Playing with Fire

Chapter 5: The End of the Beginning

Inside the house it was dark. Nothing more than a few beams of yellow, late afternoon sunlight managed to pierce the shadows that filled the rooms. What meager illumination they emitted was enough to help us navigate the belly of this wooden, many-roomed monster, but just barely. Dust floated about like gray snow. Webs stretched across the beams above. Old, knotted pine lined the walls (save for the north wall, which was smothered with flattened rock) and filled our noses with its sweet, spicy scent. Below our feet, the floorboards squeaked, some life still left in them despite their years of disuse and what I assumed was abandonment.

Stanford and I wandered around the first room, eyes trying to catch every detail they could. It was a relatively large room, about twenty feet wide and twenty feet deep. On the east side was another, smaller door. I walked over to it, intrigued by the alternating orange and green triangles within the door's window. To its left was a separate window, but rectangular with a lattice design.

I paced over and stared through it. Outside, the Sun was just beginning to touch the pointed tips of the trees. As I continued to marvel at the house's natural surroundings, my negative feelings about this place were quelled. For a fleeting moment, at least, until I realized there was a large crack in the glass.

"Sure is a big house." Stanford mumbled somewhere close behind.

Belinda neared us and admired the view herself, faint light outlining her face and bringing warmth to her dark eyes. "Yep. One of the biggest I've ever sold, in fact. Surprised it's been on the market this long. Thought there'd at least be someone who'd take pity on this old place and fix it up."

Stanford turned to her. "That'd be us, ma'am."

"Well, I'll tell you this: you've gotta lot of work ahead of you, kids. Typically I'd tell my clients how much potential it has, and how there's lots of room for them to make it how they want it, but... well, I'm not gonna feed you that crap."

"It'd be pretty hard to convince him to like it, anyways." Stanford replied, pointing at me, and then leaned in close to whisper into Belinda's ear. "My brother's a bit of a killjoy, if ya know what I mean."

"I'm right here, you know."

We spent a lot of time in that big room, Stanford pretending I hadn't heard his 'comment', checking out every nook and cranny, sweeping away spider webs and sneezing from the dust. When we were done, Belinda strode over to us with a faint smile on her face.

"So, you boys ready to seal the deal?"

"Wait, before we buy this place, I have a few questions." I asked her.

"Shoot 'em."

My hand flew to my chin and I rubbed it in thought, combing through my head for anything I might want to know. "Well... how's the plumbing?"

Mrs. Blubs' face scrunched with unease. I could tell from her expression that I wasn't going to get an answer I wanted to hear. Still, I didn't let up my questioning stare but I didn't push her, either; I just waited calmly for what I knew would spoil what little good opinion I had left about this house.

"Well... the plumbing's bad. The showers work but the water that comes out is unfiltered. Meaning that you'll be bathin' in water that doesn't have a filtration system in it, nor will it be soft water. When water isn't filtrated, it could get stuff like-"

"Stuff like bacteria, grime, minerals, etcetera..." Stanford added. "We know. Our Dad is a plumber."

"And the toilets?" I asked.

"Don't work. You'll have to use the outhouse until you get 'em fixed."

Stanford and I stared at each other, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. This house was in a terrible state of disrepair, first of all. But even the plumbing didn't work? Something as necessary and basic as that? I could tell he was getting more and more worried that I'd throw in the towel; that I'd give up on this old shack and get a job somewhere else. Stanford himself didn't know exactly why he was so set on it, but there was something about the house that he... actually liked. I have to admit that I thought it was cool, too - at least a little bit - but taking on a project this big was something middle aged people with too much money and too much time did. We were just starting out, young and not well-versed in the ways of the world. Plus, we didn't have the financial means to buy another house if something went wrong with this one.

Like the roof collapsing in on us, for example. Or getting mauled by a rabid raccoon in the middle of the night because it'd climbed through a broken window. Or, God forbid, us getting robbed of what little we had because the locks were busted on our doors.

Then again, we didn't have the money to buy anything better, either. Nor was there anything else to even buy. Deep in my gut, I knew that this was our only option.

But deep in my heart, I also knew that this pile of warped wood and spider webs and dust and cracked glass and bugs and grime and leaky pipes and who knows WHAT else was something that my brother had big plans for. I could see it in his eyes; that dopey, sappy sort-of-sad look that always hit his face when he was down. Finally, I gave in. I turned back to Belinda and nodded. "Alright. We can handle that. How's the electricity?"

"It works, but most of the bulbs are burnt out."

"Bugs? Any infestations?"

Belinda shifted uncomfortably. "Not an infestation, but this house hasn't been lived in for at least a few years. Usually there are some critters that move in when humans aren't around."

I was going to ask more about it, but I stopped myself and, instead, asked, "Can I talk to my brother for a second?"

"Well, he's right here-"

"Alone?"

Mrs. Blubs took the hint and, after giving us an awkward smile, said she'd go outside and wait for our answer. As the door shut behind her, Stanford looked to me with hopeful brown eyes, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and said, "So, what do you think?"

"Honestly? I think it's a dump."

"What!?" he replied, somewhat hurt.

"Look, Stanford, you can be as optimistic and unrealistic about this house as you want, but you have to admit that there's a lot of risk in this."

He shuffled around and cast his sight to the floor. "Yeah."

I took a step closer towards him. "It's a big gamble." I paused to motion towards the room around us. "We haven't even seen the rest of the house, and I can tell you this right now: it's going to take a lot of hard work to turn this place into something we can actually live in."

"I know."

"So, there are three things that have to happen before I agree to buying this house. Three."

Stanford looked up once more. "I'm listenin'."

"First of all, you have to take responsiblity for the repairs. I'll help as much as I can, but my main focus is my job. There's no way that I'll be able to do it all by myself."

He nodded.

"Secondly, we can't spend boatloads of money on extravagant things. Most of any extra money we earn... well, what I earn, has to go towards repairs, new furniture, and other household stuff."

"Got it. What's the third?"

I got up close to him and put my hands on his shoulders, eyes staring straight into his. Amusement trickled through my veins as he became uncomfortable; he feared that my next criteria was something serious or strict. But, as a sly smile crept onto my face, his expression changed into one that was more confused.

"Stanley? What... what is it?"

"Last but not least, I get to have first pick when it comes to our bedrooms."

There was a short, silent pause as what I'd said settled into Stanford's mind. Then, realizing what it meant, he pulled me into a huge, lung-crushing hug with his beefy arms and repeatedly said, "Thank you! Oh my God, I thought you'd never say yes!"

I twitched my arm and rasped, "Awkward... sibling hug. Need... air..."

"Oh, sorry."

My older twin set me back down onto the wood floor and, once there, he brushed off my shoulders and apologized again. "I just... I was just excited, you know?"

"You always were the emotional one." I remarked with a grin, adjusted my glasses (they'd been skewed from the force of the hug), and started walking towards the door.

"Hey..." Stanford replied, following me, pointing at me as if giving blame while he paced alongside me. "You're the one that started that whole 'awkward sibling hug' thing. Remember? It was that time that Randy kid in fourth grade beat the livin' daylights outta you and I stepped in and saved you."

"I try not to remember that, thank you very much."

"Yeah, well... I do. After I sent him screamin' down the road for his 'mommy', you gave a pitiful little sniffle and asked if you could have a hug. I remember it as clear as day. You spread your arms out and muttered, 'Awkward sibling hug?'."

"Yeah, well," I paused to open the front door. "You're the one that agreed to it."

I emerged from the house and was now outside, left hand on the door and keeping it open for Stanford. But as I waited, staring ahead, none of the door's weight was lifted by another hand. I twisted my head back to see Stanford just standing on the inside.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Oh," he replied, looking around dreamily with a smug smile on his face. "Just revelin' in the fact that I actually convinced you to take a risk, for once in your life."

"Shut up and get out here before I change my mind, then." I answered light-heartedly.

"You got it, Stannie Boy."

The next hour and a half was spent getting the briefcase out from the back of the Galaxie, fiddling with its lock, and filling out paperwork on clipboards Belinda had handed us. Stanford sped through the agreements, but I made sure to read them, word-for-word, and then, knowing that there were no tricks to the deal, carefully signed my signature on each and every paper. At the end, we handed her the money; all eleven thousand dollars of it, knowing full well that we were taking a huge risk in buying this house but, after giving each other reassuring looks, realizing that we didn't care. We had each other's backs and, with the money I'd make at my job, we'd have enough to fix it up and live comfortably. As the day had started to die, the sky bleeding red and orange and seeping into the valley, Belinda wished us good luck (assuring us that we 'were gonna need it'). My twin and I nodded and, side by side on the sagging porch, a huge weight lifting from our shoulders, watched her walk down the long path from our house to Gopher Road.

She disappeared.

We unloaded everything from the Galaxie, Stanford lifting the especially heavy stuff and I holding the door open for him or sorting our things into neat piles once they were inside. By the time we'd finished, the car was safely locked and our meager belongings were all within the house in a large clump, the deed to what I'd considered our 'shack', its blue ink contrasting against its new, white paper, nestled on top of the pile. Twilight eclipsed the sky outside. My twin and I, tired from driving and moving and worrying and lifting and running back and forth and back again, laid on the dirty wood floor a few feet apart and let our bodies enjoy a sweet, long-awaited rest. We didn't say anything, though; just sat there and watched dust gently float from the rafters, like children mesmerized by the year's first snowfall after having endured a long, dull, dead Autumn.

The sky had turned dark by the time our next words pierced the silence.

"So," Stanford began, one arm beneath his head and the other laid across his stomach. "I suppose we'd better designate all the rooms."

"Designate?" I turned my face and asked. "What do you mean?"

"You know, run through 'em like crazy and figure out which rooms are which."

"Oh."

We got up slowly and gathered our wits. Stanford told me to bring a pencil and my 'nerd book' (which, in truth, was just a doodling pad slash diary-esque, leather-bound notebook I'd kept with me for many years). I grabbed it from my suitcase. Then, excitement returning to our faces, we barreled through the shack like we were kids again. Running. Peeking around corners. Scrambling up stairs. Playfully shoving each other out of the way as we raced from room to room. Along the way, I made a rough map of the house in my notebook and scribbled room names; kitchen, bathroom one, hall one, creepy hall two, living room...

Finally, at the end of it and after arguing over who got the bedroom on the second floor with the bathroom attached (which I decided, using the third rule I'd established before I agreed to buy the house, was mine), we came upon the last door.

It was on the bottom floor, on the room that hosted the back eastern entrance. In fact, there were two doors there, beside one another, the right-most leading to the living room.

But the left one?

I reached forward and wrapped my fingers around the ice-cold, rusted, gold handle and turned. But it didn't turn with me. I tugged and twisted it, but to no avail; it just wouldn't budge. We eventually gave up after many minutes of pulling the handle. Or trying to pry it open. Heck, even Stanford's paper clip lockpicking skills were no match for the door. For some strange reason, the lock's inner mechanism was unique; one that neither of us had encountered before.

"Tough little bastard..." Stanford spat after another unsuccessful try.

My curiosity had been piqued, but before I could ponder the possibilities, my brother muttered, "Eh, it's probably just some stupid, empty basement, anyways. We wouldn't even need it."

"Hey," I replied. "What if we need some place to store stuff?"

Stanford raised his brow and gave a gesturing glance around. "In a house THIS big? We'll have plenty of room to store things."

I leaned over and tried to peer through the keyhole, but saw only a thick darkness beyond; whatever laid on the other side of that door was a mystery. Why had it been locked? Why did the previous owners install a lock like that? Where was the key?

"Even so, it's kinda weird. I mean, people are gonna walk in this house and be like, 'What the hell's this door for?', and then we'd have to explain every single time that we don't have a clue."

I turned to him, expression curved with confusion. "What should we do with it, then?"

"Well, if we can't ever get it open, we should put somethin' in front of it."

"Like what?"

Stanford stared at the door for a bit, racking his brain for ideas. Finally, his face brightened with realization and he blurted, "I know! Let's put a vending machine in front of it!"

Of all the things we could do, he suggested a vending machine. A sort of lighthearted mocking sensation flared up within me. Leave it to Stanford to suggest something strange like that.

"A vending machine? Are you sure? Why not something... more normal? Like a bookcase?"

"Ugh, a bookcase would be boring. You gotta remember, kid, I'm livin' here, too."

I pulled an amused look and retorted, "I can't decide if that's a good or a bad thing."

After a sour frown, he started towards the door that led outside. I asked him why he was leaving.

"Gotta smoke. And go get some things from the store."

"But... but don't you always smoke in the house?" I asked, remembering the way he had insisted on doing so back home. "And didn't that goat eat, like, half of your cigarettes?"

"That's one of the reasons why I'm going to town. Can't deprive myself of nicotine for too long. Besides, we're gonna need some food, some light bulbs... and maybe I'll grab some other things, too."

"Like what?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Whatever houses need, I suppose. Hey, you got the keys?"

"You drove here. Remember?"

"Coulda sworn I gave them back to you..." he rummaged through his pockets and, upon finding them, tugged them out with a triumphant smile. But before he could leave, I grabbed one of the two keys from my own pocket, tugged his hand, curled his fingers open, and then placed the key inside.

"Oh, that's right. Thanks, kid."

I smiled. "Wouldn't want you to get locked out."

"Don't think it'd be hard for me to get back in, even without it."

"Is that because you know how to pick locks or because most of the doors on this house don't even have locks?"

A raspy chuckle slithered from his throat. "Both. See ya, Stanley."

And with that, he left. I stood in the back room alone, eyes set on some vague distance and mind swirling with scattered thoughts and chest filled with a buzzing swarm of emotions. I'd had many doubts about coming here... coming to Gravity Falls and starting my job and taking Stanford with me, and finally, buying that decrepit shack that my brother considered a house. But standing there, surrounded by strong brown, wooden walls and green forest and the smell of old pine, hands in my pockets and eyes straining to see in the darkness that'd crept in as the dusk dimmed to night, I no longer felt any worry.

With only a white sliver of moonlight to guide my way, I navigated the confusing stretch of the first floor to grab my things from the front room and then hauled them up the creaky stairs. In the house, there was a small landing level between the bottom and top floors. Besides the small window and a broken board of wood leaned against the wall, there was only one door in this area.

When my brother and I had explored the house, it'd caught my attention instantly, due to the intricate design in the wood. Now, illuminated by the moonlight, even more details began to emerge. The circles, the leaves painted green, and a distinct eye-like shape in the center...

One arm full of my belongings, I wrapped my other hand around the handle, twisted, and pushed it open. My bedroom was just as dusty as it'd been before, I thought, and traipsed into the room, making sure not to bump into anything and following the path of light that poured from the window. I thought about how glad I was to have gotten the only bedroom with a bathroom attached. No offense to my brother, but he wasn't exactly the most clean guy around.

And no, I'm not just talking about the fact that he always leaves his dirty underwear on the floor or never wipes the counter after shaving his face.

Back and forth, I went, from the ground floor to my room, carrying my stuff up and turning that dusty old room into something I could get comfortable in. At the end, the final piece to the puzzle was where I'd lay my head that night. Our car hadn't been big enough to tow my bed frame or mattress, so I knew I'd have to sleep on the floor until I could buy new ones.

Arms limp, brow raised, I stood there and glanced around my room. I had three choices: sleep in the cobweb drenched corner by the dead spider, on the bathroom's dirty floor, or... I don't know, by the back wall where I'd seen that huge centipede just a few minutes before?

A sigh burst from my lungs. Giving in, I tightened my grip on my green blanket and pillow and walked to the center. I placed them down neatly. Looked to my window after hearing a sudden noise from outside. Returned my stare to my makeshift bed. And then, a strange sensation prickling at the back of my head, I twisted around to stare at my door.

Nothing but inky blackness stood beyond it. But that wasn't what creeped me out. Instead, it was...

It felt like I was being... watched.

Eyes widened in fear, I burst up and completely flipped my body around to face the shadows. Inch by inch, minute by minute, my feet slid back by their own will. Thud! My back hit the wall. This primal, sudden tinge of terror eating me from inside; what could've caused it?

"Stanford?" I asked, half hoping I'd hear an answer and half hoping I wouldn't. "Are you there?"

I heard nothing but the creaking of wood and the moaning of wind outside.

"Stanford?"

It was a long while before I finally moved again, having gotten used to the eerie sounds, but still not free from the burn of someone's - or something's - stare. I wished there was a light, ANY light, that worked. Feeling like a scared child, I slid against the wall, not caring about the webs and dust my black shirt was rubbing against, moving towards the patch of moonlight by the window. It wasn't until I finally got there that I felt safe again. Safe, though cold, in the bright confines of that rectangular box of light.

For the rest of the time I spent alone that night, I made sure never to go back into my room nor the top floor. The oppressive darkness was too much for me - a full grown twenty-four year old man - to handle. Laugh, if you want, but if you'd just moved into a creepy house with no lights, were home alone, and felt like something had given you the evil eye...

Well, you'd be just as scared as I was.

When Stanford returned soon after the stroke of nine, he was surprised to find me on the porch instead of within the house. He stared at me for a while, expecting me to perk my head and give a greeting. But none came.

"You okay?"

I muttered flatly, "Yeah."

Two grocery bags were set down next to me and then, on my other side, Stanford settled himself down as well. "You sure don't look it."

"I was just... thinking. That's all."

"Why aren't ya in the house?"

A breeze stirred through the pines; soft music to my ears as I thought how to answer. But before I could, my brother spoke again. "Wait, wait... don't tell me you're still afraid of the dark? I thought you got over that?"

"No, it's not that. I'm just homesick, I guess." I lied.

I could tell Stanford didn't really buy it. I mean, when you've been stuck with someone since birth and even before that, when you think about it, it's easy to tell when they're not being honest. Irritated, he thrust his gaze from me to the sky and sighed.

"Alright. If you don't wanna talk about it... then I don't, either."

"I'm just a little out of it today." I replied, still staring at the ground, arms still locked around my knees. "There's a lot that happened today."

Stanford got up, grabbed the bags, and then went inside without a word. I remained on the rotted porch. Stars burned above. An owl hooted in the distance. Cold seeped into my limbs, but I wasn't ready to follow my brother. Not yet, anyways. There were too many thoughts that I needed to sort out; to organize and contemplate and rationalize or throw away.

And to do that, I needed solitude.

I remembered all that'd occurred within the past two days. Driving to Oregon. Our stupid argument over how he'd stolen that money. Swerving and spinning past that deer and the strange creature on its back. Sleeping in the car. Waking up and walking to town to find a mechanic. Meeting Jillian. Making a fool of myself. Seeing McGucket for the first time. More driving. Towing. Visiting that mansion up on the hill that overlooked the town. Then, after a few hours of waiting, our car had been fixed and McGucket...

My hand slipped into my pocket and pulled out the picture he'd given to me before we'd left his shop. Stark white borders. Thick foliage and pines' boughs crowding most of the photograph. And in the middle: a slightly blurrly, but unmistakeable small form that was not unlike the creature I'd seen on the deer's back before our tires blew out.

McGucket must've seen me looking at it - and getting shocked by it - before we'd left to pick up the Galaxie with his truck. How else would he have figured out which, of the countless photographs he had on that desk, to give me?

He'd acted so strange. As did the rest of the town, save for Jillian. And then, thinking that the creature on the deer's back was the last weird thing I'd experience in this town, I get the crap scared and stared out of me in my new house. I could throw as many rational explanations at it as I wanted to, but there was no way I was going to lie to myself and tell myself that I was wrong.

Wrong about what, you ask?

Wrong about seeing that thing on the doe's back. Wrong about thinking that there was something more to McGucket than he let on. Wrong about that I hadn't been alone in the house that night when Stanford was gone.

But perhaps the biggest thing I couldn't deny now was that this town, Gravity Falls, had more to it beneath its charming, naturally beautiful, calm, small surface. I'd wanted to tell Stanford that it was starting to give me the creeps. That our hometown of Piedmont, California (however boring it was) was starting to sound like a good place to move back to.

What made this town so weird? Was there anything more that I didn't know about it? What would I find out?

No answers able to be birthed from my chaotic thoughts, I let out a sigh and stuck the picture back into my jeans' pocket. Just wait it out, I told myself.

Just wait it out.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Congrats! If you've read these first five chapters and the prologue, you are FINALLY done with the introduction of the story. "Wait...", you ask. "THAT was just the introduction?"

The answer is yes. Though I named them as different chapters, all of the entries I've posted so far are just different parts of the introduction of the story. So, technically, we're not even on the 'first chapter' yet, so to speak.

*dodges tomatoes*

Now that I've let that out of the bag, I want to thank all of you, my readers, for continuing to stick with Playing with Fire. I know the first few parts were boring in places. But I want to assure you that it gets more exciting. Now that Stanley's situated himself and his brother in the town and experienced a few weird things, it's only gonna get better (or worse, in Stanley's case) from here on out.

So, thank you for reading! I also want to thank Racheal Weasley for reviewing chapter four. Your comments are always appreciated! And please, if any of the rest of you have any time to drop a review, please do. I put a lot of hard work into writing these chapters and it's always refreshing to get someone's opinion on it, whether it be praise or constructive criticism.