Hmm. In a grim mood.
The air is cold and silent, deafening after so long surrounded by noise. Snow crunches underfoot, each one echoing in the darkening sky. Stan's breaths fog around him, his fingers numb from the nipping chill through his thin gloves.
Winter still has a firm grip this far north, but the lack of bird song still feels damning. Its not night, not yet, but the dark clouds and tall mountains make it feel like it is. What light there is reflects off the snow, brightening the shadows of the trees and illuminating the signs pounded into the yard.
Stan stops at one, eyes flickering over the 'KEEP OUT!' with a grimace. Its the first time he's read blatant instructions and wanted to follow them, and like cruel irony, its the only thing he can't do.
Ford called him here, and Stan will answer. No matter how much he's slowly growing to regret receiving his brothers post card.
The cabin sits in the clearing like a stone. Heavy in a way buildings shouldn't be at just a glance. There's nothing physically wrong with it to give the impression of it caving in on itself, but it feels like he's walking down into a pit as he gets closer. The ground is flat, the snow undisturbed, and Stan can't stop the feeling of downward motion that accompanies every step. His gait transforms from a brisk walk into unsteady shambling as his body tries to overcompensate for an incline that isn't there.
The house doesn't help. Something about it sets him on edge. Its corners are too sharp, the shadows it casts too dark. No lights spill from any of the windows, and the ones he can see are boarded up. The only one that isn't looks down at him, its triangular frame jagged and unwelcoming.
It gets worse the closer he gets, and he scans the path behind him several times to make sure he isn't actually going downhill.
He isn't. There aren't any pitfalls either, just a flat, snow filled clearing. Surrounded by a chain link fence and full of signs warning of danger.
And a house that makes every hair on his body stand at attention.
By the time he gets to the porch it feels less like walking towards a house and more like walking towards a giant, salivating spider, sitting patiently in the center of its web as he walks right up to its jaws. His heart beats with every slam of his feet on the ground, and he actively keeps his breaths even to stop himself from losing his nerve.
Whatever spell that had settled across his shoulders breaks the moment his foot hits the first step of the porch. All at once he's striding towards a normal house. A normal, boarded up house, with suspicious barrels on the edge and not a sound of life slipping from behind its walls.
He tells himself a thousand and one reassurances as he brings his fist up to knock. How Ford could be out. How he could be sleeping, or working in a room on the other side. There's a bear problem, or burglars, and that's why he called for Stan. He just needed someone to help him feel safe, or realized he was spiraling and needed a voice to ground him away from insanity.
None of them help the bundle of nerves in Stan's stomach.
Neither did the echoing thuds of his knocks, or the lack of answer when Stan called out his brothers name.
When five minutes passed without any sign of his brother, Stan took it upon himself to pick the lock(s. Several of them, each one more complex then the last, and why would Ford-) and let himself inside.
The moment his foot passes the threshold his blood goes cold.
"Welcome to my lab!"
Grunkle Stanford threw open the doors with a flourish, grinning down at them with a pleasant grin as they oohed and awed at all the books and various knick-knacks cluttered within. Dipper couldn't pick just one thing to look at, and instead tried to look at everything all at once.
It was only Mabel's hand in his that kept him moving.
"Now I must apologize for your room," their Grunkle said, leading the way through the narrow hall towards a set of stairs, "your parents didn't give us much time to prepare for your arrival. Thankfully I was able to scrounge up some beds for you both, so you won't have to share with Stanley."
"Stanley, that's our other Grunkle, right?" Mabel asked, as Grunkle Stanford led them up the stairs, stopping only to point out the living room, the kitchen, and the bathrooms, "Where is he? I thought he'd be here to greet us."
Dipper squeezed her hand. While neither had been thrilled to spend the summer so far away from home, Mabel had been able to comfort herself with the thought of meeting their old, distant, reclusive relatives. Seeing Grunkle Stanford at the bus stop had helped ease her nerves, but she wouldn't be happy until she got a read on both old men and scrapbooked her feelings about them out.
Dipper would just be happy to peruse Grunkle Fords collections and avoid any potential 'bonding' activities.
Grunkle Stanford shot her a smile, pausing in front of a door cheerfully labeled 'M&M' (A sign that would be replaced within the hour) "Stanley keeps peculiar hours. Its a rare sight to see him up and about before sunset, let alone lunch. I promise you'll see him at dinner, so don't disturb his rest before then."
Dipper frowned, making a note to ask what he did all night if he couldn't figure it out on his own. Stanford, he knew, was a researcher, and had published several papers over the last few years to place him firmly in the 'Scientist no one has ever heard him but is famous in the niche area he specializes in' group. A huge hit in the cryptid circles, but basically a nobody to everyone else.
He seemed happy with it though, smile wide and happy as Mabel darted forward to throw her bags against the wall and jump on her bed.
Of course, who knew how he really felt. They'd only just met after all.
"Stanford?" Stan calls out, shrugging off the feeling settling across his shoulders and taking another step forward, "Stanford? You in here bro? Its me, Stanley. I got your uh. Your post card."
He shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls said card out, waving it around like that would summon his brother from the woodwork.
It doesn't, obviously, and he soon shoves it back.
"Stanford?"
A shiver goes down his spine, a tingle that has nothing to do with the cold. The house is silent. Not just the silence of an empty house, but dead silent. No wood groans, no boards squeak. The wind is silent outside.
Stan swallows. Takes another step.
He almost wants to whip around to make sure the door is still open.
A quick glance shows it is, and he shoves down the urge to make sure it stays that way.
Ford wouldn't like it if he let out what little warmth was clinging to the walls here.
Probably.
He does set his duffel bag down. Its not heavy, but its awkward and bulky, and while he'd ache to lose its contents, he'd ache more to lose his life trying to fight for his life while holding it.
Not that he thinks he'll be doing that. This is Fords house. Fords a nerd, a straight laced goody two-shoes. The worst thing around here is probably bears or local drunks.
Still, Stan grabs his knife and pistol before he goes deeper into the house.
He tells himself it doesn't feel like walking into a den of wolves. That the feeling of eyes on him is just his nerves, and the silence that answers his calls doesn't bother him. There isn't anything obviously wrong, and the creeping dread is just a side effect of driving almost twenty hours straight.
He leaves the door open.
"-And up there is Stanley's room. As I said, please don't go up there unless you must. My brother needs his rest."
Dipper peered up the stairs to the attic. The lights were off upstairs, so he couldn't see much, just the underside of the roof and the promising hint of wider space at the top. The stairs themselves had intricate carvings along the railing, steps, walls, and ceiling. Small beads in multicolored string were strung at the top, woven into glimmering braids. He could see more glinting at the top of the stairs, and his curiosity only grew.
"Whats all this?" He asked, kneeling to trace a finger along one of the carvings in the steps. Each one had the same repeating pattern, with a large circle in the center and two hexagons boarding each side. Closer inspection revealed small rocks and bits of metal pounded into the wood at even intervals along the edges, too small to make out what they were, but large enough to catch the light in purples and orange.
"Nothing of importance really," Grunkle Stanford said, kneeling down with Mabel as she examined them with excitement, "Just a hobby of Stanley's. You'll find similar designs throughout the house. He'll be upset if you mess with them, so don't let him catch you."
Grunkle Stanfords own conspiratory wink was enough to convey that he himself wouldn't be upset if either of them decided to poke around at Grunkle Stanley's peculiar interior design choice.
Dipper slid that observation with the rest. He didn't have enough to even start theorizing about whats going on with Grunkle Stanley and Stanford, but it was a start.
They left the attic stairs after a few minutes, with promises of sandwiches and access to Grunkle Stanley's crafting materials.
He's not sure whats worse, all the evidence of something horrible, or the lack of evidence that anything happened.
Every room in Fords house is covered in dust, books and notes scattered everywhere. Some (too many) are covered in blood, with paranoid scribbles about being watched and 'Him', but nothing concrete to work with. All the windows are boarded, a few doors are locked, one with some fancy sci fi lock Stan's not going to touch unless he's desperate, and all the food in the kitchen has gone bad.
All of it.
But there's no signs of a struggle. No broken furniture, no thrown books or scuffed floors. The house is in disarray yes, but the disarray of neglect. There's nothing to hint about where Ford went, who took him (if anyone), or if he'd be coming back.
Nothing at all.
Except, again, the blood soaked bathroom, notes, and clawed up door frame around the strangely locked door.
"Please don't be dead down there." Stan whispers, eternally grateful his crappy eye is enough to get it to swing open, revealing stairs descending into the dark, "Please don't be a a dead body."
No one answers.
"Wow Grunkle Stanford, these are. Really unique!"
"Thank you Mabel."
Mabel shot their a Grunkle a wide smile. It dropped the moment he turned around, and both of them quickly spat out their half chewed sandwiches and quickly scanned for the trash. Dipper barely had enough time to hide half of his on his lap before Grunkle Stanford turned around again, and Mabel had the unfortunate instinct to take another bite.
Dipper winced. While it wasn't totally inedible, it was... unique was a word. That could be used. Just like pickles, mayonnaise, mustard, and cheese could be a sandwich.
Dipper didn't know anyone that put shredded cheese on a sandwich, but maybe things were differnt in the middle of the woods.
Or maybe Grunkle Stanford was just bad at making sandwiches.
"If I'm being honest," Grunkle Stanford sat down with his own plate of questionably designed sandwich, smiling at them both as Dipper pretended to take a bite and Mabel choked down hers, "part of the reason I was so eager to have you two here was to flex my culinary ability. Stanley rarely eats my cooking. He's a very picky eater."
Dipper squashed the urge to ask him what his definition of picky was.
When lunch was (eventually. Painfully.) over, Mabel and Dipper followed Grunkle Stanford around to finish their tour of the house, then outside, where a gleaming red car and a dented green one were sitting further down the drive. A low white fence lined the clearing, a bright border between their Grunkles house and the wild wood beyond.
"That's the property line," Grunkle Stanford pointed at the fence, then towards a rugged, poorly maintained pathway jutting to the side, "And if you follow that path you'll get to my house."
"You don't live here?" Dipper asked, trying to follow the path with his eyes as far as he could into the woods.
"Of course not!" Grunkle Stanford laughed, shaking his head with an amused grin, "Ah, but you wouldn't know. Lets just say, I'm not nearly as a heavy sleeper as Stanley is. Its easier on us both if I sleep elsewhere while he works."
"Can we see it?" Mabel got onto her tip toes and gave him her biggest pleading eyes, "Your house?"
"Another time," Grunkle Stanford waved them back inside, "Its a long drive from California, and a longer walk to my house. Come, I'll show you my study, and then the two of you can get started on unpacking."
The stairs end at an elevator, which open at first to a creepy study, and then a creepier nerd lab. The study has less dust than upstairs, but is equally unhelpful in providing hints as to where Ford had gone. The nerd lab is dust free, brightly lit, and, somehow, the least creepy place in the whole house.
Or perhaps it is the creepiest.
It is creepy in a way that's different from whats going on upstairs, thats for sure.
The first room in the lower level is dim and glows with the light of hundreds of flickering buttons, but the room beyond is brighter than outside. An inverted metal triangle sits heavy against the far wall, looming and eye catching.
It's probably important.
"Stanford!" Stan calls, walking into the center of the room, "I'm in your lab! I'm gonna start touching stuff if you don't tell me not to!"
Only his echo answers. He stands in there, shuffling his feet on the dirt floor and eyeing the twisting corners warily, for a little longer than he's comfortable with. Part of him really does want to start touching things, just to be petty.
But breaking Fords things won't help him find his brother, and he's half-afraid breaking things down here would bring the whole house down on his head.
Besides that, staying there long enough to start breaking stuff feels like the worst of all bad ideas. While the room hadn't felt off when he first wandered in, the longer he stands there the more it felt like something was breathing down his neck. His own heart seems to echo off the walls, and it is hotter than the frigid house upstairs.
Hot enough to work up a sweat just by standing there.
It was a relief when the doors of the elevator doors closed.
It was terrifying when the whispers start.
"What is this."
Dipper started at the unexpected voice, swinging around to look at the entrance to the kitchen. An old man was standing there, identical to their Grunkle Stanford, except for his hair, which was greyer, his clothes, which were looser and more casual, and his expression, which was twisted into a frown.
"You must be Grunkle Stanley!" Mable chirped, jumping at the chance to escape the 'dinner' Grunkle Stanford happily laid out for them to bounce at his feet, "I'm Mabel, and that's my brother Dipper, We're your-"
"I know who you are. Why are you here." Grunkle Stanley gruntsed abruptly, narrowing his eyes at her. Dippers fists tighten around his silverware, and he can't suppress the glare he shoots the old man when Mabel's cheer falters.
"Don't you remember?" Grunkle Stanford said, voice as pleasant as ever, "They're visiting us for the summer! Their parents called this morning asking about it!"
"I was asleep this morning, you Jaaaaa-" Grunkle Stanley looked at Stanford, towards Dipper, down at Mabel, still looking a little hurt, then back to Dipper.
"-aaaam sandwich. You jam sandwich. And anyway-"
He grabbed Mabel by the arm and marched to the table, where he grabbed Dippers and yanked him up, not ungently. Dipper was torn on if he should be hurt his Grunkle was so ready to get rid of them, or grateful he was saving him from 'Spaghetti with blue sauce'.
Blue, because it was blueberry jelly.
"-I never agreed to this. You two," Grunkle Stanley looked down at them, frown still sharp and eyes hard, "Are going home. Now."
"Now Stanley." Grunkle Stanford didn't stand, or raise his voice, or do anything but set his fork aside and cross his arms in front of his chest, but it was enough to grab Grunkle Stanley's attention like he'd yelled at the top of his lungs. His eyes were laser focused on their still seated Grunkle, and his fingers tightened around Dippers arm, like he was preparing to throw him at any second.
Nothing Grunkle Stanford did warranted the reaction. He didn't get up, and his voice was as gentle as ever as he reasonably said, "Not only have the busses stopped running for the day, their parents aren't at home."
"Not my problem."
Grunkle Stanley took a sliding step back, dragging them with him.
"They've already unpacked!"
"They can pack it right back up."
Another step, slow and steady, like Grunkle Stan was a lion on the prowl and not a man pushing seventy (or eighty? He looked like he could have been eighty).
"Don't you want to spend time with our family?"
"Not on such short notice."
Another step, and they were already at the doorway. Dipper caught Mabel's worried eye, and together they looked back and forth between the two old men and the darkness of the hallway behind them.
"Its getting late."
Grunkle Stanley froze. Dipper watched his eyes slowly drift from Grunkle Stanford to the window behind him. It was orange with the light of the setting sun, the tree's already casting long shadows. Crickets were already starting to chirp, and the house was starting to cool.
"The bus stop isn't too far," Grunkle Stanford continued, not at all concerned with the way his brothers jaw twitched and his stance shifted, "I'm sure you could be there and back before nightfall. But then what about Dipper and Mabel? Are you really willing to leave them out there? All on their own?"
"Grunkle Stanley," Mabel added, and Grunkle Stanley flinched at the sound of her voice, jerking his head down to stare at her like he'd forgotten he had her arm in a death grip, "We just got here! Can't we stay, just for a little bit?"
Dipper quickly stepped to the side so he was standing next to his sister, and as one they looked up at him with their biggest, most powerful begging eyes. He didn't really want to be here all summer, but their parents had already left for their cruise at this point, and Grandpa Shermie was older than civilization and staying at his house always 'upset his heart' (for some reason).
He'd rather risk a miserable summer with a relative that didn't want them around then try to fend for himself and Mabel alone at their house.
He'd seen the movies. He didn't have a tarantula to help him out, just a lazy cat.
Thankfully he could see Grunkles Stanley's will crumble, and with a sigh he let go of their arms.
"Fine. Just until I can call your parents and get this mess sorted out," He pushed through them and stomped towards the cabinets, where he started pulling things out and setting them on the counter, "Guess that means I have to feed you two, huh."
"Not to worry Stanley," Grunkle Stanford said, beaming as he went back to eating his blueghetti, "I've already taken care of it."
Grunkle Stanley paused. He turned and gave his brother a Look, which moved down at the spread of stiff, blue spaghetti, then back at his brother. Mabel and Dipper sat back down at their spots, both trying to look as hungry and desperate as possible without actually asking to be saved from their other grunkles cooking.
"Like I said," Grunkle Stanley said, turning back to the cabinets, "Guess I'll have to feed them."
Both younger twins sighed in relief. Grunkle Stanford looked put out at how eager they were to scrape their plates into the trash, but he said nothing as Grunkle Stanley set new ones, full of boxed hamburger helper, in front of them. He ate his own food with a sniff, before going back to planning their summer out, like Grunkle Stanley hadn't just declared they wouldn't be staying.
Grunkle Stanley didn't say anything. He kept his eyes on one of the three clocks around the room and inhaled his dinner like someone would snatch it out of his hands.
The tension in the air didnt ease until Grunkle Stanley finished up and left without a word.
There isn't any words, just the barest impression of sound in and out of his ears. Occasionally, he swears he hears his own name, strung out and desperate. Other times he thinks he hears someone pleading, the words still too faint to hear what they're begging for. Or who's speaking.
The sound echoes around and through him, too soft to make sense of completely. Just enough to know they're there.
Stan twists his knife in his hands, palms sweaty and nerves shot as the elevator slowly rises. By the time he makes it to the top its all he can do to keep himself from shooting to the top of the stairs and booking it to his car.
Ford needs him, he keeps telling himself, he's here for Ford.
He can't run away now, not when his brother finally wants him again.
Not because of the wind and a creepy house.
He must have the address wrong, is what he decides, as his feet hit the top of the stairs and he looks out at the still open door. The roads here are winding and confusing, and he'd had to stop for directions several times.
Gopher Road was long, and the woods were covered in snow. There could have been dozens of turns he missed, never mind that this house is full of Fords cursive writing and screams 'Nerd'.
There aren't any pictures on the walls. This could be anyone's house.
Stan tells repeats that over and over as he makes his way back outside, barely remembering to grab his bag as he does. There still aren't any other foot prints but his own around the yard, not even old ones.
Ford sent his letter only a few days ago. If this was his house, there'd be signs. Snowed over divots. Discarded meals.
Something.
With that he takes one step off the porch, and back into the snow.
Its only then that he spots the man standing at the edge of the tree line, staring directly at him.
Dipper and Mabel stood in mock attention in their room. Both were already ready for bed, Grunkle Stanley pushing them to complete their bed time routines before the sun had even finished settling down below the horizon. He marched them into their room and crossed his arms, giving them both hard looks until they stopped fidgeting.
"Ground rules. First: Under no circumstance are you to leave this room."
"What if I need to-"
"If you still need to use the bathroom, now's your chance. You won't get another."
"But what about-"
"I put two water bottles on your night stands. Any more than that is ridiculous."
"But-"
"No buts!"
Dippers mouth shut with a snap, Mabel's quick to echo. Above them Grunkle Stanley's glare hardened, and he leaned down until they were looking each other in the eye.
"You will not leave this room. You will stay in your beds. You will not investigate any spooky noises, and if you get scared there's two of you, so figure it out. I didn't want you here, and if it was up to me you'd already be gone. My work is dangerous, and I don't need two kids mucking about underfoot to make it harder than it already is, got it?"
Dipper and Mabel nodded.
"I said, got it?"
"Yes Great Uncle Stanley." They said, hands seeking each others under his unyielding gaze.
Great Uncle Stanley nodded, and he stepped back out into the hallway, slamming the door shut with a click.
"Now lock it!"
"What?"
"LOCK THE DOOR!"
Dipper jumped to it, fingers fumbling as he tried to lock the seven dead bolts he realized were now on the door. They hadn't been there when Grunkle Stanford showed them the room, and he was slightly confused as to when Great Uncle Stanley found the time to add them without anyone else in the house noticing.
The final one snapped shut with a clink, and Dipper took a hurried step back. He took another when the door rattled, bumping into Mabel as they scurried further away.
"BED!"
Dipper lunged for his assigned bed, scrambling to get under the covers. He glanced across the room to see Mabel doing the same, and they stared at each other with wide eyes once they were more or less under the covers.
It was only when they'd been lying still for a few minutes that a muffled "GOOD NIGHT" was thrown their way, followed by the steady stomping of feet heading away. Dipper ripped his eyes away from Mabel to watch the door. It didn't rattle again, and no footsteps or other strange sounds came through.
"Dipper?"
Dipper looked at where Mabel was huddling under the covers, peering out at him around her small pile of stuffed animals. She glanced over at the locked door, then flinched at the sound of something rustling outside.
He shot the door one long, analyzing look.
Nothing.
The space between them was small, and he kept his footsteps light. He wasted a second snatching the water bottle sitting on his night stand, and sat it next to its twin on Mabel's. He was silent as he crawled under the covers next to her, both of their hands finding each other in the dark.
No footsteps came near the door, but the world outside the window more than made up for it.
They laid under Mabel's blanket, fingers intertwined like they hadn't been since they were five years old and too big to share a bed. The wall of stuffed animals was a small comfort, but it seemed to help Mabel, which helped Dipper in turn.
The light from the window faded, and they faded with it, both falling into a restless doze.
The sight of the man makes him freeze. This isn't Stan's house, and he did very much break in. The police will take forever to get here sure, but that's not the point. The point is that Stan's alone, in a house that (hopefully) isn't his brothers, and no idea if being seen breaking and entering is liable to get him run out of town.
But it's not just that. Something about the man makes his already frozen blood solidify into ice. Every instinct tells him to run, to put as much distance between them as possible.
Before it's too late.
But as the moment stretches into a minute the man doesn't move, and the longer Stan stares at him, the more he starts noticing details. The color of his hair, the line of his jaw. The way he holds himself, stiff and upright.
The shadows are long and deep, but not so much he can't recognize his own face staring out at him.
"Stanford!" Stan yells out, relief hitting him like a hammer as his brother raises a single six fingered hand, "There you are! You- sorry about the door, I uh. I got a bit antsy waiting. Worried."
Ford didn't answer, just keeps waving. With a huff Stan shrugs his bag strap higher on his shoulder and walks closer. The yard isn't that big, and the snow isn't so deep to be an issue.
Each step reveals more details he couldn't see from the porch. Ford is wearing a long tan trench coat over a thin button up and some slacks. Its not appropriate for the weather, but he isn't shivering. His hair is swept back by the wind and as curly as ever, curlier than Stan's has been in some time.
Stan's riot of emotions settle when Ford starts smiling. Everything is weird and off putting, and Ford really should have put on a thicker coat before tromping through the woods, but he's here and he's happy to see Stan, and thats all he needs.
And then Stan takes another step, and another detail makes him falter.
He writ it off as a trick of the light, but now that he's closer there's no mistaking it.
His brothers eyes, the eyes Stan stares at every time he looks in the mirror, are not the warm brown they've always been.
They are bright, and they are cold, and they are-
"You're dragging your feet."
"No I'm not, I'm-"
"Taking too long. Sun sets in ten minutes. Scram."
Stan responded to Fords pout with a glare and a shooing motion. They were standing in the front room, the kids safely tucked away in their (Temporary) room, while Stan commenced with his nightly ritual of kicking Ford out of the house.
Thirty years of this should have been more than enough time to move things along in a timely matter, but Ford had always been good at stretching out the clock. Any attempt at getting him to move his feet faster was met with Ford finding some new excuse as to why he couldn't leave just yet, and every night Stan was left with no choice but to escort him outside.
Tonight looked to be no different, a fact that frustrated him more than ever now that two kids were in the house.
Two small, vulnerable kids, with no idea what kind of danger they were in or how much Stan was willing to sacrifice to protect them.
"Come oooon Stanley," Ford whined, going half limp when Stan started physically shoving him out the door, "Just a few more minutes? Surely there's enough time for me to read them a bed time story? Just one?"
"No, and not ever." Stan pushed him the rest of the way out and planted himself firmly in the doorway, "Now go one. Get. Go run around the yard for a few minutes, or whatever it is you do."
Ford gave him one last, longing look.
Then he did the one thing Stan hated more than anything.
He raised his hands up in invitation. Both hands gestured to come closer, and Ford angled his head to the side, his pout growing with every microsecond Stan didn't move.
With a long, drawn out sigh, Stan stepped out from the safety of the house and into Fords arms, bringing his own up to return the embrace. He could feel Fords grin in his neck, and he shivered when two arms squeezed his sides.
"Good night Stanley," Ford whispered into his ear with a pleased hum, nuzzling his cheek into Stan's own, "I can't wait to hear you choke on your blood tonight."
Stan squashed the urge to push him away.
It never helped after all.
Blue.
"Stanford?" Stan asks, coming to a slow stop a few feet from the clearings edge, "You alright there, you look a little...."
This close, Stan can see how pale Fords skin is. How frost is clinging to his coat, and how stiff his waving is.
How the snow behind him is undisturbed, and he's not breathing.
And that is all he has time to see, as in the blink of an eye Ford lunges at him. Stan scrambles back with a scream, kicking up snow as his brother fingers wrap around his arm in a vice grip.
"Stanford!" Stan yells, trying to wrench his arm free from the fingers digging into his arm through his coat, "Get off! What're you- That hurts!"
Ford doesn't speak, and a moment later his other hand comes forward to snag Stan's other arm. The grip is stronger than it should be, and Stan cries out as Ford pushes him back, further and further, until he loses his footing and falls backwards into the snow.
They tumble backwards. Stan's back hits the cold ground hard, and his brother lands on him even harder. Two legs fall on either side of him, while above Fords pleasant, frozen face smiles down at him, his eyes blazing blue.
The position is awkward. Stan's bag is partially trapped between one of Fords arms and Stan's chest, and the snow is slick enough to shift under Stan's struggling body, making it difficult to get leverage to buck his brother off, and for Ford to pin him down.
"Stanford! Stanford!" Stan calls, eyes darting to where his brothers six fingers are gripping him so tightly he can't feel his fingers, and back to the two glowing spots of blue above him, "What's happening, what is this!"
Ford is as silent as ever, his expression unchanging as he leans forwards and presses Stan's arms to his chest.
One of the hands let go, but it is only a moment of relief. It give Stan the space to pull it back, but only so Ford can wrap his fingers around Stan's throat.
Its painful, and its crushing, and very quickly its suffocating.
He can't breath.
He can't breath, and Ford is pressing forwards, putting more of his weight on Stan's throat. Stan's one free hand claws at it uselessly, Fords fingers iron.
Stan can feel Fords fingernails digging into the skin of his throat.
The edges of his vision are going dark.
He can't get air to speak, and there's no one around to hear him if he could.
There's only one thing to do.
With a awkward thrust of his arm Stan jerks his fingers into Fords side, deep into the meat just below his ribs. He digs his fingers hard and scrunches them, the only thought on his mind getting Ford to let go.
It works like a charm.
With the first twitch of his fingers Ford spasms, his fingers grip loosening as a quiet wheeze escapes his pleasant smile. Another twitch has Ford letting go to escape the feeling, and the dead glow of his eyes vanishes as a strangled, awful laugh escapes his lips.
Stan never thought he'd have to tickle someone to save his own life, but at this point he's too panicked and too grateful for the crisp cold air filling his lungs to care.
He follows Ford backwards just long enough to free his legs, then scrambles away from the shaking, wheezing form of his deranged brother. Ford is still smiling, his eyes still locked on Stan, but his arms are wrapped around himself, and small spurts of laughter keep bubbling up and bursting out in awful, disjointed clumps of sound.
Stan takes the time to take a few gulping breaths.
He has no idea why Ford just tried to kill him, and doesn't care.
Ford just tried to kill him.
Ford is still trying to kill him.
Ford is pulling his arms back up and moving his legs under him so he can lunge again and Stan-
Stan does not want to die.
The moment Ford shots forward Stan moves, swinging his bag around and slamming it into Fords face. It sends his brother sprawling into the snow, but Stan doesn't stop to see if he gets up again.
He's already moving. His throat is sore and his lungs ache but his legs work fine. The snow makes it difficult to jump to his feet and sprint away. His feet slip, his hands freeze, but when he takes his first few steps nothing grabs at him, and he wastes no time creating as much space between him and the threat.
His thoughts fly as he runs. The cabin is right there. Its not warm, but it has walls, and a door, and rooms to board up in and maybe a phone. Or a bat, to bash Fords head in until he starts acting normal.
But he's not near the cabin anymore, and there's only one thing that he's ever been able to rely on in a crisis.
The snow is his friend as much as it is his enemy. He struggles with every step and every slip, but it will slow Ford down just the same.
His car is sitting ready at the top of the hill. The snowfall might be an issue, but even if he can't start it and drive to safety he can take shelter inside.
All he has to do is make it to his car.
His bright red, reliable car.
Its not too far, he can see it as he bursts through the gates of Fords stupid chain link fence and onto the road. The blizzard hasn't buried it yet, and its keys are still in his pocket.
Stan chances a glance behind him as he nears it, trying to see how far behind Ford is.
But when he turns around, no one is there.
The door locks with a final click, and Stan presses his forehead against it. His arms still buzz from Fords touch, and he shivers.
A quick glance at the clock shows he's got less than a minute until sundown.
Its not a lot of time, but he doesn't need much. He already looped around the house three times to make sure everything was as it should be, and this time he didn't have to worry about Ford trailing behind him undoing everything. That was the one good thing about the kids at least, they distracted him long enough for Stan to not only complete his own preparations, but to shore up extra defenses for the kids.
Locks on the door, wards on the window. More on the walls around them, and Stan had made sure to pack as many defenses as he could hide in plain sight around the room.
Making sure to maintain and change it up would be extra work, one of the reasons he didn't want them here.
The bigger, more important reason was-
Something banged against the door, and Stan flinched.
His minute was up.
With a groan, Stan stepped away from the door and stared tiredly through its one small window. Two blue eyes stared back at him, unblinking.
"Heya Ford," Stan said, stepping away from the door as the thing outside lightly rattled it, "Couldn't even let the kids settle in, could ya?"
It didn't answer, and a moment later the eyes disappeared from view. No footsteps betrayed where it had wandered off to, and with one more sigh Stan left the front and headed deeper into the house.
He spent an hour laying salt down the main room, then sat himself down at his desk, listening, until-
click
"Back door tonight, huh?" Stan muttered, pulling out his stack of books and making himself comfortable, "Good luck with that."
He had Soos install ten locks on each of the five doors now preventing further entry to the house while Ford was distracted with the kids. they'd have to get taken down if Ford made it through even one, but tonight Stan could work in moderate peace.
As much peace as he could when his brother was dead set on ripping him to pieces.
Only Stan's footprints lead away from the divet in the snow. His bag is still there, contents strewn across the ground, but there is no sign of Ford.
Stan tenses, twisting around and scanning the woods around him. He was never one to believe in ghosts or ghouls, not like Ford, but now-
Now-
Now he is looking at Ford, who is standing just behind a tree.
On the other side of his car.
Stan's breaths mist in the air around him. Ford stares at him, body just as stiff as it had been earlier.
His hand does not come up to wave, and there is no smile on his face.
Stan doesn't know if that's a good thing.
His throat stings as he swallows. The skin feels raw, and his breaths come out in short gasps.
Ford doesn't move.
His eyes are still that crystal clear, glowing blue.
"Fuck this." Stan rasps, staggering towards the drivers side of his door. He keeps his eyes on Ford, only looking away so he can jam the key into the door.
Its a mistake.
When he looks up Ford is no longer there, and it takes precious, frantic seconds to relocate him several yards to the left, peering out from behind another tree.
Closer.
Only his eyes give him away, and as the snow starts to come down harder it becomes more difficult to see them.
Stan doesn't look away as he lowers himself into the seat. He has to crane his neck awkwardly to keep Ford in his sights, but he doesn't so much as blink until he's more in the car then not.
The moment he has to, he throws himself into the seat, slamming the car door shut behind him.
In less than a second Ford slams against it, forcing a strangled scream from Stan's lips. His brother presses against the glass, sliding down until they're eye level with each other.
Stan stares back, heart in his throat and keys trembling in his fingers.
Neither move.
And then-
Ford reaches down and tries for the handle.
Stan slams his fingers on the lock.
Ford shimmies to the side, reaching for the door behind him.
Stan jams his keys in the ignition and has his foot on the gas before he even thinks to lock the rest of the car. Ford is silent as he reverses back down the road, and when Stan glances back towards the edge of Fords house-
He's gone.
It does nothing to sooth his nerves. Stan quickly reverses as far back as he can, then jerks the wheel to the side and shifts into drive. He spots Ford standing on the edge of the road as he slides across it, and again in the trees further down.
Every inch between him and town feels like a mile, and Ford keeps reappearing just as quickly as Stan shoots past him.
He has to swerve to avoid slamming into him a few times, a maneuver that leaves his tires struggling to maintain traction and shaves a few years off of Stan's life.
The lights of the town call out to him like a beacon. He pulls into the first open store he sees and hits the breaks hard. The car isn't in any lines and he pulled in way too fast, but he's already throwing the doors open and slamming them shut behind him.
A small bell rings above the door, light and charming.
It does nothing to stop his racing heart.
"Now whats all the fuss about?" Someone behind him says. Stan whips around to see an old man at the till, face full of confusion.
Stan opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
HIs throat stings, and he has no idea where to start with what just happened.
The door next to him swings open, and Stan launches himself to the side, creating as much space between him and it as possible.
The old lady that toddles in gives him a confused look.
When he looks outside, towards the pitch black trees and snow filled sky, there is no sign of Ford.
