Vampire Resurrection
St. Jude's Catholic Church had long been abandoned. Outside the city limits, within the couple or so square miles that where always being shifted between Springfield, Shelbyville, and the two counties in which the cities rested. It was once a busy little parish church in a growing part of the town. Oil had been discovered south of Springfield in 1917, and the town grew swiftly in that direction. The oil dried suddenly in '29, and the Depression soon followed. The jobs were in the city, in the plants and factories, at the port and the army and navy bases. The region became little more than a ghost town. St. Jude's fell into disrepair; moss covered its exterior and dusty and spiders its interior. It rested for years like a ghostly stone ship adrift in a sea of tombstones and mausoleums.
A black sedan pulled up outside the misty church yard. A group of four men in long coats exited; one carried a heavy leather case, which he swung as he walked. The hinge creaked, making the party's members ever more anxious. The creaking became a snap, and the case fell with a tinkling.
"Moron!" Quimby Sr. growled. Skinner grinned sheepishly, then frowned. He picked up the case, returned to the car, and sped away. The other three continued on through the chill graveyard. They felt as though intruders upon a sacred, silent rite. They thought the ghosts of the departed to be hiding somewhere in the mist, watching them hatefully, as they brought evil to their place of slumber.
As they neared the church, their dread intensified. The livid faces of the Gothic gargoyles leared down at them, their lolling tongues mocking them for their folly. They saw dim, flickering lights coming from the inside.
They found the door ajar. They paused, looking to one another to see who would be mad enough to open it completely, and enter. Anthony DeGeorge, his weariness with his companions' cowardice overcoming his own fear, shoved the door open, and marched in. The two Quimbys exchanged nervous looks, and followed him in.
The church had long been empty. Vines crawled up and down the tall pillars, and weeds sprouted from the cracks in the floor. In the rafters, they heard the fluttering of half-asleep birds. The candles in the front chandelier had been replaced with short, black tapers, and two sets of larger black candles burnt in the gold holders on and beside the altar. The altar itself was draped with a long black cloth embroidered in silver with obscene and demonic symbols. The crucifix was covered with an enormous black tapestry, depicting an enormous goat astride a broken cross, amongst strange runes and numbers. And there, standing before the altar with a look of satanic glee, stood Lord Hareton Courley.
"You have them, then?" he asked, his voice echoing in the high ceiling, scattering the nesting pigeons.
"Um, no, Skinner dropped them, but he went to go get some replacements."
Courltey's face contorted with rage, but he answered not. Skinner came running in with a box of Dixy cups.
"What the hell is this!" Freddy asked.
"I said glasses, wine glasses, goblets, not stupid paper cups!"
"It was all I could afford! Between keeping up a household of five and paying my mother for food and lodging…"
"Oh, damn it all, never mind!" Courtley growled, ripping open the box, scattering several paper cups. He handed one to each of them, took one for himself, and tossed the remainder into the empty pews. "Oh, here!" he said, thrusting his cup at DeGeorge. He stomped over to the altar, and pulled a large duffel from beneath the covered altar. From it he withdrew a golden chalice, a silver knife, a censor, a barren cross, and the leather case the four had purchased the night before. He set them all upon the altar. He took the censor, opened it, and, once lit with a match from his pocket, closed it. He stepped back from the altar, and shook the censor back and forth, scattering the clouds of smoke. He shook it forward, left, and then right, while raising the cross upside down.
"Spirits of earth, of air, of wind, of sea, of flame and shadow,
I implore thee,
I beg thee,
I ask thee,
I command thee to come forth so that I may do my master's bidding!
Prince of Darkness, lord of despair, hear us!"
He returned to the altar, set both cross and censor aside, and opened the leather case. With one grand motion, he swept the black cape from its case and fastened it. He took out the golden clasp, and hooked it on. He set the red signet ring upon his right index finger, then, raising his left hand to the black tapestry, set the black ring upon his left ring finger. He made a horned salute with his right hand. He removed the glass vial, opened it, and filled his small paper cup to the brim with red powder. He looked at what powder remained in the vial, and frowned. He sealed it, and set it back in the box. He took the knife, and removed it from its silver sheath. He held up his left palm, and drew the blade across it slowly, letting out a hissing gasp. Squeezing tight, he trickled a few drops into the golden chalice. He turned. The four gasped. He strode forth, holding his Dixy cup in one hand, chalice in the other. He tipped some powder into each of the four's paper cups. Then, he tilted the chalice, and let a single drop of his blood spill into his cup.
There was a roar like a mighty wind. The nesting birds awoke and flew about in terror. Lightning flashed, though there had been no clouds in the sky when they had arrived. The group watched in horror as the powder absorbed the drop of blood, then liquefied, swelling to the brim. Courtley poured some blood into Skinner's cup, then the Joe's, then Freddy's, and finally, Anthony DeGeorge's. DeGeorge let out a little gasp as the blood rose over the brim and spilled onto his hand.
"Now…drink it!"
The four hesitated. The younger Quimby looked at his uncle. Joe bit his lip. DeGeorge seemed petrified, while Skinner seemed to be teetering on the brink of action.
"I said drink it!"
They exchanged looks, saying silently 'I will, after you'.
"Didn't you hear me! I said drink it!"
DeGeorge looked up at Courtley.
"You insult the master! Drink!"
"You drink it then!"
Courtley sneered. He raised the cup, and gulped its contents down. He coughed, then grinned. He coughed once more, then again, and again. He seized his chest and screamed, then fell to the floor, writhing in agony.
"H-help…m-me…! Help…!"
"He's done for!" Freddy screamed.
"What do we do?"
"Stomp him!"
"Good idea!"
They proceeded to kick and stomp Courtley, dashing his grasping hands and crushing his wrists. Anthony grabbed Courtley's walking stick, and began to beat him with it. Suddenly, Courtley let out a gasp, and rolled over on his back like a dead cockroach. The four men looked about, then ran.
Courtley's body lie on the cold ground. Blood and saliva trickled from his lips. He seemed dead. Within him, the vampiric blood spread like a liquid cancer, conquering his veins and overwhelming his mortal blood. He began to swell. His skin hardened like a shell, a crysalis. It cracked! Blood red eyes gleamed from his sockets.
Charles Montgomery Burns stood upon the ashes of what was once Hareton Courtley. His face was pale, his hair dark as iron. He spread his black cape like wings and proclaimed:
"They have betrayed me. They have destroyed my servant. They will be destroyed!"