Weeeelp, I started one of these them there thingies. Not exactly sure where I'm going with it, yet, but the plan is kind of an alternate version of the patched-together-after-the-show-was-canceled episode "Mopiness of Doom." The inspiration came from "Backseat Drivers from Beyond the Stars," and the concept was born before I saw "Mortos Der Soulstealer" or "Mopiness," so any similarities therein are purely coincidental.
I write in the most random fandoms. Lolz.
The Dib and the Dead
In the middle of the graveyard, a broad, ornate circle was chalked on the concrete ground. Symbols and strange markings wove in and out of one another around the circle's perimeter and formed curling spokes that joined at the center, where a boy knelt over a hefty tome, reading aloud in a strange language. Scattered around him were various odds and ends: a contact lens, a lock of black hair, a zipper with a bit of green material still stuck to it. It had taken him weeks to collect the items without his victim noticing, but he had succeeded, and his hard work was about to pay off.
As the boy chanted, the wind around him began to pick up, plucking leaves from the swaying trees and whistling between the tombstones. The boy's long coat lifted off his shoulders and whipped around his ears. He paused to wipe the condensation from his glasses and continued reading.
The earth began to rumble, and the concrete around him sprouted cracks. His voice rose in stride with the growing din. The cracks glowed purple, then red, and blazing flames spat out erratically. The rumbling turned to moaning—the moaning of a hundred or more voices, deep and low underground. The wind became more frenzied, swirling around the chalk circle, a vortex of grass and earth and leaves. The moaning turned into wailing and then shrieking. It was a discordant background to the boy's unwavering chanting.
There was an ear-shattering CRACK, and the pavement buckled under the boy's knees. It bent and jerked like a rolling wave and then snapped like a whip, lifting the boy as easily as a rag doll and hurling him across the graveyard, where he landed in a bramble bush. He pulled himself out, bruised but otherwise unhurt, and observed as if for the first time the chaos around him. His chalk circle was shattered, and the book he'd been reading from was nowhere in sight.
The vortex was picking up speed and growing steadily. It was nearly fifty feet high as the boy looked up at it, and at its base was a spinning mass of debris—chunks of pavement, small headstones, tree branches—and there was the book! The boy crawled forward, wincing as his sore limbs protested. If he could only get to it…
There was another CRACK, and another. The ground was so mottled with cracks and craters, it resembled the parched surface of an ancient lakebed, long devoid of water. Tombstones stuck out like jagged teeth, and at the center, where the vortex spun, the ground was depressed, like a deep, black mouth drawing in whatever it could.
There was a roar of thunder, and black clouds rolled in. Rain fell in fierce, stabbing drops. The boy's glasses fogged up, but he gritted his teeth and continued to crawl toward the vortex. He had to finish the spell. Who knew what would happen if he left things like this?
There was a flash of lightning, and a jagged bolt of electricity shot down from the sky and pierced the center of the vortex, skewering the earth with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. The boy covered his ears. A second later, the ground exploded, and he was thrown backward again.
Amid a series of popping and cracking noises, a yawning crag opened down the center of the graveyard, blazing white and purple and spewing red flames high into the air. It was too bright to look at, and the air was growing hot. The boy dove behind a broad tombstone and buried his face in his arms.
The shrieking and moaning voices had turned to high-pitched cackles. The wind in the trees sounded like sirens, and the ground was still exploding in flames and flashes of light. It was like someone had set fire to a whole store of fireworks.
Then there was a loud SNAP.
And just like that, everything was still.
The boy's ears were ringing. Slowly, he uncovered his eyes. His vision was blurred—his glasses had fallen off. He found them underneath his leg. The frame was askew, and one of the lenses was cracked, but they still functioned. He adjusted them on his face and looked around.
The ground had sewn itself back together. The trees were unmoving. The broken tombstones were whole again. The rain had stopped, and the clouds in the sky had disappeared, replaced by a brilliant full moon. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
The boy's heart was beating a mile a minute. What had happened? He got carefully to his feet and turned to peer around his tombstone and survey the graveyard.
It was crawling with zombies.
The boy's jaw dropped. For a moment, he could only stare in mingled horror and fascination. Green-gray bodies, half-clothed, half-rotted, were strewn about the yard, gazing at one another with bugging eyes. They moved slowly, raising a hand to examine it, tilting a head to the sky. It was like watching a writhing mass of cockroaches.
The boy felt a rush of excitement. It had worked! Never mind that he hadn't completed the spell. He must have read all the important parts. He stepped out from behind the tomb.
"Minions!" he cried. Dozens of hollow heads turned to stare at him. "I am your master, Dib. I require your services! Prepare to serve your master and follow me!"
He expected a more enthusiastic response, but the zombies only looked at him blankly, like a pack of curious dogs. Then, a hulking form a few paces off narrowed its empty eye sockets.
"Grraaurrwrrrghhh!" it said.
It didn't sound ready to serve its master. It sounded seriously ticked off.