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Gravity Falls is a small town in Oregon that is rife with gossip and rumors. It sings stories of everyone who has ever set foot within its borders, weaving intricate webs of chatter that nobody can escape.
Ford Pines is no exception.
Apparently, so you’ve heard, he is a recluse researcher interested in the paranormal and weird. He’s supposed to be this sort of genius when it comes to the strange and unexplained. Ford lives in this rundown shack on the outskirts of town that feels like a haunted house from a really low-budget movie.
When you arrived in town to study the occult happenings, everyone recommended you talk to the mysterious Ford Pines. So that’s how you end up on a walk from your house, through the woods, and to the shack. The November morning air was crisp and cold, turning the tip of your nose bright pink and making your fingers stiff. You shoved your hands into your pockets, humming the tune to a pop song you heard on the radio this morning. Your feet crunch dried leaves under your thick boots as you briskly walk towards your destination. It probably would’ve been better to drive here and escape the cold for a while; however, your car got stolen last week by some nefarious creature or troubled teen. So, you have to walk, bundled up in a brown beanie, a thick brown coat, a red scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, black fleece pants, and your steel-toed black boots. The trees in the woods have long lost their leaves, causing the sun to shine in fractal patterns through the bare branches.
So that’s how you ended up on the doorstep of Ford Pines’ shack, hands wringing with anxiety as you try to work up the courage to knock. You rock back and forth from your heels to the balls of your feet. You shake out your hands, crack your knuckles, and knock on the door.
It’s almost instantly that the door swings open, in the doorway stands a disheveled man with large bags under his eyes and unbrushed hair. And, maybe most importantly, he’s pointing a loaded crossbow right at your chest.
“Why are you here?” His voice is terse and aggressive.
“Uhm, I just, are you Ford Pines?” Your voice shakes as you try to respond calmly.
“Yes? What’s your business here?”
“I, well, everyone in Gravity Falls says you study the weird happenings that go on in this town, and, well, I just graduated from university, and I was wondering, if you could teach me some of what you know?”
He studies you again, running his eyes up and down your form, making a shiver run down your spine. You investigate him right back, learning every fold of fabric as you flick your eyes around his disheveled body. Something about the intimacy of this moment, standing in the cold, staring at each other, and analyzing what you find. You haven’t felt the lurch in your stomach since, well, freshman year of university, when you sat next to that pretty girl who smelled of marshmallows. And now you’re feeling it towards another stranger, just this time, he could totally kill you with one flick of his index finger. Maybe that’s part of the feeling now that you think about it.
Ford seems to ponder over all of the information you have given him, and the information he’s gathered himself and lowers the crossbow. “Alright. Come in.”
Inside the shack is as scary as it was on the outside, maybe more. Jars of preserved animals and body parts sat on every surface, and bones littered the floor (you would rather not question where they came from). The carpet looks like it has been stained since the place was built; you don’t even know what color it was supposed to be. Ford led you through the entrance and into the living room, although you could barely call it that. It was a large room with a big maroon couch and an enormous skull that he seemed to be using as a coffee table. No TV, no radio, no entertainment of any kind, just the couch and the skull (and many empty energy drink cans littered around the floor).
Ford gestured towards the couch as he hung up his crossbow. You reluctantly sit down, it absorbs your weight, and you can feel the bottom of the seat bend as you settle in. Ford disappears, leaving you to look around the empty room. You can hear Ford rummaging around in a drawer to find something or other. Once he returns, he holds two journals in his right hand, and it’s then that you notice that he has six fingers on each hand.
“Okay, in these journals, I have been documenting all the strange stuff that has been happening to me in this town, all the weird and spooky happenings.”
He sits close to you on the couch, and a glimmer of excitement shines in his eyes. You can tell he’s passionate about what he works on.
Ford’s left knee softly touches yours, and you doubt he notices the slight touch, but it sends a stream of fire up your leg and into your chest cavity.
“So,” he opens the journal with a large ‘1’ on the cover. “This journal documents my first few years here, mostly surface-level stuff, nothing too crazy. If you want to study the occult here, I suggest keeping a log of what you’ve found. It makes it easier to collect all your data in one place.”
He continues rambling on about his journals and his findings, and how to document what you find. It’s all very interesting, but if you’re honest, it’s hard for your brain to focus on all the large words spilling from his lips. Your brain swims in the pink haze of a silly crush, your nerves on jumping at every word he speaks.
It becomes evident that while you were in fantasy land, he had asked you a question, face and hands paused for an answer.
“I’m sorry I got distracted. What did you just say?” His face falls slightly before he can catch it and correct its course.
“I was just asking if your eyes were really two different colors or if it was some kind of contacts?”
“Oh! Yeah, I was born with this.” You are suddenly very self-conscious of your heterochromia, even after years of therapy to unlearn bullies’ harsh words, and you feel your confidence wash away with a wave of embarrassment.
“No, no, don’t feel bad.” It’s like he could sense your humiliation. He holds up one of his six-fingered hands and wiggles the long digits. “See, I’m an anomaly too! I think that’s why folks like us like this place, it’s like a magnet for the unusual.”
You smile, a light blush setting in over your cheeks and nose, face warm to the touch.
“Hey, I’ve got some research to do on gnomes if you want to help me?”
“I would love to.”