The swirling clouds became more and more tumultuous. All of the state's static seemed to be flying towards the Gravity Falls plughole, every bit of Oregon's strange weather, air pollution and smog - from Portland to the Idaho border - pouring into a massive, hulking great storm that funnelled underneath the town's subterranean network.
The spot from where the Nathaniel Northwest statue had stood acted as the central point, sucking in every ounce of the freak weather system and distributing it across the town's bowels. Wind burst from every manhole cover, every sewer grate, every vent and pipe, ripping apart more and more of the town's internal fabric.
The town's one-and-only umbrella store flew skywards in a twirling display of multi-coloured fabric and metalwork. The local laundrette flooded forth in soap bubbles and bloomers. The playing card store lost every tower and pyramid display. The china shop, as it turned out, needed no bull.
It was a catastrophic trail of destruction, a trail funnelled by ghostly blue vines and foliage that loomed over in a thousand horrific nightmares of vegetation.
"What do we do?!" Tyler yelped. "What do we do?!"
"I- I dunno, dawg! T-this is something we'd usually trust the Pines to fix."
"If all of this is happenin' there ain't a chance the Pines are alright down there." Blubs huffed, thumbs in his belt loops.
It was, indeed, fair to say that the Pines weren't alright down there. The collapse of Northwest Manor had been every bit as disastrous as it had seemed from above the Earth.
"Watch yourself!" Ford barked at the top of his lungs. "If you stick to the edges of the room, you're less at ri-"
CLONG
Down came one of the Northwest complex's steel pipes, scraping against Ford's prodigious nose and evoking a yelp from the kids that stood alongside him, followed by a rush of ancient floorboards and mortar.
"My friends, I fear that this may be the end!" Trembley piped up. "Worry not, I have a kazoo for all of us to play the death march!"
Stan responded by slapping the instrument out of Quentin's hand as they continued their desperate run for cover.
"I- am- so- sick- of- running-" Pacifica panted, her hand tightly wrapped around Dipper's as they hopped over a rapidly widening chasm.
Mabel didn't have quite the same issue, as Kevin bounded over the same gap with remarkable skill, his girlfriend sat upon his broad shoulders, stroking his hair as if it were the world's most precious guinea pig. Dipper watched his relative ease with envy, though he quickly snapped out of it when he exchanged a quick glance with his girlfriend who - even when panic had taken both of them, even when the literal world was ending - still managed to make his heart skip.
They threw themselves into an alcove in the newly exposed clay and sandstone that lurked behind the collapsing cinder blocks as another pipe collapsed, plummeting through the floor and into one of Curzon's tunnels, where the wind shot it away like a pod in some egocentric billionaire's misplaced transit project.
Grenda and Candy panted for breath, fanning each other with a slate roof tile - at least, until Grenda accidentally headbutted it and severed it in two. Lazy Susan had firmly beset herself into Stanley's arms - much to Ford's disgust, Mabel's delight and Dipper's complete indifference.
Dan clutched onto his kids, panting for air. For the first time for as long as his kids could remember, Dan looked mournful. The Northwest Manor may have been a horrible place that had seen one of his most accomplished ancestors killed - but it was also the Corduroy's crowning achievement. The mark of a hundred lumberfolk and their dedication. To both their craft and…somewhat less poetically, the potential of getting into a party.
"We'll rebuild it." Ford said, firmly, holding the towering Corduroy patriarch's shoulder.
"If this is happening down here, I reckon the town will need rebuildin' first." Stan panted, clenching onto the bare earth behind him as if he quite literally had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"My Diner…" Susan sighed. The usually over-enthusiastic and carefree older woman was looking incredibly frittered and tired.
Stan, through twisted, nervous lips, tried to reassure his on-and-off-again girlfriend. "Don't worry sweets, we'll get a new log. A bigger log! Maybe get an extension log."
"Ah'll hack the government computer-ma-doodle so Gravity Falls gets half the national disaster fund!" McGucket beamed.
"And I still have the key to Fort Knox! Or Fort Blox. I'm not sure which." Trembley added.
The minor reassurance seemed almost woefully hollow in the face of the cataclysm. The Pines, Corduroys and sole Trembley pressed back desperately as the building continued to cave, slowly stabilising as debris plummeted inwards until - at last - the first glimmers of light from above appeared, hinting that the crust that entrapped them was open.
Through hook or by crook, they now had the ability to - at least - find the outside world. It was just a case of getting up there. Just as they were mentally preparing to clamber atop a thousand feet of rubble, Pacifica recoiled and yelped as the iron, monogrammed Northwest gates fell to the floor with a heavy thunk, wedging themselves into the Earth and swinging open idly on their hinges.
It was as good as a final nail hammered into the coffin for the Northwest Family's ultimate palace of power and prestige. Their personal motte and keep had crumbled, their influence upon the town as readily destroyed as the gas station once sited so close to the collapsed water tower.
Everybody fell silent, staring at the wrecked gates that seemed so foreboding, so final, so desperately hopeless - deep underground from where they had originally stood - a languidly swinging component of what once had been.
Whether it was an entrance to a new life, free of the manor's vice grip, or an exit from the once oh-so-controlling stance of the stately home, there was doubt that those gates marked the changing of boundaries.
"What do we do?" Susan whispered.
"We need to get back up there." Ford said, firmly. "The town may be going to hell in a handcart, but it's the best damned town in Oregon."
"Sure, that's a real big achievement." Stan laughed. "Amirite? Amirite? Yeah, alright, not a good time for jokes. Let's go."
The only route back to the surface was stacks of brickwork, mortar and lumber. A smattering of foreboding brown brick and rich, saturated redwood, peppered in garish portraits and taxidermy. It was something that Pacifica found particularly painful to ascend, and she wasn't even in her late 50s with a chronic back problem.
She swore she could hear the voices of those stuffed animal heads that had tortured her and her future boyfriend last summer…
Ancient sins.
How true that had really felt after all of this. After everything she had been forced to see, learn and experience first hand this summer. With those sins in mind, the house plummeting straight into the underworld only seemed all the more fitting.
Meanwhile, back in the remains of the chapel, the speared Cankerbeast began to drip. Began to slowly collapse into a thick, inky puddle. A puddle that glowed and smelt medicinal and herbal in origin.