Six Feet Under Chapter 14: The Aftermath, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 14, everybody! Sorry for the delay—been on vacation and Internet was questionable. So we'll probably have this update every day to make the Halloween deadline I wanted. Dang it.

DrunkenDuncan, thanks for the review! I'm glad you like it so far—I love the movie too. :D Hopefully I'll continue to please! :D

Reflecting back on it later, Wilson was fairly certain that any and all mental reasoning had flown into the void upon transformation, his intense dislike for Maxwell devolving into mindless anger that overwhelmed everything else and fed on his frustrations over the past several months.

It was horrifying.

Especially when he came to and realized what he had very nearly done.

Willow….

Oh no….

It was all over.

And thus, he did the only applicable thing: he ran.

He had no idea as to where—right now all he was thinking about was getting as far away from that debacle as possible—

But Willow was pursuing—

And as she caught up to him and snagged his waistcoat, he reached the doorknob—

And then a horrible hooked feeling, like a fish on a line, as the world swirled and blacked out around him—

It resolved into a sickly-green-tinged office as his forward momentum slammed him into the door, Willow slamming into him a split-second later.

Just where they were was quickly resolved.

"YOU! SIT!" Mrs. Wickerbottom bellowed, pointing at them and looking absolutely apoplectic. Wilson supposed the unhealthy looking literal circus surrounding her desk didn't help. "The rest of you! Out!"

"Ringmaster-lady!" the strongman asked. "When do we eat?"

"I'm not your ringmaster! He survived," Mrs. Wickerbottom snapped. "Now get out!"

They did so, allowing her to turn her full unfiltered ire on Wilson and Willow.

"I—you—I can't believe you!" she stormed finally.

"Those guys looked like they were in a train wreck," Willow observed meekly; Wilson's heart wrenched sideways at the sound of her voice.

"A train wreck is mild compared to you two. Congratulations: you've actually done worse than the Maitlands! Summoning Maxwell without putting him back, letting Otho get the handbook—"

"Wait, what?"

"Never trust the living! And you," she added, pointing at Wilson. "A Shadow Monster. Congratulations."

Wilson would like nothing better than to sink through the floor right then.

He shuffled quickly when he stared at the top of his shoes and realized he was doing just that.

"You," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, pointing at Willow. "Get back there and get that handbook—we can't have that sort of thing falling into the wrong hands. You stay there," she added when Wilson made to move. He watched as she pressed a button on the intercom. "Get me Containment Control."

"What's that?" Willow asked.

Mrs. Wickerbottom shooed her out. "Never you mind—get that handbook, and get it now!"

With that, she slammed the door on Willow, turning to face Wilson.

"That's not good, is it," Wilson said hollowly. It wasn't a question.

"We don't need a routine haunting like yours turning into a hostile situation that would attract the Shadow Man," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, adjusting her glasses. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to be removed from the situation. Containment Control will escort you to the Shadow Man's domain."

No.

Nonononononono—

He felt like all of his internal organs fell out of his body, leaving an icy void. No. No, not that—

He'd never get to apologize to Willow.

He'd be leaving her alone in that house—

And then the circus came back in.

"Miss ringmaster lady?" the strongman said. "Silent friend says we didn't survive crash."

"How'd you guess?" Mrs. Wickerbottom asked sarcastically.

The strongman was quickly shoved aside by what looked like a Viking lady.

"I refuse to believe this travesty is Valhalla!" she bellowed, waving an axe around. "Feel my might, Fury!"

As the axe buried itself in Mrs. Wickerbottom's desk, the door Wilson was leaning against opened—he fell backwards—

And was seized and pulled away.

No! No! I—

He spun around frantically—

Willow grabbed his arm and pulled.

"Come on then!" she scolded. "RUN!"

Charles and Delia sat on their patio, reflecting on their awful night.

"My agent won't answer my calls," Delia said finally.

"I wonder why," Charles said blandly.

"I think it was the shrimp."

"Probably."

"They nearly killed you."

"I know."

They sighed.

"Do you think the Ghostbusters come this far out?" Delia asked.

"I wonder how much they charge," Charles mused.

"And here I thought this place would be boring."

"And it had such curb appeal too."

Long silence.

Delia practically heard the lightbulb when it went off.

"You know," Charles mused. "A lot of people would actually go for the experience we had."

"You're not serious."

"I am! Why do you think horror shows are so popular, or why Sleepy Hollow gets such tourism—people are attracted to this sort of thing!" he was rubbing his chin now, considering. "Think about it—I pitch this to Maxie Dean, Shanter gets repurposed….We'd have the whole setup: gift shops, ghost tours—"

"Shrimp," Delia said.

"Yes…."

"Except if Maxie Dean is how I think he is, he'll want proof."

"Maybe we could serve shrimp again."

Delia reflected on that night and quickly repressed a shudder. Ugh, if she didn't think about that dinner, it'd be all too soon—

Wait….

"I think Otho said something about knowing about the paranormal," she said.

"The interior decorator?" Charles asked. "The guy who couldn't use a perfectly good door?"

"That's the one. I think I'll give him a call."

"You do that, dear."

Wendy, meanwhile, was despondent in her room.

So much for her ghosts. She hadn't gotten a wink of sleep over the past several days. Every creak set her on edge, and the ghosts' absence only made it worse.

She missed Abigail.

That was the whole sum and scope of it—half of her had been ripped away, and she had started getting into ghosts as a way to research a means to get her back.

Except she had now become disillusioned with ghosts in particular and the paranormal as a whole.

She sat at her dresser, watching herself in the mirror as she silently rubbed the makeup from her eyes, plaited her hair, and nestled her flower in her hair above her ear.

The flower that matched her sister's.

And then she pulled a pen and paper over.