' talkin' some crazy."

Tate walked in with his fifth cup of gravy of the day. "Reckon you kids are investigatin' the same thing we faced last night. Took down the tackle shop."

By now, Dipper was getting rather into this particular mystery. Not least because it felt like something out of a schlocky movie. He was in his element. "You got attacked by the beavers?"

The taciturn man looked at Dipper in confusion. "I dunno if we saw any beavers. Just a ship and the aftermath."

"You…you must have been terrified." Pacifica said, puzzled by how relatively untouched McGucket's son seemed to be. "Like, it looked brutal when we saw the lake ranger station-"

Tate sipped his cup of gravy slowly with a painfully long slurp. "...Yup. 'Reckon."

There was an awkward pause between the two families as Tate continued drinking his traditional Oregon beef tea and McGucket idly plucked his banjo strings. "Y'all want a cup of something?"

Pacifica wrinkled her nose at the thought of beef tea.

"No, no, that's fine." Ford smiled. "We'd better get going. You've been extremely helpful."

"Well shucks, always here ta help with yer lil' hunts, Stanford. Jus' keep yer loved ones safe, huh?"

Ford nodded, shook his old friend's hand - and, together, the Pines departed. The moment the doors shut, they became markedly more hurried. They knew the fog's ultimate target - and they had to do something, anything to prepare.

"I got an idea." Stan said as he climbed into the car.

"You have?"

"We need to get down to the Crawlspace."

Dipper blinked. "Why…?"

"Only one thing we know in town who's been here for 150 years, kids. An' I guarantee it's seen some junk about our spooky beaver problem."

Pacifica collapsed back into the car's seat and groaned loudly. Dipper tried to give his best reassuring smile as he put his arm around her.

Pascoe.