Six Feet Under Chapter 8: The Sheetzes, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 8, everybody! In which Wendy references Lilo and Stitch and Willow references a chunk of the movie's development….Fun story: apparently, the studio producing Beetlejuice found the name too odd and asked Tim Burton to change it. In response, Tim Burton goes back to them with the suggestion Scared Sheetless—imagine his horror when they were actually seriously considering it. D: Story goes he threatened to throw himself out the window if they did.

Now, fun story in regards to that name and this story, and why I regret that FanFiction doesn't allow strikethroughs in their formatting: Six Feet Under didn't come along as a title for a few days, so while I was writing it up, I kept putting down likely names—Scared Sheetless was a fling of a title that I quickly wrote "lol no" afterwards. :D

Fade from the Light, thanks for the review! Thank you, I'm glad you like it! I've been having a lot of fun with it. :) Glad you like my writing style and how the characters are portrayed, and yes indeed! Tuesdays and Saturdays until further notice. :)

Sheets.

Yes, it was cliché.

But it gave her another chance to get back at that red-haired witch.

"Here we go!" Willow declared, finally reemerging from the closet with two sets of sheets.

"Ooh, Egyptian cotton," Wilson said, accepting one. "Very posh."

She knew he was humoring her. Fair enough, at least.

Besides, she wanted to be excited for this.

"Maybe when we're done, we should cut a ton of holes in these," Willow said, brandishing the scissors with a flourish before stabbing holes in the draped fabric. "That'll get their attention!"

"Hmm….They'd probably attribute it to rats, though."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because they think there's rats in the attic."

"There are—two of them," Willow declared, tossing the sheet on Wilson. It draped comically on him, his spiky hair perfectly outlined—good gravy, she could even see him glare through it. "Don't you look cute."

"'Cute' does not rid us of these people," Wilson muttered.

"But 'cute' lets us do something else with these sheets later," Willow said, stabbing two eyeholes and tossing the sheet over herself before he could see her blush.

It was worth it though, to see him all flustered.

"Now come on," she said. "And remember—'moaning is key.'"

It didn't go well.

Their first target, Charles—who really should have been properly scared—swung open the door and glared at her.

"Wendy, honey, could you do that later?" he asked—he thought she was his daughter? There was a foot of height difference! "I have Maxie Dean on the phone—my boss?" he swung the door shut, then after a moment, swung it open again. "Your mother's going to have a fit when she sees those sheets."

And with that, he was gone.

"I told you," Wilson said.

"Yeah, yeah," Willow muttered. "We still have two others, though—let's give it a whirl."

Delia was a bust, too—she was sound asleep, and no matter how hard they tried to wake her, she wouldn't. Finally, she did sit up—to turn the TV off.

"Okay, I'm officially bummed," Willow declared, walking out. Wilson followed her.

They were instantly stopped by a blinding flash of light.

"Ack!"

"Agh!"

"Must you do your twisted, sick, perverted things while I'm here?" the little girl asked, snapping off photo after photo. "At least shut the door first. I'm a child—I'm impressionable." With that, she picked up one of the photos and walked off. "My blackmail," she declared, waving the photo.

Willow exchanged glances with Wilson, was about to say something, when she heard the girl say something else.

"No feet…."

Oh boy.

The girl was back in front of them. Up close, she was quite pretty, in an eerie way—pale skin, light hair, eyes that had seen too much. Or maybe that was Willow waxing poetic.

"Are you the guys who're hiding up in the attic?" the little girl asked.

"We're ghosts!" Willow tried, holding the two words in a moan as she waved her arms around.

"Sheets?" the girl asked. "Seriously?"

"I told you," Wilson muttered.

"Can't you at least be a little scared?" Willow asked.

"I'm not afraid of sheets, especially flower-patterned ones," the girl declared. "Hey—are you gross under there? Like Night of the Living Dead? All veins and pus and stuff?"

"Night of the living what?" Wilson asked, appalled, dodging away from her as she tried to peek under his sheet.

"Ew, gross!" Willow declared, pulling her sheet off her head. It was getting hot under there. "What's a girl your age seeing a movie like that for anyway?"

"You're not gross," the girl said, sounding disappointed. "You're just normal-looking."

"Yeah? Well if I had seen a ghost at your age I would have been scared sheetless!"

"What?" Wilson asked flatly.

"I was trying for a pun."

"Great," the girl muttered. "I finally meet ghosts, and they're perfectly normal."

"Wait a minute!" Wilson said, pulling the sheet off his head and leaning in close to the girl, pointing at himself and looking very intense. "You can see us without the sheets?"

"Yes," the girl said slowly, looking intimidated.

"Well how come you can see us when no one else can?"

"Well, I read that book—"

"The handbook?"

"Yes—and it said that the living tend to ignore the strange and unusual. I myself am strange and unusual."

Wilson simply stared at her. "You read it and understood it," he said flatly.

"Try not to feel stupid," Willow soothed, patting his back. "You'd have gotten it eventually."

"To be fair, it took me three months," the girl said.

"It's not working," Wilson groused.

"Neither is the scare tactic—what are you doing with our sheets?"

Willow gestured to Delia's room. "We were trying to scare your mother—"

"Stepmother—and you won't be waking her; she's sleeping with Prince Valium tonight."

"What about your father?"

"He doesn't walk away from real estate—he's busy trying to buy up the town."

"I don't suppose you know a good time when they would be open for scaring."

"Not likely. They're from the city—nothing fazes them."

Wilson flung his hands up in the air, sending the sheet to the ground. "That's it! I give up! I'm done! My goose is cooked! I'm going up to the attic and I'm going to lock myself in!"

"Don't give up yet!" Willow called after him as he tromped up the stairs. "We can call inappropriate numbers and order big things on their credit cards!"

"Why do you want us to leave so badly?" the girl asked, wincing a bit at how hard Wilson slammed the door.

"We were here first," Willow explained. "And the house got sold out from under us. We just want our house back."

"Can't we coexist? Some sort of haunted-rent thing? I mean, you're not the sort of ghosts I was hoping for, but I don't want to go back to some boring un-haunted location."

"We're not ghosts!" Wilson hollered down.

"Maybe if we got some of our old furniture back," Willow said, thinking. "I'll talk to Wilson if you talk to your parents."

"Is that his name?" the girl asked. "I was expecting something not…as normal."

"Oh, right—my name's Willow. What's yours?"

"Wendy. I had a sister named Abigail."

"Had? What happened?"

Willow was expecting that they had been separated during a divorce.

"It was raining," Wendy said. "And Mom took her for a drive. I was hoping for different ghosts—I wanted to try to contact her."

Willow felt winded. "I'm…I'm sorry."

Wendy shrugged, as though the comment had no effect on her.

"Goodnight," Wendy said, heading back to her room. "And try chipping the china next—Delia loves that ugly stuff."

Willow had absolutely no idea what to say, and therefore simply watched her close the door.

What were they going to do? They weren't going to leave, and she and Wilson couldn't leave….And Wendy didn't want them to leave anyway, because she wanted her sister back.

That poor girl.

Willow sighed, turned and headed back up the steps to the attic.

So much for a productive evening.