Six Feet Under Chapter 18: The Summoning, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 18, everybody, and happy Halloween! :D

I love how I timed this so it'd be done on Halloween, spent two years planning that, and yet I still miss my self-imposed deadline. Ah well, the best laid plans….So we'll be back to our Tuesday-Saturday posts this week. Drat it all. But on the positive side, I was able to recover my files, so success. :D

Wendy came down to a whirlwind of adults.

In reality, it was less than half a dozen, but the way her dad was flying around, all his old vim and vigor back as he dashed between a corkboard and the model town as he explained things to the others—he was over his nervous breakdown, obviously.

And as she listened, it became clear what he was planning.

"We can set up the paranormal museum here, in the old hardware store—and Raid is dying to sponsor the insect zoo here—and then the ghost tours and the bed and breakfasts—we can't lose!"

"Dad," Wendy tried timidly.

"Ah, there you are," her dad said, quickly coming over to collect her. "You're going to be thrilled with this—we're about to make your ghost friends gainfully employed."

"Uh…."

"This is all well and dandy," a man said—Wendy finally recognized him from dinner parties she had despised: Maxie Dean. "But what about the ghosts?"

"Well, that's where Wendy comes in!" her dad said, practically bursting with glee. "So what do you think, Wendy? How about our friends meet your friends?"

Wendy hesitated—this wasn't—if Wilson and Willow heard about this…she could kiss those earlier promises goodbye. Wilson, at the very least, would blow every gasket he possessed.

And after seeing the end result of that, Wendy was open to avoiding that as much as possible.

"They, uh, left," Wendy said.

"Left?" Delia echoed.

"Uh, yeah—they…wanted some time off, but they said that if you stop overreacting and trying to get them to do silly things and bring some furniture of theirs back, they'd consider coming back."

"What's wrong with the furniture?" Delia asked, eyeing the pieces she had picked out herself.

"We're not sponsoring this if there's nothing to sponsor," Maxie Dean said, prompting Wendy's father to stiffen next to her. This was a big deal, a really big deal for him….

"Dad, remember the dragon," she hissed under her breath, which caused him to twitch and put a hand to the back of his head as he winced—he remembered. "A repeat of that would be a very bad thing."

Maxie Dean was glaring now, prompting her father to squirm—her reminder had snuffed out all his energy for the idea. Delia, unfortunately, leaped to his rescue.

"That's all right, we're not relying solely on her," Delia said, flapping her hand a little. "We have…Otho."

Wendy followed Delia's glance—Otho was sitting at the partition, reading…

The handbook.

Oh no.

"Otho, are they still here?" Delia asked.

"Oh, they're here all right," Otho said in his slow, unctuous voice. "They're just hiding—probably because of what they did to me."

"Yeah, sorry they didn't kill you," Wendy muttered under her breath, earning her a light tap from her father.

"So you can make them show up, correct?" Delia asked, eyeing the room with an appraising eye.

"I most certainly can and will," Otho said, shutting something he had been perusing with a thump—

Wendy started with surprise as she recognized the book he had closed—she had been right, up there in the attic.

Otho had taken the handbook.

"No!" she yelped, starting forward—her dad tightened his grip on her in surprise, like the mention of the dragon had made him suddenly worried about her safety—

And then Wendy relaxed as she remembered that this was Otho they were talking about.

"Oh what am I worried about?" she asked. "Otho, you can't even change a tire."

Maxie Dean barked out a laugh at that, prompting a glare from Otho, who gathered up the book and his writing pad as he obviously tried to reassert his position of power.

"We're going to be needing something of theirs," Otho told Delia primly, pointedly not looking at Wendy.

"You'll have to go to the Goodwill," Wendy muttered.

That had occurred to Delia too, who glanced at the model town like it would help somehow, tapping her fingers together nervously as she looked at Charles.

"The attic, maybe," she said. "Or—didn't you shove a bunch of that old stuff in the closet of your office?"

Wendy's dad waved his free hand slightly, like he was racking his brain too—

She didn't like the way he stiffened, like something had just occurred to him.

"Dad," she started—

Too late.

"That first day," he said, pointing at Delia. "When I was in my office—there was a box that got knocked out of my hand—hold on."

He was gone, scrambling for his office—Wendy ran after him, hoping against all hope that she'd be able to talk him out of whatever it was he was planning—

She found him in his office, on his hands and knees, reaching underneath a cabinet and feeling around…making a triumphant noise and pulling out a little dusty box.

"What is it, Charles?" Delia asked, alerting Wendy to the fact that she was looking over her shoulder.

In response, her dad opened the box, revealing a little ring.

"I thought so," he said, getting up and fishing in the box. "And if I'm right…yes! His and hers engagement rings. Will this work?"

"Perfectly," Otho said—oh great, he was here too now. "Hand them over Charles, and we can get started in the dining room."

"Dad, please, no," Wendy begged, causing him to pause in the act of handing the ring box over. "Please don't do this."

Her father hesitated briefly at the tone of her voice—

And in that time, Delia had taken the box from him and handed it to Otho.

"Perfect," Otho said. "Now let's get started."

Wendy watched with absolute trepidation as Otho started the ritual, holding hands with the other adults and chanting. The rings started glowing, yes….

But Wendy had read the handbook, had understood it…this wasn't a summoning that Otho was doing.

Oh please, please let it not work.

"It's been a while—you think we should do something?"

"I don't hear anything," Wilson said, ear to the door.

"Try over here—we'd be right over the—"

"Right over the what?" Wilson asked, looking over at Willow—

To see that she was see-through, silent, and fading fast.

"Willow?" he asked nervously, before bolting for her as she vanished. "Willow!"

Slam into the floor—

She was gone.

No. Nonononono—

The itch was back, and in that moment he was all for letting it go—he had to find her—had to get her back—

But when he reached for the doorknob, he phased right through it.

He stared, tried again, tried to comment—but no sound came out, and he was soon gone—

…And when he came to, it was to find himself in invisible binds, so tight he couldn't breathe, floating over the Deetzes' horrid dining-room table, everything tinted with green light, people watching as he tried and failed to squirm out of his bonds—

And then soundlessly gasping in shock at the sight of Willow floating next to him, looking less like Willow and more like a mummy wearing her clothes.

She smiled sadly—he tried to reach for her, straining long fingers—

Stopping when he caught a flash of light on one of his fingers.

The engagement rings—the ones he had bought a lifetime ago, that he was going to propose to Willow with—

…That he had knocked from Charles' grasp and never retrieved….

Oh. Oh no….

Wendy watched with growing horror, tried several times to get them to stop—

But no adult would listen, and now Otho was trying to stop the ritual, but he had botched it, and soon Willow and Wilson would be….

She needed help. She needed someone who could stop this—

She ran for the model town, looked around—nothing here. Look around—

Run up the steps and for the attic for all she was worth.

"I accept your deal!" she blurted as she banged into the room. "I accept! Just rescue Willow and Wilson too!"

Nothing doing—don't tell her he left—maybe the lever on that machine—

And then the radio crackled to life.

"I'm sorry, you're wanting me to do what now?" the guy from earlier drawled.

She ran to the radio. "I'll give you the flower, and I can get the handbook—it's right in the dining room," she said, hands on either side of the old cathedral radio. "Just—Willow and Wilson are in trouble, big trouble, and I…they…we need help."

Long silence—she could sense that he was having to think on this—or maybe he was stringing her along for dramatic effect. Either way.

"You're tacking things on, little girl," he said finally, sounding dangerous. "You can't get more for the same price—you're going to have to up the ante."

She had been afraid of that. "I don't have anything else to offer."

"Hmm…well, there is one thing that you can give…."

"What, my life?"

"Hah—I don't have any need for that. No, what you have that I want is real, solid, and made out of brick and mortar. Give me that, and I help you out."

"What is it?"

"I already told you, and if you're begging for help because of what I think you are, you don't have time to dawdle. Going once, going twice—"

"Fine!" she yelped. "Sold! Now help them out!"

"Right," he snarled, drawing the word out. "Go over to that machine and pull the lever."

She looked at it, the mad-scientist machine. "I…."

"Tick-tock tick-tock, the Higgsburys are on the clock—"

She bolted forward, ran up and jumped for the lever, catching it and using her weight to pull it down—

The front of the machine slammed open, like a gaping maw leading to an abyss—

And then the man from before stepped out, dapper and thin, decked out in a three-piece suit with pointy shoulders and a flower tucked into the lapel.

She tried very, very hard not to regret the decisions leading up to this when he spotted her—having fallen from the lever and landing with a pained oufh!—and grinned, an action that didn't fully reach his eyes.

"It's showtime."