Stanley Pines was saved by a mermaid.

He swears it- that’s the only thing it could have been. When the boat jerked and threw his inattentive ass overboard, the cold shock of the water made him forget all the safety tips. He fought his own natural buoyancy, arms flailing as the freezing water short-circuited his nervous system. He didn’t hold his breath, didn’t try to let his lungful of air do the work to pull him up, and his inability to even find up to begin with was only making things worse. The water was murky from the storm, green like long-oxidized copper, and the low light of a dusk shrouded in thick heavy thunderclouds didn’t help.

He could only see the hands attached to the arms that grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him upwards. Well, that, and a brief glimpse of the face.

He saw it for only a second before he was thrust back up into the realm of sweet, salvative air and choppy waves separated them. The dim sunlight fighting to pierce the turbid water revealed it to him: the curve of a jaw, a stream of bubbles shooting from the nose, terse lips and a furrowed brow, all distorted by the water’s refraction. But the eyes under that furrowed brow were clear as day when they snapped down to him at the very last second, looking wild, pissed off even, shooting like arrows through his nearly-asphyxiated brain. It’s those eyes that stay in his mind as he surfaces, suddenly alone, before being swiftly ensnared by a life preserver and reeled back to the boat by his highly-frustrated brother.

It’s obvious. There’s only one thing that fits the description of his savior.

“There are no mermaids in Lake Michigan, Stanley,” Ford says, exasperated, as he digs in a large wooden chest to grab dry clothes for his sopping, shivering twin standing in the doorway of their cabin. He clutches a ratty blanket around his shoulders. It is failing to keep him warm, just soaking up the water and becoming yet another wet layer for him to endure.

“Oh, come on! We see selkies in a pond at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and that’s normal, but I’m a dumbass for thinking a mermaid could be in the world’s biggest lake?”

“First, Lake Baikal is Earth’s biggest freshwater lake by volume,” he starts, and Stan does not restrain the eyeroll that follows. “Second, as I’ve already informed you, my extensive preemptive research confirmed that the only creatures in the lake of any flesh or blood are fish, lampreys, and the occasional wayward Näkki. All other possible anomalies are incorporeal. Your fear and the lack of oxygen must have induced mild hallucinations.”

“I didn’t hallucinate someone grabbin’ me and pulling me out of the water, Ford! If I did, how’d I get back up?”

“You got lucky and the tumultuous waters expelled you,” Ford says simply to the chest before standing, dry clothes bundled in his hands. Stan starts to walk towards his brother to take them, but Ford gives him a quick “eh eh”, eyes darting down to the puddle that’s growing under Stan’s feet. Stan groans and begins removing his clothes where he stands.

“You’re as bad as ma.”

“That’s patently untrue. I’ve never made you vacuum the walls, now have I?”

Stan snorts. “Not yet.”

Ford releases his hostages and Stan changes into a set of clothes effectively identical to the ones now piled into a waterlogged heap next to him. The blue jeans slip on easily, well worn. The red beanie caps his damp silver hair. The collar of his plain white t-shirt tugs at the gold earring on his left ear as he pulls it down over his head.

Neither the hole or the ring that hangs from it are new. While picking out his swashbuckling attire back in Gravity Falls, Stan happened upon the simple gold ring he wore for a stretch of his youth in a box at the bottom of his closet. He laughed to himself, at first, as he held the small thing in his palm, remembering how cool he thought it looked. He was on the verge of discarding it when he suddenly wondered if the hole in his ear once pierced by a sewing needle sterilized with a Zippo lighter persisted. He slid the post in with only a bit of finagling. He looked in the bathroom mirror, and with a small “huh”, found he still thought it looked cool. So it stayed.

He sops up the puddle left at his feet with the failure of a blanket, gathers it up with his wet pile of clothes, then heads up to the deck. The air is still thick with residual ozone after the storm, but the agitated winds are enough to make up for it. He tosses his laundry over the taffrail. The blue jeans and brown jacket snap in the wind, droplets of water flinging back into the lake where they belong. Once he’s satisfied they won’t slip into the lake, probably, he straightens, rolling his shoulders back and raising his head to take in his surroundings. The grey-pink glow of a muffled sunset pours over the docks their trusty Stan O War (2) now rests against. He quickly scans the surrounding slips. Still no neighbors.

They’d called ahead for a slip at the small marina, but as they pulled in they realized how unnecessary that was. Out of the dozen rows of docks extending from the beach out into the lake only one other spot was spoken for. They, at the southernmost row and in the slip furthest from land, were far enough away from the other occupant that they couldn’t even shout to get their attention if they wanted, which suits both twins just fine.

The last marina they called their temporary home was almost claustrophobically crowded. Feeling crammed in a tight living space with your brother on a boat is one thing, that boat being crammed in between nosy and raucous strangers is another. They were on their last legs and final nerves during the ten seaday journey through the Great Lakes-St. Lawrence Seaway, the series of locks and channels that bridge the aforementioned lakes with the Atlantic Ocean. This peace and quiet is much needed.

Stan gulps down a deep breath of dense air. His eyes cast back out onto the lake, the low waves churning slightly against each other. Each small crash of water looks like the flip of a large tail as his thoughts wander back to the (one hundred percent real, despite what some know-it-alls may say) mermaid. Ford’s been wrong before. He could be wrong about this, too. He’ll just have to be the one to prove it. His large nose crinkles as he cycles through a sigh, finally registering the aroma around him. Lake Michigan doesn’t smell like an ocean. It’s more… fishy. Still, he finds it a nice change of pace after nine months of swallowing salt. After a few more musty inhales he turns, crossing the deck and going back down the few steps that lead into the cabin.

It’s a nice space, really. Nicer than you’d expect considering the humble exterior.

To the right of the entrance are a pair of plush swivel armchairs separated by a side table, next to two portholes. A couple of large bookshelves with closing doors sit on either side of the nook, which is nestled right up against their kitchen counter. A tiny stove, a satisfactory microwave, a sink, and plenty of cupboards tuck into the port stern. The starboard side holds a number of chests and a tall cabinet nailed down by the doorway. A dinette juts out from the wall, two wide bench seats sandwiching a thick table parallel to the nook with its own two portholes, and behind that lies the twins’ bunks.

The beds also protrude from the wall of the cabin, stacked close to fit in their low-ceilinged quarters. Stan had immediately called the top bunk, and kept it despite the many nights he almost slipped down the short and narrow ladder, and it only took Ford thirteen accidental collisions between his forehead and the hard wood of the frame above before his muscle memory took the hint. This is where Stan goes, grabbing the red jacket hanging from a nail haphazardly shoved into the wall and reaching his arm under the bottom bunk to pull out a pair of dry and somewhat dusty back up boots.

“You wanna go into town and find some grub?” He asks Ford as he sits on his brother’s bed and starts lacing his boots. “I ain’t looking for day ten of bean delight for dinner.”

Ford nods. “Yes, I’d also prefer a change of cuisine. Additionally, I need to see if they have a supply store- someone’s been a little too aggressive with the cleats and we could use some new ones.”

“Well you want the rigging secure or not?”

They bicker toothlessly as they make their way to the shore, docks creaking under their heavy steps. The pale stretch of beach that separates the marina from the town is narrow. Only a few yards from the shoreline and the sand suddenly ascends, forming a ten foot dune that runs parallel to the water. Tough bundles of dark green beachgrass line the top, interrupted only by the broad wooden staircase climbing up the sharp slope for convenience. Grains of sand whirl across the cracked oak with each burst of breeze coming from the water. The very tops of pines and maples and aspens are visible as they ascend, green with new spring growth.

No sounds trickle down the stairs to greet them, no commotion from the town just beyond the crest of the dune. Only the noise of winds and waves pressing at their backs.

Sand meets asphalt as they enter Waaban Cove. Smaller than Gravity Falls, they can see almost the entirety of the downtown area as they stand on the edge of it. It’s a matryoshka doll of infrastructure: a square of low red brick buildings surrounding a square of sidewalk surrounding a broad grey street which surrounds a tall and proud clocktower at the very center, by far the tallest manmade structure in sight. The only way out is along the street that breaks through the two northern corners, running east and west before sharply turning up into the forest that sandwiches this small slice of civilization between the water. The enclosed arrangement of brick and asphalt is hostile to residence, catered to commerce. This is a town with a singular purpose: tourism.

Stan and Ford begin a self-guided tour of the large block, passing by business after business with narrow doors and tall display windows packed together on each street. The only other living souls in sight are an older couple shuffling by on a ritualistic evening walk and a hunter, still in camouflage, carrying a freshly-crossbowed turkey by the legs as he strolls in the direction of the forest, returning to some humble abode nestled between the trees. The shop fronts they pass feel nearly identical at first blush.

Unreasonably-priced boutiques, a fudgery, a few restaurants, a small convenience store, a hardware store, a supply shop, all struggle to differentiate themselves from the brick that binds them together. Some do this with painted doors, a bright yellow or turquoise trying to impart a little whimsy. Others slap large decals on their windows, screaming about deals, steals, and hot meals. A few have carefully crafted handmade signs either hanging or standing by the doorway. Each and every location has some small distinguishing factor once you look close enough. There is one thing they do have in common, though. They’re all closed.

“Seriously? It’s not even seven!”

“Yes, well, you know how small towns operate. On their own schedules.”

“Schedules shmedules. If I have to eat beans outta the can again tonight I’m gonna die and I want the mayor of this town held personally responsible.”

“Held responsible? Would you prefer the mayor go to jail or erect a giant statue in your honor?”

“D’you even have to ask?”

Ford nods with a slight smile. “Giant statue it is.”

They finally locate the only storefront with any sign of life, resting on one of the broken corners. Lakeside Party Store. A dim neon light fashioned in the shape of a beer can informs that they’re open. Stan pushes inside- if he’s going to have to eat beans again tonight, he might as well wash them down with some alcohol.

The store is tiny, grimy, and silent. Formerly-white tiles stained beige by years of booted customers tracking in mud, snow, and salt sit loosely on the cement foundation. Wood that looks to be (and very well could be) over a hundred years old lines the walls between cooler doors. Rickety metal shelves hold small conveniences like Twinkies that are probably not much younger than the antique wood. Stan briskly walks past the register by the door and locates his prey at the back. He grabs a six pack from a cooler door.

He turns back to look at Ford hovering by the front of the store- he wordlessly asks if Ford wants in.

All those stories and tales you hear about twin telepathy are, of course, exaggerations. But they’re also not entirely unfounded. Spending your earliest formative years so closely entwined with another human can easily lend the ability to perceive and interpret one another’s slightest movements. Eyebrow raises, smirks, half-shrugs, all can hold sentences’ worth of meaning if you’re paying attention. And to Stan’s great satisfaction, the wordless twin communication they had as children came back more easily than expected once they hit the high seas together.

Ford wordlessly responds that he does, indeed, want in. Stan grabs a second six pack and heads back up front.

He’s about to tell Ford it’s his turn to buy when he spots the woman behind the counter. Bored, lazily flipping through a Bass Pro Shop catalogue, the forty-or-fifty-something barely seems to register that anyone else is in the shop with her. She’s small-town pretty, fried blonde hair and maroon acrylics signaling like plumage to Stan that this is a woman he can try to flirt with, probably.

He coughs to get her attention. She starts a little, her reflex being a bit of a glare in his direction.

“Anything else?”

“Nope,” he says, trying to get a read on her, trying to find a way in. He sees the catalogue. “So. You, uh, like fishing, huh?”

“S’cuse me?”

“That magazine there. You like fishing?”

“Naw, I was just looking at hats.” She finishes typing the costs into her till. “Twelve fifty-eight.”

He plucks his wallet out of his pants, finds a twenty.

“Well ya know what they say about bait hooks,” Stan starts, eyebrow raising over a cheesy grin, completely missed by the woman whose eyes are lingering on the catalogue. She musters a meager “mmm?”, the barest possible gesture of recognition.

Romance hasn’t been a primary objective for Stan during his travels, but he’s pursued opportunities when they arise. Or rather, he’s tried to. His track record over the last nine months leaves something to be desired. His most successful endeavor to date climaxed with an almost kiss, right before the man he had brought back to the deck of the Stan O War turned into a terrible eldritch abomination and tried to drag him down to the bottom of the ocean to make him his consort. Or his jester. Stan wasn’t really sure. Regardless, he hasn’t exactly been killing it in the romance department, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t shake his confidence. The brick wall of a woman currently in front of him isn’t particularly encouraging. But, he reminds himself, Stanley Pines is no quitter.

“They’re a real pain in the bass.”

The woman levels Stan with a look of withering scorn; Ford walks backwards out of the store as if retreating from a wild animal.

The walk back to the Stan o War is silent. Ford is occupied with drafting a mental shopping list of supplies they’ll need to keep the ship in shape; Stan is busy considering the pros and cons of shoving rocks into his pockets and walking directly into the lake. Neither speak until they’re settled back into the cabin, eating spoonfuls of beans between sips of watery beer as they go through their plan.

Ford smooths out a crinkled map across the dinette table, revealing the entirety of Lake Michigan and its surrounding shores: the left half of the mitten of Michigan’s lower peninsula to the east; the sharp rounded curve that hosts Chicago to the south; a shred of Wisconsin to the west; the sloping bottom curve of Michigan’s upper peninsula to the north.

He pulls the drawstring of a small satchel and upturns its contents onto the map. Tiny clay figures, painted Monopoly tokens, repurposed beads, and more tumble out- all to be used as various markers for their map, gifted to them by a crafty niece. He moves a glittering yellow Monopoly boat to the southern curve of the upper peninsula, marking their current location. He pushes puffy alien and ghost stickers to various spots in the lake, including a few small islands, then slides a number of tiny plastic baby figurines into the green, sparsely populated woods to the north.

Satisfied with their arrangement, Ford clears his throat. Stan settles in, knowing a monologue when he sees one. These are mostly for Ford’s benefit, a way for him to synthesize and summarize their information and goals, though Stan will admit he finds them helpful- he can’t always pay attention to his brother’s mutterings about UFOs and the space time continuum.

“As previously discussed, there have been documented hauntings on all the Great Lakes for hundreds of years. I am uncertain if these hauntings are unique to the commercial vessels that riddled the area with the encroaching French, British, and American colonization efforts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It’s possible that there are legends among the Indigenous peoples that coincide with these events from The Ottawa and Ojibwe nations that traditionally resided here. The earliest documents I was able to find on our way in regarding sightings of the strange date back to the eighteen-forties, almost immediately after colonialist forces began moving into the area in significant numbers. Newspaper articles, diaries, even advertisements have all made reference to odd and frightening phenomena for over one hundred and sixty years now, a clear sign this is not some stray flare up or fluke. The anomaly hotspot I’ve detected in this region is not the strongest, but it does cover quite a bit of ground. Or water, to be specific. I don’t have the exact location of its epicenter yet- one of our main objectives is to triangulate and nail down that location precisely. Whether it’s a thinning of the lining of reality or the result of a singular entity, we’ll need to approach with caution.

“Naturally, we’ll have to do a general skimming of the lake. We have to determine if what stalks these waters is corporeal, incorporeal, human spirits, demonic mimics, or some elaborate holographic illusions created by local millionaires attempting to retain ownership of their land. We also will want to investigate local lighthouses- lighthouses are a classic focal point for hauntings. These two here,” he points to an island with a lighthouse at both the north and south points, “will be a great starting point.” Stan leans over and sees the name of the land mass.

“Heh. Beaver Island.”

“Yes, very good,” Ford deadpans. His fingers go to a cluster of markers in the woods to the north.

“We can also investigate the surrounding towns- I heard from some fellow boatmen these rural towns hold secrets. Whether that’s relating to this anomaly hotspot or some small town mayoral scandal remains to be seen.

“And of course there’s the beach. I was thinking tomorrow we can do a simple trawl, get the lay of the land, do some vigorous hiking in the nearby woods-”

“Slow your roll there Sixer,” Stan says, interrupting his own sip. “You’re supposed to be takin’ it easy, remember?”

Ford restrains a sheepish look. “Well, yes, but it’s been two weeks already. The swelling is almost completely gone, and…” he falters under Stan’s judgmentally-raised eyebrow.

“I’ll take it easy,” he says with a sigh. “Now who’s as bad as mom?”

“Pshh, please, only reason I’m buggin’ you to take care of yourself is ‘cus I don’t wanna have to play nurse.” He says it as a joke; Ford twitches a smile in return. Stan leans to the side, peering under the table to look at Ford’s leg.

“You need your ice pack?” Stan is already lifting himself off his seat as he asks, but Ford preempts him, rising swiftly and heading to the mini-fridge in the corner. Stan lowers himself back down, keeping a wary eye on his brother, looking for a limp. He finds a slight one, enough to keep him concerned. Ford grabs the cold compress and returns to his seat, applying the pack to his right knee.

“It is better, right?” Stan asks behind his beer can.

“Yes, it is. You are right, I do just need to be mindful.” He gives a small hollow laugh. “How funny that out of all my years hopping dangerous dimensions, all the paranormal horrors I’ve faced over the decades, my fiercest opponent is my own ligament.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sixer. That werehog had a little somethin’ to do with it.”

Ford smiles earnestly this time. “Yes, he can certainly bear the brunt of the blame on that.” He takes a sip of his beer- still his first, lagging behind Stan’s third- and then lowers his can slowly.

“I’m sorry your attempt at romantic initiation earlier was unsuccessful.”

A few months ago, Stan would have assumed Ford was mocking him, but he knows now when his brother is being genuine- it’s clear in his voice. There’s always a line of hesitance underneath, like he’s not entirely confident in what he’s saying. Stan shrugs.

“Eh, you can’t win ‘em all,” he says simply.

“That’s quite an improvement compared to when you spent days moping around after that siren turned you down back in the Gulf of Mexico.” Ford has a slight cheeky grin on his face. Just as it took time for him to learn when his brother was being genuine, there was a similar learning curve when it came to his teasing. Stan used to think he was being crudely insulted and would react defensively, but after several, entirely avoidable arguments, he now knows a lighthearted rib when he sees it.

“Yeah yeah, what can I say, I’ve really matured after nine months in a boat isolated from civilization.”

Ford sees Stan taking the rib in stride, but knows not to go too far. He switches tracks back to their plans, negotiating the level of physical exertion Ford should be allowed to indulge in.

They resolve to start small and poke around the town tomorrow, when all establishments should actually be open. No vigorous hikes or long distance beach strolls, yet. After one more pair of drinks they decide to call it early, both eager to enjoy a night’s rest free of noise pollution. No shouting frat boys, no booming music, no bright spotlights left on all night. Just an inky blue sky and endless small waves swashing up the beach.

There, laying in the soft dark as he hears his brother’s breathing gradually slow beneath him, Stan closes his eyes and wills himself asleep.

One thing both twins were surprised to learn they shared after thirty years apart was an absolutely terrible relationship with dreams. Typically ranging in severity from “stressful” to “waking up shouting”, neither of them really look forward to the act of sleep. It’s an unfortunate fact that had the upside of bonding them early on, each stumbling through the act of comforting the other after being awoken by a three a.m. yelp. It’s hard for both of them to talk openly about what plagues their subconsciouses, but in some ways, it’s harder for Stan. Ford’s dreams feature grandiose backdrops, unimaginable torments, traumas that just feel more real to Stan. He can’t help but feel that his own pale in comparison.

Often they’re little more than painful amalgams of fears and feelings. Trying to navigate through a labyrinth of cold dark cement, or falling perpetually in a bottomless pit while countless hands try to grab at him, or finding himself at a hippie music festival, overwhelmed by tie dye and patchouli with no way out. Though not enjoyable, those dreams are at least more tolerable than the rest.

Occasionally, they’re random memories from his younger days. Like that time he had to fight off two pug smugglers going after his loot, one of them slashing his arm as he escaped, making him resort to stitching up the wound with shoplifted dental floss in a pharmacy bathroom. Or that other time he was traveling door to door selling painted chicks passed off as baby ostriches, and a seemingly-interested housewife invited him inside their house, only to attempt a kidnapping to ransom his fake company for the safe return of their wares. Or that other time he had to chew his way out of the trunk of a car. He always wakes up with the taste of felt in his mouth after that one.

The worst, though, are the ones featuring his most painful moments in excruciating detail front to back. Even with his brother asleep mere feet away from him, he still experiences his loss thirty years ago over and over again. Even with Weirdmageddon successfully averted, he still conjures up the crushing fear of those days wondering if his family was alive or dead, the sky an oppressive red, the warped creatures that ran rampant. Even with Bill eradicated, that fucking triangle still manages to wriggle its way through the wrinkles of his brain, twisting and morphing and cackling as he chases after everyone Stan has ever cared about.

Tonight, however, is different. Tonight he’ll dream of mermaids. Two of them, circling him as he floats submerged in clear, green-tinged water. They’ll mind their own business, swimming after each other in a placid ouroboros, for the most part. Every once in a while the smaller of the two will come in close, giving a quick caress to his arm or his face before returning to its place. He’ll know it’s a dream, and he’ll strain to commit everything to memory- the cool water, the assuasive cycle of the mermaids, the loving touch of the one that ventures to him.