I turned away from the clearing, brushing a bit of pine fuzz off my arm. The leaf blower was still on my back, tip on my right side.
I stepped back onto the main trail, retracing my path toward the edge of the forest. My boots crunched across damp needles and old gravel as I walked. The forest here was different in the late afternoon. More shadows, shadows that stretched in the sun. The kind that leaned in way too close when your back was turned.
I reached the first trail marker. An arrow with a gnome-sized dent in it, and kept going. Left fork went towards the Shack. Right fork toward town.
Time to explore a bit gotta get a lay of the land before I start my Epic journey. Still gotta be fast before Stan gets suspicious.
I walked and the trail narrowed as it wound downhill, pebbles skittering underfoot. Somewhere off to the left, a raven screamed like it had just remembered taxes existed.
I didn't look back.
The woods opened gradually, and the town emerged. not all at once, First came the tops of buildings, then signs, then the smell. That weird blend of maple, gasoline, and whatever the heck Old Man McGucket used as shampoo.
I finally hit the gravel edge of Main Street just as a pair of twins ran past me, chasing a raccoon with a popsicle in its mouth. Normal town stuff.
I rearranged the position of the leaf blower and headed toward civilization. Or whatever passed for it in Gravity Falls.
Greasy's Diner squatted on the corner and was the first recognizable shop I was met with. The windows were foggy, and one of them had a handprint on it. I don't think it was human.
I pushed the door open with my shoulder and a tiny bell jingled overhead.
Inside, the diner was exactly how I remembered it from a thousand paused frames of the show, greasy booths, a jukebox that leaked light radiation, and Lazy Susan behind the counter, picking something out of a coffee filter.
She looked up, blinked, and smiled like she was only 40% sure I was real.
"Well hello, if it isn't mr. leaf warrior."
I froze mid-step. "Uh… what?"
She pointed at my back. "You been terrorizing lawn pests or fanning yourself for the summer?"
"Ahh nothing like that ma'am just in the woods," I said. "Fighting gnomes."
Lazy Susan squinted one eye like I'd just ordered off the menu.
"They're real, trust. Could I get a cup of that?"
She didn't answer. She just slid a chipped mug toward me and filled it with something hot and probably legal.
"Here," she said. "You look like someone who's l
I took the drink. It smelled like cinnamon, and of course diner-grade caffeine.
"Thanks."
She leaned on the counter. "So what brings you into town, vacuum boy?"
I took a sip and immediately regretted it. "Looking for info. Something specific. Mushroom."
I wasn't really but it couldn't hurt to ask.
She looked thoughtful for a second, "Your gonna have to narrow it down. We got the mind control kind, the mood enhancer kind, the kind that makes you speak fluent raccoon—"
"Glows purple. Boosts cognition. Might be mildly glittery."
She raised an eyebrow, leaned in closer, and whispered, "You didn't hear it from me, but check the alley. The raccoons are psychic. Look for the silver trashcan lid."
"Uh appreciate it." I responded rubbing my hat.
"Here's a tip" I said flipping a squatter her direction and heading out. She waved goodbye and I smiled seeing my thievery going off without a hitch.
Back on the street, I passed a guy arguing with a parking meter, a dog wearing a raincoat, and a kid licking a popsicle shaped like the mayor's face.
Normal. Yeah totally.
---
I crossed the road and ducked down a side path, half-shielding my face from the sunset. The shadows stretched even longer now, like they were pointing fingers. Time was catching up.
I kept walking.
Old Man McGucket's place was a good fifteen-minute hike from town if you didn't mind stepping over rusted-out car parts and their sharp ends and the occasional patch of manure The air was quieter here. Like it was holding its breath from the stench
I passed a rusted-out wagon full of glass bottles, a clothesline strung with nothing but socks and one suspiciously blowing, almost sentient pair of overalls, and a tipped over radio that still mumbled static.
McGucket's junkyard came into view a moment later, a mess, still fenced in by scrap metal and busted signs that warned "DON'T THINK TOO LOUD" and "DEFENSE GEESE IN TESTING."
The gate creaked as I pushed it open. I saw a small metal shack covered by a torn yellowish white cloth.
"McGucket?" I called out.
Nothing.
The place was deserted. Not in the peaceful way either. In the, something was mid-explosion and then stopped suddenly kind of way.
I stepped around a pile of broken drones, ducked under a satellite dish bigger than a trampoline, and approached the main shack. A weird buzzing was coming from inside—soft like a dying modern.
I knocked on the sheet metal. "McGucket? You in there old man?"
Still no answer.
I pushed the cloth aside.
Inside, the light lamps were flickering low. Tools and gears were scattered everywhere—half assembled contraptions, schematics pinned to the walls like paranoid art. There was a mug still steaming on the workbench, and one of his boots with a hole lay overturned near the stairs.
But no McGucket.
I stepped inside carefully, shoes thudding against the creaky wood. "Hello?"
Still nothing.
I walked around, scanning the walls, looking for clues. One of the blueprints caught my eye—labeled "MENTAL SAFETY BUBBLE v3.9." It looked half finished, but it had McGucket's scrawl all over it: *"DON'T ACTIVATE DURING PLANETARY ALIGNMENT!!"* written three times in red ink.
"That's... comforting," I muttered.
I grabbed a flashlight off the bench, just in case, and checked the "hidden" door.
Also unlocked.
Aand also empty.
Something about the quiet here didn't feel right. The whole shack had the tension of a paused game during an eye framed attack.
I exhaled slowly and stepped back outside. The forest was humming. Distant crickets. The low groan of branches. Somewhere off to the east, a bird cackled as if it was the crack of dawn.
I turned to leave, and that's when the sky hit me in the face.
Not literally. But enough.
The sun had dropped halfway past the treetops, drenching everything in that violent orange glow that showed no screamed.
"You are officially screwed."
I froze.
"Oh no."
I spun, started booking it back toward the trail. My shoes hit the dirt hard, leaf blower clunking against my spine with every step.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon—"
I dodged a bush, nearly tripped over a gnome skull, slid under a hanging net of windchimes made from broken Walkmans. The path twisted the way it always did.
There was the fork and I took a sharp right to the other side.
By the time I reached the ridge, I could see the Shack again. Just barely.
More importantly, I could see him.
Stan Pines.
Arms crossed. Silhouette no longer stretched but gone by the darkened sky against the sunset like a cranky.
I stopped dead at the edge of the trees, sucking wind, hands on my knees.
He hadn't yelled yet.
Which meant it was about to be worse.
I stood up slowly, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my sleeve.
The leaf blower wined as my sweat hit it behind me like a guilty dog.
I looked toward the last streaks of sun dragging themselves behind the horizon.
And I knew.
I was toast.
Burnt. Toasted. Scrambled. Grounded in like four different dimensions.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Then sighed.
"…Yep. I'm dead."