AN: This is my Nanowrimo story, Inhave been working very hard on this I would love to share it with you all! This summer I recently got interested in don't starve and the plot. I instantly fell in love with Wilson and I started to read other don't starve fics before writing this one. This is my interpretation on the story, it does contain most of the main plot in the game but I've tweaked it and added my own ideas. Plus, I have added a great gastby Easter egg if anyone can find it ;).
I hope you enjoy! ~Moonmilk
1889
The brown doors were ajar. 9 year old Wilson Percival Higgsbury took in the scent. Fresh paper, ink, cheap perfume. His parents let him go, while his brother Albert Higgsbury kept his hands around his father's legs.
Wilson was free for the week. Free for a whole 5 hours. His father made his way to his study desk for literature, mummy Higgsbury took Albert to a nearby café, for he was bored with Wilson and his father's 'studies'.
The young boy climbed latter after latter, examining each section, every scientific genre. His father was chuckling at his gasps and giggles while reading the titles regarding chemistry and physics. Wilson's interest in science was strong, he told his father he wishes to discover new elements, and theories in general.
His father continued his studies in literature, leaving his son with his own studies. Mr Higgsbury was a full supporter, buying Wilson several beakers for Christmas, and a few books for his room, which he read the daily science articles each and every night when going to bed.
5 hours past, Wilson reached the last part of the science section, making sure he organized every section he made a mess of in the past ones. His small pale fingers trailed against the spines. 'Space theories, NEWEST DISCOVERIES: Neon and Xenon, Richard Willstätter's cocaine molecule, Purine Synthesis.' Read this, read that.
Wilson stopped, there was a whisper. Why would the librarian be quieting him down, he's never loud in this place, and according to him, he and the librarian get along quite well. The whispers intensified, causing him to look at the last book on the shelf. It was a strange hue of purple and maize, and why were the whispers coming from it in the first place?
Higgsbury reached for the book, the whispers were even louder than before. Wilson trembled slightly, his thumb rubbed the cover of the book. It was beautiful, the designs engraved looked like they were hand crafted, truly the most magnificent cover Wilson has ever laid eyes on.
It had no title. Strange. Wilson rubbed his fingers against the thick and slightly torn pages, smudged with a strange yellow hue, maybe coffee? It was slightly dirty now that he looked at it more closely. His thumb was right under the cover, ready to open, then he heard a call.
"Wilson? Time to head home, mother must be waiting."
"Y-yes father!" Wilson could still hear the faint whispers of the book, they slowly faded away as he put it back in its place. Mr Higgsbury took his hand and led him out the large library doors, after saying goodbye to Miss Wickerbottom.
...
"Mother?" Wilson asked while gripping the blankets on his bed. "Do you think...,"
"What is it darling?" Mrs Higgsbury ruffled her son's hair and stroked her fingers across his puffy pale cheeks.
"D-do you think, that magic could be connected to science?" He let out. Mrs Higgsbury's lips tugged upward, she chuckled softly and kissed his forehead.
"Is that your new obsession? Magic, my darling?"
"Well, it is certainly enjoyable. I..just had a mere thought mother, that is all."
"Magic is for wee babes! Scoundrels!" Albert interrupted from the side of the room, the younger brother jumped off his bed and rushed to his mother.
"Now Albert, Wilson is certainly coming up with a new theory. And magic is not for babes, nor the sick or twisted. I think that magic and science are a form of art." She winked at Wilson, who giggled in return.
Albert wanted to make another statement, but was interrupted by his mothers plea to get in bed. She kissed Wilson one last time, then tucked Albert in, doing the same.
Wilson could still remember the whispers he heard that day, coming from the violet book. They weren't even words, just gibberish utterances. Wilson couldn't detect any language, for he has studied the basic fundamentals of Latin, French, German, Arabic, and some Asian languages. None seemed to match with anything in his mere studies.
But language was out of the question, Wilson never really found an interest in language any way. The real question was why? The whispers sent chills down his spine, waves of bile in his stomach. Was it a hallucination? Was this library possessed, what if Wickerbottom is not who she really is? Wilson shivered, he turned and saw his brother facing the window, his back rising up and down. Very fast.
Albert was always a little trickster. Always rearing to go. Pretending to drop beakers, messing around with Wilson's powders and substances, it was truly unruly and aggravating. Wilson hardly ever sees Albert treat him with respect, just a little tease here and there. He was mostly outside the whole day, practicing croquet or football with his boarding school friends. Wilson spent the day mixing particles, making a mess.
His mind grew weak and the thoughts of the whispers slowly wore away. His eyes fluttered shut and a day of learning ended, tomorrow he would have to take care of his little brother once again, while mummy and father were out.
...
1901
The boat ride was more pleasant than he thought. His knuckles turned ivory when clutching the heavy leather suit case. It swung back and forth as he exited the boat. The young man took in the scent. Ellis Island, land of coal, business...opportunity.
"You're Mr William Carter?"
William adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Yes, yes I am sir."
"I'm sure it was a long trip ay? I'm tellin ya London ain't nothing like ol New York here." William was fascinated by his servants posture, accent and choice of clothing. He was a bit over weight, pale, very nice top hat though. "Now, where would you like to be heading to? I don't have all day pal, cab or not?"
"Yes!" William raised his voice while pushing his frames up against his broad nose. "Yes a cab would be marvelous, thank you! ...Bayard street please." The man called him in. The cab ride was the same as London's, the clop of the horses hoof made William miss his home already, he missed his brother Jack, his nieces Wendy and Abigail. He couldn't wait to write to them once he finds his flat.
...
"Do you have the dough?" The gruff voice made William flinch slightly. The British native lifted his head, beads of sweat covered his brow and forehead.
"Not exactly." He mumbled. Without the soft carrying words a man could give to another, he was met with a hand to the chin, nails digging into his skin.
"Mr Carter, you understand this is not boarding school where you sit down for your tea and crumpets, apologize for not paying and CALLING IT A DAY!" His boss' grip was tighter. William didn't take his eyes off of George T. Witherstone. Smudges of saliva from the yelling landed on his circular glasses.
"Mr Witherstone, I am gathering the most I can. I need my necessities, my house, my nutrients. I promise you this show and my other career will give me enough for the full payment."
George leaned forward and growled in his ear. "It sure as hell better be a good one. They're dying for something new."
"Mr Withestone, with your objects of entertainment I will surely succeed tonight."
George let go and pushed William towards the door. Carter stumbled and fixed his olive green suit and jacket. He looked up at his boss again, who crossed his arms in dismay, teeth almost showing. Carter only nodded slowly and carefully before taking off and walking into the small theatre, where his objects of magic awaited before him.
...
"A monstrosity!" "A fraud!" "Unforgivable Brit!" "Jackass!" Were some of the words George spat at him before William made his departure out of Ellis island.
Carter clenched his hands tight, his ticket in his left crinkled slightly. His lip began to quiver once he heard the train whistle begin to blow. He turned to look one more time at his city of certain potential.
He took a seat across from a young mother with her screaming child. The conductor announced the departure from NYC to San Francisco. The words gave William Carter a little hope, that maybe he could manage to keep his dream alive there.
He reached into his suit case and pulled out a newspaper that he bought before his trip. August 6 1904, New York Times. Carter really couldn't believe that he survived at least 3 years in that city, would San Francisco be worse? Would he die of the heat? He certainly wasn't used to that type of weather. He's pretty sure none of his British clothing would match well with its weather.
The train started, the mother calmed her child down, William crinkled the paper and shoved it in his suitcase. A new journey began, a new opportunity. William was sure that his brother Jack would love to hear his new stories in this insanely scorching hot land. He would also plan to take pictures as well, assuming his oldest niece Abigail would enjoy the scenery.
The buildings were shrinking, the tracks blurring. Carter could have sworn he heard the voice of George T. Witherstone getting smaller and smaller.
...
A siren pierces William's ears, he exhales throughly and gets himself off the train's floor. How did this happen, what did happen? Carter rubbed his eyes, they started to sting once he noticed here were cuts on his hands, blood trailed around his eyes. His suitcase stayed connected to his now pale, clammy hand. The woman and her child were not there, the siren still blared on.
William came to a conclusion that he was the only man aboard, at least on this train cart. He found his way out and stumbled into the blinding light that was the sun of nearby San Fransisco.
Moans, groans and cries were heard from his left. Stretchers lined up, each carrying a body as they were being loaded into several ambulances. Carter turned to the train, then a large circus cart that seemed to be the reason all of these people were injured.
William stared at the gravel for a moment, unseen. His mind began to race, his teeth mounded together, he heard a creak noise in his mouth. Sweat began to pour down his face, his lips trembled. Back and down, back and down, he turned from ground to ambulance, tragedy to gravel, and vice versa.
He walked closer to the wrecked abandoned circus cart and rested a hand against the chipped red plaster to catch his breath. He stumbled and his hands hit the dry ground, a cry erupted from his mouth, but slowly silenced it to cover up.
He felt worthless, defeated. William just needed to disappear. Why oh why did he chase after this dream of performance, he should have listened to his late mother and moved on with another choice. He told himself he wouldn't end up this way. He would be the magnificent William! Or the wondrous William! Entertaining ladies, gentlemen, and children galore!
With a turn of the heel, William ran. He ran like he never did before, not like he was departing to Ellis Island, not like he was departing from George Witherstone, he was ruining because he knew this was the end of his life.
This was the end of the great William Carter.
...
1906
"And you have a what demeanor?"
"Curious." His hazel eyes crinkled as they gripped the violet book.
"Yes and you have a keen interest in the mysteries of the universe?"
The figure smiled. "Sir, me and my very curious demeanor wish to show you and the whole United States of America something they would awe about for years to come. The universe." He holds up the book with pale slender fingers. "My universe,"
"Well...you seem like a good improvement to our cult. Might I have a name sir?"
"A...name?"
"Yes, a name, you have a stage name correct?"
"Yes you're right you're correct. I am Maxwell. Maxwell the great."
...
Black tendrils whirled around him, his hands floating, skimming through the wisps, creating forms and shapes. Awing the audience. He twirled his wrist at the audience and black silvery sparkles flew in the crowd. Kids rushed from their seats to catch the little flecks of shimmer, getting it all over their clothes.
Maxwell grinned. It was time, for the final act of the day. He was sure he could pull this one off without his assistant. She worked too hard, he needed to give her a day off. His finger pads skimmed across two pages, back and forth back and forth, almost pizzicato.
The audience shushed, waiting to see the magic about to happen. Maxwell plunged his hand inside he book, pulled it out, and then swirls, fireworks and heaps of black patterns filled the theatre. The crowd went wild, just as Maxwell suspected. He took a bow, the show for the night was over.
Maxwell made his way backstage to find a man, who sat him down and gave him a wet washcloth. "Good work today sir. Better than last week's, keep it up." Maxwell only hummed and continued to squeeze the towel, drips falling down his nose and cheeks. He could tell the male assistant left his dressing room, the sharp pattering of his feet got quieter and quieter.
He sat there for a while, eyes closed and chest slowly deflating, inflating. Maxwell raised a brow once he heard the door open slowly and carefully. The short and subtle footsteps were like music to his ears. He smiled and kept his eyes closed until the figure reached him.
Small pecks were peppered on his eyelids, he couldn't help but chuckle. He lifted his lids up and put the cloth on a small desk, next to his book. The dark haired woman gleamed and grinned. Maxwell slowly and carefully put his hands around her waist, and slowly brought his lips to hers.
"Mm.." The woman cut off the kiss and moved to the desk, avoiding the book and washcloth. Her delicate fingers snatched a pair of round glasses. She approached Maxwell again, who continued to put his hands around her. She raised an arm and ruffled his dark hair, causing it to lighten up a bit, there was always light caramel locks under his heap of black on top. It was now an ebony and brown mess. She kissed him again and slowly slid his glasses back on.
Maxwell chuckled slightly and stroked her face. "Mr Carter, wonderful job."
"Look, I'm sorry-,"
"Don't be." She whispered kissing him again. "You're a true gentlemen for giving me that day off."
"I just thought some of my acts were...a bit dangerous for a woman, dear Charlie."
Charlie paused. "Dangerous? Will what makes you think this book could hurt me? It is controlled, controlled by you...right?"
Maxwell paused and but his lip. He brought his arm back and slicked his hair back to black. "I'm sorry I haven't told you, it's just been...a bit difficult..with the magic properties this week."
Charlie scoffed. "Back to Maxie again? Look, if you're having trouble, let's call it off. I'm sure you can take a short holiday too, spend all that cash, get yourself a nice dinner,"
"No, it's still going to go on next week. The sensation of dark insanity was there, slightly. But I'm sure I can handle it next week. I'm not taking a break."
She pressed a hand over his heart. "I'll do it with you. But, Maxie if it hurts, or if it somehow gives you a hard time then we need a break. Assure that I'm right?"
Maxwell took off his old glasses and set them back on the desk. He scratched the back of his neck while staring at the book. He was surely at stake, one wrong move and these shadows would turn fully against him. Or even worse, send him into an eternal hell, along with Charlie. He approached his female assistant and ghosted a hand over her cheeks and her short spiked black locks. His hand wandered to the white flower on her head, he took it out, kissed it, then the spot it stayed in and put it back. "You're right. I don't want to lose you, Charlie. Not ever, darling."
Charlie smirked. Her red painted lips sent Maxwell's heart flying. She took his hand and nodded, mouthing a reassuring ok. He nodded in return and pecked her cheek, then slowly continued to slick his hair until it returned to a midnight.
"Now, about that nice dinner,"
She broke out in a smile again and he linked his arm with hers.
...
Thursday night was unusually chilly for an April evening in San Francisco, it thunder stormed that morning. Charlie felt dismayed. Her brown heels clicked against the slippery concrete as she huddled underneath her magenta coat, trying to pull the fur up against her cheeks and ears.
Her dry frozen hands cranked the apartment lobby door open. Once she was in she let it go to find her lover's room. Charlie began to climb the stairs frantically, her wet heels almost made her slip. Maxwell had not been answering her calls, she worried all day for him and finally she had the chance to actually make it to his flat.
A slight rumble of thunder made it's way through the large lobby windows, Charlie huffed as she climbed to the highest floor and finally reached his room. She took off her magenta hat and raised a knuckle, ready to knock. She did, but stopped suddenly, her breathing got a tad bit rapid.
"Maxie, Maxie I'm here! It's Charlie! You weren't answering my calls, I'm worried. Please let me in?" She stopped for a moment and heard a faint pounding noise. He was in there alright. She knocked harder. "William Carter let me in this instant! I have important matters to discuss!"
The banging in his room stopped, then started again and got quieter. This was never a thing Charlie would have ever thought of doing. She turned the golden knob, surprisingly it was unlocked. She looked in, Maxwell's apartment was slightly dirty than before, some things were scattered. She noticed a silent film rolled, depicting himself before arriving in San Francisco, doing amateur magic acts. Charlie ran over and clicked it off and continued to the next door, his bedroom.
Charlie could now hear the banging noise, loud like WW1, then as soft as ever. Then a grunt, then slightly manic muttering. Charlie's breath quickened, she pressed her ruby lips in a thin line and raised her sharp nails to the door handle. Whatever was going on in there, Charlie knew she would have some feeling of bewilderment. And she did. She took a chance and swung the door open, nothing. Maxwell, who hid himself in a nearby paining shivered, he tried to stay still, but his shimmering black hand caused him to shake. He couldn't hide for long, Charlie seemed curious.
Charlie gasped slightly and took a step back. She noticed it, the fire place. Maxwell shook and his lips trembled, he turned back to his book and shoved the midnight stricken hand in his pockets, whispering almost what seemed like gibberish. Charlie crawled under and found herself in his secret study room. Maxwell was still working with his hand, he wanted to step out of the picture but it was too late, Charlie noticed the wall. The whispers rang through the room, making her go completely stiff. Charlie could not make out this 'gibberish', it sounded like "hsijdndusinncCharliehduejncusis". Her eyes quickly examined the walls, indeed, her name was on it, as well as the gibberish words the mysterious whispers were saying. Maxwell turned, his hand was scratched badly but the shadows were gone. He slouched as he was stuck in the canvas thanks to his magic.
"Charlie-,"
She looked down and grabbed several props for the show, stuffing them in her coat pocket and purse. She ran to the door. Black brows lifted, fast clicks of her heels and wide scared eyes.
"Charlie!" The picture cut his words. The door was now was shut, the noise carried through William's apartment. He jumped out of the picture and rubbed his hand. It was gone? Good. He looked at the book and sighed, closing it with a snap. The sound from the door impact was gone, and all he could hear was the faint whispers coming from the book. He couldn't lose his mind, he can't. He began to pace slightly, looking at his perfectly tailored grey suit.
He decided to quit, and slouched in his desk chair. A few hours left until the final performance in San Francisco, from there him and Charlie were supposed to move on across the US. Maxwell got up an decided to wash himself and prepare.
After a long thoughtful shower he slipped his unusual suit on. The shoulder fabrics were curled at the edges, his tailcoat as well. He grabbed his satchel and shoved the book inside aggressively, then walked out of his study room and to the door. Maxwell stopped. He picked up the slightly crunched paper from the floor and opened it. His slender fingers trailing the name of the writer,
Max,
Where are you? I haven't heard from you in days! I stopped by your place, so I've got your props and costume for the show. I'll see you at the theatre tonight, I hope?
We need to talk about your... Study room. There's some creepy stuff going on in there! Maybe when this run is over we can take a little break? My sister said we could use the family cabin up in BC if we want to get away
XO,
Charlie
He gripped the note tightly and frowned, he moved to his kitchen counter and grabbed another note he kept.
COMING TO YOUR TOWN!
GOOD SPRINGS BULLFROG DELAMAR ROUND MOUNTAINS. PERFORMERS ALL THE WAY FROM LONDON. YOU WON'T WANT TO MISS THE STRONG MAN.
Maxwell frowned at the picture depicting a small fellow with dark hair, face painted ivory with ruby cosmetics on his lips and cheeks. He crinkled the note and threw it in his wastebasket, and shoved Charlie's note in his pocket. He quickly grabbed the book and was out the door.
This was the finale night, Maxwell was praying that his insanity wouldn't get the best of him.
...
The crowd went wild as the two entered the stage. He could notice a glint of regret and nervousness in Charlie's eyes. He wanted to reassure her that everything was ok, but with the actions she saw on his secret wall, she probably wouldn't believe such a quote.
Maxwell began the usual. Black glitter, fun shadowy shapes depicting fascinating monsters, animals, words and shapes. The crowd predicted that would be the beginning, and they continued to love it. And they knew something spectacular was about to come up, this was his final showing for a while after all.
He finished a trick and bowed. "Thank you! Thank you, you're all too kind!"
Charlie signaled the audience to quiet down, they did so once Maxwell opened his book once more.
"And now, I will pull shadows incarnate from this tomb."
He reached into the book as Charlie stepped back. Maxwell began to focus, he closed his eyes and tried to let the shadows come to him, he felt a tug. Then another. The crowd gasped as a large clawed hand grabbed his neck, then pushed him down on his neck. Charlie was taken aback, gasping. She bent down next to her partner and tried to pull the claw off him. It seeped back into the book and fell to the floor.
The pages of his tomb began to flutter and pull back. Maxwell stared down at the pages and then looked up a Charlie. He stood up once two broad midnight hands flew out of the pages, grabbing him and Charlie, both sucked into the pages of internal darkness.
...
1919
The news 7 years a go struck Wilson like a rock to the head. The titanic sunk, mother and father's vacation was ruined. Wilson's life was ruined. Albert was heading home from the world war during the time. he was supposed to head straight to college right after his departure but he dropped out suddenly when he heard the news and went back to his London home to comfort his older brother.
Wilson didn't understand why Albert was comforting him. His soothing words and rubs to the back were completely non-normal. Wilson eventually eased into his brother's touch as he cried mounds of tears. He noticed several had left Albert's eyes as well.
After a few weeks, Albert left, leaving Wilson to his studies. He decided to take over the Higgsbury household, being the only Higgsbury who cared about his ancestry and knowledge itself. He assumed Albert didn't care, he was probably out somewhere, messing around with women.
During the past 7 years, Albert visited him every now and then. Every Time he arrived, a new girl tagged along. Wilson could remember a few...Martha...Daisy..(who moved on to marry a famous sports man) Anastasia...
Wilson never really listened to his brother's words or news from the other side of London. Usually every time he enters a giggle comes from the girl, cue Albert to say something slightly suggestive, then walks, no struts to his brother's small lab which was replaced by his old room. Albert always knew Wilson would be there. "That's your brother?" Every girl purrs.
Every time, Albert responds with a, "Oh, yes."
Wilson has clearly non verbally stated he does not want anything to do with him, and to be honest, he believes Albert should just leave his antics to south London or New York.
It is now 1919, Wilson is 29. Higgsbury household still a mess, mummy Higgsbury's antiques stuffed away in the closet until Wilson has enough nerve to look at them again. The bathroom is never washed or cleansed. Wilson hid his father's Shakespeare books away, nerve and sorrowful thoughts got the best of the scientist. They were now replaced with science books as far as the eye could see.
He could say he was not as happy as he should be. But he felt his best when he was alone. He loved it when his hair bleached from his strange chemical reactions, it always reminded him he's making progress. The white spots on his red striped jacket also made him feel like a professional, a gentleman scientist.
...
Wilson awoke to the quick blurs of mahogany leaves falling past his window. A perfect October morning. He rubbed his hair, sticking up in 3 different ways, no matter how many times he slicks it back or tends to it, it always stays in it's spiked form. It's been pointed and wacky like that most of his life, unlike his brother's, which is always neatly combed back completed with a finely shaved goatee. Specialized to what? Attract women, according to Wilson.
That morning, Wilson didn't bother to shower, he had work to do. He slumped in his red chair and viewed the autumn sky for a short while, then headed into the kitchen. The stench of unwashed dishes and plates filled the room, suddenly giving him the sense of panic. What if someone were to visit, Albert never gives him a notice. What if a woman is coming over?
'Cease those thoughts Wilson, you consider yourself married to your work. You have no time for women, and neither do they for you.' He gave himself a quiet pep talk and washed his dishes slowly. After he finished he found a surprise, a letter. How long has it been? 2 months? 3? No, he was wrong. Probably the last time he received a notice or letter was 7 years ago at 'their' funeral.
This was a joy to Wilson. He sat on his large velvet chair again and opened the card. The scent made him pause his excitement, Albert, bugger. Wilson furrowed his brow as he read the note.
Hello dear brother,
It has been a while. But I do have exiting news, I will be returning from college to see you again brother! Anastasia sadly left me for a bloke 3 years older than me, can't you believe it?
"Sadly, no." Wilson muttered aloud.
Anyhow, be prepared. I was thinking when I visit we should walk around London, and get out of your forest like habitat. Wouldn't it be fun, plus I heard the circus is in town, I think going with you would be a delight dear brother! I will be here by October 28th. See you very soon dear brother.
Albert.
Wilson set the note down gingerly on a small table. The 28th was in a week and a half, on the plus side at least Albert wasn't bringing one of his lady friends here. Wilson groaned softly and got out of his comfortable chair.
He made his way to his old beaker set and began his daily experiments. Concoction creating was sort of a struggle for him, for the past few days the chemicals he has been mixing always ended with bleached hair, trousers and best. He sighed and tried to pull his ebony hair back, it did not work. It bounced back up in it's original form. Wilson sighed as he began mixing his previous chemical's together, hoping he would make the correct ingredients for future studies and inventions.
It's working. Nothing has erupted, no bleached eyes or hair. Wilson began to mix his substances faster, faster faster. Until drops fell onto his dark brown bear skin rug. He stopped and tried to catch his breath, then he loomed over his potentially successful creation.
Instead of a success, Wilson got a burst of dangerous chemicals to the face. He growled again, slightly in pain. He ran to his bathroom and rubbed his face and hair, then he angrily ripped off his crimson stripped vest, then his dress shirt. He continued to rub his hands through his hair again, then his red stricken eyes. He stopped and close them, they grew glossy because of the chemical mixtures to the face.
Wilson slumped against the bathroom counter and tried his best to take deep breaths. Losing his cool was not a gentleman's way of expressing anger, not even an independent scientists way. A walk. That's it. A fine afternoon walk around suburban England.
Wilson nodded to himself and began to dress again, a fresh vest and dress shirt, then a dark peacoat. He shoved his hands in his pockets almost aggressively and trudged outside, shielding himself from the harsh sunlight hissing at his pale skin. It took him quite a long time to get to the main city of London, he had no money so he insisted on not taking a cab.
Once he arrived in the urban area, he decided to have a cup of tea at a small café. (Sitting alone of course.) Wilson watched the cheery citizens of London go on about their cheery lives. It took him an hour to finish his small cup of tea, he tipped the waitress and then checked the time. 5:30.
It would be around 7 once Wilson returns home. He scrambled out of London and headed into a forest shortcut. It certainly was his favorite spot to walk in times like these, where he thinks he's a failure or a nuisance to the outside world.
The smell of the dead leaves filled his scenes. Wilson let out a quick sigh and admired the purple sunset before him. It was getting later and later, and Wilson was walking slower and slower. He always loved to examine things, wether it was a small branch on a tree, or a family-run home, with running screaming children. He continued to walk amongst the dead leaves, ruby and mahogany surrounded him, definitely giving him more ease than usual.
He made his way past the friendly English neighborhood, he could see it still behind him. It was just about a block left until he arrived back at the Higgsbury household. Wilson paused as he stepped on a leaf, he turned his pale profile to the neighborhoods. It felt like a whisper. Wilson then turned his head and looked at the ground, his mind began to race as images of little Wilson Percival Higgsbury rushed through his mind.
The purple and maize book.
The whispers were back. Wilson turned back again and raised his brows, the whispers began to intensify. Suddenly the shadow of the purple sky turned dark for a short while, something past the sky, like a hawk. Wilson shivered as a wall of dark tendrils and clouds rushed towards him. Wilson wanted to move, he hasn't seen anything like this before!
It accelerated, Wilson could have sworn he let out a scream. His legs screamed to stay in it's place, but the gentleman scientist broke into a sprint, trying to out run the large wall of unknown darkness. Wilson didn't have time to think about the book, or the whispers, just running.
He couldn't hear the wall reach him, but he felt the horrible sensation. He collapsed on the concrete, his head began to ring. His ivory fingers gripped the rocky road and slowly pushed his body upward. The wall was gone, he was...hit by this dastardly hellish weather. Wilson had no scientific backup, how was this possible? The whispers were now sure to plague Wilson's life once more, he remembers trying to find a source of that but it was no use. All of those visits to the library showed no sign of the mysterious book. He told Albert about the whispers, just Albert, he said Wilson was mad, then stuck his tongue playfully at him and scampered off to his croquet pals.
Wilson's blurry vision slowly healed. He examined his surroundings, neighborhood, autumn, on road... Wilson gasped and landed in the grass, hoping he wouldn't get hit by a Tin Lizzie. A sharp pain pulsed through his right hand, his eyes widened at what he found, he opened his mouth but no sound escaped.
Black covered his fingertips, all the way down to his elbow. Claws grew, fingers longer, the black shimmered in the autumn sunset. Wilson began to hyperventilate. Was he dreaming, was this all a terrible dream, the whispers, the wall of shadows, his fall, the hand? What if he could just wake up and redo the last 20 years of his life? Maybe he could pinpoint the day he first heard he whispers and wake up there, and never reach that end of the science section, so he would never be plagued again.
Wilson lifted his dress shirt sleeve, small swirls ended at his elbow. Wilson heaved and then slowly began to trace the engraved darkness, plaguing his ivory skin. It hurt. He hissed and almost collapsed again. This was all a trick, just a silly trick. Was Albert behind this? Was it something Wilson ate? Was it the tea at the café? Wilson began to regain his stance, his skinny legs wobbled as he began to walk. Then sprint.
...
Steam embedded around him. He scratched his hand rapidly, the more he did it, he hurt. His sneers began to turn into whimpers, his whimpers turned to sharp cries. His hands searched for shadows everywhere else, nothing else. His right hand slumped over the steamy tub, the scratching and washing wouldn't work. Wilson's throat was sore from screaming because of the pain.
He cleared his throat quickly as he raised his hand. He moved the shadow back and forth, it's whispers speeding up, then slowing down. Then he waved it back and forth, faster faster faster. The sound of the sped up whispers gave Wilson a migraine.
He slumped his head over the towel covered tub. Tears slowly trailed down his face as his right hand twitched. Nothing worked. Wilson was determined to dump some sort of bleach substance, he didn't care how much it hurt he just wanted the darkness gone.
He gave up, climbed out of the tub and got dressed. He had to take some sort of drastic measure. Wilson ran to his cabinet and took out a roll of black fabric, and quickly covered himself and wrapped it tighter and tighter.
Wilson fell on his bed, rocking it because of the force. He held his arm tightly and pressed it into the linen fabric. The only thing he heard was the soft sounds of the gibberish whispers and his rages breathing.
He only slept for 6 hours. Wilson sprung out of bed and ran to his kitchen. He began to unwrap his hand, slowly and carefully. He squinted his glossy blue eyes and watched the band show a creak of black. Wilson sighed, oh how he hoped for this black to be gone! The scientist growled and proceeded to rip it off, exposing the creature.
"Blasted...thing." He grunted as he clenched it again. The hand responded with a blast from his clawed fingertips, hitting the cupboards. His prized china plates clattered to the ground. "No no no!" Wilson bent down and grabbed the shards, which made it even worse. A plume of shadows spread across the ground, causing the shadows to lift off the ground and fly across the room. A shard scratched his pale cheek.
He heaved and held his hand against the kitchen tile. Eventually he made his breathing rhythm the same as the whisper's speed. He lifted his head and noticed a faint rhythm coming from his small red radio. A name, an American man' name was being announced. Louis...
Wilson dazed out, why did he leave his radio on all night? He doesn't remember even turning on the silly thing. Loud jazz began to ring out causing Wilson to flinch. He stood up and sighed, resting his hand on the small island of the kitchen. While adjusting to stand up, the song died down and a small news report entered the crackled speaker.
'Good morning England, I Lester York give you breaking news this morning. Last night a father, a son, a man was killed last night. It was an announced murder, according to detective inspector Sal McNary. Strange substances were found in his wounds, black substances. Some believe oil or paint was added into the wounds. If you have a connection to this man's murder, please call-'
Wilson ignored the number. He rushed to the used roll of black fabric and wrapped himself up again. He then rushed to his closet and put on his coat, running out the door.
He shielded himself again from the harsh fall morning sunlight. Whoever this man was, and wether it was oil or whispery shadows coming out of his wounds. The scientist knew this had to do with his case.