Dipper gave Eliot a slight nod and a whispered, "Follow me," before disappearing up the creaky stairs. Eliot blinked, a bit thrown off by the sudden invitation, but after a second, curiosity got the better of him, and he climbed after Dipper. The stairs seemed old, groaning louder as they went higher, and Eliot started to wonder just how big this place really was. The Mystery Shack had already felt like a sprawling maze of rooms, each one stranger than the last, but the idea of an upper level, with even more things? That felt like something out of one of those dark adventure books he kept hidden from his dad.

As they reached the top of the stairs, they walked through a hall and entered a room, and Eliot took in his surroundings with awe. The attic room was nearly empty, the kind of emptiness that somehow made the space feel larger than it was. It was cold and a little dusty, the kind of cold that didn't just settle on your skin but found its way deeper, making him feel like he'd left the warmth of the world behind as soon as he stepped inside. But it was the light that captured his attention. There was a single triangle-shaped window with deep, blood-red glass, and the afternoon sun filtered through it, casting the entire room in a washed-out, crimson glow that seemed both eerie and enchanting.

Dipper settled himself down by the window, perching on the ledge with a casualness that surprised Eliot. He hadn't thought Dipper, this kid who took everything so seriously, could ever seem so relaxed. But there he was, as if this dusty old attic was some kind of sanctuary. Eliot lingered awkwardly, unsure where to sit or even if he should sit, when Dipper's hand came up, gesturing to the spot directly across from him. He gave Eliot an expectant look, his expression a mix of confusion and openness, as if he were surprised Eliot hadn't already joined him.

Eliot hesitated, and Dipper's invitation hung in the air, gentle but unmistakable. It was such a small gesture, so casual, yet Eliot couldn't shake how it made him feel. That simple, unguarded invitation stirred something inside him—a pang of longing and, strangely, a kind of sadness he couldn't place. Eliot was not accustomed to people making space for him like this, without some hidden agenda or expectations. The suddenness of it, the lack of pretense, hit him like a wave, and he realized how starved he was for something as simple as a place to sit without fear or doubt.

People usually fell into two camps around him. There were the ones from the church who greeted him with too-wide smiles and clasped his hand a little too tightly. These people saw him as a bridge, some sacred connection between them and his father, the man they imagined to be their way closer to God. They welcomed him with exaggerated warmth, the kind that felt heavy and unshakable, like it was meant to latch onto him and pull him down with the weight of their devotion. They saw him as a reflection of his father, a piece of the priestly life they so revered, and it never failed to make his skin crawl. No matter how kindly they spoke or how much they praised his father's work, their affection felt hollow, conditional—something they thought they could tap into if they could just get close enough.

Then there were the others, the ones who saw his father's title as a mark against him. People who would sneer at him in passing, make comments about hypocrisy and sermons that meant nothing, as if Eliot were somehow responsible for his father's reputation. To them, he was a living reminder of the way his father's influence lingered in the town, a reminder of rules they wanted nothing to do with. And when it wasn't judgment, it was distrust. They saw him as some troublemaker, a liar, and a rebellious kid who couldn't be trusted, like he was too slippery to be let in on anything genuine.

So to have someone like Dipper—someone he barely knew, someone who had every right to keep him at arm's length after only a day of hanging out—invite him to sit without reservation or expectation? It felt like he was being given something he hadn't even known he was missing. The Shack, with its strange rooms, strange people, and strange magic, had somehow become a place that was offering him more warmth than he'd felt in years.

Tentatively, Eliot made his way over to the window and lowered himself onto the ledge across from Dipper, feeling the hardness of the wood beneath him, the chill from the glass seeping into his back. He watched Dipper's face in the strange red glow, and for a moment, they were silent, just sitting in the stillness of the attic, with only the sound of their breathing and the distant creaks of the Shack around them. Dipper's gaze was steady, a kind of quiet strength in his expression that somehow put Eliot at ease, made him feel like he could sit here forever without ever needing to say a word.

As he settled in, Eliot's thoughts drifted to how this was probably the first time he'd felt comfortable sitting so close to someone, especially a guy his own age, without feeling judged or inspected or measured. Here, in this quiet corner of the Shack, with the air thick with dust and the light casting them both in shades of crimson, he felt a sense of belonging he hadn't felt before. It was both unnerving and comforting, this feeling of being seen without expectation.

Eliot knew, deep down, that this moment, this room, was something rare. He couldn't remember a time in his life when anyone had just invited him to be, without assuming something or expecting something in return. It was such a simple thing, such a small kindness, but it felt monumental to him.

After a while, Dipper shifted slightly, his voice low and thoughtful. "This is sort of my spot. Mabel and Stan doesn't really come here," he said, his tone tinged with something Eliot could only describe as trust. It was as if Dipper were giving him a piece of himself, sharing something private and special just because he wanted to, not because he had to.

For Eliot, that moment felt like a promise—unspoken, subtle, but powerful. And as he looked out the red-tinted window, watching the strange world of the Mystery Shack stretched out before them, he felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd found something he could hold onto in this strange town.

Dipper cleared his throat, breaking the silence in the attic again. "There's something... off about Mabel's boyfriend."

Eliot couldn't help but smirk a little. "You're not wrong," he agreed, shifting his position to lean against the window frame. "That guy gives off major weirdo vibes. But, you know, maybe he's just your everyday, run-of-the-mill creep. Sometimes there's a simple answer, Dipper."

Dipper's face scrunched up, clearly unimpressed with Eliot's explanation. "I don't know... I don't think he's just a regular creep." His voice had that determined edge, the same one he used when he was certain about something—even if no one else was. "Normal guys don't show up covered in sticks and mud with... with red stuff on their faces. It's almost like he's not even human."

Eliot tilted his head, considering Dipper's words, but couldn't fully commit to the idea. "Look, I get it. The guy is sketchy as hell. But come on, Dipper. Some people are just... strange. Doesn't mean they're monsters." He shrugged, trying to keep his tone casual, but even he could feel a prickle of doubt sneaking in. That red stuff on Norman's face had looked... wrong.

Dipper was already shaking his head, determined to convince Eliot. "No, you didn't see the way he looked at her. Like he was... hungry, or something." Dipper shuddered, then reached into his backpack, a glint of excitement in his eyes. He pulled out the old, leather-bound journal with its worn edges and faded cover, flipping through it with practiced fingers. "Let's see if we can find something in here. Something that can prove it."

The room fell silent except for the soft, crackling sound of Dipper turning the brittle pages, his eyes scanning every line. Eliot watched him, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism in his gaze. Part of him felt ridiculous for even entertaining the idea that Mabel's boyfriend might be... supernatural. But then again, something about the entire town of Gravity Falls was far from ordinary.

Finally, Dipper's eyes went wide. He stopped on a page, and without a word, shoved the journal into Eliot's lap. "I told you I was right!" he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of vindication and nervous excitement.

Eliot looked down at the page, and his heart skipped a beat. There, in black ink, was a hand-drawn figure that looked alarmingly like Norman. Pale skin, sunken eyes, tattered clothes—every detail was eerily close. And above the drawing, in bold, was the title: "The Undead."

Eliot's breath hitched as he traced the figure's outline with his eyes. The resemblance was uncanny, almost as if someone had sketched Norman himself. Eliot felt a chill race down his spine. He glanced up at Dipper, who was looking at him with a triumphant gleam, like he'd just cracked the biggest mystery in the world.

"Look at this." Dipper leaned in, tugging the journal back into his own lap, his voice lowering as he began to read aloud. "'Known for their pale skin and bad attitudes, these creatures are often mistaken for... teenagers?! Beware Gravity Falls's nefarious—'"

He stopped, his voice dropping to a whisper as he finished the line. "...zombies."

Dipper's eyes were wide as saucers, and Eliot's weren't much smaller. A thick, uneasy silence settled between them, both boys staring at the crude illustration in the journal. The word zombie seemed to hang in the air, strange and heavy, like they'd just summoned something dark and unspoken.

Dipper finally broke the silence, voice hushed and intense. "You see it, right? This... this has to be him."

Eliot swallowed, still half-convinced this was a ridiculous conclusion but now unable to shake the gnawing feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was some truth to it. "I don't know, man," he said slowly, his voice quieter than he intended. "I mean... it's a little too close, isn't it? The description, the look... the weird red stuff."

"Exactly!" Dipper said, eyes alight with the kind of thrill that could only come from stumbling onto a mystery. "There's no way this is just some coincidence."

Eliot hesitated. Part of him wanted to laugh it off, to shrug and insist that it was all just a strange quirk of the universe. But another part—the part that had felt something shift in the air since they found the journal—couldn't ignore the unsettling weight of the truth staring back at him from the journal's worn pages.

With a sigh, Eliot finally nodded, though he still didn't look fully convinced. "Alright, fine. Maybe there's more to this guy than meets the eye." He tried to keep his voice steady, but the truth was, he felt a creeping sense of dread just thinking about Mabel alone with Norman. If this journal was right, then she was in way more danger than they'd realized.

Dipper paced the floor, his mind racing as he replayed the scene from the journal over and over. He could still see that illustration, with its hollow eyes, pale skin, and stiff movements. The resemblance to Norman was impossible to ignore. His thoughts spiraled into an even darker place as he put the pieces together: if Norman really was one of these undead creatures, then he'd have an appetite for the living. And if he had an appetite for the living...

Dipper's eyes widened in horror. He could barely get the words out. "If he's a zombie... then he's going to eat Mabel!"

The thought was so outrageous, so terrifying, that Dipper's heart began to hammer in his chest. A wave of panic surged through him as he pictured his sister in Norman's path, utterly unsuspecting of the danger lurking behind his sickly smile.

As if on cue, a strange sound drifted through the window—a low, rumbling noise, like the groan of something not entirely alive. Dipper froze, his face paling. Eliot, equally startled, turned to look out the window, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the yard below. The two boys edged closer to the window, pressing their faces up to the glass.

Outside, standing in the fading evening light, was Norman, his body moving with an unnatural stiffness, his arms raised in front of him, stumbling toward Mabel in that unmistakable zombie-like manner. His movements were awkward, his shoulders hunched, and his expression blank. Dipper's stomach twisted. This was it—proof that Norman was a monster. And Mabel was sitting on a picnic table, completely oblivious, looking up at Norman with a wide, dreamy smile. She swung her legs, lost in her own world, waiting for him to get closer.

"Oh no. Mabel! Watch out!" Dipper shouted, his voice muffled against the glass. His heart was thumping so loudly he could feel it in his ears, and he pressed his hands against the window, desperation flooding through him. "Mabel, get away from him!" he yelled, but she didn't seem to hear him at all.

Eliot's eyes flickered with alarm, but he wasn't one for standing around in shock. Action came easier to him, especially when something he cared about was on the line. He shot up, grabbing the window latch and yanking at it, his knuckles going white with effort. "We've got to open this—Dipper, help me!"

Dipper scrambled beside him, adding his weight to the effort. Together they tugged and pulled, trying to force the old, rusted frame to budge, but it stayed stubbornly in place. Dipper's hands were shaking as he gripped the window, his heart pounding with frustration. Every second they wasted was another second closer to disaster. His sister's laugh drifted up from below, cheerful and innocent, completely unaware that Norman was looming closer with every heavy, slow step.

Eliot's panic ratcheted up another notch. His gaze darted around the room, desperate for a solution. And then his eyes landed on an old candle lamp mounted to the wall, one that looked like it hadn't been touched in decades. Without another thought, Eliot leaped down, crossing the attic in a few long strides. He reached up, grabbing hold of the lamp and pulling with all his strength, feeling the cold metal give way under his fingers as it wrenched free from the wall. He almost stumbled with the force of it but caught himself, clutching the heavy lamp tightly.

He was back at the window in a second, climbing up onto the ledge with a determined expression, raising the lamp above his head, ready to smash the glass. "Move back!" he shouted to Dipper, who quickly shifted out of the way.

Eliot took a deep breath, his hands trembling as he prepared to swing. But just before he brought the lamp down, Dipper grabbed his arm, his grip firm.

"Wait, look!" Dipper hissed, pointing out the window.

Eliot paused, following Dipper's gaze with a racing heart, and they both watched, frozen, as the scene unfolded before them. Norman was finally standing right in front of Mabel, close enough that he could reach out and touch her. But instead of attacking, he simply raised his hands toward her head.

In one slow, careful movement, he placed something on her head—a flower crown, made of delicate, bright wildflowers woven together in a ring. Mabel's face lit up in pure delight, her cheeks pink with joy as she reached up, touching the flowers lightly. She giggled, completely charmed, as Norman stepped back, watching her with a vacant, but strangely gentle, expression.

Dipper and Eliot just stared, dumbstruck, unable to process what they were seeing. The tense fear that had been twisting inside Dipper's chest deflated, replaced by a wave of confusion and, embarrassingly, a bit of relief. His hands dropped slowly, the candle lamp still clutched in his grip, forgotten for the moment.

Eliot let out a long, slow breath, shooting Dipper a sideways glance. "So... he's just giving her a flower crown, huh?"

Dipper's face flushed, his brows knitting together in frustration and lingering disbelief. He wasn't sure what to make of it. "I—I mean, yeah, sure, but that doesn't mean he's not dangerous. Maybe... maybe he's just trying to trick her!"

Eliot snorted, leaning back against the wall with a shake of his head. "You sure you're not just jealous that Mabel's getting all the attention from her zombie boyfriend?" he teased, nudging Dipper with a smirk.

Dipper's face went even redder. "I'm not jealous!" he protested, though his voice sounded small and uncertain. He glanced back out the window, watching as Mabel beamed up at Norman, her smile so bright and pure it was almost painful to look at. And Norman, for all his undead qualities, just stood there, unmoving, a strange sort of softness in his vacant eyes as he watched her.

Dipper felt a flicker of doubt gnawing at him. Maybe Eliot was right. Maybe Norman was just... well, a little odd. After all, they were in Gravity Falls—being strange was practically a requirement here. But something inside him, some instinct he couldn't shake, kept whispering that there was more to this than met the eye.

Finally, Dipper sighed, lowering the candle lamp with a resigned expression. "Fine. Maybe he's not attacking her now. But I'm telling you, Eliot, something isn't right with that guy. We need to keep an eye on him. Just in case. We need to gather some proof."

Eliot rubbed the back of his neck, eyebrows furrowed as he studied Dipper with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. Dipper's eyes had that hard glint of determination again, the one that had been surfacing all day. It was as though he was preparing to fight a battle only he could see.

"Evidence is fine and all," Eliot said, slowly, letting each word sink in, "but... how exactly are we supposed to gather it?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Dipper's expression turned as serious as a detective in a noir movie, his voice hushed but intense. "I'll grab my dad's video camera. We'll follow them around and catch it on tape."

Eliot blinked, his face going slack as he tried to wrap his head around what Dipper had just said. For a few seconds, he simply stared, waiting for Dipper to crack a smile, maybe laugh it off as a joke. But Dipper's face remained solemn, his eyes full of a fierce resolve that was, frankly, baffling.

"Are you serious?" Eliot managed to ask, a hint of disbelief tinging his voice. He could feel the beginnings of a headache pressing at his temples, a testament to the sheer absurdity of this plan. It felt surreal to be standing here, in the dusty attic of a strange old shack, talking about sneaking around and spying on Dipper's sister and her new weirdo boyfriend like some kind of secret agent.

Dipper nodded, his conviction unwavering. "If there's even the slightest chance that guy is dangerous, we have to find proof. It's not just about us, Eliot. It's about keeping Mabel safe." His voice wavered, just a little, but Eliot could hear the undercurrent of worry there, and he realized that for Dipper, this was far from a game. This was personal.

Eliot sighed, running a hand through his hair in defeat. "So, what you're saying is, we're going to be the weirdos lurking in the bushes, creeping on Mabel and her boyfriend with a video camera?" His voice was laced with resignation, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Sure, makes total sense." But despite his words, he found himself softening. If this is what Dipper needs to feel better, he thought, then I guess I can go along with it. He shrugged, conceding. "If it helps you sleep at night, I'm in."

Dipper's face lit up, relief mixing with that relentless determination. For a moment, Eliot could almost see the weight lifting from Dipper's shoulders, even if only a little. "Follow me to my room," Dipper said, voice full of purpose. "We'll grab the camera."

Eliot trailed after him through the winding hallways of the Mystery Shack, taking in the oddities lining the walls—the strange, ancient trinkets, the dusty taxidermy, the mismatched furniture. It felt like they were moving deeper into the heart of something strange, something alive and full of secrets. Eliot felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck, as if the very walls were watching them.

They reached the twins' room, and Eliot hesitated for a moment at the door, taking in the scene. It was like a visual representation of two clashing worlds in one space, each side distinctly different but somehow in harmony. On one side was Mabel's territory: an explosion of color, glitter, and chaos. Her bed was covered in mismatched, brightly-colored blankets, and fairy lights were strung haphazardly above, casting a warm glow over the bed like a miniature universe. Posters of rainbows, unicorns, and handmade artwork were plastered on the walls, a scrapbook of her personality, loud and vibrant.

Dipper's side, in stark contrast, was a testament to his curiosity and intellect. His bed was neatly made, a constellation-patterned comforter pulled tightly across, and on his small desk, stacks of notebooks and old books were piled up in neat, organized stacks. A small planetarium projector sat on the desk, next to a model of the solar system that spun slowly and creaked as it orbited.

Eliot found his gaze wandering over the stacks of notebooks. He wondered how many secrets, how many late-night musings, were buried within those pages. This wasn't just a room; it was a portrait of the people who lived here, two halves of a whole that somehow fit together despite their differences.

Dipper went straight to his bed, dropping down to his knees and reaching underneath. After a few moments of rummaging, he pulled out a slightly battered old backpack and unzipped it. His hands worked quickly, with a familiarity that suggested he'd done this many times before. He pulled out a handheld camcorder, its surface slightly worn but well-maintained.

"Got it," Dipper announced, a fierce glint in his eye. He stuffed the camera back into the backpack, then slung it over his shoulder. Eliot watched him, a faint, amused smile tugging at his lips, as he followed Dipper back down the stairs and toward the front door.

When they reached the entrance, Dipper carefully peeked around the doorframe, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene outside. Eliot leaned over, trying to see what Dipper was watching, and found himself staring at Mabel and Norman in the yard. They were standing together, laughing about something, Mabel's face lit up with that open, unrestrained joy she seemed to carry with her everywhere.

Eliot's amusement faltered. This is my life now, he thought, a sense of surreal disbelief settling over him. Spying on a couple with a video camera. But he shook his head, accepting it with a resigned sigh. Sometimes, life was just strange, and maybe this was one of those times he'd look back on in a few years and laugh about.

As Mabel and Norman began walking, heading toward the town, Dipper glanced back at Eliot, a silent agreement passing between them. They slipped out the door, keeping a careful distance as they followed, weaving through the trees and ducking behind the occasional mailbox or trash can when Norman or Mabel glanced around. The thrill of the chase kept Eliot's senses sharp, his heart pounding a little faster than usual.

They trailed Mabel and Norman through the winding streets, the sun casting long shadows across the pavement. The town was quiet, the occasional passerby giving them curious glances as they ducked behind trees and fences. Eventually, they reached a small, grassy park with a few picnic tables and a scattering of trees. Mabel and Norman sat down on a bench, their voices soft and indistinct from where Eliot and Dipper crouched behind a bush, watching them like two amateur detectives.

Eliot leaned in, straining to catch snippets of their conversation, and then—

Thud.

A loud clang echoed through the park as Dipper walked straight into a metal lamppost. Eliot's heart leaped into his throat as he quickly reached out, grabbing Dipper's wrist and pulling him down into the bush beside him. The motion was so fast, so sudden, that Dipper practically toppled over, landing in the dirt beside Eliot with a faintly indignant huff.

For a moment, they were frozen, pressed close together, their faces inches apart as they crouched low in the bushes. Eliot's fingers were still curled around Dipper's wrist, and he could feel the rapid, erratic pulse beneath his fingertips. The world seemed to narrow, the air thick and stifling in the small space between them.

Dipper's eyes were wide, his face flushed, whether from the heat of the day or something else entirely. His breath was shallow, and Eliot found himself inexplicably aware of the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of pine and dust lingering in the air between them.

"Think they heard us?" Dipper whispered, his voice barely audible. Eliot could feel his breath, warm against his cheek, and it sent an odd, shivery sensation down his spine.

Eliot's heart was pounding hard enough that he wondered if Dipper could hear it. He forced himself to release Dipper's wrist, pulling his hand back with a slight cough, as if to clear the strange tension in the air. "Nah, they're too busy with each other." His voice came out steadier than he felt, the words tinged with a forced casualness. It's just the excitement, he told himself, trying to rationalize the strange thrill still buzzing in his veins. Just the thrill of nearly getting caught.

Dipper let out a small sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he turned his attention back to Mabel and Norman. Eliot followed suit, though his mind was still reeling, his thoughts scattered. He told himself it was just the summer heat, the intensity of the moment, but somewhere deep down, he wondered if it was something more.

Dipper fumbled with the video camera, eyes laser-focused on Mabel and Norman as they rose from the bench and meandered further into the park. He squinted into the viewfinder, adjusting the zoom to get the best possible angle, his movements almost mechanical, like he'd done this a hundred times before. The quiet whir of the camera mixed with Dipper's muffled breaths, each one growing slightly faster as he tried to keep a steady shot.

Behind him, Eliot stayed silent, content to linger in the background as Dipper took the lead. But his mind wasn't on the camera or even on Norman. His thoughts drifted back to the moment they'd nearly been caught—to the warm, frantic pulse of Dipper's wrist under his fingers, the intensity in Dipper's eyes as they'd hidden in the bushes, so close he could feel Dipper's breath against his cheek. Eliot could still feel his own heartbeat, reverberating in his chest like an echo of that instant, each beat both inexplicably exciting and confusing.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. This feeling—it was unfamiliar, unsettling. He'd never experienced anything quite like it. A warmth had settled under his skin, one that refused to fade no matter how much he tried to push it away. Dipper's flushed face flashed in his mind, the way his eyes had been wide, vulnerable. Eliot shook his head, trying to clear the image. He didn't know what this feeling was, but he was starting to think he might not want to know.

And then, as if cued by some cosmic timing, the low, stern voice of his father echoed in his mind. It was a voice etched in his memory, one that came with lectures about discipline, respect, and, often, warnings about sin. "Be mindful of temptation, son," his father would say, his words heavy with conviction. "The world is full of distractions—don't let them steer you away from the right path."

A cold shiver ran down Eliot's spine, snapping him back to the present. He forced himself to focus on Dipper again, only to find himself oddly flustered all over again. But he shook it off, scolding himself. It's just the heat, he thought. Just the nerves.

Meanwhile, Mabel and Norman had moved to a grassy clearing nearby and were now standing across from each other, a frisbee in Mabel's hands. Her face lit up with excitement, her grin wide and infectious, as she balanced the frisbee on the tips of her fingers before giving it an enthusiastic toss in Norman's direction.

Dipper zoomed in, watching intently through the camera lens, as Norman barely reacted to the frisbee hurtling towards him. He stood there, arms at his sides, face blank, as if he hadn't even noticed it. The frisbee sailed right at his head, and Eliot winced, expecting Norman to dodge—or at least raise a hand to block it.

But Norman didn't budge. The frisbee hit him square in the forehead with a dull thunk, and, for a moment, his body seemed to go rigid. His arms remained stiffly at his sides as he toppled backward, landing on the grass with all the grace of a mannequin pushed off a shelf. Mabel gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she suppressed a laugh, but before she could react further, Norman was back on his feet, rising with a speed that seemed almost... unnatural.

Dipper and Eliot exchanged a look, their eyes wide with the same unspoken question: What on earth just happened?

There was something undeniably wrong with the way Norman moved. The fall had been so stiff, so mechanical. And the way he'd stood back up, as if he hadn't even felt the impact. Eliot watched him, goosebumps prickling up his arms, the earlier warmth now replaced by a strange chill.

Dipper lowered the camera slightly, just enough to mutter, "Did you see that?"

Eliot nodded, unable to tear his gaze away from Norman. "Yeah... that was... not normal."

The two of them stayed rooted in place, their silent confusion building. It was as if they were sharing some silent agreement that none of this made sense, that it was like watching a glitch in reality, something that didn't quite fit into the ordinary world. They could only watch as Norman blinked slowly, his face void of expression, before he turned back to Mabel as if nothing had happened.

Mabel, seemingly undeterred, let out a laugh, her voice cutting through the strange tension that hung in the air. "Norman, you're such a klutz!" she giggled, playfully nudging his shoulder. "Guess all that walking wore you out, huh?" She rubbed her stomach, an exaggerated look of hunger crossing her face. "C'mon, let's go get something to eat at the diner. I'm starving!"

Norman gave her a hollow smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes, and nodded. He followed her, his movements still slightly stiff, like a puppet pulled on invisible strings.

As they wandered off toward the edge of the park, Dipper and Eliot remained crouched behind the bush, silent and still processing what they'd just witnessed. Finally, Dipper broke the silence, his voice low, filled with a mix of suspicion and awe.

"He didn't even flinch," he whispered, as if saying it aloud would somehow make the memory more tangible. "It was like he didn't even feel it."

Eliot nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the path where Mabel and Norman had disappeared. "People don't... fall like that. They don't get up like that either," he murmured, more to himself than to Dipper. But he could still feel the strangeness of it all, the eerie way Norman had crumpled and risen again as if his body didn't work quite like theirs.

Dipper's eyes sparked with determination, his mind racing with plans. "We have to beat them there," he said, his voice barely a whisper, but his tone deadly serious.

Eliot didn't have time to question it before Dipper was already on the move, darting from the bushes and heading toward the diner with a single-minded intensity. With a resigned sigh, Eliot scrambled to his feet and chased after him. Dipper might not have looked like it, but when he was on a mission, he was faster than he seemed. Still, it was clear that neither of them was exactly cut out for running through town like this, their hurried footfalls pounding against the pavement.

The afternoon sun was relentless, its heat pressing down on them, making each step feel heavier. Dipper started to lag, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps, but he pushed through, determined to reach the diner before Mabel and Norman. Eliot, following close behind, felt his own lungs burning, each inhale feeling thicker, but he refused to fall behind, gritting his teeth as he matched Dipper's pace. They weren't athletes, and the weight of the camera bag swinging against Dipper's shoulder didn't help, but he kept going, his mind fixed on the mission.

By the time they reached the diner, Dipper was practically doubled over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He stood in front of the door, chest heaving, the familiar neon glow of the diner sign casting a faint light across his pale, flushed face. He raised a hand, fingers trembling slightly, and nearly yanked the door off its hinges as he pushed it open with a rough shove.

"Excuse me—sorry, excuse me!" Dipper stammered breathlessly as he wove through the small crowd gathered near the entrance, his voice barely audible over the hum of conversations and the clatter of dishes. People glanced up at him, brows furrowing, but he barely noticed, his eyes scanning for a spot where they could blend in unnoticed.

Eliot barely had time to straighten himself before he collided with someone standing near the door, the impact jarring him back a step. Quickly, he glanced back, words of apology on the tip of his tongue—only to have them vanish before he could speak.

The boy stood with his back to Eliot, and though Eliot couldn't see his face, something about him struck deep and strange, as if he'd encountered this presence somewhere before. The boy's hair, a soft chestnut brown, fell in neat waves, swept just slightly to one side. The way it caught the diner's light seemed almost too familiar, like he'd seen it in a dream. His clothing, all in muted pastels, was simple yet somehow graceful, each piece looking as if it had been chosen carefully, thoughtfully, the soft tones blending together in a way that was both natural and refined.

Eliot's heart quickened, a faint pulse of confusion threading through him. He stared, his mind scrambling, unable to place why this stranger felt so strikingly familiar or what about him made Eliot's chest tighten like this. The sensation was so peculiar it was almost alarming, a haunting recognition rising within him that he couldn't explain.

And then, as if acting on its own, his voice escaped in a whisper, soft and stunned. He barely even registered himself speaking, as if the word was being pulled from him, like his mind was offering him an answer it had hidden away. He didn't know this person, and yet, somehow... the name came anyway.

"...Noah?"

The word hung there, delicate and strange, slipping into the noise of the diner without the boy hearing. Eliot's heart beat a little faster as he stood there, frozen, staring at the boy's back as if the shape of him alone could explain this strange recognition.

And just like that, as if a tiny, almost imperceptible crack in the facade of his mind had opened, a memory flooded into Eliot's head.

The air was thick with the dull bite of autumn, and the brown-and-gold leaves swirled through the streets, coating the cracked pavement.
The leaves crunched under Eliot's shoes as he trudged home after another miserable day at school. The sky above was an endless stretch of gray, the clouds hanging low, as if the heavens themselves were just as heavy as he felt. The chill of the fall air wasn't enough to soothe the burning discomfort in his chest, the lingering frustration from the taunts of the bullies, the sharp, biting remarks from the teachers who always looked at him like he was a nuisance they had to tolerate. He hated the way his stomach twisted in knots every time the school bell rang, every time he set foot in that cursed building. It felt like the world was just too small for someone like him. He didn't belong there. He didn't belong anywhere.
As he walked, the dull roar of the town behind him faded, and he was left alone with his thoughts, just the wind and the crunch of leaves beneath his boots. He remembered sitting in class that morning, his hands clenched under his desk, wishing for the day to be over. He hated how empty he felt. It wasn't like he didn't try to make it through the day. He did. But it never seemed to matter. The teachers, the other kids—they didn't care. They never did.
"You're not trying hard enough."
The words echoed in his mind, mocking him. He had tried. He had tried so hard, but no matter how hard he studied, no matter how quietly he kept to himself, it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
The bullies were always there, lurking in the corners of his mind, their words cutting deeper than they ever could with their fists. They'd call him stupid. Ugly. Worthless. And they didn't even need to say anything anymore. Their eyes did all the talking. The whispers in the halls. The laughter behind his back. He couldn't escape it. And the worst part? He couldn't even escape it when he was home. It didn't matter that he was alone in his room, that he had nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and wait for the hours to pass. The weight of the world still hung on his shoulders.

At home, things were no better. His father's presence was little more than a shadow. He was never really there, always locked away in his study, buried in the endless demands of the church. The church was everything to him—more than family, more than anything. When Eliot's father was home, it wasn't any better. He'd sit in his favorite armchair, glaring at the walls or mumbling prayers under his breath, as though the house itself wasn't worthy of his time. His cold gaze never landed on Eliot. If he spoke at all, it was a quick reprimand, a demand, a command. His words, when they came, were sharp and biting, like daggers aimed at Eliot's very core.
The house was always cold, not just in temperature, but in the way his father's presence seemed to suck all warmth from the air. It felt like a hollow, echoing place where love couldn't reach, where there was no room for comfort, no place for understanding. Eliot wasn't sure what hurt more: the absence of his father or the fact that when he was around, his father's touch was ice, his tone a whip. His father didn't see him as a son—he saw him as an inconvenience, a distraction from his divine work.
The few times they'd interact were like painful jabs to Eliot's soul. His father would look at him with disdain, as though even sharing the same space was beneath him. If he was lucky, his father would ignore him entirely. If not, there would be the cold, biting remarks about how he was a failure, how he wasn't good enough, how nothing he did would ever be enough for someone who truly understood discipline and duty. The man had more love for the church than he ever had for his own flesh and blood.
Eliot tried to avoid him as much as possible, retreating into his own world. But the hurt was always there, festering, gnawing at him. His father's coldness felt like a heavy weight, suffocating him. No matter where he went in that house, he couldn't escape it. And on the rare occasion when his father would actually speak to him, the words would cut deeper than anything physical ever could. There was no love in that house. Only a silence so thick, it could swallow him whole.

And then there was church. The place where his father preached every Sunday, trying to make the world seem like a better place than it really was. But even there, Eliot felt like an outsider. He didn't belong there either. It was a place full of judgment, full of rules that didn't make any sense. A place where he was told to be someone he wasn't, and when he couldn't live up to those impossible expectations, he was made to feel like he was failing. The pressure—oh, the pressure—was too much. There was no escaping it. It crushed him. Every single day. Church wasn't sanctuary; it was just another reminder that he was never going to be enough.
Sometimes, when the weight of everything became too much to bear, he'd retreat into himself. He'd curl up on the floor of his room, pull his knees to his chest, and imagine—just for a moment—that he could escape it all. He'd imagine crawling into the earth, letting the ground swallow him up, letting it take him away from all the pain. He wanted to tear his skin off, wanted to claw out the parts of himself that made him feel so broken, so wrong. He wanted to crawl into the soil and disappear, leave the world behind.
It wasn't that he wanted to die. It was that he wanted to be free—free from the suffocating pressure that pressed down on him from all sides. He wanted to not feel anymore. He wanted to not care. Because caring hurt too much. Being alive hurt too much.
That was his life. A never-ending cycle of pain, of disconnection, of feeling like he was invisible to everyone around him. But at least he was still here. Still breathing. Just... barely.

That day, Eliot decided to wear his favorite shirt to school. It wasn't just a shirt—it was a symbol, a small act of defiance in a world that tried to choke him. It had been a gift from one of the more thoughtful members of the church—a rare kindness from someone who didn't lecture him about sin, or give him a harsh look when he didn't attend Sunday school. The shirt was from his favorite band, an obscure one that most people didn't understand, but Eliot did. The design on it was intricate and dark, full of swirling blues and blacks that almost seemed to hum with energy when you looked at them for too long. He had treasured it when it was given to him—like a little piece of something that could make him feel normal, if only for a second.

That day in PE, Eliot changed into the school's standard gym uniform, the worn-out shorts and faded T-shirt that were probably older than he was. He folded his band shirt carefully and tucked it into his locker, feeling a strange sense of ownership over it as though he were guarding something sacred. And then, when the bell rang and the chaos of gym class was over, he returned to his locker, expecting the worst but never prepared for it. His favorite shirt, his one piece of personal space, was no longer there in the neat, folded form he had left it in. Instead, it was in shreds. Someone had torn it apart. The band's name was crossed out violently in thick red marker, and in its place, someone had scrawled "Devil" in all caps. Around the text were crude drawings and stains that looked suspiciously like vomit or worse, and the sickening smell of whatever it was stuck to the fabric, a combination of old food and something rancid. His heart sank. The world seemed to tilt on its axis as his stomach churned.

At first, he just stood there. Frozen. He couldn't believe it. His hand hovered over the ruined shirt, a mixture of confusion and rage burning through him. What had they done to it? Why? And why did it feel so personal, as if the entire world had decided to tear apart the one thing he loved? It was just a shirt, just a piece of fabric, but to Eliot, it was more than that. It was an expression of the only part of him that was his own, something untouched by the cruelty of the world around him. The world that seemed determined to break him piece by piece.

He was angry. So angry that he didn't even think about the consequences. He didn't care that it was just a shirt. It wasn't just the shirt—it was everything. His dad, the way he ignored him, the way the world made him feel invisible, the cruelty of his classmates, the constant weight of being alone. All of it, all of it crashed down on him in that moment. He couldn't help it—he was seething. He was burning with fury.

Without a second thought, he grabbed his bag and threw it at the first person he saw—the kid who had probably been behind the whole thing. The kid was older, in seventh grade, one of the more popular ones. And he was laughing, mocking, probably thinking this was just some joke. But it wasn't a joke to Eliot. It never had been. His bag collided with the kid's head, sending him stumbling backward in surprise. And then, everything happened in a blur. Eliot was moving on instinct now, driven by something primal inside him, a fury that consumed him entirely. He wasn't thinking, he wasn't calculating the consequences. His fists were flying, hitting, and pounding. He felt the rush of adrenaline, the physicality of the moment, the way his body seemed to come alive with each strike. The kid's face, once full of laughter, was now contorted in pain, his nose bleeding. And Eliot couldn't stop. He just kept hitting.

It wasn't until the sound of footsteps and yelling from the teachers cut through the haze in his mind that Eliot stopped. His breathing was ragged, his fists clenched, and the taste of something bitter—the aftermath of rage—was still on his tongue. He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, before he turned and walked out of the school. He wasn't even sure why he did it. He just couldn't stay. His body was still buzzing with anger, and everything inside of him screamed to keep moving, to escape, to leave it all behind.

The fresh air outside didn't help. He didn't feel the cold or the wind. He was lost in his own thoughts, his mind a mess of confusion and regret and anger. But then, just as he was about to leave the school grounds, he heard a voice calling after him. He turned, expecting to see a teacher or maybe another student, but instead, it was a boy. A tan boy, with a lot of moles on his face and chestnut brown hair, dressed in elegant, brightly-colored clothes that looked out of place in the dull, gray hallways of the school. The boy was panting, holding something in his hand. For a moment, Eliot just stared, unsure of what to make of the stranger.

"What do you want?" Eliot snapped, his voice still rough from the adrenaline, but there was a part of him that was suddenly very tired—tired of fighting, tired of everything.

The boy didn't back down, though. "Wait," he said, his breath coming in quick bursts. "You left your bag there. You should come back. The teachers are going to be really mad if you just leave like this without explaining yourself."

Eliot scoffed. "I don't care about the teachers," he muttered, his hand already reaching to snatch the bag out of the boy's hands. He wasn't interested in anything this boy had to say, wasn't interested in any of it. He just wanted to get away.

But the boy wasn't done. "Wait!" he called again, this time with more urgency. "For you." He held out a shirt—a clean, neat shirt, something fresh, something that didn't carry the weight of the world on its fabric. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap, like something warm and safe. "For you to change into," the boy said, his voice gentle, calm. "I'm Noah, by the way."

Eliot's hand froze in midair. The shirt was unexpected—unlike anything Eliot had ever been offered before. A kindness. The boy's words seemed to cut through the fog of Eliot's anger, like a beam of light in the dark. It felt strange, the offer. It wasn't just the shirt; it was something more. A gesture of care. But he couldn't accept it. He couldn't. He wasn't ready for kindness, not from someone like this, someone who seemed so far removed from everything he was.

"I don't need it," Eliot muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He took a step back, turning away before he could say anything else. The scent of cinnamon lingered in the air, following him like a memory he didn't know how to hold onto. He could hear the boy calling after him, but it was too late. Eliot was already walking away, his heart pounding with something he couldn't name.

Eliot blinked rapidly, trying to snap himself out of the swirl of memories that had pulled him under. The echoes of his past lingered for just a moment too long, and when he finally turned his focus back to the present, his gaze met the boy's. The fleeting moment of recognition that had gripped him seconds ago dissolved in an instant. It wasn't Noah.

Eliot's heart stuttered, confused by the sudden drop in the familiar warmth that the name had evoked. Why did I think it was him? His mind ran in circles, trying to make sense of it. The memory of the t-shirt, so vividly burned into his brain, was all that remained—a fragment of something he didn't quite understand. Why only that? He couldn't fathom why the memory was so attached to the boy's face, or why it felt so important now. His stomach turned, a sense of loss that he couldn't place.

Without thinking, Eliot muttered a quick apology, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "Sorry, I—I mistook you for someone else."

The boy didn't respond, just turned on his heel and walked out, the door creaking as it swung shut behind him.

Eliot's eyes stayed locked on the door long after the boy had left. His thoughts drifted like they always did—deep, and tangled, but the ghost of Noah's name still hung in the air. His chest tightened as questions crowded into his mind, unanswered. Why now? Why this memory? And why had it felt so urgent, like it had been waiting to resurface?

His breath caught in his throat, but before he could lose himself further, Dipper's voice cut through the haze of confusion.

"Eliot!" Dipper snapped, his tone sharper than usual, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Focus on the mission. Not on... whatever that was."

The words were like a splash of cold water, and Eliot blinked, shaking off the lingering fog of his memories. He shifted uncomfortably, realizing that Dipper's sharpness wasn't misplaced. His friend was right. They had something to do. They were here for a reason.

But before Eliot could respond, Dipper's face softened, the frustration melting away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be harsh," he added quietly, his voice softer now. "But we can't afford distractions. We've got to stay focused."

Eliot nodded, forcing himself to take a deep breath, refocusing on the mission at hand. But a gnawing unease still lingered, unshakable, just below the surface. His mind kept drifting back to the boy—to Noah.

Just as he was about to turn his attention back to Dipper, the door to the diner swung open again, and in walked Mabel, her laugh ringing out like music. And behind her, that otherworldly presence followed. Norman.

Eliot didn't need to look at Dipper to feel the tension that immediately coiled in the air. Norman's presence was like a shadow stretching across the room, and it sent a chill down Eliot's spine. There was something unsettling about the way Norman moved. It wasn't just his face—serene, unreadable—but the way he carried himself, as if his body were too heavy, too stiff. Too... alien.

But Norman didn't walk in like a normal person. Instead of turning the handle or even pushing the door, he shattered the small window with a quick, effortless strike. Then, with an unsettling calmness, he reached through the broken glass, his fingers sliding around the inside of the door in a way that didn't seem quite right, like his body didn't quite understand how doors worked. It was as if he had never opened one before. Mabel, of course, found it oddly romantic, thinking it was the most charming thing she'd ever witnessed. But for Eliot, the whole scene sent an involuntary chill down his spine. Norman's movements were so stiff, so unnatural, it felt like he wasn't quite human—like he was too bad at something so simple.

Eliot glanced at Dipper, their eyes meeting in silent agreement. Both of them were now more suspicious than ever, the unease deepening in their stomachs like a slow-burning ember. The feeling that Norman was not quite human, that he wasn't bound by the same rules as the rest of them, was more pronounced now than ever.

They had to keep watching. They couldn't let Norman out of their sight.

Without missing a beat, they slid lower in the booth, pulling the paper up just a bit higher to obscure their faces as they listened in. It wasn't the most covert operation, but it would have to do. Eliot couldn't help but feel the weight of the situation settle in. They were spying—no, they were watching Norman. And something about that felt wrong, but at the same time, it felt absolutely necessary.

Mabel and Norman settled into the booth across from them, Mabel animatedly talking, her words flowing in rapid bursts as she recounted something from her day. It was typical Mabel—endless energy and nonsensical chatter that seemed to come from a place of pure optimism. But even as she smiled, her eyes glinted with an edge, a sharpness that Eliot couldn't ignore.

Norman, on the other hand, was still. Too still. He sat in silence, his eyes flicking briefly over to Mabel but not really seeing her, his expression carefully controlled. He was like a statue—so perfect, so polished, with all his faults. And as Mabel prattled on, Norman simply listened, his gaze distant, his posture unyielding. Eliot could almost see the way his presence wrapped around Mabel like a blanket, a protective, cold comfort.

Through the rustle of the newspaper and the hushed voices of the diner, Eliot found himself caught in a strange sense of amusement mixed with anxiety. He couldn't help it—Mabel's conversation was just so out there. It was funny in the way only Mabel's ramblings could be, and yet, somehow, Norman just sat there—stoic and cryptic as ever.

Eliot stifled a laugh. The way Mabel could weave nonsense into something soundingly meaningful was beyond him. She was already plotting their next adventure, already romanticizing the idea. He watched her carefully, his lips twitching as she spoke.

"We should go back to the graveyard after we eat!" she suggested brightly, her eyes shining with the excitement of a new idea. "You know, where we first met! I think it'd be fun to visit it again!"

Eliot visibly cringed at the thought. The graveyard. It was one of those places that had burned itself into his memory—not in a good way. His skin crawled just thinking about it, the way the air always felt heavy, like it carried the weight of things that shouldn't be remembered. The idea of going there felt like a bad omen, a cruel joke that the universe had played on him, drawing him back to a place full of things he desperately wished to forget. But Mabel didn't know that, of course. She saw it as some kind of romantic, adventurous spot, a place where memories could be made, something to laugh about later.

But for Eliot, the only memories he had there were dark ones—ones that crept under his skin and stayed there. The smell of damp earth mixed with something darker—something sour, like decay. He'd spent too many years walking between rows of gravestones, watching his father solemnly preside over yet another funeral, another face buried beneath the cold, lifeless ground. Young, old, and every age in between—he'd seen them all. Each time, he'd been dragged along to help with the preparations, to carry coffins or arrange flowers, to make sure everything was just right for the mourners who'd gather to say their goodbyes.

But all Eliot had ever seen was the emptiness in their faces, the way their bodies slumped into the earth like they were going somewhere far away, never to be seen again. His stomach turned at the memory of the bodies—so still, so pale, so wrong. Some were old, their skin like parchment, fragile and cracked. Others were younger, some of them barely more than kids, their faces frozen in a quiet scream that only he seemed to notice. And then there was the most terrifying of all—the smell. The smell of decay, of life slowly being extinguished, was something that had followed him for weeks after every funeral, sticking to his clothes, sinking into his skin, lingering in his dreams.

He'd had nightmares about the dead bodies long after they were buried—dreams where the corpses weren't quite dead, their eyes still open, staring at him with lifeless gazes. They were always in the same, hollowed-out place in his mind, waiting for him in the graveyard, like it was their home and he was the stranger who didn't belong. The thought of it made his throat tighten, his chest feel like it was caving in. He could feel the suffocating weight of the earth pressing down on him, hear the grinding of the dirt as the coffins were lowered. The thunk of the shovel hitting the wood. He couldn't escape it, not really. Not when his father made him face it over and over again.

The last funeral had been a few months ago, but it still felt fresh. The grieving family, the hollow-eyed mourners, the thick silence that blanketed the air as his father led them through the motions like it was all some scripted act. He hated the formality of it, the way everything was always so proper while the life left their loved ones. His father never showed any emotion—at least, none that Eliot could recognize. It was all about making the arrangements, keeping up appearances. But Eliot didn't see the point in any of it. He didn't care about the flowers or the speeches or the tears that weren't his. The dead didn't need a show of respect; they needed peace. And that was something he could never give them—not in the way his father demanded.

Eliot hated it. He hated every single second of it. The smell, the stench of death in the air, the cold, vacant look in his father's eyes as he carried out his duties. Eliot had wanted to scream every time, but he kept his mouth shut. He always did. His father never took no for an answer. He didn't want to know what it felt like to be involved in someone's death. He didn't want to know what it was like to be there when it happened. It felt... unnatural. Wrong. But every funeral, every burial, was like a slap in the face of whatever humanity he had left. No matter how many times he tried to leave, it always dragged him back.

As Mabel babbled on, Eliot stole a glance at Dipper. They both shared a look, silent and knowing. They both knew that the graveyard wasn't just a place of memories—it was a place of danger. And whatever it was they had uncovered so far, they were certain that it was far from over.

Eliot's brow furrowed, his eyes following Mabel and Norman as they began to leave, their footsteps light and carefree as they made their way toward the graveyard. He glanced back at Dipper, still crouched beside him, both of them hidden behind the thick newspaper that shielded them from view. But the more Eliot thought about it, the more his chest tightened with a sense of dread that he couldn't quite shake. He didn't want to go. He really, really didn't want to.

"Do we really need to follow them there?" Eliot whispered, his voice low and tight with reluctance.

Dipper, oblivious to the depth of Eliot's hesitation, didn't even look up from the newspaper. He just shifted slightly and adjusted his cap with a quick swipe of his hand. "Why wouldn't we?" Dipper replied with his usual straightforwardness, his voice full of that annoying, unstoppable determination. "We need the evidence, Eliot. And it's just a graveyard."

Eliot's fingers clenched, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping. Just a graveyard. He couldn't help but resent the simplicity with which Dipper viewed things. For him, it was just another part of the plan—another step toward uncovering whatever mystery Norman and Mabel were tangled up in. But for Eliot, the graveyard was never just a graveyard. It was the place where his nightmares came alive, the place where the faces of the dead stared back at him, their vacant eyes always demanding to be remembered. He could feel the familiar weight of that darkness pressing in, but he forced the thought aside.

"Yeah, sure," Eliot muttered, his voice flat, though his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. "Let's just get this over with."

With a resigned sigh, Eliot followed Dipper out from their hiding spot in the booth, keeping a safe distance between themselves and the other two. They moved quietly, careful not to attract attention. The quiet murmur of Mabel and Norman's conversation drifted through the night air as they continued their slow march toward the graveyard. Mabel laughed, her voice light and full of life, the sound drifting back to them like an echo of something Eliot couldn't even begin to understand. Meanwhile, Norman remained eerily silent, walking with a strange fluidity that made Eliot's skin prickle.

The graveyard loomed ahead, its dark outline creeping into view as they drew nearer. And though it was still afternoon, the oppressive weight of the place felt tangible, as if the shadows themselves had gathered to wait for them. The trees lining the perimeter swayed gently in the breeze, their branches bending in unnatural ways, like they were trying to shield them from something they couldn't see. Eliot's heart thudded in his chest, the oppressive air thick with the smell of damp earth.

They made their way behind a cluster of tombstones, crouching low behind one of the larger graves, trying to remain as unseen as possible. Eliot's eyes flicked nervously toward Mabel and Norman, who had continued walking ahead, not noticing them at all. But then Mabel did something that made Eliot's stomach twist—she reached out for Norman's hand, and Norman let her take it without hesitation.

They started skipping.

It wasn't just walking. It was skipping, like they were children in a field of wildflowers. Mabel's laughter filled the air like the sound of a bell, clear and light, a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating silence of the graveyard. Her enthusiasm was infectious, but for Eliot, it only made the place feel more unreal, more absurd. Watching them, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. This wasn't right.

He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sense of unease crawling up his spine. He glanced over at Dipper, who had the video camera out, holding it steadily as he aimed it toward Mabel and Norman. The camera's lens caught the soft glow of the setting sun, casting strange shadows across the scene. Eliot could hear the faint whirr of the camera, but his thoughts were far away.

On the fiel, a square patch of earth had been dug out, a void in the ground, its edges dark and raw. It wasn't quite a grave yet—there was no body in the hole—but it didn't matter. Eliot's stomach twisted, the air thick with the scent of freshly disturbed soil. His breath hitched in his throat as he stared at the spot.

Someone had died.

He could feel it like a weight pressing down on him. Whoever it was, their body wasn't there yet, but this was where it would be. This was where the next funeral would take place. And he knew, without even thinking about it, that he'd be the one to help bury them. His hands would place the flowers, his arms would lift the casket, and that thought made a wave of nausea roll through him.

He hated this. He hated everything about it. The smell of the earth, the silence of the graveyard, the thought that someone had left this world and he would be there to witness it. He was so tired of funerals. Of the hollow, lifeless faces that haunted his dreams. Of the cold, empty air. He hated that this was his life, that this was his responsibility.

Dipper, seemingly unaffected by the chill in the air, was still focused on the camera. Eliot's stomach lurched as Mabel and Norman continued to skip toward the hole in the ground, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Mabel, with her endless optimism, with her stupid romantic notions. She didn't understand how everything about this place felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

Then, in a moment that seemed to freeze time, Norman tripped. It was as if the earth itself had conspired against him. One second, he was beside Mabel, skipping like a child, and the next, he was falling forward into the grave.

Dirt flew into the air as he landed, disappearing beneath the earth like he had fallen into a trap. For a moment, everything was still. Mabel's laugh faded, replaced by a slight gasp, and then Norman reappeared, his head rising from the grave as if he had been swallowed by the earth and then spat back out.

But Norman didn't rise the way a person would. No. He rose like something else. His body seemed unnaturally stiff, his limbs moving with an unsettling, jerky motion, like he was some kind of puppet being controlled by invisible strings. It was slow at first, and then—creak, crack—he straightened up, his arms stretching out as if he was waking from a long, unnatural sleep. The way he moved, so stiff, so unnatural, sent an involuntary shiver up Eliot's spine. It was like watching a reanimated corpse rise from the dead.

Norman just... rose. And then Mabel, of course, laughed. She laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen in her life. Like he hadn't just risen from the grave like something out of a nightmare.

"Norman!" Mabel giggled, reaching down to help him out of the hole. "You're so silly!"

Eliot couldn't even process it. The absurdity of the situation was too much. He blinked, his thoughts scrambling, and then Dipper—still hidden behind the tombstone—slapped the camera shut with an exasperated sigh. The action was loud enough that Eliot could feel it vibrate in his chest.

"I've seen enough," Dipper muttered, his voice full of irritation, frustration seeping into his words. He pulled the camera away, his fingers tight around it as he shot a quick glance at Eliot.

Eliot didn't respond right away. He was still staring at Norman, who now stood at the edge of the grave, dusting himself off like he hadn't just done something completely unnatural. Mabel was still laughing, unaware of the weirdness of it all. Eliot's chest felt tight again, that familiar sense of dread seeping into his bones. He hated this. Hated it all.

"We're leaving," Dipper said, his tone sharp, more than a little annoyed. But as he stood up, ready to move, Eliot stayed frozen in place. His mind was still spinning, still struggling to piece together what was happening.

"Yeah," Eliot finally muttered, his voice quieter than usual. "Yeah, let's go."