Volume 1 – Act 1 Chapter 14 | Where Shadows Stir
The air was cold, bitter. It stung as Dipper inhaled, his legs carrying him forward through the darkness that was only slightly alleviated by his flashlight. His phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking the silence. He stopped and pulled it out, reading the text message on his screen.
Where are you? It's cold and dark out here and my hair is going to get ruined.
He let out a light chuckle. Classic Pacifica. He wasn't far from their meeting point. He tapped on the message, unlocking his phone.
Just a couple minutes from the gate.
As he pocketed his phone, the trees around him swayed in the breeze, their branches whispering softly. The wind sent a chill through his jacket, and he shivered slightly. Gravity Falls had always had this strange calmness about it, like the entire town was holding its breath. He missed it—the simplicity of these quiet moments. There weren't any tests to ace here. No expectations to meet. Just the woods, the cold air, and that old feeling of adventure waiting just around the corner.
He exhaled, watching a barely visible puff of breath escape his lips. His flashlight beam wavered as he adjusted his grip, and for a moment, he thought he saw something shift in the trees ahead. His chest tightened, but when he looked again, there was nothing—just shadows stretching across the dirt path.
When he reached the familiar stop sign at the gate to Putt Hutt, a figure came into view. Pacifica stood near the box beside the gate, arms crossed and tapping her finger impatiently. Her gaze flitted around the chain-link barrier surrounding the parking lot, but there was a restless edge to the way she shifted her weight. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her eyes darting to the tree line as if searching for something—or waiting for it to jump out at her. Every few moments, she would check her phone, but it was clear the device wasn't offering her any comfort.
Dipper looked down at his phone and sent a simple message.
Here.
When he looked up again, her eyes met his, and her shoulders visibly relaxed. For a second, she almost seemed... relieved. The tension in her expression softened, her blue eyes settling into something calmer, like the steady surface of a river after a storm. The brown jacket she wore swayed in the breeze, and she rubbed her arms as she walked toward him, boots clacking against the cracked concrete of the parking lot. The sound broke the quiet hum of the night breeze, sharp and out of place in the stillness.
She lowered the purple cloth tied around her head, exhaling as she crossed her arms again. "Way to leave me hanging, Pines."
Dipper frowned, shrugging. "How else am I supposed to get here, drive?"
Pacifica rolled her eyes. "Wait—you still don't know how to drive?"
Dipper stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Eh- I uh… kinda?"
He could almost hear his dad's frustrated voice in his head, calling out instructions that summer afternoon. The memory of him driving straight into the garage door was still burned into his mind—and the cost of the repair wasn't something his dad would let him forget anytime soon.
He waved his hands. "Anyways, I'm here now so…" He paused slightly, looking at her.
"Are you ready?"
Pacifica flicked her hair, a small smirk playing at her lips, but her gaze lingered on the darkened lot beyond the gate for just a moment too long.
"Ready as I'll ever be, journal boy," she said, her voice steady but softer than usual.
They turned toward the gate together, the looming Putt Hutt sign casting faint shadows against the cracked asphalt. The hum of the night breeze whistled through the chain-link fence, and the gate rattled slightly, swaying as if nudged by unseen hands. Beyond it, the mini-golf course was barely visible, its features distorted by the darkness.
They ducked under the gate arm, walking toward the main entrance. It was boarded up with big, thick pieces of plywood, haphazardly nailed across the doorway. They stood before it, looking up at the Putt Hutt sign. One of the t's was missing, the remaining letters faded to dull hues. Dipper scanned the wooden fence, his eyes landing on a familiar plank with a single nail embedded at the top. Pacifica squinted at the entrance, hands on her hips.
"So, any ideas?" she asked, her tone expectant.
She waited for his answer—but silence met her instead. Her stomach tightened.
"Dipper?"
She whipped her head around, her gaze darting across the parking lot. All she saw was the empty pavement and the wooden fence stretching into the shadows. The tree line seemed darker now, the shadows at her feet unnaturally long, almost reaching toward her. She couldn't tell if it was real or just her imagination. Her breathing quickened as the silence grew heavier.
"Dipper, this isn't funny!"
A distant voice finally broke the quiet. "Over here!"
Her head snapped toward the sound. Dipper's figure stood several hundred feet away by the fence, partially obscured by shrubbery. He waved, his flashlight casting a faint, flickering light around him.
Clenching her fists, Pacifica hurried towards him, her teeth gritted in frustration. She stopped a few feet from him, glaring. "Don't go off and do that, Pines!"
"Sorry," Dipper said sheepishly, tugging at a loose plank in the fence. "I remembered Grunkle Stan doing this once, so…" He grunted, finally pulling the plank ajar to reveal a gap just big enough for them to crawl through.
Pacifica raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "You're surprisingly good at breaking into things, journal boy. Should I be worried?"
Dipper chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's… not a bad thing, right?"
She rolled her eyes, brushing past him. "Usually it is."
Pacifica crouched, inspecting the ground near the gap with a look of pure disgust. She turned back to him, scowling. "I am not crawling through there. These pants are, like, designer."
Dipper shrugged, already on his knees. "It's this or we jump the fence. Take your pick."
She groaned. "Fine."
They crawled through the gap, entering the golf course. The air was stifling, an eerie blanket of fog lingering on the ground. The wind rustled through overgrown grass that forced its way through the cracked concrete. Shattered pieces of wood and faded signs creaked in the breeze, their colors long since stripped away.
Pacifica stood up, pressing a hand to her chest as she tried to steady her breathing. The heavy air clung to her lungs, each inhale slow and labored. Dipper emerged beside her, standing and surveying the abandoned course.
He slipped off his backpack, rummaging through it before pulling out a flashlight. He held it out to her. "You'll need this."
She glanced at him, her lips twitching into a faint smile before she took it. "Thanks."
Turning back to the course, she swept the beam of light across the scene. Shadows seemed to gather in the corners of the sidewalks, shifting and stretching like living things. The water hazards were black and murky, their still surfaces swallowing the light entirely. She swallowed hard, her hands tightening on the flashlight. The course felt alive, stretching and twisting in her peripheral vision, as if it was watching her every move.
Dipper stared ahead, his eyes fixed on the oppressive stillness. The air felt heavy, pressing down on his chest, but he forced himself to breathe evenly. Slinging his bag back over his shoulder, he moved a step closer to Pacifica.
Pacifica straightened her back, forcing herself forward with a scoff. "This place looks hideous—like everyone just ran out screaming."
Dipper nodded, his gaze scanning the scene. "It must have gone under quickly. But I don't know… this kind of decay doesn't seem normal. It's like something else was at play here."
Pacifica forced a shaky breath, her lips curling into a smirk. "You going to write that down in your journal?"
Dipper turned to her; his eyebrows raised in a playful challenge. "Don't tempt me."
His words were light, but the stillness gnawed at the edge of his focus. Whatever had happened here, it didn't feel like it was entirely in the past.
They slowly walked through the golf course, Pacifica sticking close behind Dipper like glue. The air was still, hanging heavy around them. It was quiet—too quiet. The only sounds breaking the silence was the faint whistle of the breeze through the miniature buildings and the soft rhythm of their breathing.
Dipper's footsteps faltered as a thought struck him, one he hadn't considered before stepping onto the course. His heart skipped a beat.
Wait… what if they're still here?
A shiver ran down his spine as his eyes darted to every crevice, every crack in the overgrown sidewalks. The shadows beneath the tiny windmills and castles seemed deeper, darker, as if something could leap out at any moment.
Pacifica noticed his sudden change in demeanor and tapped his shoulder with a whisper. "What are you staring around for?"
Dipper tilted his head back toward her, keeping his voice low. "Well… it just hit me. I don't know if the Puttians are still here or not. So yeah, I'm a little on edge."
Pacifica's stomach dropped like a lead weight. Her flashlight beam trembled as she swept it across the empty course, the hollow holes and cracked pathways suddenly feeling far more sinister. She could almost hear their high-pitched, mocking laughter echoing in her mind, a memory she'd shoved far, far away. Her grip tightened on Dipper's shoulder, her nails biting into the fabric of his jacket.
"Great. Just great," she muttered, her voice shaky with barely contained panic. "Tiny, bloodthirsty trolls hiding in the dark. Why didn't I just stay home tonight?"
Dipper glanced back at her, trying to force a reassuring smile, though his own nerves were shot. "Don't worry. We'll be fine. Probably."
"Probably?" Pacifica hissed, her flashlight beam darting wildly. "That's not exactly comforting, Pines."
They kept walking forward, the fog clinging to the ground like a heavy, suffocating oil. It swirled around their ankles with every step, seeming to resist their progress. Suddenly, Dipper stopped short, causing Pacifica to bump into him.
"Hey!" she snapped, stumbling back.
Dipper crouched without a word, picking up something from the ground. He straightened and handed it to her—a rusty, grime-covered golf club.
"Here," he said, dropping it into her hand. "You're good with this."
Pacifica stared at the club in disbelief, holding it as though it might bite her. "This thing is disgusting!" she said, moving her fingers up to the cleaner handle with a grimace.
Dipper didn't look at her as he replied, "Better safe than sorry." He slung his backpack higher onto his shoulder and glanced around the course. "I think it's best if we split up. Cover more ground. I don't want to be here longer than we have to."
Pacifica froze, her stomach flipping. "Split up?" she repeated, her voice rising slightly. "Dipper, are you stupid? Isn't that, like, the number one thing that gets people killed in horror movies?"
He turned to face her, frowning. "Hey, I'm not stupid! I'm trying to make sure we get out of here alive!"
Pacifica squinted at him, folding her arms around the flashlight and club. "Okay, genius, but what if those creepy little trolls are still around? I don't think I can take them on by myself."
Dipper sighed, his gaze scanning the abandoned course. The fog made it hard to see too far ahead, but everything felt still, unnaturally so. His mind raced as he analyzed every detail, trying to push past the nagging fear in his chest.
"Look, if the Puttians were still here, they would've done something by now. I think it's safe to say we're in the clear on that front." He paused, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, trying to steady his nerves. "I'll go check the office building. You look around the obstacles—see if you find anything that stands out."
Pacifica tightened her grip on the golf club, her knuckles whitening as her body trembled slightly. She hesitated, glancing back toward the entrance, where the fog seemed to thicken like a wall.
"Fine," she muttered, her voice wavering. "But if I get eaten by some tiny psycho golf balls, I'm haunting you."
Dipper allowed himself to smirk, despite the knot that was growing in his stomach. "Deal. Just yell if you see anything."
Pacifica nodded, though her feet remained rooted in place for a moment longer. Her palms were damp, and her breath felt shallow as she forced herself to turn toward the shadowed obstacles ahead. "This better not take long," she mumbled under her breath, stepping into the unknown.
Dipper navigated through the course, making his way to the small office building. His flashlight beam darted left and right, cutting through the thick fog that clung to the ground like oil. Every step felt like it echoed too loudly in the stillness, as if the park itself was holding its breath, waiting. The tension pressed down on him, coiling like a spring.
Finally, he arrived at the office building. It was small, its walls stained with grime and overrun by vines and dead leaves. The handle felt icy and stiff under his hand as he pulled the door open. The hinges let out a shrill, metallic squeal before the door stalled, forcing him to give it an extra tug.
Inside, it was like a snapshot frozen in time. Dust blanketed everything—the desk, the chair, the cabinets. Papers were scattered across the floor, yellowed and brittle. Dipper nudged them aside with his foot as he approached the desk, his flashlight beam skimming over faded employee schedules, financial papers, and a few customer complaints. Just as he was about to move on, something caught his eye.
Near the edge of the desk, a loose stack of papers stood out. Their edges were scorched, blackened as if by fire. He carefully picked them up, the dry texture crinkling under his fingers, and laid them out on the desk. His flashlight revealed faded invoices and documents, the numbers smudged but legible enough to follow.
His eyes widened as he tracked the figures with his finger. At first, the numbers seemed normal—small amounts of money passing through the golf course—but then they spiked dramatically. The boost didn't last long, though; soon after, the figures plummeted into the negatives. He scratched his head, muttering under his breath.
"This doesn't make sense. What… happened here?"
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye made him freeze. His head snapped around, scanning the room, but the shadows remained still. The beam of his flashlight trembled slightly in his hand. That feeling crept in again—the one that had been with him all night. The feeling of being watched.
The air grew colder, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His breath came out in shaky, visible puffs as the oppressive stillness thickened around him. He clutched the back of his neck instinctively, as though shielding himself from unseen eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, but his feet refused to move. It was like the park had him cornered, its silence pressing in, predatory and unforgiving.
I need to get out of here…
Pacifica wandered through the obstacles, flicking her flashlight at any noise she heard. Her grip around the golf club was unbreakable, her fingers tightened so hard around the handle they were turning purple. The wind blew around her, cutting through her jacket and straight to her bone. Her boots sliced through the fog that lingered on the ground, breaking the uneasy silence around her. She breathed out, voice shaking.
"This is the worst."
Her flashlight cut through the haze, landing on the crumbling remains of a pirate ship. The mast was snapped in half, jagged edges pointing toward the sky, and the sails were nothing but tatters. She stepped around the wreck cautiously, scanning every corner for movement. The eerie stillness wrapped around her like a cold, damp blanket, heavy and suffocating.
She thought back to what Dipper had said earlier about the Puttians, about how they'd do something if they were still here. He sounded confident, but her mind began wandering, thinking…
What if he was wrong? What if the reason they haven't attacked yet was because they were waiting?
A twig snapped behind her. She froze, her breath caught in her throat, and whipped around, shining her flashlight into the fog. Nothing. Just an empty pathway with more rotting obstacles.
"Okay," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. "It's just the wind. Just the stupid wind."
But it wasn't just the wind. She could feel it now, the same thing she felt when she opened the storage closet at the diner: the sensation of being watched. A cold prickling ran up her spine, and her flashlight hand shook.
The light landed on a toppled obstacle—a miniature tower, its windows shattered, and its base cracked. She hesitated, then approached it, the club in her other hand raised like a weapon. When she reached the wreck, she crouched down, scanning the area closely. Papers fluttered faintly in the wind beneath the debris, mostly scraps of receipts and forgotten scorecards. She nudged them aside with the club, revealing a heavier sheet buried beneath.
Her brows furrowed. "What's this?"
The paper was damp and torn on the edges, but it was thick, almost official-looking. She picked it up, shaking off the dirt and grime, and held it under her flashlight. It was a flyer—or it used to be. The text was smeared, but she could make out enough to read the headline: FINAL NOTICE. Beneath it, in bold, the words Eviction Due stared back at her like an accusation.
Her heart sank. She'd seen enough of these over the past year to recognize one instantly. But why was it here, in the middle of an abandoned golf course? And why did it look like it had been ripped to pieces? There was only one possible answer, one she absolutely dreaded to think about. Her stomach churned.
My parents…
A faint sound—a whisper—slipped through the fog. Pacifica snapped her head up, her breath hitching.
"Hello?" she called, her voice cracking.
The whisper didn't come again, but the air grew heavier, colder. Her flashlight flickered, the light dimming for a second before returning to full strength. She shoved the eviction notice into her jacket pocket and stood up, gripping the golf club like her life depended on it. Something about this whisper, about this scenario felt eerily familiar.
This wasn't just about her family anymore. Something about this place was wrong—wrong in a way she couldn't explain. The wind picked up, carrying another faint sound. It wasn't a whisper this time. It was breathing, a low laughter. High-pitched and distorted, it echoed through the park like a broken record.
Pacifica backed away from the obstacle, her breathing quick and uneven. "Okay, that's it. I'm done."
She turned abruptly, her steps hurried but deliberate. In the distance, she heard faint echoes of footsteps. At first, she tried to dismiss them as her own, but the sound grew louder, faster—intense and frantic.
Her stomach clenched, and her pace quickened. The footsteps followed, a relentless rhythm that seemed to close in around her. Her flashlight beam wavered as she glanced over her shoulder. The fog thickened, her vision tunneling, and the sound grew deafening.
Without thinking, she broke into a full sprint. Her feet stumbled over uneven ground as the echoes seemed to come from everywhere at once. Her chest heaved, her breath catching painfully.
"Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look—"
She slammed into something solid, the impact knocking her flat on her back with a startled yelp. Her flashlight and golf club clattered away, the beam spinning wildly before landing on...
"Dipper?"
He groaned, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. "Pacifica?" His voice was dazed as he blinked at her through the beam of his own flashlight. "Were you... running?"
"Obviously!" she snapped, pushing herself to her knees. Her heart was still racing, her nerves frayed. "What were you doing, crawling around in the dark like some kind of lunatic?"
"I wasn't crawling," he shot back, grabbing his flashlight. "I was coming back from the office. What's your excuse? Did a mini-golf ghost scare you?"
"Ha-ha, very funny," she muttered, snatching her flashlight. She paused, her knuckles tightening around it. "I heard footsteps, okay? Loud ones. Like something was chasing me. And there was... laughter." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she quickly averted her gaze.
Dipper's smirk faded, replaced by a frown. "Laughter? I didn't hear anything like that."
"Of course you didn't," Pacifica muttered, hugging her arms around herself. "Maybe I'm just losing my mind. But it felt real, like it was right there behind me."
Dipper stood up, brushing dirt off his pants and holding out a hand to her. "You're not losing your mind. This whole place feels wrong."
She hesitated, then accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet. "Wrong how?"
"Like it's... amplifying things. Sounds," Dipper said, his eyes darting around. "I noticed it earlier, too. It's almost like—"
"Wait." Pacifica held up a hand, her eyes narrowing. The footsteps were back, echoing softly now, their rhythm oddly familiar. She stiffened, gripping her flashlight tighter. "Do you hear that?"
Dipper turned, listening carefully. His expression shifted from curiosity to realization. "Yeah, I hear it. But it's... not coming toward us."
Pacifica raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Dipper's flashlight beam swept across the obstacles, lingering on the empty spaces between them. "It's just like before. The footsteps—they're ours. From earlier."
Pacifica blinked. "You're kidding."
"I'm serious," Dipper said, his voice low but steady. "It's like the course is playing them back. Echoes bouncing off the obstacles, maybe. Or something else."
Pacifica exhaled sharply, her grip on the flashlight loosening. "So, I freaked out over... echoes?"
Dipper gave her a sidelong glance. "It's not just echoes. It's intentional. Someone—or something—wants us to feel like we're being chased. Like we're in danger."
Pacifica's jaw tightened as she glanced at the fog around them. "That's comforting."
"Look, I found something in the office," Dipper continued, his voice more insistent. "Burned invoices. The kind that shows a ton of money moving through this place right before it went under. If we can figure out who was involved, we might—"
"We might what?" Pacifica interrupted, frustration bubbling over. "Uncover more of my family's dirty laundry? Find another way to prove I'm the biggest idiot for coming back here in the first place?"
"Pacifica—"
"No, you listen!" she snapped, pointing her flashlight at him. "I came here to figure out what's real and what's not. But this? Being chased by creepy echoes and hearing laughter? That's not proof of anything except how stupid this idea was."
Dipper stared at her, his mouth opening slightly before he snapped it shut. Finally, he said, "I get it. But we can't leave now. Not when we're so close to finding something concrete."
"Concrete?" Pacifica echoed, her voice bitter. "You mean like burned papers and scary noises? Face it, Pines, we're not going to find anything useful here. Just more questions."
The faint sound of whispers and familiar laughter cut through the tension, making them both freeze. Dipper's flashlight snapped toward the sounds, deeper into the fog-shrouded course. The air around them dropped to a chilling bite. His heart sank.
"Oh no…"
Pacifica frantically looked around. The sounds were echoing, surrounding them. Her mind swirled, the familiarity of the situation slamming into her like a forgotten dream clawing its way back. It was as if she'd been here before, though she couldn't grasp when or how. Her legs started shaking, barely able to hold her body. She couldn't hide the fear in her voice anymore as she let out a shaky breath.
"Dipper… what's going on? What is that?"
Dipper scanned his flashlight towards the sounds again. This time there were too many for him to pinpoint. Like a chorus of deathly hollows, singing with an eerie harmony. His light eventually landed on Pacifica. But something was forming behind her. A dark, misty swirl of shadows mixing. Heavy ink pooling at an epicenter in the air, forming into a shape.
A figure, long-limbed, began to take shape in the swirling, ink shadows. Its edges blurring like thick smoke. It twisted unnaturally, the air around it humming with a faint, discordant vibration."
Dipper's stomach dropped as the figure solidified, every instinct screaming at him to run. But Pacifica was in its path—he couldn't let her face it alone. He tried reaching out with his free hand, a desperate attempt to push her away.
"Pacifica!"
She barely had time to register his hand on her shoulder before a sharp jolt of cold seemed to ripple through her, and the world tilted beneath her feet.