Adorable Like a Werekitten, Part 1

  No one ever thinks about how realistic The Sound of Music could have been. Instead of a musical, it could have been a movie about paranormal events (and, therefore, much closer to reality than the original plot about singing nuns beating the SS). If only the director had actually listened to the first line—the one about the hills being alive.
  Because some hills are alive, and weird crap happens around those hills . . .
****
  Dipper was being watched; he could feel it . . .
  He always felt it here (in the mountain valley that was Gravity Falls, Oregon), to tell the truth, but now it was stronger than ever. Something was watching him right now, even as he tried to sleep . . . and it was something big . . .
  That thought startled him awake, but the attic room was empty (save, of course, for Mabel and Waddles in the other bed). Empty and dark. The sun hadn't even risen yet, though the horizon was aglow behind Mount Immovable—making its silhouette look like a black, blinking pyramid.
  "Wait, what?!"
  Dipper peered out the window. But it couldn't be! He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, it was really there! Near the crest of Mount Immovable was a huge, slowly-blinking eye! And it was focused right at him!
  "M-Mabel!" he stammered, diving to shake his sister. "Mabel, wake up! You have to see this!"
  But she was too deeply asleep. It was like trying to wake a hibernating bear (and Dipper reckoned it was probably about as smart as that, too). She even growled at him. Waddles turned his porcine eyes up at Dipper and grunted reprovingly—either "sleeping" or "doorbell"—and then nestled back into the blanket.
  Dipper leapt back to the window, but the Eye was gone. "Or closed, more likely . . ." he muttered to himself. He hadn't imagined it, though; he was sure of that. If life in Gravity Falls had taught him anything, it was that he was never imagining anything.
  Fumbling through his clothes, he dug 3 from his vest. But the journal's old and stained pages—informative on everything from Astral Projections to Zombies (or the "Living Impaired", because apparently "Zombie" is an offensive term)—had nothing about the Eye. Only a sketch on the second page even alluded to its existence.
  He scrutinized the mountain again, but its face was now blank and black. He glanced at Mabel, but she rolled over while murmuring something like "Onwards, Aoshima . . ." She was obviously too out of it to help. "Looks like it's up to me to investigate . . ." he decided.
  It was a long way to travel, however, without a direct trail. The sun was up before Dipper even reached the foot of Mount Immovable. Out of breath, he sat and flipped through the pages of 3 again—looking more closely than before—but still found no information on the Eye.
  And then he felt it again, that tingling sensation at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. But it was different this time; somehow, it was sharper and closer, and much more menacing. It wasn't the Eye watching him distantly from above. It was something nearer . . .
  Closing the journal slowly, Dipper listened. "No birds are chirping, and no squirrels are . . . squirreling, or whatever sound it is squirrels make. . ." It was silent. Absolutely silent. "No no no no . . ." he murmured. "Silence is never a good sign . . ."
  Was it in the bushes around him? Was it behind him? Was it readying to spring?
  "Yeah, probably . . ."
  He tightened his grip on the journal, and remained perfectly still . . .
  Suddenly, it lunged out of the bushes! But Dipper dropped to the ground, and it sailed over him! It landed and spun around, but Dipper came up swinging the journal! THWACK! Connecting hard with its leonine face, he surprised it and knocked it down! Then Dipper turned and dashed off through the trees, screaming at the top of his lungs! "AAAAAAAAAAAAA! HELP! HELP! HELP!"
  It came after him, roaring and shrieking, but he wove through the trees and managed to dodge it once, twice, thrice! He darted left, then changed directions and sprinted right! He jumped behind trees and boulders, always evading it by mere inches!
  And then it tackled him from the side, hard and sharp, and they rolled into a shallow ravine with a river at the bottom! Dizzy from the fall, Dipper rose to his knees! And so did the creature—using hands to push itself up onto knees!—with its fury yet mannish body and its head like a mountain lion!
  "MOUNTAIN LION . . . M-MAN!" Dipper shouted, grabbing the first thing that came to hand (a rock) and throwing it as hard as he could! CRACK!
  Stricken, the creature shrieked and covered its face with clawed hands, but Dipper was up and jumping from rock to rock across the river! Once on the other side, he scrambled up the ravine and chanced a look back! The creature hadn't followed—it remained on the opposite bank, glaring angrily up at him through a swollen eye—but Dipper still turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him!
****
  The "MYSTERY SHACK" (or, more accurately the "MYSTERY HACK" since the "S" had long tumbled down) was an old and almost dilapidated building, eccentric and eclectic and mostly held together by duct tape—a lot like the oddities it housed (and probably the man who owned it). It smelled weird, and it was full of weird things in jars, and hanging out there meant helping out with usually weird chores, but Norman loved the place. No one said snide or cruel things there, no one called him a freak or a liar, and no one accused him of making up the things he saw. Dipper and Mabel believed him, accepted him. They even liked him (as did Soos and Wendy and even Stan, though those three probably didn't know about Norman's ability to see and speak with ghosts and spirits, or believe it if they did).
  It was more like home than home ever had been.
  Only a little after sunrise, it was still early—the Mystery Shack hadn't even officially opened—so Norman went around back to the kitchen door and knocked. Sure enough, Mabel was having breakfast.
  "Good morning, Norman!" she burst out. "Or maybe 'good norming, Mornman'! I just taught Waddles to say 'morning'! You wanna hear?" And then she turned to her pet and coaxed, "Say 'morning', Waddles! Say it!" The pig grunted something that was either 'morning' or 'sleeping', and Mabel squealed with delight. "Who's a smart pig? Who's a smart, smart pig?"
  "Heh. Cool. But you might not want to reward him with bacon."
  "Why not? Bacon is his favorite. Everyone likes bacon. Bacon is delicious."
  "That is . . . frankly, disturbing . . ." Norman decided.  "So . . . where's Dipper?"
  With a shrug, Mabel answered, "He went out early. I think he tried to wake me up, but I'm a deeeeeeeep sleeeeeeper," she said in as deep a bass as she could manage. "I'm sure he'll be back soon, though. You want some breakfast?"
  A little disappointed, Norman took a seat at the table with a perfunctory, "Thanks."
  But Mabel didn't seem to notice as she was waving her pet's hooves and coaxing, "Waddles, say 'bacon'!" And the pig grunted something that was either 'bacon' or 'morning'. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! This pig is a linguistic genius!"
  One bowl of Boo-Berries later (a favorite, but one that Norman didn't dare eat anywhere else), Dipper still hadn't returned. There was still no sign of him through the kitchen windows. "Do you . . . know where he went?"
  "Hmm? Who, Dipper? Don't worry, he'll be back soon."
  Unconvinced, Norman turned back to the window, only to see a horrible, hairy, apish face scowling in at him! "Buh!" he exclaimed, falling off the chair.
  Mabel looked, and then screamed, "Sasquatch! It wants to make me its forest queen! Nooooo! Why does everything want to make me its forest queen!?"
  "Kits, com dow!" a muffled voice shouted over them. "I's jus me!"
  Mabel gaped, "Gruncle Stan? Is this . . . what you look like before shaving?"
  Pulling down a zipper at the throat (that had been hidden by fur), Stan was able to push back the hairy ape face to reveal a hairy, proboscis monkey face. Only then did he gruffly retort, "Ha ha, you're cute. So what do you think of the Bigfoot costume? Did good in storage, huh?"
  Norman and Mabel both eyed the shaggy suit with ill-contained revulsion, for it was greasy in spots, had mud caked onto others, and flies were already buzzing about it.
Mabel began, "It's very . . . um . . ."
  "Feral," Norman finished for her.
  "Exactly. Feral. Which is a good thing for a Bigfoot to be. So . . . why are you wearing that?"
  "We've had fewer visitors this month than last month, and fewer visitors last month than the month before that," Stan declared sourly. "If we don't get that turned around, I might have to send you kids to gut fish at the lake."
  Mabel shuddered. "Never again . . . Still smell like caviar . . ."
  "But fortunately, I've got a trick that always brings in the rubes," Stan announced more cheerily. "All I gotta do is lumber around the forest for a day or two in my Bigfoot costume, and before you know it the rubes are lining up to hand me their money. You gotta love this country."
  "Isn't that . . . kinda unethical?" Norman piped up shyly.
  Stan eyed him dubiously. "Let me put it this way: Bigfoot is real, like Elvis. Is it unethical when people dress up like Elvis? No. So it's not unethical for me to dress up like Bigfoot. It's free publicity for Bigfoot. And free money for me. Win-win. Any more questions?"
  "N-no, sir."
  "I told you to call me 'Gruncle Stan', Paintbrush," the old man said, not unkindly. He even tousled the boy's untamably spiky hair. "In the meantime, though, you kids are gonna have to step up helping Soos and Wendy run things around here. Speaking of you kids, where is that third one? We've got Mabel Syrup and Paintbrush, but no Dipping Sauce."
  "I think Dipper's out walking," Norman suggested quickly. "Should be back soon."
  "Hmm. Walking . . . Good habit, I guess . . . Healthy . . . Well, I should get to work. Tell Wendy she's to man the cash register—or, woman it, I guess—and Soos is on tour-guide duty if anyone shows up. I want the three of you helping them wherever they need you, understood?"
  Mabel saluted, and Norman eventually followed suite.
  Nodding his approval, Stan placed the mask back over his face and loped slowly into the woods.
  "Well, that happened," Norman said uncertainly. "Does Stan do this Bigfoot thing often?"
  "Nuh uh uh!" Mabel chided him, waving a finger in his face. "First rule of the Mystery Shack: we don't talk about the Bigfoot thing. Second rule of the Mystery Shack: we don't talk about the Bigfoot thing. Third rule of the Mystery Shack: no refunds and no outside food."
  Norman snorted. "You guys are so weird. Says the boy who sees ghosts."
  "Says the boy who—oh," Mabel caught herself playfully. "You ragamuffin, you  . . ."
****
  A root caught Dipper's foot, and he tripped onto his face. Panting, he lay there a moment, unable to rise. He'd been running so hard and so long, he just couldn't get up—couldn't move or catch his breath. Cramps arced up and down the left side of his body, but the nausea was the worst part.
  And then he noticed the throbbing pain in his left hand. He looked, and was surprised to see a deep cut. "When . . . when'd I . . . get that?" he gasped aloud. It had obviously been bleeding for some time, but when could it have happened? Then, with a sense of dread, he remembered being tackled—remembered claws and teeth as he and the Mountain Lion Man rolled into the ravine. "It clawed me?" he whimpered in disbelief. "I better . . . bandage it right away . . ."
  He retrieved a roll of bandages from one of his vest pockets (life in Gravity Falls had also taught him to always carry bandages). It was awkward work, wrapping it one-handedly while the cramps seemed to get worse and the throbbing redoubled, but he eventually managed.
  Staggering up, he strove to get his bearings. "The river was probably . . . Inertia River, off of Gravity Falls . . ." he said queasily. "So the Shack is . . . probly . . . northa here . . . Oh my gosh, it hurts!" And he fell forward, yowling.
  His whole body was in pain, but it seemed to be radiating out from the cut! And, as he looked, his flesh actually seemed to be rippling: one second, it was covered in brown fur, the next smooth skin! One second he had claws, the next they were normal hands! His spine felt like it was extending, and his ears stretching out, and his teeth lengthening and sharpening! His eyes seemed to catch every moment, and his nose was on fire with new smells! He could feel bristles pushing out around it, forming whiskers!
  And then it stopped, and Dipper lay even more breathlessly on the ground. He was normal again, but felt so ill. "Just like . . . the transformation in . . . a werewolf movie . . . Only that was a . . . werelion or werepuma? No . . . a werecat . . ." he finally decided. And then it dawned on him, and he moaned, "Oh no . . . I've been infected . . . I'm now a werecat!"
  And, suddenly, it started again! The same full-body throbbing racked him! He spasmed on the ground, and his trademark hat was knocked askew.
  "I'm changing into a bloodthirsty beast!" he whimpered. "No! No! I don't want to!" he asserted. "I won't! I am not a monster! I am not a werecat! I am Dipper Pines, and this is gonna stop!"
  He slammed his hand against the ground, and suddenly the transformation stopped.
  For a moment, Dipper just lay there and heaved. Then he looked at his hand. Normal—no claws, no fur. He looked at his other hand. Also normal. Kneeling, he observed, "I don't . . . feel any different. Huh . . ." He sat back, and a bolt of pain launched him forward. "Yeow! What was that?!"
  Looking back, he saw something long and covered in fur sticking out of his shorts. It was a tail.
  "I . . . have a tail . . ." Dipper said weakly. "And I sat on it . . . I sat on my tail . . . which I have . . ."
  He felt in his mouth. No fangs. He felt his nose. No whiskers, and he only smelled regular, normal, everyday things. His eyes felt normal, too. Then he patted the side of his head, but his ears weren't where they were supposed to be. He found them on the top of his head, and they were big and pointed and twitching in every direction.
  "I . . . have cat ears . . ." Dipper said weakly. "I am now a werecat . . . I am now a . . . a freak . . . Alright, just keep calm. Gotta keep calm. Remember that panic is the Dipper-killer. I'm sure there's something in the journal that can—"
  He felt in his vest pocket, but it wasn't there. He checked the other one, but it was empty, too.
  "I . . . I lost it . . . I'm turning into a werecat freak, and I lost the journal . . ."
  Unable to help himself, he covered his eyes and began to sob.