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Chapter Text

Pacifica was four years old, and she didn't know what to do.

She didn't understand. She's still confused. A little scared, too. She'd just wanted to eat a cookie. Why was it even there if she couldn't have it? Why did her daddy do that? 

It had been freshly-baked, and the chocolate chips were still a little melty. She just knew if she took a bite, it would melt in her mouth. Chewy and soft and warm, exactly the way she liked cookies to be.

It was served to her on a silver platter, and it looked lonely without any other cookies or snacks to go with it. Daddy was the one who brought the plate and set it down, which she thought was weird, because the servants were always the ones who gave her food, not him.

He was standing right beside her, watching her with his hands behind his back. He looked very serious. “You may not eat this chocolate chip cookie, Pacifica. I forbid it.”

She turned her tiny body so she could properly look up at him. “Why not?”

The man said nothing. He just stared at her with eyes like snow.

“Why not, Daddy?” she repeated. Maybe he just hadn't heard her correctly.

Either way, she got the same result.

Pacifica pouted defiantly and looked back at the treat. Was there something wrong with it? It didn't seem so. It looked yummy.

So why shouldn't she eat it?

Her little hand reached for the cookie.

Daddy pulled out a shiny, golden bell from behind his back. He rang it, and the sound echoed through the dining parlour.

It startled her and made her stop for a moment. She hadn't been expecting that at all. Her head turned towards her father, and she noticed his face hadn't changed. He still looked just as stern.

She decided to ignore it. What a silly thing for him to do.

Pacifica went for the cookie again.

A long, flat stick appeared out of thin air and struck the top of her hand with a slap .

She gasped and recoiled. Her body was faster than her brain, and tears began welling up in her eyes as the unexpected pain suddenly overwhelmed her thoughts in a way she didn't know how to handle. 

The stick was in Daddy's other hand, and he held it the same way he held the bell. He didn't look guilty, but he must have been the one to hit her. He was the only other person in the room.

She made eye contact with him. She didn't speak, but her throat made a crying noise by accident. She knew it was an accident because she normally cried on purpose to get something she wanted. 

She didn't like crying on accident. It didn't feel good.

“You will do as I say, Pacifica. I am your father, and good little girls always obey their parents.”

Her skin was slightly red, and it stung. “But–”

“No buts.” Daddy used the same voice he used when he was telling her to stand up straight. “You are a Northwest. You might not be able to grasp what that means yet, but you will. My job, and your mother's job, is to teach you.”

Teach me what? What do I need to learn? “I'm sorry,” she whimpered, desperate to regain whatever favor she had evidently lost with her father. 

“Don't be sorry, darling. You're a child. Every child must learn how to behave properly.” He lowered the stick and the bell. “Do you understand why I struck you?”

No, she thought. “Yes,” she said with a trembling lip, hoping that was the right answer. A couple tears fell from her cheeks and landed on the collar of her dress. 

“Ciffy!” Her mommy suddenly entered the conversation out of the corner of her eyes. She must have walked in just a second ago; she was wearing her satin house slippers instead of her standard high heels, so Pacifica hadn't heard her coming.

“It's because you disobeyed me,” Daddy explained. “I told you that you couldn't have the cookie, and you tried to eat it anyway.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–”

He raised the bell and rung it again.

She jumped a little.

Mommy wrapped her arms around her and picked her up, resting her on her hip. “Pacifica, dry your tears, pet. Crying turns one's face puffy and red, and boys don't find that attractive. No, not one bit.”

Pacifica didn't know what to say or do, so she just sniffled. 

And now she was in the nursery. Her mother had deposited her here and shut the door when she left, which meant it was Pacifica's playtime. 

She didn't know what to do.

She could still hear the bell ringing in her ears. Its metallic, sharp noise almost made her eyes water. The redness on her hand was going away now, but she could remember the slap so vividly that she still felt its phantom effects.

Now that she was alone, her eyes and mind both wandered. She was used to playing by herself, so she wasn't lonely, but she did feel a lot smaller than normal. She wanted to eat a dozen of those stupid cookies while her mother held her close in front of the grand fireplace and rocked her. Like they used to. 

Ever since she'd learned to walk, and especially since she'd learned to talk, the hearth's warmth seemed more and more out of reach for her.

She wiped her eyes with one of her velvet sleeves and looked up at one of the shelves on the wall. She had about a dozen antique dolls in her nursery, their hair in delicate ringlets and their dresses adorned with beads and lace. 

Her parents said they were hers, at least. She never got to play with them, or even hold them. It wasn't for lack of trying; she'd begged to get a closer look at them multiple times, but it always fell on deaf ears.

She spent a few moments admiring them and wondering what she wanted to retrieve from her toy chest before realizing she was tired. She was very tired. She didn't feel like playing right now.

There was a bay window opposite from the door, and its nook was full of plush throw blankets and downy pillows. It was her favorite napping spot. And right now, it was calling her name.

She answered the call by using her step stool to climb up into her little nest. The window gave her a really pretty view of the entire valley, and she sometimes liked to pretend like she was a princess in a tower, gazing out upon the buildings where her undignified subjects dwelled. She could spend hours like that.

Tucking her cookie-grabbing hand under one of the pillows to soothe it, she watched a robin take flight from a nearby tree and glide away from the Manor. It was a boy robin, because it had a red chest. She'd learned that from her father.

Pretty soon, her eyes wouldn't stay open anymore. She let them close. The soft ticking of the grandfather clock began to lull her to sleep.

She felt one of the throw blankets being draped over her with a slow, gentle touch. It didn't occur to her to look and see who brought it to her. It also didn't occur to her that she hadn't heard the door’s latch click open. She was too young and too sleepy to question anything right now.

Chapter Text

Pacifica was seven years old, and she had a plan.

She'd been working up the nerve to carry it out for the past half hour or so. It was risky, but the reward would surely be worth it.

Her dolls still sat on the same shelf they always had. She'd given them each a name from afar: Paris, Jacqueline, Lucille.

Portia was her favorite. There was something special about her. She had blonde hair (just like Pacifica) that fell in perfect curls, rosy cheeks and pink lips, shiny blue eyes, and a frilly, silk dress that was a lovely shade of mint green. She even had a matching hat with ribbons shaped into flowers.

For her last birthday, her parents had allowed her to hold Portia for a moment. It couldn't have been for longer than a minute, and they were breathing over her shoulder the whole time, but Pacifica savored every second. She wished, more than anything, that she could incorporate the doll into her weekly tea parties she held with her teddy bears and other dolls.

It wasn't as if she was rough with her toys. Her Barbies were all collector's editions, and their hair was in perfect shape – it was as if they'd just been taken out of the box. Her stuffed animals didn't have a thread out of place, her tea set was always spotless, and the spines of her books stayed un-cracked through careful handling. She didn't understand why her porcelain dolls were off-limits.

Her mother and father had a lot of rules she didn't understand. And she always tried to mind them to the letter, she always did her absolute best to stay in line, but…

She'd been staring at the dolls for a while now, and she felt very tempted.

What was the harm in holding Portia again for just a little while? She wouldn't hurt her, and her parents would never know. 

Daddy was playing billiards with some unfamiliar men right now, and Mommy was drinking champagne with their wives. None of them had any little boys or girls to serve as playmates, so Pacifica had been dismissed after a customary polite introduction.

And, left to her own devices with her parents distracted, she had a mission.

She pushed the antique rocking chair to the other side of her room (it hadn't been called the nursery in a while) and did the same to the ottoman and the toy chest. The chest was too heavy for her to lift, so she used it as the lowest step; the ottoman was emptied and hoisted onto the rocking chair for her to stand on.

It had taken about ten minutes, but her makeshift stairs were fully assembled, if a little unstable. It would have to do.

She ran to the door and opened it to peek her head out. Now that she was a little older, she could roam the house relatively freely, and her door no longer remained locked when she was inside. She was granted this freedom because her parents made sure she knew better than to wander into places like Daddy's office.

The hallway was empty. The sounds of adults laughing echoed all the way up here from the parlour; the high ceilings and historic construction meant that sound carried easily through the Manor. Regardless, the coast was clear. 

She carefully shut the door back and returned to her post, but not without a bit of anxiety.

Her hands shook a little as she began hoisting herself up onto the chest first, then the chair, and the ottoman once she got her bearings. Portia watched her with glassy eyes. It looked like she was beckoning her. Come and play with me Pacifica! I miss you. I'm so lonely up here!

Standing up on two feet, she steadied herself by holding the back of the chair. The shelf was only a little higher than her head now; her favorite doll was close to the front, so she would be easy to grab.

Which she did.

Once she had a secure hold, Pacifica slowly lowered Portia to hold her more comfortably. Her sweet little face almost seemed alive. The girl spent several moments just admiring her, soaking in all the details that were even prettier up close: the stitching patterns on her dress’s trim, the white shoes with real shoelaces, the layers of fabric under her skirt to make it more poofy. 

She found herself smiling, tempted to climb back down and hide her friend away somewhere. Maybe it was because the doll normally seemed so far away, but she thought Portia was the prettiest thing she'd ever seen. 

Oh, how she wished she could play with her every day.

A minute or two passed in silence. Pacifica was tempted to hug the doll, but that might have mussed her hair or wrinkled her dress, so she didn't. 

She was just about to put Portia back in her place when a crashing noise came from downstairs. Her heart jumped into her throat, and with a jolt, she lost her footing and her grip on the toy.

She found her balance quickly, and the doll didn't fall to the floor, but she did slip enough to clip the head of the rocking chair with a sharp plink . Pacifica's hands were still around her, so she immediately tightened them. Then, she felt a very abrupt wave of terrible dread.

Oh no.

She quickly began inspecting her for damage. Her hair was mostly fine, and the flyaways that couldn't be patted down probably wouldn't be noticed. Her dress was easily straightened, as well.

It was her face that Pacifica was worried about. 

There was now a crack running across Portia's visage, starting at her neck and running up her face in a diagonal line. It crossed her nose and branched into two small paths above her right eye. 

It wasn't the kind of imperfection that could be hidden or ignored. They would see it. They would know what she did. There would be consequences.

She suddenly felt like a very stupid little girl. This wouldn't have happened if she just left it alone .

Her breathing quickened as she stared at Portia's face and tried to think of what to do. Should she tell them what happened? Maybe her punishment would be less severe if she came clean. Wouldn't that be the right thing to do? Plus, if she told Mommy first, maybe she would be in a good mood. Maybe Mommy wouldn't even tell Daddy about the incident if she was in a very good mood.

But the idea of walking up to either of her parents and presenting evidence of her disobedience and foolishness made her freeze up. She didn't think she'd be able to do it. She was too afraid.

Before she could weigh her options any more, she heard an all-too-familiar sound: heavy footsteps walking up the stairs near her room. 

It was her father. He was coming to check on her. She'd lost track of time.

Her body jumped into action. She lifted Portia up and put her back in her original spot. No time to think. Had to put everything back before he got here. She could decide her next course of action later.

Once the doll was (relatively) safe, she climbed down with muffled urgency and pushed the chest back as quietly as she could. It took her longer than she would have liked due to its weight.

He was getting closer. He wasn't hurrying, so he must not have suspected anything. But he would still be here soon.

The ottoman was carried away and Pacifica tried to shove the books back in without making too much noise. Why were they so heavy?

She had mere seconds left. She just had to move the rocking chair now. That was the only thing left. Then, she could only pray that he didn't glance at the forbidden shelf, that he wouldn't notice Portia right away.

Pacifica grabbed a chair arm in each hand and pushed as hard as possible. But even with all her strength, she was still a seven year old child, and she couldn't relocate the chair with enough speed or precision to finish the task before her father opened the door. 

She stopped in her tracks. The chair was in the middle of the room, and it was obvious that she had been trying to move it around. She felt sick to her stomach.

Her father opened his mouth to ask if she was behaving, like he always did, but the out-of-place furniture made him pause. He looked at her with suspicious bewilderment.

She stared back. She didn't blink. She wanted to say something, but her mouth wouldn't listen to her brain.

He noticed the way the chair was angled, and his eyes followed an imaginary path back to the spot under the shelf. They trailed up the wall until they landed on Isabelle, then Beatrice, and then on Portia.

His mouth closed into a straight, furious line.

The graveyard was quiet. Peaceful. Pacifica liked it here, and she was ashamed of it, because she felt like she was supposed to think it was creepy and gross.

She'd only ever seen this area from afar. It was one of the only places on the property that saw little to no upkeep; vines and moss covered the headstones, and thistles littered the ground. Before today, she'd been too scared of getting scratched up, finding bug bites all over her, or falling into some other ghoulish predicament to even consider exploring it.

But right now? She needed to be alone, to wallow in her guilt and fear and anger. The family cemetery became appealing to her after being disciplined, and she was trying to ignore how nice the silence was. 

(He hadn't used the bell, because she misbehaved under his nose. Her skin was still sore. And not only had order been enforced by the switch, the dolls had been taken away, too. Every last one. Her father made her watch as he shut them all in a trunk and ordered two servants to carry it away.)

She couldn't read some of the names on the headstones, but it could be safely assumed they all had one thing in common: Northwest. Her entire family was buried here. Somewhere beneath her feet, deep within the dirt, rested the bones of her grandparents, and of their grandparents. They would probably be ashamed of her. She was foolhardy, impudent, and other words her father called her that she didn't know the meaning of.

The graves were all different shapes and sizes. Some were plain slabs. Some were more ornate, with little angels on top. There were a few that were just flat pieces of stone on the ground. 

About halfway through the graveyard sat a headstone that was so thickly covered in moss that none of its original text could be deciphered from a distance. She immediately felt herself pulled towards it. 

It could have been anybody. Was it a distant great-uncle? A step-cousin? Was it someone who had been forgotten altogether?

It didn't matter who they were. Their headstone was ugly and turned the whole place into an eyesore. 

Pacifica stared for a minute, and a crow cawed somewhere in the woods below her.

“Stupid.” She glared at the overgrown hunk of rock. It was shaped kind of like a skyscraper. “Ugly.”

She then elected to kick it as hard as she could, shooting it a sneer when it didn't budge. “You're useless, and ugly, and nobody likes you! Stupid grave!”

“ Control your temper, you insipid little girl!”

She startled and took a few steps back. Had that rock just… talked? That wasn't possible. It was a rock .

…And she was in a graveyard. A place where ghosts and zombies and vampires and all sorts of scary things lived.

Pacifica immediately began to sprint away from the voice and towards the gate. Her heart was seized with a different, new kind of fear. “ Mommy!” 

Before she could reach the exit, a glowing, blue lady shot up from the ground. The girl stumbled backwards and fell to the ground, letting out a shriek.

The lady held her hands up and began floating towards her. “Don’t be frightened! I mean you no harm.” She somehow rolled her blank eyes. “Even if your manners need to be nurtured more thoroughly.”

Pacifica couldn't reply. She just cowered. There was a ghost, and it was blocking the only way out. She felt like one of those rabbits from Daddy's hunts.

“I understand that witnessing evidence of the paranormal can be a disorienting experience, but rest assured, I’m harmless,” the ghost continued with a determined look on her face. “Last time I looked in on Preston and Priscilla, she was with child. I didn’t realize so much time had passed since then.”

She knew her parents’ names. Was that good or bad?

“And a little girl, as well!” She started to look a little wistful, a small smile forming on her face. “I was growing impatient. All the way down, it’s just boys, boys, boys. Cecil never had any aunts by blood, and I never had any daughters or granddaughters. It’s true! Look at our family tree for yourself.”

Wow, this ghost talked a lot.

Pacifica narrowed her eyes as she started to feel less scared and more irritated. “Are you a pilgrim?”

The ghost laughed, and it sounded like how cobwebs feel. “Heavens, no! How old do you think I am?”

“How old are you?”

“What year is it?”

“Um…” She tried to think. “2007.”

“My stars.” The bun on her head bobbled as she shook her head. “I haven't been awoken since August of 1999.”

“If you're not a pilgrim, who are you?” Pacifica's eyes widened. “Are you my grandmother?”

“I'm Abigale Northwest, and no, I'm not your grandmother.”

“Why are you–”

“I'm your great- great -grandmother.”

The girl frowned and narrowed her eyes in annoyance. “Oh.”

Abigale floated closer and clasped her hands behind her back. “I'll forgive you for your assault on my tombstone. You're far too small and frail to be of much concern in that regard. The only damage done was to my ego.”

“I'm not small,” she fumed, despite knowing that she was . 

Why wasn't she scared? She should be scared. Well, she had been scared at first, and she was still a little on edge, but now it mostly felt like she was arguing with some old lady who thought she knew everything just because she was old.

“What is your name?” Abigale looked down at Pacifica. “Speak up, now, dear.”

“Pacifica Northwest.” The girl brushed the grass off her dress and stood up. She was tempted to make a few biting comments about the lady's appearance, but if they really were related, that was a bad idea. She'd have to stick to other topics. “Mommy says magic isn't real. So you're probably fake.”

“Riddle me this: can you tell me what’s real and what’s fake with any assurance of veracity?”

Her lower lip stuck out in defiance. “I hate riddles. They're stupid, and only losers and nerds like them.”

“My, you're a tough one.” Abigale laughed, and her nose wrinkled even more. “I admire that. It's a good trait for a Northwest to have.”

Pacifica was confused, but she rolled her eyes and pretended like she felt that she was on equal ground with the spirit. “Obviously. Cause we're the best there ever was,” she said, parroting something she'd heard her father say the other week.

“If you say it’s so, then it must be true,” she replied with a twinkle in her white eye and a hint of sarcasm.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Northwests are many things, Pacifica, and tough is definitely one of them. I'll allow us that.”

What did that even mean ? She crossed her arms. “I'm going to tell my parents that you're down here.”

And where had that come from? There wasn't even the slightest chance that she was going to tell Mommy and Daddy about this. They might forbid her from coming back to the graveyard, and she didn't want that to happen, especially now that she knew there were people here for her to talk to.

“Do as you will,” Abigale said. “I’m bound here either way.”

In the distance, somewhere in the valley close to the hill, a church bell finished its melody and chimed two times. That meant it was two o’clock, which meant she had thirty minutes until horseback riding lessons began. She was expected to be in her riding gear in fifteen.

“I have to go now,” Pacifica said. “I have a prior engagement.” This was another phrase she learned from her family.

Abigale began floating over to her grave. “Sometimes, you speak in the same manner my peers would. And then, in the very next sentence, you use a voice and a vocabulary befitting your age. A fascinating dichotomy.”

“At least I don't talk using riddles. Like a loser.”

“There it is.” She chuckled again and her body began descending into the ground, bobbing slightly like she was walking down a flight of stairs. “Until we meet again, Pacifica, I leave you with this: ‘The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones’. William Shakespeare.”

Pacifica didn't say anything back. She just watched as the woman left, her glow diminishing as the top of her head disappeared into the grass. The girl involuntarily shivered as she stared at the headstone for a minute or two longer, trying to decide if she was just seeing things.

Chapter Text

Pacifica was nine years old, and things were going pretty well.

She was at the top of her grade. She'd amassed a sizable collection of gold medals, blue ribbons, and large trophies for her excellence in various tournaments, competitions, and pageants. People in town, young and old, bended to her every whim. 

And it had been a while since she needed to be disciplined. The bell made sure of that. All she had to do was listen to it.

She hadn't thought about that weird ghost lady in a long time. She chalked the whole experience up to a stress-induced dream. Ghosts weren't real. Everybody knew that, and if you thought otherwise, you were a big baby who probably still believed in fairies and unicorns, too.

The cemetery sat on her family's property, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the carefully-maintained shrubbery, the tennis court, and the spacious garden. Workers kept the weeds at bay by trimming around the fence, but the grass and graves inside remained overgrown and in disrepair. 

It bothered Pacifica, even if she didn't believe in the supernatural. Ghosts or no ghosts, graveyards were still full of dead people, and were thus creepy and gross by default. Did it really need to be creepy, gross, and an eyesore?

Today, it was distracting her during her tennis lessons. It was becoming a real nuisance. She had to remind herself later to complain to her father – maybe then, he'd hire some men to make the graveyard presentable.

She gripped her racket and tried not to look towards the cemetery as Sergei reloaded the tennis ball machine. They'd just finished their set of one-on-one matches, and now she was expected to practice her strokes. 

Pacifica didn't like tennis. Not in the same way she liked golf, anyway. Golf was slow. Methodical. It gave her time to map out her next move, and the satisfaction of getting a hole in one after careful planning was a high she chased again and again. 

On the other hand, tennis was fast, and she had to react quickly. And her reflexes were good. She was good at tennis. But it brought her no joy. She felt nothing when she scored. She just wanted to get through it as quickly as possible so she could get back to reading magazines.

The machine shot a ball her way, and she hit it with an underhand. The next one was deflected with equal ease. And the next one.

She fell into a mindless rhythm. Her mind began to wander as she operated on reflexes alone.

Her family was going to stay on the ocean yacht this weekend. She liked that one better than their lake yacht. It was bigger, and they got to take the private plane to the coastline, and then she got to eat fancy plane food. Wagyu steak tasted better at high altitudes.

Maybe, if their temperaments were pleasant, she could convince her parents to make a stop at the beach so she could get some ice cream –

A gust of wind whistled from the direction of the graveyard.

Pacifica whipped her head towards it, and saw nothing. 

Of course there was nothing. Ghosts weren't real.

She glanced back towards her trainer just as the next ball was launched, and she just barely managed to hit it.

Sergei crossed his arms. “Focus! Clear your mind! There must only be tennis!”

“My mind is clear!” she barked back, irritated by his criticism.

The next couple dozen strokes went off without a hitch, but then she heard the wind again. It was louder this time. More intense. And it sounded sort of like a howl .

Ghosts. Aren't. Real.

She gave it a few more passes, and then, on impulse, deliberately hit one of the balls in the direction of the cemetery. It soared over the wall, and landed somewhere behind the barrier.

The heiress put her hand up. “Stop the machine!”

Sergei flipped the switch and glared at her in confusion. “What is the matter?”

“One of the balls went into the graveyard. I'm gonna go get it.”

“Ms. Northwest, we have dozens of tennis balls. There is no need for–”

“Don't wait up!” she called behind her as she jogged away. “It may take me a few minutes to find it!”

He continued his attempts to stop her by calling her back, but she ignored him, and he didn't chase her. He couldn't stop her. If he told her parents he wouldn't let her retrieve one of the balls they were using, her parents would dismiss him for such a ridiculous complaint. Possibly fire him. He had no real authority over Pacifica.

And she was going to use this to her advantage to prove to herself that she was just imagining things. All she had to do was walk through the gates.

Stupid wind and its stupid noises. Making her hear things that aren't there. She wished the wind was a person so she could sue it –

“Nathaniel, get down from there!” cried a shrill voice.

Pacifica froze in her tracks. She wasn't quite to the cemetery’s entrance yet, but she was close, and that voice had come from inside . 

If someone was in there, they couldn't see her yet, so she crept closer and kept an ear out.

“Peace, woman! I'm tapping into my powers.”

“Damn it all, you're not a wizard! You're a spectre of death!”

“Aren't we all, my dear Nellie?”

Every new addition to the conversation was made by a different voice, and none of them were familiar to Pacifica. But she did know the name Nathaniel.

He was her great-great-great-great grandfather, and he was the founder of Gravity Falls. His ingenuity was the reason her family was wealthy and powerful, and he was a well-respected figure in the town's history. The biggest, most impressive headstone in the graveyard was the one with his name on it, and for good reason.

She'd often spent time pondering the legacy he left behind, and how she could work towards living up to it. And now there was a woman in her backyard chastising someone with his name and treating that person like a lunatic.

She decided to take her chances with peeking. She had to know what was going on in there.

As soon as she leaned around the corner, she regretted this decision.

Several ghostly figures, similar to Abigale and too many to count, were lingering around their graves. There were men and women, young and old, tall and short. Some were sitting on their headstones, and some were floating around in circles. A bearded man (who looked suspiciously similar to the statue of her ancestor in town square) was perched atop the decoration on his grave marker, his transparent, blue arms sticking out to keep his balance.

She quickly pulled back and leaned against the stone wall to ground herself. They were ghosts. There were ghosts in her backyard.

And if she was correct, one of them was the ghost of Nathaniel Northwest, which meant they were all members of her family. 

“Felicity, can you talk some sense into him?”

“What's the use? It's not as if he can die a second time.”

“Safe as he may be, his ravings are disrupting my eternal slumber. Put a stop to it.”

“Watch your tongue, Barnaby. I'm still your mother.”

A new voice chimed in. “Have pity on him, Felicity. His wife's spirit still wanders planes unknown.”

“And my husband's spirit is even more foolish in death than in life.” Felicity raised her voice. “I put up with it until the day he died! He's no longer my responsibility.”

The heiress immediately grew a sense of disdain for Felicity. If she was really married to such an important man, she shouldn't be saying such things about him. Wouldn't it be an honor to be in her position? Pacifica’s mother reminded her of the importance of securing a good husband all the time.

Nathaniel's mention of ‘tapping into his powers’ did seem a bit silly from where she was standing, but he was probably talking about his ghost powers. Ghosts had powers, right?

She peeked around the wall again and tried to pick out who was who. Nathaniel had drifted closer to the ground now, and was distracted by something Pacifica couldn't see. The woman leaning on his headstone must have been his wife, Felicity, and the man pacing back and forth might have been Barnaby. He looked mean.

She had no clue which one was Nellie, and how she would distinguish them if they switched places. The men, for the most part, had similar facial hair, and the women all had their hair up in buns. Plus, most of them were either wearing a black coat or an old-timey dress. 

Her eyes landed on one woman that had a few familiar, standout characteristics. Her hair was a bit messier, and she had round, wire frame glasses.

Wait – this was Abigale!

She was sitting on her headstone with her legs crossed and her head propped up in her hands. She looked both bored and frustrated with the squabbling of her tombmates. Pacifica wondered which one was her husband.

As she looked towards the back, she saw another pair of vaguely familiar faces keeping to themselves. Their clothes were a bit more up-to-date than some of the others’, but they still seemed slightly out of time. The woman's hair was teased up the same way that Pacifica had seen in some of her mother's older fashion catalogs. 

Maybe they were her grandparents. They died before she was born, and she hadn't seen many pictures of them, because her father didn't talk about them very much (and most topics that he chose not to talk about were strictly off-limits). Her only frame of reference were a few portraits displayed in the corridors of the Manor. But who else could they be? Every Northwest that had ever died was buried here.

Suddenly, the same gust of wind from before snuck up behind her, pushing against her back and blowing her ponytail in her face. It wasn't strong enough to knock her over, but her fear was, and she involuntarily stumbled forward in surprise.

The spirits noticed this, and several of them vanished in an instant. One of them, one that hadn't spoken yet, held up a hand. “Don't worry. It's just the girl.”

Seriously? ‘ Just the girl ’? 

“Refrain from any drastic action, Nathaniel, and she won't even notice. She probably just wandered back here by accident.”

“Where are Preston and Priscilla?”

“What of her governess?”

Pacifica pushed herself up with a glower. “I have a name, you know.”

Silence fell amongst the congregation.

Abigale rose and began to approach her. “Pacifica? Has the time come for us to meet once more?”

A man in a bowler hat took a step back. “She can see us?”

Barnaby gave Abigale a disapproving look. “You’ve spoken with the child directly?”

“Yes.” She gave him an equally nasty eye roll. “Does that suit you, my lord? Or shall I ask permission to speak with our kin upon her next visit?”

“ She might be your kin by blood, but you're no kin of mine, she-devil.” He vanished in a glimmer of smoke, but his voice continued for a moment. “I haven't the energy to indulge this nonsense. Wake me up in a decade or ten.”

The others slowly began vanishing behind Abigale as she turned back to Pacifica. “You must forgive my in-laws. Their decorum wasn't retained upon death, and may never have existed to begin with.”

Pacifica found it difficult to say anything in reply. She couldn't take her eyes off of the remaining Northwests. 

Her grandparents stayed at a distance, and were eyeing her with the same intense judgement that Preston and Priscilla often did. She was suddenly self-conscious about a small scratch on her knee that happened during her fall; she wished there was a mirror out here to fix her hair in.

Nathaniel was approaching her now, and that was even more intimidating. “Ah, Pacifica! I've been keeping a close eye on you, my girl.”

“Worry her not with your delusions, Nathaniel,” Abigale warned.

He ignored her and knelt down before Pacifica. “You will accomplish great things. You must. Always keep in mind that you descend from noble, powerful blood, and every Northwest is obligated to preserve our name.”

“Yes, sir,” Pacifica replied meekly. 

She tried to keep her knees from shaking. Ghosts were real, and this was the Nathaniel Northwest. She had to behave accordingly in his presence, even if she was overwhelmed by the situation she found herself in. 

“We shall reconvene once you are of age and have completed finishing school.” He gave her a very serious nod. “By then, you will be sufficiently prepared for the knowledge I'm compelled to bestow upon you.”

The heiress gave him a nod, unsure of what he meant, and he took that as a signal to take his leave. He vanished in the same way Barnaby had.

Her grandparents left as well after giving her one last judgemental once-over, leaving only Abigale to haunt the graveyard for the time being. Pacifica looked to her remaining ancestor, and the woman shook her head dismissively.

“Drivel. Pointless drivel.” She beckoned the girl closer. “How long has it been since we last spoke, my girl?”

Pacifica stayed put – she felt disoriented, and wasn't sure yet if she should approach. “I thought you were a dream.”

“A nightmare, perhaps, but real as can be.” Abigale lowered her hands and folded them in front of her. “You haven't grown much. It couldn't have been very long.”

She bristled. “It's been two years, and I've grown a lot .”

“I grow tired of listening to my immortal companions every time I wake. Sit, Pacifica, and do me a kindness by regaling me with stories of your time. It would be interesting to learn how society has progressed.”

“I don't wanna sit on the ground ,” the girl said in disgust. She was regaining her bearings (and her sassiness) now that the others had left. “This skirt was just ironed and pressed yesterday.”

“A Northwest through and through.” She chuckled. “Stand, then, if that suits your sensibilities.”

“Well… I'm kind of in the middle of a tennis lesson. I should probably get back to that.”

“What brought you here, then?”

“I hit a tennis ball over the fence. I came to get it.”

“I never much cared for tennis.” The spirit glanced at the sky over the wall. “I was more of a croquet aficionado. I enjoyed the mental challenge.”

Pacifica was tempted to tell her that she didn't really like tennis, either, but she held herself back. She really couldn't linger much longer, or Sergei might get impatient and come looking for her.

She spotted the bright, green tennis ball as soon as she thought to look for it – it was resting next to Abigale’s headstone. She walked over to get it, and her great-great grandmother poked her head out of the ground nearby. 

“Pay me another visit soon,” said Abigale. “Don’t be dissuaded by the chaotic state you found us in. Most of the time, we're at rest, and the cemetery is dull and stagnant. Rather lonely, if you ask me.”

Pacifica rubbed her thumb over the black logo painted on the neon fabric. “Hey, why couldn't my personal trainer hear you guys? And why did those ghosts act surprised that I could see them?”

She propped her head on her elbow and leaned on the grass like it was a tabletop. “Some are born with a heightened sixth sense, and can see the unseen more naturally than others.”

“That’s creepy.”

“It's a rare gift – one that can be exploited and punished if one isn't careful. Guard it well.”

That answer didn't make Pacifica feel any better. “Okay, well, I'm leaving now. Don't follow me.”

“I couldn't if I tried.” Abigale smiled that wide, unsettling smile again. “The Manor is not my dominion.”

Pacifica forced herself to turn around and start walking away. As she got closer to the gate, she looked behind her several times, checking to see if the ghost was still there. And she was – still in the same spot every time the girl looked. Right before she rounded the corner, the spirit gave her a polite wave, and disappeared under the dirt.

A shiver ran through the heiress. There was no way she was ever going back in there, especially since she knew that ghosts were real. 

If those people really were Northwests, that was even more of a reason to keep her distance. Keeping her parents happy took all of her energy – she didn't need to waste her time on people who were long dead and had no influence in the real world.

Despite everything, Pacifica found herself drawn back to the graveyard less than a month later.

She couldn't stop thinking about the encounter, which was really obnoxious, because she would have rather ignored it and moved on with her life. But how was she supposed to move on from that?

There was nobody she could tell. Her parents would simply put a lock on the gate, and while she didn't want to go back in, the prospect of being locked out was worse, somehow.

And none of her friends would believe her. She was Pacifica Northwest. Her family owned the prestigious private school she attended. There was no way she was gonna start telling her peers ghost stories. She’d lose every ounce of the respect and fear she'd cultivated amongst them, and she'd fall from her spot at the top of the middle school food chain. 

Thus, the ghosts in her backyard continued to haunt her every thought, and Abigale took center stage. She couldn't help but be fascinated by them. 

What would be the harm in checking on them one more time? She could bring a couple magazines and a few of her electronics, dazzle them with modern fashion and technology, and leave. Maybe then she could put the whole thing to rest.

So, the very next weekend, she packed a few issues of Vogue and Tiger Beat, along with her iPhone and iPod, into some random, out-of-season backpack she found at the back of her closet. She figured she would use that one instead of her favorite Juicy Couture messenger bag, because if it got dirty, she could just throw it out and her parents would be none the wiser.

Since it was Saturday, she had two hours of free time to spare that morning. Nobody would be looking for her until her posture lessons were scheduled to begin at ten o’clock sharp, and she doubted she would be outside that long, anyway.

Pacifica walked through the halls of her house with her chin held aloft. A butler or two and a few maids politely deferred to her as she passed them, but she only gave them simple nods, signalling that they could carry on and she didn't need them right now.

As she made her way outside, she was met with relative silence. The groundskeepers weren't working today, and her family wasn't hosting any guests, so it made perfect sense that it was quiet. But she never came back here unless she had a reason; a lesson, a social event, or a particularly bad round of discipline. It felt strange to walk across the grass for simple leisure and curiosity.

The cemetery gates were open, as usual, and she slipped inside without ceremony.

Abigale was right; the graveyard was pretty dull and stagnant. She could hardly even hear the courtyard’s fountain flowing from inside the stone walls.

Pacifica stood at the entrance for a few, long moments, not confident about what step to take first. How would she even wake anyone up? It's not like you could just wake the dead by setting an alarm clock. 

Maybe she could just…

She apprehensively trudged up to Abigale's grave. It was as good of a place to start as any. If nothing else, this particular ghost seemed to take the most interest in talking, so maybe she'd respond more quickly to her.

The lichen-coated stone stood about waist-high to Pacifica, and lacked any flourishes or extra designs. It wasn't quite as elaborate as some of the markers on the other graves, which was interesting and made it stand out. Was she just a humble woman? Was that why she got a lackluster slab of a headstone? Or was there another reason?

Not knowing what else to do, she knocked three times on top of the stone, and waited for a moment in silence.

A twinge of doubt washed over her. This was dumb. This was so stupid. She was wasting her time, and she was a giant weirdo freak for even coming out here to begin with. She needed to go back inside and do something productive, like outfit planning for the week ahead, or–

A spectral, blue head appeared over her shoulder, and she bit back a startled shriek as she reflexively took a few steps away from it. 

Abigale grinned at her and waved her unnaturally long, spindly fingers. “So you've returned to see your dear old grandmother.”

Pacifica frowned and crossed her arms. “Great-great-grandmother.”

“Yes, yes. It was simply a verbal shortcut.” She floated up so her full body was in view. “What's today’s occasion? Have you lost another tennis ball?”

“No,” replied the girl indignantly. “You told me you wanted to see modern stuff, so I brought some so you'd quit bothering me.”

Abigale’s grin morphed into a smirk. “I've done no such thing. I appreciate the gesture nonetheless – although it seems that it's your mind that needs to be put at rest, not my spirit.”

“Whatever.” Pacifica put effort into making the word sound as flippant as possible.

She slung her backpack off, unzipped it, and began removing magazines as Abigale settled on the grass beside her. She'd worn her low-end designer leggings for today's excursion, ones that could suffer grass stains without consequences. She would need to bring a picnic blanket or something similar next time (if she ever decided to come back, that is). 

“What do we have here?” asked the ghost. “Modern installments of Vogue?”

Pacifica blinked in surprise as she held up that month’s issue. “You know what Vogue is?”

“Of course I do. I didn't read it very often, but that magazine was around when I was a teenager. I'm surprised to see it's still in circulation.”

“Wow. Okay.” 

That was… actually kind of cool. She hadn't expected to have this connection with someone from such a different time period. 

“What sorts of hats are the style now?” asked Abigale as she examined the cover, which featured Cameron Diaz in a loose, white ensemble. “Good heavens, what is she wearing? Is this not considered indecent?”

Pacifica stared at the outfit in confusion. Was she talking about how a few buttons on the actress’s shirt were undone? Or maybe it was the pants. Did women wear pants back then?

“Girls wear pants all the time now,” she said. “And they don't really wear hats.”

The ghost laughed. “Wonderful news! I hated hats, and I always thought slacks would be more practical to wear around the workshop. Sometimes, I could get away with wearing a pair of Cecil's if we were going to a sporting event, but that wasn't often.”

Pacifica flipped to random pages, and Abigale stared with mild, slightly bewildered fascination at each and every photo. She was remaining relatively quiet, so the heiress reached over and pulled her iPod out of the backpack to fill the silence. 

That piqued Abigale's interest immediately. Apparently, technology suited her interests more than clothes. “What's this?”

“An iPod Touch.”

“That communicates absolutely no information to someone in my position.”

“Do you want me to tell you what it is or not?”

“It doesn't look like a pod – there’s no external mechanisms that indicate it’s part of a larger whole, and it's too slim to fit anything of use inside.”

“Uh…” Pacifica tried to think of how to explain something like this to her. She wasn't exactly sure how the device worked, herself – all she knew was that Steve Jobs invented them. “It plays music, and you can download apps. And there's computer chips inside that make it work.”

“I'm unfamiliar with what a ‘computer chip’ is,” replied Abigale with a confused, but curious spark in her eyes. “It seems I have a lot of building blocks in innovation to catch up on.”

The girl pressed the home button and unlocked the screen. Maybe it was easier to just show her. “Here, look.”

Once the lock screen was lit up and a photo of two kittens appeared on the display, Abigale's eyes widened. Pacifica navigated to iTunes with an odd sense of pride. 

It was kind of fun knowing about stuff someone else didn't – she was used to feeling important, feeling like an authority, but this wasn’t the same thing. When the other kids at school followed fashion trends that she set, or did stuff for her when she told them to, it felt natural. That felt like it was supposed to be happening, because she was rich (and was thus in a position to be in charge). This felt… different. Just different.

Maybe, sometime soon, she could print a couple of Wikipedia articles out for Abigale on stuff like the history of computers. That was sure to occupy her for a while.

“Amazing,” mused the spirit as she watched her ancestor scroll through the device's music library. “Computer chips must be powerful things if they can produce this result.”

“Yeah, I’ve got sixty-four gigabytes, so it can store, like, a billion songs on it.” She tapped on Love Story by Taylor Swift. That was probably a good song to ease Abigale into modern music with, since it was about princesses and stuff. 

“Gigabytes?” the woman asked. She didn't have long to linger on her query, though, because she was quickly taken aback by the music appearing out of thin air. “Is that sound coming from the pod?”

The girl nodded with an air of bravado. “Pretty impressive, right?”

“Very much so.”

“Just wait til you hear The Black Eyed Peas. They're a band.”

“A band of peas? Tell me more.”

Maybe she would come back to visit a few more times. Just a few.

Chapter Text

It was the morning after the 150th annual Northwest Fest, and Pacifica was still awake.

Everything she’d ever known had been slowly starting to crumble over the past couple months, and now, it had finally come crashing to the ground. She was still picking up the rubble and trying to expel the dust from her lungs – the aftermath would be keeping her awake for months on end. 

And there was also the (much lesser) matter of actually having fun with Dipper Pines . She wasn't going to be admitting it to her classmates any time soon, nor would she be inviting him over to hang out, but she'd enjoyed running around the Manor with him. Not to mention that he'd been pretty nice to her when she hadn't really deserved it.

She couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said to her in that disgusting, cobweb-infested crawlspace. His words kept replaying themselves in her head like a busted record. She could have recited them from memory if needed.

And just as her heavy heart would start to feel a little lighter, just as she started to believe him again, her brain would replay memories of the many times she'd been a massive jerk to him and his sister. 

Pacifica didn't like guilt. It made her stomach hurt, and it kept her from relaxing. On a normal day, she could deal – just put on her sleep mask and play some old-timey music to fall asleep (and drown out her doubts) to. She’d just remind herself that she was a Northwest, and she shouldn't feel guilty about anything . 

But lately, remembering her family name just made the guilt worse . And feeling guilt directed towards the Pines twins? Unprecedented. Uncomfortable, too.

After several hours of tossing and turning that night, the heiress checked the time in exasperated desperation, and saw that it was 3:45 in the morning.

That was when she decided to pay Abigale a visit. It would be more productive than this fruitless endeavor, at the very least.

She slipped on some sneakers, draped a robe over her pajamas, and quietly snuck out of her room. 

The Manor was the only home she'd ever known, but it was pretty creepy at night. The empty quiet was broken up by the creaking sounds of the house settling. Dealing with an angry ghost just hours before was not helping her nerves, either, but she also couldn't blame him for being angry. 

There was that guilt again. 

Once she made her way to the cemetery, she walked her usual route, straight to Abigale, and called her with three knocks. 

This time, Abigale appeared like a cloud of mist, materializing in a soft glimmer. She looked up at the stars, and a puzzled look crossed her face.

“What time is it, my girl?”

“I thought time had no meaning to you,” remarked Pacifica as she sunk onto the grass and rested her back against the gravestone.

“It doesn't, but if it's a late hour, you should be in bed.”

“It's almost four.” She sighed and shut her eyes. “I couldn't sleep.”

“Ah, I see.” The ghost settled across from her, and the spectral folds of her skirt spread around her where she sat. “Something is troubling you.”

“A lot of somethings, yeah.”

“A burden shared is a burden halved.”

Pacifica sighed deeply, and didn't speak for several moments. Abigale waited patiently for her to speak. 

“...there was a ghost at the Northwest Fest tonight.”

She waited for the woman's verbal reaction, but it never came. When she opened her eyes and looked to her grandmother, her pale face was contorted with concern and uneasiness.

“He was a lumberjack,” she continued. “And he was really mad at our family.”

“A lumberjack?” Abigale muttered under her breath. 

“He tried to kill everyone at the party, but I stopped him.” The fact was stated with no pride or boastfulness. She was simply relaying what happened. “I opened the gates, and I let all the hillbilies in, and that made him stop. He let everyone go after that.”

“Is that true?”

“Yeah. My parents got mad, though.” Another pit in Pacifica's stomach formed, but this particular one swirled with fear and dread rather than guilt. “I didn't do what they told me to do.”

Hearing this, Abigale began to smile, and the warm expression contrasted with her cold, incorporeal skin. “You disobeyed the bell?”

Pacifica winced. “...Yes.”

“I'm so proud of you.”

Her words washed over the heiress and took a few moments to process. Once they did, she sat up a little straighter, and met her eyes. “You are?”

“Of course.” She laid a ghostly hand over her descendant’s, and it felt like chilled ectoplasm (but the girl didn't mind all that much). “You took action when you believed it was the right thing to do. Every child should mind their parents to a degree, Pacifica, but….”

Pacifica frowned and averted her eyes. Her voice dropped in volume. “They wanted me to go in the panic room with them. They were going to leave all those people to die.”

“And because of you, they're still alive.” Abigale nodded to emphasize her point. “Adults often make selfish and hasty decisions. It takes a kind and discerning heart to do what you did at such a young age.”

She smiled again, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She knew she did the right thing by pulling the lever – she'd never been so sure of anything in her entire life. That wasn't what was bothering her, though she appreciated the praise from her relative. 

No, she was more concerned about the fallout of her disobedience, making things up to Dipper and Mabel, and her blood-stained family tree. 

“Yeah, but I can't sleep because… I keep thinking about… Ugh.” She leaned forward as her hands clenched into fists. “The lumberjack did all that stuff because our family left him and his friends to die a hundred and fifty years ago. They all drowned in a flood. Isn't that terrible?”

Abigale's expression faltered, and she frowned. “Wait a moment… the curse…”

Pacifica paused. “Wait, what?”

“So it was true all along…” The ghost leaned back and stared at her hands, her brow furrowing in distress. “Why didn't I realize it before? Of course it was the curse. Why else would a lumberjack ghost haunt the Manor?”

“Abigale?”

“I told Cecil it would happen,” she whispered. “And Nathaniel knew .”

“ Nathaniel? ” Pacifica leaned a little closer, and her tone deepened. “Why do you know about the curse?”

“ Every Northwest knows about the curse,” she replied as she rubbed her forehead. “I just hadn't realized a hundred and fifty years had passed, I hadn't even considered –”

“Well, I didn't know! Not until that night!”

Her father had summoned Pacifica to his office the morning of the party, before Dipper's arrival, and told her about the curse. It was on a need-to-know basis, he'd said, and after seeing the flying cutlery at dinner, he believed she needed to know.

And then, at the command and the threat of the bell, she’d been forced to swallow the bile rising in her throat and cooperate with her family’s subterfuge. 

She’d known about the curse for less than forty-eight hours, and it made her feel more guilt than she’d ever felt in her entire life. Complacent. Part of the problem. Poison .

So why wasn’t Abigale showing the same guilty conscience? 

She pushed herself up on her knees so she was eye level with the spirit. “You mean you knew about all the awful stuff the Northwests have done?”

“Well, y es, I–”

“And you never told me?! ”

“I assumed your parents would tell you themselves once you were old enough to be privy to the information. You're still a child, Pacifica.”

Something dark and upsetting twisted Pacifica's stomach into knots.

“I'm a child, but I'm not stupid! Did you not think I could handle it?” She felt her eyes becoming watery, but she refused to cry. Not yet. “I’ve handled a lot , Abigale!”

Her white, translucent eyes grew sad, pained. “I understand, dearest, I understand. I know all too well the abuse you have suffered.”

“And why didn't you do something back then, huh?” Pacifica rose to her feet and snatched her phone off the ground. “You could have done something to stop them while you were still alive, and apparently, you didn't! You were probably too busy fiddling with your stupid inventions and worrying about a demon that doesn't exist to care about the people we were hurting!”

Abigale’s jaw clenched as she rose to her full height, floating high enough that her feet were no longer touching the ground “You’re gravely mistaken, child. You must realize–”

“I’ve realized enough to know that I can't trust you anymore.” Pacifica shakily wiped her cheek, catching a runaway tear that had escaped despite her best efforts. “I'm never coming out here again.”

“Pacifica, wait! ”

She was already storming towards the gate. 

“If you'll simply let me explain myself, you'll understand my reasons!”

But her mind was made up.

Pacifica stomped around the corner, past the point where any of her family's spirits could venture, and began to weep in profuse anger and humiliation as she stormed back inside.

For the first few days of her grudge, she'd resolved to never return to the graveyard as long as she lived. Abigale had betrayed her trust, and everyone else out there was either a lunatic or a mustache-twirling villain; she had no desire to speak to any of them, if she could avoid it.

She attended all of her lessons and clubs, worked on her summer homework, and tried not to cry on a daily basis. She was obedient to her parents and followed all of their commands to the letter with no complaints. That was all she could do – and she needed to be on her best behavior, regardless.

She grew lonely, because she no longer had her chats with her grandmother to look forward to, and her friends at school were becoming more and more distant after hearing about what happened at the Northwest Fest. (Were they ever really her friends to begin with? She wasn't sure. She couldn't even remember Tiffany’s last name.)

Once or twice, she'd considered dialing the number that Dipper had given her, but she couldn't ask either him or Mabel to hang out this soon. She'd just seen them a few days ago (and nearly gotten all of their faces stolen in the process, a faux pas she was sure she'd never live down). Needy, much? Plus, she didn't even know if they counted as friends yet.

Sure, she'd been invited to their 13th birthday party at the end of the month, but that didn't mean anything. Besides, there were apparently two Stans now, so the Pines were probably busy dealing with that headache.

So, left without any other options, Pacifica was left alone with her family, her routine, and her thoughts.

And the longer she stewed, the more guilty she began to feel. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Couldn't she focus on something else for a change? It was starting to affect her performance. Her fake smiles didn't come as easily as they always did.

And then , in one of her assigned books for summer reading, Pacifica read about a young woman living in the 1890s named Edna. She was rich, but she was trapped in a loveless, unhappy marriage, and suffocated by her position in life. 

This, of course, got Pacifica thinking about her own family. Husbands and wives, aunts and uncles, and sons (but no daughters, not until she came along).

No Northwest had ever filed for divorce. She knew this because her parents loved to brag about it when they had guests with recent marriage drama. Every Northwest son had found a wife, and stayed with that wife until death. 

What if, when she grew up and found a husband, he ended up being the wrong husband? What if she didn't love him, and she was stuck? Would she be brave enough to be the first Northwest to get a divorce?

…Did Abigale love her husband? Sometimes, she spoke about him with a distant fondness, and sometimes, she seemed to want to avoid discussion of him altogether. 

But would she have been able to end things if she hadn't loved Cecil, or if he treated her badly? And where would she have gone if she had left? The townspeople probably would have been mean to her, because they all either worshipped or feared the Northwests, and she’d never mentioned any other family.

These questions multiplied and overwhelmed each other in Pacifica's mind, and by the time Saturday had rolled around again, she found herself doing exactly what she'd sworn against.

At midnight, the moon was at the perfect angle to illuminate the cemetery from above. Unobscured by clouds, the star was almost bright enough to eliminate the need for a flashlight.

Pacifica tip toed past the gate, and was surprised to find Abigale already out and about. Her arms were clasped behind her back, and she was floating around the perimeter at a pace-like speed, roaming amongst the graves like they were flowers.

She watched the ghost for a moment in pensive silence. The ghost looked old on the outside, but in death, she had the energy and enthusiasm of someone much younger. She even paced like an impatient child.

Pacifica didn't know much about her great-great-grandmother’s life. Well, she did know a lot, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. She'd heard a million stories about her childhood friends and her hobbies, as well as her time with the Anti-Cipher Society, but she’d heard almost nothing about her life as a Northwest. No funny stories about something one of her two sons said, no loving recounts of time with Cecil, no holiday memories with the family. Nothing. 

Before the Northwest Fest, she'd never thought about it that much. Pacifica didn't like talking about her family, either; even on their best days, they were clueless and vapid, and showed little concern for others. Why would Pacifica want to talk about them when she could show Abigale Jurassic Park on her phone instead?

But now, the omission of that stretch of history was obvious. It couldn't be ignored any longer, and she couldn't hate Abigale for the rest of her life, either. It just wasn't practical, and she was trying to be better now, anyway. That probably meant she needed to try and not hold too many grudges. 

Plus, she just missed her. Plain and simple.

She slowly stepped into the cemetery, not announcing her presence, but not hiding it, either. Seeing her favorite spirit so restless bothered Pacifica. Was this how other kids felt when their parents cried?

Within a few moments, Abigale noticed her, and stopped in surprise. Neither Northwest moved for a few heartbeats, but then, they simultaneously began to gravitate towards the same spot.

As they met each other in the middle, the younger girl avoided eye contact with her ancestor. She was too afraid of what she might see.

“Pacifica,” said Abigale. It was both a greeting and a question. She sounded unsure. Why did she sound unsure?

“Hey,” responded Pacifica as she folded in on herself even more. She was already pretty tiny, but maybe making herself even smaller would show Abigale how much she wanted to be friends again.

“Are you alright?” She held a hand up, but pulled it back and curled it close to her heart instead of reaching out. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I'm not hurt.” She sniffled. “But… I'm not alright, either.”

“Oh, child,” the woman mused in a sad cadence.

“I'm so sorry, Abigale. I'm sorry I yelled, and I'm sorry I got mad at you, and I'm just–”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said firmly as she knelt down. “The fault is mine and mine alone.”

“I’m sorry for everything, okay?” Her voice cracked, and she barely even noticed. “I didn't even give you the chance to talk. I just ran off. I'm as bad as they are–”

“Hush, now. Hush.” 

Her transparent, spectral arms unfolded, and began to wrap around Pacifica like two gnarled vines.

Everyone in Gravity Falls knew that ghosts weren't completely incorporeal. For the most part, you could pass right through them, but you'd still feel a cold rush of air as you did so. And, if they wanted to, they could temporarily turn themselves semi-corporeal for any number of reasons: to attack something, to knock a vase off a shelf, to restrain people.

They didn't typically use this ability to give hugs.

Pacifica instinctively began to cry into the ghost’s semi-tangible shoulder, allowing her to stroke her hair with a comforting, feather-light touch. She might have fallen to her knees, but her small frame was kept upright by the flickering apparition she held onto.

(Pitiful. Weak. Seeking solace amongst the dead after begging for their forgiveness. When was she going to toughen up?)

Hugging Abigale felt like using one of the cold headache relief wraps Pacifica's mother used. The girl found herself shivering after prolonged contact, but for some strange reason, she didn't want to let go. The embrace itself was warm enough on its own; she was willing to ignore the chill.

“Are you still mad at me?” she asked with all the fear of a little kid, and none of the shame of an heiress.

Abigale shook her head firmly. “I was never ‘mad’ at you.”

Pacifica angled her head back to look up at the ghost. “You weren't?”

“Not for a second.”

Another sob or two escaped her chest at the reassurance, but she was beginning to collect herself now, so the reaction didn't spiral. She pulled her grandmother close for another few moments of comfort.

“I wish we'd known each other when we were both alive,” the girl said quietly. “We could go to the movies, or get some ice cream.”

“Like the common people do?” she teased.

“Like normal people do,” Pacifica retorted.

Abigale responded with a weary sigh. “As lovely as those things sound, I really do believe these abnormal circumstances were the best way we could have met.”

As she wiped her eyes and let Abigale go, Pacifica took a deep breath in and out. She then asked, “What do you mean by that?”

The two women stared at each other, the air between them thick with long-unspoken truth. The longer they stood still, the more fog pooled around them.

The heiress clenched her jaw. “Tell me everything. I want to know what happened.”

The ghost nodded in solemn agreement. “I suppose I owe you that much, don't I? Sit, then – sit.”

Once the two of them were seated comfortably by Abigale's grave, Pacifica folded her hands in her lap and waited for her ancestor to speak first. She wasn't sure what else she could say now. She was tempted to apologize again, but resisted the impulse.

As she waited, she felt her fingers turn numb where they still held onto the spirit’s hand. She wondered how her skin felt from Abigale's perspective; if a ghost felt cold to a human, did that mean…

She quickly pulled her hand away, and, in abrupt fear, her breath caught in her throat. “Am I burning you, Abigale?”

The woman looked a bit startled at her movement, but then she laughed. “No. What gave you that notion?”

“Well, ghosts are cold, so I figured…”

“I see.” She shook her head. “Don't worry. I don't believe it's a one-to-one reflection. Humans are warm, but not unbearably so. It feels akin to warming your hands by a fire.”

“Okay.” Pacifica rubbed her eyes in both physical and emotional exhaustion. “Just wanted to be sure.”

Abigale smirked at her knowingly. “Do you know my maiden name?”

“No. It wasn't in any of the stuff I found in the library.”

“Before I was Northwest, I was Blackwing.” A wistful thought crossed her white eyes. “My father's name was Humphrey Blackwing, and my mother was Enid Blackwing, née Bixby.”

“What were they like?” asked Pacifica.

“I may never know. I was made an orphan at the tender age of four months old.”

“Oh.” Great job, Paz. “That's terrible.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I never really knew them, so there's not anyone in my mind for me to miss. My childhood was happy enough; the orphanage in Hogsteam was rather hospitable, though I mostly kept to myself.”

Abigale shut her eyes and shook her head again as she continued. “And I’ve already told you the tale of how my encounters with The Beast With Just One Eye led me to join the Society.”

Pacifica remembered. She'd told her many times about how Bill Cipher found her in her dreams, sensing her inventive mind, and tried tormenting her into building some kind of machine for him. She'd never given in to his demands – her stubbornness outlived his patience. But Bill’s temper could outlive anything, and the nightmares continued for months after that. They were so frequent and disturbing that they prevented her from finding steady work once she came of age.

At first, Pacifica didn't know how much of her story to believe. Truthfully, it sounded like the ravings of a madwoman. But after dealing with tribes of sentient golf balls, a triangle-shaped demon no longer seemed impossible. Maybe she would ask Dipper about it next time she saw him. Would that make her look crazy?

“You also already know how my contributions to the Society brought us to the Inventioneer’s Fair in 1901. That's where I met Cecil.”

The heiress stared in rapt attention, watching the ghost’s face attentively.

“He was showing off his prototype for an air-propelled jetpack.” She propped her head up in her hands and smiled distantly. “I’d never met someone like him before that day. We got along beautifully in the beginning, you know. He didn't even tease me after my companions and I were made a laughingstock.”

“He believed you about Bill?”

“I'm not sure if he believed me back then, but he didn't belittle me. That was enough.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyhow, we were betrothed in a month.”

Her jaw dropped. “A month? ”

“That is hasty by modern standards, I'm sure, but I believed it was perfectly reasonable.” She shrugged. “I was a hysteric young woman with no family and no prospects, and here was a man who not only showed interest in me, but also shared my love for tinkering. I had absolutely no reason, or desire, to refuse his proposal.”

“Didn’t you get nervous about leaving Illinois on such short notice?”

“Yes, I did. In fact, on the day I left, Jessamine….” Her face froze, and her irises gazed at something that wasn't there. “She was my bosom friend. We met in the Society, remember?. She came all the way to the train station to bid me farewell.”

Abigale’s lips thinned into a straight line. “But when the train arrived, and the din of its machinery was loud enough to obstruct conversation, she asked me an impossible question.”

“What did she say?” the girl asked, almost at a whisper.

“She asked me to stay.”

Pacifica had never seen a picture of Jessamine before, but from what she'd heard in the past, she knew she was a strawberry blonde, and was about a head shorter than Abigale. She tried to imagine the two women saying goodbye on a train platform, possibly for the last time. 

“And what did you say?”

“I promised to write,” Abigale stated plainly. “And we did keep up correspondence for quite a white, along with the other Society alumni, but she took her own life several years later.”

All of a sudden, the heiress felt a shocking rush of grief for someone she'd never known. “Why?” she asked.

“The Beast paid her another visit. Our mutual friend, Horace, told me as much in one of his letters.” She hummed sadly. “I do have my regrets, and not listening to Jessamine is one of the most notable. I used to wonder if I could have saved her, but you cannot change the past, so it's destructive to dwell on such things.”

Pacifica frowned, but said nothing. She was about to voice her condolences, useless as they may be a hundred years later, when Abigale quickly changed the subject.

“Regardless, Oregon is where I ended up spending the rest of my life. And, other than adjusting to the extravagant lifestyle, the first few years of my marriage were pleasant enough.”

“Did you really love him?” 

She immediately felt like she'd crossed a line with that question, but her ancestor took it in stride. “Yes, I did. But after all is said and done, I think we would have been better off as friends, or perhaps colleagues. We indulged each other in our work and improved on each other's designs.” Sitting up a bit straighter, she added, “He was very conceptually creative, and I had the technical prowess to make his ideas come to life. I'm sure my old blueprints are still around the mansion. Maybe you could find them, my girl.”

“Where do you think they'd be?”

“Probably in the room that used to be our workshop.” Abigale bit her lip in frustration. “Though you may not be able to reach it, now that I think about it. It was boarded up ages ago and hidden behind some tasteless painting.”

Wait – that sounded familiar.

“Was it next to the silver room?”

The spirit raised her eyebrows. “Yes, actually.”

“I may have already found it. But if I went in again, I'd need to bring a duster.” Pacifica tilted her head. “Why was it boarded up?”

She paused, studying her hands intently and searching for the right words. “...This is the part of the story where my downfall begins, Pacifica. I don't look back on this period in my life with any amount of sentimentality, but it's important that you know what happened to me.”

Pacifica blanched. “Did they… did they kill you?”

Abigale laughed dryly. “No. No, they didn't. But if they had, things would be much more simple, and it would be an easier story to tell.”

The girl hugged herself tightly and sat up straighter. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest in anticipation and dread.

“Now, everything began when Bill found me in Oregon. I suppose that, after driving Jessamine to suicide, he was looking for a new target.” The ghost scoffed and shook her head. “I won't elaborate on the grotesque illusions he created to try and make me submit to his will, but they were harrowing enough to make me consider it.”

“You wouldn't have done it,” said Pacifica.

“He knew I was grieving my dearest friend, and struck when I was vulnerable. The Beast will do everything he possibly can to manipulate you into furthering his schemes. But I kept his return to my psyche a secret as long as I could – my in-laws wouldn't have believed me. They were already distrustful of me, because they knew I came from an inelegant upbringing, and they didn't believe I was a suitable enough wife for Cecil.”

Indignance flooded the younger girl’s chest at the notion that Abigale wasn't ‘suitable enough’ in any sense. She was the only Northwest she'd ever felt safe with, and she was the smartest person Pacifica knew. (She supposed her family didn't value intelligence very highly. They only valued complacency.)

“Before long, my dreams returned to normal, and I believed the storm had passed. But the clouds hadn't dissipated at all; they'd just moved on to the next opportunity.” She sighed heavily. “A house full of wealthy fools was ripe for the picking.”

“Cecil,” the heiress gasped.

“Yes, he was the next focus of Bill’s attention.” A visible shudder ran up her spine as she spoke about the demon. “Not only did Cecil have unlimited access to any resource Bill could possibly ask for, he also had a technical education and an ego that only grew bigger with praise. He didn't need to torture my husband to get results. They were two birds of a feather.”

Pacifica was reminded of the portrait of Cecil that she'd seen in the hidden room, the one where he was surrounded by plasma globes and beakers of bubbling, unknown substances. The crazed look in his eye made him look manic and unsettling.

Maybe Bill Cipher was real. The whole ‘mad scientist’ thing wasn't really natural for a Northwest – usually, the evil members of her family became businessmen. 

Abigale continued, “I caught wind of their dealings when he brought those damn tapestries into the house. There were at least a dozen of them, commissioned from a Belgian textile artist and imported from overseas.”

Pacifica looked back at the house nervously. She was pretty sure she knew exactly which tapestries her grandmother was talking about, and one of them was currently hanging in her bedroom. 

Was he the weird triangle on all of the designs? She'd assumed it was just part of some weird, esoteric wall art collection her family had bought ages ago, not effigies for some obscure cult.

Maybe she would call the Mystery Shack in the morning. That was worth a call, right? Better to bug Dipper about it than cause Abigale even more undue stress. 

When she turned back, the ghost hadn't even noticed she looked away. She had a faraway gaze; her mind was somewhere else entirely.

“By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. He'd been convening with that demon for at least a year, and had fallen into something close to a religion,” she lamented. “Cipher’s silver tongue is just as powerful as his bite, and Cecil had fallen prey to his sermons. He wouldn't acknowledge any of my warnings, and quickly became bitter and distant to me.”

“What did the others think?” Pacifica's brow furrowed. “They wouldn't have believed him either, would they?”

“You're absolutely correct, my girl, and Cecil knew this, too. I was the only one who knew of his true convictions.” 

She was quiet for a moment. “...What happened, then?”

Abigale took her hand again, sending a jolt of ice through Pacifica's palm. The girl squeezed the spirit’s hand in silent reassurance.

“The Cecil I married was long gone, and my attempts to save him only made him that much more cross.” Her ghostly glow seemed to dim a bit as she continued. “And, eventually, he grew tired of my protests. So he turned the family against me. Made me out to be a raving lunatic, scared of the shadows on the wall. Utterly delusional.” 

Abigale wiped away a single, black tear and said, “Pacifica, do you know what a lonotomy is?”

The heiress’s blood ran cold in her veins. She didn't know exactly how a lobotomy worked , or why people did them, but she vaguely knew that it was a terrifying, awful thing that doctors used to do.

She shook her head ‘no’ in response to her ancestor. It was too late to turn back now.

“A transorbital lobotomy is a surgical procedure in which a needle-like rod is inserted into the patient's eye socket at an angle. The rod is then struck with a hammer in order to bypass a thin layer of bone behind the eyeball, and then the rod is used to sever the nerve fibers of the pre-frontal cortex.”

The longer Abigale went on, the more the horror of reality descended upon Pacifica. She knew her family was bad, but–

“The purpose of the procedure was to placate the patient and cure any mental ails they might be suffering. Since the pre-frontal cortex is the area of the brain that governs one’s thoughts, feelings, and actions, damaging it numbs those functions. Patients become submissive and compliant after losing their higher cognitive capabilities, and any semblance of their former personality is lost.”

Her voice was clinical and cold, like she was trying to detach herself from the mere concept. Surely, they didn't–

“And when you have a lot of money, it's very easy to arrange such a procedure to keep someone quiet.”

Pacifica's hand clamped over her mouth as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Abigale finally met her eyes, and she pursed her lips as she tried not to cry along with her. 

“Barnaby was head of the house then, and he arranged for my lobotomy to take place within a week of Cecil's demands. I was subdued by opium until then.” The ghost's shoulders sank, but her head stayed aloft. “Thankfully, I remember almost nothing about the surgery itself, but it's a small mercy – the rest of my natural lifespan was much of the same. Nothing but a long, dull blur.”

“Abigale…” muttered Pacifica.

The two of them embraced again, a gesture of grief and fear.

Abigale never quite reached the point of crying, but Pacifica did hear her sniffle a few times. Hopefully, she wasn't holding back for her granddaughter’s sake; she deserved a good cry after going through something like that.

The spirit held the girl at arm's length and rubbed her face dry with her thumb. “I was reminded of my regrettable fate when you voiced your desire to go to the theatre. I'm happy to have met you, my dear, and I'm even happier that I met you with a lucid mind, because I was without one for over half of my life.”

“I'm sorry,” Pacifica sobbed, worrying that she had hurt Abigale by making the comment about the movies and the ice cream. She should have known better.

“Stop apologizing. You had no hand in what happened to me.”

“It's not fair,” she whined. “They see something they don't like, and they just destroy it. That's all they know how to do.”

Abigale chuckled, but there was no smile to accompany it. “They aren't exactly in the habit of creation.”

“And you don't remember anything after it happened?”

“Only flickers. I remember when they sealed the workshop, and I remember Clifford and Felix slowly growing older.” An intense sadness haunted her expression. “They didn't visit my quarters very often, and when they did, it was like a year had passed each time; they'd be a few inches taller, their voices would be deeper.”

“They didn't take care of you?”

“No, I had a rotating series of attendants whose faces I couldn't memorize. And I saw Cecil even less often than I saw my sons.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “I'll never know what became of his time with Cipher, but it couldn't have been a fruitful partnership, because the world has not yet fallen into ruin.”

Pacifica rolled her reddened eyes. “Bill probably realized that he was a total moron and dipped out.”

“Perhaps,” said Abigale with a small smile. 

A drop of water fell on the girl's nose, and she looked up – it was beginning to rain. Another landed on her forehead, and then her arm. How did it get cloudy so quickly? How long had she been out here?

She looked to the ghost, and noticed that the raindrops fell right through her. She'd never visited Abigale in the rain, so she'd never seen that before. It looked weird, but kinda cool.

“Shall you go inside?” Abigale asked as the raindrops slowly increased in frequency. “We wouldn't want your pajamas to be ruined.”

“It's fine,” dismissed Pacifica. 

“You might catch a cold.”

“It's just water. I'm gonna shower in the morning, anyway.”

Truthfully, Pacifica hated rain, and would have much rather gone inside where it was dry and comfortable, where her hair wouldn't be ruined. But after the whole debacle with Mr. What's-His-Face, she was trying to take the advice on Mabel’s sweater to heart and not worry so much about getting messy.

Besides, she wanted to stay with Abigale a bit longer before going back to bed. She wasn't going to get much sleep tonight, anyway.

Her eyes drifted over to the headstone to her left. The rain was dampening the moss, and the indents where Abigale's name was carved were slightly more visible than normal (which wasn’t much). She reached out and started to trace them with her finger, and suddenly became very aware of the skeleton in the ground below her.

The ghost watched her with tired eyes. “Given the choice, I probably would have chosen a simple design like this for my memorial, anyway, but I believe the family's intentions were less pure.”

“Yeah.” Pacifica scraped off a bit of moss with her fingernail. “I bet they wanted you to have a boring, ugly grave on purpose.”

“Well, I wouldn't call it ugly , necessarily, but it doesn't quite match up with the rest of the decor, does it?”

“If Dad would just send someone out here to clean for once, it wouldn’t look so…”

As she felt the years 1875 and 1951 reveal themselves under her fingertips, gears began turning in Pacifica's head. 

Abigale's grave wasn't the only one in a state of disrepair. Hers was the most severe case, but all of the headstones in the graveyard were at least partially covered in plant life and years of dirt. She'd cleared the weeds from a small section of grass beside her great-great-grandmother's plot so she could sit down comfortably, but maybe she could do more.

“Would it be okay if I tried to wash off your headstone?” Pacifica asked. “I kind of want to make this place presentable. Manual labor isn't really my thing, but I don't think it's gonna get done otherwise.”

Abigale adjusted her glasses and raised an eyebrow. “You'd willingly put work into cleaning something?”

“I think so.”

“But you're a Northwest ,” she teased.

Pacifica smirked at her. The bad feeling wasn't gone; in fact, it was still at the forefront of both women's minds. But there was a glimmer of their normal relationship shining through that jab.

“So are you,” she shot back. “And I wanna do something nice for you, so just say yes, okay?”

“Well, of course I'll accept.” She smiled affectionately. “How could I say no to such a generous offer?”

Pacifica pushed her bangs out of her face, and they stayed semi-slicked back from the rain. “Okay, then. It's a deal.”

A bit of the weight on her heart was lifted by some mysterious force. Not all of it, but enough for her to notice.

She had something to do now that would be positive in a concrete, tangible way. It wasn't going to make up for what happened to Abigale, and it wouldn't do much good for anyone else, but it was a start. 

She'd figure out the rest later. 

Chapter Text

Pacifica was twelve years old, and she was tired.

Weirdmageddon had just ended. The town was back to normal – at least, as normal as a place like Gravity Falls could be. The nightmare was over. 

Living in the Mystery Shack for three whole days had taken a toll on her sanity. There were still spots healing on her skin from where the potato sack had given her rug burns. 

And it was smelly, crowded, and loud in there. Even in the wee hours of the night, there was always someone talking, or snoring, or coughing, or making some other kind of noise. Until she had been able to return to her own bed, she'd been forced to function on the few hours of sleep she got when her body became too exhausted to care about things like Stan Pines hacking up a lung. 

And then there was everything that happened after that. The pyramid, and the throne, and the holding hands, and… and being turned into…

Speaking of Mr. Mystery, he was hosting a birthday party for his annoying niece and tryhard nephew in a few days. It was probably going to be lame, but Pacifica was thinking about accepting the invite and showing up anyway; it would be good for appearances after her father’s embarrassing exchange with Bill. The whole town was obsessed with the Pines now, and gaining favor with them was in her and her family's best interests.

(And it wasn't like she could argue that the admiration wasn't deserved. They really had saved everyone.)

Today, it was a mild summer afternoon, and her parents had allowed her to sleep in until nine thirty. Normally, she was to keep a strict routine of waking up at six o’clock sharp, but nobody in the Manor seemed to care very much about routines right now. She was sure it would resume at some point soon, so she was trying to enjoy it while she could.

It was around lunchtime now. She'd spent the whole morning playing Bloodcraft: Overdeath (a new expansion had been released the day prior, and she would rather drop dead than let some triangle collectively traumatizing the whole town ruin her status as one of the game’s top players). And now, after a productive morning of slaying Death Spectres, it was time for her to get a bit of fresh air.

She put on a sun hat and sundress, made her way downstairs, and told the cook to make her a watercress sandwich to go. There was a certain ancestor of hers that was long overdue for a chat.

The cemetery looked almost cheerful today; the sky was blue, the grass was green, and it wasn't so hot that it was miserable. Perfect for a graveside picnic.

Pacifica approached Abigale's marker and knocked three times on the stone. In an instant, her great-great-grandmother appeared – she was a bit dimmer in daylight, but still visible.

The ghost immediately looked wary. “Something's different. There’s a lingering miasma in the air.”

Pacifica settled on a patch of soft grass, tucking her legs under her and to the side like a lady, and began to unwrap her lunch. “Guess what?”

“What happened?” Abigale’s brow line hardened. “There's something familiar about this spiritual residue. I almost don't want to guess. It might summon him.”

“It's okay, grandmother,” she said with a smile. “It’s good news. Bill’s dead.”

“Dead?” She laughed. “Impossible. He's not the sort of creature that can be killed.”

Pacifica took a dainty bite of her sandwich. “I'm not sure exactly how they did it, but he's gone. That boy, Dipper? He's the one that told me, and he wouldn't lie about something like that.”

“He might not have been lying, but he had to be mistaken.” Abigale shivered. “I can still feel traces of him. The beast with just one eye has left his loathsome mark on the valley.”

“Well, he did kind of take over the town for a few days.”

If the ghost had skin, it would have blanched. “He what? ”

“Yeah, it totally sucked, but it's okay now. Dipper's family took care of it.” She chewed thoughtfully. “But if he's lame enough to get taken down by the Pines family, maybe he's not as powerful as you thought he was.”

Abigale positioned herself so she was sitting criss-cross across from Pacifica, her hands nervously scratching at her hair. She had an unreadable expression. 

“I thought telling you would make you feel better. Wasn't the goal of the Anti-Cipher Society to get rid of him?”

“Yes, it was. And I appreciate your kindness in relaying the news.” She adjusted her glasses. “I just have a hard time believing he's truly gone.”

“Nah, I think he's donezo. If he wasn't, wouldn't his Weirdmageddon junk still be here?” 

“Weirdmageddon?”

She shrugged. “That's what he called it.”

“Well, Bill Cipher’s influence is as strong and constant as it is chaotic. If he once had his claws sunk into this dimension, but there remains no physical evidence of his reign, it stands to reason that he's been banished, at the very least.” 

Pacifica took another bite. “You said there were traces of him. What did you mean?”

The corners of Abigale's mouth turned upwards, just slightly. “One of the innumerable perks of being dead is being able to sense things most mortals cannot. Every living thing leaves invisible traces of energy behind.”

“Huh.” The girl paused. “Like tracking mud into the house.”

“I was going to liken it to spiritual fingerprints, but your analogy is also apt,” she acknowledged.

“Well, just because he left his gross fingerprints all over Gravity Falls doesn't mean he's not a total goner.”

“Right again.” Abigale leaned back, propping herself up on her arms and appearing to bask in the sun. “Perhaps he truly is dead, as you say he is. That would be outstanding news, and it would be the culmination of everything I wanted to accomplish in life.”

Pacifica grinned. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

She nodded and shut her eyes peacefully. “And if he's not dead, I can rest assured that there’s a fine group of people living here that can and will work to defeat him again, if the time comes.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Her eyes lit up. “You should have been there, Abigale. I was with the team that infiltrated Bill's fortress. It would have been kinda cool if it wasn’t so creepy and weird.”

“I would have expected no less from you, Pacifica,” the ghost said with a smile. “Bravery and bullheadedness in the face of danger.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” replied Pacifica, who was then reminded of something Mabel said to her once, which irritated her. 

She worked on finishing her sandwich, appreciating the spirit's company in silence and enjoying the balmy weather. 

The rest of the day was hers to take at her leisure. Her lessons had been cancelled due to the end of the world, but they were scheduled to begin again tomorrow, starting with ballet. Sharpshooting, badminton, and singing lessons would fill out the rest of the day. And then there was school; summer vacation was almost over, and pretty soon, she'd also have to worry about homework.

The past three months had been the most eventful period of her entire life, and she still felt like she hadn't accomplished enough. Even after learning the truth about the Northwests and ruining the big party, she was compelled to do… more. Somehow.

She pondered this as she watched a chickadee flit by and land on top of Nathaniel's tombstone. A question suddenly occurred to her.

“Hey, Abigale?”

The ghost opened one eye. “Yes?” 

“You said that defeating Bill was your life's purpose, right?”

“Yes, it was. Or being cognizant of his demise, at least.”

“Aren't ghosts supposed to, like… you know… pass on? Once their unfinished business is finished?”

“That is supposed to happen, isn't it?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps, then, I have other business that has been left unfinished.”

“What is it?”

“I haven't the slightest idea.”

“Oh.” Pacifica bit her lip. “That's a bummer.”

“Not necessarily,” Abigale mused. “I don't much mind being a ghost, most of the time. And anyway, I'm not sure I would be ready to pass on quite yet, even if all my ducks were in a row, as it were.”

“Well...” The heiress crumpled up the sandwich bag and set it aside. “I could help you figure out what it is. I bet it's related to our family.”

“We do tend to cause a lot of trouble, don't we?”

She scoffed. “Who's ‘we’? I think you and I might be the only cool Northwests.”

“Don't say that too loud, dear,” she scolded, sounding more amused than chiding. “You'll wake up my in-laws.”

The two women laughed together, sharing a brief moment of levity after a harrowing week for the town. It felt good. Pacifica hadn't laughed, really laughed, since the night of the Northwest Fest.

She sighed and tilted her head back, relaxing. “So, do we have a deal? I help you figure out what's keeping you here. You're at peace, I did a good deed, and my parents never find out about you. Everyone's happy.”

“Are you so eager to be rid of me?” she replied sarcastically.

“Of course not,” she said, indignant. “I just mean we could do that at some point in the future. We've got too many movies in our backlog to stop now – you still haven't seen 13 Going On 30. ”

“Yes, what would I do without movie night?”

“You'd be suuuper bored, that's what.”

Weirdmageddon seemed a million miles away now. It was easy to forget about the apocalypse when she was shooting the breeze with Abigale.

She considered telling her about the dream she'd had on the night of the Northwest Fest, because she was pretty sure that the statue of Nathaniel had actually been Bill Cipher trying to trick her into making a deal (she hadn't realized it at the time, but after learning more about the dream demon, it was pretty obvious). 

But she could tell that story another day, once the wound on the town wasn't so fresh. Give things time to heal first.

So, instead, Pacifica felt content in their victory and their (relative) safety. Might as well enjoy the peace while it lasted, before the monsters, cryptids, and other strange, forest-dwelling creatures realized it was safe to come out again.

Until then, she'd just do her best, because she was the best.

Chapter Text

Pacifica was eighteen, and she was crying like a little girl.

Her bedroom door beckoned to her teary eyes. It was one of the only two safe havens in the whole Manor (and she didn't want Abigale to see her blubbering like an idiot. the other ghosts would hear and then they'd start making comments). She turned the handle and entered, quickly closing the door behind her and securing the latch. 

She’d started crying up halfway through the walk to her room. She had just tried to hold it in and prayed that none of the staff would see her, and they hadn't. She lucked out there, she guessed.

She was angry with herself. She wasn't normally so quick to shed tears. But, for some reason, as soon as they'd walked through the front door…

Hands and fingers wiped furiously at her eyes, and returned smudged black. Mascara. She'd probably just made herself look like a raccoon. Her entire body twitched.

When she got to her room, her first instinct was to throw herself upon her bed, slide under the blankets, and weep into her pillow, but she knew better. She knew better. Her makeup was expensive enough that it didn't run when she cried, but it would transfer to her sheets. 

Stained linens simply wouldn't do. She knew better.

So instead, she trudged to her bathroom and tried not to look herself in the eye once she was in front of her mirror. She snatched a couple of makeup wipes from their packaging and began to scrub her face. 

Her eyes were shut tight. She scrubbed. And scrubbed. Grabbed a couple new wipes. And scrubbed. Over her eyelids, across her lips, in every nook and cranny that makeup could be applied. She scrubbed until her skin felt raw. Her body heaved with sobs. And then she scrubbed some more. Quick, but calculated. She'd done it a million times before. She knew the drill.

When she finally opened her eyes, her face was bare and red, and her bangs were a mess. But her updo was pristine. Not a hair out of place there.

She yanked out her hair clip and threw it on the floor somewhere to her left. What she really wanted to do was find something heavy and throw it at the mirror. She wanted to hear it crash and watch it splinter into a thousand tiny shards. But he would hear the commotion, and he would storm up the stairs, and there would be hell to pay.

Not bothering to change out of her equestrian gear, she was finally able to go to her bed and kick her boots off. Her chest shuddered as she took a shallow, wheezing breath and collapsed onto her pillow, too exhausted to do anything more than let her body fully channel her emotions.

A riding crop. A fucking riding crop. 

They'd been at a show (who schedules a horse show on Valentine's day, anyway? what a stupid idea). Her horse missed a step during dressage, a fact that her father promptly pointed out once she was backstage. A fact that she had rolled her eyes at. Because really, who cares? Who cares that the horse didn't act like a perfect machine? Who cares that she didn't come in first place this one time ?

She should have relented when he rang the bell, just kept her mouth shut and accepted the scolding, but she didn't. She'd stupidly asked him if it was that big of a deal. And apparently, it was , because his response had been to grab the closest switch he could find and tell her to roll up her sleeve. 

And that switch had been a riding crop. Like she was a goddamn show pony. Like she was some sort of fucking animal . 

It was the first time he'd hit her since the incident in August. And it hadn't even hurt that much – it was a literal slap on the wrist. Considering his usual standards, she was let off easy. 

But it was… it was just…

She'd let it happen. 

She should have pushed back, should have stood up for herself. He knew he couldn't hit her at the Manor anymore, because half of the people haunting the property wouldn't let him. This had been a pathetic last-ditch attempt to try and cling to what little power he had left over her. And she’d let it happen. 

Lots of different things were flooding Pacifica's mind. Rage. Shame. Fear. Humiliation. Despair. A little bit of something that felt like claustrophobia. 

She was lonely, too. She missed her two best friends. Of course, she had friends in town, and their doors were always open to her, but right now, she didn't feel like telling them that her parents hit her again. Explaining it anew was too much to bear, and she didn’t want their pity, anyway.

Dipper was visiting this upcoming weekend to celebrate Valentine's, since the competition took up the actual holiday. She just had to hold out until then. Just a little longer. Then she could spend a few days with one of her favorite people and let him distract her from all her problems. 

The clouds parted, and a beam of sunlight shone through her window and hit her directly in the eyes. She clumsily turned around to avoid it, not having the strength or motivation to draw her curtains. 

She tried to focus on comforting thoughts of her boyfriend. Eventually, she stopped gasping for air and her weeping simmered into a soft, steady cry. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her muscles grew weary.

She let herself succumb to sleep. Maybe she’d have a clearer head when she woke up. Maybe then, she could figure out her next move.

Pacifica was scared awake by the sound of knocking on glass.

Groggy and still half-stuck in a dream she could barely remember, it took a few moments for her brain to recalibrate. Her eyes opened and stared blankly at the wall as she tried to process the adrenaline from being startled. 

The familiar noise happened again, and she reflexively whipped her head towards her window. 

It was dark now; the sun had long since set. There weren't any clouds to speak of, which allowed the stars to shine over Gravity Falls in full force. This was an unusual sight during winter in Oregon, and its mundane beauty caught her by surprise.

Perhaps more surprising, however, was the sight of Dipper Pines perched outside her window.

At first, she thought she was still partly asleep, and this was just part of the dream she'd been pulled out of. It made no sense, after all; it was the middle of the week, and why would he drive so far if he had school the next day?

Then he waved at her and nearly tripped over a roof tile, and her brain and body finally agreed that she was awake.

She pushed herself out of bed and repressed the urge to grimace at her now-wrinkled uniform. Plush rugs contrasted with bare sections of cold wooden floor as she made her way across the room to unlock her window. He watched her with a goofy grin.

The panel flung open outwards and they immediately pulled each other into a hug (their customary greeting in any situation).

She squeezed him and said, “Could you be any more creepy?”

“Happy Valentine's day,” he crooned.

“What are you even doing here?” She held his hand to steady him as he stepped inside. “I thought we agreed on Friday evening.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, it worked,” she said with crossed arms and a smile. “But I don't have your gift ready yet, if that's what you're after.”

“Oh, well, in that case…” He stepped back towards the windowsill, pretending that he was leaving.

She yanked on his arm and pulled him back. “Nope. You're stuck in here with me now.”

Dipper used the momentum to wrap his arms around Pacifica again, properly holding her now that they both had two feet on the ground. She curled her hands and nestled them on her boyfriend's chest, resting her head on the sanctuary that was his shoulder. She sighed deeply.

He rubbed a circle between her shoulder blades. “How are you?”

“Long day,” she mumbled. “Glad you came.”

He hummed a noise of understanding. “Do you wanna hit the town and find something to eat? I'm down for whatever.”

“I literally don't care as long as it's not here.”

“I think we can manage that.”

He kissed her forehead and she smiled, her eyes still closed. In truth, what she wanted to do was curl up and go back to sleep while snuggling Dipper, now that he was here for her to snuggle. At the moment, co-napping seemed like a perfect idea for a date. 

But they’d have to sneak out of the Manor first. He couldn't stay for very long. Lingering was dangerous here.

She forced herself to stand up straighter and break away from him. “Let me change first, then we can go.”

He nodded, seeming to finally notice her outfit. “Okay. That doesn't look very comfortable, anyway.”

“You think anything that has to be ironed looks uncomfortable.”

“Because it is.”

She dismissed him with an eye roll and shut the door of her walk-in closet behind her. 

The lights turned on, and dozens of tiny bulbs illuminated her shoe racks and hanging clothes. Every square inch of storage space was taken up by her extensive, expensive wardrobe. 

It made her pause. She looked inside this closet every single day; it wasn't anything unusual to her. But today, there was something about the seemingly limitless supply of Ralph Lauren and Balenciaga that disgusted her just a little bit.

She opted for a pair of jeans and an unassuming sweater that probably had some kind of designer label attached to it. She didn't usually dress up for dates with Dipper. Sure, she could have put on an evening gown that would have made his brain short-circuit, and Valentine's day was the appropriate occasion for evening gowns, but it just didn't feel right today.

After making a feeble attempt to comb some of the styling product out of her hair, she returned to her room to find Dipper sitting on the edge of her bed, kicking his feet and browsing his phone. When he looked up and saw her, his eyes lit up, and she felt a wave of comfort.

“So what are you feeling up to?” He stood up and approached her again. “We could go to Calamari Castle. Yumberjacks is good, too. They serve pancakes all day long.”

“Let's just hang out at the Shack,” she said as she linked her fingers behind his neck. “We can save the traditional date stuff for another day.”

“You really want to spend Valentine's Day at the Mystery Shack?” He swayed them back and forth a bit, like they were dancing.

“You said you were ‘down for whatever’.”

“I'm not complaining. That'd be fun. It's just not what I thought you'd pick.”

Pacifica considered replying with something witty or sarcastic, prompting one of their rounds of verbal sparring that they indulged in so often. Something along the lines of, ‘Well, if you caught me on a different day, I might have made you take me to the fanciest place in town and ordered the filet mignon just to spite you’. 

But she was still on edge from earlier, and clever teasing required mental bandwidth she didn't currently have. All she knew was that she had to get out of here. Had to get away from these walls that held too many secrets.

Dipper took the lull in conversation as an opportunity to lean forward and kiss her, a welcome distraction that she readily obliged. His arms circled her waist and she let her fingertips ghost across the back of his neck. She’d really needed this. 

How long was he going to stay in town? Would he be gone in the morning, or would he be here until the weekend? After he left, how long would she have to wait until she was able to touch him again? She wasn't the kind of person who could do long-distance long-term. They talked every single day, texted each other every inane thought that they had, and went on Bloodcraft dungeon raid dates on a regular basis. But it all paled in comparison to digging her fingernails into his palm as they walked blindly into some random, disgusting cave together. 

She had a feeling it wouldn't be very long until he moved to Gravity Falls permanently, and Mabel wouldn't be far behind him. Their parents weren't quite as unbearable as Pacifica's, but the twins definitely felt more at home here than they did in Piedmont. A move was inevitable. It was just one of those “stick it out until you graduate” type of deals. 

But what was she supposed to do until then? For that matter, what was she supposed to do when the time actually came?

Dipper broke the kiss, leaning back with a slightly mischievous look on his face. She was about to drag him towards the window so they could continue their kissing elsewhere when he surprised her for the second time that night. 

He removed one of his hands from her hip and brought it up to gently pry one of hers off of him. He then gingerly lifted her wrist to his lips and kissed a spot of bare skin, just an inch or two below her palm, where her sweater sleeve had been pushed up a bit. 

It seemed like a move he'd picked up from one of Mabel's romance flicks, which explained his expression; he was maintaining the playful facade, but his eyes were darting to her face, seeking her approval. They asked a thousand questions: Should we play this off as corny? Did you think that was sweet? Or did you find it weird, and we'll never discuss it again?  

And she wanted to answer those questions, but something else had her full attention at the moment. 

Her inner wrist, a vulnerable and sensitive area of skin, was the exact same place where her father had struck her earlier. No marks were left behind this time, but the spot was still a little tender from being slapped with a wedge of leather. And her favorite person in the world had decided to kiss her there, completely oblivious and sincere. It was making her dizzy.

“Pacifica? You okay?” 

She blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?” He frowned. “Did something happen earlier?”

Things keep happening, she thought. But what her mouth actually said was, “Actually… what if we did something different tonight?”

“Different how?”

She took a deep breath and tried to ignore her nerves rolling like thunder. “What if you helped me move out?”

He blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure? Tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Did you get that stuff taken care of?” He gripped her shoulders. He didn't know what the ‘stuff’ was, since she'd kept it vague on purpose when she told him she had ‘stuff’ to do before she could move out, but he knew it must have been important if it was keeping Pacifica at the Manor even after she was a legal adult.

“No, but… I can't be here anymore, Dipper,” she replied, her voice quiet and desperate for a moment. “I'll come back if I have to, but I can't live here anymore.”

That was the truth. She couldn't continue to live here after what happened at the competition. She thought of Abigale, and felt immense guilt in the pit of her stomach, but she could always sneak into the graveyard later. She wouldn't abandon the only member of her family that had ever given a damn about her.

She just… had to get out. It was too much. She couldn't take it anymore. Her grandmother would understand. She had to understand.

Dipper nodded, becoming no-nonsense in the blink of an eye. He had a funny way of doing that, like he was flipping a switch in his brain. He knew something had happened recently, something that hurt her, and he didn't make her elaborate. All he was focused on right now was her , her decision, and her safety.

God, she loved him. 

In his serious voice, he asked, “Where do we start?”

About forty minutes later, there were two suitcases sitting on Pacifica's bed, stuffed to the brim with clothes, makeup, and other important things.

She'd picked out a decent amount of items to take with her, but she was surprised at how little she actually cared about the majority of her closet. There were a couple dozen tops she actually liked and wanted to keep, while the rest were nondescript and samey. Cookie-cutter, socialite-acceptable fashion, largely chosen by her parents. They could be left behind.

After going through the same process with skirts, pants, dresses, jewelry, and shoes, she felt like she had a solid wardrobe to work with. It was one that she was actually happy about, one that she could add to with nobody else's input. It was liberating. It was also kind of scary.

Now, she was in the process of filling her backpack. It held things like her laptop, a couple books, her phone, and Portia. It still had some space left, and she was doing quick sweeps of the drawers at her desk to see if she could find anything else she couldn't lose. 

Dipper was sitting on one of the suitcases to get it to zip closed. She was about to laugh at his struggling when she remembered something with a jolt.

After she shut the last drawer (which had just been full of fountain pen sets she never used), she rushed past him and back into the closet. “Almost ready!”

“Paz, I don't think this one can hold any more clothes…”

She ignored him and pulled a step stool over to one of the corners, reaching for a shoebox that sat on one of the taller shelves amongst other luxury shoeboxes, and carefully lowered it. It said “Louboutin” on the outside, but the heels it originally held were currently sitting in the reject pile to her left. 

She'd repurposed the box some time ago as a place to keep mementos: tickets from movies she'd seen with Dipper, a golf ball Mabel stole from a course they'd played at, some cheap plastic beads from a party at the Shack, a couple old diaries, a photo portrait of Abigale she'd found in the attic, a griffin feather. These things were irreplaceable, and were more essential than her essentials. She also kept her birth certificate and social security card in here after finding them in her father's office one day (he'd never even noticed they were gone – or maybe he simply never brought it up. she wasn't sure which one she'd prefer).

The box was tucked under her arm and brought to the backpack. Dipper eyed it with mild curiosity, but didn't question it. He probably assumed it was a pair of shoes she wanted to take; she'd show him the true contents later. 

To Pacifica's relief, it fit perfectly into the empty space, and she zipped the bag up and slung it over her shoulder once everything was secure. “Okay, I'm done. Let's get the hell out of here.”

He hopped off the bed and took one suitcase in each hand. “How do you wanna do this? Should we take the window?”

“No, it’d be too hard to get my bags to the ground. We'll have to use the hallways and go out through a back door.”

After years of friendship, the two of them knew every blind spot from the cameras, every secret passageway, every escape route in the whole building. It was just a matter of finding the most efficient route for her grand escape. 

“What about the one near the kitchens? My truck's parked down the hill from that wall.”

“That might work.” She checked her watch. “It's late enough that most of the staff will be off duty, and my parents are probably in their chambers by now,” she sneered.

Dipper grimaced and tightened his grip on the bags. “Let's roll, then.”

Pacifica unlocked her bedroom door and let Dipper go first. The halls were dark and quiet; it was like stepping into a haunted house.

She lingered in the door frame for a moment, looking back at her childhood bedroom and committing it to memory. It had never been completely safe, but it was the safest place she’d had before befriending the Pines twins. She felt a little indebted to it for that, and she would be lying to herself if she said she wouldn't miss it at all. But saying goodbye felt… right.

After allowing herself a moment of sentiment, Pacifica shut the door on her old life, and the lavender walls disappeared behind dark wood.

Dipper was already at the top of the stairs, and he'd waited for her to catch up with him before he went any further. His head was periodically twisting around as he looked for any signs of danger, like some kind of antelope.

She brought up the rear as they descended to the first floor. The lights were dimmed, making it harder to see, but their muscle memory guided them around the creaky spots in the floorboards that would give them away.

They continued like this until they were about halfway to the servant's quarters, which were adjacent to the kitchens. Only Mortimer used them these days; people had cars and homes now. She would kind of miss him, too, but not enough to wake him up and risk him ratting her out.

Which reminded her…

Now or never.

“Psst!” Her hand darted up and grabbed Dipper's elbow. “Wait a second! I need to go say goodbye to my grandmother.”

He stopped in his tracks and shot her a bewildered look. “Grandmother?” he whispered.

“Follow me,” she instructed as she turned around and headed for a different exit, one that would lead to the graveyard. 

He followed her, but his movements were uncertain, and his cool, confident demeanor faltered. “Pacifica, what are you talking about? Where are you going?”

She shushed him.

“You've never even mentioned a grandmother before!”

“Her grave is out back,” she said with a twinge of annoyance. “Relax. This won't take long.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry.” He relented, believing that she simply wanted to pay respects to a dead relative – which was kind of true.

“It's fine. Just be quiet, okay?”

Over the next few minutes, she silently led him to one of the more inconspicuous back doors on the other side of the house. Her heart was thumping and her knees felt wobbly. She wrapped her fingers around the backpack straps to try and mask how much she was dreading this.

The portal to the outside led to a shabby-looking stone path, tucked in the corner of their vast backyard and unnoticeable to people whose vanity clouded their vision. Pacifica looked back at her companion, and saw that he was examining everything around him with suspicious scrutiny. It wasn't very often that he saw the grounds that the Northwests owned. 

She approached the cemetery gates and laid her backpack down at the entrance, out of view of anyone who might be looking out the windows. Dipper placed the suitcases next to them.

She didn't wait for him as she ran past several graves, heading for one in particular. “Abigale? Abigale, wake up!”

“What are you–” 

Dipper wasn't able to finish his thought before a bespectacled specter materialized behind his friend and tapped her shoulder. 

“Pacifica? What are you doing here at this hour–”

“Pacifica!” He bolted forward and pulled her behind him, facing the ghost head-on and shielding her with his body. “Stay back, you hear me? I've taken down multiple category ten ghosts, and I will not hesitate to–”

“Let go of me, you idiot!” She wriggled out of his grasp. “She’s not gonna hurt you!”

“Ah, who's this?” Abigale tilted her head and smiled, amused. “Your intended, I presume.”

Pacifica bounded over to her grandmother and wrapped her in some semblance of a hug. The older woman seemed a bit taken aback, but returned it as best as she could. Dipper stayed where he was, sputtering and confused. 

“Darling, what's wrong?” Abigale asked in a softer voice than before. “I promise, your beau hasn't offended me in the slightest, if that's what you're concerned about.”

“What the hell is going on?” Dipper demanded.

Over Pacifica's shoulder, the ghost made eye contact with him. “Young man, if you want to court my granddaughter, you'll have to follow some rules–”

“Granddaughter?!”

“Abigale, I'm leaving,” Pacifica said, her voice wavering as she tried to cling tighter to someone who wasn't there.

“You are?”

“Yes.”

She leaned back and held the girl at arm's length, but didn't break contact. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Pacifica replied with a nod and a sniffle. “Dipper's helping me.”

Abigale smiled, and it was a little eerie, a little too big for her face. “Why, that's wonderful news!”

“Not for you,” argued Pacifica as tears began to well up in her eyes. “I couldn't even stay long enough to keep my promise.”

Behind her, Dipper was watching the whole exchange with wide eyes, not daring to interrupt now (as much as he would have liked to).

“What do you mean, dearest?”

Another sniffle. “I never helped you solve your unfinished business. I never figured it out. But I'm gonna come back, okay? I promise I'm gonna–”

“ That ? Is that what's causing you so much distress?” Abigale’s eyes hardened and she shook her head firmly. “My immortal problems are not your responsibility, my child.”

“But I promised ,” she said, almost a whine.

“Forget the promise.” She leaned down slightly so she was at the girl's eye level. “Get out of this house of hell while you still have the mental faculties to do so.”

Pacifica felt the strangest sensation deep in her bones. She didn't like it. It was scarier than grief. “I’m going to come back for you, okay? I know how to sneak in. I've done it a million times.”

“Don't worry yourself with that, either,” Abigale said with an understanding smile. “If you decide to pay me a visit, don't come on business. Come because you want to ‘hang out’.” 

Pacifica laughed briefly at the spirit's usage of modern slang, but it didn't stop her tears. “I'll miss you.”

“I'll miss you, too. But my happiness for your liberation is stronger than any wistfulness I might feel for your absence.” 

“Hey!” Dipper interjected, pointing at Abigale urgently.

Pacifica was about to shoot her boyfriend a death glare, but then she saw what he was drawing attention to. Blue smoke was billowing up from the edges of the ghost’s dress, like it was burning in a perfect circle. The girl’s heart sank into her stomach; she knew what this meant.

Abigale was passing on.

“Well, would you look at that?” She looked at her fingertips, which were beginning to dissolve as well. “I think you’ve done it, my brilliant girl.”

“But I don’t understand!” Pacifica had to remind herself to breathe. “What did I do?”

Abigale laughed – a booming, jubilant sound. “You’ve solved my unfinished business, of course. You’re leaving .”

She shook her head for a moment, trying to grasp what the ghost was saying, but then… she realized. All at once, she knew.

Her grandmother was passing on because she was leaving. Bill was dead, and Pacifica was free. All was right and just in Abigale’s world now.

Pacifica choked back a sob. 

The ghost took a blue hand, whose glow was dimming more and more every passing second, and lifted it to the girl’s cheek. “Be brave. Forge your own path. Redefine what it means to be a Northwest. And remember everything I've taught you. I love you, dear.”

“I love you too, Abigale.”

Pacifica went to hug her again, and shut her eyes tightly. She couldn’t bear to watch.

And then…

The familiar presence was gone. She knew she was gone. Pacifica was hugging nothing.

Her arms lowered to her sides and she took a deep, shuddering breath. She forced her eyes to open, and she stared at Abigale's grave.

Grass crunched under Dipper's feet as he came closer. “ That was your grandmother?”

She nodded.

“There's been a sentient, non-hostile ghost in your backyard this entire time ?”

“Yep.”

“Why didn't you tell me about this?” He began pacing, gripping some of his hair between his fingers. “I mean, think of the potential! I've got a million questions about the afterlife alone , and her insight on the past would have been invaluable. What an incredible source of information–”

Another sob wracked Pacifica's body, despite her efforts.

She heard Dipper stop in his tracks, and neither one of the two teenagers said anything for several seconds. She couldn't look him in the eye.

A few, heavy moments passed, and he slowly crept to her side, taking her hand in silence. “How long have you known her?”

“Since I was little,” she answered quietly. “She was…”

My first friend? Someone I trusted? The only real family I ever had? How could she quantify her relationship with Abigale?

A light flickered on in a window on one of the upper levels of the Manor, startling Pacifica out of her melancholy for the time being. 

“Shit.” She tugged at Dipper's hand. “We need to go. Now.”

He followed her line of sight, nodding when he saw a silhouette moving behind the curtain. Preston and Priscilla had noticed she was gone. They had to move quickly.

They hurried to the cemetery gates and retrieved her bags before resuming their escape. Then, they hugged the iron perimeter that surrounded the backyard, making their way to a spot where they could scale the fence and hop onto a nearby boulder – not the most ideal route, but the closest.

Dipper went first, and Pacifica passed him each piece of luggage one at a time. He lowered each one to the ground next to the rock, and climbed back up to grab the next. Once all three bags were safe, Pacifica used the swirls in the metal as a foothold, and held on to her boyfriend's hand to help her up.

She had one leg on either side of the fence and was about to jump down when one of the two ornate doors at the back of the house opened. Light flooded out from the foyer, and Preston stepped out, still wearing his night robe and nursing a pipe.

Pacifica nearly fell backwards in her haste to get off the fence, but Dipper caught her, bracing her fall and steadying her with a hand on her back. They quickly gathered her things and retreated to the cover of the trees around the property. The duo silently thanked their lucky stars that the man hadn't noticed them.

“Pacifica?” Preston called into the night, authoritative and condescending. “Are you playing amongst the dead again? Get inside.”

Dipper took the lead, navigating a path to his car and doing his best to avoid things like piles of leaves and stray twigs. Pacifica kept close behind him, trying to follow his exact footsteps. He was better at stealth in the wilderness than she was, and he definitely had a clearer head than she did right now.

In the distance, her father evidently found no trace of her in the graveyard. They were further away now, but his voice still carried through the trees. “Pacifica Elise Northwest, come inside. Now. That's an order.”

She reached forward and grabbed Dipper's shoulder. She would have grabbed his hand, but her suitcases were currently occupying that space. 

They had almost circled the Manor now, and the truck was in sight. It was at the edge of the forest, pointed towards the pavement and ready for a quick getaway. There was no security at all this far away from the house, so once they got rolling, they'd be in the clear.

The repulsive, tinny sound of The Bell echoed from the backyard. “ Pacifica! ”

The ringing nearly made her muscles lock up. She hated it. She hated it so much. Every cell in her entire body detested the bell, but they also screamed at her to obey it. Her self-preservation instincts were making her teeth hurt.

Dipper looked over his shoulder and made eye contact. Checking up on her. Making sure she was okay. Giving her strength with just a single look.

She clenched her jaw and nodded, signalling him to push on.

Preston’s futile attempts to summon her continued in the backyard as they approached the vehicle and loaded the bags in the back seat. She tried her best to ignore the bell’s ringing, but by the time she climbed into the passenger seat and shut the car door, she was ready to rip all her skin off.

Dipper circled around the front and opened the driver's side, and a sliver of noise slipped through before both doors were closed. 

All of a sudden, it was quiet. No father. No bell. Just her own breathing, and Dipper shoving the key into the ignition.

The truck came to life, loud enough for her family to hear against the stillness of the night. Good. She hoped they heard every rumble of this shitty old engine. She hoped they were able to watch as she drove away with a boy that they hated, becoming smaller and smaller on the horizon.

Dipper didn't drive very fast – he didn't need to. What were her parents gonna do? Call the cops? She was a legal adult in the eyes of Oregon now. They'd have no case.

His hands were at ten and two on the wheel. “To Susan's?”

“To Susan's.”

She had texted her boss earlier, before they started packing. Several times in the past, the woman had offered her a place to stay if she ever needed it – she didn't have a second bedroom, but she did have a pull-out couch. Too kind for her own good. 

Pacifica often considered taking her up on the deal, but for a long time, she figured that the chances of her parents suing Mrs. Wentworth were too much to risk. She couldn't do that to Susan. Not after everything she'd done for her, all while expecting nothing in return (save that Pacifica showed up to work on time).

Now, the (now ex) heiress felt untouchable. 

She sighed, deep and slow, and sunk into the ratty car seat. “Fuck.”

“You can say that again,” said Dipper. It was phrased like a joke, but neither of them laughed.

The truck puttered down the hill, getting closer and closer to the valley every second.

He looked to her, and appeared to choose his words carefully. “How are you feeling?”

She considered the question before answering. “Good. Really good. But also kinda like shit.”

He nodded and pursed his lips. “Yeah.” 

“Also like I wanna punch something.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“I'm sorry, by the way.”

Dipper made a curious noise. “For what?”

She crossed her arms and stared out the window. It was impossible to make out anything that wasn't illuminated by the headlights, but she had to look somewhere . “For not telling you about my grandmother.”

“Oh, yeah.” He exhaled air through his lips nonchalantly. “It's okay. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn't have turned it into a big deal. You obviously cared about her a lot.”

“The original plan was to tell you about her after I moved out. I wanted to introduce you sooner, but I was afraid she'd become a spectacle if I did.”

“That's fair,” he said sheepishly. “Sometimes I can get carried away.”

“And that's one of the things I like about you,” Pacifica reminded him. “But… I dunno. She was one of the only things I had all to myself. I liked not having to share my time with her. Maybe that's selfish.”

“I don't think so.” In an uncharacteristic move, he took one hand off the steering wheel to reach for hers. “And even if it is, who cares? I can find another ghost to interview. I'm glad I got to meet her on your terms.”

Her head rolled slightly to the side to smile at him. “Me, too.”

“Will you tell me about her sometime?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Street lights came into view. Town wasn't very far now. Pacifica closed her eyes and tried to relax and ignore her grief until they arrived at their destination. She was almost home.