Looking Backwards

by ToastyMagic

(Self Insert) After arriving in Gravity Falls by literally falling into it, Matt is dazed and confused. He is sent back from 2020 to 2012 with his knowledge of the show and he soon finds himself in the Mystery Shack where Stanley Pines takes him in. How'd he get there? Why are things changing? I guess you'll have to find out along with him.

11. Curse Upon a Falling Star

The moon hung low in the sky, a red tint sweeping over its surface like a bloodstain smeared across its pale face. Its light bathed the forest in an unnatural glow, turning the familiar pines into jagged silhouettes that swayed in the cool, restless breeze. Yet, beneath the towering canopy, the looming celestial body was all but forgotten, drowned out by the crackling fire and the chorus of laughter around it. The scent of burning wood mixed with the sugary char of roasting marshmallows and the flickering flames sent shifting patterns of orange and gold across our faces. Stan was in his element, spinning yet another one of his legendary, questionably true tales—this time about how he scammed a casino in Atlantic City and barely escaped with his life.

"See, when you're up against casino security," he said, waving a marshmallow stick like a conductor, "you gotta be quick, you gotta be smart, and most importantly—" He suddenly reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a pair of battered brass knuckles, their surface gleaming wickedly in the firelight. "You gotta be prepared."

A collective gasp swept through the group. Mabel clapped excitedly, Soos muttered an impressed 'Dude,' and Wendy blew a low whistle. Crickets gave their round of applause, and the fire crackled healthily, sending a plume of smoke to the stars as its flames licked at the chopped logs, courtesy of Stan pushing young Dipper Pines to become more manly. He had actually been doing quite well in that department recently, if you think about it. He stood up to me several times for what he believed in, exactly what I told him to do when confronting the manotaurs. This kid has grown to yield a significant amount of courage and a surprising amount of discipline. Even in the heat of his distrust, I noticed he had still been keeping up with a small workout routine I put him on. It wasn't anything much, he was twelve after all, but the fact that he stuck with it shows he is trying to grow. I just hope he's not trying too fast. leaned over to him.

"How much of this do you think Stan's making up?" I whispered, glancing at the con man who continued his tale with a fire that matched the intensity of the glowing blaze before us.

"I'd say about half of it," Dipper whispered back with a smile. "There's no way he cracked a casino safe with a paper clip. You can't even-"

"Watch your mockery, kids!" Stan interjected, catching wind of our speculation with an accusatory finger. "I got proof!" That got our attention. We all leaned in as he dug back into his pocket and retrieved a single gold coin. With a practiced flick of his fingers, he sent it spinning through the firelight, landing neatly in his cashier's lap. "Boom. Only thing I walked away with after things got… complicated." He folded his arms. "Never leave home without it. Call it a good luck charm."

Wendy picked it up and turned it over in her fingers. Her eyebrows lifted. "Uh… Stan? Hate to break it to you, but this is a Ho-Ha Owl's Arcade token."

The fire crackled, almost laughing.

Stan shot to his feet. "What?!" He snatched the coin from the redhead's hand, flipped up his eyepatch, and inspected it in disbelief. "'Good for one game?' What is this balderdash?!" Dipper and I immediately broke out laughing at the revelation. Stan scowled. "Shut it, you two!" We did just that. "There's only one person who knew about the coin." He turned sharply, scanning the group, his gaze burning with suspicion. The crickets echoed the following silence out of sight in the woods. "Soos, do you know what happened to my precious booty?" Mabel had to stifle a laugh at Stan's word choice. The handyman, on the other hand, went stiff, sweat beading on his forehead.

"I—uh—" He chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, so… I was hungry. And, uh… I swapped the coin with the Ho-Ha Owl's one because I thought it was one of those chocolate coins."

Dipper blinked. "Wait… but don't you have to unwrap those to see if they're chocolate?"

Soos paled. "Ohhh. Dude. That explains so much." He patted his stomach with sudden realization. "No wonder it felt like a brick in there."

The group erupted into another round of laughter, a wave of mirth so powerful even Stan's scowl twitched into an involuntary grin. He plopped back down on the log with a dramatic huff.

"Soos, you're an idiot," he grumbled.

"Aw, thanks, Mr. Pines!"

The laughter faded into an easy warmth, crackling embers popping in the fire as we returned to roasting marshmallows. Most of us carefully rotated them to a perfect golden brown—except for Mabel. Needless to say, Mabel plus fire is never a good combination. Her master plan was to let it ignited, insisting it was the only way to achieve true 'marshmallow perfection.' And, she thought it would be a fantastic idea to let her's practically bathe in the fire.

Predictably, disaster struck within seconds.

"Mabel, no!" I yelped as she plunged her marshmallow deep into the flames.

"YES!" she shouted triumphantly as her marshmallow combusted into a tiny fireball.

In the following moments, her enthusiasm got the better of her, and her rapid movements sent marshmallows through the air like a meteor, landing right in a patch of dry leaves. I had to stamp out a small brush fire which singed my leg hair. I was ready to scold her for her carelessness, but before I could, a sound cut through the laughter.

A rustling in the underbrush.

I straightened, instincts kicking in. Beyond my shadow, something stirred in the darkness—a shape low to the ground, moving in quick, scurrying bursts, almost raccoon-like in nature. I caught sight of what looked like white hair and instantly whipped my hand to my pocket, encasing the amulet in my grip. There's no way I was gonna let a bunch of gnomes nab our marshmallows. I caught sight of it again, and despite the figure remaining close to the floor, it was much too big to be a gnome. I extended my arm to the sky, allowing the amulet to illuminate the area in a red glow.

I raised an eyebrow at the figure who was rushing around on all fours. "McGucket?"

The hunched figure winced. "Aw, banjo polish." I stepped back, allowing him to come further into the light. "I-I'm sorry for the intrusion." He removed his hat, revealing his bald head, which glistened with sweat in the dancing light. "But I done come with a warnin'!" We all exchanged glances, unsure if we should take the hillbilly's words seriously or not. Stan decided for us.

"Listen, pal," he started, walking over, "Shack's closed for business, so you should take your funny business elsewhere." McGucket began wringing his hat between his fingers at the property owner's rudeness.

I shot him a look. "Stan."

"What? Last time this bumpkin came with us with a 'warning,' HE was the one we needed to be warned about!" Stan threw up his hands. "I still got sand in my ears from that boat crash, thanks to him!"

"We should at least hear him out," I replied, gesturing to the slumped older man. His eyes appeared deep in turmoil, a much different attitude than his usual carefree and chaotic demeanor. Something was off, and I didn't like it. Stan, taking a second look at the hillbilly, sighed and motioned him over to the fire. McGucket gave a faint smile and scurried to his own spot.

McGucket shared the findings he observed when gazing at the stars, pulled out a chart inside his overalls that reeked of motor oil and stale sweat, and held it up to provide a visual. While I wasn't going to touch said chart, I was surprised to see remnants of Fiddleford's scientific mind still active enough to provide evidence. The paper was covered in frantic, looping scribbles that looked more like chicken scratch than math, but he read from it with a practiced urgency.

"I been watchin' the stars," he muttered. "Trackin' somethin' real strange."

Dipper and I leaned in. Stan, of course, rolled his eyes.

McGucket swallowed. "There's a star. Movin' when it shouldn't. Gettin' closer every night." His fingers trembled over his notes. "Tomorrow night—it's gonna come crashin' down. Right here. In Gravity Falls."

The fire popped. The wind rustled the trees.

And, just like that, the laughter was gone.

McGucket's eyes darted between us, the firelight flickering against his deeply lined face. "I tell ya, young'uns, this ain't just any ol' rock fallin' from the sky! It's got a hunger to it! A dark, twisty hunger that don't belong in no ordinary cosmos!"

Dipper adjusted his cap, exchanging a glance with me. He wasn't completely dismissing McGucket's ramblings, but he was clearly skeptical. "Uh, Mr. McGucket," he started, choosing his words carefully, "are you sure you didn't just, I don't know, miscalculate something?"

McGucket gasped as if personally offended. "Boy! I may be crazier than a possum in a washing machine, but I ain't never been bad at numbers!" He wagged a gnarled finger. "Now, read my lips! Tomorrow night—" He paused, seeming to realize that reading his lips was impossible through his wild, frizzy beard. "Er, hear my lips! That there star's gonna plummet right into Gravity Falls, and when it does, it'll be bad news for everyone!"

Before I could respond, Mabel threw an arm around his shoulder with a wide grin, impressively ignoring his scent. "Aw, McGucket, you're all worked up over nothing!" She gestured toward a freshly carved yet unnoticed jack-o'-melon resting near the logs, its jagged grin glowing ominously in the firelight. "Grunkle Stan here told us that tomorrow is a little thing called Summerween! Surely this is some prank you're pulling on us for a good scare."

McGucket blinked. "Oh." His frantic energy faltered for a moment as his eyes landed on the carved melon. Then, suddenly, his whole face lit up. "Oh-ho-HO! SUMMERWEEN, Y'ALL SAY?! WHY DIDN'T YA MENTION THAT FIRST?!" He sprang to his feet with an agility that should not have been possible for a man of his age and questionable hygiene, sending his crumpled star chart flying. "Oh, I love me some Summerween! The spooks! The tricks! The TREATS!" He clasped his hands together, eyes gleaming. "A whole holiday dedicated to scarin' the pants off, folks?! If I wore pants, I'd be losin' 'em RIGHT NOW!"

Soos nodded solemnly. "Dude. Mood."

McGucket spun on his heel, suddenly jabbing a finger toward me. "But don't think fer one second that Summerween changes the FACTS! That wasn't some spooky story; that star's still comin', an' y'all oughta be ready!"

Stan groaned, rubbing his temples. "Oh, for crying out loud, the only thing we need to be ready for tomorrow is getting candy and avoiding that local legend Summerween Trickster!"

McGucket gasped again—louder this time, as if he'd just realized something earth-shattering. He clutched both sides of his head. "Sweet pickled peaches… What if Summerween and the Star are connected?!"

Dipper hesitated. "Wait, what?"

"I knew it!" McGucket declared, stomping a foot. "I been sayin' for years that Summerween's got a dark cosmic power behind it! Ain't natural for a holiday to be that much fun without some kinda price! And now—" He dramatically waved his arms toward the sky. "A star comes fallin' on the same night? That ain't a coincidence, young'uns! That's a CURSE!"

Mabel's hands flew to her cheeks. "A Summerween curse?! That's… AWESOME!"

McGucket turned, gripping her shoulders. "No, child! It's TERRIFYIN'!"

Mabel thought about it for a second. "It can be both."

Stan let out a long-suffering sigh. "Alright, that's it. Show's over, folks. Pack it up, let's go home before I hear one more word about cosmic this or cursed that."

Dipper scratched his chin, still looking at McGucket's abandoned chart. "I mean, it's weird… but it's probably just a coincidence, right?" He glanced at me as if hoping I'd back him up.

I shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "We'll talk about this later."

What are the odds a star would crash right on the same night as Summerween?"

But even as I thought it, I felt the weight of the amulet in my pocket.

And in the pit of my stomach, something gnawed at me—an unease that lingered even as McGucket cheered about 'Summerween spirit' and did a little dance around the fire.

I wasn't sure what it was.

But as the fire crackled and the wind whispered through the trees, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that tomorrow night was going to be… different.

#

The past few nights, Wendy and Dipper have been joining me on the roof under the stars while everyone else turned in for the night. It had become a quiet ritual, a kind of temporary peace amidst the usual Gravity Falls chaos. But tonight—no, sorry, this morning—something was different. One of the stars, just as McGucket warned, glared down at us with a brightness that didn't feel natural. It pulsed like a beacon, too steady, too alive. Could that maniac actually be right? No, of course not. That Old Hillbilly was a walking conspiracy nut—but the look in his eyes during his warning hadn't been unhinged. It had been afraid and now, I couldn't stop staring at that star.

The logical part of me whispered that stars do move, that perspectives shift, that this could all be some twisted Summerween trick of the atmosphere. There have been hundreds of weird documented phenomena that have been chalked up to common science, like ball lightning or something. You know, that glowing orb people used to think were ghosts, alien probes, or literal witchfire—turned out to just be plasma caused by atmospheric electricity. So by extension, this little weird star was probably nothing. My mind is rather fond of listening to logic but another part of me—the one that had been now experiencing Gravity Falls weirdness first hand—wasn't so sure. This star was not supposed to appear for the simple reason that nothing like this occurred in the show. Its already obvious the script has broken its structure, but this can be part of that rupture. Who knows what else might change?

I hugged my arms tighter around myself, fighting off a sudden chill from the summer breeze, glancing at the blood moon overhead, feeling as if the celestial body was the one who sent the gust. Its glow washed the trees in crimson, painting the world like a horror movie still. It shouldn't have been so disturbing, but it felt wrong—like the night itself was holding its breath. The unease sat heavy in my gut, a growing suspicion that I was starting to lose control of the story around me.

I took a deep breath, feeling the cool shingles pressing against my back on the slanted roof, the slight ache of them grounding me in the moment. Below us, the town lay still, blanketed in sleep, unaware of the strange energy coiling in the sky above. That blood moon still hung like an open wound, casting an eerie red tint over the treetops—and no matter how many times I told myself to ignore it, my eyes kept flicking toward that too-bright star. McGucket's words echoed in my head, looping like a warning bell I couldn't shut off. "It's got a hunger to it…" I tried to shake the feeling—tried to focus on something familiar, something safe.

So I turned my attention to Wendy and Dipper, whose faces lit up the second I started speaking. They leaned in instinctively, hungry for stories—stories from a version of their world that was never going to happen here. This has become our ritual over the past few nights: trading the comfort of silence for the thrill of what-ifs, and thus discussions of what happened in the show but not here have been the main topic of our talks these past few nights on the roof. I've told them about Quentin Trembly and how he was the one I was expecting to find in that tomb, how they wouldn't find the crawl space until later, how Gideon had the second journal, how they would never even know the real Gobblewonker existed and so much more.

It felt strange—wrong, almost—to be the only one holding the blueprint to a reality that never fully unfolded. These weren't just spoilers, they were memories of a future that no longer belonged to them, or maybe never did. I wasn't sure.

But even as I offered up those fragments of the "original script," I kept one name locked away.

Stanford Pines.

One of Dipper's first questions was the identity of the author of course, his curiosity was as relentless as ever. But I dodged the question that first night, telling him only: "That's something you'll find out for yourself." Why did I do that? Maybe I was scared of tipping the balance. Of giving him too much too soon, of altering something sacred. I even remember witnessing the revelation for myself on the screen in my living room. It was the identity of the author that was the most hyped subplot of the show after all.

Still, I'd offered a compromise— told him there was content in Journal Three he hadn't uncovered yet. Messages written in invisible ink. A breadcrumb trail. Something to discover on his own, in his own time. It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either. I never had the special edition of Journal Three back home, never held the real thing. Now that I do… handing over knowledge feels heavier. Riskier. More personal. And maybe, just maybe, I'm starting to understand what it feels like to be the one holding the pen instead of the page. Yet despite my worries and desperate hope to cling on to what I know, the Universe has other plans and perhaps accelerating character arcs to their peak may be the best method against Cipher whenever he decides to rear his equilateral head. If the cast exceeds their potential well before we even face Bill, settling grudges and discovering abilities, then the gloomy chances I have against the dream demon look a little brighter.

"So, just to recap," Wendy started, propping herself up on her elbows, "In our version of Summerween, this monster shows up 'cause we insulted the idea of lame candy?"

"Basically," I confirmed. "He's made of all the stuff kids throw away. You guys toss out a bunch of loser candy and boom—he shows up to make you 'appreciate the spirit of Summerween.'" I made air quotes. "By chasing you down and threatening to eat you."

Dipper furrowed his brows. "We were almost eaten?"

"Yeah, but don't worry—you found a creative way out of it."

Wendy smirked. "Lemme guess. We fought him off with, like, fireworks or something?"

I snorted. "Nope. You ate him."

Dipper blinked. "We what?"

I turned my head toward him, grinning. "You heard me. The Trickster was the loser candy. And once Soos realized that he just… went for it."

Wendy let out a loud, delighted laugh. "No way!"

I grinned. "Way."

Dipper made a disgusted face. "That's—ugh—so gross!"

Wendy nudged him with her foot. "C'mon, dude, you love monster hunting. What's more hardcore than eating the monster?"

"Literally anything else," he muttered. "I hate loser candy."

I slapped his shoulder lightly. "Hey, keep your voice down! It's technically Summerween now, dipstick."

His eyes widened in panic, and he clamped a hand over his mouth. Wendy practically doubled over laughing at his reaction.

"Relax, Dipper," I said, still chuckling. "You don't have to eat him. Soos takes care of it. And trust me—it's disturbing. He devours the thing from the inside out. Nine-year-old me? Scarred for life."

"Righteous!" Wendy said, grinning.

Dipper groaned. "That's one word for it."

A comfortable silence settled between us as we lay back, staring up at the sky. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the distant hoot of an owl. The fire from earlier had burned down to embers, its warm glow still faintly visible from below.

Despite the easy conversation, my eyes kept drifting to that bright star.

It wasn't supposed to be there.

Wendy's voice cut through my thoughts, seeing the concerned look in my eye. "So, I'm just gonna go ahead and ask—was there any sort of comet or meteor in the show version of our world?"

I hesitated before shaking my head. "The only thing close to that was aliens."

I could practically feel the excitement radiating from Dipper. He sat up a little straighter, eyes gleaming.

"Don't worry, Dip," I said, smirking. "We'll get to it."

He took a deep breath, composing himself. "Right."

Another silence fell over us, this one heavier. I knew I should just let it go—chalk McGucket's ramblings up to his usual craziness and move on. But even when I'd look away, its shining light blinded me, behind my eyes, present even if I couldn't see it. I swallowed, hoping the uneasy feeling would fall away. It didn't work.

"So… uh, just for argument's sake," I said carefully, "if McGucket was right… what do you think that means?"

Neither of them answered right away. The wind picked up slightly, rustling Wendy's hair as she gazed at the sky.

Dipper shifted uncomfortably. "I mean… he is crazy. But…"

"But crazy doesn't always mean wrong," Wendy finished.

None of us said anything after that. We just lay there, watching the stars.

#

Even in my dreamscape, a star shone brighter than the others.

It shouldn't have been there. This was my dream—my mental space—and yet it hovered in the sky like a parasite, glowing just a little too sharp, a little too aware. It pulsed with a presence that didn't belong here. It was like a mosquito in my brain, buzzing just beneath the surface of thought, never quite letting me forget. I could feel it before I saw it, like static under my skin. And once I did see it—God, it was impossible to look away. I tried to will it out. I focused hard, narrowing my thoughts like a spotlight, attempting to warp the sky—my sky—to bend it around the light, to drown it in clouds or swallow it in a midnight void.

But nothing worked.

Every time I blinked, it was still there. A fixed point in a shifting world. It mocked the rules of the dreamscape—my rules—as if it wasn't just invading my thoughts but rewriting them.

What was it even doing here? How did something real follow me into a place that should have been entirely imaginary? Was that how deep it had sunk into me—this sense of dread? This suspicion that something was fundamentally off?

Or… was it more than that?

I hated how that question sat in my chest. This thing had a persistent presence, fueling the flames of anxiety that refused to die down. Because part of me, a small part I didn't want to admit existed, started to eat me alive. Potent and thick like venom, paranoia and thoughts of what this star could bring seeped into my mind, none of which were what I would call "ideal."

Out of habit more than hope, I called out.

"Alex…?"

Silence.

No sarcastic voice. No smirk waiting in the grass beside me. No dream-guide to offer witty reassurance or a reality check. Just the hum of that unnatural star, humming like it had always been here. I was alone. Well not entirely.

I reached into my pocket and the amulet materialized in my hand. I had come to observe that me and this sentient artifact share a psychic connection. We were linked. For better or worse. I could feel its thoughts, feel its pain and it could feel mine. I stared at the only real thing in my mindscape, beside that pesky star, its glossy center reflecting my face. It glowed faintly.

You know you're asleep, right?

Whatever that thing is, it can't touch you in here.

But even that thought felt brittle. This was Gravity Falls. Reality didn't follow rules here. And lately, not even dreams felt like safe territory.

I let my fingers run through the grass—cool, familiar—and tried to ground myself in that sensation. But the world around me pulsed faintly, like it too was unsettled. The town in the distance flickered between states—sometimes Gravity Falls, sometimes… something else. Warped structures my brain hadn't committed to yet. Half-formed, wrong.

You need rest

You're spiraling

You're tired

"I know I know," I started with a sigh, "but its more than just the star."

It was what we'd done before all this. With Gideon.

Why worry about him

You locked him away

Good riddance to that runt

I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, but-"

But that didn't mean everything was fine, or over. I stared up again at the cosmic intruder, still burning like an eye that refused to blink. "I have a bad feeling that somehow, someway this is all connected somehow," I muttered aloud, the sound of my own voice oddly hollow in the dream.

This wasn't the end of something. It was the beginning.

I knew I was supposed to be resting right now. That was the whole point of dreaming, wasn't it? But my mind wouldn't let go—not tonight. It kept dragging me back, again and again, to the same face.

Gideon.

No matter how I turned it over, it didn't make sense. Gideon Gleeful, of all people, teaming up with the Gremloblin? In the Crawl Space, no less? The same creature who once attempted to sever the connection between the man and womantaurs, now lurking beside the most opportunistic scam artist in Gravity Falls?

What was I missing?

I tried to clear my thoughts, to focus on the facts—just the facts.

The Gremloblin had previously allied with Leaderaur, helping fracture the unity between the manotaurs and womantaurs. This was a calculated move—disruption through division.

Preston Northwest and Gideon want access to Bill Cipher's incantation. That much I knew. They weren't just dabbling—they were planning something. Something specific. Now Gideon had somehow roped the Gremloblin into his scheme. This meant that these weren't separate threats anymore and that they were threads on the same web. The questions pressed in, sharper now. Why would Gideon, who'd always recoiled from the supernatural unless it served him, willingly throw in with something as chaotic and wild as the Gremloblin? What changed? Was it fear? Greed? Desperation? And Preston—what did he stand to gain? What possible motivation could he and Leaderaur share? A wealthy, stuck-up billionaire and a giant cow monster that shoots flames out of its nose? Do you see why I am confused?

None of it added up. And the more I tried to untangle it, the worse the knot became.

However, there was one thing, one word, that I could argue definitively linked the two:

Power.

Both desperately cling to it, both crave it, and although it was certainly not much, it was a start.

I stared up at the too-bright star, its cold light seeping into my bones.

Still no answers.

Just silence.

#

Deep in the woods, beyond the reach of townsfolk and summer tourists, two mountains loomed like slumbering beasts. From the mouths of their respective caves, flames pulsed in rhythmic bursts, casting the surrounding forest in flashes of molten orange. Inside the leftmost mountain, the powerful Leaderaur was held captive, chained by glowing, vine-wrought manacles etched with old magic. The womantaurs stood guard in rotating shifts, silent and unyielding. Their memories of Leaderaur's betrayal were still fresh—the bloodshed, the manipulation, the endless speeches about masculine dominance and "bone density superiority." They didn't trust him to be still, not even in chains. And rightly so.

Meanwhile, in the other mountain, the manotaurs weren't nearly as disciplined. Their roars echoed through the stone corridors, half-war cry, half-mosh pit. In the middle of this cacophony, Lil' Gideon Gleeful lay sprawled on the floor of his stone chamber, gazing up at the jagged ceiling as though it were a cathedral.

With a grunt, Gideon sat up, brushing dust off his rumpled blue vest. The manotaurs' hollering continued down the tunnel, but he barely registered it anymore. His focus shifted to the Journal lying beside him, its leather cover scuffed from use but still intact. Reverently, he flipped it open, thumbing past entries he already knew by heart—beasts, symbols, rituals—until he landed on the one he kept returning to.

Page 220.

At the top, scrawled in fading ink and underlined twice in red:
ELEMENT 115 – UNSTABLE, UNREAL, UNSTOPPABLE, AND UND-

The rest of the letters of the title were illegible as the page was a mess. The illustration sprawled across the center of the journal page like a fever dream caught in ink and graphite. At its heart was a jagged, obsidian-black comet, streaking through a dark void, its trail not fiery red or orange—but laced in electric blue, as though lightning had been captured mid-burst and frozen in time. Within the comet's fractured shell, a glowing core pulsed like a heartbeat—condensed and unnaturally round, colored in hues that shimmered between sapphire and teal. The artist had inked faint, radiant rings around it, implying gravitational anomalies or perhaps an unstable aura of energy.

Arcing around the comet were etched calculations, spiraling formulas, and a crude molecular model—one that didn't match any earthly element. It had too many orbitals. Too many impossible particles. Some were shaded out, others circled in red with question marks or small warning symbols. Along the comet's descent vector were hand-drawn constellations—familiar shapes twisted just enough to feel wrong. A dotted line traced the comet's path toward a pinpoint labeled "GRAVITY FALLS," written in capital letters and underlined twice in dark ink.

What made the drawing most unsettling, though, was the addition of shapes lurking around the comet—faint, ghostly silhouettes just barely visible in the margins. Tentacled, serpentine, humanoid? It was unclear. The kind of details that made you squint, then regret looking closer. Below it all, scratched into the parchment like a whisper that had been carved rather than written:

"It hears you."

Gideon smiled upon reading the words, closing his eyes with a smile.

"And I hear it."

#

The next morning, the Mystery Shack was buzzing with energy. Mabel had spent the morning draping every available surface in paper bats and cobwebs, Soos was attempting to carve a jack-o'-melon with a power drill (bad idea), and Stan was grumbling about "spooky capitalism" while simultaneously up-charging tourists for limited edition "haunted" merchandise. All of this festive cheer removed the thought of that stupid star from my mind, with candy and spooks now at the forefront.

But as the afternoon rolled in, Wendy leaned against the counter, spinning an empty soda can between her fingers. "Hey, you guys wanna head into town? I still need to grab some Summerween stuff."

Mabel gasped, eyes lighting up. "Shopping trip?! Yes, yes, a million times yes!"

Dipper, who had been flipping through Journal Three at the table, perked up. "Actually, that's not a bad idea. We still need costumes."

At that, Stan scoffed from the register. "Pfft, costumes? Back in my day, you kids threw on an old bedsheet and called it a ghost. What happened to creativity?"

Mabel placed a hand on her hip. "Grunkle Stan, you literally just said five minutes ago that you 'hated crafting with a passion.'" She set a hand on her heart. "And that hurt to hear."

"Yeah, because it's a scam! You know what else is a scam? Buying costumes." He waved a dismissive hand. "You're all just gonna look ridiculous anyway."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," I said, smirking.

Stan just grumbled, shoving a few crumpled bills into the cash register. "Fine. Let's go waste some money. But don't expect me to dress up in anything dumb."

"Oh, we absolutely expect that," Mabel shot back.

And with that, we were off.

The town square was already decked out for Summerween. Strings of jack-o'-melon lights dangled between streetlamps, shop windows were plastered with cutouts of ghosts and goblins, and the air smelled like a mix of pine needles and cheap plastic Halloween masks.

Mabel had darted ahead the moment we arrived, her eyes locked onto a candy stand that promised "EXTRA SPOOKY TREATZ." Soos followed, probably to make sure she didn't blow all her money on sugar and regret… or to join in. Who knows.

That left me, Dipper, and Wendy walking toward the local costume shop while Stan went on his own escapade.

"So," Wendy said, nudging my shoulder, "what's the plan for costumes? We goin' classic? Creepy? Ridiculous?"

I thought about it for a second. "Honestly? I was thinking we go iconic."

Dipper furrowed his brow. "How do you mean?"

I grinned. "We go as The Avengers."

Wendy let out an impressed whistle. "Solid choice. Super recognizable, very cool."

Dipper nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, okay. I could work with that."

"Awesome, I'll be Cap," I said, tapping the amulet in my pocket. "For obvious reasons."

"Nice," Wendy said. "Then I call Thor."

"Uh, duh," I said. "You already have the Viking-and-axe vibe going on."

She smirked. "Exactly."

Dipper glanced between us. "Guess that makes me Iron Man."

"Obviously," I said. "You're smart, you're a little dramatic—"

Dipper scoffed. "I am not dramatic."

Wendy and I both raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, sometimes," he admitted, crossing his arms. "But at least I get a cool suit."

Mabel practically materialized next to us, throwing her arms in the air. "DIBS ON BLACK WIDOW!"

"You just wanna do cool flips," Wendy teased.

Mabel gasped. "And have a spy name! Also, Widow has the best hair. Important factor." Her eyes lit up. "Speaking of which. Wendy, can I borrow some hair?" Her request was ignored.

Soos strolled up, a slushie from the stand in hand. "Aw, man, did I miss the costume call?"

"Not at all," I said. "You're the Hulk."

Soos gasped in excitement. "YES!" He raised his fists to the air and shook them violently. "Soos will smash!"

That just left Stan.

Mabel tapped her chin in thought. "Hmm. We still need a Hawkeye."

We all turned to look at Stan, who had just emerged from a convenience store, a bag of canned beans in one hand and a pack of bootleg Summerween decorations in the other.

He frowned. "What?"

"Congrats, Stan," Wendy said. "You're Hawkeye."

Stan scowled. "Oh, no. Nope. No way, I hated that guy in the original comics. Just some dude with a bow. Lame."

"But Stan," Mabel said, giving him her best puppy-dog eyes, "you have the perfect grumpy mentor energy!"

Stan groaned. "Kid, I'll dress up as literally anything else. Anything."

Soos scratched his head. "Well, you could be Nick Fury, but, like, then you'd have to shave your—"

"Hawkeye's fine," Stan grumbled.

Mabel clapped her hands. "YAY!"

Stan muttered something under his breath about 'this whole holiday being a racket' while we went to gather our costumes. I thought about reminding Stan that the original Nick Fury actually looked a decent bit like him but I held my tongue. Stan dressed as Hawkeye would be too good to pass up.

#

By the time we got back to the Shack, the sun was sinking behind the trees, painting the sky in deep purples and oranges. The air carried the scent of pine and melting jack-o'-melon candles, and inside, the faint hum of Mabel humming Spooky Scary Skeletons as we approached the building. The air had that perfect, crisp, almost nighttime chill, and the scent of pine and candle wax lingered from all the jack-o'-melons Mabel had lined up on the porch.

I was halfway to the front door when Wendy bumped my shoulder.

"Oh, by the way," she said casually, "you're coming to a party tonight."

I blinked. "Tonight?" Tonight, I had planned on secretly secluding myself to overanalyze my thoughts, hoping to find answers for that star. Maybe I'd pay Gideon a visit, see what he knew. I was a little old for trick-or-treating and was fully prepared to pull a Dipper.

"Yeah," she said, grinning. "Robbie's throwing one at his place. Since his house is next to the cemetery, he's making it, like, extra spooky."

"Of course he is," I muttered, shaking my head.

"So?" She smirked. "You in?"

I thought about it for a second.

A party. Loud music, flashing lights, the smell of chips and soda and teenage hormones in the air. Under normal circumstances, I probably would've dodged it with some excuse about being tired or needing to reorganize the Mystery Shack's sock drawer or something stupid like that. But lately, "normal circumstances" didn't really exist.

I instinctively glanced toward the ceiling, expecting to see the night sky but cringed when I noticed mold in the Shack's rafters. Regardless of the scene before me, I waited for that star to blink or shift or pulse like it was watching me and crash down through the roof. Luckily it didn't, instead just hanging there, just beyond view.

Was I really about to leave that unsolved? Just walk away and pretend I wasn't tangled up in something bigger than me?

The Dipper in me screamed no. He would've stayed behind, nose buried in a book, index finger flipping pages so fast they blurred. He would've obsessed. Investigated. Tried to solve a cosmic puzzle with too many missing pieces. And normally, that's what I'd do too.

But then I thought about the last party.

The one I missed. The Mystery Shack bash from a week ago—when everyone else danced under streamers and spooky lights, and I was stuck at the ticket booth, stamping hands and pretending not to hear the music thumping from inside. That night had slipped through my fingers before I even realized it was gone thanks to Gideon's meddling with the copier machine.

I had already missed one party, maybe I didn't want to miss another one.

Maybe… I needed a little of my Mabel side tonight.

The part of me that remembered how to laugh until my sides ached. The part that believed in sparkles and glitter glue and friendships you could trust. The part that needed to feel something normal again—to chase joy, even if only for a few hours, instead of dread. A distraction wouldn't make the star go away. But maybe it could give me the strength to face it later.

I forced a smile. "Yeah, sure. Sounds fun."

"Duh, it's fun. It's Summerween—best excuse to party." She turned, walking back toward the door.

Before I could respond, Dipper stepped up beside me. "Wait, Robbie is throwing a party?"

"Yup." Wendy tossed her hatchet onto a coat rack like it was a totally normal thing to do. "Right next to the cemetery. Gonna be sick."

Dipper adjusted his hat, trying to play it cool. "Oh. Huh. That's, uh… that's kinda awesome."

"Right?" Wendy kicked off her boots, then shot him a casual nod. "You should totally come."

Dipper froze.

I could see the gears turning in his head, trying so hard not to look too eager. "Oh—uh—yeah. I mean… maybe. Yeah, sure. That could be cool."

At that moment, Mabel popped out of nowhere, throwing her hands in the air. "NO!"

Dipper jumped. "AH—Mabel! What the heck?!"

She dramatically threw an arm around his shoulder. "You can't go to a party tonight!"

Dipper frowned. "Why not?"

"Because," she gasped, "we are going trick-or-treating!"

Dipper stiffened. "Mabel…"

She clasped her hands together. "Dipper, c'mon, it's Summerween! Halloween but summer! This is our thing! The one night we get to hit the town, stockpile absurd amounts of candy, and bask in the glorious glow of sugar-induced victory!" She gripped his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "You love this!"

Dipper's face twitched. He did love trick-or-treating. But he also really wanted to go to that party. I knew because I could see the inner battle raging inside him.

Wendy, meanwhile, leaned against the wall, watching the sibling drama unfold with mild amusement. "Dude, you can totally do both," she said. "Party doesn't really start till later anyway. Just grab some candy first, then swing by Robbie's place."

"Yeah!" Mabel grinned. "We trick-or-treat fast! Like, record speed! We can have our whole stash done in, an hour."

Dipper hesitated. "Maybe…"

"Besides," Wendy added with a smirk, "if you don't show, that just means more loser candy for me."

Dipper's eyes narrowed. "You like loser candy?"

"Nah," she said. "But I'll trade it to Soos for actual good candy. It's called strategy."

Dipper crossed his arms. "Alright. Fine. I'll go trick-or-treating first. Then I'll come to the party."

Mabel beamed. "YES! The trick-or-treating duo is secured!"

Wendy fist-bumped him. "Nice. I'll be back later to pick you up with Thompson."

As she strolled off, Mabel practically vibrated with excitement.

"This is gonna be the best Summerween EVER!" she declared.

Dipper, meanwhile, sighed, running a hand down his face.

"Or the most exhausting," he muttered. Dipper poured a bag of candy into a bowl to prepare for trick-or-treaters. Wanting to test the contents for himself, he unwrapped a piece and tossed it into his mouth. Instantly, his face went sour and he locked eyes with me as the taste of loser candy invaded his tongue.

He forced a smile and gulped heavily. "Oh wow," he peered out the open window, calling into the night, "Man, I sure do love some gummy chairs. Definitely not gonna toss this in the garbage, no sir."

"Bro-bro, who are you talking to?"

The boy looked at me again, and I gave an exaggerated shrug and a smirk laced with sarcasm. Dipper just scowled and tossed another piece into his mouth.

#

The night sky stretched vast and endless, a sea of deep indigo speckled with countless stars. The blood moon loomed overhead, casting an eerie crimson hue over the quiet town below.

And then one of those stars moved.

At first, it was subtle. Just a glimmer against the darkness, barely distinguishable from the others. But then, with unnatural speed, it grew. What had once been a distant pinprick of light was now a streak of white-hot fire, ripping through the atmosphere like a jagged tear in the sky. The air around it burned. Its surface—a rough, glossy, cracked surface pulsing with veins of sickly, electric blue—began to glow, not with heat, but with something else—something wrong. Gravity took hold. The meteor hurtled downward, cutting through the cold night air like a blade. As it neared the treetops, it screamed—a shrieking, unnatural whistle that sent startled crows bursting from their perches.

And then—

Impact.

The stone slammed into the cemetery thunderously, sending a geyser of dirt, shattered gravestones, and glowing embers. The ground trembled as shockwaves rippled outward, toppling headstones and shaking loose dead branches from the gnarled trees.

For a long moment, silence returned. The dust settled, curling in the cold air like ghostly fingers.

At the center of the crater, the stone—no larger than a basketball—sat nestled in the earth, pulsing with a low, rhythmic hum. Veins of blue energy flickered across its fractured shell, seeping outward like invisible ink bleeding into the world. The nearby ground darkened, twisting and rotting in real time. Even the air around it thickened, as though poisoned with something ancient and alive. The cemetery, once still and resting, now pulsed with an unnatural, almost hungry energy. Something had changed. Something had awakened.

And then—A mechanical click and a faint, hydraulic whir, the ground beneath the stone shifted. A circular panel hidden beneath the grave dust slid open like a trapdoor, smooth and silent. The meteor gave a slight jolt—almost like recognition—before it slipped below, swallowed by the dark. It vanished into the earth, into a pit that had no business being there.

The meteor came to rest with a dull, resonant thud, its electric-blue glow casting long shadows across the containment chamber. Thick steel petals folded in from all sides, sealing it in place like a rare artifact dropped into a vault. Behind reinforced glass, Agent Powers stood with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The hum of machines and cooling fans filled the silence. Monitors around the room flickered with live diagnostics—radiation spikes, thermal bleed, electromagnetic interference.

"It's here," Powers muttered.

Beside him, Preston Northwest took a slow step forward, hands folded neatly behind his back, gaze fixed on the pulsing rock. Its glow rippled with faint tendrils of blue energy, licking outward in lazy arcs, like it was breathing. Preston eyed the object with awe while Powers rolled his eyes.

"You know, you better be right about the promise of this thing." Powers pointed to the pulsing rock. "We've been shown a lot of theories, half of them wrapped in gibberish."

Preston gave a tight smile. "Yes, well. Genius and madness often share a room." He stepped closer to the observation glass. Next to it on a screen, spectrographs were already highlighting aberrant energy waves seeping from the meteor. Fields warped. Local magnetics fluttered. Beneath the object, even the metal of the containment cradle seemed to warp.

Powers didn't look at Preston. "Those theories came from that Gleeful kid. His journal?"

Preston gave a slight nod. "Gideon's notes pointed to an anomaly—matching your deep space scans almost exactly. Celestial origin. Highly unstable. He knew it was coming. He just didn't know where it would land." The billionaire smiled, adjusting his cuffs. "Fortunately we possess the resources Gideon lacks, hence our partnership

"He's locked away with the manotaurs," Powers said. "You think he planned this?"

Preston's mouth twitched back into a humorless smile. "Gideon plans nothing. He reacts. But his journal? That's another story." He lowered his voice as he repeated himself. "Hence our partnership."

The meteor pulsed again—brighter this time. A soft, high-pitched frequency rang out from one of the lab's lower sensors, like a tuning fork brushing glass.

Powers glanced at the screen. "We don't even know what this thing is."

"That's what testing is for," Preston replied calmly. "We'll find out what it does. Then we'll decide what to do with it."

Another pulse. Slightly faster.

"Get it ready," Preston said, already turning to leave. "Let's see what we've brought down from the stars."

The door hissed open behind him.

And the hum deepened.

#

Gravity Falls was alive with Summerween spirit. The streets were packed with kids in costumes, jack-o'-melons flickered on every porch, and the air was thick with the scent of candle wax, crisp leaves, and the faintest trace of smoke from backyard bonfires. The occasional shriek of fake terror echoed through the night, followed immediately by bursts of laughter. Mabel Invited Candy and Grenda along for our 'epic Summerween adventure.' Luckily, they had no problem fitting in with our Summerween theme. Candy made a pretty decent Loki, and Grenda, well, let's say we had two Hulks on this exciting and vibrant night.

Our group moved from house to house like a well-oiled candy-collecting machine. Mabel, Candy, and Grenda were at the front, each armed with massive pillowcases and enough energy to fuel an entire haunted carnival. Soos, dressed as a bigger Hulk, was the designated morale booster, hyping us up before every door. Dipper—decked out as Iron Man—hovered just behind them, trying (and failing) to act like he was too cool for this.

And me? I just enjoyed the chaos decked out in some old-fashioned red, white and blue.

"Okay, guys, strategy time," Mabel said, spinning on her heel as we neared another decorated house. "What's the move?"

Candy adjusted her horned helmet. "Fast and efficient. One ring, maximum enthusiasm, move on."

Grenda cracked her knuckles, smearing her body paint. "Or we just yell real loud until they give us candy!"

"Both solid plans," Soos said, nodding. "Or, OR—hear me out—we do the ol' 'adorable sad eyes' routine. Works every time."

"Bold," Mabel mused. "Unexpected. I like it."

Dipper sighed. "Can we just trick-or-treat like normal people?"

Mabel gasped. "Dipper! What part of Summerween do you think is 'normal?!'"

He opened his mouth—then shut it again.

"Exactly," Mabel said, marching up the porch. "Now, let's get this candy!"

Just as she reached for the doorbell—

BOOM.

The sound tore through the sky like distant thunder, deep and heavy, rattling the very air around us. Everyone froze. A hush fell over the street. The laughter, the chatter—gone. Even the jack-o'-melons seemed to flicker uncertainly.

My breath hitched. I didn't need to guess what that was.

The star. The one McGucket wouldn't shut up about.

My heart pounded as I held my breath, waiting. This is it. This is the moment everything goes sideways. Any second now—shockwaves, fire, screaming, something.

But… nothing happened.

No explosion. No cataclysm. No unnatural darkness swallowing the town.

The moment stretched.

Then—slowly—the sounds of Summerween returned. A nervous laugh here, a confused murmur there. Someone down the street shouted, "Whoa, sick firework, dude!" and just like that, people moved on. I exhaled.

McGucket was wrong.

No doomsday. No disaster. Just a weird noise in the distance.

I shook my head, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

"That was weird," Mabel said whipping her head around to find the source of the noise.

"Maybe someone actually launched a watermelon with a catapult this year?" Soos suggested. "Or a firework like that dude said?"

Mabel gasped. "That better have been what it was."

Dipper frowned, glancing toward the direction of the boom. "I dunno… that didn't sound like a firework or a catapulted melon." He set his head in his hands, feeling ridiculous for uttering the latter half of that sentence.

I forced a shrug, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "Whatever it was, it's over now." The amulet in my pocket didn't agree, a dark sense seeping into my mind.

I know you are not so sure

Mabel clapped her hands together. "Exactly! And do you know what isn't over?" She turned back to the door. "Our candy conquest!"

She rang the doorbell, and just like that, the world shifted back to normal.

I tried to convince myself that I wasn't still on edge, ignoring the amulet.

That I wasn't thinking about that star.

That I was only imagining the way the wind suddenly felt just a little bit colder.

#

Leaderaur sat motionless in his stone chamber, the towering pillars of rock forming a prison around him. Carved by magic, reinforced by the earth, the chamber was meant to contain him, and for a time, it had succeeded. But not because it was unbreakable.

Because he allowed it to be.

His massive frame rested in a coiled crouch, knees bent, hands pressed against the ground, muscles corded beneath thick, scarred flesh. Chains looped around his wrists and ankles—decorative, really. Symbols of control for those who needed to believe he was tamed. His deep red eyes remained shut, patient. Waiting.

Then—a sound. A low, distant boom.

It rippled through the mountain like thunder through the spine of the earth. The vibration danced through the chamber floor, up the walls, into the bones of the prison. And into him.

Leaderaur's eyes opened.

A slow smile curled across his lips. Not wide. Not gleeful. But purposeful. Controlled.

The star had arrived. Just as his associate had promised.

He lifted his head slightly, nostrils flaring. There was something new in the air now. An old scent. One he hadn't tasted in years. Decay.

His gaze shifted to the walls surrounding him. Thick slabs of packed earth and stone. Reinforced with enchantments, sure—but brittle. Brittle like the minds of those who'd placed him here. The womantaurs. Righteous. Proud. Fools.

He flexed his fingers once. The sound of cracking joints echoed softly.

He could break them. All of them. This chamber. The guards. The world.

And yet, he remained still.

Outside the chamber, he heard movement—hooves shifting in the corridors. The murmured voices of the womantaurs, alert now, tinged with unease.

"What was that?"
"Something struck the earth…"
"Magic—dark magic, maybe?"

He closed his eyes again, listening. Smiling.

Let them whisper. Let them wonder.

It was not yet time.

He had waited days. He could wait a little longer. The stone would yield. The guards would falter. The moment would come, and when it did…

He would rise.

And this time, there would be no chains.

#

The dim light of jack-o'-melons created an eerie sense around the Mystery Shack as we filed out of Soos' truck. The crisp scent of pine and melting wax from the carved melons still lingered in the air, mixing with the distant, smoky smell of a bonfire from somewhere in town. Inside, the warmth of the Shack wrapped around us like a blanket, the old wooden floor creaking under our feet. The second we stepped into the living room, Mabel practically exploded forward, jumping around with an excited whoop.

"VICTORY!" she shouted, upending her bulging pillowcase, allowing its sweet contents to flood the carpet. A mountain of candy only grew as everyone else spilled their spoils across the floor, a chaotic avalanche of bright wrappers, lollipops, chocolates, and enough sugar to keep us all buzzing for weeks.

Grenda groaned in satisfaction before dramatically collapsing onto the couch. "We cleaned up out there. That one lady straight-up panicked and just dumped her whole bowl into my bag when I yelled in her face!."

"Her loss," Candy said, plucking a king-sized chocolate bar from the hoard and unwrapping it with practiced precision.

Mabel lay on her back in the middle of the candy pile, sighing happily. "Best. Summerween. Ever."

I dropped my own bag near the growing stash and took a deep breath.

Nothing happened.

No fires. No chaos. No crack in the sky or cosmic horror descending upon Gravity Falls. Just laughter echoing through the Shack, the rustle of candy wrappers, the creak of old wood beneath old footsteps.

We'd been out there for hours—trick-or-treating like kids, dodging animatronic monsters, swapping candy strategies, even getting Soos to narrate our route in his "discount horror podcast voice." We'd let ourselves be silly. Loud. Alive. And yet, despite all my worries about the apparent falling star… nothing came of it. No shockwave. No doomsday. No eldritch whispers curling through the trees. Just a distant boom. A distant light. And then—silence.

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and shook my head, the tension in my shoulders unspooling for the first time in days.

Maybe McGucket was wrong.

Maybe—just maybe—there wasn't always a string attached. Maybe not every anomaly was a harbinger. Maybe not every pulse in the amulet meant the sky was cracking open. Maybe, for once, the weird thing in the woods could just… be a weird thing in the woods. And maybe that could be enough. Because truthfully, I didn't want to keep waiting for the sky to fall.

Not tonight.

I looked around the room—at Mabel buried in candy, at Dipper arguing with Candy over the best horror movie sequel, at Soos attempting to balance a caramel apple on his head—and for the first time in what felt like forever… I wanted to believe we were okay. I needed to believe it. Even if I didn't fully trust it. Even if some part of me still flinched at silence, still waited for the other shoe to drop. But, tonight, I decided not to look up. Just this once.

I let out a breath and shook my head. Maybe McGucket was wrong. Maybe—for once—there was nothing to worry about..

Soos, who had half-collapsed onto the armchair, lifted his head. "Bro. This haul is legendary. I give it, like… a ten out of ten on the Soos Candy Scale."

Mabel sat up with a gasp. "Ten?!"

"Yup." Soos nodded sagely. "Certified banger haul."

Dipper, meanwhile, was still lingering by the door, arms crossed, staring outside like he was waiting for something.

I stepped up beside him, nudging his shoulder. "Yo. You good?"

I stepped up beside him, nudging his shoulder. "Yo. You good?"

He blinked, like he'd just been pulled up from underwater. "Oh. Yeah, I just…" His eyes flicked back toward the darkened sky through the nearest window. "I swear that boom wasn't normal." He shook his head, almost to himself. "But, I mean… I guess it doesn't really matter now. I'm going to look into it later though…"

I shrugged, trying not to let the unease creep into my voice. "I don't think we have anything to worry about. Meteors hit Earth all the time. It's probably just some weird coincidence." Even as I said it, the words tasted wrong. Like I was trying too hard to believe them.

Dipper hummed in response, but the thoughtful crease in his brow didn't go anywhere. He crossed his arms, still staring past me, somewhere into that invisible place where logic and instinct lived. "Yeah, but… coincidences don't exist in a town like Gravity Falls."

I didn't argue, because we both knew he was right. Still, I stuffed my hands into my pockets and leaned back like I hadn't just felt something crawl up my spine. Before anyone could say anything else, a set of headlights flashed through the diamond window built in the door, cutting through the darkness.

Honk-honk!

A voice shouted from outside, "YOOO! Party train's here!"

Mabel gasped dramatically, whipping her head toward me. "THE PARTY!"

Just as she scrambled to her feet, the front door swung open, and Wendy strolled inside like she owned the place. She was still rocking her Thor costume, but she had swapped her work boots for some sneakers, the red cape billowing slightly behind her.

"You losers ready?" she asked, grinning. "Thompson's already stress-sweating in the driver's seat, and we're not letting him back out of this party."

Mabel brushed stray candy wrappers off her Black Widow suit and dramatically flipped her hair. "Well, Dipping Sauce, it's been fun. Thanks for coming along." She hugged him. "I really appreciate it, but you are free to go. "

Dipper hesitated. His eyes flickered toward the candy pile—then to the open door, where Wendy stood waiting. I could see the gears turning in his head. Part of him wanted to stay—maybe call it a night, enjoy his candy stash, and overthink the big boom—but the other part? The part that still wanted to impress Wendy? That part was winning.

Wendy caught his hesitation and smirked. "C'mon, dude. Summerween party! Gonna be awesome."

Dipper straightened. "Uh. Yeah. Yeah, okay, I'll come."

"Atta boy," Wendy said, giving him a light punch on the shoulder.

We waved bye to Soos, Mabel Candy, and Grenda and approached the van, which was idling in the driveway. Its interior light flickered as we climbed in.

Thompson was already in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel like it might bite him. "Uh, guys? Are we sure about this? The town is, like… extra creepy tonight."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, Thompson, that's the point."

Dipper sat down beside me in the second row, fidgeting with his repulser gloves. I leaned back against the seat, staring at the darkened trees as Thompson pulled onto the road. A party sounded real good right now music loud enough to kill overthinking, and lights dim enough to blur the edges of my spiraling brain. I needed that tonight. I needed loud. I needed noise.

Because silence?

Silence felt too much like a countdown.

Wendy's friends had a reputation for going hard—and I had a suspicion that somewhere in that house, there'd be a brew a little stronger than cola. These guys didn't seem to be the root-beer float and board-game type of people, and I have to assume the teen's mannerisms were cut back in the show. Based on what I've seen at home, a few of those guys definitely seemed like the types to enjoy a drink to take the edge off. I glanced at Dipper beside me, still tugging at his fake repulser gloves, and I suddenly had doubts about a twelve-year-old tagging along.

#

The boom jolted Gideon awake, snapping him from a dream that had something to do with thrones, applause, and golden light. His silk pillow—well, burlap sack stuffed with feathers—slid off the rock he used as a headboard as the walls vibrated.

The manotaurs were already in chaos.

Half of them shouted about charging into the forest to find the source of the noise and punch it until it made another one. The other half demanded they stay put and finish their weekly poker tournament, which involved no actual cards and at least one arm-wrestling match per hand.

Naturally, the debate devolved into roaring and headbutting, fists flying in a storm of testosterone and bad decision-making.

Gideon rolled his eyes, brushing imaginary dust off his vest. "Savages," he muttered, pushing himself into a sitting position.

It was embarrassing, really. A mind like his, locked in with muscle-brained buffoons who thought thinking was an optional activity. His gaze flicked to the chipped stone ceiling above him as the noise of manly brawling echoed down the corridor.

He sighed. "It's like babysittin' a barn full'a angry bulls with brain damage."

Frankly, he was insulted to be their prisoner. Gideon Gleeful—former child star, media mogul, and now soon-to-be cosmic magnate—was brought low by a bunch of meatheads who couldn't spell the word "strategy."

But it was only temporary.

He leaned back, arms folded behind his head with smug confidence. Soon, Preston would make his move. That comet—his comet—had landed, just as he predicted. And once Preston saw that everything Gideon claimed had come true, well... that would change everything.

He could practically hear it now:

"Well done, Mr. Gleeful," Preston would say, smooth as velvet and just as rich. "We underestimated you. From here on, you're not just a source of information. You're an equal. A visionary."

And Gideon—humble, gracious Gideon—would accept that praise with a modest smile, maybe a bow if the cameras were rolling. He'd be brought into the fold. Into the inner circle. Preston's right hand. His protégé.

Sure, Preston hadn't written back to his last three letters. And sure, the agents still treated him like a glorified intern with conspiracy theories and a baby face. But they'd see. They had to see.

He had the journal. The real one. With the truth about the comet. About Element 115. About power.

And when the time came, he'd be right where he belonged—seated at the table, calling shots, rewriting the future. No more playing the fool. No more being dismissed.

Gideon smiled to himself, the dim firelight from the corridor glinting in his eyes. He closed them again, the distant grunts and battle cries of the manotaurs fading into background noise.

Let them fight. Let them smash each other's skulls in.

Soon, he wouldn't be their prisoner.

He'd be their king.

And as for that redheaded, amulet stealing brat who foiled his previous plan?

Well.

He'd learn, too.

Everyone would.

He had the journal and its knowledge, and by extension, the world.

#

Headlights carved through the trees as Thompson's van rattled down the dirt road, its wheels crunching over gravel, its engine mumbling like it wasn't paid enough for this job. The deeper we drove, the more the night seemed to breathe around us—the wind rustling the branches that reached out to us like fingers, distant crows cawing as we passed, the occasional flicker of a jack-o'-melon's glow in the distance. The scent of damp earth and old pine mingled with the last traces of Summerween candle wax.

Then, as we crested a hill, Robbie's house came into view—and it looked like Halloween had lost its mind.

The entire front yard was packed with people in costume, the lawn lit up by flickering torches and the eerie green glow of fake fog machines. Someone had gone all out with the decorations—plastic skeletons slumped in the porch chairs, fake gravestones scattered across the lawn, and, most impressively, a massive, grinning scarecrow looming over the driveway, its arms stretched wide as if welcoming guests to their doom.

The house itself was a two-story, weathered thing; its chipped paint and gothic windows made it look like it belonged next to a graveyard. Melons with jagged grins lined the porch, and from inside, the muffled thump of bass-heavy music rattled the walls. A strobe light flickered through the windows, casting eerie, jerky shadows of people dancing.

Thompson pulled the van up to the curb, staring at the scene like he was already regretting every decision that led him here.

"Uh," he said, gripping the wheel tighter. "Are we sure this is a good idea?"

"Yes, Thompson," Wendy said flatly. "Now get out."

Before he could protest, Nate and Lee ran past the van, cackling as they hurled rolls of toilet paper into Robbie's trees. One got caught on a branch, unraveling like ghostly streamers.

"Yes!" Nate fist-pumped. "Robbie's gonna hate this!"

"Dude, I know," Lee said. "That's why it's great!"

Thompson groaned. "We haven't even gone inside yet, and this is already out of control."

I smirked. "That's what makes it a good party."

We climbed out of the van, stepping onto the sidewalk where groups of costumed teens were loitering. Some gathered around a fire pit in the driveway, laughing over stories I couldn't hear. Others were racing to the backyard, where it sounded like an impromptu game of 'try-not-to-die-in-the-dark' was taking place. Whatever that means.

Robbie's front door burst open, and two guys literally fell out onto the porch in the middle of a wrestling match. One was in a banana suit, the other in a gorilla suit, and they hit the grass with a thud before rolling apart, breathless from laughter.

From inside, the thump-thump-thump of Halloween music blasted through the open door.

"This," Wendy said, throwing an arm around me and Dipper, "is how you do Summerween."

As we started up the porch steps, she glanced over her shoulder at the dark sky. "Hey, you hear that boom earlier? Kinda freaky, right?"

I hesitated for only a second before I shook my head, giving her a lopsided smile. "Probably just a firework. Nothing to worry about."

She shrugged, unconvinced but not pressing. "Eh. Fair enough."

The bass from inside rattled the windows. Whatever it was—it could wait.

Dipper's eyes darted around, his hands twitching at his sides. "This, uh—this seems a little crazy."

Wendy laughed. "That's the point, dude. C'mon, let's get inside before someone sets something on fire."

She turned and led the way toward the house, but I hesitated and thank goodness I did. A guy dressed as a mummy sprinted through the Foyer with a lit jack-o'-melon on his head, screaming "I am the Pumpkin King!" before crashing into the coat rack.

The party looked awesome. Loud, chaotic, exactly the kind of thing that could help me shake off the lingering tension from earlier. But my eyes flicked past the yard toward the cemetery sitting just beyond Robbie's backyard fence. It loomed in the distance, the headstones barely visible through the fog rolling over the grass. The iron gate creaked slightly in the wind, a single lantern flickering weakly near the entrance.

For a second, I thought I saw something move between the gravestones—a trick of the light, probably. Or the fog. Or my brain, still riding that post-McGucket paranoia. I shook it off. It was probably nothing. Wendy was already inside, disappearing into the crowd, and Dipper—who looked insanely out of his element—was hovering at the threshold, trying to look casual. I took a deep breath, forcing my shoulders to relax, and stepped inside.

The moment I did, the wall of sound hit me. The bass-heavy thump of Halloween music vibrated through the floorboards, the kind of beat that made the walls pulse like they were alive. The air was thick with the mingling scents of cinnamon, spilled soda, and cheap fog machine juice. Laughter and shouted conversations clashed against the music, voices overlapping in an unfiltered mess of party energy.

The house was packed—costumed bodies crammed into every available space, drinks sloshing as people moved between rooms. Someone had strung fake cobwebs from the ceiling, though enthusiastic partygoers had already torn down half of them. Glow-in-the-dark skeletons dangled from the light fixtures, their hollow eyes reflecting the neon strobe flashes from the living room.

Wendy threw me a quick glance—half smirk, half check-in. I full on smiled and she smiled back. She didn't say anything, and she didn't need to.

In the center of the living room, a cluster of teens had cleared a space for what could only be described as a glowing vegetable deity. I heard several people call it the "Rave Gourd"—which was crowned with a crooked party hat and wrapped in glowstick necklaces—sat atop a folding stool like it was royalty. A circle of dancers moved around it in hypnotic, chaotic rhythm, arms in the air like they were offering up their souls to the squash. The strobe lights bounced off its surface, casting warbling shadows on the walls like some kind of jack-o'-lantern séance.

I blinked. "What… are they doing?"

Wendy appeared at my side, sipping from a suspiciously red Solo cup, and nodded solemnly toward the scene. "It's the Rave Gourd, dude," she said, like that explained everything.

I stared a second longer. The Rave Gourd stared back.

And I was all for it. The weird sense of unease I'd been carrying all night? Gone. Whatever had fallen from the sky wasn't my problem. Nothing had happened. No shockwaves, no creepy cosmic horror, no reason to worry. I'd had a stressful couple of weeks, and It had been a good night so far—why ruin it by overthinking?

"DUDE!"

I barely had time to react before Nate and Lee slammed into me from the side, both grinning like lunatics.

"You made it!" Lee shouted, throwing an arm around my shoulder. "Sick costume!"

"Right?" Wendy smirked, nudging me with her elbow. "Told you guys we were going all out."

"AVENGERS ASSEMBLE!" he declared, holding out his arms like he was ready to take flight. He was dressed as some kind of off-brand Spider-Man—more like "Spooderman" with the way the logo was definitely drawn in Sharpie. Nate matched his best friend in an equally scuffed venom costume.

"Wait," Nate squinted at Dipper, who was shifting awkwardly behind me. "You brought the kid?"

Dipper stiffened. "I'm not a kid!"

Nate snorted. "Dude, you're, like, twelve."

"Actually, I'm almost thirteen."

"Okay, big guy," Lee said, holding up his hands. "No need to flex."

Dipper scowled but said nothing, setting his iron man mask over his face.

"Hey, as long as he doesn't narc, he's cool," Wendy said, throwing an arm around Dipper and ruffling his hair.

"I don't—" He quickly fixed his ruined hair. "I'm not gonna narc!"

"See?" Wendy smirked. "All good."

"Speaking of all good," Lee began, holding up a cup, "Drink?" The cup's contents were a sloshing red under the strobe light, like it was daring me to make bad decisions.

I took it without hesitation, downing a sip before Wendy leaned in. "Uh, that's probably just, like, fruit punch and regret, dude."

I licked my lips. "Tastes like… melted Jolly Ranchers and bad choices."

"Sounds about right," Wendy said, grabbing one for herself.

The music thumped on—loud, fast, relentless—until it didn't.

For half a second, the bass dropped out completely, replaced by a warped buzz, like the sound was chewing itself inside out. The lights froze mid-strobe. A dozen shadowed limbs snapped into clarity around one dancer in the living room—more than two arms, definitely more than two eyes.

I blinked.

The beat kicked back in. Lights resumed their rhythm. The dancer kept moving, completely unaware.

I shook my head. Probably just a glitch. Fog juice and flashing lights could mess with your brain. Everyone else seemed unfazed.

Still… that buzz hadn't sounded like any speaker malfunction I'd ever heard.

I took another sip of punch and forced myself to focus on Wendy, who hadn't even seemed to notice anything. If she didn't call attention to the disruption then it It was nothing. Just a flicker.

Just noise.

A crash from the other room made us all jump, followed by uproarious laughter.

"HE'S FINE!" someone called out.

"NO, HE'S NOT!"

I exchanged a glance with Wendy before grinning.

Yeah.

This was exactly what I needed tonight.

#

The testing chamber below the main control room buzzed with low-frequency hums as machines analyzed every pulse from the glowing meteorite. This rock, this new… element, sat in the center of the room, encased in glass and surrounded by concentric circles of insulation coils, shielding mesh, and glowing biometric scanners. Blue light danced across the floor in slow, pulsing waves—hypnotic, alive.

On the other side of the observation glass, Agent Powers stood beside Preston Northwest, a tablet in his hand, eyes scanning streams of real-time data.

"We've maintained stable containment," Powers reported. "Subject remains volatile at the molecular level—no decay, no radiation leakage. But the energy it's emitting... it's not normal."

Preston watched the pulsating glow of the rock with faint interest, his reflection ghosted across the glass.

"How not normal?" he asked.

Powers turned the tablet slightly toward him. "Biological response patterns. Everyone who's worked near the testing chamber has reported symptoms. Headaches. Nausea. One technician claimed to see shadows that weren't there. Another had auditory hallucinations—whispers, specifically."

Preston raised an eyebrow. "Mass hysteria?"

"We tested for that. Negative. Their brain scans show mild overactivity in the limbic system. Emotional regulation, primal fear response, and even dream centers. It's not hysteria—it's interference. Like the rock is… reaching in."

Below them, two scientists in hazmat suits maneuvered a steel cage into position. Inside it, a pig paced anxiously, its movements twitchy and erratic.

"Subject #14," Powers continued. "We've been exposing small animals to proximity waves from the rock. Nothing direct. Just the radiation field. The results have been consistent."

They watched as the pig sniffed the air, pausing near the edge of its enclosure. It let out a slow, confused grunt, then jolted back as a wave of blue light pulsed through the room.

"It's aggression spikes every time the energy wave hits," Powers said. "We've logged the behavior in all fourteen test subjects. Pigs, squirrels, even birds. They grow anxious. Confused. They forget basic patterns. One of them walked in circles for an hour before collapsing."

Preston tilted his head, intrigued.

"And no mutations?"

"None we can observe. Yet. But we are seeing neural rewiring. Increased activity in the motor cortex, even post-mortem. We have several pig subjects, but two of them we euthanized a few moments ago, yet they showed nerve reactivation after death. Brief. Erratic. But measurable."

The pig below suddenly slammed its head against the side of the enclosure, squealing violently. The scientists flinched, then quickly stabilized the container with electromagnetic locks.

A heartbeat later, the pig fell still—its body shuddering once, then lying down like nothing had happened. Its eyes remained open.

Preston stared. "Did it just… pass out?"

"No," Powers said quietly. "It's listening."

Preston looked at him.

"We don't know how or why, but every time the energy pulses, that pig tracks it. Like it's tuning in. Or being tuned."

The two men stood in silence, the soft hum of the meteor pulsing again through the speakers. The pig's ear twitched.

Powers broke the silence. "We've moved the cemetery remains, as requested. Far from here. No risk of contamination."

Preston's gaze never left the pig.

"Keep it that way," he said. "How long until we can begin more complex behavioral testing?"

"Depends what kind of behavior we're looking for."

Preston's lips curled faintly.

"Obedience."

He turned away from the glass, hands folding behind his back.

Powers frowned. "Sir, if I may—whatever this stuff is, it's dangerous. Predictably dangerous, for now, but that's never a guarantee. If it escalates—"

"I'm counting on escalation," Preston said.

Behind them, the pig twitched again.

The lights dimmed.

And the rock pulsed.

In the chamber, the pig let out a low, guttural snort. Its eyes had taken on a glassy sheen—milky and bloodshot, like a storm barely held back. It slammed its head against the reinforced glass once, then again, grunting louder. One of the scientists approached with a sedative injector mounted on a long metal pole.

"Administering tranquilizer," a voice crackled through the speaker.

The scientist inserted the needle through the designated slot in the pen. But the second the needle hit flesh, the pig let out a shriek—not of pain, but rage. It moved faster than anything in the room was prepared for. With unnatural strength, it smashed against the glass and shattered it with unnatural strength.

"BREACH—!" someone shouted over the comms as chaos erupted in the lab.

The pig launched itself across the floor, teeth gnashing, and tackled a second pig still locked in a side cage. In seconds, it was tearing into flesh, blood spraying across the smooth white walls. The second pig thrashed violently, letting out shrill, warbled cries—until they went silent.

But they didn't stay silent.

Powers leaned in, eyes wide. "Is that second subject… moving?"

The freshly-mauled pig jerked once, then twitched again, rising slowly to its feet. Its movements were stiff, like a puppet yanked by the wrong strings. The wound on its neck gaped, muscles visibly torn. And yet, it stood.

Powers' jaw clenched. "We've got secondary reanimation. Confirmed."

"Impossible," one of the techs whispered. "There's no biological vector—no infection rate that fast—"

The infected pig squealed, lunging toward the glass and slamming its head into it with a sickening crack. The scientists scrambled to shut down the test chamber. Sirens blared. Agents rushed in with weapons raised.

The first shot struck Pig #11 clean in the shoulder.

It barely flinched.

Three more shots rang out. Blood sprayed. The creature stumbled—then roared and charged. An agent was dragged screaming across the floor, his visor snapping from his helmet as the pig's teeth sank into his leg.

"CONTAIN IT!" Powers shouted. "NOW!"

Dozens of rounds tore through the creature, but it just kept coming—limping, snarling, leaving streaks of gore in its wake. It wasn't invulnerable, but it was wrong. It bled. But it didn't care.

Then, without warning, it veered from the chaos.

Through a service tunnel near the rear of the facility—one recently expanded to accommodate heavy equipment—it fled. Security footage later showed its hooves slamming across concrete, following nothing but scent and instinct. And where did it go?

Right were those dead bodies were moved. A cold room near the far edge of the bunker, where the relocated cemetery corpses had been temporarily stored before respectful reburial. Sealed, dark, untouched for weeks.

Until now.

The pig pushed the door off its hinges and entered. What happened next was only partially captured by the failing security cameras.

A sickening chomp.

A gurgling screech.

Silence.

…

Movement.

One of the corpses—a shriveled man in a faded war uniform—shuddered. Then another. A woman in a black bonnet twitched violently, curling upright in a series of bone-popping jolts. Dead hands clawed at steel walls. Mouths snapped open. Hollow sockets turned.

By the time the response team arrived, the testing chamber was a warzone. One of the pigs—now a mangled, undead abomination—had been torn nearly in half by suppressive gunfire, its exposed ribs jutting out like broken spears. And yet, it still moved. Its split torso dragged along the floor, back legs twitching uselessly as it let out something between a guttural squeal and a garbled laugh. Some cruel reflex had kept its lungs forcing air through its throat, creating a sound far too close to conscious joy.

Nearby, worse still, a reanimated corpse—formerly Mayor Grumple, according to the faded tag still attached to his toe—staggered to its feet. His limbs cracked with each movement, skin bloated and gray, eyes dull but alert. He shambled forward with jerky, erratic steps, drawn by the pig's noise.

The agents wasted no time. A full suppression protocol was enacted—emergency shutters dropped over the entrances, and high-pressure nozzles flooded the chamber with a thick layer of fire-retardant foam and chemical tranquilizer mist. Visibility vanished in seconds, but the shrieks continued. Several armed guards, wearing full-body hazmat gear, stormed in with electrified man-catchers and impact rifles.

The pig took four more rounds to the head before collapsing, its laughter finally silenced by a direct shot to what was left of its brainstem.

The former mayor proved harder. The corpse seemed nearly immune to pain, shrugging off tasers and even a burst of napalm gel. It wasn't until a containment tech pinned it against the wall with a hydraulic clamp that another agent managed to secure its jaw shut and inject it with a triple-dose tranquilizer. After that, it slowed. It swayed. Then, finally, it dropped.

When the smoke cleared and the foam began to hiss away into the grates, Preston Northwest stepped into the chamber, flanked by Agent Powers. The reek of death and burnt ozone hung heavy in the air.

The corpses had been restrained, wrapped in heavy iron chains and reinforced body bags. But even then, their forms still twitched—fingers curling, mouths moving soundlessly behind the muzzles. Still animated. Still breathing. Still something.

Preston crouched next to the half-pig, examining the way its eye still lazily tracked the movement of the room.

He smiled. "Fascinating."

Powers muttered a curse. "We've lost six men. Lab security's compromised. We need to shut this down."

But Preston didn't answer.

He shifted his gaze to the reanimated corpse of a long-dead preacher, whose lips moved slowly, whispering something no one could hear.

After a long silence, Preston turned to Powers.

"…No."

Powers blinked. "Excuse me?"

Preston looked back at the corpses. "I have an idea." His lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile. "Get me more corpses."

#

The party had only gotten wilder.

Someone had turned the kitchen into a karaoke battlefield. Thompson was halfway through butchering "Total Eclipse of the Heart" using a turkey baster as a mic, and somehow, that had earned him rockstar status. Glowsticks had been duct-taped to a pumpkin—Nate's handiwork, no doubt—and the "Rave Gourd" now pulsed like it had its own beat. Fake cobwebs drooped from the ceiling, and someone was almost definitely trying to summon a ghost with soda and candy corn.

And yet, weirdly enough… I needed this.

I really did. The thrum of bass, the spin of bad lighting, the noise so thick it smothered thought—it drowned out the static building in the back of my head. For once, the world wasn't asking anything of me. I didn't have to chase answers, solve a mystery, or be the guy with the plan. I could just… be.

That feeling lasted about three minutes.

"Hey."

Dipper appeared beside me like he'd been conjured out of thin air. His costume was rumpled, mask pushed up over messy hair, and he wore that signature furrowed-brow look that meant something was off and he knew it.

He jerked his head toward the hallway. I followed him without a word.

We stopped behind the staircase, just out of view of the chaos. A zombie football player was trying to glue googly eyes to a microwave nearby, and someone upstairs had just screamed—unclear if from horror or karaoke.

Dipper crossed his arms. "You good?"

I blinked. "You always ask people that when they're having fun?"

"You're acting too normal," he said bluntly. "You've been smiling. Laughing. Dancing."

"Wow," I deadpanned. "Alert the press."

He didn't smile. "You don't do normal. Not when the sky's doing weird static pulses and McGucket's out here yelling about cursed stars. You felt that boom earlier, I for one cannot stop thinking about it and I know you know something's off."

I hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I felt it."

The amulet pulsed faintly in my pocket—quiet but undeniable. No words, just pressure. A weight reminding me that I wasn't off-duty, not really.

"I just wanted one night," I said quietly. "One night where I'm not the guy with all the answers. Not the one everyone looks to when something breaks. Just… one night to be at a party. With friends."

Dipper looked at me, really looked.

"You don't have to have all the answers," he said. "But don't ignore the questions."

I met his eyes. "I know."

A beat passed between us.

"You scared me, y'know," he added, voice lower now. "When you told me about this being a show. The dimension thing. I thought you were just messing with me—playing some long game. But you weren't. You were just... scared too."

I didn't respond. I didn't need to.

He kicked at a loose tile. "But now? I think I get it. Not all of it—not even close—but enough. I'm sure you had no idea how I'd take it." I looked up, and he gave me that classic Pines half-smirk. "You're from another universe and you're weird," he said, "but you're our kind of weird."

That one hit deeper than I expected.

I looked away, chewing the inside of my cheek.

"You say that," I muttered, "but you don't truly know what that means. What any of this means. How many times you've almost died. How the whole world almost ended."

Dipper's smile faltered.

I didn't want to snap. I didn't. But something sharp had been building under my ribs all night, and now it was crawling out.

"You just found out this place is a show, that your life was crafted for entertainment, and you bounce back like it's weird trivia. You make jokes, and you smirk, and you keep being Dipper because that's what everyone expects. But me?" I swallowed. "I live every second knowing that none of this was supposed to exist. That any second now the script could change, the world could fold, and you'd all just—just vanish. That I can lose you. All of you."

Dipper blinked. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out, then his jaw clenched. "So that's it? After the other night I thought we were past this, man. You just get to carry this alone? You tell me the truth and then act like I can't handle the rest of it?" His voice had lost the softness now. "We've fought gnomes, governement agents, cursed wax figures and giant goblins! I know we can handle what lies ahead. But you? You think I'd rather be protected than trusted?"

"That's not what I meant."

"But that's exactly what you're doing!" he snapped. "You think you're doing the noble thing by keeping all this cosmic horror crap to yourself, but all it does is shut me out. Again!"

My fists curled at my sides.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"And I don't want you to lie."

The party noise felt distant now—like we'd stepped into a bubble just outside of it all. I looked at him, really looked, and I saw something behind the frustration. Not anger. Not judgment.

Fear.

He was scared. Not of me, not even of the truth—but of what it meant for us. For the future.

"I don't have a manual for this, Dip," I said quietly. "I thought I did-' I pointed to his pocket that was housing the journal- "but with how everything keeps unravelling, I want to keep that memory of you alive, the kid I always wanted to be. The fact that I'm here when I'm not even supposed to has changed absolutely everything."

Dipper didn't speak for a long moment. Then he stepped closer.

"And how do you think I feel about you? I look up to you. Your bravery and determination in face of the impossible." I couldn't help but smile. "Above all though, there is a simple fact I think you're missing: You're here," he said. "And so am I. And if something's coming—something that's as dangerous as you claim—we face it together. You don't get to make that call for me."

I exhaled, my shoulders loosening. "Okay. Together."

He smiled and said, "Good. You've got till midnight." He gave me a light punch tot he side. "Then we go back to being the weirdos with a plan."

Imet his fist with mine. "Deal."

He turned to head back into the fray, slipping the mask down over his eyes like armor and headed to the kitchen to grab another rootbeer.

I stood there, letting the party swell around me again—heartbeat bass, synthetic fog, people laughing too loud.

Then—

"Dipper looked like he was giving you the full Pines interrogation," a voice said.

Wendy was leaning in the doorway now, drink in hand, posture casual. She hadn't made a sound coming over.

"You okay? You've had that thousand-yard stare going all night," she said. "Like you're waiting for something to fall out of the ceiling."

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing to happen here," I muttered.

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "True." She tilted her head. "So. Did he have the guts to tell me in the show? Y'know. About the crush?"

I blinked. "Wait—how did you—?"

"Dude," she said, "it's Dipper. I'm assuming that's why he's here to begin with: to try and impress me or something. He gets flustered every time I walk into a room. If the show's even slightly accurate, I figured he either confessed to me or died trying."

I smirked. "Yeah he catually almost did die trying."

Wendy sighed, smiling faintly. "Yeah. That tracks." There was no mockery in her voice. No teasing. Just… something like fondness.

"You almost did too during it," I added under my breath. "The only reason he said anything was because he thought you were seriously hurt."

Wendy's smile faded.

"You ever think," she asked, "if this whole thing's scripted… what does that make us? Like…" — she glanced away for a moment — "do I actually get to decide anything? Or is all of this just someone else's story I've been told to live?"

The question landed like a slow drop in a still lake. No deflection. No snark. Just Wendy, stripped of the usual armor, asking something real.

"I mean," she went on, "what happens when the show ends? When the credits roll?" She looked at me again, and her voice wasn't bitter—just hollow in a way I'd never heard from her. "Do we… stop?"

I couldn't find an answer.

She exhaled slowly. "I've been thinking about it since you told us. Like… all the times I've stood at that lookout spot near the lumber mill, just watching the trees. All the hours I've killed with Soos fixing weird crap around the Shack. Is that even real? Is everything I do, everything I think, predetermined. Was I supposed to be the unattainable girl? Was that always my role in the script?"

I finally found my voice. "You're not a script. You're not… a puppet. It's like… when a parent teaches their kid stuff, right? They pass on ideas, values, habits. But the kid still becomes their own person. The influence is real, but the choices? Those are theirs."

Wendy looked down at her boots, scuffed and just a little paint-streaked. I could tell she was still chewing it. She raised an eyebrow, skeptical but listening.

"In the same vein, you've been choosing your story the whole time, " I continued. "Sure, the pieces were given to you, but you were the one who put those pieces together to write your story."

Wendy was quiet for a long moment. Then, without warning, she stepped forward and leaned against the wall beside me. She didn't say anything else. Just stood there. We watched the light from the living room shift over the floor in lazy waves, the Rave Gourd's pulse now strobing like a heartbeat.

Then Wendy tilted her head toward me, a sideways glance and the ghost of a smile playing at her lips.

"Well," she said, "guess I better write something worth watching, huh?"

"Exactly. I've seen scripted, and this ain't that." I said, taking a deep breath. "My parents for example." Those words made the red head's gaze snap to mine. "I've watched their marriage deteriorate over the years." I scoffed closing my eyes, realizing I was saying way to much. I'm sure she didn't want ot hear about this right now. "Sorry, I didn't mean-"

Wendy set her hand on her shoulder. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but her touch was a lot softer than I had anticipated. I had looked up to her growing up as well, her stoic, down to earth nature are things you find in a rare amount of cases. But I knew she was safe to be vulnerable around.

"Matt," she started, still holding my gaze. "Tell me."

"Ever since I was eight I knew my parents were falling out of love with each other. I shouldn't say it like that — I wasn't certain — but… I knew…knew that their happiness was gone." I sighed. "Then, over the next eight years, I was proved right. They stopped taking the same car to places, stopped watching movies together, stopped going on dates, stopped sharing the same bed, talked behind each others backs. I don't even remember the last time they kissed."

Wendy remained silent, listening intently as the sounds of the party faded around us once more.

"The worst part? I know its for the best, that they really were not meant for one another, only staying together for the sake of me and my twin sister."

"How'd she take it?" Wendy finally asked.

"Much worse than me." I shook my head. "She had no Idea. It completely blind sided her and she locked herself in her room for a few days just trying to grapple with it all."

"Sorry to even ask this, but how long ago did they get divorced?"

A grim smile made its way to my face. "Oh, that's the thing, it hasn't happened yet. A month or two before I landed here was when they told me they were officially going to get divorced after we graduate. They said I couldn't tell anyone, not even my best friends, in order to keep that fake concept of their marriage churning for their image. Thats what I mean by scripted: they are waiting, pretending, acting like everything is fine until my sister and I graduate." My gaze lifted. "It's nothing I can't handle though." I felt her gaze burn into me, her emerald eyes full of worry. "I've been preparing for this reality for almost a decade now so…"

"But that doesn't mean it's not scary. Sure, you've handled threats from this world, but that's all physical threats and plain weirdness. What you're going through back home is an entirely different battle, and to be honest, it certainly seems harder than anything we've faced."

I nodded, slow and firm because she was right.

The things that chase you here? You can punch them. You can trap them in a salt circle or talk them into exploding with logic. But back home? There's no monster to fight. No spell to cast. Just long silences at the dinner table. Quiet sadness in the hall. A smile that doesn't reach your parents' eyes when they say everything's fine. That's the kind of threat that wears you down over years, not days. And there's no map for surviving it—no Journal 3 to flip through for answers.

But maybe… maybe that's why I'm here.

To take all the strength I learned in this strange, broken place and use it where it counts.

I looked up at her, and something solid clicked into place in my chest.

"And that's precisely my point: My world may be unraveling at the seams, but I'll do everything in my power to prevent your world from reaching the same fate." A genuine smile crossed my face now, playing each episode of Gravity Falls through my head at 100x speed, a reality that will never unfold for her. "Because you guys deserve it, deserve the chance to keep going, to see the light at the end of this uncertain tunnel. You, Dipper, Mabel, Stan, heck even Soos—for better or worse—were my role models for a long time." I took a deep breath. "So in a weird way, I guess that makes this world my home too. And I won't stop fighting for it, especially after you all helped me keep going through this tough time in my life… even if you never knew it."

Wendy pulled me into a silent embrace, a security I didn't know I needed until that moment.

"I know Dipper wants you to keep your head on straight, ready for whatever threat may arise," she began after we parted, "but tonight, you deserve to chill, to take a breather." She returned my warm smile. "I look up to you too, you know."

Her words broadened my smile, but it faltered for a moment. It dawned on me I had just broken my promise, to my parents, about not sharing what was happening at home. I clenched my fist, realizing something else. It was because I had kept my mouth shut and refused to explain my situation, Dipper lost his trust in me. He was right, after all. I had been pushing him away, hiding behind lies. And guess what? I think I thought it was ok to treat him that way because it was already what I was doing back home with the subject of my parents divorce, because I was following their choice. I had done it both scenarios because I didn't want to burden people with those respective situations in hopes to maybe even live through the illusion I painted for them. And yet, despite my wishes, what I told people was not reality. The lies were just that: lies. It was time to make my own choices.

"Now come on, Matt." The lumberjane gave me a firm slap on the shoulder, shaking me from my thoughts. "We're at a party, having a great time, and I believe the Rave Gourd in the living room is about to hit critical mass and we definitely don't wanna miss that."

She offered her hand and I took it, being pulled right back into the booming base and shouts of the house full of teens. The weight on my shoulders much lighter now that I realized I didn't need to bear it alone.

#

The bunker's control room was filled with static-laced noise—crackling comms, low hums of energy, and distant thumps from below. Preston Northwest stood at the observation window, gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin as he watched the experiment unfold. The testing chamber was no longer sterile. It had changed.

Gone were the pigs. Now it was human corpses—rows of them. Former soldiers, criminals, vagrants. Even a few exhumed under cover of darkness from the town's history-rich cemetery. Corpses suspended upright with thick steel clamps, hooked to wires, drip bags, and neural caps.

Beneath Preston, the meteor shard pulsed violently in its containment ring. The biometric readings flickered red.

Agent Powers leaned in, watching the brainwave feedback. "MK Ultra stimulus is engaged. Neural link pathways… initializing. Sir, the element's resonance is spiking again."

Preston didn't blink. "Let it spike."

Down below, electricity danced across the corpses' skulls. Their limbs jerked, mouths opening in dry gasps. Several of the scientists recoiled instinctively.

One of the bodies—a large man, chest still bearing a faded tattoo of an anchor—suddenly screamed.

The sound was wrong. It came from a throat that shouldn't have worked. No vocal cords had been reconnected. But it echoed all the same, warping through the speakers like a corrupted modem shriek.

"Readings are off the charts!" a tech cried. "They're… they're resisting the neural input—fighting it!"

"No," Preston whispered. "They're adapting."

Another corpse jolted, then stood bolt upright in its restraints.

Then another.

And another.

Dozens of cadavers locked into rigid posture, eyes snapping open—milky and glowing with the same sickly blue as the rock below. For a moment, everything was still. The machines fell silent. The energy stabilized.

"Neural cohesion achieved," a tech whispered. "We did it."

Powers allowed a breath of relief.

Then the lights cut out.

Every monitor blinked black. The emergency alarms chirped once, then fell dead.

Preston's expression didn't change. But the small, involuntary twitch of his jaw muscle betrayed the first hint of uncertainty.

"Reboot the systems," he ordered.

No one moved.

The observation glass went dark—until the backup lights kicked in, casting everything in dim, hellish red.

Below them, the corpses had broken free.

Every one of them.

Chains snapped. Vats shattered. Bio-locks melted into slag from a feedback pulse of the meteor's energy. The corpses were awake now—but not in a way anyone intended.

They moved with jerky precision, coordinated like soldiers.

No—like a hive.

Powers slammed his palm on the console. "Engage lockdown! Initiate purge protocol!"

A series of blasts echoed through the lower floors. Gunfire. Screams. The corridors erupted in chaos.

The corpses were moving room to room. Security teams tried to contain them, but bullets barely slowed them down, their caliber being too low. They didn't lurch like zombies—they charged, twisted and unflinching. They didn't devour—they overran.

"We're losing all lower levels!" another agent cried. "They're spreading too fast!"

Then the rock pulsed again—and the walls began to hum.

Preston stepped away from the glass.

"Can we shut off the meteor," he said.

"We can't," Powers snapped. "It's… doing this on its own."

Preston muttered under his breath with a smirk, "I suppose the real test has begun."

"We have to evac the site," Powers barked. "Now. Before this breaches containment and—"

The floor beneath them shook. Not from the reanimated—but from somewhere deeper.

The meteor's pulsing grew rapid. Frenzied.

Then—silence.

No gunfire. No alarms.

Just the soft sound of wind.

Preston turned, slowly.

The rock glowed brighter than ever, brighter than it had during any test.

And then—boom.

A pulse of energy, invisible but seismic, exploded from its core. Not violent, but awakening.

Somewhere far above, graves began to shift, causing the entire town to shiver as something beneath it stirred.

In the distance—on camera feeds not yet disabled—bodies in forgotten morgues twitched.

The meteor had reached critical mass.

A second powerful burst emitted from the rock shattering the walls and knocking out the power.

It didn't just revive the dead in the bunker.

It reached the dead throughout Gravity Falls.

The screens all flickered one last time—and then an error message appeared across every monitor in blood-red text:

PRIMARY CONTROL OVERRIDE LOST.

UNKNOWN SIGNAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED.

Preston stared at the message for a long moment.

Then he smiled.

Just a small, cruel thing.

"…Fascinating."

Behind him, Powers slammed the emergency button.

Too late.

The power was completely drained and doors burst open under the force of the undead.

#

The music from Robbie's house still thumped through the night, muffled by the dense woods that separated the raging party from the old cemetery. Strobe lights pulsed against the windows in rhythmic flashes—blue, green, red—like the house itself was beating in time with the bass. Laughter, shouting, and the occasional crash of overturned furniture bled out into the surrounding darkness.

But beyond the property line—where the tree line grew thick, and the grass gave way to old stone—the world grew quiet.

The cemetery lay in eerie stillness.

Its wrought-iron gate creaked softly in the wind, swaying on a hinge that hadn't been oiled in decades. A low fog rolled along the earth, unnatural in its density, crawling between headstones and curling around the bare roots that jutted from the ground like brittle fingers.

Two teens stumbled through it—half-daring, half-dumb.

"Bro, this is such a bad idea," one muttered, arms tucked into his hoodie, shoulders hunched against the cold. "We're gonna get murdered by the Blair Witch."

"Relax," his friend said, the plastic cup in his hand sloshing faintly. "What's better than hanging out in a cemetary during Summerween?

"Oh, I don't know," the other teen sarcastically exclaimed, "Maybe the rager party we just ditched to go do… whatever the heck we're doing."

"You can't get these vibes anywhere else, man."

"The vibes are graveyard fog and death, dude."

The bolder one grinned and tossed back another sip from his cup. "Exactly. Summerween bonus points."

They wandered deeper.

The noise of the party faded behind them, swallowed by the mist. Crickets had stopped chirping. The wind felt… different. Heavy. As if the air itself was pressing in, waiting.

The nervous one paused. "Do you… feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"I don't know. It's like the ground just… I dunno. Shifted."

His friend blinked. Then frowned. "Okay yeah. That was weird."

A subtle tremor passed beneath their feet—not enough to knock them over, but enough to make every bone in their bodies whisper, leave.

Then the fog thickened.

A low hum rippled through the soil—not a sound, exactly, but a vibration, felt in the teeth. The taller teen spun, glancing toward the cemetery's far end. "Bro… what is that?"

The nervous one's voice dropped. "I think we should go."

From somewhere out in the mist, came a crack.

Like splitting wood—or breaking bone.

And then… a hand.

Rotted, gray, tipped with cracked fingernails, it pushed up through the earth near an ancient headstone. Dirt spilled as the fingers clawed at the air.

Another hand emerged, not far behind it. Then a twisted shoulder. A sunken face.

"Dude, RUN!" the first teen shrieked, already bolting back the way they came.

The second didn't wait. They tore through the fog, hearts pounding, the chill air slicing through their lungs. Behind them, the soil churned like water, as more bodies began to rise—some slowly, groaning, others bursting from their graves in violent lunges.

The cemetery came alive.

What was buried no longer slept.

The teens didn't see the source. Didn't hear the meteor pulse below. Didn't know about the failed experiments or the signal broadcast through the dead.

But they saw the result.

As they vaulted the cemetery fence, one last glance behind showed a corpse staggering forward—eyes glowing faintly blue in the dark, jaw unhinged in a silent scream.

Back at the party, someone cheered as a couch caught fire.

No one noticed the graveyard gate swinging wide.

#

Multibear sat hunched near the outer rim of the Man Cave, hovering at the edge of conversation as the manotaurs bickered over the manliest meat to eat. The octo-headed bear had no desire to weigh in. He already knew his answer—beef—and he also knew it would earn him nothing but scorn and resentment from the others, sentiments he did not miss. Instead, he remained quiet, chewing on a strip of dried meat of uncertain origin while listening to the debate rage on.

His growing friendship with the manotaurs had been going well. They no longer cast him aside like an unmanly nuisance; instead, they frequently invite him from his reclusive cave to join them here, in the Man Cave—a massive cavern, illuminated by burning torches and glowing magma pools. The stone walls were lined with ancient weapons, and the air was filled with the mingling scents of charred meat, sweat, and earth. Multibear could do without the stench, but he had to admit—he liked being included.

That was, until Chutzpar noticed his aloofness and clapped a muscular hand against one of his shoulders.

"Have you been enjoying guys' night, friend Multibear?"

Multibear snorted, rolling his main set of eyes. "Every night appears to be a 'guy's night' around here, Chutzpar."

The manotaur bellowed with laughter, slapping him on the back with enough force to rattle his ribs. "I see you have caught on quickly!" His expression softened slightly, his mighty frame lowering closer to Multibear's level. "Once again, I am truly sorry for how we treated you in the past. You have made an excellent addition to our tribe."

Multibear hesitated, then let all eight mouths curl into toothy grins.

And then, of course, the ground began to shake.

At first, it was just a rumble, low and distant, like thunder rolling beneath the earth. Then came the crack—a sharp, splitting noise that shot through the cave, rattling the hanging weapons and sending dust cascading from the ceiling.

Chutzpar immediately stood. "That is not normal."

The manotaurs all turned toward the cave entrance, their argument forgotten. One by one, they lumbered forward, stepping out into the open night, their muscular forms silhouetted against the blood-red moon that hung too low in the sky.

Multibear followed, his sensitive ears twitching.

And then—

The earth split open.

It began in the valley below. Great, jagged cracks tore through the soil, ripping apart the dead trees, splitting stone and rock as if some unseen force had ripped through the land itself.

Then, from the depths of those cracks, came the hands.

Rotting. Clawing. Grasping.

Multibear's eight noses immediately recoiled from the stench—thick, cloying, putrid. The scent of death itself. The hands kept coming, breaking through the dirt and ash, pulling bodies up from the abyss. One by one, they rose. They were human, not what any of the manotaurs or multibears were expecting. They squinted, finding the human's eyes—or what remained of them—glowed a sickly, unnatural blue. His jaw hung slack, strands of decayed flesh hanging from his cheeks.

One of the manotaurs stepped forward, his massive axe glinting in the moonlight. "What in the MANLY BEARD OF STRENGTH is this?"

Another warrior, gripping a warhammer, scoffed. "Bah! Some weakling necromancer's parlor trick. I'll put 'em back where they belong."

Before Chutzpar could stop them, four manotaurs strode down the hill, weapons in hand, eager to test their strength.

The first swung his axe, cleaving through the nearest zombie's chest with enough force to shatter bone and armor alike. The undead staggered back from the force of the blow—

And then kept moving. The creature twisted on broken legs and lunged, teeth latching onto the manotaur's throat. The sound was wet and final.

"IT LIVES!" someone roared.

The other three manotaurs attacked instantly, roaring in rage—but more hands burst from the dirt, more glowing eyes flickered in the darkness, and soon the valley was filled with them.

swinging blades, shouting war cries—but more bodies were emerging. Dozens. A tide of dead flesh rising to meet them.

Chutzpar cursed, gripping his sword. "GET BACK! FALL BACK TO THE CAVE!"

The remaining manotaurs scrambled away from the horde, retreating up the mountain as the undead surged forward, moving faster now, driven by hunger.

Then—an explosion.

The peak across the valley erupted in a thunderclap of cracking stone and tumbling earth. A geyser of dust and shattered boulders burst skyward as the mountainside heaved, groaning like it had been wounded. The entrance to the Womantaur stronghold— the archway carved into the cliff face, guarded for generations—collapsed in on itself. Support pillars snapped like bones. Stone statues crumbled, their stoic faces swallowed in the chaos.

Multibear and Chutzpar whipped their heads toward the opposite peak, where the womantaurs' cave entrance had been, and from the rubble, a massive, hulking form emerged, bellowing fire into the night. Leaderaur, with his mighty fists slammed against the rocks, scattering debris as he forced his way down the mountainside, womantaurs on his heels, their weapons drawn.

His eyes locked onto the Man Cave, and his lip curled into a snarl.

Chutzpar grabbed Multibear by the shoulder, eyes wild. "You must go."

Multibear blinked all sixteen of his eyes. "What?!"

Chutzpar shoved him back. "Leaderaur hated you more than anyone—if he gets his hands on you, you're as good as dead."

Multibear growled, his many heads baring their teeth. "I will not leave you to fight alone!"

"You must!" Chutzpar roared, shaking him. "You must find Defender and Destructor! They will know what to do!"

The zombies swarmed the valley. Leaderaur descended the opposite peak, his dark fists ready to tear apart anything in his path. Multibear hesitated for only a second. Then, with a final glance at Chutzpar, he turned and ran. The valley of the dead trees stretched before him, the forest beyond barely visible. He only hoped he could reach the humans before it was too late.

#

The party was alive in that wild, unhinged way only Gravity Falls could pull off. Robbie's house had officially entered Maximum Chaos Mode—shoulder-to-shoulder teens in all manner of makeshift and over-the-top costumes spilled through every room, trailing glitter, faux blood, and the occasional prop weapon. The air was thick with the mingling scents of costume makeup, smoke from the backyard fire pit, and artificial fog rolling in heavy waves from an overworked machine someone had duct-taped in the corner. Bass-heavy Halloween remixes thumped through mismatched speakers stacked in the living room, shaking the old wooden floors like the whole building was dancing in protest.

The living room had surrendered itself entirely to the rhythm—an impromptu dance floor lit by flickering strobes and shifting shadows. Bodies moved in chaotic sync, costumes bouncing and colliding in a blur of plastic masks and tangled limbs. The kitchen had become a war zone of half-eaten candy bowls, open soda bottles, and the unmistakable stickiness of spilled fruit punch no one planned to clean. Out back, teens loitered around flickering jack-o'-melon lanterns and fire pits, swapping ghost stories and dares. Couples vanished into the tree line. And somewhere near the side fence, Nate and Lee were still flinging toilet paper into the branches, cheering every successful throw like Olympic gold medalists.

I leaned against the crooked wall near the living room entryway, a half-empty red cup in hand, the dubious fruit punch tasting vaguely like melted Jolly Ranchers and regret. A signature blend, no doubt. The floor thudded beneath my feet with every beat of the music, but I wasn't moving—just watching. Observing. Feeling lighter and letting the chaos exist around me for once instead of trying to control it. Across the room, Dipper hovered awkwardly by the snack table, his Iron Man gloves clasped too tightly around his cup. He was doing his best to look casual, but the way his eyes flicked nervously between the dance floor and Wendy made it obvious—this was a battlefield he wasn't trained for.

Wendy was off near the backyard fire pit, lounging with her usual crew. Her red Thor cape fluttered slightly in the night air, and every few minutes, I'd catch her throwing a glance my way—just long enough to make sure I hadn't slipped into full introvert shutdown mode after our conversation. She was laughing at something Thompson said, probably some joke he butchered but committed to anyway. For a moment, everything felt suspended—like I was in the eye of a social hurricane. Not exactly relaxed, but not drowning either. And despite the strange tension still clinging to the back of my neck like a spiderweb, I found myself thinking: Yeah. I was okay.

Then, without warning, the music cut out. One second, it was pounding through the speakers—some Halloween remix with enough bass to wake the dead—and the next, nothing. Just a jarring, sudden silence that sucked the breath out of the room. A few people shouted in confusion, others groaned like the party was ruined. Then, the lights followed. First the strobe, then the porch lights, then everything else. The house fell into complete darkness, except for the flickering shadows cast by jack-o'-melons and the fire pit outside. Someone in the kitchen dropped a bowl with a loud clatter, but soon after, the only sound after that was the crackle of flames and the confused muttering of teens trying to figure out what just happened.

A collective groan and confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. "The hell?" Robbie's voice cut through the dark. "Dude, did someone mess with the breaker?"

"Wasn't me, bro!" Lee called, running back inside, hiding his role of toilet paper behind his back.

Someone shouted, "Robbie, pay your electric bill!" and the room rippled with scattered laughter. But I didn't laugh. Not this time. My stomach knotted, and the amulet in my pocket grew heavy, almost burning against my skin like it agreed with my unease. There was still quite a while until midnight, and according to my deal with Dipper, I wasn't on the clock just yet. But then the voices got more frantic.

"Someone turn the music back on!"
"Yo, my phone's dead!"
"Mine too—what the heck?!"

I pushed off the wall, heart ticking up a notch as I scanned the room. Still, the only light came from the scattered jack-o'-melons—warm, flickering glows that danced along the walls, casting long, jittery shadows that made every movement look wrong. Distorted silhouettes stumbled through the dark, partygoers muttering in confusion, phones held up like talismans that no longer worked.

In the middle of it all, the only thing still glowing… was the Rave Gourd.

Its neon glowsticks cast long, swaying shadows across the walls. Its jagged, grinning face flickered in the dark like it knew something we didn't. Slowly, like moths drawn to the only source of light, the panicking partygoers turned to stare at it.

A girl in fairy wings dropped to her knees. "Rave Gourd… what do we do?"

Someone else held up their hands, voice trembling. "Please guide us, oh Pulsing Pumpkin!"

Lee, still holding a broken broom like a spear, pointed at it and said with great seriousness, "I think it's trying to communicate."

At that moment, a faulty glowstick tied to its side fizzed and sparked.

The entire room gasped and I slapped my hand on my head as the, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. That slow, crawling sense of wrongness slithered in—deep and instinctive. The kind that doesn't need logic to know something is very, very off. I didn't have a choice anymore—it was time for me to step up.

I should never have pushed this away.

BANG!

The front door slammed open with a violent crack, silencing half the room. Two teens burst inside, panting like they'd sprinted for miles, eyes wide and shell-shocked. For a heartbeat, they just stood there—silhouetted against the pitch-black night beyond—frozen in place, gasping, their clothes streaked with dirt.

"THE DEAD ARE COMING!" one of them screamed.

Silence rippled through the house like a snapped guitar string.

Someone toward the back laughed nervously. "Pfft, bro… what?"

But the bold one spun, grabbing the nearest guy by the shirtfront with shaking hands. "I'm not joking, man! The graves—they opened—they're crawling out!"

The second one, barely holding it together, shouted, "WE HAVE TO GO!" His voice cracked under the weight of full-blown panic. "We have to get out of here—now!"

That did it. Confusion gave way to unease. A ripple of voices followed:

"What the heck are they talking about?"
"Is this some… stunt or something?"
"Dude, they're messing with us—right?"

But it was in their eyes—the fear. That raw, unmistakable terror you can't fake. The kind that doesn't need proof. And then, somewhere outside, a deep, inhuman moan carried through the air. The breath caught in my throat, and Dipper tensed beside me. The room went deathly still.

Someone near the back let out a nervous laugh. "Good one, guys. Real funny."

The moan came again. This time, closer. I gritted my teeth.

Silence hung over the room like suffocating fog. Every person at the party was frozen in place, eyes flicking between the two panicked guys in the doorway and the pitch-black night beyond them. The jack-o'-melons illuminated the confused, uneasy faces of the crowd.

Then it came again.
Thrice is a pattern.

The thought struck like a whisper turned command. Once could be chance. Twice, a coincidence. But three times? Three was something else. Three meant the universe was no longer being subtle.

I had told myself I didn't want to be the one people looked to in a crisis. That I was tired. That, just for tonight, I wanted to blend in with the crowd. But that sentiment frayed at the edges now, hollow and unrealistic. Because it's hard to disappear when you're dressed like Captain America, when the shield strapped to your back makes you look like you're supposed to do something when the world tilts sideways.

I exhaled slowly, the breath searing in my lungs like it had been waiting to be used. The time for quiet had passed. The time to step back, to let others lead—it wasn't mine. Not anymore. Not when the air outside shifted, cold and charged, like the night itself was bracing for impact.

I moved forward, past the scattered clusters of partygoers frozen in place, faces painted with Halloween fun but etched now with something close to fear. Past the noise, past the music that had once felt comforting in its chaos. I reached the back deck, and there—beyond the jagged iron fence—I saw them.

Figures.

Stumbling. Shambling. Not just walking, but dragging themselves forward with a kind of grim inevitability.

The graveyard behind Robbie's house should have been still, silent. But it wasn't. The fog curling along the grass gave way to pale, broken forms. Limbs twisted wrong. Clothes torn and hanging like forgotten memories. Eyes glowing—not with light, but with something left behind. Faint blue halos floated in the sockets, and their faces held the unmistakable slackness of the dead who were no longer resting.

The graves were empty.

And suddenly, so was any illusion I'd held onto.

A chill ran through me—not fear exactly, but something deeper. Something final. Like a door closing softly behind me, and knowing there's no turning back.

I had wanted to rest. God, I deserved to rest. But there would be time for that later.

Right now, people were looking at me.

And I knew—I knew—what they needed.

Not a kid in a costume.

Not a bystander.

They needed someone to step forward.

So I did.

Because this night was no longer mine to relax into.

It was mine to protect.

"Okay," I said, steady but loud enough to cut through the static of rising murmurs. "Everyone needs to move. Now."

More voices rose in protest—confused, irritated. A few heads turned. Someone near the kitchen muttered, "Is this some kind of prank?"

I turned, planting myself in the middle of the room. "They're coming. The graveyard's empty. The dead are walking, and they're heading this way."

That did it. A shift in the air. Laughter cracked—but it was nervous now. A guy near the wall took a step toward the window, like he needed proof.

"Zombies?" scoffed a partygoer in a half-ripped werewolf mask. "Cool story. What's next? Vampires handing out Jell-O shots?"

Before I could shut him down, Dipper stepped in beside me. We shared a look, a silent apology for not handling this sooner. Yet, the glimmer in my eyes showed I was ready to take action, and the preeteen smiled.

Dipper's voice cut through the air, sharper than I'd heard all night. "Look around. The power's dead. Phones aren't working. We're cut isolated. Something's happening out there, and it's not some Summerween prank."

That got a few heads to turn and eyes to widen.

Then Wendy burst in from the backyard, her silhouette framed in the flickering orange glow of the jack-o'-melons. Smoke and distant cheers trailed behind her, but her focus was razor-sharp. She moved like someone who'd just seen something she couldn't unsee — eyes scanning the room, jaw tight, every inch of her on alert.

Our eyes met.

I didn't say a word. I didn't have to. Whatever hesitation had been in me earlier, whatever doubt had curled like smoke in the corners of my mind — it was gone. The fire was back. And it burned hot behind my eyes.

She saw it.

And for a split second, just the smallest one, I saw something flicker behind hers — not disbelief, not panic… but fear. Fear that maybe after our conversation I wouldn't be ready. That maybe I'd falter, fold even as the weight of both worlds fell upon me. Her fear of the guy who had answers would freeze now that it mattered most vanished when I gave her a firm nod, patting my pocket that now glowed with a faint crimson.

She nodded back, relief washing over her. In this moment, she needed me to be guy not necessarily with answers or even a plan, but the guy she looked up to. Not just for the town. For her.

She blinked — just once — and that flicker in her eyes turned to flame.

Her shoulders squared. Her breath steadied. Her stance shifted — not like she was bracing for impact, but like she was choosing to face it head-on. The spark she saw in me lit something in her too, like two flints striking together, a fitting metaphor for both us redheads.

Wendy turned to the crowd, her voice cutting through the music and chatter like a blade.

"He's right," she said, firm and clear. "I saw them. We all did. This isn't a joke."

Heads turned. Conversations stalled mid-word. Even the Rave Gourd, the thing that was the life of this party, seemed to dim slightly. Now the mood dropped like a stone. You could hear the beat of distant footsteps from outside, the rustle of movement in the brush. Something equally real and equally wrong.

They weren't ready for this. But ready or not, it had already started.

Then came the first scream, a girl in a witch costume near the back window. She had pressed her face to the glass, peering out into the night—only to see something looking back. The horde had reached the fence. Rotting hands grasped the iron bars, bodies pressed up against them. Dead eyes locked onto the house, drawn by the flickering light and the noise of the party. Their moans grew louder, blending together in a nightmarish chorus. Then the first of them began climbing.

That was all it took, and the party exploded in a panic. People tripped over furniture in their rush to get away, drinks were knocked over, and voices clashed in a rising panic. Some ran for the front door, others bolted up the stairs as if height would save them, and a few dove into the kitchen. Others found whatever room was unlocked, slamming the door behind them.

Figures—dozens of them now—were stumbling forward, dragging themselves over uneven ground. Torn clothes clung to their rotted, sagging flesh, their hollow, sunken eyes glowing blue with an unnatural light. Moans drifted through the cold night air, low and guttural, like something ancient and hungry. The music hadn't come back on, but it didn't matter now. Fear was louder.

Outside, the figures grew clearer—dozens of them, dragging their feet across the uneven ground. Their movements were jerky, unnatural. Torn costumes and faded clothing clung to their stiff bodies, skin pale and stretched. Blue light glimmered faintly from their hollow eyes, casting eerie shadows across the yard.

And all around them, the moans rose. Long and low. Not human. Not anymore.

"SCREW THIS, I'M OUT!" someone shouted.

Where others backed away, I stepped forward.

The panic was contagious—screams, slamming doors, people tripping over themselves in their rush to escape—but it didn't touch me. Not fully, at least. I didn't have the luxury to freeze. Not when people needed someone to move.

Wendy stood beside me now, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, her fists already balling up like she was ready to throw down with the undead. Dipper was right behind us, tense but steady, his breath shallow but his feet unmoving. They felt it too—that tug in your chest when everything in you says run, and you choose not to.

We were scared. Of course, we were.

But we didn't flinch.

I turned to the front door just in time to see people flooding outside, sprinting for their cars. Engines turned. Starters clicked. But none of them came to life. One by one, the headlights failed to flicker on. A guy dressed as a pirate slammed his hands against the wheel of his truck. "Oh, come on!" He turned the key again. "Come on!"

More frantic shouts followed as every single car in the driveway refused to start. Someone's battery made a pitiful attempt to whine before dying completely.

"Dude—what is happening?!"

"Phones are dead, cars are dead—nothing works!"

A guy in a prisoner outfit yanked open the hood of his Jeep and stared at the engine like he was expecting to see a problem. "This—this doesn't make sense! This thing was fine an hour ago!"

In the chaos, no one noticed how close they'd gotten. The horde was now at the edge of the yard, just beyond the flickering jack-o'-melons. Still moving slow, but steady—unrelenting. Shadows in the mist, groaning louder with each step, their glowing eyes like distant coals in a fog.

"Inside!" I yelled. "NOW!"

Most of the people outside didn't need to be told twice. Others, though, bolted for the road, darting toward the tree line and the distant silhouette of buildings. I couldn't tell if that was brave or stupid. Maybe both. Maybe neither would matter. The rest crashed back through the door in waves, stumbling over each other, gasping, faces pale and wide-eyed. Someone slammed the door, and another twisted the deadbolt with shaking fingers. It clicked into place like it actually meant something.

But I knew better. That lock wouldn't hold.

I turned to the room—to the people still frozen, still caught in that stunned, half-believing fog. "We have to board the house up. Block the doors, the windows—anything they can get through."

A few, clearly having watch a zombie film, scrambled into motion. The pushed furniture, yanked curtains down, pulled drawers out of cabinets just to stack them against windows. But some didn't move. Some just stared.

A guy near the back scoffed. "And who put you in charge?"

Before I could answer, Robbie, who I'd hardly seen all night stepped forward, eyes sharp with barely restrained fear. He jabbed a thumb toward me. "He's literally Captain America, dude!"

That shut the guy up. And more importantly, it got people moving.

The crowd had begun to shift, voices hushed, movements urgent. For a moment, it felt like momentum had finally turned in our favor.

I turned to Robbie.

"Hey—thanks for backing me up."

He didn't look at me. Just kept staring at the space where the guy had been standing, jaw tight.

"I mean it," I added, quieter. "You didn't-"

That's when he turned.

And his eyes were furious.

"Are you kidding me right now?" he snapped. "You think I said that because I wanted to back you up?"

I blinked, stunned. "I—what?"

"You think I trust you?" he hissed, stepping in close. "Dude, half of us don't even know who you are. But I know you're the only one in this whole friggin house that has any clue what's going on!" I ganced at Dipper and Wendy, both working together, managing and leading in this storm. "And you're still being sketch about it, and, of course something bizare happens everytime I so much as even look at you." He threw his arms in the air. "I am never letting you in my house again!"

I blinked, caught off guard. "Robbie, I didn't—"

"You knew something was coming. Don't lie. You knew." He jabbed a finger toward my chest. "You've been cryptic and dodgy since I met you. Always one step ahead, always hiding something. Go ahead, tell me I'm right."

I opened my mouth, breath shaky. "I didn't know this would happen."

He didn't flinch. "But you knew something was coming."

"…Yeah," I admitted. "I felt it. Something wrong. Like static in the air that wouldn't go away. But that's all I had. A gut feeling. No names, no dates, no monsters."

He shook his head. "And you didn't think maybe we deserved a heads-up?"

"I didn't have anything to give you," I said. "Just a creeping fear I couldn't explain. How do you warn people with that? How do you say, 'Hey, something terrible might happen eventually, but I don't know what or when or how' and not sound insane?"

Robbie's hands curled into fists at his sides. "You say it anyway! Because at least then we don't get blindsided."

That shut me up, because he wasn't wrong.

That word: blindside. I glanced at Wendy, and she gave me a sympathetic look. It was the same one I used to tell her about my sister's reaction to my parents announcing they were splitting up, and while it may not be the same situation, it was the same sentiment. I had seen the signs in both situations, and yet, in both situations I held my tongue. I wanted to move forward, to skip the hard part, but ignoring things doesn't erase the pain—it just delays it. I realize that now.

"I'm sorry," I said, voice low. "I didn't keep quiet to screw anyone over. I just didn't want to be the guy yelling fire when all I had was smoke, especially at your friggin party, dude."

He stared at me a moment, expression unreadable, yet he seemed to appreciate that last part.

Then he muttered, "Let's hope you're better at fighting fires than spotting them," and turned to rejoin the others.

During our confrontation, the room exploded into activity. Teens raced to barricade the house with chairs, stools, couch cushions, anything solid. Someone grabbed a broom and snapped it in half to use as wedges for the doors. Furniture scraped against the floors as people shoved chairs and tables against doors, desperate to make barricades. The kitchen had turned into an impromptu armory—knives, rolling pins, even a cast-iron pan had been pulled from drawers and wielded by shaking hands. Wendy tossed me a roll of duct tape like it was a grenade.

Realizing she was a familiar face, and appreciating the idea of her fellow teens arming themselves, the redhead took center stage. "Alright, listen up!" she barked, gripping her hatchet in both hands. "We need weapons. If it swings, stabs, or smashes, grab it!"

That snapped a few frozen people into action. More hands went for the kitchen drawers, ripping them open in a frenzy. Someone even tore the leg off an already-broken chair, swinging it in an experimental arc.

Nobody said it out loud, but I could feel it—terror buzzing beneath the surface like a live wire. And whether I liked it or not, they were looking to me now. The shield wasn't just part of the costume anymore.

I turned away from the chaos, my fingers closing around the warm weight in my pocket. The amulet. I pulled it free, staring at it for half a second. The deep red stone pulsed faintly, its intricate metalwork twisting in the dim light. Without hesitation, I grabbed my Captain America prop shield off my back and equipped it, amulet in hand. A jolt heated my palm.

I see you are trying to be iconic.

I tightened the fake shield. "Well, if I'm gonna get eaten by zombies, might as well do it in style."

The voice hummed in my head, almost like a laugh.

Very well.

The jolt came again, this time stronger. The energy pooled in my palm, connecting with the prop shield, becoming one with the piece of plastic. The amulet and the Captain America shield became one. It wasn't the real vibranium one by any means, just a cosmetic option enough to boost morale. The plastic began to glow with a familiar red hue, catching the attention of the nearby partygoers. My fingers tightened against the shield strap, drinking in their surprise. Murmurs started to break through the crowd at the sight of the glowing shield, runes appearing next to the white star. I felt like a hero, people moving out of my way as I stepped to the door. Wendy appeared by my side, twirling her hatchet in anticipation.

"I thought this was gonna be a night full of fun and laughs, not one of screams," Wendy said, glancing at me. "That we'd finally get a break."

I scoffed. "Tell me about it."

I tightened the straps around my forearm, heart hammering in my chest.

I've always been strong—strong enough, anyway. Taller than most guys my age, pretty decent upper body strength, years of soccer under my belt, and a new and surprising knack for golf that somehow landed me on the team back home. The coaches liked me. Said I had natural endurance, good instincts, an inspiring ability to push myself.

But this?

This wasn't conditioning drills or a last-minute sprint on the field. This was different. This was real.

And truth be told… I was tired. My ribs still ached from the Crawl Space. My legs were sore from our last escape through the forest. My arms had that deep muscle fatigue from holding too many people up for too long. I wasn't invincible. Just a high schooler playing hero in a world that didn't come with cheat codes or save points. I had no clue how many hits I could take before something gave out. No idea how long I could keep up this whole "heroic lead" thing before my body waved the white flag. But those thoughts of home—my real home—lit something deep in my chest. My house. My street. My old room. My world. Even if it was falling apart, it was still mine.

I shifted my stance, adjusting the shield. No time for doubt. Not now. Not when people looked at me like I had answers, like I could stop what was coming.

I wasn't just fighting for Gravity Falls.

I was fighting because if I didn't push through this—if I didn't throw everything I had at the wall right now, when I was at my weakest—then there was no shot in hell I was getting home. And if I ever wanted to see my family again, if I ever wanted to walk back into my real life or see the people I loved despite everything falling apart…

Then I had to survive.

Perseverance. That's what I was good at. What I possessed was grit. Raw, stubborn, unshakable grit.

And that?

That had to be enough.

Lee appeared at my side, gripping a metal bat like he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life. "This kind of stuff follows you everywhere, huh, Big Red?" he asked, offering a fist bump.

My chest tightened at the name. Big Red. It wasn't just a joke. That nickname carried weight—history. It was what my friends called me back home. On the field. In the locker room. In every dumb group chat and post-game diner run. It was mine.

And somehow, it found its way here.

I bumped his fist, and the amulet pulsed in my other hand, heat building in my palm—not just from its magic, but from something deeper. Recognition. Connection. Another thread tethering me to something real, something I could fight for. The shield hummed louder. The runes flared a little brighter. And I didn't feel like a visitor for the first time since this whole night spiraled into madness.

I felt like I belonged.

And I was ready to defend it.

I gave him a nervous smile. "You know it." I turned to face the crowd. "Ok, listen up." You could hear a pin drop. Even the groans outside faded into the background, like the world itself was holding its breath. I scanned the room—faces pale, knuckles white from gripping broken chair legs and lamp stands. These were teenagers in costumes, some still half-drunk on sugar or… not-sugar, pretending that this was just another party game. It wasn't.

I took a breath. The house creaked—timbers groaning under pressure. Someone whimpered near the back. Near the staircase, one of the front windows bent inward—just slightly—but enough to send a loud crack through the room. Everyone jumped. A girl near the snack table dropped the decorative skull she was holding as a weapon, and it rolled under the couch.

Someone else—maybe Lee—swore under his breath and kicked the coffee table toward the door. It thudded loudly into place, one last makeshift barricade to slow what seemed to be the inevitable.

"I won't lie to you; we don't have time to freeze. There are things outside that want in. And we're the only line between them and everyone in this house. They're zombies," I said, letting the word hang in the air like it wasn't insane. "Zombies. Actual, shambling, brainless monsters. Which, yeah, is terrifying, and I won't pretend it's not." A few partygoers glanced at each other, but they snapped back to me when I continued. "But you know what else they are?" I paused, just long enough to let a few people lean forward. "Stupid. They're stupid. No thoughts, no plan. Just claws and teeth." I tightened my grip on my shield, its glowing intensity growing. "We are teenagers, creatures that barely function on five hours of sleep on a good night and three brain cells, but that still puts us at least one tier above the undead on the intelligence scale. Probably two." That actually got a few chuckles, easing the tension as I held the beat.

"The only definitive way to kill a zombie is to shatter its skull with a perfect three part harmony, but unfortunately we don't have any power so we can't use the karaoke machine to create that frequency." People raised their eyebrows. "But you know what we do instead? We use the karaoke machine…to bash these suckers' heads in! Anything you can find will work, because, we don't have to outrun the zombies—we just have to aim for the head. And we can absolutely do that."

The room shifted. People straightened up. Grips on improvised weapons tightened, but this time it wasn't just fear—it was resolve. No one backed down, eyes set forward, causing me to smile.

"Now get your heads on straight and make sure you have something solid. Because they're coming—and we're not letting them take this house."

A few cheers broke out—tentative, streesed, but real. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Wendy clapped a hand against my back, her grin sharp and proud. "Atta boy, Cap."

Then a window shattered.

The first arm punched through the glass in the kitchen—long, rotted fingers reaching blindly, scraping at whatever they could find. Someone screamed. Then another window blew out, glass raining down like glitter at a rave.

And just like that, the house exploded into motion.

"Positions!" I shouted, raising the shield and charging for the hallway.

The crowd scattered—some to windows, others to doorways. People who'd been cowering five minutes ago now gripped broom handles, chair legs, and metal curtain rods. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't organized. But it just might work.

Wendy launched herself toward the kitchen, slamming the fridge into place in front of the broken window with Lee at her side. "Reinforce that side!" she barked, burying her hatchet in the skull of the first zombie that managed to crawl through the shards.

Thompson skidded across the hardwood with two space heaters clutched in both arms. "I have no idea what I'm doing!" he screamed.

From the other side of the living room, a guy in a Grim Reaper costume—his scythe long since snapped in half—brought the jagged pole down on a reanimated mailman's shoulder, pinning it against the wall. Two more partygoers jumped in, one swinging a mop, the other a full bag of Halloween candy.

"THIS IS FOR MY SNICKERS, YOU FREAK!"

I twisted around as another corpse clawed its way through the front bay window. Its jaw hung loose, eyes glowing like two dying stars. I bashed it back with the shield—hard. It crashed into the banister and cracked it in half, but didn't stop moving.

"On your left!" Wendy shouted. I ducked and let her axe sail clean over my shoulder, catching another zombie in the chest.

"Nice throw!"

"Nice duck!"

Glass shattered. Screams rang out. The house wasn't a safe haven—it was a war zone. A wild, pulsing one where every heartbeat felt like the bass drop of a horror movie rave.

Lee was spinning like a baseball demon, batting away one after another with the same rhythm he probably used at practice. "Heads up!" he yelled, literally knocking a corpse's head clean off.

Someone near the hallway tripped, and I lunged forward to grab them before a crawling corpse could get to their ankle. I yanked them back, then slammed the shield down on the zombie's wrist until it cracked like a branch underfoot.

"Thanks," the girl gasped.

"Don't thank me yet."

Because more were coming. Moans in stereo now. Hundreds of fists slamming against every weak spot of the house. And through it all—the firelight from the jack-o'-melons still flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. A reminder of the party this used to be and the war we were now in.

Another window caved in near the laundry room—this time not from a hand, but the full weight of a body hurled against it. The glass cracked, spiderwebbing just long enough for someone to shout, "They're coming in from the side!" A crash. The thing tumbled through, tangled in torn curtains and broken blinds, groaning as it hit the floor.

A girl in a Wonder Woman costume—her tiara tilted sideways—shrieked, then grabbed the nearest object she could find: a folding chair. With a wild swing, she brought it down on the zombie's head, once, twice, until it stopped moving.

"I DIDN'T EVEN SIGN UP FOR COMBAT P.E.!"

In the hallway, I spotted another group barricading the back door with a bookshelf and the remains of a ping-pong table. Nate, bleeding from a scrape on his forehead, gritted his teeth as he shoved a zombie's arm back out the crack of the door and slammed it shut again with his foot.

"I was supposed to be drunk tonight, not fighting for my life!" he yelled.

The air was thick—moist, cold, and filled with the scent of rot, sweat, and adrenaline. I couldn't hear myself think over the cacophony of shouts, moans, and frantic instructions. Somewhere in the chaos, a guy shouted, "USE THE FOAM SWORDS!" and the unmistakable squeak of a foam charge to push the monster away from a broken window followed. That went as well as you could expect. Luckily Dipper, observant as ever, surprised everyone by realizing the window wasn't broken but open, and slammed it down on the undead's wrists.

One teen—painted like a zombie ironically—was now screaming and hitting the actual undead with a mannequin leg. A dented popcorn bowl flew across the room like a frisbee and clocked a ghoul square in the temple. The crowd cheered like it was a touchdown.

I pressed my back to the wall, the shield vibrating in my grip from repeated impact. "Hold the line!" I called again, voice hoarse. "We hold the line or we lose everything!"

The amulet pulsed heat into my chest, as if affirming the words.

Somewhere near the kitchen, a teen with glowstick bracelets still clinging to one wrist grabbed the pulsing Rave Gourd off the counter like it was a live grenade. "I'm sorry, Rave Gourd!" they shouted, tears and laughter mixing in their voice as they hurled it through a window at an incoming zombie. The gourd exploded in a spectacular mess of pumpkin guts and neon green goo, splattering across the creature's face as it staggered back with a confused groan. A beat of silence—then wild cheers.

Wendy skidded into view, breathing hard, her hands stained with god-knows-what. "They're pushing for the door!"

"Got it!" I shouted, sprinting toward the commotion. The front entrance shook under the weight of the dead—splintering wood, cracking glass, the eerie rattle of bone and fingernail scraping against the house like claws on a chalkboard. Somewhere behind me, a lamp tipped over and shattered. The moans rose again, louder this time, crawling through the walls like smoke. My own breath came shallow.

The walls in question continued to rattle with the force of the horde outside. The pounding was relentless—fists, bodies, bone on wood, hammering like a war drum. The walls shook under the weight of it all, every strike sending tremors through the floor like aftershocks. The moans seeped through the cracks, echoing inside the house, a sound that made the air feel thicker with every breath.

I ran a hand through my hair, pushing it back into place. "There's so many of them."

Robbie, somewhere in the crowd, rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we can see that, Captain Obvious."

Then, screams echoed from outside.

I rushed to the nearest window, peeling back a loose board just enough to see out. The yard flickered with the light of the jack-o'-melons, their jagged faces warping in the shadows. And then—figures. Stumbling, sprinting. Not zombies. People.

I clenched the doorknob but didn't turn it. I wasn't a superhero. I didn't have a healing factor. If I went out there, I might not make it back. And yet—if I didn't? Those people would die. Alone, terrified, with this house just feet away.

The amulet pulsed once—low and steady. Not demanding. Not insistent. Just… reminding me who I was.

I'm ready when you are

I twisted the knob.

"Cover me!" I shouted over my shoulder.

"Dude, don't—!" Robbie started, but the door was open, and I was already outside. The stench of decay slammed into me, thick and rancid, but I pushed through it. I planted my feet at the threshold—shield raised, glowing red, a flare against the darkness.

"Keep running!" I shouted, voice sharp, cutting through the night.

A girl in a shredded cat costume barreled past me, one arm clutched to her ribs. Another guy stumbled after her, limping heavily, his face pale with exhaustion. Behind them, the undead poured over the fence—no longer limited to the graveyard. They were coming from the street now. From the alleys. From the shadows.

I stepped forward and caught a zombie across the chest with the shield. The runes flared, scorching it back with a pulse of red energy. Another lunged—I pivoted, slammed my weight forward, and knocked it flat into the dirt.

Wendy's hatchet whistled past me, splitting another skull. "We've got thirty seconds max!" she shouted.

Lee crashed in beside us, bat swinging wild. "Why do dead things move so freakin fast?!"

The last few stragglers from the group sprinted up the walkway. One tripped, screaming. I lunged, grabbed his collar, and hauled him upright just in time to swing my shield at another corpse reaching from the bushes.

"Go!" I barked. He bolted.

Wendy grabbed the door, bracing it. "Move, now!"

I spun, ducked another hand, then slammed my shoulder into the shield and barreled back through the doorway. Wendy yanked it closed and slid the lock into place just as three undead bodies hit the wood with a heavy thud.

We were in. The door was shut. But the pounding didn't stop. Inside, the room was deathly quiet—except for the thud-thud-thud of fists against the barricades. Every breath was loud. Every heartbeat deafening.

I glanced around at the returned partygoers, slumped and gasping against walls and furniture, their faces pale but alive. One of the survivors I had just pulled in—a guy in a torn vampire cape—looked at me with wide, frantic eyes.

"T-They're everywhere," he gasped. "The whole town—there's no way out!"

A cold chill ran through the room, but that didn't deter Dipper from standing on top of a table and grabbing my attention.

He flipped up his Iron Man mask. "Matt!"

I pushed through the crowd, heart still racing from the fight outside, the lingering adrenaline thrumming through my fingertips. Wendy and Lee flanked me like I was leading a charge, both of them bloodied, breathless, but locked in. The room parted just enough to let me through, and there was Dipper—standing by the fireplace, talking fast to Robbie, his face lit with that specific kind of wild, brilliant focus he got when he was holding onto an idea that might just be crazy enough to work.

I glanced out the boarded windows. "Any idea is a good idea right now, Dip." He smiled as I practically read his mind. "Lay whatever you got on me."

He and Robbie exchanged glances. "My parents got a car in the garage," the older teen stated. "We can cause a distraction with it, lead those corpses away from the house with the roar of its engine."

"Aren't all the cars dead?' Wendy asked.

"Yes," Dipper replied. "But we might have a way to start this one." He locked eyes with me, his voice steadier than I expected. "You've used the amulet for quite a while now—" my gaze flicked to the jewel in my palm, finding my reflection "— would you say its power is a sort of mystic energy? From what I've seen you do with it, my theory says it does."

I nodded, confirming it, already feeling the heat of it through my palm, like it was responding to the conversation.

"Okay," he said, lowering his voice slightly. "Then it's time for some more testing with it."

There was a beat of silence—one of those moments where the world feels like it's holding its breath. Around us, the barricaded house creaked, distant moans pressing at the edges of our safety. I could see the calculation in Dipper's eyes—this wasn't just a plan. It was our only shot. And he was hoping I could make it work. I was ready to try if it meant we had a chance, but I thought about this for a moment. I didn't like the idea of leaving a room full of terrified teens for 'research' purposes. As far as they were concerned, I literally was Captain America, and how would you feel if that guy bailed on you in a moment of crisis? Well, you'd probably feel a lot worse if Thor wasn't by your side.

I turned to Wendy. "You're in charge."

She saluted me after cleaning the remaining gunk from her blade. "You got it, Cap." I smiled and followed Robbie, who led us to the garage, a stark contrast to the chaos of the party room.

Where the living room had been filled with flickering jack-o'-melons, decorations, and panicked voices, the garage was silent. The dim light of the blood moon filtered through a single dust-covered window, barely illuminating the space. The air was thick with the scent of old motor oil, metal, and damp cardboard. A rusted tool chest sat against the far wall, its drawers half-open, filled with wrenches, screwdrivers, and other forgotten hardware. Stacks of old band posters and broken amps were shoved into a corner, relics from Robbie's failed attempts at launching his music career. A workbench stretched across one side, littered with loose bolts, tangled wires, and a car battery that looked like it hadn't been touched in years. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling beams, undisturbed. Unlike the party room, where people had screamed, run, and fought, the garage felt abandoned, like time had stopped here long before tonight.

But at least it was quiet.

Robbie Gestured to the center piece of the garage: a custom-painted, black, and gold 1969 Camaro, housing an engine that, as Robbie had put it, 'could tear through the night.'

My jaw went slack at the sight of it. "Now that is a beautiful piece of hardware."

"She sure is." Robbie nodded, leading me to the hood and popping it open. "My dad calls her the Dragula." Despite the grim circumstances, I couldn't help but grin at the name. Although it didn't look anything like the actual Dragula at all, the original being a car made out of a coffin, but the name certainly fit, given the owners of the vehicle. Robbie's parents were the keepers of the graveyard after all. "Yo, kid, hop in the seat and turn it over when I say to." Dipper did just that.

Sensing the plan, I removed the amulet from the plastic shield, held it over the battery, and asked, "Odds you think this'll work?"

"No idea," Robbie replied.

"Chances are pretty low, to be honest," Dipper chimed in, head barely peeking over the steering wheel.

They are right. It is unlikely.

I rolled my eyes. "Wow, thanks for the optimism guys." I set the amulet to the battery and sent a jolt of energy straight to the bushing.

"Now." At Robbie's word, Dipper twisted the key.

The engine sputtered—a sick, hollow sound like it was trying to breathe underwater—but didn't catch. The silence that followed was deafening.

We tried again. Same result. Just a cough, a grind, and nothing. Again. And again. My hand tightened on the amulet with each attempt, knuckles white from the effort of holding back panic. By the sixth try, I could feel the hope start to drain out of the room like someone had pulled the plug.

The Camaro sat there, gleaming, lifeless. A beautiful coffin.

My stomach turned. We needed this to work. There wasn't another option. And out there, people were counting on me—counting on us.

I peered into the amulet's glossy center, finding my own reflection. "We need more juice."

It'll hurt.

I glanced at the two boys beside me. Robbie, gripping the edge of the hood, trying to look composed but failing miserably—his eyes were wide, his jaw clenched, that sarcastic edge dulled by something more honest: fear. And Dipper… Dipper was trying so hard to be brave. You could see it in the way he held himself, small but determined, like he'd stuffed his fear down into some locked drawer so he could be useful.

I wasn't even sure if I could call Robbie a friend. We'd butted heads before, and there were still about a hundred reasons not to trust the guy completely—but that didn't matter now. Not when it was the three of us, shoved into this moment like characters in some apocalyptic stage play.

They were scared. Terrified. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't, too. My hands were sweating, my body ached from the earlier fight, and my mind kept trying to pretend this wasn't real. That I wasn't holding a glowing, magic artifact and trying to hotwire a muscle car while the undead tore through the town.

But pretending didn't help anyone.

The truth was, a house full of people were counting on me. Kids I'd barely talked to, most I didn't even know. But in that moment, they were mine. Their safety, their fear, their survival — it was all on me now. And I was ready to give everything I had to keep them standing.

But even that wasn't what pushed me over the edge.

What pushed me further was the Mystery Shack, my home away from home.

It wasn't just a weird tourist trap in the middle of the woods anymore — it was a memory I hadn't even earned, but somehow still belonged to. Every corner of that place was stitched into my heart like a patch on a jacket I didn't take off anymore. The attic where Mabel hung her string lights. The kitchen where Soos tried (and failed) to reheat microwavable burritos without triggering a smoke alarm. The porch where Grunkle Stan told the same recycled joke every night like it was a sacred ritual.

That place meant something to me.

Because when I was younger, and my world was fraying at the seams, even on the television screen, that shack — and the people inside it — were a reminder that weirdness didn't mean broken. That being strange didn't mean being alone. That being scared didn't mean you had to run.

They were the weird, stubborn, ridiculous family I used to watch from behind a screen.

And now they were real.

And now they were in danger.

And whether they knew it or not, they were waiting on me.

I didn't know what the Shack looked like right now. Maybe the power was out. Maybe the front door had been kicked in. Maybe Mabel was holed up in the attic with Waddles and a box of glitter glue, trying to keep her spirit up. Maybe Stan was digging out an old hunting rifle from under the floorboards. Maybe Soos was building something stupid but brilliant out of spare parts and duct tape.

Or maybe… they were surrounded.

Maybe they were scared.

And if there was even a chance of that being true—if even one of them was calling out into the dark, waiting for someone to answer—then that answer had to be me.

They'd given me the strength to keep going.

Now I was going to return the favor.

The amulet pulsed again—hotter this time, like it knew my mind had caught up to my resolve. I looked down at it, the way its glow danced across the rusted metal of the car's engine. The Shack was out there, somewhere past the fog, the panic, the roads filled with monsters. I didn't know what I'd find when I got there—but I had to try.

My voice tore through the silence, determination, and that familiar perseverance pooling not only in my chest, but my heart. "I'm getting this car started." The two defeated young men next to me looked at me incredulously but couldn't help but believe my words. I set my free arm on the chassis of the vehicle, steadying myself. "Once this thing starts, we drive it, drawing the horde away from the house, giving the people here a fighting chance. Then we make a break for the Mystery Shack, Stan Soos and Mabel are priority." I locked eyes with Dipper. "Once we get them, we figure out what the hell is going on."

"But Matt," Dipper began, "you can't generate enough juice."

I took a deep breath. "Yes. I can."

The amulet repeated itself.

It'll hurt.

I hesitated, my fingers twitching around the amulet, its warmth pulsing against my skin like a heartbeat that wasn't mine. My friends at the Shack could already be surrounded. Overrun. I pictured the zombies bursting through the front doors, tearing into everything familiar—tearing into them—and a sick wave of dread rose in my chest.

I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't.

I didn't want to think about it.

Or the pain I was about to feel.

"I'm ready," I whispered, gritting my teeth.

With absolutely zero warning, energy surged through my arm like a lightning bolt made of fire. It didn't just hurt—it invaded every nerve, igniting them one by one as if my body was being rewritten from the inside out. The current raced down to my palm, gathering in the amulet with a heat so intense it felt like it might sear through my skin. I clenched my teeth, but a strangled yell still tore out of me, raw and involuntary. My knees buckled, muscles locking in place as if the energy was siphoning something more than just strength—like it was siphoning my vitality.

Robbie flinched at the sound, half-reaching toward me before stopping himself. Dipper's eyes were wide behind his mask, and even he couldn't hide the fear in his face. But there wasn't time to explain. No time to reassure them. The pain was too sharp, the moment too fragile.

And it wasn't stopping.

Not until I made it count.

Now!

I echoed the amulet's words through gritted teeth. "NOW!"

A blinding pulse of red light exploded from my hand, lighting up the garage like a camera flash mid-nightmare. Dipper twisted the key, and this time, the engine roared to life with a guttural growl that made the floor shudder. The Camaro came alive, all chrome and fury.

I staggered, my legs giving out beneath the weight of the pain still crackling up my arm—but Robbie caught me, gripping my shoulder and keeping me upright.

"Thanks," I panted, lungs on fire. I tried to suck in air fast enough to settle the searing ache in my muscles, but it felt like trying to calm a storm by breathing.

Robbie gave me a small nod, closing the hood with a clean slam. His hand lingered on my shoulder a second longer, steadier than I expected, quieter than he'd ever admit. "Don't mention it," he said, voice low.

Then he turned and grabbed a worn metal bat from the corner of the garage, the grip taped and split in places from use. He tested the weight, gave it a twirl, then looked at me like this was just another Wednesday night.

"Hold on—wait." I straightened to my full height, still shaky, but steadier now. "You're coming with me?"

Robbie paused, eyes locking with mine. For once, no sarcasm, no attitude—just silence. His gaze flicked between me and Dipper, reading something in me I hadn't said out loud. Then he took a step forward, just shy of eye level, his voice steadier than I'd ever heard it.

"Look, I know we don't hang out. You think I'm some emo burnout who gets his kicks heckling Dipper." He lifted the bat slightly. "But there's one thing you should know about me, especially tonight." What stood before me wasn't a moody teen—it was a guy who had just found his line in the sand, and he was ready to draw it. "Despite what you might think, I take my responsibilities seriously," he said. "And right now, there are a hundred terrified people in my house. People I invited to have a nice time. And maybe I didn't cause any of this, but they're my people tonight. That makes them my responsibility."

He pointed toward the door that led back into the house—back to the barricaded, shaking room where the last slivers of calm were cracking. "So yeah. If being a good host means doing something unbelievably stupid—like launching into a zombie infested town in my parents' prized freaking Camaro—then that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

He twirled the bat once more and gripped it tight, eyes burning with new resolve. I couldn't help it. I smiled. Not just because he was matching my determination, but because in that moment, it was the most honest either of us had ever been. I dappped him up and nodded.

Before I could say anything else, Dipper hopped down from the driver's seat and marched toward us with that determined, stubborn tilt to his chin that always meant trouble.

"I'm coming with you."

"Nope," I said, cutting him off instantly, before the words had even fully cleared his mouth. "Absolutely not. Not happening."

"But—!"

"Dipper." I turned to face him fully. "We're about to drive into a town crawling with zombies. In a vintage Camaro. With two teenage idiots who don't even have licenses."

"Hey!" Robbie piped up from the other side of the garage, hand raised. I do have a license." I found it amusing that he only corrected me on the license and not the idiocy comment, so I ignored him.

Dipper crossed his arms, that vein of fierce Mabel-like stubbornness flaring. "Oh, and what, it's less crazy to leave me here in a boarded-up house full of strangers while zombies pound on the door? Real safe plan, Cap."

His words stung. A little because he had a point. But mostly because I hated the thought of leaving him behind.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck before crouching down in front of him. "I get it, man. I really do. But this isn't some gnomes trying to marry your sister. This is different. These are real zombies—teeth, claws, rot and all—ready to tear into you and make you one of them."

Dipper flinched, just slightly.

I didn't sugarcoat it.

"And right now, you have the chance to do something smart. To stay put. To stay safe. Instead of running headfirst into something you're not ready for. That's not cowardice—that's survival. And we need survivors right now."

Dipper blinked up at me, shoulders tense. He wanted to argue. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. I placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and firm.

"Listen. You're the smartest guy in the room nine times out of ten. And right now, your brain is what this house needs. You and Wendy—you're the best shot these people have at surviving if something happens. If there's a calm in the storm, use the black light I gave you, everything on the zombie entry and if we don't make it back…"

"Don't say that."

"If we don't," I repeated softly, "you'll hold the line. You always do."

He hesitated, then threw his arms around me in a tight, sudden hug. I returned it just as hard. When he finally pulled back, I reached up and pushed his Iron Man mask back down over his face.

"Now go help Thor," I said, trying to sound confident. "She's gonna need some of that Iron Man brain power."

Dipper gave a single, determined nod. "Sure thing… Captain America."

Robbie climbed into the driver's seat with a sarcastic little salute. "Alright, alright, can we wrap up the superhero team-up moment? We're about to do something real stupid, and I'd like to do it before the garage fills with more fumes."

I stood and patted Dipper once on the back as he headed toward the house. I watched him go—watched the way he squared his shoulders, spine straight, chin up. For a second, he didn't look like a kid anymore.

Then I turned, wrapped my fingers around the garage handle, and remembered—no power.

With a breath, I hauled the door upward. It groaned, metal straining—

—and revealed a horde of zombies.

I practically dove into the passenger seat.

"Go!" I shouted.

Robbie didn't hesitate. His foot hit the gas, and the '69 Camaro screamed out of the garage, its engine roaring like it had been waiting for this very moment. Tires shrieked, rubber peeled off in chunks as we fishtailed out of the driveway and slammed onto the open road. The horde reacted immediately. Heads turned in eerie unison. Blue-glowing eyes snapped toward us, skeletal hands clawing at the air like they were trying to drag the noise back down into the grave with them. Their pace quickened—not a full sprint, but faster than it should have been. Faster than anything dead had the right to be.

"GUN IT!" I yelled.

Robbie was already pressing harder. The Camaro surged forward, tearing down the street like a rocket out of hell. Wind ripped through my hair. Jack-o'-melons blurred past, their orange grins twisted in the shadows. Every porch we passed flickered with candlelight—nothing else. The whole town was still a blackout.

I clutched my still-throbbing arm, the aftershock of the amulet's energy burning through every nerve. Every inhale scraped like fire through my lungs.

"You good?" Robbie called over the engine.

"Been better," I managed, flexing my fingers. "But I'll live."

He glanced at me. Smirked. "Then you'll like this for the vibes."

He twisted a knob on the console. For a second, nothing.

Then—

"Dead, I am the one

exterminating Son

Slipping through the trees

Strangling the breeze"

The bass dropped like a hammer.

Dragula exploded from the speakers, Rob Zombie's growl shredding through the night. The perfect song.

"Dead, I am the sky

watching angels cry
While they slowly turn

Conwueing the worm"

I laughed—short, breathless, and real—as the chorus hit. The Camaro tore through the dark like it had something to prove.

"Dig through the witches and burn through the witches

I slam in the back of my Dragula

Dig through the witches and burn through the witches

I slam in the back of my Dragula"

"Oh, hell yeah," I grinned, gripping the edge of the door.

Robbie barked a laugh of his own. "Didn't take you for a Rob Zombie guy."

"Dude, are you kidding?" I shot him a look. "This song rules."

He nodded. "Alright. Maybe you're not so bad."

"High praise," I chuckled, leaning my head back for just a second—long enough to catch the blood moon high above, bathing Gravity Falls in crimson.

The Camaro thundered past dark storefronts and overturned garbage cans, past mailboxes split in half and parked cars left with doors wide open. Shapes shifted in the shadows. More of the dead were emerging—staggering out of alleyways, crawling up from storm drains, peeling themselves off porch steps like they'd been sleeping there for decades.

They weren't coming from just one place anymore. They were everywhere.

I gripped the shield tighter, its familiar weight anchoring me.

"Hang on, guys," I whispered.

The amulet pulsed against my chest.

We're coming.

A/N

Rememeber: Three letters back

Qeb pbzlka exic lc qefp zexmqbo tfii yb mlpqba kbuq tbbh, xka fq tfii yb qeb bka lc pbxplk lkb. Fc vlr zlriak'q qbii xiobxav, tb xob jlsfkd ql axohbo qebjbp. X ilkdbo X/K tfii yb xq qeb bka lc qeb kbuq zexmqbo. Qexkh vlr xdxfk clo bsbovqefkd, xka F'ii pbb vlr drvp qebk!