Six Feet Under Chapter 6: The Case Worker, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 6, everybody! In which Wilson and Willow wander Burton-fever-dream halls….The Neitherworld is the name of Beetlejuice's world in the cartoon, for the record. And Willow references the company Two Men and a Truck there near the end. :D

The numbers here are a reference to my longest times in-game: 212 is the longest I've gotten on plain vanilla so far (been afraid to touch it and ruin it), while 484 is my longest on Reign of Giants—unfortunately for that one, I'm afraid my save-scumming has caught up with me. Darn it.

"That was amazing!" Willow cheered, bouncing along beside Wilson. "How did you do that?"

"When you have to scrape for patron support like I do, you learn how to get past the secretaries as quickly as possible," Wilson explained. "The really clever ones will try to tie you up in red tape, but that's where skill comes into play."

They entered the next room. "And this must be where the red tape is made," Willow observed.

Desks were scattered about haphazardly, paper stacks stretching towards the vaulted ceilings…and skeletons working at the desks. Yeek.

"That's death for the dead for you," Willow couldn't help but quip.

"You're not funny, kid," one of the skeletons shot back.

"You must be Case 17-484—the two causing trouble," some guy who looked like he had been run over said—he was hanging on a clothesline. "Take that door over there, follow the hall to your right, and take door 212."

"Uh, thank you?" Wilson said.

"No problem. Hey," the guy said, as they began to walk off. "'Fore you go—there aren't any mirrors on this side. Do I look all right?"

Wilson and Willow exchanged glances. "You look fine?" Willow guessed.

"Great—I've been feeling a little flat!"

The guy laughed as the line wheeled him off.

"You walked right into that," one of the skeletons said, not looking up from picking away at a typewriter. "He pulls that one on everyone who comes through."

"Ah-ha," Wilson said slowly. "Where were we supposed to go again?"

The skeleton pointed, still not looking up. "That way, through the door, take a right, look for door 212. And whatever you do, don't open the Shadow Man's door."

"Do what?"

"Get going—you don't want to keep your caseworker waiting."

Wilson exchanged glances with Willow, who shrugged.

"Come on," she said, tugging him forward and eyeing a guy literally hanging on a different line. "Let's go."

"I always wondered what the inside of a government office looked like."

"I'm fairly certain it didn't look like the inside of a Salvador Dali painting," Wilson observed as they walked down the hall. "What's with these doors? None of them look alike."

"Maybe they go different places," Willow observed.

"That's physically impossible."

"Oh yes—and everything else, that all made perfect sense?"

"What was the door number again?" Wilson asked, pausing to look at a door and opting not to answer her question.

"Two-one-two," Willow recalled, deciding to humor him. "Don't stop there—that door gives me the creeps."

"For good reason," a janitor muttered, not looking up from his mopping. "That door leads to the Shadow Man's lair. You don't want to ever go there."

"Then why have a door here if it's an undesirable location?" Wilson asked, hands in the air. Oh boy—he was getting his sensibilities offended again.

"Boy, that door's been around for as long as anyone can remember. As long as this world persists, the Shadow Man will have a door here, waiting for some unsuspecting, forgetful yutz to open it."

"Aha—see? I told you we were just shifted out of our own world," Wilson said, nodding. "Wait a minute," he said—ah, the insult had caught up with him.

"Door 212 is over there," the janitor said, pointing.

"Hey, it looks like our door," Willow observed. "Come on, gentleman scientist," she chided, grabbing Wilson's arm. "'We don't want to keep our case worker waiting.'"

"Okay, this is the weirdest one yet."

Wilson was inclined to agree with her—this looked like the set of that Tim Burton film they had watched last year at that film festival—

Wait—the surface was radically different, yes, but the structural lines were familiar….

"Willow," he said slowly. "I think we're home."

Willow's face fell as what he said sank in. "You mean this was our house? How long were we gone?"

"Three months," a voice behind them said, prompting Wilson to leap into the air with a yelp. "I had almost given up on you—I do have other clients."

They turned to see a little old lady—she reminded Wilson of a librarian he had once known. "I…take it you're our caseworker?" Wilson guessed.

The lady nodded. "Mrs. Wickerbottom. And you two," she said, pointing at them. "Must be Wilson P. Higgsbury and Willow E. Burnshigh. So what's the problem?"

Wilson glanced at Willow before answering. "We're very unhappy—"

"What did you expect? You're dead!" Mrs. Wickerbottom interrupted. "What, did you think you'd get a nice family moving in on your still-warm beds? That's what hauntings are for!" she flapped her arms at them. "The rules on this are very clear and very simple—get them out yourselves!"

"We've tried that—" Willow began.

"I heard. The department hasn't seen an attempt that bad since the Maitland case in eighty-eight."

That reminded him. "Those people in the waiting room—" he began.

"Are kicking up a fuss now, thank you," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, glaring at him over her glasses. Wilson suddenly felt very small.

"So what are we supposed to do with these people?" Willow asked. "It's not like that book is written out clearly—"

"It's supposed to help fill out the next hundred years of your time," Mrs. Wickerbottom said. "We've performed studies, and it helps to keep ghosts from going stir-crazy."

"We're not ghosts!" Wilson snapped.

"Untethered entities, then," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, waving him off. "Or out-of-phase entities—whatever floats your boat." She pulled out a clipboard and pen from somewhere. "Listen, we do have some beginners classes in the Neitherworld—it'll help get you out of the house and give you some practice. Here's how you get there," she continued, scribbling away. "The classes are run by the Maitlands—lovely couple now that they've settled—"

"What about hiring a professional?" Willow asked.

"Please tell me you haven't gotten missives from a certain beetle-loving Michael-Keaton impersonator."

Wilson was certain that if his face came even remotely close to emoting his confusion, then he must look very comical indeed right now. Willow also looked confused, he was pleased to note. "No," she said slowly.

"Good—he's a troublemaker."

"We've gotten missives from some guy named Maxwell."

"He's a troublemaker too," Mrs. Wickerbottom said. "I remember when he was still living—a big-shot famous magician with his wife as the assistant. Wife dies, he goes into a depression, starts researching all sorts of ways to bring her back."

Wilson and Willow exchanged glances.

"Fails, dies, attracts the ire of the Shadow Man while he's at it," Mrs. Wickerbottom continued. "And now he's trying it on this side. You won't be using his services—he will be using you."

"There's that Shadow Man again," Wilson muttered. "Who is this character? And why give him his own door?"

"Because there's no getting rid of it," Mrs. Wickerbottom said. "You've tried to escape the house, obviously—that realm you ran into is the Shadow Man's domain. He's evil, he's sadistic, and you'd do well to never get caught by him—you'll get dragged into that world, separated, isolated, alone, and with no way out except sacrificing someone else to do so."

Wilson couldn't help but shiver. Willow clutched his arm.

"So!" Mrs. Wickerbottom said, ripping the page off her clipboard and handing it to them. "Take the class, practice, and please, do us all a favor and stay out of the waiting room."

"We can skip that?" Willow asked.

"Draw that symbol on the door and you'll go straight to the class," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, tapping the paper. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have paperwork to do."

And with that, she vanished.

"I always knew life as an office worker would be depressing," Willow declared, as Wilson passed his hand through where Mrs. Wickerbottom had been. How did she do that?

"So!" Willow said, snapping him back to reality. "Do you want to go be sociable? There's a class tomorrow morning at nine."

Wilson grimaced. "I hate being sociable—it gives people false impressions."

"I don't like it either, but it's better than nothing," Willow said, heading for the stairs. "Come on, let's go to bed—and hope that they didn't touch the attic."

"First thing tomorrow, I want to see if we can't fit all this back out the door," Wilson groused, glaring at the ugly furniture.

"You're one man and a truck short."

Wilson snorted. Think positive, he told himself.

Because the other option was to be extremely, extremely depressed.