Volume 1 – Act 1 Chapter 15 | Catching Shadows I

Ivan Trevino | Catching Shadows

The figure's arm shot forward, a spear of mist slicing through the air with a bone-chilling hiss. It struck Pacifica, piercing her jacket with an icy sharpness that stung to her very bones. She cried out, stumbling as Dipper's hand reached for her too late. His flashlight beam cut into the shadows in vain, casting frantic, wavering arcs of light.

Her knees buckled. The world tilted beneath her feet as the cold spread, heavy and numbing. Her vision blurred, the darkness swallowing her as her body hit the sidewalk. The rough concrete scraped against her skin, but it felt distant—like a memory just out of reach.

"Dipper…" she managed to whisper before her eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the encroaching cold.

Dipper froze, watching her go limp.

No.

His hands trembled, his flashlight flickering unsteadily as he gripped it tighter. His pulse roared in his ears, and his breath came in short, panicked bursts. He turned, eyes locking on the figure looming over Pacifica's crumpled body.

"What… what did you do to her?" His voice wavered, but beneath it was a raw edge of anger and fear.

The flashlight beam snapped onto the figure, illuminating its swirling, inky mist. The reaction was immediate—its shadows recoiled and sizzled under the light, emitting a piercing screech that clawed at Dipper's ears. The sound staggered him, forcing him to drop the flashlight as his hands flew up to cover his ears.

The figure writhed, folding in on itself like smoke caught in a sudden gust. Its twisted form dissolved as it spiraled away into the dark.

Silence fell, broken only by Dipper's ragged breathing. He stumbled forward, snatching up his flashlight with shaking hands. The lingering mist clung to the air like a phantom presence, and a familiar feeling stirred deep within him—a relentless pull to uncover the truth. It was the same fire that had driven him through the mysteries of Gravity Falls, now reignited in full force.

His mind raced as he pieced together fragments of the encounter.

The light—it hates the light. But why? What is it hiding from?

He turned to Pacifica, collapsing to his knees beside her.

"Pacifica? Pacifica!" His voice cracked with desperation as he shook her shoulders.

She didn't respond. He rolled her body from her side onto her back. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes shut. Her skin was unnaturally pale, a faint bluish tint creeping into her lips.

Is she... No. No, she's breathing. He exhaled a shaky breath, forcing the panic clawing at his chest to quiet. He tried shaking her body again, raising his voice louder.

Relief flooded him, but it was fleeting. Her shallow breaths and unresponsiveness made the dread creep back in. "Come on, Pacifica. Wake up. Please…" His voice broke, but her eyelids didn't so much as flicker.

Noises suddenly echoed in the distance, sending a chill down his spine. Dipper's flashlight darted across the foggy expanse, but all it revealed were shifting shadows. The air felt oppressive, the darkness alive with the whispers of something hunting them.

He slid his flashlight into his mouth, biting down to hold it steady, and slipped his arms under Pacifica's limp body. She was heavier than he expected. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he adjusted his grip, her hair brushing his cheek. It smelled faintly of vanilla—how could she still smell like that in a place like this? He shook the thought away. Focus. His legs wobbled under the strain, but fear was stronger than fatigue.

The whispers grew louder, clawing at his ears like nails on a chalkboard. A faint ringing joined them, a sound that burrowed deep into his skull. He quickened his pace, the icy air biting at his cheeks as he pushed forward through the haze.

The figure wasn't gone—not really. He could feel it lurking in the shadows, waiting for a moment of weakness.

The whispers clawed at his ears, a cacophony of voices that felt too close, too sharp, as if they were crawling inside his head. The air reeked of damp earth, the kind of stench that lingered in the back of his throat. Every step sent soft crunches into the brittle darkness, each sound ricocheting like a beacon to whatever hunted him.

He started jogging, hoping to find somewhere to hide and try and wake Pacifica up. Suddenly, the whispers around him grew in intensity. They were booming in his ears, their ringing getting louder. Pacifica shifted slightly, her face contorting in a fleeting grimace. His heart seized. "Pacifica," he hissed, shaking her gently as he jogged. No response. Her breathing remained shallow, her lips moving soundlessly.

His eyes darted around, looking for something —anything. He squinted through the darkness, the beam of his flashlight catching the edge of a broken windmill. Its blades were laying in a jagged heap, partly blocking the entrance. Shelter. He had to make it there

Behind him, a low scraping sound sliced through the whispers. He turned his head, his breath catching in his throat. Tendrils of shadow curled and writhed at the edges of his vision, creeping closer with every passing second. He could see the faint outline of the figure in the distance. It was swirling, floating around. Almost as if it was…. searching? His stomach dropped, a feeling he hadn't felt since the security system activated at crash site omega.

That same feeling of helplessness. It was closing in.

Sweat slicked his palms, and his arms burned as he carried Pacifica. He turned his head around as he picked up the pace again, flowing into a full-on sprint. His legs screamed for him to stop, but he pushed through the prickling pain. The freezing air burned his throat, his breaths turning shallow and sharp.

He wasn't fast enough. He wasn't strong enough.

But he couldn't stop. Couldn't even slow down.

His only option was to try and get to this obstacle and hide.

"Come on. Come on. Come on." He pressed his teeth down on the flashlight.

The biting air stung his face, his hair whipping into his eyes as he sprinted toward the windmill. His gaze darted to a chunk of broken windmill blade lying nearby. An idea struck.

Perfect.

Without breaking stride, he swung his foot and kicked the debris as hard as he could. It clattered noisily into the fog, echoing like a siren.

He skidded to the entrance, panting as he ducked behind the broken blades. His heart pounded in his ears, but the whispers didn't stop. They grew deafening. A chill ran down his spine as the fog swirled at the edges of the windmill, tendrils of shadow curling along the ground. It was searching for him, its presence a weight pressing against his chest. He couldn't keep running forever. He squeezed his eyes shut, Pacifica still cradled in his arms.

"Please..." he whispered hoarsely.

The whispers surged into a massive crescendo, one that was cackling and mocking him, pounding in his skull like war drums. Getting louder.

And louder…

Closing in….

Until everything became still, silent.

Dipper cracked one eye open, the oppressive noise fading to a faint hum. The shadows shifted, retreating to the far end of the course. He slowly set Pacifica down, cradling the back of her head with his hand. Her hair was silky under his touch, too soft. His face warmed as he looked at her. She was still, letting out shallow breaths. Her eyes squeezed shut, her face pinched in what looked like pain.

He took his flashlight out of his mouth, wiping it off. He then maneuvered his head around the broken blade outside of the windmill and looked around. It's beam illuminating the suffocating darkness around them. As far as he could tell, it was just him and the course cloaked in a swirling fog. But faint movements kept his pulse racing.

We're safe for now.

He slipped his head back inside the windmill, catching his breathing. His heart thudded in his ears, the adrenaline still fresh in his veins. He looked at Pacifica, shaking her again. Her eyelids fluttered, her head shifting slightly, as if she was trapped in a restless dream.

He breathed out. His mind reeled with questions as he looked at her. Worrying would only get him so far, he knew that. He clenched his jaw; he had to figure something out. He closed his eyes, contemplating himself.

What do I do…

What would Great Uncle Ford do?

He opened his eyes, summoning the last of his resolve

"Pacifica, hang in there. I'll figure something out."

Pacifica was shrouded in a familiar darkness. Her head pounded with and intense feeling of Déjà vu. She looked down at herself, she was still wearing her Jacket and pants (which were incredible dirty, there goes designer).

She stumbled as she tried to stand, her surroundings disorienting her. The air was heavy, pressing against her skin like wet cloth. Each step sent faint ripples through the ground beneath her, as if it weren't entirely solid. A low, distant hum began to vibrate in her ears, threading through the oppressive silence.

Looking around, she was surrounded by this veil of darkness. She stumbled forward. Her footsteps echoed, sharp and hollow. The darkness crawled closer, clawing at the edges of her vision. She rubbed her eyes, desperate to clear the fog. It didn't help. Nothing did.

Suddenly, a bunch of visions started flashing in her mind. They were blurred, hazy, but just clear enough to make out what they were about. These visions, these moments pierced against her. She recoiled, clutching her head at the sharp pain each time one flashed in her mind. They were so… familiar. Each one struck out to her. A wooden chair sat in the distance, bathed in faint, shifting light. A sense of dread rooted her in place as her gaze followed the crooked path leading to it. Nearby, a hulking wooden desk emerged from the mist, its edges blurred like it didn't belong. She knew these things. She just didn't know how.

She dropped onto her knees, the pain growing in intensity. It wouldn't go away, it lingered. Just like some kind of vicious migraine that picked away at her conscious. One more image flashed in her mind, one that sent an electric shock of fear throughout her entire body.

Dark, shadowy tendrils burst forth, writhing like serpents in the void. They latched onto a figure hunched in the wooden chair. Pacifica stumbled back, her pulse pounding in her ears. She managed to open her eyes, the darkness around her now dreadfully familiar.

I've… been here before.

A hiss filled the air, cold and sharp, and she swore she heard her name whispered within it. She looked around her desperately.

"Hello?" Her voice wavered, betraying the thin veneer of confidence she clung to. "I know you're in here!"

The air around her dropped to a frigid chill. Whispers made her way into her ears. She covered them, looking around to find the source of the noises pulling at her. But when she turned around, tendrils snapped toward her, stopping just short of her face. She yelped, falling onto the ground.

The tendrils writhed in the air, dripping with shadow, their tips hissing like steam against her skin. She froze, her breath caught in her throat, as the void itself seemed to exhale around her.

Part of the darkness swirled around her, turning into something more. Before she knew what was going on, she was sitting in dirt. Ambient noises of people laughing and talking filled her ears, drowning out the whispers from earlier. Around her were faces part of her had forgotten. Her friends. It was Pioneer Day, and they were holding try-outs for a game. Pacifica remembered this day with grimace. She slowly got to her feet as she watched one of the girls who was trying out trip and fall down.

She saw the younger version of herself standing by her two friends. The girl who tripped started to get up, trying to brush the dirt off her outfit. Pacifica watched her younger self scoff.

"Kick her off the team."

Her two friends proceeded to walk towards the other girl, ridiculing her. Telling her she wasn't good enough, that she was better off leaving before she made things worse. Pacifica could see the tears pressing behind the girl's eyes as she turned and ran away. Her younger self's lips curled into a smirk, triumphant and proud. Pacifica staggered back, a wave of nausea rolling through her. How could she have smiled at this? At that?

Pacifica's chest tightened as the girl's sobs filled the air. Her mind scrambled for excuses: It's what I was taught. It's how things worked. But the ache in her chest twisted, sharper now, unraveling the lies she told herself. This wasn't the strength that she was grown up to show. This was cruelty.

Without realizing it, her feet had carried her towards the corner where the girl ran. Pacifica turned the corner, watching the girl crouch down by the dirt.

She was bawling her eyes out. Her chest tightened as the girl took her head out of her hands and looked back at the group around the ball. Her face was stained with hot tears, twisted in hurt and anger. Pacifica's eyes widened at the girl. She never knew what happened to the girl that day, she just simply went on with the tryouts as planned. The girl sniffled as she looked at the group, words escaping her mouth in a shaky whisper.

"I… I hate you."

The words hit her like a slap. They twisted in the air, sharp and venomous, echoing over and over until they drowned out every other sound. Pacifica pressed her hands to her ears, but it didn't help. She couldn't block out the truth. Pacifica turned to where the girl was looking. She watched her younger self, hearing her own voice mocking and sneering at the others. It echoed in her mind. She clawed at her temple as if she could dig herself out of the situation before her.

"No," she whispered, stumbling backward, her legs trembling under her. "That's not me." Her voice cracked, the words unraveling as tears welled in her eyes. "That's not—" She choked on the lie, the truth suffocating her.

It was her.

And the realization tore through her like a blade.

She felt an immense pressure behind her as her vision darkened. Tendrils snapped around her, coiling and pulling on her limbs like living chains. With a sudden jolt, they flung her backward, and the world twisted beneath her feet. Shadows surged around her, swallowing her whole as the ground seemed to drop away. She gasped, the air rushing past her ears, until—

Her feet hit solid ground.

She blinked, her heart racing. Rain hammered against a roof above her, the sound sharp and relentless. The air was thick with the musty scent of damp wood, and flickering light danced along familiar walls. She froze as recognition settled in: she was back at her old mansion.

It had been two years since she'd been here, but every detail was etched into her memory. The ornate furniture, the statues that lined the halls, the banners hanging from the walls. It was all the same—except for the way the rain outside seemed to seep into the very walls, threatening to drown the space in its cold embrace.

Pacifica took a step forward, and her breath hitched. Her clothes clung to her skin, damp and heavy. She touched her hair, her fingers brushing through strands soaked as if she'd just stepped out of a downpour. Water dripped from the ends, sliding down her neck in icy trails.

"What…?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the storm. She turned in place, scanning the room, but something was wrong. The shadows were too deep, stretching into corners that shouldn't exist. Her pulse quickened.

Her father stepped out of one of the doors near the stairs. She examined his face, it was difficult to judge at first, but the twitch of his mustache made her knew. He was furious. Smaller, lighter footsteps followed. She whipped her head around to the noise and she saw herself again. Pacifica immediately knew what this was.

It was a memory, one that was burned into her mind. One she desperately wanted to forget.

Her father's voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving, laced with a disappointment that made her stomach twist.

"Do you understand what you've done? You humiliated us in front of the entire town."

Pacifica turned toward the sound, her heart sinking. She already knew what was coming.

She saw herself, standing there, trembling as she held a porcelain tiara in her hands. A jagged crack ran through it, splitting the delicate crown in two. Her fingers clutched it tightly, as if holding it together might somehow undo the damage.

"I-I didn't mean to…" the other Pacifica stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she looked up at her father.

"'Didn't mean to'?" he snapped, his mustache twitching with barely contained fury. He stepped closer, looming over her like a storm cloud. "Do you think that matters? Do you think intentions make up for failure?"

The porcelain pieces rattled in her hands as her grip faltered. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat, too afraid to speak, too afraid to make it worse.

"You embarrassed the family," he continued, his voice cold now, each word striking like ice. "In front of the mayor, the investors—everyone. A Northwest does not stumble. A Northwest does not fail. And yet, here you are."

Pacifica flinched, her face crumpling. Her hands dropped to her sides, the broken tiara dangling limply from her fingers.

From behind him, her mother's lighter footsteps echoed softly. Pacifica's heart leapt for a moment, hoping for comfort, for understanding—but her mother's voice was no softer than her father's.

"Your father is right, Pacifica," she said, her tone clipped and measured, as if she were commenting on the weather. "You need to take responsibility for your actions. If you want to represent this family, you must be better."

"Better," the other Pacifica whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Enough," her father barked, cutting through her words. He pointed to the tiara, his hand trembling with restrained anger. "Fix this. And don't you dare come back until you've learned what it means to be a Northwest."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps echoing loudly against the marble floors. Her mother hesitated for only a second before following, the swish of her gown fading into silence.

She stood frozen, staring at the shattered tiara in her hands. Her chest heaved, and a single tear escaped, sliding down her cheek before she wiped it away angrily.

The present-day Pacifica watched, her own chest tight with emotion. She could almost feel the weight of the tiara in her hands, the sting of her father's words echoing in her ears. She wanted to scream, to shatter the memory like the tiara itself, to tell herself to drop it, to leave, to run.

But she couldn't move. She could only watch as the younger version of herself turned toward a mirror hanging on the wall, her reflection staring back at her. Her eyes red-rimmed, her lips pressed into a tight, trembling line.

Pacifica found herself drawn to the mirror, her footsteps soundless against the floor. She stood behind herself, staring at the reflection. The girl in the glass looked so small, so fragile. Pacifica shook her head violently, clutching at her temples.

"No," she whispered, her voice cracking.

The mirror cracked down the center, the sound splitting the air like a whip. Shadows seeped from the edges of the glass, coiling like smoke. They reached for her, cold and suffocating, and she stumbled backward, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.

"Stop!" she cried, but the memory surged forward, dragging her deeper into the darkness.

A stinging pain shot through her arm. Pacifica gasped and looked down to see a long, thin slice running along her forearm. Blood trickled down her skin, warm and sticky, as she clasped her other hand over the wound. Her breathing quickened.

A muffled voice cut through the rain pounding against the windows.

"Pacifica..."

She froze, her eyes darting around. The voice was faint, but she recognized it instantly.

"Dipper?" she called, desperation creeping into her voice. "Dipper! Where are you?"

The mirror splintered further, the cracks webbing outward. The reflection warped and distorted, the younger Pacifica's face twisting into something unrecognizable. Shadows poured from the mirror, coiling into tendrils that lashed out toward her.

Pacifica staggered back as the room began to collapse. The walls of the memory folded inward, bending and twisting into an unrelenting void. Her father's voice echoed faintly, growing louder with each passing second.

"Fix this. And don't you dare come back until you've learned what it means to be a Northwest."

The words struck her like a blow, forcing her to her knees. The shadows swirled closer, suffocating her. Her arm throbbed with pain, and the blood that trickled to her hand made her skin crawl. She fought back the urge to retch, gripping the wound tighter.

Dipper's voice rang out again, louder and clearer this time.

"Pacifica! Wake up!"

Her head snapped upward, and she saw it: the darkness above her began to shift, softening into a hazy gray. It was faint, but it pierced the void like a ray of light. Hope flickered in her chest.

Pacifica forced herself to her feet, trembling as she reached toward the light.

"Dipper!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "I'm right here!"

Tendrils of shadow surged from the void, coiling around her ankles and pulling her down. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she struggled against them, every muscle in her body straining. The darkness pressed in closer, but she refused to give up.

With one final cry of desperation, she leaped, reaching out with everything she had.

Her fingers brushed something solid—a lifeline—just as the tendrils closed in around her legs and face.

The world tilted.

Her vision plunged into darkness; her ears filled with the sound of rushing wind.