"Oh, you winced! That makes it double!" Nelson lightly punched Bart on the upper arm, chuckling.
"Man," He laughed too.
The school bus, though it did not exist in the nineteenth century, was the only car allowed on the streets during the two weeks of Halloween. Voices buzzed from the excited children riding, still in their costumes from the night before, though exhausted from the night and all of the candy consumed.
Bart and Nelson sat together in the middle-end of the bus, with Millhouse being sick. They both wore white dress shirts and pants, with button-up coats covering the shirts. Lisa and Jenny, in dresses, were in front of them. If they did not dress according to the codes, they would be given filthy clothing found from the school basement.
Nelson tugged at his shirt collar. "Man, I hate this stinkin' suit. I feel like a dandy."
"I for one think it would have been smarter for us to just have a vacation from school," Lisa pointed out, turning around to face them. "With all of the rules we have to follow, and the dress codes I mean. It's ridiculous they're using this festival's time era as an excuse to teach us in the poorest sense of teaching imaginable."
"So you, Lisa Simpson, are saying you don't want to go to school for two weeks? Now I've heard everything."
"One more week left, technically."
"Whatever. All I know is that I'm tired of wearing the exact same clothes over and over again every day." He stared at a wall, "Over and over and over again, Lis. Like I've worn the same clothes every day for twenty-four years . . ."
"Weren't you supposed to have bought two of those costumes when they were on sale, Bart?"
His eyes widened. "D'oh!"
She rolled her eyes, and sat back down.
Sideshow Bob stalked up and down Evergreen Terrance, growling. Cecil had not answered his cell all day. Sure, he was late last night for the meeting. But he had to buy the damned costume before going out in public, and shoes from the nineteenth century that were HIS shoe size.
Hell, there were hardly any brands that sold size twenty-two anymore in the first place!
His costume was a simple black waist coat under a matching tailcoat, over a pair of pantaloons. Hey, it wasn't easy to find anything that wasn't ridiculously overpriced or ridiculously cheap (in both the clothing AND money). But that was no reason for Cecil to bail on him any more than it was to believe in the bogeyman. Or to ignore Bob's calls and texts. But he had been nearly an hour late, which was his own damn fault.
So I'll get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness.
Even so, the meeting was about killing the Simpson children. Perhaps he had gone off on his own to kill them his own way? Got caught?
He growled, and started marching in the general direction of the motel Cecil was staying in. As of the big Halloween changes, 'Sleep Easy Hotel' was now 'Ye Olde Motel.'
He smirked, going inside. It really didn't look like an 'olde' motel, except the man at the counter was dressed up in the clothing. He looked up from a magazine lazily as Bob approached.
"May I serve ye?"
He resisted rolling his eyes at the horrible mockery of the old slang, and said calmly, "In what room does Cecil Terwilliger reside?"
"Lemme check," He flipped open a journal, scanning the pages. "Ah—Room…*1790…sorry, room 17."
"Thank you."
"Need a key, sir?"
"No, I'll just knock . . . on the other hand, he seems to be quite angry at me. Yes, I'll take a key."
He handed it over, "Down the hall to your right. And the motel isn't responsible for madness in visitors, broken bones, possession, lost items, vomiting, hair loss, or insane relatives."
Brow raised, he shoved the keycard in his pocket, thanked him, and began planning what to say.
What? I'm sorry for not showing up on time? I was freed at six that evening, had to get my stuff, had to go see Francesca and Gino, find clothes, find shoes . . . God, and he's mad at me for being ONLY an hour late?
He knocked—no answer. A 'Do Not Disturb' sign hung on the doorknob. Sighing, he unlocked the door and walked in. There were clothes strewn over the double beds and floors, and the suitcase looked like it had been thrown against the wall. As Bob opened the door more, it brushed against something that clinked.
He looked down. A night lamp lay shattered at his feet. His face flickered from confusion to amusement.
He got DRUNK?!
He began to laugh, and strode inside the room, opening closed curtains. "Cecil, dear brother, didn't Mother ever tell you not to get stoned on work nights? Well, it explains why you haven't been answering me."
This put him in a better mood. Between the siblings bickering and prison, they hadn't often joked about anything other than demeaning subjects (and Bob was not the sort to pass up a chance to terrorize Cecil in this sense).
But he wasn't in here. Bob frowned slightly, an amused grin still on his face. "Cecil?" He checked under the bed, in the bathroom. "Where are you?" He chuckled. "There is work to be done!"
There was shuffling from the closet, and a confused groan.
Bob slowly approached it. The shuffling turned into a thumping noise, like the younger man was trying to find his way out.
He turned the handle—it was locked from the outside.
"Don't come in here!" It was a muffled hiss.
He chuckled some more, unlocking the door. "There's work to be done, you drunk. I want those Simpson children dead by the end of the day and us out of Springfield."
"You don't understand," His voice was choked up, like he had been crying. "He's stronger than me," a sob, "Get out before he comes back!"
The grin went down some. "Before who comes back? Who's stronger than you?"
"The Follower. He's inside me, Bob, he hurt me—I sound insane, I know. But he—" His voice was cut off.
The grin was gone, and Bob swung open the door. Cecil, having been leaning against it, toppled over and onto the floor. He scrambled back into the closet.
Before the shadows consumed him, Bob saw his face. The younger man had dark rings around his swollen red eyes, and cuts and bruises all over his body. His shirt was torn and ripped and bloody, revealing some of the cuts were as wide as a mere fingernail.
Did he do this to himself? Was he mugged?
He gasped.
Did ARNOLD get to him?!
He knelt down, all traces of humor gone. "What the hell happened to you? Are you still drunk? Did you see - see Arnold?"
He stared back with terrorized eyes—something Bob had never, ever seen in his brother. "I was not drunk, and I haven't even seen Arnold. Go, NOW!" He sniffled.
"I believe you, brother. What the hell happened to you?"
"He-It-It attacked me. Saw my memories—read me like a book." He wiped his eyes.
"Who hurt you, Cecil?" He couldn't fathom what Springfield local could do this. Even the tourists were hardly dangerous enough to own a gun. The last time Cecil cried was when—hell, he couldn't even remember. Not since childhood, when several bullies had gotten brave enough to get rough. They had been "corrected" in their ways by both Bob AND Robert Sr., as they had been in middle school while Cecil was just finishing the third grade.
But that had been from pain, though. This was from terror.
Cecil stiffened, and his eyes widened. "He's coming. Go, leave NOW!" He got up and weakly pushed Bob's shoulders back, only succeeding in swaying him.
"You need help!"
"You'll need a grave by the time he'll get through with you!" He again attempted to push Bob back. "I can't keep him back for long! Shut and lock the damn door and go!"
"Wha…but-I…you-"
Cecil took in a sharp breath and clenched his eyes shut, and his grip on Bob's shoulders suddenly tightened. He opened his eyes, and they were red.
He gasped. "Cecil—?!"
He grinned wickedly, and the windows were thrown open under the force of a howling wind that had not been there before. Both men stood.
"I am not Cecil." The voice was reptilian; deep and raspy, a low growl from the depths of it's throat.
Even before it said that, Bob knew this was no longer his brother.
The motel isn't responsible for madness in visitors, broken bones, POSSESSION . . .
He's inside me, Bob, he HURT me
Read my memories like a book
He's coming!
You'll need a GRAVE by the time he'll get through with you!
What this was, he did not know. A demon from Hell conjured on Halloween, a malicious spirit possession, whatever was inside Cecil, it was evil.
Bob smacked away the arms and made a run for the door. Behind him, he heard it growl, "Kill the Simpson children, eh?" It let out a sharp bark of a laugh, and Bob ran out the door without being followed. "I'll do worse than that!"
He never turned back until he was a few blocks away. His face hardened, and fists clenched. Yes, he wanted the children dead—but he wanted to do it himself, and in a different way. A way that wouldn't actually involve them suffering over a period of time, like it would do.
By killing the children, Bob didn't even know what that would do to this paranormal entity. If it would take over Cecil completely, place the blame on him and leave to cause havoc elsewhere, or go on to do much worse things by using his body.
This, Bob knew, could not happen.
With a deep breath, he puffed out his chest and marched to Evergreen Terrance.
*- The year 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow' takes place in. I'll be dropping more of these things in here, so keep an eye out!