Six Feet Under Chapter 3: The Movers and Shakers, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 3, everybody! And during the past couple of days I've been restructuring the chapters so they're of decent length, which reduced the number of chapters, which means we'll be switching to a Tuesday-Saturday schedule for the foreseeable future. In other news, meet the Deetzes! And Otho.

I think it must have been from watching HGTV for years, because when Mom and I rewatched this movie recently, we…actually understood where Otho and Delia were coming from, what they were saying, and picked out bits and pieces of the refurbished house that we liked—some of it was too much, like the graphite-patterned walls and railing, but for the most part…we liked it. :D

Also referencing one of the earlier drafts of the script for Beetlejuice, in which the scenery changed every time the Maitlands tried to flee the house. In addition, we have a reference to another Tim Burton film, The Nightmare Before Christmas, which Charles quotes; and Kafka's The Metamorphosis, which is a very weird read any way you slice it. And Willow references the Casper movie by calling the Deetzes fleshies. :D

"Gaah!"

Willow's sharp exclamation, followed by a thump, jolted Wilson out of a troubled sleep. He glanced around to see Willow on the floor, rubbing her hip.

"Did you fall out of bed?" he asked, concerned.

"I guess so," she muttered, putting a hand on the bed to stand up.

She froze.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

Wilson listened; recognized the noise. "It's a car coming up the drive."

They bolted for the window overlooking the drive.

Someone had come out of the car, dressed in black and pulling a sign out of the back of the car.

"Hey, that's Jane!" Wilson said suddenly, recognizing the woman.

"Who?" Willow asked.

"She's the realtor who sold me the house!" He flung open the window and stuck his head out. "Jane! Jane! Look up here!"

The realtor simply stuck the for sale sign in the yard and headed back to the car.

"Maybe she didn't hear me," he muttered.

"Forget this!" Willow said, running out of the room.

"Wait—where are you going?"

"After her—or at least getting rid of that sign!"

"Willow!" Wilson yelped, running after her. "Wait for me! You don't know what's out there—"

She ran down the steps, Wilson hot on her heels, and out the door—

"Yipes!"

"Eeek!"

Wilson sincerely hoped he had been the one to go 'yipes'—in the meantime, he clasped his hands on Willow's shoulders and pulled her close, ready to protect her at a moment's notice.

Again, it wasn't the hill outside of Shanter.

But the scenery had changed again.

Now it was swamplike, sucking at their ankles as mosquitoes as big as Wilson's hand buzzed around. Spiky trees grew crookedly out of the murk, and beyond them were fishy bipedal creatures—

Said fishy bipedal creatures spotted them and shrieked, running towards them with arms up and out—

"Willow! Get back inside!" Wilson yelped, spinning her around and shoving her back to their door, there with the steps hanging impossibly on nothing. She bolted up the steps, him fast behind her as the monster closed in—

And then they were back in, and Wilson spun around and slammed the door, locking it for good measure.

"What was that?" Willow wailed.

"I…I don't know," Wilson replied truthfully. It had felt like that world he had been in the last time he had left the house, but the scenery was so different….

The realization of what happened began to sink in.

"We can't leave the house, can we?" Willow asked slowly.

"We don't know that yet," Wilson said hastily. "Not until we try every possible way out."

Several hours and all the doors and windows later, Wilson had come to the unfortunate conclusion that yes, they were stuck in the house.

"I don't get it," he muttered, untying the rope he had wrapped around his waist so he wouldn't get lost. "I just don't get it."

Willow flung the other end of the rope away. "I can't believe it! We can't leave the house at all! We can't even go to the garage!"

"Well, we didn't try every way out," Wilson posed. "I could try climbing up the chimney—"

He faltered at her stare. "Yeah, I didn't think it was such a good idea either," he muttered.

Willow grabbed a pillow and shoved it into her face. Wilson was fairly sure he heard a muffled scream come from her.

When she finished, she sighed and flopped the pillow away. "So now what?" she asked.

Wilson glanced around, seeking an answer.

He picked up the Handbook for the Recently Deceased.

"I suppose I could catch up on my reading," he mused.

Wilson was vaguely aware of Willow batting at some cobwebs in the eaves. They seemed to have multiplied exponentially since…that happened.

Wilson, meanwhile, was still in his recliner by the window in the attic, feet propped up on that ugly orange ottoman, where he had been for the past several days. He had paused to peek through the binoculars Willow had provided and observe their funeral (he still wasn't sure about that), but for the most part, he had kept busy trying to figure out the handbook.

"Well? How's it going?" Willow asked.

"Horribly," Wilson replied. "This thing reads like stereo instructions. Nothing's in order, the wording is horrible….I'm surprised it's in English."

"Well if you find anything useful, let me know," Willow said, flopping down onto a nearby settee, which she had long joked hid large bugs. "And if it says how to get out of the house and to the garage, let me know immediately—the vacuum's over there and I can't keep up with the dust."

"Cabin fever?" Wilson asked.

"What do you think?" she sat up, as though struck with an idea. "Say, what happens if I set the house on fire? Do you think we'd be able to leave then?"

"I'd think we'd be sitting in a pile of ash and rubble," Wilson replied. "Here's something: hauntings may vary from manifestation to manifestation—well that's maddeningly unhelpful," he muttered, snapping the book shut.

Another slam sounded.

They looked at each other, then bolted for the window.

"Who is that?" Willow asked.

"Good question," Wilson muttered, eyeing the blonde man, the redheaded woman, and the young blonde girl. A pudgy man extricated himself from a car further down the drive and followed them to the door.

Willow and Wilson looked at each other.

"Oh. Oh no."

Charles Deetz walked in and deposited his suitcase, enjoying the way it clunked against the wooden floor. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, completely at peace for once. Peace, quiet…a man could hear himself think out here.

"Isn't this place wonderful?" he asked, turning to his wife and daughter. "It couldn't be more wonderful!"

Delia Deetz walked by him, eyeing the foyer critically. Her expression didn't change once she got to the living room. "Some gasoline, a blowtorch," he heard her mutter. "It's fixable."

He sighed and turned to his daughter, Wendy. "Well, honey? What do you think?"

Wendy looked around from underneath her black hat and veil. "Delia hates it," she said slowly. "I could live with it."

"Good! Two out of three—you're outvoted, dear—" he said, turning to Delia—

Just in time to see a fat guy crawl through a window much too small for him.

"Dear!" Charles hollered, attracting Delia's attention. When she turned, he pointed at the man entering the house through such unconventional means.

"Oh, Otho!" Delia exclaimed, clapping her hands slightly. "Why didn't you come through the door? It'd be much easier."

"It'd be bad luck," the fat man said, standing up with a huff and straightening his suit.

"Dear," Charles said, crossing over to her. "Who is this?" he asked, trying to be calm.

"This is Otho," Delia said, as though that solved everything. "He's an interior designer—he'll be helping me with the house."

"Trust me, it needs it," Otho said, voice and scan of the house both methodical. "You're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, Charles, so you can afford what I'll have to do to this place."

"What?" Charles asked, stunned. "Wait—I thought we agreed that when I bought the place it was fine as is," he said to his wife.

"Well, you keep telling yourself that while the rest of us work," Delia said, tweaking his nose before she went off with Otho.

"But we agreed it was fine! Oh, come on! Does no one in this house want it to stay as is?" Charles asked, tilting his head up so his exclaimed question would echo.

He could have sworn he heard two Yeses in response.

"This is awful. This is absolutely awful."

"Calm down, Wilson," Willow chided, bracing herself against the second-floor railing and watching fatso and ginger talk. "We'll think of something."

"We must have been very bad in a previous life," Wilson continued, glaring at the group; if looks could kill, those three would be floating right now. "To deserve these people trying to move in on us. I mean, look at that one! He can't even use a perfectly good door!"

"To be fair, he doesn't look like he could fit through the door."

"But the window?"

"People are weird."

Wilson was massaging his face, obviously trying to come to grips with this new wrinkle.

"I hope the realtor wasn't in charge of our funeral," Willow mused, a thought striking her.

"What?" Wilson asked, obviously floored. "What kind of question is that?"

"Well, think about it," she said. "She sold the house out from under us this quick—she'd probably sell the graves just as fast."

"Firstly, I thought we agreed—we are not dead!" Wilson stormed. "Secondly—to be fair—she was making offers on this house right after I moved in."

"She didn't want you owning the house?"

"Not after she realized I wasn't about to marry and have kids."

Willow blinked; Wilson had made a weird face right after saying that, but had squelched it quickly. What was with that?

"More pressing matters first," Willow decided, letting the matter rest for now. "We've got to stop those yutzes somehow."

"Does no one in this house want it to stay as is?" the sandy-haired man exclaimed from downstairs.

"Yes!" Wilson and Willow answered at once.

The man blinked, but shook his head and walked off—probably to stop ginger and tubbo.

"Do you think he heard us?" Willow asked.

"I doubt it," Wilson said, scowling. "That infernal book said that…." He trailed off, like he didn't want to say precisely what it said. "That most people wouldn't be able to see…us."

Willow thought about it. There had to be something, something she was missing….

"That's it!" Willow exclaimed, jumping up in glee.

"What's it?" Wilson asked, staring at her blankly.

"Wilson!" she touched his arms and brought her hands down until she was holding his hands, barely able to contain her glee. "There's a word for people in our situation: ghosts!"

She would have to figure out a word for the expression Wilson had on his face—it was confused and sick and upset and angry all rolled into a comical wrap. "What?" he said flatly. Even that made her laugh.

"Come on," she said, tugging him and turning him and then letting go so she could skip down the steps. "Let's go scare some fleshies!"

"I can't be a ghost!" Wilson exclaimed finally, finally finding his voice. "It's against all scientific possibilities!"

He spluttered along in this vein for a few more moments, making Willow collapse in a heap of nervous laughter, before he finally and unintentionally delivered the kicker.

"I offend myself as a scientist!" Wilson wailed.