Six Feet Under Chapter 7: The Maitlands, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 7, everybody! In which Wilson and Willow take a spooking class, rearrange furniture, and steal everyone's left shoe….

Watched Casper with the family the other day—as it turns out, Wilson saying they'd be haunting a pile of rubble has previous merit. And yes, the Ghostbusters do come that far north. *~*

Mr. and Mrs. Maitland were actually a very nice, down-to-earth couple. Willow wasn't certain what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't plaid and paisley.

They were covering basic early haunting for a remarkably small class—Willow supposed there wasn't much of a market right now for spooking. She was busy taking notes, as Wilson was busy sitting next to her and sulking and studiously avoiding looking at the other students—Willow had seen a beaver-man and a spider-boy, among other oddities.

"The big thing you have to remember about haunting is that it's like a big show," Mr. Maitland was saying, pacing back and forth and gesturing like a motivational speaker. "You start out small, then build up to a crescendo, and then have one big final bang to really drive it home.

"So today we're covering phantom movements—if you're anything like we were when we started out, you'll find that very few people can see you initially, so you have to start with what you can do, and that's interact with your house. Turn on the TV or the radio when the undesired occupants aren't in the room…."

"Why did I let you talk me into this?" Willow heard Wilson mutter. She shushed him.

"…Rearrange drawers, move things completely, hide things—like the remote—and make sure to avoid doing this regularly, otherwise they start chalking this up to forgetfulness or something like that," Mr. Maitland said, shrugging.

"The thing you want to remember about the living is that they'll always go for the 'logical explanation' first," Mrs. Maitland put in.

"Exactly," Mr. Maitland said, pointing at her. "So, you can use the phantom movement technique when an undesired occupant is in the room. Start with someone who tends to be in a room by themselves—say, a guy who always brings his work home with him—"

"That Charles Deetz," Willow muttered, scribbling his name next to the notes.

"Start with something small—moving something just out of reach when he's not looking, or a small floorboard creak. Then something bigger—shove some papers off a desk, or something really heavy right behind him. Then, when you've got his attention, move something very slowly right in front of him."

"Laughing in front of him is optional," Mrs. Maitland interposed.

"And very satisfying," Mr. Maitland agreed. "Any questions?"

There were none.

"Well then, thank you for coming, and we'll see you next week!"

The Maitlands made it a point to come over and say "hi" to their "newest students." Wilson tried very hard not to sigh as Willow engaged in a spirited—forgive the pun, he thought—conversation.

"I can't wait to get home and try some of this," Willow said. "We've got this awful family in our house—"

"We've been there," Mr. Maitland said. "And absolutely no idea how to get them out."

"It's why we started this class," Mrs. Maitland said. "We figured it couldn't be a unique problem."

"And it's better than trying to find a 'professional' to hire—never do that," Mr. Maitland said, shuddering.

Wilson was torn between trying to tune them out and listening to what they had to say. The whole thing just made him extremely uncomfortable—oh goody, they were leaving.

"Hey."

Wilson glanced back at the tap to his arm to see Mrs. Maitland. "I know it's frustrating," she said quietly. "But try to stay positive about it. You let negative emotions get the best of you, and it won't end well."

"What," Wilson noised. "Will they call Ghostbusters?"

"You laugh, but they're real," Mrs. Maitland said, pointing at him. "No, what I'm saying is, you're not tethered by physical limitations anymore—if you're not careful, you won't stay looking like yourself."

Wilson felt his face crumple, echoing his utter confusion.

Before he could ask for clarification, however, Willow tapped him on the shoulder. He followed her out, giving one last confused glance to the Maitlands before they and their classroom disappeared, replaced by the brick wall.

"Mr. Maitland gave me a few more pointers," Willow said, showing her notes. "What about you? What was Mrs. Maitland saying to you?"

What indeed?

"Nothing," Wilson said finally. "Nothing at all—just pleasantries."

Willow shrugged and skipped to the door.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a sock drawer to disarrange," she said. "Care to join me?"

How idiotic.

But right now, he didn't want to be alone—a shiver was working its way up his spine, and he did his best to stifle it.

"Certainly," he said, trailing after her. "And then after that, we can move all the furniture an inch."

"That's the spirit!"

"That's a terrible pun."

"I've got a slew of them. Want to hear?"

"No."

"I don't think it's working."

"Don't be that way," Willow chided, mismatching another pair of socks. "We've only been at this…how long?"

"A month," Wilson muttered bitterly, tossing a sock underneath the bed.

They had done what they were told, attended classes, and tried the techniques—and nothing was working. These people had to be the most oblivious in all of existence.

Wilson was seriously starting to get depressed.

If you're not careful, you won't stay looking like yourself.

What on earth did that mean, anyway?

And if it meant what he thought it did, then why shouldn't they be hiring a professional?

It was something he had been turning over and over in his mind, between classes, their paltry attempts at scaring the Deetzes, and skulking about in the attic. Let the professional be the one to have the negative effects—he'd willingly pay out of his own pocket to avoid any downsides.

Now to convince Willow.

It was easier now, considering that the child was convinced the place was haunted, and yet the parents were not—and that the child didn't show an ounce of fear. That had taken some of the wind out of Willow's sails.

"Maybe we should try sheets," Willow suggested.

"Is that what we've been reduced to?" Wilson asked, shutting the drawer. "Sheets?"

"What?" Willow asked, gesturing to Delia as she entered the room. "Do you want to be eating breakfast with this woman for the next hundred years?"

"She'll be dead by then. And with our luck, still here."

"At least then I'll be able to hit her."

"But she'll be harder to ignore then."

"She's hard to ignore now."

Wilson couldn't help but sigh and scratch absently at his forearm. It had been itching a lot lately.

Willow came around behind him and started rubbing his back. Oh wow, that felt good. "Between the shoulder blades, if you don't mind," he said.

"No kidding," she replied, kneading. "You're all knotty back here."

Wilson bit back the flip response—it was ungentlemanly at best. Instead, he settled for cracking his knuckles, a habit he had when he was stuck on a problem.

"I suppose we could try the sheets," he sighed finally, watching Delia walk past their seated forms—literally a foot away, and she noticed nothing.

"I knew you'd like it," Willow said triumphantly.