Six Feet Under Chapter 4: The Advert, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 4, everybody! In which our intrepid heroes are hiding out in the attic….

For a joke, I had the radio station as 201.3, in reference to the year in which Don't Starve came out. Looked it up—there really is a 201.3 station, an internet radio station that broadcasts from New Mexico. Go figure.

A little over an hour later, Wilson was of the opinion that they were absolutely rubbish at this.

Granted, his heart wasn't exactly in it (whatever it was), but Willow had been enthusiastic and had tried her absolute best.

But no matter what they tried, Charles, Delia, and Otho just didn't react.

And worse, Delia and Otho were systematically tearing their house apart.

"This is awful!" Willow wailed. They were back in Wilson's office, and Charles was sitting at Wilson's desk, reading a magazine and completely oblivious to them.

Willow waved her hands in front of Charles, who didn't even bat an eye. "What good is being a ghost if you can't scare people away?" she asked.

"I told you, I don't think we're ghosts," Wilson said.

"What, then?"

"I think perhaps we've been shifted out of this dimension's phase just slightly—so we're still here and alive, but no one can see us."

She stared at him. "Yeah. That makes so much more sense."

Wilson sighed and redirected his attention to Charles, who was fishing in the desk's drawers.

He pulled out a small box—

"No!" Wilson yelped, slapping the box out of his hand.

Charles yelped in alarm as the box clattered to the ground and tumbled beneath a cabinet.

"Woah!" Willow exclaimed. "Slapping works—that was great. How did you do that?"

Wilson blinked, looking at how horrified Charles was, rubbing his hand. "I…I don't know."

"Can you do it again?"

"I don't know."

Delia and Otho entered the office. "Ugh, how awful," Delia noised.

"Hey! Now wait a minute," Charles yelped, looking up at them. "I thought we agreed that this was my room!"

"No, it's my room," Wilson groused. "And you're sitting at my desk."

"Besides, I know what you're doing, and you're not going to get away with it!"

"Charles," Delia said, all mock-sweetness. "I love you. I supported you during your nervous breakdown. I followed you out to Hicksville. But I must express myself. If you don't let me gut out this house and make it my own, I will go insane, and I will take you with me!"

Wilson, Willow, and Charles stared. "Okay," Charles said finally. "But…can't you leave this room?"

Delia sighed, as though he had asked her to crack her chest open and scoop her heart out with a spoon. "I suppose so…so long as you keep this door shut."

"I'm gonna get her," Willow announced. "I don't know how, or how long it's going to take, but I am going to get her."

"I'll help you hide the body," Wilson said.

"Is this the last room?" Otho asked. "We can start calculating the cost."

"Ooh, I forgot!" Delia said, pointing up. "There's an attic—"

Wilson yelped in alarm. "I forgot to lock the attic!"

"We can knock it out so we have vaulted ceilings—"

"Don't just stand there!" Willow yelped, shooing him away.

Wilson ran pell-mell up the stairs, shoving Delia and Otho aside, barreling through the door, and slamming it shut, locking the door and leaning against it for good measure.

They shoved against the door, but Wilson braced himself and hoped the lock didn't break.

"Do you have a key to this door?" he heard Otho ask.

"I think the realtor has one," Delia said.

"We ought to get it—I have a feeling that there's something important behind this door."

"Yeah," Delia said, voice filled with sarcasm. "It's the people who died here and they want us out of here!"

"You have no idea," Wilson muttered.

"So let's humor them—besides, we have colors to discuss."

Wilson waited until the stairs ceased their creaking before heaving a sigh of relief.

What were they going to do? If they couldn't drive these people off….

No. There had to be a way.

"Remember when you first moved here?"

"Yes," Willow noised, still watching the activity out the window. "Why?"

"When I put that ad out—these were the sort of people I was worried would answer the ad."

Willow glanced back at him. He still had his nose buried in that stupid book—like that thing was going to help.

She looked back out the window, watching the ants scurry about, putting junk into their house—

And there was a little girl dressed in black, taking pictures—

And she got ready to take a picture of the house—

And froze.

Willow blinked as the girl lowered her camera. On a whim, she waved.

The girl waved back.

"Wilson," Willow said, flapping her hand at Wilson. "Wilson, come look at this."

"It's not another one of those ugly art pieces, is it?"

"No, but I think there's a girl down there who can see me."

"What?"

That got him up. She shifted to the side a bit so he could look out and pointed to the girl.

"So what makes her so special?" Wilson asked.

"I don't know, but I waved and she waved back."

A car pulling up the drive interrupted the conversation. The lady behind the wheel addressed the girl and handed something over.

"I think that's Jane's car," Wilson said.

The girl looked back at the window before dashing into the house.

"I wonder where she's going," Willow muttered.

"No clue," Wilson said, picking that stupid book back up.

Something fell out.

"What's that?" Willow asked.

"I don't know," he said, scooping up the paper and unfolding it.

"'The Magnificent Maxwell,'" Willow read. "Who's that?"

"I don't know," he said again. "'Master of Magic, Sultan of Shadows'—what?" He continued reading. "Need help getting rid of the living? Just tune in for the blueprints to the answer to your prayers: 201.3—that's not a real radio station!" he crumpled it up and flung it away.

"You don't think it's worth a shot?" she asked, pointing after it.

"No, we can handle this ourselves," he said, flipping the book open again.

A few moments later, they heard someone coming up the attic stairs.

"Don't worry, I locked the door," Wilson said.

The doorknob rattled.

"Wilson, what would Jane have handed that girl?" Willow asked.

"I don't know," Wilson said shrugging. "It looked small, so maybe a key—oh great jumping ions!"

Wilson bolted for the door, Willow right behind him.

"Why would she just give keys out?" Willow muttered, bracing herself against the door.

"Well, when I see her again I'll ask her—now hold that door shut!"

"Quiet! If she can see us maybe she can hear us!"

"Why couldn't this work in our favor for once?" Wilson muttered.

In response, the radio crackled.

They stared.

"When did you turn that on?" Willow asked.

"I didn't," Wilson said.

It buzzed, like someone was adjusting the dial, then….

"Say, pals, you don't look so good!"

Wilson and Willow exchanged glances. Huh?

"Say, tired of those pesky living bums encroaching on your personal space?"

Uh….

"Are they making your unlife miserable?"

Well….

"Why don't you get a professional to run them out?"

"I'm going to turn that thing off," Wilson muttered, trying to reach the knob while holding the door shut.

"Right—because you're doing such a great job as is. Hiding up in the attic from a little girl."

They froze.

The guy in the radio started cackling.

"Well, you've got my number! Ta!"

And then the radio died.

"What was that?" Willow whispered.

Wilson didn't answer—instead, he grabbed the screwdriver next to the radio, kneeled next to the door, and jabbed the screwdriver through the keyhole.

A few breathless moments later, they heard the girl go back down the steps.

"Finally," Wilson breathed.