The Discovery
The crowd began to dissipate after the two Skinner men were taken to the hospital. Rumour had it that there was a fight between the two, possibly over a girl, one woman in the crowd whispered. Slowly, the mob dispersed, until only the three Simpsons remained.
"You said that there was something we needed to see, Nelson?"
"Yeah, you might want to come in," he said, lifting up the police tape. He led them to the study. He showed them a note, splattered with blood.
To Whoever May Read This Note,
I would like to confess my guilt in the murders of the DeGeorges, the Quimbys, and my own soul. I killed the first and second indirectly, and share the guilt with many others, but the later I have but myself to blame.
Let me first state that the culture and religion of America, that is, the America of and like Springfield First Christian Church, is one of appearance over reality, deed over belief, and word over deed. I long ago learned that the ways of sin are easily learned and naturally followed. Vice is an easy seed to plant, and blossoms swiftly, as we live in the ideal climate, and the semblance of morality protects lechery by sheltering the lecher from the slings of those like him, who maintain the illusion of saintliness to protect themselves from those like them.
Months ago, Joseph Quimby, his nephew Fredrick Quimby, Anthony DeGeorge, and myself found were of like mind and inclination, and, being stifled by rigid dogma, formed a sort of club, devoted to the pursuit of every whim and fantasy that possessed us. At first, we were terrified and repulsed by the manifestations of our own wickedness, but, in time, we came to revel in our wantonness. This stage was all too brief, and we soon passed into boredom, then utter numbness.
On our last outing, we encountered a man named Hareton Courtley, an illegal immigrant from Britain. A hedonist of the highest degree, he told us that the surest and greatest pleasure would result from our selling of our immortal souls to Satan. Believing Satan to be but a goblin, a chimera to frighten the fool into obedience of those with the power to impose canon, we doubted him greatly. But, wanting desperately the pleasures we had not known for ages, willing to do anything to obtain them, and convinced that it was a small price to pay (if we ever had souls, I thought, we had already lost them!), we agreed. He asked from us each twenty five thousand dollars, to purchase the 'supplies' for the ritual. We went with out money to the Shoppe of Evil, where we purchased from a man named Gil a leather box. Inside were several artefacts said to belong to C. Montgomery Burns, a former local businessman and rumoured vampire, along with a bottle of his dried blood.
The next evening we met at St Jude's, the abandoned church just outside of town. There, Courtley performed the ritual, but something went terribly wrong. He seemed to be dieing, and we panicked, and killed him. We fled.
A few weeks later, the members of the circle began to die, one by one, their family members either dieing or disappearing. So, Joseph Quimby and I returned to St. Jude's, where we found the body of Theresa Quimby. I examined her mouth, and found bloodstains and vampiric fangs. I insisted that she be destroyed, but Quimby refused, and drew his gun on me. I fled, wounded.
"We have to get to that church!" Eric rasped.
"No!" Marge ordered. "Second rule of Vampire Hunting: 'Never pursue a master class or higher vampire after nightfall'."
"But Felicia still might be alive! I have to save her!"
"Now Eric, in the unlikely event Burns hasn't killed her yet, or turned her into one of his UnDead brides, she'll still be alive after we gather the Hunters and organize our attack. If he hasn't, she's either resting in peace, or is a walking dead and all you could do for her is drive a stake through her heart and cut off her head!" Homer explained, trying to be comforting.