I Know How To Live (I Don't Know How To Die)

Chapter One: Dead As A Doornail

"What're you lookin' at?" Stan grumbled, making the squirrel that was staring at him twitch. He sighed, crossing his arms as he bobbed softly above the ground. It seemed that– as of yesterday– he was dead, which didn't surprise him much considering the life he'd lived. Still, though, death didn't come without its mysteries, of which included, "How did I die?" and "Where the hell am I?" It seemed that instead of heaven or hell, Stan had ended up in the middle of some random ass winter forest, which, if you asked him, was worse than just ending up in hell, mainly because he didn't know what to expect. If he'd gone to heaven, he'd expect halos, white gowns, and cherubs tooting trumpets. In hell, he'd expect pitchforks, rivers of fire, and dancing devils. Instead, he got a serene forest and a pounding headache, which was not fair, because he was dead, which should mean no more pain, but hey, what did he know? He was dead for a reason, after all, even if he couldn't remember the details. Sighing, Stan rubbed his chest as it twinged for the hundredth time. Since waking up in the forest, Stan's chest felt weird, almost like a string was tied around his sternum, and something was tugging it. It didn't hurt but it was uncomfortable and wouldn't go away. It felt like it was getting more forceful, actually. Just another annoyance in Stan's afterlife. He probably deserved it, but c'mon, couldn't the universe just let him be dead in peace?

There was another tug, and this time Stan jerked forward with a yelp, arms trying to grab hold of something, but tree branches and bushes phased through him. He gasped, and if he had a heart, it would've been pounding. What the hell was that?! Glancing down, he confirmed that something wasn't actually tied to him, but what had happened? Frowning, Stan landed on the ground and walked forward a few feet. As he did, his chest loosened, though the invisible-string feeling never disappeared entirely. Ok... so something was leading him somewhere. Weird. Maybe it had to do with unfinished business. Didn't that happen with ghosts sometimes? He remembered hearing Ma talk about it years back during a few of her psychic readings. Maybe that was why he'd ended up in the middle of nowhere, and maybe, if he followed this feeling and completed his task, he'd be able to move on.

Not that he wanted to go to hell, which was probably gonna be his next stop, but the woods were getting boring. Whatever he was getting into, he just hoped it was interesting.

Ford tugged his coat tighter around himself as he trekked through the snow, eyes squinted as he struggled to see ahead of him. Where was it? It should be close by. He needed to find it; he could feel eyes watching his every move. He needed to get back home before Bill– There! With a sigh, he approached the mailbox, pulling the postcard from his pocket and giving it a quick once-over. It was by no means perfect, but it would do the trick. Nodding, he placed it inside the mailbox and waited. There was nothing but the sound of tree branches swaying in the wind, and then the mailbox shuddered, and the postcard was spat back out at him.

"What?" He muttered, trying again. He got the same result. Annoyed, he tried again, and again the postcard flew out and smacked him in the face. Alright, that was it! He pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled furiously on the card before shoving it back into the mailbox and waiting. It flew out a moment later, but this time, something new was written underneath Ford's message.

WHY WON'T YOU SEND MY POSTCARD?

Recipient is unavailable.

Unavailable? How was Stanley unavailable? That was impossible. The mailbox possessed the ability to send small packages and letters to anyone, no matter where they were, even without an address. As long as you had their full name and clearly set your intentions, it would work. He sent dozens of things through the mailbox to Fiddleford, Ma, Shermie, and even a few townsfolk, and it worked every time. Never had he been told they were unavailable. Why did things always have to be so difficult when it came to Stan? Equally annoyed and curious, Ford wrote on the card again.

What do you mean by 'unavailable'?

He put it in the mailbox, the mailbox shuddered, and the card flew out.

Recipient cannot be reached in current state. Physical form is required.

Ford furrowed his brows, even more confused than before. Perhaps the mailbox couldn't, for whatever reason, pinpoint an address to send it to. It could be the result of an anomaly, which interested Ford greatly, but it could also be something else. Was Bill interfering somehow? A chill ran down Ford's spine as he glanced around. He couldn't see anything but was sure he was being watched. Uneasy, Ford decided to investigate the mailbox at a later time and head to the cabin. With the postcard a bust, he'd need to think of something else. Surely Ma would be able to contact Stan. The last thing Ford wanted was to call his twin and ask him to come, but if that's what it took, he supposed he would do it. Behind him, he heard rustling, and he picked up his pace to a near sprint, heart in his throat. He needed Stan's help, and he needed it fast, no matter what.

Stan floated unsteadily through the forest foliage, grumbling about how he shouldn't have to go on wild goose chases anymore in his state. He froze when he heard something ahead of him, something that sounded like... a voice? Inching closer, Stan confirmed that there was definitely someone muttering quietly to themselves, but who the hell would be out here? Well, besides him...

"Perhaps it can't find an address? No, no, that doesn't make sense..." Stan frowned. That voice seemed oddly familiar. Closing the distance between himself and the mysterious voice, Stan froze when he caught sight of the man. That– No, it couldn't be, but... There they were; Two six-fingered hands gripping a postcard that said, 'Greetings from Gravity Falls... Thanks for dropping in!' A breeze picked up as Stan landed on his feet, distantly aware that this time when he touched the ground, the snow beneath him crunched under his weight. Ford was here... His brother was here... How was that possible? Was he the reason for the tugging feeling? If Stan had any unfinished business, it would probably be with Ford... Or Rico. Lips pursed, Stan watched Ford scramble away nervously, and the tug in Stan's chest increased the further away Ford got. Hesitantly, Stan followed, unsure. What was he supposed to do, exactly? His brother couldn't see him, right? Would Stan have to knock over books and make lights flicker? Was he doomed for eternity to haunt his estranged brother's house? That would be a pretty fitting afterlife, Stan snorted. Being invisible in someone else's house sounded like reliving his childhood, although at least then, he'd had Ford when things got really bad... And occasionally Ma...

Whatever, he'd figure it out. For now, he needed to focus on only one thing; Making contact with Ford from beyond the grave.