Archive of Our Own ^beta

“McGucket? What kind of name is that?”

“The kind they have in Tennessee, I guess,” Grauntie Mabel explained, calmly mowing down a series of traffic cones. Their crumbled remains reminded Ford of sad, orange wizard hats.

“Why would someone move from Tennessee to Gravity Falls to farm?” Stan huffed. He wasn’t thrilled that his aunt’s little side quest had interrupted his day. He’d spent 20 minutes trying to get Gompers to stay still long enough for him to tie one of the kitchen knives to the goat’s forehead, hoping to recreate his previous success with “Shanklin the Stab Possum.” Ford told him it was a bad idea, but that hadn’t stopped him from half-watching from his spot on the back porch. The journal splayed open in his lap.

That’s when their great aunt appeared, declaring she “had to see a man about a pig” and stuffing the twins into the back of the El Diablo before they could protest.

“They’re related to Old Man Sprott. They moved up here last year to help out and take over once he retires.” The car rocked slightly as Mabel turned onto a long dirt driveway. Clouds of dust swelled outside the windows. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself to them. Waddles Jr. is getting older and I want to establish a good business relationship before-” her voice lowered, “the inevitable happens.”

The El Diablo slid to a halt next to a long wooden fence, one side of a much larger enclosure. A hand-painted sign for a Petting Zoo swung gently over its archway where a dead-eyed blonde teenager sat behind a fold-out table, watching people stuff singles into the narrow mouth of a wooden collection box before stamping the back of their hands. However, what was most eye-catching was the large red barn that loomed in the distance. The El Diablo’s hood was swallowed in its shadow.

“Woah. Just like on TV!” Stan tapped the glass repeatedly, leaning back in his seat so his brother could get a better view. Ford hummed in appreciation.

Mabel laughed, ducking out of the car. “If you’re impressed by that then you’ll be happy to know Mr. McGucket has some kids around your age. I’m sure one of them would show you city slickers around.”

“Sounds great,” Stan mumbled.

Ford cringed. He and his brother didn’t exactly get on with their peers. The last proper interaction they’d had with anyone their age had started with Crampelter throwing a rock at Ford’s head, and ended with him taunting the brothers that they were destined to be each other's only friend. Admittedly, that was on the extreme end of the spectrum, but the rest of their classmates weren’t much better, ranging from quietly hostile to openly ambivalent. The data wasn’t promising.

Ford rounded the El Diablo to stand next to Stan and their aunt, gravel rolled under the soles of his sneakers, and he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. Stan had his shoulders thrown back, chest out. Ready for a fight. Guilt curdled Ford’s stomach. Everyone back home seemed to believe Stanley was born with an itch in his palms that could only be soothed by violence. But it was a state of being that had calcified with time. Ford knew Stan wouldn’t get into half of the altercations he did if he didn’t have a freak for a brother, and he feared for the day Stanley figured that out.

It did not take long after they arrived for them to be noticed. Mr. McGucket approached swiftly, a sandy-haired boy in baggy overalls scampering beside him. When Mr. McGucket waved at the group in greeting, the boy mirrored him.

“Ah, Ms. Pines, it’s a pleasure to finally meet ya,” said Mr. McGucket, a slight drawl to his words as he offered his hand to their great aunt, who shook it enthusiastically.

“You too. And, please, call me Mabel.”

A laugh. “You’ll have to call me Earl then.”

Earl McGucket was lanky but had the toned build of a laborer. The boy was almost a head taller than the twins with a gangliness to his limbs that spoke of a future in which he inherited his father’s frame but, for now, he was all pre-teen awkwardness. Currently, it seemed he couldn't decide whether it was worse to just stare openly at their aunt, or ignore her existence entirely. His eyes darted to the side.

Mabel had decided to shed her “Madame Mystery” skirt suit in favor of her everyday wear. Today’s ensemble consisted of a sequined purple tunic that hit her knees paired with hot pink stockings and a gauzy cardigan in matching colors thrown overtop. Meanwhile, Mr. McGucket was dressed simply in a white t-shirt tucked into a pair of thick denim jeans. Ford couldn’t help but smile at the contrast.

It turns out the boy had his decision made for him when Mabel addressed his presence herself, and he was forced to make hesitant eye contact. “And this must be your son,” her tone lifted, teasing. “Although I was under the impression you had more children.”

“Oh, I do,” Mr. McGucket laughed, sweeping a hand out as if more of his offspring were liable to spring from the Earth. “But I figured my boy here would be a better host, being the same age and all. You did say your nephews were 12 on the phone, right?”

“Yep! They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

Ford furrowed his brows. “Grauntie Mabel, you met us barely two weeks ago.”

“And look how much you've grown already,” she said, pushing the brothers closer to McGucket Jr. She gave each of their shoulders a firm pat. “Now you boys have fun! Stay safe.”

And then she was gone, her quick stride keeping easy pace with Mr. McGucket’s long-legged stroll, dust swirling around their ankles. Silence fell over the boys as they watched the adults leave. Tension built in Ford’s shoulders. The high summer sun made the back of his neck feel hot. Maybe their aunt wasn't as nice as he had thought.

It was McGucket Jr. who eventually spoke. “Fiddleford,” he offered, sticking out a hand as his father had done.

Stan wrinkled his nose. He looked at the offered appendage skeptically but gave it one firm shake. “Stanley.”

Fiddleford turned to Ford expectedly and he grimaced. What is it with these people and shaking hands? Must be some weird Tennessee thing. Reluctantly, Ford eased his hand out of his jacket. “Stanford, but Ford is fi–”

He yelped as his wrist was abruptly seized. Fiddleford was examining his hand, lips barely parting as he counted silently. His grin was wide. Freckles rippled across his cheeks. “Cool! You’ve got polydactyly.”

Stan had stepped forward the moment his brother had been grabbed, fists clenched, but the fight bled from his body as confusion took over. “You know what it's called?”

Fiddleford shrugged. “Got bored. Read my sister’s medical textbook. She started at BMU a couple years back.”

“Huh.”

“Um,” Ford could feel his face heating, two bright splotches of color that he hoped were mistaken for sunburn. “Can I have my hand back?”

“Course, sorry about that!” Fiddleford laughed, warm and easy. His face was also a little red. “Ya know, if you guys are into extra limbs, I think we’ve got something you’ll want to see.”

***

The thing turned out to be a cow. Her name was Octavia. She had four malformed legs crookedly sprouting from her sides. Ford loved her.

He wasn’t alone in this sentiment either. Stanley was currently contorting himself around the rungs of the wooden fence that made up Octavia’s pen, phone in hand as he tried to capture the “grossest” angle. Ford was also taking pictures for reference purposes. He’d been toying with the idea of adding his own additions to the journal, only stopped by his hesitancy to soil its almost sacred quality— a sentiment his brother did not share as he’d scrawled LEAF BLOWERS! under Gnome Weaknesses before Ford could stop him, mere hours after they’d first discovered the book.

Ford had been upset, snapping at his twin, but Stanley had raised a fair point in turn. The journal was old, obviously abandoned. The chances of the author being alive, let alone returning for his lost research, were slim to none (no matter how much Ford hoped otherwise). He might as well add his observations and addendums, and build off of the author’s groundwork, when he thought about it in those terms it felt more like a partnership than a defilement. Maybe he could even publish it someday!

Ford stepped back to get a full body shot, debating whether or not to include his brother in his final rendition. Maybe it would be beneficial for scale? Stanley was hanging upside down inside the pen, knees hooked onto the topmost fence rail. His phone was pointed to the twitching limb protruding from Octavia’s stomach.

“Ew,” Stan giggled. He righted himself to sit on the wooden slat, wobbling slightly as the blood rushed out of his skull. “Come on, Fidds, you have to see this. Why are you standing all the way over there?”

Ford rolled his eyes. Trust his brother to nickname someone they’d just met. But his observation was correct. While Ford and Stan gushed over Octavia, Fiddleford had stayed a careful distance away, watching them nervously.

“Nah, I’m fine, thanks.”

“What? You, like, allergic or something?” Stan looked to his twin. “Can people be allergic to cows?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Fiddleford cut in before Ford could launch into an explanation. “It’s just, well, I might have just been seeing things, but I’m pretty sure I saw her–“ Fiddleford made a grabbing motion with his arm and splayed his fingers. “Dart her tongue out like a frog and snatch a bird right outta the sky!”

The twins looked at each other, wide-eyed. Ford took a large step backward, and Stan hopped down from his perch and scrambled over to Fiddleford. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?! I could have been eaten.”

Fiddleford’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t know! I didn’t expect y’all to get so close to her and then, you were having fun and I didn’t want to ruin it by saying something crazy!”

“It’s not crazy.” Ford worked his jaw, hand fluttering against the familiar blue leather cover of the journal he’d stowed away in his innermost jacket pocket. He’d never shown the book to another person besides Stan. It was an unspoken agreement between them to not involve their great aunt in the secret.

For all of Mabel’s apparent genuine belief in mysticism— it was one thing to maintain a darkened “Fortune Telling” corner in the Mystery Shack, and another to plan your week around your tarot reading like some people did the weather — there was still an air about her as if she was also in on the joke. You couldn’t create things like the Cornicorn (a wire frame unicorn his aunt had hot glued bedazzled corn cobs to), and take the existence of real-life cryptids very seriously.

Maybe a part of him was just scared that his aunt would laugh at him, the way Ma had when he was eight and she found out he still believed she was an actual psychic. She hadn’t been unkind, gently brushing his hair back from his forehead as he softly hiccuped, face flushed. He and Stan had gotten into a fight over it. He’d called her a pathological liar. Ford said he was just jealous that Ma and him were born different, and Stanley wasn’t. They’d both cried. But his twin had always been better at people than him, and Ford couldn't forget how small and stupid he’d felt listening to his mother’s cooing explanation. I’m just playing pretend, sweetie.

Ford couldn’t play pretend. The physical weight of the journal held in his six-fingered grip wouldn’t allow him to. If he could reassure Fiddleford, then wasn’t it his obligation? He pulled out the journal, the silver Big Dipper embossed on its cover catching the midday sun. “On our first day in town, Stan and I found this journal in the woods. It’s a catalog of all the strange things about this town. Conspiracies. Anomalies. Monsters. We’ve even encountered some of them already.”

“I punched a gnome in the face!” Stan bounced on his feet, miming his favored right hook.

Ford nodded. “And I may have run over a few with a golf cart. I was honestly too scared to check.”

Fiddleford absorbed this information in silence. His eyes were doing that darting thing again, barely lingering on one brother before bouncing to the other, as if waiting for one of them to slip up. “Y’all ain’t joshing me?”

“I promise we’re not.” Reluctantly, Ford handed Fiddleford the journal. The other boy held it as though it were a live thing, liable to bite. Still, as he thumbed through the pages the anxiety slowly slipped from his face as interest won out.

“And, you’d let me tag along?”

“Really?” Ford’s voice cracked slightly. He cringed, shooting a glare at Stanley, whose face was slowly turning red from his suppressed laughter. “I mean, yes. In fact, we can go right now.”

“Right now?” Fiddleford closed the book and tapped it against his thigh. “I don’t know… My Pop wouldn't be happy if I was gone for too long.”

Ford waved the comment away. “We can barely step foot outside the Shack without tripping over an anomaly. I’m sure we won’t have any trouble.”

***

Ford was losing his mind. It had been almost an hour since the trio had stumbled into the forest surrounding the McGucket farm, and they still hadn’t found anything. Ford glared down at his muddy sneakers. Swiftly running out of options for forest-based creatures, Ford had been hoping a water source would yield a stomach-faced duck (which he personally found disgusting, but beggars couldn't be choosers.) He’d been peering into the reeds when he’d slipped on the banking, and would have fallen in if not for Stan snatching the back of his jacket and reeling him back. Ford had squawked indignantly, heat pooling across his face as Fiddleford muffled laughter behind a palm, and there the heat remained, even as the sounds of the river disappeared behind them.

Ford stomped ahead, flicking through the journal while his brother and Fiddleford chatted idly.

“I was screaming. Ford was screaming. And then next thing I know- BANG!” A dull thud of a fist hitting a palm “We’re crashing through the town sign.”

“That was you?” Fiddleford gasped. “I was wondering what happened to it.”

Stan laughed, too cheerful. “It’s probably going to cost so much to replace! Ford, what do you think?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, sounds good, Stanley. Anyway, I know the ducks were unsuccessful, but there are several other bird-type anomalies: the cowl, the question quail, the, ugh, hawktopus. I’m thinking that if we shimmy up one of the trees it will definitely increase our chances of seeing one.”

Ford stopped, pointing to a pine several paces ahead. It didn’t have many good footholds near the bottom, but he figured it would be easy enough for them to sit on each other’s shoulders to reach the higher branches. Fiddleford would probably be the best candidate for base since he was the tallest and was likely used to heavy lifting from a lifetime of farmwork. Then again, Fiddleford was technically a guest and deserved the “seeing-weird-things-first” privilege. Ford nodded to himself, satisfied. He’d make Stanley be base.

But when Ford started moving forward, he heard only one set of footsteps follow him. Fiddleford stood several feet back, his head tilted down and bangs covering his eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, we should probably get going.”

Ford’s heart stuttered. They couldn’t go yet! Upset settled in his throat. It was a physical weight that if he tried to push past it would only force out tears, like a lever yanked beyond its resting point until it either cleaved its base or snapped in half, leaving only mangled metal.

Stanley was the one to verbalize for both of them. “Why?” he asked, in that whiny voice that had been cropping up with increasing frequency since they’d arrived in Oregon. Stan had cringed away the first time he’d used it on their aunt, expecting a slap over the back of the head like he would have gotten from Pa, but instead, Mabel had simply ruffled his hair, more teasing, then scolding, I don’t speak whine, kiddo. That had only encouraged him. He was playing one of those games that Ford didn’t understand, seeing how far he could push before their aunt finally retaliated. It made Ford nervous.

But Fiddleford was as seemingly unaffected by the irritating octave as Mabel was. “Well, we’ve already been gone for a while, and it's going to take a few minutes to get back. I don't want our folks to get mad.”

Stan groaned, kicking the ground and adding a fine layer of soil to his own mud-encrusted shoes, but there was no real heat behind the gesture. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Each second slowed as Ford frantically paged through the journal. Edges tore. His previous reverence was gone. There had to be something, anything to keep Fiddleford there just a moment longer. He had to prove that this was all real, that he wasn’t just some lying freak. Tension tightened his shoulders as they crept closer to his ears with each passing moment, and then, they stalled. Cow Circles, the page read. Reddish spit discolored its corner.

Ford’s nose wrinkled. Another cow. How lame. Still, he spun the book around so Fiddleford and his brother could see. “Look! Typical crop circles have been carved into their fur, possibly the work of extraterrestrials. There should be one nearby.”

Fiddleford bent closer to look at the splayed open pages. “Huh, I don’t know. I’ve never seen one on the farm before.”

“Of course you haven’t, aliens only come out at night. Duh.”

“I suppose the markings could fade by morning…”

“We should have a stake-out! Catch ‘em in the act.” Stan started jumping around, clearly excited by his own idea. Meanwhile, Ford had never felt so grateful to his twin in his life. He was definitely going to let him have the last pancake next time their aunt made them for breakfast.

“You mean like a sleepover?” Fiddleford asked.

Stan stopped bouncing. He and Ford blinked at each other. They’d never had a sleepover before unless you counted sharing a room as a type of never-ending sleepover, which Ford didn’t. “Yes?”

Fiddleford smiled, his too-wide grin crooking up the right corner of his mouth just slightly. He stuck out his hand. “Fellas, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

This time Ford didn’t hesitate to shake back.

***

It was decided that the trio would sneak back onto the McGucket farm from the Mystery Shack after dark. Ford thought it made more sense to just stay at Fiddleford’s house to begin with, but his suggestion had garnered only a disgusted expression from the boy who shot down the idea with a curt: I got nosey siblings. That was enough to put Ford off. He was having a difficult enough time proving the existence of the supernatural to Fiddleford, let alone an audience. The very notion of trying to appear cool to older teens made him feel vaguely nauseous. Little kids were even worse.

A lack of social awareness meant they were more prone to point out his polydactyly, and Ford had more than one experience of a sticky, baby-fat finger pinning him in place like a display butterfly as its owner asked their embarrassed mother what was wrong with him.

This had led to one memorable occasion where Stanley, having the presence of mind not to punch a seven-year-old girl in the middle of the grocery store, nastily commented on a minuscule birthmark on the girl’s cheek. She had promptly burst into tears. Ford thought it was a bit of an overreaction. The screaming match that had erupted between Ma and the girl’s mother even more so. Best to avoid young children altogether. Thank God their parents had stopped after him and Stan.

Speaking of his brother, Ford had no idea how he could be so calm when they were about to have their first-ever sleepover. He was lying on his unmade bed, arms folded under his head as he smacked away at the gum he’d pilfered from their aunt’s stash. A bubble formed. Popped. Stan used his tongue to shove the rubbery remains back into his mouth. Another bubble.

Ford wandered their room aimlessly, keeping a careful distance so as not to muss the covers of the air mattress they’d installed on the floor between their two beds. It was surprising how easily Mr. McGucket and their aunt had agreed to the sleepover, barely chiding them for their lateness when the woods had finally spat them out. Grauntie Mabel in particular has been ecstatic. The moment they returned to the Shack, she had entered a furious trance-like cleaning state that Stan and him had been swept into as they prepared for Fiddleford’s pre-dinner arrival.

Ford glanced up at the cat-shaped clock on their wall. 6:13. Thirteen minutes late. The cat blinked placidly, tail swishing. “What if he doesn’t come?”

“He’ll come.”

“Ok.” Ford’s wandering turned to pacing. “But what if he doesn’t.”

“Sixer, you’re making me nervous just looking at ya.” Stan lazily slapped his mattress, signaling for Ford to come sit, but he ignored his brother’s beckonings. Anxiety soured his stomach. Fiddleford didn’t seem like the type to play so cruel a prank, but a gut feeling didn't hold much weight against a mere afternoon of acquaintance. What did he know about Fiddleford really? And, even if Ford was correct in his initial assessment, there was the other concerning possibility that something had happened on-route. He’d barely begun investigating the strangeness of Gravity Falls, but if the journal was to be believed (and Ford did, with everything he had), then there were some truly dangerous forces lurking in the woods.

The clock crawled to 6:20. Ford caught his brother staring at it, expression pinched. He’s as worried as I am, probably has been this whole time. This realization brought no comfort.

Another few minutes passed. Ford stopped pacing. He simply stood in the middle of the room and stared at the air mattress, eye roaming over the near-transparent thread hairs springing from the homemade afghan Mabel had placed on top of the neat bed coverings.

“I should probably deflate this now,” he said to no one in particular, and blinked. He cringed. Blinked again. Something was reflecting off his glasses. He looked up. A flash of light hit their bedroom window and refracted, accompanied by the faint crunch of truck tires on gravel.

The brothers wasted no time pitching themselves down the stairs, socked feet sliding on the newly polished steps. They tumbled through the front door and Ford stopped short on the porch while Stan plowed ahead, uncaring of the dirt grinding into the fabric of his socks as he particularly pulled Fiddleford out of the passenger seat.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” The boy said in a rush, almost pitching forward from the strength of Stan’s grip and the weight of the overlarge green bag on his shoulder. “I couldn’t find my duffle so I had to borrow my sister’s college one, but then we had trouble finding that.” A groan. “And then I realized I forgot my toothbrush, and we had to turn back.”

“Don’t worry about it, man. Sixer was getting a little antsy, but I knew you’d be here.”

A muscle slide in Ford’s jaw. He wanted to protest but knew that would only cause the subject to linger, and he was eager to move on. “Whatever, Stanley,” he said, ushering Fiddleford inside as the pair reached the porch.

Grauntie Mabel had appeared a beat behind the twins, clad in her pink bathrobe and bobble-headed cat slippers (which used to meow each time she took a step until they had conveniently “broken” three days into their stay) to exchange a few words with Mr. McGucket through the driver’s window. It seemed that adults were about to get lost in conversation when Stan poked his head out the porch door. “Grauntie Mabel, come on, we’re starving.”

“Alright, alright. I’m coming,” she said, laughing at something Mr. McGucket said before sending off his car with a slap to the hood, not unlike one would give to the flank of a skittish horse. “So, how do you feel about pizza for dinner?”

“Yes!” Stan fist pumped. The screen slammed behind him as he ducked back inside. “One large pepperoni coming right up! Grauntie’s ordering.”

Ford made a face. “Ew, no, Stanley. Pick something else.”

“Nope, sorry, you’ve been outvoted. Right, Fidds?”

“I do like pepperoni,” Fiddleford admitted, apologetic.

“Hah!”

***

Ford nudged a sliver of pepperoni with a greasy index finger, regulating it back to its designated side. They’d split the difference: plain cheese for him, pepperoni for Stan, and Fiddleford got to pick between the two halves at his leisure. Ford grabbed his now pristine slice, chewing idly as he watched his aunt fiddle with the VHS player. Apparently, Mabel owned an extensive collection of vintage horror flicks, mostly B-movies if the titles were anything to go by. She’d dug them out from the back of the hall closet, infusing the living room with the smell of rotting cardboard.

“My Sister’s Cousin is a Werewolf,” Stan read. “Wouldn’t that mean the werewolf is also her cousin?”

“Could be her half-sister’s cousin, or, like, a step-sister?” Fiddleford wiped his hands off with a paper towel before bracing his weight against the crumbling box to dig through the films himself. “The Vampire and the Disco Star. Chamber of Inconveniences. The Creature Feature II: Revenge of the Creature.”

“Oh, Creature Feature II is a good one,” said Mabel, letting out a little cry of triumph as the VHS player finally connected, the TV screen flickering to an oversaturated cobalt blue that made Ford’s eyes sting.

“Shouldn’t we watch the original first?” he asked.

“Honestly, it’s better if you go in blind but-,” she smiled.“There is a pretty intense vivisection scene.”

Fiddleford’s forehead wrinkled. He flipped the tape over as if the answer would magically appear on the back, fingers leaving imprints on the dust-covered sleeve. “Vivisection?”

“It’s like a regular dissection but the subject is still alive,” said Ford. He’d always been morbidly fascinated by the process, but could never bring himself to watch any of the scientific videos he’d stumbled upon. He’d always felt too bad for the poor creature whose intestines were being yanked out. Humans, fictional ones especially, he was less attached to.

“Gross! Let’s watch it.” Stan punctured his statement by dropping the VHS he was still holding back into the box, sending up a thin shower of dust that had him and Ford sneezing.

Fiddleford’s face twisted but he still handed the tape over to Mabel, who slid it out of its sleeve and into the player with a practiced ease. All three boys jumped as loud orchestral music burst from the speakers. The screen flickered and spluttered for a moment before it landed on a slow black-and-white panorama of a swamp. A slimy something wiggled under its surface.

Their great aunt shot them another teasing smile, standing and flicking off the living room light as she went. “Goodnight, boys. I’ll be in my room if you need anything. Don’t get too scared."

***

Ford was slowly being squished to death, but it couldn’t bring himself to mind as the arm of aunt’s lounge chair dug into his side. Stan had started the movie sitting on the other arm but had eased his way down until he was squeezed into the seat alongside Ford. If he leaned back and tilted his head just right, Stan’s shoulder obscured a decent portion of the screen. He didn’t mind that either. Now, if he could find a way to subtly cover his ears so he didn't have to hear the squelching.

A whimper drew his attention to their guest. Fiddleford had not moved from his spot balanced on the dinosaur skull, slightly hunched and breathing shallowly.

The person on the dissection table (could that even be called a person anymore?) let out another low moan. Ford yelped as the pressure against him abruptly disappeared. Stan snatched the remote, shutting off the TV and plunging them all into darkness save for the moonlight seeping in from the curtain cracks. Fiddleford whimpered again.

“Isn’t it about time we get going? For the, um, stake out,” Stan laughed. It was not a reassuring sound, as weak as it was.

Ford and Fiddleford were on their feet at once, hastily following Stanley up the stairs to the warm glow of the twins’ attic room and leaving their mess of pizza boxes and snack containers strewn across the living room floor. They’d clean tomorrow, Ford reassured himself. In the daylight….preferably with Grauntie Mabel nearby.

The boys separated briefly to change. Stan’s idea of stake-out gear was apparently dressing up like discount Rambo: black singlet, camo pants, and eye black smeared liberally across his cheeks which, upon closer inspection, seemed to have a slight shimmer to it. “Is that Mabel’s eyeshadow?”

Red crept up Stan’s neck as he crossed his arms. “Well, at least, I’m not wearing a dress.”

“It is not a dress. It’s a cloak.” Ford lifted his arms so his Dungeon Master’s cloak fell open, demonstrating he was indeed wearing clothes underneath. It wasn’t official
DDNMD merch but it was infused with his mother’s blood, sweat, and tears (literally, she was a horrible seamstress) so it was as good as in Ford’s opinion.

A brief knock heralded Fiddleford’s return from the bathroom. “Ok, so this don’t fit quite right anymore but I think it’ll get the job done.”

Fiddleford stepped into the room clad in a better-constructed version of the robe Ford was wearing. The way his ankles poked out from the black fabric spoke of a recent growth spurt, revealing the cartoon bugs that crawled across his socks, but what held Ford’s attention was the little blue-gold logo embroidered on Fiddleford’s breast pocket.

“You play Dungeons?!” Ford squealed.

At the same time, Stan sunk to the floor wailing dramatically. “Fidds, you were supposed to be coooool.”

The pair dutifully ignored him.

“Yeah!” Fiddleford’s easy grin was back. “My sister used to DM but since she’s away for college most of the year now, she’s been teaching me.”

“Oh, cool. I’ve only done solo stuff,” Ford stopped. His tongue suddenly felt thick in his mouth, face warm. Why would he admit to that? “B-but if you ever need another player or anything, let me know.”

“Of course! I’d love that.”

That simple affirmation had Ford practically floating through the next hour. He barely felt the pang of annoyance when he peeled the whining Stanley off the floor (“I can’t believe there’s two of you noooow”), or when his legs began to burn from peddling back to the McGucket farm. The brothers had neglected to take into account they only had the two bikes, so Fiddleford was stuck standing on the back spoke of Stan’s, white-knuckling the other boy’s shoulders to keep from falling.

Ford had wanted Fiddleford to ride with him, but it became apparent embarrassingly quickly that wouldn't work when Ford had barely managed one peddle forward before they wobbled and tipped over. He wished Pa had enrolled them in cross-country instead of boxing.

When the boys hit the familiar dirt driveway leading to the McGucket farm, they stashed their bikes in the brush and proceeded on foot. The moon was full. Sky cloudless. They didn’t want to risk giving away their location to any of the McGuckets so the twins followed close behind as Fiddleford carved a path through the waist-high grass, avoiding the main road as they made their way to the cow pastures. Ford shivered as the blades caressed him, nerves alight. It would be midnight soon.

This wasn’t Ford’s first time sneaking out of the house. Only a few weeks prior, Stan and he had climbed out their bedroom window with a rope fashioned out of bedsheets to work on the newly dubbed Stan O’ War to the tune of their father’s snores. Glass Shard Beach was their backyard. He knew which areas to avoid, where the broken bottles from long snuffed-out bonfires had yet to be ground to fine sand, in the dark as well as he did when they were gleaming in the high noon sun. Where could he place his feet here without the ground giving way as it had at the river bank?

“I always forget how tall the trees are,” Stan mumbled, words low and not meant for any ears but his own. Stanley had begun to trail behind, breaths still labored from the burden of carrying the weight of two, but now he was stopped completely, face tilted towards the sky. Ford swiveled his head to Stan, to the retreating figure of Fiddleford, and then up.

The valley was surrounded by a crescent of firs, each brushing the moon’s edges. It was a comfortable night, a light breeze staving off the summer stickiness that had begun to creep in with each passing week. Wind stirred the branches and Ford’s gaze followed down their trunks to where the shadows grew, the light unable to penetrate the density of growth, and his fingers whispered against the journal tucked in his coat. “C’mon, we got to go.”

Stanley started. He hadn’t known he was being watched. It took a moment for each of his muscles to unlock, for his tone to return to its natural flippancy. “Jeez, Sixer. Warn a guy.”

Then, to the shrinking speck that was Fiddleford, “Hey, Fidds! Wait up. Not all of us have freakishly long legs, you know.”

Fiddleford looked behind him, and then, absurdly, down as if the twins had gotten swallowed in the grass under his feet. A beat followed before his eyes landed on the stationary forms halfway down the path. “Why are y’all standing all the way over there?”

It was an echo of what Stanley had said to the other boy that very afternoon and Ford couldn’t help but smile at the familiarity of it. He’d feared Fiddleford would be annoyed, but there was only wrinkled-nose confusion on his pale face, made stark by the black frame of his cloak hood. Something like fondness swelled in Ford’s stomach. Tonight has to go well.

“We’re coming, we’re coming,” Stan marched forward, snatching Ford’s hand on the way past and tugging him along. Ford stumbled, grunting. A reprimand flew to his lips, but a brief squeeze of his hand had it ramming against the closed wall of his teeth. An apology for stalling them? A reassurance for him? For Stanley? Ford wasn’t sure, but he squeezed back.

Walking a bit further revealed the grayed spokes of fence that Ford had only been able to catch glimpses of through the tall grass until then. The barrier circled the field, a less impressive boundary than the natural formation of trees, but still a practical deterrent to keep the herd from wandering into the dark woods.

Won’t do much if something wants to come in. The thought crawled up Ford’s neck and he shivered as if he’d caught a chill. Stanley’s fingers tightened around his once more before falling away as Fiddleford turned to regard them.

“I guess this is as good a spot as any,” he said, crouching as he spoke. Regular maintenance from hungry livestock meant the vegetation was much shorter here, but Fiddleford still smoothed it down before settling his back against a fence post. The twins followed. They sat in a row, their bodies pressed close to peek out of Fiddleford’s created window at the handful of cows snuffling the earth.

“So, now what?” Stan asked, pulling a piece of grass from its stock and sticking it between his teeth.

The journal fell open to the Cow Circles page easily. Its spine was trained from the hours before the sleepover that Ford had spent staring at it. He knew there was nothing helpful. No instruction. No timetable. The aliens will arrive at exactly 1:15 am. Have your binoculars ready! Instead, there was only a drawing of a cow with dilated pupils and a corner wrinkled with dried spit that Ford idled with his thumb. He still pretended to pursue the author’s scrawled observations before looking at Stan and Fiddleford’s expectant faces from his under his glasses. “We wait.”

***

“Fidds, you got to stop grabbing me every time the grass moves. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Fiddleford tucked his hands under his thighs. Ford didn't know why he bothered. The pose hadn’t stopped him from manhandling his brother the last dozen or so times.
Ford huffed and nosily flipped through the journal. He knew he was exaggerating (it had only been three times) but it was the principle of the thing! He shouldn’t have let Stanley squeeze in between them. Ford has more in common with Fiddleford anyway, he should be the one sitting next to the boy.

He glanced sidelong, catching Fiddleford’s eye. The boy smiled weakly. Ford could feel his returning one was a bit too broad, stretching the corners of his mouth uncomfortably, and he snapped his attention down to the journal as his ears heated.

The night has been quiet thus far. A few attempts at conversation have been made but they had spluttered out quickly as half-formed fears that the aliens would be driven off by their whispers prevailed. Ford dug out his phone, yawning. 12:58. They’d been there an hour, and there was still no reception. Fiddleford hadn’t been lying when he said the service at his house was spotty. Ford didn’t know how the other boy could live like this.

In the distance, a brown-spotted cow let out an indignant moo as one of her herd-mates stepped too close to her chosen patch of grass. Fiddleford jumped.

“Sixer, I don’t know if Fidds can take more much of this.”

Ford startled as the low words hit his ear. He made a face, shoving the phone back into his pocket.“I thought you wanted to punch an alien.”

“ I do! I just-” Stan cut himself off with a yawn. “If farm boy is getting freaked out by cow sounds, then I don’t think he could handle a gnome right now, let alone an alien.”

Familiar desperation welled in Ford. “Let’s just wait a little bit longer. I’m sure-”

But Stan had already made up his mind, standing and rolling his shoulders. “We can try again next time.”

“There might not be a next time!” The outburst was sudden, and Ford cringed under the weight of it. Stanley and Fiddleford were both staring at him, the latter slightly shaken from the surge of loudness.

“What do you mean?” Fiddleford asked.

Clouds slide over the moon. Ford’s gaze dropped, his pointer finger tapping the familiar spit-stain. “I’ve been trying to prove to you this stuff exists all day. I even dragged you out on this stupid stake-out, and everything has been a complete bust. I don’t know why you’d want to be around us after this. You-you probably think I’m just some lying weirdo.”

They were quiet for a moment. The night filled only with the chuffs from the herd, and the low hum of equipment. “Even if all this isn't real,” Fiddleford began. “Which I believe it is, by the way. You’re both too serious about it for this to be a prank. Plus, don’t forget I saw Octavia snatch that bird with my own eyes.”

Ford had forgotten about that. He lifted his gaze hesitantly as Fiddleford continued. “But even if it was all make-believe. I’ve had more fun with you fellas in one day than I probably have since I moved to town. I really would like to hang out again. If y’all wanted to, of course.”

Something that felt like relief but burned like tears built in Ford’s eyes. “Yes! Yes, of course. Maybe tomorrow we can- woah! Stanley?”

Stan had dropped from his standing position to a low crouch. He didn’t speak, just tapped his finger against his lips and then pointed to the field. Ford’s face twisted. “I don’t see anything.”

Again, Stan was silent as his fingers slide into Ford’s hair and clutched, jerking upward. One of the clouds was moving, getting closer. Then, it was gone. Ford blinked. No, it hadn’t gone, it had just…changed. There was a slight distortion of space, sections where the tree tops didn't quite line up with their trunks, like a creature in imperfect camouflage. The humming from before was louder now too. It hadn’t been coming from farming equipment as Ford had assumed, but a spaceship. A real alien spaceship.

The trio watched as the ship dipped lower until it hovered over the curled form of the brown-spotted cow, who was shaken to alertness with a frightened sound. She stood, but she could go no further. Locked in place. The hum intensified, agitated, like a shaken beehive. The cow began to float.

“Holy shit,” Stanley breathed. Ford slapped a hand over his mouth.

The cow rose higher into the air, limbs flailing and head tossing. Her mouth moved but no sound came out. Whether this was her own terror robbing her of voice, or some alien technology soundproofing the area, Ford didn’t know. The next few seconds felt agonizingly long as the cow continued her assent until she was swallowed by the sky. The ship quieted but did not move.

“Pop is going to be really mad if they don’t give her back.”

“That’s what you’re worried about right now?!” Stan hissed.

Fiddleford shrugged helplessly, visibly shaken. The black cloak only highlighted the pigment the encounter had bleached from his skin. Ford doubted he looked much better. Suddenly, their plans of “punching aliens and taking names” (as Stan had so eloquently put it) didn’t sound very appealing anymore. “I think we should go.”

Nobody argued. The trio stayed low to the ground, using the tall grass as cover as Fiddleford led the way. The scientist in Ford mourned the lost research opportunity. He told it to shut up.

They were about halfway back to the bikes when the humming returned. The boys paused, looking back at the ship that was still too close for comfort. The cow was descending now, gently landing on the pasture with a shaky stumble. Even from a distance, Ford could tell something was wrong with her. She was dazed, pupils blown wide and steps uneven as she wandered off. The white flash of a circle was carved into her retreating hide. Ozone stench rolled over the field.

The ship was turning too, but not away. No, it was more like the head of a great giant slowly rotating until it found the unwelcome intruders. Them. The ship started shaking.

They ran.

“They’re gonna dissect us, like in the movie!” Stan wailed.

“Vivisect,” Ford corrected automatically, and wished he hadn’t.

Fiddleford moaned low in his throat. The sound eerily similar to one a cat would make before hacking up a furball on the living room carpet. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know!”

Shoes skidding on road gravel, the boys fell over each other when they reached the bush where they had stashed the bikes, ripping the machines from their hiding spot in a spray of leaves and twigs. Fiddleford’s feet barely touched the back bike spoke before Stanley was off, and the boy half fell across Stan’s back before righting himself. Ford was close behind.

The next few minutes were a blur of harsh breathing and pumping legs. It wasn’t until they had reached the smooth strip of tarmac that coasted their bikes along that anyone found the energy to speak.

“Is it following us?” Stan panted.

Fiddleford scanned the sky. “I don’t think so. I don’t see them.”

“Did we outrun them?”

“I don't think we would have gotten away if they were really chasing us,” Ford titled his head. The facts of the situation were clearer now that the adrenaline had cooled. “Perhaps they’re only bovine-motivated.”

A laugh, bordering on hysteria. “Bovine-motivated,” Fiddleford gasped.

“That’s me when Grauntie Mabel makes burgers for dinner.” That was Stan, a grin clear in his voice.

Then, they were all laughing. Voices filling the silence of the road. Creatures skittered away in the surrounding woods at the eruption, but Ford felt no unease as the terror from earlier slid away. Now, all he felt was tired. He yawned, leaning a little heavier on his handlebars. Only a bit further and they would hit the Mystery Shack's dirt road.

In the renewed quiet, Stan said. “So, aliens are like, real, huh?”

“Shoot,” Fiddleford said. There was an awe there that implied he hadn’t grasped the full implications of what they had encountered until that moment. “I suppose so.”

“Are we gonna…do something about it?”

Ford’s mind reeled. I need to make so many additions to the journal. His vague ideas of future publication also returned in full force. If he could prove the existence of aliens, his name would be solidified in scientific history alongside the greats. All he would need to do is get a good video camera, go back to the pastures, and hope the alien's mercy wasn’t a one-off!

Best case scenario: international fame. Worst-case scenario: possibly mind-alternating alien abduction. Worst-worst scenario: vivisection. Ugh.

“I think our time may be better spent on other discoveries,” he settled on. Bike wheels hit dirt, and he hopped off to walk the rest of the way to the Shack.

Fiddleford and Stan dismounted with twin sighs of relief. Fiddleford took the bike from Stan’s lax grip easily, sliding up beside Ford as the other boy lagged. “You don’t suppose your aunt would let me stay over for a while, would you? I don’t know how I’m going to sleep every night knowing that aliens are hovering over the farm.”

Ford grinned. He hadn’t even technically completed his first sleepover, and already more were lined up. “I don’t think she’d mind.”

“Glad you’re sticking around,” Stan called, jogging forward to sock the boy gently in the arm. “Although, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. The aliens are bovine-motivated, remember?”

Ford sighed, half-heartedly swiping as his brother danced away. “Shut up, Stanley.”