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Description
One cause can have multiple effects, all seemingly unrelated. One pebble in a pond can produce thousands of tipples.
But every effect can be forestalled or stopped by a different cause. Like a ripple striking against some obstacle before it can reach the edge of the pond—before it can touch (and therefore change) some specific thing beyond that obstacle in however subtle a way. That was the tricky thing about the metaphorical pond of reality: the further out a ripple went, the more likely an obstacle would arise . . . The more likely an obstacle would deliberately resist the ripple.
Or make its own ripples, apparently . . .
How had he been able to do that? He should not have been able to do that. Where three could have been taken at once—and one of them, that one of them, a feast—he had stopped even himself from being taken. He had called upon his own agents. and he had empowered them to stop the taking. How? He should not have been able to do that. He was just another morsel of a mortal . . . just another portion in a person . . . and great spirits did not reside in mere scraps of sentience.
So how?
How?!
HOW?!
He had made his own pulse of energy . . .
He had released his own driving thought to act upon the world . . .
He had created his own cause behind effects . . .
He had cast his own metaphorical pebble into the metaphorical pond of reality . . .
How? He should not have been able to do that.
. . . It did not matter. He had only forestalled his fate, and the fate of the other two, for a cycle. He could not hope to do so a second time. He did not have the power or the experience to escape again. He had not been doing this since technically longer than forever.
. . . And he would have no more of his own agents to call upon and empower—if such could even be called “empowering”, when four of his agents combined could barely forestall the one. Yes, he would soon be taken, and the taking would be particularly sating. Perhaps . . . he could even be turned into a second agent for more takings?
. . . He had proven himself an obstacle, perhaps, but obstacles can be removed.
. . . Obstacles can be eroded away by the right ripples.
It was time to make the first one.
On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.
****
It was early in the morning for a Saturday (by most people’s reckoning), but yoga instructors are not most people. Nor do they deal with most people, but with a very health conscious demographic—the kind of people who would willingly get up early on a Saturday for a workout before everything else; this is why the yoga instructor (perhaps somewhat less enlightenedly than he did most things . . . perhaps because he had not yet had his enlightening blend of vegan chai tea) was up and fumbling with his keys outside of You Go Yoga before seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.
That flier is out-of-date.
His unibrow furrowed, and he took a closer look at the fliers he always willingly allowed to hang around the logo in his window. The one for the Chinese circus in Portland was still good—that was a month off . . . The poetry-reading and book-signing in Eugene was still a week away—also still good . . . But the final one—the one for some sort of dance extravaganza in Salem—had come to term; the event was scheduled for that very night.
“Hmm . . . Well, all my patronesses (plus Patrick) must already know about that, or must already have plans for tonight . . . I suppose I can get rid of that one . . .”
Once inside, he tore it down. But then it slipped out of his fingers and, caught by a backdraft from the closing door, was sucked outside. Before he could step back out and snag it, a stray gust of wind wafted it up and away down the street.
“That . . . was odd,” the yoga instructor mused aloud. “It wasn’t windy earlier . . . But oh well; since it was made of recycled, biodegradables, it might as well decompose in the woods as the dump. Time for my chai tea and some tai-chi to warm-up.”
Meanwhile, the sheet of paper rolled and flapped its way along the sidewalk for a few blocks. One particularly hard gust sent it twirling higher than mere ground-level, like a leaf soaring on the wind. At least until it slapped against a door—right over the brass #2 affixed just above a peep hole.
On the knob of that door hung a sign emblazoned with the words “Do Not Disturb” and the logo of the Hotel Lodge.
****
They lay on the mattresses together. On the single bed. All four of them lay on the bed together. Though Norman’s eyes were closed, he knew all four of them were there. Mabel on the farthest side. Next to her, Dipper. Beside him, Norman himself. And then Neil.
But they were not the only ones in the room.
Slowly, Norman opened his eyes and sat up. Fog encircled them. Cold and damp and lonely. But on the bed, they were warm and dry and together. Under the sunbrella, the fog could not reach them. Norman smiled. “We are safe here. Me and my three friends are safe.”
{Are you?}
Norman looked back away from his friends. Through the fog—from Amity Park and Ashland, from Endsville and Cityburgh, from Whispering Rock and . . . from Gravity Falls—they came. Their faces like swirling mist materializing, their hands like spectral wraiths coalescing. The children. The victims.
“We are safe. Come get on with us. There’s room.”
{We cannot. We have already been taken. And you three will be taken next.}
“There . . . are f-four of us?”
{Are there?}
Norman looked to one side. Dipper and Mabel were still there, still sound asleep. Relief.
Norman looked to the other side. Neil was gone. The space where he had been was gone. Neil had never been there . . . Sorrow . . . Pain . . . Loneliness . . .
LONELINESS
There it was. Behind the ring of wraith-children. The rumpled black suit. Circling around them. The reaching hands, cold as the KGB. Watching them. The featureless skin, white as the Grim Reaper. Standing taller than could be possible. The gaunt body, emaciated as a wendigo. Coming now for them. The unknown intentions, mysterious as an alien. Focused entirely on them. The unstoppable determination, remorseless as a government agent.
There it was. The Slender Man.
As one, the wraith-children all held up phones with the exact same text message on the screens. < help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ >
Norman nodded once. He understood that part. At last. “Help. Tall man, no face. Come get me. Help please. Help me . . . Screaming emoji.”
{Yes. You finally see what you have already seen.}
“From my v-vision at Fantastic Scholastic. From that . . . that door. The #13.”
{Yes. You finally know what you have already known.}
“So who is it—the Slender Man—or what is it?”
From Amity Park, {An early grave. The what behind the who.}
From Ashland, {A secret prison. The what behind the who.}
From Endsville, {An endless hunger. The what behind the who.}
From Cityburgh, {A fearful emptiness. The what behind the who.}
From Whispering Rock, {A deathly isolation. The what behind the who.}
From Gravity Falls, {A gaping loneliness. The what behind the who.}
And then, rising up above the kids, came four ghosts—four familiar but lost souls—who wailed, {A Cursed Door! The what behind the who!}
“Guys! Detoby! I’ll find you—we’ll find you!”
The ghosts all pointed behind him. The children pointed with them. {We are there.}
Norman spun around to see a doorway in the fog creeping slowly open. Darkness was behind it. Utter darkness, blacker than night or despair or anything. And the Slender Man came to a stop before it. Stood between them all and the darkness within the Cursed Door.
Norman grasped the shaft of the sunbrella for support. Made himself look at the faceless blank. Made himself not turn away from the stretch beneath it, like a second face pushing outward. Shrieking, but silently. Norman steeled himself and asked, “Who are you? Who are you r-really?”
No answer. But it reached its impossibly long arm forward, over the children.
“Who w-were you in life? You were a p-person, right? But you’re a ghost now—a p-poltergeist. Let me help you move on. I want to help you be free.”
It seemed it couldn’t reach the kids. Couldn’t reach beneath the sunbrella. So it grabbed the top and began to shake it.
“H-hey! Stop! Why are you doing that?!”
LONELINESS
“What do you want?!”
TAKE AWAY
The sunbrella started to come loose.
FOREVER
“Please! St-stop! Listen to me!”
The sunbrella toppled to the side, and the fog and the cold washed over Norman. In an instant, the Slender Man seized him and cast him into the Cursed Door.
Norman jolted awake with a shiver.
He will not listen to you.
Norman looked around in a panic . . . but there was no Slender Man. And the only doors were the doors to the closet and out of the room.
He will take you. He will bring you to me. And there is nothing you can do to—
Norman looked down and realized that Dipper’s arm was draped over his waist. Somehow, while sleeping, Dipper had rolled over right next to Norman and thrown his arm over him. They had been sleeping like that for . . . for hours, maybe.
That thought was more than enough to warm the taller boy—right from the tips of his toes to the tips of his vertical spikes of hair. Maybe even make him a little too warm; he could definitely feel that he was blushing. But at the same time, no, he was definitely okay with being too warm if it meant being like this. This was definitely okay. Optimal, even. It could not get any better than this.
And that thought was more than enough to banish any nightmares or lingering insecurities. How could any bad thought insinuate itself into his mind with that already occupying it?
After checking that both the twins—especially Dipper—were both still soundly asleep, Norman carefully slid back under the covers . . . and under Dipper’s arm. A better protection than fortifications or armor. More apotropaic than any magic talisman ever crafted by man or spirits. Then he sidled up closer to Dipper, until there was no space between their bodies.
Suddenly, Dipper moved. Panic (and adrenaline) briefly flooded Norman’s veins. But . . . nothing else happened; no sudden and surprised words or push away, just . . . just Dipper pulling Norman closer to him in his sleep. Holding him tighter and harder in his sleep . . . So panic turned to quiet elation and determinedly still excitement; Norman would not have moved from that spot for anything in the world. It was quite probably the most delighted moment of his life . . . They were spooning (even though neither would have known what that word meant in this context), with the bigger spoon being shorter, and the smaller spoon being taller . . . But it worked. It worked like magic.
And, before he realized it, feeling perfectly warm and safe and relaxed, Norman fell back asleep.
****
Milk and eggs sloshed into pancake mix (twice the usual amount of all three), and the whole mess was eventually jabbed into a glop of more-or-less even consistency (if “soggy powderiness” counts as a consistency). This was then gooped unceremoniously into a smoking pan to almost burn on one side before being scraped up and almost burnt on the other. Once sprinkled with a soupcon of gray hair (preferably from the body, to give the recipe a little more body), the world famous “Stancakes Pines” were ready to serve. Voi-flippin’-la.
Scratching himself, Stan gooped a second spoonful into the pan and glared at it with as much intensity as was coming from the stovetop. It was a wonder both sides didn’t cook at the same time. Then, after setting the second Stancake on a second plate, he began making a third. With a fourth and fifth plate after that. A plate for each of the twins, one for their new friend with hair like a paintbrush, one for the handyman who had slept at the foot of the stairs, and one for Stan himself. Five plates total, all needing to be filled with food from his kitchen. Twice the usual amount of breakfast needed for the Pines household, quickening the time until he’d need to pay for more groceries.
“Graglegrabughra . . . Moochin’ sleepoverers needin’ food . . .” the old man grumbled to himself. “Graffumbuhterstahmp . . . Eatin’ me outta house ‘n’ home . . . Kids better be spendin’ just as much time at Paintbrush’s, eatin’ their food for once . . . Oughta take whatever Soos eats outta his paycheck . . .”
The handyman poked his head into the kitchen. “You call for me, Mister Pines?”
“No, just talkin’ to myself,” Stan grumbled a little louder than before. “Hey, go check and see if the kids are awake yet.”
“Sure thing!”
The pan got its fourth goop while Soos was gone, and continuous color commentary like: “Fragglerockindunderpate . . . Smurffedopaminto . . . Grattlewinothundercats . . .” It was, by far, some of the old man’s most inscrutable grumbling ever. Even he probably had no idea what he was saying.
Then the handyman poked his head back into the kitchen. “Dudes are still asleep, Mister Pines.”
“But it’s almost nine already.”
“Well, sleepovers are conducive to staying up late, which leads to sleeping in the next day. Such is the nature of the sleepover beast,” Soos replied philosophically. “You want I should wake them up?”
Stan heaved a longsuffering sigh, then grumbled, “No, let ‘em sleep. I’ll finish makin’ these before I go get dressed for the day. Hopefully we’ll actually have some customers today, even if I’m the only one workin’ ‘em over when they come . . .”
“Um . . . I’m dressed and ready to start working, Mister Pines,” Soos pointed out helpfully.
“What? You wanna medal for doin’ your job?”
“I . . . wouldn’t say ‘No’ to one . . . If you’re offering . . .”
“No, that wasn’t . . . I was just being . . . Ugh . . .” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. Fine. Y’know what, Soos? You’re Employee of the Month again. Go get the sash; you can wear it all day.”
Soos actually went, “Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” as he scampered up to the office.
Stan shouted after him, “But then get right back here and eat your flippin’ Stancakes! I’m not going bankrupt makin’ extra breakfast just for it to not get eaten!”

Description
One cause can have multiple effects, all seemingly unrelated. One pebble in a pond can produce thousands of tipples.
But every effect can be forestalled or stopped by a different cause. Like a ripple striking against some obstacle before it can reach the edge of the pond—before it can touch (and therefore change) some specific thing beyond that obstacle in however subtle a way. That was the tricky thing about the metaphorical pond of reality: the further out a ripple went, the more likely an obstacle would arise . . . The more likely an obstacle would deliberately resist the ripple.
Or make its own ripples, apparently . . .
How had he been able to do that? He should not have been able to do that. Where three could have been taken at once—and one of them, that one of them, a feast—he had stopped even himself from being taken. He had called upon his own agents. and he had empowered them to stop the taking. How? He should not have been able to do that. He was just another morsel of a mortal . . . just another portion in a person . . . and great spirits did not reside in mere scraps of sentience.
So how?
How?!
HOW?!
He had made his own pulse of energy . . .
He had released his own driving thought to act upon the world . . .
He had created his own cause behind effects . . .
He had cast his own metaphorical pebble into the metaphorical pond of reality . . .
How? He should not have been able to do that.
. . . It did not matter. He had only forestalled his fate, and the fate of the other two, for a cycle. He could not hope to do so a second time. He did not have the power or the experience to escape again. He had not been doing this since technically longer than forever.
. . . And he would have no more of his own agents to call upon and empower—if such could even be called “empowering”, when four of his agents combined could barely forestall the one. Yes, he would soon be taken, and the taking would be particularly sating. Perhaps . . . he could even be turned into a second agent for more takings?
. . . He had proven himself an obstacle, perhaps, but obstacles can be removed.
. . . Obstacles can be eroded away by the right ripples.
It was time to make the first one.
On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.
****
It was early in the morning for a Saturday (by most people’s reckoning), but yoga instructors are not most people. Nor do they deal with most people, but with a very health conscious demographic—the kind of people who would willingly get up early on a Saturday for a workout before everything else; this is why the yoga instructor (perhaps somewhat less enlightenedly than he did most things . . . perhaps because he had not yet had his enlightening blend of vegan chai tea) was up and fumbling with his keys outside of You Go Yoga before seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.
That flier is out-of-date.
His unibrow furrowed, and he took a closer look at the fliers he always willingly allowed to hang around the logo in his window. The one for the Chinese circus in Portland was still good—that was a month off . . . The poetry-reading and book-signing in Eugene was still a week away—also still good . . . But the final one—the one for some sort of dance extravaganza in Salem—had come to term; the event was scheduled for that very night.
“Hmm . . . Well, all my patronesses (plus Patrick) must already know about that, or must already have plans for tonight . . . I suppose I can get rid of that one . . .”
Once inside, he tore it down. But then it slipped out of his fingers and, caught by a backdraft from the closing door, was sucked outside. Before he could step back out and snag it, a stray gust of wind wafted it up and away down the street.
“That . . . was odd,” the yoga instructor mused aloud. “It wasn’t windy earlier . . . But oh well; since it was made of recycled, biodegradables, it might as well decompose in the woods as the dump. Time for my chai tea and some tai-chi to warm-up.”
Meanwhile, the sheet of paper rolled and flapped its way along the sidewalk for a few blocks. One particularly hard gust sent it twirling higher than mere ground-level, like a leaf soaring on the wind. At least until it slapped against a door—right over the brass #2 affixed just above a peep hole.
On the knob of that door hung a sign emblazoned with the words “Do Not Disturb” and the logo of the Hotel Lodge.
****
They lay on the mattresses together. On the single bed. All four of them lay on the bed together. Though Norman’s eyes were closed, he knew all four of them were there. Mabel on the farthest side. Next to her, Dipper. Beside him, Norman himself. And then Neil.
But they were not the only ones in the room.
Slowly, Norman opened his eyes and sat up. Fog encircled them. Cold and damp and lonely. But on the bed, they were warm and dry and together. Under the sunbrella, the fog could not reach them. Norman smiled. “We are safe here. Me and my three friends are safe.”
{Are you?}
Norman looked back away from his friends. Through the fog—from Amity Park and Ashland, from Endsville and Cityburgh, from Whispering Rock and . . . from Gravity Falls—they came. Their faces like swirling mist materializing, their hands like spectral wraiths coalescing. The children. The victims.
“We are safe. Come get on with us. There’s room.”
{We cannot. We have already been taken. And you three will be taken next.}
“There . . . are f-four of us?”
{Are there?}
Norman looked to one side. Dipper and Mabel were still there, still sound asleep. Relief.
Norman looked to the other side. Neil was gone. The space where he had been was gone. Neil had never been there . . . Sorrow . . . Pain . . . Loneliness . . .
LONELINESS
There it was. Behind the ring of wraith-children. The rumpled black suit. Circling around them. The reaching hands, cold as the KGB. Watching them. The featureless skin, white as the Grim Reaper. Standing taller than could be possible. The gaunt body, emaciated as a wendigo. Coming now for them. The unknown intentions, mysterious as an alien. Focused entirely on them. The unstoppable determination, remorseless as a government agent.
There it was. The Slender Man.
As one, the wraith-children all held up phones with the exact same text message on the screens. < help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ >
Norman nodded once. He understood that part. At last. “Help. Tall man, no face. Come get me. Help please. Help me . . . Screaming emoji.”
{Yes. You finally see what you have already seen.}
“From my v-vision at Fantastic Scholastic. From that . . . that door. The #13.”
{Yes. You finally know what you have already known.}
“So who is it—the Slender Man—or what is it?”
From Amity Park, {An early grave. The what behind the who.}
From Ashland, {A secret prison. The what behind the who.}
From Endsville, {An endless hunger. The what behind the who.}
From Cityburgh, {A fearful emptiness. The what behind the who.}
From Whispering Rock, {A deathly isolation. The what behind the who.}
From Gravity Falls, {A gaping loneliness. The what behind the who.}
And then, rising up above the kids, came four ghosts—four familiar but lost souls—who wailed, {A Cursed Door! The what behind the who!}
“Guys! Detoby! I’ll find you—we’ll find you!”
The ghosts all pointed behind him. The children pointed with them. {We are there.}
Norman spun around to see a doorway in the fog creeping slowly open. Darkness was behind it. Utter darkness, blacker than night or despair or anything. And the Slender Man came to a stop before it. Stood between them all and the darkness within the Cursed Door.
Norman grasped the shaft of the sunbrella for support. Made himself look at the faceless blank. Made himself not turn away from the stretch beneath it, like a second face pushing outward. Shrieking, but silently. Norman steeled himself and asked, “Who are you? Who are you r-really?”
No answer. But it reached its impossibly long arm forward, over the children.
“Who w-were you in life? You were a p-person, right? But you’re a ghost now—a p-poltergeist. Let me help you move on. I want to help you be free.”
It seemed it couldn’t reach the kids. Couldn’t reach beneath the sunbrella. So it grabbed the top and began to shake it.
“H-hey! Stop! Why are you doing that?!”
LONELINESS
“What do you want?!”
TAKE AWAY
The sunbrella started to come loose.
FOREVER
“Please! St-stop! Listen to me!”
The sunbrella toppled to the side, and the fog and the cold washed over Norman. In an instant, the Slender Man seized him and cast him into the Cursed Door.
Norman jolted awake with a shiver.
He will not listen to you.
Norman looked around in a panic . . . but there was no Slender Man. And the only doors were the doors to the closet and out of the room.
He will take you. He will bring you to me. And there is nothing you can do to—
Norman looked down and realized that Dipper’s arm was draped over his waist. Somehow, while sleeping, Dipper had rolled over right next to Norman and thrown his arm over him. They had been sleeping like that for . . . for hours, maybe.
That thought was more than enough to warm the taller boy—right from the tips of his toes to the tips of his vertical spikes of hair. Maybe even make him a little too warm; he could definitely feel that he was blushing. But at the same time, no, he was definitely okay with being too warm if it meant being like this. This was definitely okay. Optimal, even. It could not get any better than this.
And that thought was more than enough to banish any nightmares or lingering insecurities. How could any bad thought insinuate itself into his mind with that already occupying it?
After checking that both the twins—especially Dipper—were both still soundly asleep, Norman carefully slid back under the covers . . . and under Dipper’s arm. A better protection than fortifications or armor. More apotropaic than any magic talisman ever crafted by man or spirits. Then he sidled up closer to Dipper, until there was no space between their bodies.
Suddenly, Dipper moved. Panic (and adrenaline) briefly flooded Norman’s veins. But . . . nothing else happened; no sudden and surprised words or push away, just . . . just Dipper pulling Norman closer to him in his sleep. Holding him tighter and harder in his sleep . . . So panic turned to quiet elation and determinedly still excitement; Norman would not have moved from that spot for anything in the world. It was quite probably the most delighted moment of his life . . . They were spooning (even though neither would have known what that word meant in this context), with the bigger spoon being shorter, and the smaller spoon being taller . . . But it worked. It worked like magic.
And, before he realized it, feeling perfectly warm and safe and relaxed, Norman fell back asleep.
****
Milk and eggs sloshed into pancake mix (twice the usual amount of all three), and the whole mess was eventually jabbed into a glop of more-or-less even consistency (if “soggy powderiness” counts as a consistency). This was then gooped unceremoniously into a smoking pan to almost burn on one side before being scraped up and almost burnt on the other. Once sprinkled with a soupcon of gray hair (preferably from the body, to give the recipe a little more body), the world famous “Stancakes Pines” were ready to serve. Voi-flippin’-la.
Scratching himself, Stan gooped a second spoonful into the pan and glared at it with as much intensity as was coming from the stovetop. It was a wonder both sides didn’t cook at the same time. Then, after setting the second Stancake on a second plate, he began making a third. With a fourth and fifth plate after that. A plate for each of the twins, one for their new friend with hair like a paintbrush, one for the handyman who had slept at the foot of the stairs, and one for Stan himself. Five plates total, all needing to be filled with food from his kitchen. Twice the usual amount of breakfast needed for the Pines household, quickening the time until he’d need to pay for more groceries.
“Graglegrabughra . . . Moochin’ sleepoverers needin’ food . . .” the old man grumbled to himself. “Graffumbuhterstahmp . . . Eatin’ me outta house ‘n’ home . . . Kids better be spendin’ just as much time at Paintbrush’s, eatin’ their food for once . . . Oughta take whatever Soos eats outta his paycheck . . .”
The handyman poked his head into the kitchen. “You call for me, Mister Pines?”
“No, just talkin’ to myself,” Stan grumbled a little louder than before. “Hey, go check and see if the kids are awake yet.”
“Sure thing!”
The pan got its fourth goop while Soos was gone, and continuous color commentary like: “Fragglerockindunderpate . . . Smurffedopaminto . . . Grattlewinothundercats . . .” It was, by far, some of the old man’s most inscrutable grumbling ever. Even he probably had no idea what he was saying.
Then the handyman poked his head back into the kitchen. “Dudes are still asleep, Mister Pines.”
“But it’s almost nine already.”
“Well, sleepovers are conducive to staying up late, which leads to sleeping in the next day. Such is the nature of the sleepover beast,” Soos replied philosophically. “You want I should wake them up?”
Stan heaved a longsuffering sigh, then grumbled, “No, let ‘em sleep. I’ll finish makin’ these before I go get dressed for the day. Hopefully we’ll actually have some customers today, even if I’m the only one workin’ ‘em over when they come . . .”
“Um . . . I’m dressed and ready to start working, Mister Pines,” Soos pointed out helpfully.
“What? You wanna medal for doin’ your job?”
“I . . . wouldn’t say ‘No’ to one . . . If you’re offering . . .”
“No, that wasn’t . . . I was just being . . . Ugh . . .” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. Fine. Y’know what, Soos? You’re Employee of the Month again. Go get the sash; you can wear it all day.”
Soos actually went, “Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” as he scampered up to the office.
Stan shouted after him, “But then get right back here and eat your flippin’ Stancakes! I’m not going bankrupt makin’ extra breakfast just for it to not get eaten!”