Chapter 1: 0.1 Welcome to the Mystery Shack
Summary:
Where the goat acts like a goat.
Chapter Text
Gravity Falls, Oregon.
Where a peaceful and uneventful summer suddenly decided to turn into a living nightmare.
"AAAAAAAHHH!" — two voices screamed in terror as the golf cart smashed into a road sign and veered off a cliff.
The cart swerved, bounced off a bump, and the driver — a boy in a green hoodie, gripping the wheel like his life depended on it (which it maybe did) — jerked it sharply to the right.
"Another shot! Duck!"
His sneakers were way too bright for someone with that much panic in his eyes, and there was a faint smell of antiseptic on his sleeves — because he was the kind of guy who liked to be prepared for everything. Well, almost everything. Definitely not this.
He was the third rider on this family rollercoaster. The one who was supposed to be the voice of reason. But reason had shaky hands right now. And he was still holding that cursed wheel.
"He's climbing in my facе! MY FACE!" — the driver floored the gas pedal as the golf cart tore down the forest trail, bouncing over roots.
"He’s scratching!" — yelled the boy in the cap, trying to pull off a gnome that was clinging to his head, that shrieking, "I shall turn you into a flower crown!"
"Get off, you tiny freak!" — a girl with braces in an overly bright sweater reached across the seats, whacking the gnome with a plush flamingo.
Behind them — a huge shadow. A very angry shadow. Personally offended. And, oh, what was that? Flying pine tree?
"This… this is not the summer I dreamed of!" — Matthew shouted, swerving hard right to avoid a tree.
"Have you even ever driven before?!" — Dipper roared, prying off the gnome, — "MY EYES!"
"On simulator Toyota Tracker 3! It’s almost the same!"
This could’ve been a normal family trip.
But when you’re a Pines, even a stroll through the woods turns into an escape from a monster weirdly obsessed with little girls.
Welcome to my vacation.
My name is Matthew Pines.
And I did not sign up for this.
---
A few days earlier…
"I still don’t get why we couldn’t go to the beach," Matthew mumbled, sprawled on the back seat of an old interstate bus. He was mindlessly pressing buttons on his console, watching the Tetris blocks fall just as fast as his hopes for a normal summer.
Beside him, Mabel was braiding colorful strands of yarn using the window as a mirror. Homemade bracelets sparkled on her elbows, and stars adorned her cheeks.
"Because Mom and Dad decided to send us into nature," Dipper reminded yet again, not looking up from his Oregon travel guide. "And boom — now we're going to Gravity Falls".
"That name is suspicious", Matthew muttered. "Gravity. Falls. It literally sounds like an accident report."
The bus came to a squeaky stop in front of a building. Or more like… a wooden thing covered in signs and a desperate attempt to look like a tourist miracle.
"And here’s our new home!" — Mabel squealed, already at the door, bouncing with excitement.
"You sure this isn’t a horror movie set?" — Matthew whispered, grabbing his bag.
"This… looks promising," Dipper said slowly, squinting at the faded signs. “Mystery Shack".
Of course. What could possibly go wrong in a place with that name?
They hadn’t even reached the porch when the door swung open.
"Here come my brand-new unpaid employees!" — boomed a voice that probably once sold insurance or cheap carpets.
A man stood before them, of indeterminate age, wearing a tank top, shorts, and a fez.
"I’m your Great Uncle Stan. Welcome to the Mystery Shack. Now grab a mop and get to the magic of cleaning!"
"Very promising," Matthew whispered to Dipper, who elbowed him in response.
---
The Mystery Shack turned out to be part haunted antique store, part grandma’s attic. Matthew glanced around at the wooden interior, weird stuffed animals, and signs like “100% Real” and “Do Not Kick the Gnome.” It looked like a museum curated by someone with questionable taste — or amazing business instincts.
"This place is… weird," he muttered. But there was a glint of curiosity in his voice. Or at least interest in the cash register, which looked suspiciously like an old arcade machine.
"Settle in. Rooms are upstairs. I’ve got work for you too, so you’ll get acquainted with the joys of manual labor real soon."
"I can’t believe this is our summer," Dipper sighed.
"I can," Matthew replied, still eyeing the register. "Nothing surprises me after Dad gave me a book called ‘How to Be an Accountant’ for my tenth birthday."
"Well, I think it’ll be fun!" — Mabel cheered, spreading her arms. — "New place, new people, maybe a new boyfriend!"
"Oh no…" — both brothers thought in sync.
---
The attic greeted them with silence, dust… and a goat. A real one. With a smug face and the firm stance of someone who owned this territory.
Mabel was already unpacking, throwing around colorful socks and a collection of shiny stickers.
"I love this attic!" — she shouted, standing on her bed and hanging up posters. — "Look at all my splinters!" She raised her arms proudly, displaying several painful-looking wooden souvenirs. — "I’m like a hedgehog — but fashionable!"
"And on my bed… a goat," Dipper said grimly.
"Hi, buddy," Mabel cooed, stepping closer. The goat leaned in and began chewing her sleeve. "Oh yeah, go ahead," she giggled. "That was my least favorite sweater anyway."
Matthew settled on the third bed — the one nearest the window. He carefully tested the springs.
"I’m not an expert," he muttered, pulling out his console, "but on the ‘summer cabin’ scale, this feels like something from a horror exhibit."
"Still better than a tent in the rain," Dipper noted, watching the goat now comfortably lounging on his pillow.
"Or summer accounting school," Matthew added, starting his game. "So yeah, it has potential."
---
Dipper stood at the edge of the bed like he was trying to solve an equation with three variables and one stubborn goat. He tugged on the blanket that the animal clutched tightly in its mouth, staring at him with unshakable resolve.
"Let. Me. Sleep," Dipper growled, gently pulling.
The goat yanked back, gripping tightly, as if it wasn’t just fabric, but an ancient relic passed down to her by her goat ancestors.
"It’s a deadlock," Matthew reported, eyes still on his game. "I suggest surrender. That goat’s eyes say ‘i'm two-time tug-of-war champion.’"
"Not today, horned tyrant," Dipper hissed, suddenly grabbing the blanket with both hands and pulling hard.
The goat… snorted. Or something like that.
The fabric stretched to its limit.
"Reinforcements incoming!" Mabel shouted, diving into the battle with a yell worthy of a cartoon superhero.
She grabbed the other end and tugged. The goat snorted again, but Mabel’s strength won out — the blanket slipped from its jaws.
In a flash, the twins crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, elbows, and rainbow socks. The goat, now bored, sauntered away with a tuft of fur left behind and a moral victory that didn’t really compensate for the bruised elbow.
"Ugh…" Dipper groaned. "Did I win?"
"We won," Mabel said wisely. "Teamwork. And one chewed-up sweater."
Matthew finally looked up from his console.
"You just lost round one to a goat. Welcome to the Mystery Shack."
He rolled onto his side, hiding a smile under the blanket as the twin protests echoed through the attic.
Chapter 2: 0.2 The Mystery Shack: Where Common Sense Takes a Vacation, and You Take a Shift
Summary:
Working at the Mystery Shack is like summer camp — except instead of friendship, you get responsibilities, instead of sleep, a goat, and instead of a counselor, you get Grunkle Stan.
Chapter Text
The first morning at the Mystery Shack feels a lot like waking up after a shipwreck. You don’t know where you are, why there’s a goat nearby, and why you’re holding a sock. Hopefully, it’s your sock.
Matthew opened one eye. Then the other. Then shut both again — a sunbeam was hitting him right in the forehead with mathematical precision, like someone upstairs had calculated the trajectory on purpose. Unsurprising, considering his bed was directly under the attic window, unlike his siblings’ beds, which were cozily tucked away in shady corners. And he got the full "Good Morning, You're Toast" experience.
"Meeeeh..." he groaned, either protesting or in imitation of the goat, which was lounging on the nearby trunk and seemed to be deliberately ignoring all rules of personal space.
Somewhere in the corner, Mabel was already bustling. She was singing something colorful, pulling on mismatched socks, and trying on heart-shaped sunglasses.
"Good morning, planet Earth!" she chirped, striking a cartoonish pose and bouncing on the bed. Matthew would never understand where she got so much energy this early in the day.
"You're put on socks from different sets again," Dipper said wearily without looking up from his notebook. He was already scribbling something — a plan for the day, maybe, or yet another table titled "Me vs. The Mysterious Truth of This Town." He too was suspiciously active for someone who’d spent the night wrestling a goat.
"It’s a fashion rebellion against mundanity," Mabel replied proudly.
"It’s chromatic terrorism," Matthew muttered from under the blanket.
Dragging himself out of his fabric cocoon, he began descending the ladder. The experience felt like a horror game — creaking floorboards, dust, and the ever-present feeling something was going to jump out at him from behind the corner. Possibly Stan in a bathrobe. Which, let’s be honest, was equally terrifying. Thankfully, it didn’t happen.
He made it to the kitchen and collapsed at the table with all the grace of a creature done with life. Head on arms. Eyes half-open. He was doing his best impression of a dinner table decoration. Possibly more convincing than some of the "ancient artifacts" in the museum room.
Dipper was flipping through a magazine — no one knew where it came from. Maybe he found it under the floorboards. Or maybe it was just another journal repurposed before breakfast. Mabel was glowing with joy because… well, she’s Mabel.
And then, right on schedule, Uncle Stan entered the room.
In a bathrobe. With mismatched socks. Holding a newspaper that shed crumbs with every step, and wearing the expression of a man who refused to acknowledge mornings as a valid concept.
“You ready yet?” Stan barked. “This Shack isn’t going to scam tourists by itself!”
“Good morning, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel beamed.
“Morning,” Dipper added.
“Mmhm,” Matthew grunted, not lifting his head.
“Where are my helpers? Where’s the enthusiasm? Where’s… literally anyone who can count change?”
And just like that, as if someone flipped a switch, Matthew straightened up. His blanket slid off like a dramatic reveal. He yawned, stood tall, and activated his best customer service mode:
“I can count money,” he declared with mock seriousness, “especially if it’s not mine.”
Stan smirked and gave a nod.
“Kid’s hired.”
---
“And here are our recruits,” Stan announced proudly as the triplets entered the main hall — the temple of capitalist wonder. He slapped the counter, and a coin shot into the air, which he caught like it was all part of the act.
“Meet the staff. This is Soos. He’s our tech guy, handyman, electrician, and fixer of things. Sometimes even things that aren’t broken.”
“Yo, dudes!” said the large man in a baseball cap, sporting the warmest smile Matthew had ever seen. “Don’t worry if you break something. I’ve got special glue.”
“I wanna break something beautiful!” Mabel said with glee.
“I just wanna survive,” Dipper muttered, backing away from a suspiciously creaky cabinet — which creaked back, offended.
“And this is Wendy. She’s a teenager who is officially employed, but unofficially part of the furniture,” Stan added, pointing to the redhead leaning against the wall like it was holding her up by mutual agreement.
“Sup,” she said with a lazy nod. “I can teach you how to look like you're working even when you're asleep with your eyes open.”
“Useful skill,” Matthew said respectfully. “My dream is to reach that level of enlightened apathy.”
“And my dream is for you to get to work,” Stan clapped his hands. “Dipper, you're sorting ‘Ask the Magic Raccoon’ postcards. Mabel, you’re in the ‘Cursed Plushies’ department. Matthew — cash register. If someone actually buys something, it’s a miracle. But hey, you like miracles, right?”
“Especially the kind where I do nothing,” Matthew admitted as he slumped into position. The buttons on the ancient register blinked conspiratorially. They probably wanted to nap too.
---
There were three customers.
The first — an elderly tourist hunting for “local yetis.”
The second — a woman demanding a refund for her “evil eye necklace” because her dog wouldn’t stop barking at the fridge.
The third — a child claiming to have seen a real gnome. Or become one.
Mabel was convincing the child that she was a gnome. She even did a somersault.
Dipper was arguing with the magic raccoon toy, which answered every question with “No.”
Wendy read a comic book upside down.
Soos repaired the gumball machine — with a sledgehammer.
And Matthew tried to look useful. At least to the goat.
At some point, Mabel tried to sell a tourist a popsicle:
“It’s not just ice! It’s a witch’s tear, kept in Nostradamus’s freezer!” she declared like a street vendor of legendary relics.
“It’s ice from the freezer,” Matthew said flatly, holding a “Do Not Feed the Goat” sign. The goat promptly ate the sign. Out of protest, presumably.
Dipper, unlike the rest, was trying to impose order on chaos. He had a notebook, a schedule, a to-do list, and a little checkbox next to “Survive this circus.”
“Mabel, don’t forget to give the guy his change,” he reminded her.
“What if I give it to him in candy and hugs?”
“Then I’ll log it as an economic disaster.”
He glanced at Matthew, who was idly swinging his leg, eyes still on the goat.
“What are you doing, Matt?”
“I’m performing a critical function,” Matthew said seriously. “I’m watching to make sure the goat doesn’t eat the inventory. Look at her eyes. That’s the look of revolution. She’s planning an uprising.”
“Baa-aah,” commented the goat, peeking from behind the counter with a price tag stuck to her horn.
Dipper sighed and disappeared deeper into the store with the weary air of someone who might have to save the world.
---
By evening, the triplets collapsed back in the attic.
Mabel starfish-sprawled across the floor, taking up maximum space. Dipper settled in the corner like a retired professor — book, bookmarks, and the aura of someone who had seen too much. Matthew lay on the bed, game controller in hand, wearing the face of a man victorious (in one out of five levels).
“I sold the popsicle for eighteen bucks and a donut!” Mabel reported proudly, eyes still closed.
“That wasn’t a donut, Mabel. That was a button,” Dipper corrected without looking up.
“Then I scored a button too! I’m a genius!”
Matthew covered his face with one hand.
“I saw the goat with a sign that said ‘Freedom.’ I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“How about you, Dipper?” Mabel asked. “Did the magic raccoon help you find the meaning of life?”
“He said ‘No’ to every question. Even to ‘Are you a raccoon?’” Dipper sighed, lowering his book. “I think it’s a philosophy.”
“Or just a broken circuit,” Matthew snorted.
A pause settled. That kind of summer pause. Trees rustled softly outside. An owl hooted in the distance. Everything about this evening was peaceful and quiet.
Too peaceful. Like the calm before a storm.
Or a date.
Chapter 3: 0.3 Eeny-Meeny and Other Ways to Ruin a Day
Summary:
Workdays in Gravity Falls: when you choose not the task, but the way to avoid it.
Chapter Text
The workday at the Mystery Shack started with the jingle of the entrance bells—and with Dipper drafting a visitor service schedule for the next three weeks in just ten minutes.
“Organization is the key to order!” he declared confidently, handing everyone a notebook as if they were receiving honorary diplomas.
Mabel, without hesitation, decorated hers with rainbow, cat, and heart stickers, then scrawled across the top in marker: “Plan for Fun Shenanigans.”
Matthew used his notebook as a soda coaster and acted like that was precisely its intended purpose.
Soon Soos walked into the shop—handyman of all things and master of none. He carried a load of tools and gear, clearly sent to assign chores, most likely at Stan’s request.
“Dipper, your zone is the jars with eyeballs,” he announced solemnly, handing over a spray bottle like it was a legendary sword. “Make sure they sparkle at the customers.”
Mabel was entrusted with a box of glitter, a task Matthew wouldn’t have given her if he were in their shoes.
“Your job is to make the ‘I Survived the Mystery Shack’ T-shirt zone more... sparkly!” came Stan’s voice as he appeared behind the counter like magic, holding a coffee mug.
“At last, my talents are needed!” Mabel beamed, diving into the glitter with the enthusiasm of a unicorn rider galloping across a rainbow.
Matthew… got a broom.
He stared at it. Then at the floor. Then back at the broom.
“What if I just say everything’s already clean and doesn’t need sweeping?”
“Then you’ll be cleaning the windows from the outside. And might I remind you, we’ve got an owl out there that’s not very fond of strangers,” Stan replied calmly, sipping his coffee.
“Already sweeping,” Matthew said immediately and lazily began moving the broom around the floor, putting in just enough effort to fake a sense of productivity.
At the counter, Wendy watched the chaos unfold while leaning on her mop, not bothering to hide her smirk.
“So, soldiers, ready for the great tourist onslaught?”
“Yeah,” Matthew muttered, eyes still on the floor. "As long as the onslaught keeps a social distance"
---
Matthew swept the souvenir shop floor slowly, checking the clock every two minutes—nursing unrealistic hopes and broken dreams of slacking off. The broom clicked lightly against something soft and shoed. He looked down from the clock.
“Mabel, what are you—” he began, but didn’t finish.
“Shh!” she hissed, grabbing his collar and yanking him down toward her hiding spot. His face ended up dangerously close to a display of Uncle Stan figurines, which he nearly toppled.
“Give some warning next time you attack,” he grumbled, slipping from her grasp and adjusting his shirt.
“He’s interested! He’s interested!” she whispered excitedly, eyes fixed on a specific point in the store.
Matthew followed her gaze toward a sweaty-haired boy, about twelve years old, nervously twisting a note in his hands and reading aloud:
“Do you like me? Yes? Definitely? Absolutely?”
He looked like he was about to evaporate from embarrassment.
Matthew stood up from their makeshift bunker and crossed his arms.
“I’m surprised you didn’t add, ‘Sign here for a free kiss.’”
Behind them, Dipper’s tired voice rang out:
“Mabel, I know you’re in your ‘boy-crazy’ phase, but don’t you think this is a bit much?”
“What?” Mabel gasped, approaching her brothers like a romantic martyr. “Come on! It’s our first summer away from home! This is my big chance for an epic, all-consuming, movie-worthy summer romance!”
“You don’t have to flirt with everyone you meet.”
“And maybe start with something simpler—like learning not to throw boys into display cases,” Matthew noted dryly.
“Or not launching them onto the postcard stand,” Dipper added, still armed with his spray bottle.
“And maybe don’t pursue the guy who carried around a turtle,” Matthew shook his head. “Even the turtle looked like it wanted out.”
“Oh, and the Mattress Prince…” Dipper shuddered. “That was just too much.”
“You’re just jealous,” Mabel huffed, arms crossed. “I have a great feeling about this summer. Wouldn’t be surprised if the man of my dreams walked in right now.” She dramatically pointed her thumb toward the museum entrance behind her.
The twins looked skeptically at her, then turned their gaze to the doorway.
The door swung open—and in came... Uncle Stan. He was carrying a load of signs and looked like he’d just lost a fight with a burrito. He burped. Then burped again. And maybe a third time, just to be sure.
“Oh... no... good...” he muttered, clutching his stomach.
“Oh no, not this,” Mabel groaned, covering her face.
Dipper burst out laughing, and Matthew couldn’t resist commenting:
“Don't refuse until you try it," he said with mock innocence, sparking another round of laughter from Dipper and Mabel’s ultimate surrender.
“Alright, back to work,” Stan barked, ignoring the clear lack of enthusiasm. “I need someone to go post these signs in the creepy part of the woods. Volunteers?”
“Not me,” Matthew said crisply, stepping back.
“Not me,” echoed Dipper, raising his hand.
“Not me!” Mabel chimed in belatedly, hand shooting up.
“Eh, I’m out too,” came Soos’ voice from the corner, where he was installing a shelf that was either decor or a tourist trap.
“Nobody asked you, Soos,” Stan growled, eyeing him with annoyance—but not ready to give up yet.
“I know. I’m cool with that,” Soos replied with content nonchalance, pulling out a chocolate bar and taking a bite.
Sometimes Matthew wished he could be Soos. Or at least a shelf. They seemed to have more stability—and screws—than he did.
“Wendy!” Stan shouted toward the register. “I need you to put up these signs!”
“I’d love to,” she drawled, not looking up from her magazine, “But, oof, I just, oof, can’t... reach...” She lazily waved a hand in the direction of the signs without budging.
“I’d fire all of you if I could,” Stan growled, then sighed and turned to the triplets. “Fine… let’s see who the lucky hero is…”
He clasped his fingers together, waving them back and forth like a shaman choosing a sacrifice.
“Eeny-meeny…” he began.
Matthew silently promised himself: if it lands on him, he’s going to start coughing, collapse, and pretend to be a log.
“…miny-moe…” Stan continued, swinging his fingers like a pendulum of doom, “…catch a tiger by the toe… You’re it!”
He pointed one hand at Matthew and the other at Dipper, like he was tossing darts at targets. Or selecting victims for a ritual, not just sending nephews to hang signs.
Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a miserable, “Wait, can we… skip the ‘you’re it’ part?”
Stan was already turning away. Fate was sealed. The film was rolling. Was it too late to pretend to be dead?
“Uncle Stan, every time I’m in those woods, I feel like I’m being watched,” Dipper said, glancing around nervously.
“Oh, not this again,” Stan rubbed his temples like it was muscle memory. Clearly, Dipper’s paranoia had become part of the scenery—like the creaky floorboard or the goat sleeping on the TV.
“I’m serious! Something weird’s going on in this town,” Dipper insisted, rolling up his sleeve and showing his arm, covered in mosquito bites. “Today, my bites formed the word ‘BEWARE’!”
Matthew stepped closer, out of sheer respect for the art. Mosquito horror—that was new. And the arm really was covered in bites, laid out not so much ominously as… artistically. Or accidentally. Or maybe both.
“Oh yeah, for sure,” Matthew said, backing away. “I’m out. If someone’s sending mosquitoes as omens of doom, I’m washing my hands. And feet. And leaving.”
Stan squinted, leaned closer to Dipper’s arm, and let out something between a cough and a laugh.
“It says ‘BEWARB.’”
“What…?” Dipper trailed off, staring at his hand. “No way… oh.”
“You know what’s scary?” Matthew jumped in, as if clinging to the last hope to delay the inevitable trip into the woods. “Not that mosquitoes bite you. It’s that they apparently attend grammar classes.”
“Listen, you two,” Stan interrupted, “this whole ‘monsters in the woods’ thing is just a handy scary story guys like me tell to sell merch to guys like he.”
He pointed to another tourist who was reverently studying Stan’s mini figurines like they were sacred relics.
“So quit being paranoid,” he grumbled, and shoved a bundle of signs into Dipper’s hands — like a sentence signed in wood — and handed Matthew a hammer with a box of nails. “Alright, junior rangers, off you go. Happy trails.”
“I object,” Matthew declared at once, raising the hand that held the hammer. “This violates my rights as a child being forced to vacation. I signed up for summer laziness, not a forest expedition.”
“Objection overruled,” Stan said without even turning around. He walked off, leaving behind an air of finality. Matthew didn’t even get the chance to swoon dramatically.
He watched him go, then looked at the signs, then at the forest — and back at the signs. Then he turned to Mabel and added, just in case:
“If we’re not back in two hours — just make sure the goat doesn’t eat my console. Or my comics.”
“Don’t worry,” Mabel replied cheerfully, fishing out that very notebook — the one sacrificed to stickers. “Option A: balloons. Option B: catapult. Option C: just scream really loud. Working title: Operation ‘AAAAH!’”
“We’re doomed,” Dipper muttered, staring at the ceiling.
“Don’t say that,” said Matthew. “Say: ‘We’re almost doomed.’ It sounds more optimistic.”
---
Mabel watched as her brothers — one with signs, the other with a flashlight and a face full of resignation — disappeared through the door. She sighed theatrically and leaned on the counter.
“It’s always the same,” she muttered. “Some of us have romantic plans, and some of us get the creepy woods.”
The goat next to her bleated loudly and headbutted the “magic crystals” display, knocking one rock straight into Mabel’s palm.
“Thanks, Goaty, you always know how to cheer me up,” she said, closing her hand around the crystal. “Okay, if fate won’t hand me the perfect boyfriend… maybe I’ll just make one!”
She cast a sly look at the pile of postcards that said things like “You’ve enchanted my heart” and “You’ve got the face I want to see all summer.”
“It’s time… for Operation: Charm 3000!”
The goat simply kept chewing on the edge of the rug.
Skele_girl999 on Chapter 3 Mon 12 May 2025 01:46PM UTC
Last Edited Mon 12 May 2025 01:46PM UTC
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