Six Feet Under Chapter 9: The Itch, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 9, everybody! In which Wilson makes a deal and plays CCR really loudly….The particular song will be revealed next chapter, for those who wonder. And the 'million in small bills' line comes from my Mom. ^^

Cluelesslittlerabbit, thanks for the review! Thank you, glad you like it so far, and the twist as well! There's going to be another twist this chapter as well….I never get tired of follows, faves, and reviews—and I love that you love my writing and some of the parodied stories thus far. :D I shall strive to do my best!

Fade from the Light, thanks for the review! Yes….I loved that part about playing Wendy too—and then Deerclops happened. :\

Wilson flipped through the handbook idly, mostly to hear the pages turn. He had his free hand propping his head up, feeling very, very tired.

He glanced over to Willow, who had already fallen asleep on the settee with her bear—he could tell she was stressed too by the way she was curled up facing the back of the settee, so he couldn't see her face. The abject failure of the night must have crushed her.

I knew it wouldn't work, he thought, scratching at his forearm again. It was stupid—no, it was beyond stupid—it was ridiculous! It was a huge waste of time—the socks, the classes, the sheets—why is my arm itching like this!?

He yanked his sleeve up in irritation—

And nearly strangled himself trying to keep his startled yelp in.

His arm—it…it….

He tried picking at it, scraping at it, rubbing it out with alcohol—this was some dirt that had gotten on him when he hadn't noticed, it had to be—

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

His forearm was covered in black scratchy lines.

"Come off, come off," he snarled, scrubbing harder. "Out, d—"

"Oh please don't start quoting Macbeth—then you'll get on a roll and talk about floating daggers and find some skull to give the Yorick soliloquy to."

Wilson nearly leapt out of his skin as the radio cackled.

"You again!" Wilson hissed, glancing at Willow—still asleep. "What do you want?"

"A million dollars in small bills would be a good start," the man in the radio said.

"Ha ha. I should see how long it takes for a radio to reach ground level."

"I know it's one of the first signs of madness, but don't crack wise—you're not good at it."

"I'm not going mad!"

"You're having a conversation via a cathedral radio. Think about it."

Wilson did. "Wait—how are you hearing what I'm saying?"

"Magic." Wilson could just picture the hand motions.

"That's a load of rubbish."

"Oh yes, and that's just a skin blemish and they are just people who moved in and decided to pointedly ignore you. The past several months were just a really bad dream—comforting, isn't it?"

Wilson ground his teeth, fuming—

His forearm started itching again.

"Ow," he muttered, looking down at it again. More prickly black lines were working their way along his arm, he noticed with horror.

"Gee, a pity you're getting all worked up over this," the guy in the radio continued. "Too bad you don't know someone who could get rid of these people for you—get rid of all that stress so you can focus on your original plans."

"I don't need your help," Wilson snapped.

"Right. You just keep on keeping on—turn into your worst nightmare, get carted off….Come to think of it, what would happen to your little friend if you did?"

Wilson glanced at Willow again, aghast.

"All alone in a house with a bunch of snobs, never able to leave, all alone and slowly spiraling downhill," the man in the radio said, a descending whistle accompanying this point. "All because you couldn't admit when you've been beat. All because you thought you could do it yourself. All because you listened to people who you knew were full of it to begin with."

"Shut up!" Wilson choked out, trying very hard not to raise his voice. He reached to turn the radio off, but his forearm started itching like mad again.

"Little tip—the more aggravated you get, the worse that will get. And how long do you think you'll be able to hide that, by the way? You think she'll be understanding? Oh, no—angry, upset maybe. She'd never trust you again. The one thing you're terrified of losing—if that doesn't knock you over the edge, I don't know what will."

Wilson slumped at his desk, cradling his head. "What do you want?" he moaned.

"Oh, I thought I told you already—I want to make a deal. Help out my fellow man, and all that bunk."

"So how do you intend to do that? You think you're coming over here and getting rid of these people?"

"Ah, if only it were that simple—I got a limiter put on me like that other fella, Beetlejuice—"

"'Beetlejuice'?" Wilson repeated flatly. "What kind of a name is—"

"Say it again and you'll have more trouble than you're worth. Fact is, I can't get out from my end—I need you to do the heavy lifting to open the portal."

"And I should because?"

"I think you already know the reason—it's sleeping on your settee."

Wilson looked over, took in every detail of Willow, lying there asleep…he hoped….No, she was—he had been around her long enough to know when she was feigning sleep.

"What do you say, pal?"

Wilson made his decision.

"I…say…." He turned back to the radio. "That you have yourself a deal."

The radio crackled with cackling again.

"That's what I like to hear."

Delia was not happy.

"Ghosts," she said flatly, chopping up cabbage into atom-sized pieces, as though it was the cabbage that had done her wrong. "Ghosts," she repeated. "Ghosts!"

"I think that's been established," Wendy said evenly.

Delia slammed the knife down. "Wendy, I've finally convinced some of my New York friends to come out to this hole, and now you're coming to me with ghost stories!?"

"What about the pictures?"

"Please! You can rig that up with a balloon under the sheets! Which, by the way, are all cut up now, thank you!"

"Wow, I'm impressed," Willow muttered. "I didn't think she'd know how to rig something like that up."

Wendy made a face at her before turning back to her stepmother, who had not yet wound down from her rant and was now gesticulating with the knife in her hand.

"Wendy, sweetheart," Delia said, obviously trying to make an effort to calm down. "I know you're into this…stuff…and I'm sure you want the house to be haunted….But stop trashing our belongings and please, when my friends get here, keep this sort of thing to yourself."

And with that, she left the room to check to see if the delivery man had arrived. Again. Willow took some small comfort in the fact that she was obviously going stir-crazy up here.

"I can't believe it," Wendy muttered, flicking one of the pictures away. "Photographic proof, and she didn't believe me."

"To be fair, Ripley's didn't believe Wilson when he sent in a photo of Bigfoot," Willow told her.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah….On closer examination, we figured out it was really this woodsman, Woodie, tromping through the backyard—but to be fair, he looks like a giant beaver in suspenders from a distance."

Wendy was forced to stifle a laugh as her stepmother reentered the room.

"What's so funny?" Delia asked.

"What would you say to giant beavers?" Wendy asked innocently.

"That I might believe," Delia said, pointing a knife at her before dicing another hapless vegetable. "I suppose I should take some small comfort your father didn't decide to have his nervous breakdown relocate him to Florida—the size of the roaches, ugh!"

"There's an idea," Willow mused.

Wendy smirked, and opened her mouth to say something—

Loud thumping echoed down from the attic.

Delia blew air out her mouth as she glared at the ceiling.

"What was that?" Wendy asked.

"Pipes," Delia said, slamming the knife back down. "Charles? Charles!" she yelled, leaving the room again. "I thought you called the repairman on that!"

Wendy looked to Willow.

"It's Wilson," Willow supplied. "He's working on some new thing—he won't tell me what it's for, but he won't stop working on whatever it is."

"Does it have anything to do with why a bunch of stuff went missing?" Wendy asked.

"Probably." A particularly loud thump this time. "He was like this when I first met him—locked himself in the attic, made all sorts of noises…I'm surprised he hasn't started up the record player yet."

"What's a record player?" Wendy asked blankly.

Willow was delayed in answering by Delia leading Charles to the stairs.

"I think it's coming from the attic," she told him.

"I called the repairman," Charles told her. "He won't come—he thinks the place is haunted."

"I told you," Wendy called over.

"Wendy, sweetheart," Charles said, coming in and ruffling her hair—Willow could tell it irked her. "We've discussed this—there's no such thing as ghosts. And besides, if there were such a thing, don't you think we'd have seen something by now?"

Wendy pointed at Willow, opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by the beginning of a CCR riff drifting down from the attic.

Everyone looked up at the ceiling.

"Did you leave the TV on?" Delia asked Charles.

"I don't think so—let me check."

Wendy looked at Willow.

"I'll go talk to him," Willow sighed, heading for the stairs.